#what a lonely pedestal a god is placed upon. or whatever

[as-the-stars-foretold]

.

[ramblingguy54]

Webby’s Serious Vulnerability & Need For Happiness.

The McDucks meant everything to me. Not just because of their great name, but because they were a great family. One I thought I could be apart of, but now it’s gone...Guess the name, McDuck, didn’t mean much after all...

Webby’s desire for making others happy has been her greatest strength as a character. A beckon of hope others can be drawn to, much like it was for Lena’s case being best explored. Webby even helped Penny find her place in their big crazy world of Duckberg, but what happens when she tries to help a personal matter that, as Dewey said, could only make things worse? Even though this episode wasn’t the angst trip I was speculating it to become for our second visit to Castle McDuck, it shines an interesting introspective upon Webby’s emotional vulnerability once again. Something we saw before in Lost Harp Of Mervana once Webby realized Beakly had lied to her about trusting people in general. It’s not just one part of her character, but the entirety of who she is as a person when it comes to her unwavering philosophy of hope. Webby’s newfound confidence toward facing unknown stuff after getting outta the mansion helped because of others supporting her, too. Webby feels like she owes so much of herself for what this family gave to her life emotionally because she didn’t have much of anything in a long awhile, other than Beakly, obviously. It’s no surprise Webby Vanderquack has been a pretty lonely kid as evidenced by her particular episode quote from Woo-oo, “Ehhh, my granny is a bit overprotective. She trains me to be ready for anything, but then says I’ve got everything right here...”, showing how much solitude she endured socially. Webby got this idea into her head she owes her life to Clan McDuck’s lineage, basically. Which is why she tried everything in her power to manipulate the family into making up.

Webby’s helpful friendly morality has been played up for laughs before, like in New Gods On The Block, but here Webby is very controlling attempting to force moral solutions upon a complicated situation, revolving around inheritance of who’ll become the next statue pedestal. For good measure, Webby pulls upon Dewey’s strings for being noticed as the “best child” and formulates another idea ending in more escalation upon an already feuding family. Doesn’t help Huey & Louie stumble into this room at the worst possible time for added consequences. They were both already getting on each others nerves, so it sent them into adding fuel upon this bigger fire becoming a gigantic one as an end result. All of this was moral karma for Webby’s need to make others happy, even if it meant using her own methods to force a solution. Webby is certainly Scrooge’s biggest fan alright, considering his severe need for control rubbed off on her. The kid wants people to be content she’ll go so far as to push that idea, so Webby can feel happy about herself, too. Webby’s optimism was greatly praised in They Put On Moonlander On Earth and the writers wanted to criticize why putting so much stock into an idea of, “Everyone needs to get along, so I can feel happy!”,  can also be a double edged sword in its own right. Sometimes you do need to step away from an already bad situation making things simmer down. Dewey did have a point to an extent about family fighting being a tricky situation. However, it’s not until Webby cuts all the bullshit simply to speak from her heart. No more lies or tricks, but a simple sentimental statement about why she feels the need to repay a debt to the Duck Family. Only then, could their squabbling actually stop.

I set out to preserve their history, but I destroyed it all. The past, the present, and the future...

Webby gets stricken with serious guilt seeing how much damage her meddling around has caused. Besides feeling awful about how she tried taking advantage of the situation, it made her question if they were all their name was cracked up to be. All the studying she did by herself about Scrooge’s ties and legacy are being called into suspicion. If their historical achievements are great, than it can be argued in turn this causes more harm than good for a future together. When you’re at each others necks about who will succeed whatever they’re getting handed it stirs up more issues down the road. The McDuck pride is their greatest strength, yet weakness, from what this episode study displays. Remember Dewey’s research into Della’s disappearance and questioning whether or not she was a genuinely good person? Consider Webby’s introspection as a callback to it, reflecting upon her own value, where if she has put so much faith into who they are seeing them like this, than what does that make her? I’m definitely keeping this as an important mental note for future reference in the next last batch of episodes. She keeps seeing the ugly side of how people can act, including her own family, making this poor kid question everything Webby has held true to for a lot of her life. Dewey had that exact dilemma in Season 1′s episode, The Spear Of Selene, being so terrified of the possibility Della was a self centered traitor to his family. He was scared of being related to somebody who didn’t care for her family at all, making him wonder if that too makes him bad for solely being biologically tied to Della?

Webbigail, no doubt, feels a similar weight of seeing an uglier truth she’s afraid to accept. That not everyone means well in their intentions all the time. She got a taste of that back in Impossibin with Beakly’s extremist behavior about preparing for FOWL’s inevitable threat upon their lives. Now, yes, Beakly did mean well, but she showed a type of ferocity Webby is used to seeing her direct at their enemies, instead of the girl’s general direction. It terrified her for that period of briefness watching Beakly not pull her punches, at least until the end anyway. Factoring in all those variables showcases Webby’s greatest obstacle, her unconditional faith. Although, save for what happened in Mervana, Webby’s not one to doubt people often, since she was quick to forgive Beakly’s oversight a couple of episodes ago. The scary thing though is Webby did doubt everything these McDucks stood for in this moment and that’s very concerning for what they’re foreshadowing in her future conflicts, particularly with Beakly.

That girl believes the best in people, especially Merpeople. If she finds out they’re lying, she’ll be devastated.

When you’ve got her crumbling up a deeply cherished photo Webby held dearly to heart, that’s a big red flag going up there in my mind. If Webby’s already going that far in how hard she’s taking harsh reminders of stuff, then Beakly’s secrets are gonna destroy her emotionally. Food for thought to consider. Mirroring this picture with Beakly’s line from the Lost Harp episode really puts it into perspective about how truly sensitive Webby is to facing an unkind world.

[rueitae]

Forget Me Not

My fic for the @plance-spring-zine now that it’s shipped out!

In a world where humanity is confined to the treetops to survive, Lance finds himself stranded deep in the forest away from home as winter (and certain death) approaches swiftly. He finds a last glimpse of hope in a fading point of light. What he finds on the other side of the light not only saves his life, but saves his heart as well.

It's a winter he never wants to forget.

Rating: Teen

Length: 9.850 words

Pairing: Plance

Tags: Major Character Death (though the story continues in the afterlife). Angst and fluff with a happy ending. sick fic. emotional hurt/comfort. domesticity. goddess pidge. mortal lance.

Read on Ao3

~~~~~

Lance needs to be home before the earthquakes start.

But he isn’t leaving without Keith. 

“Keith! Keith where are you? Say something!” Lance yells breathlessly in between sprints. He hates being the responsible adult, especially since it means searching for an angry preteen deep in the woods.

A gangly root hidden by dense undergrowth catches his ankle. He slips forward, heart jumping to his throat as the ground slams into his face. Mud splatters his bare arms and soaks into his pants.

The Great Forest predates even the Disasters. And with large, winding roots that criss-cross narrow paths, Lance should be more careful. 

He pushes himself up and ignores the mud staining his clothes and the scrapes and bruises that might mar his skin. His health and hygiene won’t matter if he can’t find Keith and get them both home in time. He curses the kid’s recklessness. The chase took him into territory unfamiliar even to the cartographers. Lance isn’t sure he can find home at this point.

“Keith!” he screams again at the top of his lungs, desperate. Thunder steals the rest of his words and lightning flashes overhead. The perpetually overcast sky seems darker now as if it were night instead of the middle of the day, and a single drop of rain lands on his cheek.

It won’t be long now. The mystical force that protects the Great Forest from the outside elements wanes as it does every fall, only to return with the first signs of spring.

The forest, high in the trees, is the only safe place left on Earth.

It’s where Lance - and Keith and Hunk - should be. 

“Say anything!” Lance yells. “Just let me know you’re okay!” The rolling thunder increases in frequency and his breaths speed to match it. “Come on, Keith! Do you really think Shiro would want you risking your life for him like this?”

Not that Shiro has time to feel guilty over it, Lance thinks. The doctors are convinced this is Shiro’s last winter - if he even makes it to spring. Refusing to accept the diagnosis, Keith ran off in search of the forest goddess, to ask her if she would save Shiro like she saved him as a baby.

He refused to let anyone tell him the forest goddess had no control over human diseases - if she even exists.

Only the sound of rain falling onto the leaves of the trees and down on him answers. Lance falls to his hands and knees in exhaustion, working to catch his breath and slumping with a heavy heart. He’s not going to find Keith in time at this rate. 

A crisp autumn breeze shoots through the air and the rain picks up in intensity. Lance sits up and shivers, holding his arms close to himself. He prays that the legend of the forest goddess is true and that she led Hunk and Keith to each other at least, and home.

He can only afford to do the same for himself after he finds shelter. Then he can worry about surviving the Disasters until spring.

In the near distance, a grove of trees seems brighter than the rest of the forest, as if it’s summer’s last bastion.

It will have to do, whatever it is.

Lance sprints, stretching his body to its limit for this glimmer of hope. The ground softens as the rain continues to fall, mud sucking at his feet and hampering his speed.

The trees’ shadows blend into the murky dark as the light from the grove fades. Gusts steady and the air chills as the rain intensifies, sapping the heat from his arms and heart. 

He will die for certain if he doesn’t make it to safety. This light is all he has to grasp onto.

Lance isn’t sure what possesses him to yell, “Wait for me!” Keith and Hunk won’t be able to help, and no one lives out here.

As if in response to his cries, the light steadies. Lance breaks through the treeline and is stunned into stopping.

Any other day he'd be in awe at the ruins before him, looking older than most pre-Disaster structures that survived. Moss and vines coat the finely carved columns arranged in a circle, mirroring the treeline, but all but one lay broken as large pieces of stone.

At the center shines the source of the light.

Lance walks towards it. With no shelter in sight, he knows he should be panicking, but this place holds a sense of peace that even the howling winds can’t disturb.

The light emanates from an orb atop a chest-high pedestal and shines on his face like a torch amid the deepening darkness surrounding him. Swirls of spring greens and yellows dance in the orb, illuminated only by the very last flicker of light.

His heart twists in fear when can’t see the ruins any longer, much less the treeline he passed to get to them. He swallows a sob in his throat and cries. Soon he'll be locked in complete darkness, awaiting death by starvation - if the Disasters don’t reach him first.

"I'm so sorry, Mama," he whispers. He has his voice to keep him company at least, though it’s a poor distraction from his fear.

Unintelligible whispers reach his ears, quickly overcome by running water far calmer than the raging floods he’s used to. 

His jaw drops. The sounds seem to be coming from the glass orb, the light now only a dot.

He reaches out and touches it.

Instantly roaring water rushes over him. It threatens to overtake and wash him away, but he pushes back, unwilling to be swept away to his death so easily. He tries to hold tight to the orb, but his fingers pass through. Yet… he stands firm as the current washes over him. 

When Lance dares to open his eyes, he is no longer among the ruins. Streaks of blues and whites stream across a black void with no distinguishable landmarks. A circle of solid blue pools beneath his feet.

He doesn’t know where he is or what is pushing him, but stubbornness and fear alone freeze him in place.

"Lance!"

Surprised to hear a voice besides his own, he searches for the owner. An indistinct figure waves to him from a puddle of green. Pools of purple, red, and yellow complete the circle, each in the exact place where the columns stood.

"Lance, let go!"

He can’t tell who the voice is, but it tingles with familiarity. The tone promises far better than the alternative that awaits him here or outside.

So he lets go.

~~~~~

Lance wakes to the sound of chirping birds and the sweet aroma of flowers. He rests on something soft, with a light weight on top of him.

It’s warm, like the first day of spring. He moans in contentment. He imagines lying on a bed of grass surrounded by his friends and family celebrating the end of winter; a far cry from the cold and darkness he's just come from.

Wait. The warmth on his shoulders feels so real. How can it be when the sun hides behind the clouds through the winter?

He opens his eyes and sits up too quickly, his head spinning with vertigo. He nearly falls back down, but once the dizziness fades, he isn’t sure he believes what he sees.

His bed is really more of a lounge chair, plush and upholstered with purple fabric, and the same soft down in the pillows packs the blanket.

He’s back in the ruins, but they’re no longer ruined. Five intact columns in a circle reach for the cloudless blue sky, surrounded themselves by dense forest. A different color - purple, red, blue, green, and yellow - coats each of them. Between them, thick grass and clusters of wildflowers grow around neat stone sidewalk that lead to the where he lies in bed...and where the orb sits on a pedestal in the exact center.

It looks like the home of a god - the forest goddess, he supposes as he sucks in a terrified breath. What else explains the void and how the autumn tempest became peaceful springtime? Was he rescued or kidnapped?

"You woke up sooner than I thought."

The voice from behind startles him, and Lance falls off the makeshift bed onto soft grass, his legs entangled with the blanket. 

He stands clumsily, peering over the back of the bed-chair, recognizing the last voice he’d heard.

Time to meet the forest goddess.

Lance keeps his head low (that was proper procedure for meeting a deity, right?). His gaze slowly rises starting from her sandals. Pale green robes drape her figure and golden jewelry shines in the sunlight. Her necklace holds a green gem with swirls of similar hues twisting about inside. Her auburn hair is untamed and cut short to her chin and her glasses...

Her glasses?

Finally, he looks upon her face...

And remembers everything.

Fourteen years old and lost in the forest. She holds his hand and walks him to the edge of the village, scolding him for not listening to his parents.

Sixteen and she teaches him the calls of birds and where the animals live. She jumps into piles of leaves with him in the early fall. 

Eighteen and they explore the forest together. The ruins are her temple and home. 

Twenty when he realizes how lonely she is and how much his friendship means to her. He kissed her forehead, promising to never forget her -

Told her how she’d affected his heart.

Not a forest goddess. Pidge hates that term, prefers “spirit”.

Love wasn’t strong enough. He'd forgotten her. Again.

"Oh quiznak," he moans. His arms drape over the back of the bed-chair as he falls forward. "Pidge, I - I’m so sorry."

She shrugs and gives him a sympathetic smile. "It's not your fault, Lance. You're mortal. You're going to forget me every time we part."

Anticipation drains from his body, at ease in her presence. The fond memories of their time together overwhelm him with joy, and he can think of only one way to release it. 

Pidge blinks in surprise as he approaches, such a human response that always makes him forget she isn’t. “Lance? What are you — “ 

He wraps his arms around her. “I hate missing you when I don’t know I’m missing you,” he says. “You left so suddenly. I thought I’d never see you again!”

She stiffens and protests, “Lance! We talked about this. You’re getting older and I don’t age - “

“You’re still my friend first,” he interrupts. He doesn’t want to hear her completely rational and valid explanation. He knows he’s being selfish, but he doesn’t care. He won’t remember or miss her. Pidge will watch him live without her in blissful ignorance and happiness before watching him die…

“I love you,” he confesses, echoing their last meeting. “I’m okay with whatever you want us to be. I don’t want to see you hurt anymore than you already are.” His heart breaks at his willingness to accept no for an answer.

Reluctantly she relaxes and reciprocates the hug, and the longer he holds her, the tighter she grips him. “Thank you,” she whispers. He takes small comfort in her regretful tone, at least knowing the rejection doesn’t come from a lack of feelings. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says after a long pause, dropping her arms from his back. “Mortals aren’t supposed to be able to enter this place.” Her brows furrow in thought. “I think. It’s never happened before.”

“But you saved me,” Lance says as he backs away. The pain of rejection is easily put aside by her attention to the problem at hand while a sense of foreboding bubbles in his gut. “Is that why you called out in that void place?”

“It is,” she admits. She paces for several steps, twisting fistfuls of fabric from her sleeves. “But you got there on your own, Lance. I don’t understand why or how but,” she sighs and offers a weak, but soft smile, “at least you’re safe.”

Safe. The word triggers panic. “Hunk and Keith. Are they okay?” he squeaks. “Did—”

“They’re fine,” Pidge interrupts. She pivots to the glass orb and beckons him to follow. Lance stands behind her, wary that the orb may once again whisk him away without warning. 

She waves a hand over it. The greenish hues transform into Hunk’s porch. There, his family ushers him and Keith inside, and a giant wave crashes against the door as soon as they slam the door shut. The water blends into swirling teals as the scene fades, the orb returning to its base greens.

Lance clutches his chest at the close call. It seems the floods are the first Disaster this winter, but at least Keith will be in good hands with Hunk’s family.

“I had to make sure they got back to the village,” Pidge says, trembling. Tears prick at her eyes when they meet his. “I knew you were out there,” she growls in frustration. “I just don’t understand how you’re here. You should be dead.”

Lance forces himself to smile for her sake; there’s no sense in adding any unneeded angst to her immortal life. Pidge has always been more human than she lets on, her love of human progress and joy in tinkering a testament to that. She needs comforting just like he does. 

“Well, I’m here.” He shrugs, putting on an air of confidence. “It doesn’t matter how it happened. You can just send me home, right? We can figure it out in the spring.”

Pidge doesn’t respond right away. Every second that passes causes his smile to deepen into a frown, worry churning in his gut. 

His heart twists at his conclusion. “You can’t,” he says. The memories of his time with Pidge play on fast forward in his mind, none during the dead of fall and winter. “And you can’t leave until spring either.”

Pidge nods. “I’m sorry, Lance. I know how close you are to your family.” She lifts her arms and green balls of light flicker at her fingertips. “I’m not even sure if I can once my powers return if I don’t find out how you managed to get here in the first place.”

An entire winter apart from his family? And they’d think him dead? In a strange immortal realm where he isn’t supposed to be? 

His heart drops into his stomach. 

But he’s with Pidge, and that emboldens him. “Ha. Are you kidding? Of course you’ll be able to get me home,” he boasts instead. “Pidge, I have seen you do amazing things.” He pivots on his left foot, gesturing wildly at the world around them. “You’ve saved more people over the centuries than I can count, and everyone remembers when you brought us Keith.” He snorts and puts a hand on his hip. “Hard to forget a walking tree.” 

Instead of glowing, Pidge clenches her fists. “I couldn’t save his father,” she confesses. 

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically in an attempt to match her mood before trying to lift it. “You saved Keith though. You did what literally anyone would do.”

Pidge closes her eyes. “I just… when I first realized what I was, I thought I could save everyone. People still drown, still burn, still get hit by debris. I can’t control the elements, only bolster the forest.” 

She takes a deep, trembling breath. “I’m so sick of not knowing why me,” she yells upwards. “I’ve tried to fix things, but it’s never enough! Maybe if the other elements were regulated like I do with the forest, but,” she drops to the knees and pounds her fists into the ground, “I have waited so long, and no one has come to take charge of them.”

Anger fills him at the implication that there should be others like Pidge to control the elements that keep humanity confined, that make the earth before the Disasters more legend than history with every generation...and that she’s so alone. 

He’s by her side in an instant, hand on her back to let her know he is here. “I don’t understand. Are the others lazy? Don’t they care about how bonkers the world is?”

“I don’t think they exist yet,” Pidge spits in disgust. Lance helps her to stand, struck by the dark bags under her eyes contrasting with paler skin than he remembers. Can immortals get tired?  She walks to the green column and places her hand on a single decorative marking. “The green pillar is the only one that glows.” She sighs, more reflective than angry now. “It’s been like that ever since I was brought here.”

“Wait, brought? You didn’t come here on your own?” Something clicks in his mind as her strange phrasing comes together. “Didn’t you always know what you were?”

Her face twists in uncertainty, transitioning to defeat. She drops her hand from the pillar and turns to face him, shoulders slumped. 

“It hurts to think about sometimes,” she begins. “That’s why I never said anything to you before. I used to be human.”

“Wait, what?” Lance shrieks in shock. 

Pidge nods, giving him a perturbed glance before explaining. “I remember Earth the way it used to be, before the Galra came and incited the constant natural disasters. My family escaped to the forest, but it was wild too, just like the elements. They founded the village you live in.”

“The Galra are real,” Lance echoes disbelievingly, “and you used to be human.” Lance laughs. “Next you’ll be saying I’m a guardian spirit too.” There seem to be a few job openings, and he’d be better than no one.

Pidge scowls and clenches her fists. “I’m telling the truth! I — “ she pauses, her entire demeanor changing. She stares at him, eyes wide and body rigid. 

“I’m sorry,” Lance blurts out of shame. This did explain a lot, such as her mannerisms and attachment to the village. She had a family. “How - how long have you been alone?”

Pidge doesn’t respond. She doesn’t look angry at him any longer either, but she looks scared - for him.

The moment breaks as she coughs. Lance winces at the deepness and how wet it sounds. Do spirits get sick? He steps forward and opens his mouth - 

“I’m fine!” she squeaks before he can ask. “I - I’m just not used to hosting anyone here. I’m glad it’s you, it’s just… weird.”

Lance sighs, shoulders slumping. She lets him take her hand and lead her to the bed. “Well, now you’ve got a roommate for the winter,” he jokes as he encourages her to sit, which she does heavily. “Ha. Do we have to share a bed too?”

The words come out of his mouth before he can think, but with it comes the revelation that he wouldn’t mind sharing with Pidge. But he won’t. Not until she says so, and he won’t push the issue. He can’t risk never seeing her again.

Pidge covers another cough with her arm before saying, “You can have it. I don’t need sleep. Not like you do.”

Why have a bed if she doesn’t need sleep?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks instead. “That cough sounds bad.” 

Her gaze pierces his soul as if to judge him. In the moment he understands the untold amount of power his friend truly has. 

But an instant later she slumps her shoulders and her eyes soften, looking as human as he. 

“Since you’re staying I should probably tell you everything,” she concedes. She pats the spot next to her, bidding him to sit. She rests her head on his shoulder, looking more like a tired child than a goddess. 

“I don’t just lose my powers during the winter,” she explains more to the ground than him. “I also get sick. My life is never in danger, but I get sore and drained of all my energy.” She flashes him an apologetic smile. “I won’t be very good company; you’ll have to plan most of our Monsters and Mana story.”

Sympathy washes over him. Smiling, he takes her hand in his. “It would be my honor,” he says. “I’ll keep you company and make sure you’re comfy cozy - warm soups, blankets, massages - you name it! It’ll be the best winter you’ve ever had!”

Pidge stares at him, her mouth agape, before it wobbles and her eyes well up with tears. “My own family couldn’t even see me after I died. I don’t know how or why you can, but I treasure every second you spend with me.”

Warmth surges in his chest as she jerks up and wraps her arms around his neck. He aches for his family, but they have each other and Lance has no choice. He will just have to surprise them all in the spring by being alive. Pidge needs him more right now.

“You’ve been alone too long,” he whispers in her ear. “I’ll make sure you’re never lonely again.”

“You can’t keep that promise,” she says, shivering. “You’re mortal, and I’m the only thing between your village and destruction. I need to focus. I’ve already spent too much time fantasizing about this to - “

“Fantasizing, huh?” Lance chuckles. His lips are right there, and it takes zero effort to kiss her cheeks. It’s quick and friendly, emboldened by their years of friendship and the flame of longing that still burns in his chest (though he wonders if he imagines the chill on her skin). “That’s not fair, Pidge. I can only think about you when I see you.”

Pidge breaks the hug and wipes away snot with the sleeve of the beautiful dress that Lance will never see the likes of outside books. “You barely know me,” she says sternly, punching him dispassionately in the arm. “I only see you for half a year, and you forget. That’s asking a lot of you to even be my friend.”

“You’re not asking, I’m giving,” he says immediately, hope surging that she may reconsider the nature of their relationship. “Even if I do forget, I remember everything as soon as I see you. You love the early spring snowball fights, peanut butter cookies, and games.” He laughs. “Remember when I first brought my Monsters and Mana pieces into the forest? I had so much fun, I almost didn’t make it home before dark for a few weeks.”

Her mouth twitches, fighting to hold back a smile and losing. She’s more beautiful than a summer sunset. His heart swells, wanting nothing more than to just lean in and show her… but Pidge hardly looks to be in the romantic mood. “I guess,” she responds. “It’d be even better with more than two people, though. You’re a great friend, Lance, you’re just my only friend.”

He takes her hand, pouring his sincerity into the touch. He’d go insane if only one person could see him, he can’t imagine how it is for her. “We’ll just have to make the best of it until others can see you! I like spending time with you, Pidge. We can expand our game as much as we want, and you can show me around the forest before you get too sick and tell me about your family. I want to know everything about Pidge, not just the springtime Pidge.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, locking eyes with him. “We’d never be a normal couple.”

“It’s the best feeling in the world when I remember all our times together. I don’t mind. Are… you okay with that?”

Pidge steels her gaze. “I think I’d rather spend what time I have with you to the fullest than wonder what could have been. I want…” her eyes soften, “I want to see what happens.”

“Me too.” Lance smiles, cheeks warming. He kisses her knuckles, earning a red glow from Pidge’s face. “Maybe it was the power of love that brought me here?” he teases.

Pidge considers him carefully, biting at her lower lip. “I have a different theory about why,” she says, “but I don’t have enough evidence. I think -“

She heaves forward, rolling into his side in a coughing fit. Lance puts a hand on her back and rubs, like his mother would do for him. 

He hopes he can help her, ease her pain in any way. 

“I’m fine,” she rasps once finished, rubbing her tearful eyes with the palm of her hand. “It’s like this every year.”

Lance takes her into a gentle hug, careful to give her space to cough and wipe her eyes. 

“Not this year,” he says. “This year you’ve got me.”

~~~~~

Lance kneels in the tall grass alongside the creek, drawing water with a tightly woven basket. He stands and wipes sweat from his brow. Though his home sits in the depths of winter, this world is forever entrenched in spring.

A smaller basket filled with an assortment of plants sits on the bank. He’s gathering herbs and fresh water at Pidge’s request in anticipation for the worst of her illness this winter. He left while she napped, hoping to use their time while she’s awake to its maximum potential.

“There you are!”

He's not expecting to hear her voice so suddenly as he climbs the embankment.

Lance yelps and slips backwards. The basket of water flies out of his hands and his back stings when it hits the surface of the stream.

“Lance!” Pidge yells in worry. 

Lance doesn’t panic, even when the water invades his nostrils. He’s used to the forest here and needs only to sit his bum on the sandy, weed-choked riverbed to push his upper body above water. He spits out what’s entered his mouth and slicks back his hair, wiping his face with wet hands

“Seriously, Pidge? I thought you were sleeping,” he complains. 

“I was!” she says as she slides down the bank to the edge of the stream. “Then I woke up and you were gone,” she pauses to cough, deeper and more rapidly than the day before. 

Lance winces. How much worse will she get? It’s only been a few weeks. 

“I thought you’d gotten sent back someho —“ She stares, mouth open wide. 

Lance furrows his brow and follows her gaze. It’s on him, specifically his chest, which if he looks down… is easily visible now that his thin cotton shirt is soaking wet. 

She’s… ogling him? 

Worry for Pidge’s worsening condition temporarily forgotten, Lance knows an opportunity when he sees one. A mischievous grin overtakes his face as he teases, . “Enjoying the view, my goddess?”

Her face turns bright red. “Lance!” She sputters indignantly, coughing and putting a clutching hand over her chest. “I was seriously worried about you...and I’m a spirit, not a goddess!”

She doesn’t take her eyes off of him, giving him pause; she really is giving him the lookover. His cheeks burn despite the cool water that drips off his body. He knows it’s just Pidge, but that almost makes it worse than an honest to goodness - correct term or not - goddess appreciating his sex appeal. 

He clears his throat and pulls at his shirt, attempting to make it less form-fitting. “Enough to go looking for me?” he asks instead. “I figured I could get the pain relief supplies while you slept. You need it, Pidge.”

“Sleep isn’t going to help me get better. This is a magical illness. I won’t get better until spring.” She coughs, once, and not deep. 

Lance crosses his arms, a crazy idea popping into his head. “Well, if you’re not going to sleep…” he reaches out and grabs her arm, “then you can join me for a cool bath!” And he yanks her into the stream with him. 

Pidge screams in surprise as she crashes into the water next to him, spitting it out of her mouth a moment later when she sits next to him. 

Lance is pleased with himself as she attempts to dry, until his eyes fall a bit too far. The water drenching her makes her loose dress heavy, the neckline low enough to reveal more cleavage than he’s prepared to see. Fresh from the revelation of Pidge’s thoughts, it feels as if the water boils around him as he looks for literally anything else to observe. 

Her hair slicks back even better than his and he’s shocked to discover her glasses are only frames as she takes them off to wipe her face. He’s never seen her without them. It softens her features, and Lance falls in love all over again. 

“You don’t need glasses?” he asks. “Why do you wear them if you don’t need them?”

Pidge is somber as she puts them back on. “They belonged to my brother. I had been...teasing him before I died, and was wearing them. Somehow, out of everything I was wearing, they passed over.”

“Oh,” Lance says lamely. He focuses on a school of minnows that nibble his toes. “I’m sorry, Pidge.”

“At least I have something to remember my family by,” she sighs. “It’s weird. I have all these powers and all these books I saved, but,” she smiles and looks to the sky, “thinking of my family and seeing what they and their descendants accomplished are what really keeps me sane.”

Lance perks up. “That’s right. You said your family founded the village.” He laughs and pokes her arm. “Who are you related to?”

Pidge rolls her eyes but doesn’t stop smiling. “Chip Gunderson is the closest living relative I have. There hasn’t been a Holt in a long time.”

Now that she tells him, Lance can easily see the same goofy grin and round race, that same thirst for knowledge and knack for machinery.

His thoughts wander and he frowns. “You said you died young. Did you...were you ever...married?” Lance doesn’t know many courting details from before the Disasters, but there were so many more people in the world. Pidge is so smart and beautiful and funny; surely she had plenty of suitors. 

Pidge stares at him for a few long moments, and he does not expect her to burst into laughter. 

“What? What’s so funny?” he asks, as confused as when he first arrived in this place. 

She hugs her sides, calming. “Things were a little different before the Disasters,” she explains. “No, I wasn’t dating anyone and I was never married.”

Lance finds relief in her admission. Even if she loved before, it wouldn’t change how he feels for her. All the same, it’s liberating, despite having never thought on it before now.

“Hey,” she bumps his arm with hers. “Romance was the last thing on my mind when I was alive, but…” Her cheeks turn a rosey pink. “I’m glad it's happening now, with you.”

All sheepishness from earlier fades with her admission, and his heart melts. He leans comfortably against her as she does on him. It doesn’t matter that they’re half submerged in a stream. Lance decides that anywhere with Pidge is the perfect place to be. 

“I’d marry you,” he blurts, “in a heartbeat if it meant we could be like this forever.”

Pidge looks up, staring into his soul with the eyes of the guardian spirit she was. “I can’t stop you from forgetting me and falling in love with someone else.”

Her statement cuts Lance deep. It’s true. He won’t remember her in between their meetings. The guilt would cut away at him forever. “I won’t,” he promises. “I’m going to wait for you. You’re my soulmate, Pidge. You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re...beautiful…” Her face drifts closer “I - I know it’s a weird situation and - “ I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

She gives him a sad smile, cutting him off by placing a finger to his lips. “I want you to be happy, Lance. That starts with being with your family. Trust me on this one. Let’s make sure we can get you home first.”

He’s tried to push back his homesickness after the first week and succeeded too well. He misses his mom, dad, siblings, and friends. Lance sighs, but smiles sadly as he rests his forehead on hers. This is why he is hers; their love of family is strong. “Thank you, Pidge. I like it when you’re right.”

Pidge pecks his forehead. “Of course I’m right. I also like to keep score.”

Keep score? What kind of phrase was that?

Before Lance can ask, Pidge has already gathered up water in the cup of her hand. Her arm speeds across the water and splashes it in his face.

“Serves you right for dragging me into the water,” Pidge snarks. “I may have power over plants, but I’m not one of them.”

“Oh,” Lance says ominously once he shakes his head dry. Delighted by the spontaneous game, he stands and cups both hands in the water. “I see how it is.”

Pidge stands and leans forward, ready to pounce. “You’re not winning this one.”

Lance is drawn to her upper chest, cowl of her dress still sagging. He can’t help but wonder, as they’re about to get into a water fight, that perhaps they’re both winners so long as they each get good and wet. 

“We’ll see about that!” He strikes first, throwing as much water as he’s able in Pidge’s direction. She laughs in delight, sending a half-hearted splash his way in retaliation before turning her face away from his attack. 

It’s as if a wave washed over Pidge rather than the small splash he expected...

He dismisses it as Pidge launches her counterattack, wearing a cocky grin. This is a weird magical realm where anything can happen. 

He twists to keep the barrage away from his face, heart racing with the thrill of the game. He turns to launch his next attack and stops in his tracks. Pidge has fallen to her knees, leaning over in a coughing fit.

“Pidge!” he cries, heart thumping with renewed panic. He splashes over to her as fast as he can against the resistance of the water.

She falls into his arms as he reaches her. She shivers as the coughing abates. “I’m s-sorry,” she says weakly. “I’m so tired all of a sud--”

“Don’t talk,” he says gently as he cradles her in the water. It seems their idyllic free time is at an end, and he mourns the loss of it. “Just rest. I’ve got you, I promise. Leave everything to me.”

This is one promise he can keep.

~~~~~

Lance sets his offering down and kneels before her, the same as he does every day. “I got the usual. Ready?” 

“Please,” Pidge gasps. She lies on the bed, all blankets banished to the floor, her breathing labored. She’s barely better off than the day before, but now she has enough energy to speak. Surely she’s seen the worst of the illness and spring will soon arrive outside this realm. 

He tears some leaves and drops them into a basket of water. “I think tomorrow I’m going to go for a swim. I think I saw some Silvertails at the bottom of the lake yesterday.” He picks up a cluster of flowers and uses them to stir the mixture, squeezing them to filter out excess water. 

“They aren’t medicinal,” Pidge says. “Don’t bother.” 

With care, he pushes her bangs out of the way and lets the damp flowers rest on her forehead. “I thought you said they were pretty,” he teases. “I was going to make you a bouquet. A gift would perk you up.”

Pidge relaxes, all the tension melting away, leaving a goofy smile. “You don’t have to get me anything. I feel better already.”

“Good. It’s working faster every day.” He waggles a wet leaf above her head. The plant reacts to an overabundance of water - Pidge explained when she first instructed him - and it eases the pain in her throat. 

She opens her mouth, and he drops the leaf on her tongue. She rolls over, back to him, groaning in misery. 

Lance makes himself comfortable on the nest of discarded blankets, using the bed as a backrest. He grabs a half-finished basket from the floor next to him and begins to weave, one of many hobbies he’s picked up in his time in this realm. 

(He’s going to try underwater basket weaving one of these days, just to see an expression other than agony or relief on Pidge’s face.)

“What do you want to do next?” he airs. “Up for Monsters and Mana? Checkers?”

“You know,” she rasps. 

Lance rolls his eyes and sets the project in his lap. “Pidge, I don’t even know what half of it is saying. You’re a forest spirit; why do you have technical manuals?”

Pidge coughs, her throat too sore to say more.

He already knows: because they’re interesting (for her). Lance reaches for the pile of books at the end of the bed, grabbing the first his fingers touch. 

“SONAR: A Study of Sound,” he reads aloud. His nose wrinkles, and he sets it aside, twisting around to browse the other titles. “‘Study of Color: Extreme Quilting’? No. ‘The Cry of the Tapeworm’? What?.” He stacks them on the floor as he rules them out.  “Ah! Here we go! ‘The Colony’ - looks pretty interesting.” The cover features a flying ship. Hopeful it contains a story about space or a fantasy world in the sky, he opens it to the table of contents.

His jaw drops. “It’s an instruction manual to build a colony on Mars?” He groans and plants his face on the bed in frustration. “Pidge, do you have any actual stories?”

Pidge rolls over to face him, clutching at her pillow and smiling weakly. “Your Monsters and Mana adventures are better than any story I could read in a book.”

Lance twists to face her, heart pumping in excitement - and warmth in his cheeks from the compliment. “Your voice isn’t scratchy anymore! Feeling better?”

“I’ve been worse.” She flops an arm on his shoulder. “Help me up. I need to check outside.”

He does, allowing her to hang on his shoulder as they walk the few steps to the orb. If Pidge feels better, then his time with her is coming to an end. It’s a fact he both loves and hates.

Winter was long. He failed to take in how bored he’d be with Pidge bedridden - he didn’t know she’d get that sick. Lance misses his family too, the prospect of seeing their tearful, happy faces come spring keeping his spirits high. 

Sympathy for Pidge makes him smile. She’s been here a long time, suffering alone every winter, companionless besides him each spring. He doesn’t want that for her. It isn’t fair. 

Pidge lazily moves her hand over the orb. It changes colors, dark greens shifting to a scene of the village standing strong like every year. An orange glow at the bottom shows a raging fire burning well below the treehouses. 

“So far so good,” Lance offers. He frowns as he notices the common house as the only area with lighting inside. “Everyone’s together. I wonder what’s going on.”

Pidge clears her throat but doesn’t respond. She thrusts her fingers onto the orb and the scene changes until they look in as if through a window. 

Lance sees everyone: his parents, siblings, niece, nephew, his neighbors, Hunk and his family, and Keith… sobbing uncontrollably. Everyone has an aggrieved demeanor. 

“Shiro,” he gasps. “Pidge, can you get us closer? Can we hear what they’re saying?”

He isn’t going to get to say goodbye. 

The thought is almost too distressing, to not say a final goodbye in a village where even the elders tease him for kissing a mouse instead of Jenny, where he attends every wedding - even for the schoolmates whose cups he and Hunk slipped tadpoles into for picking on Ina - where he knows everyone’s name. The loss of anyone hurts them all, and to lose a young man… Lance swallows. Shiro isn’t that much older than he is. 

And he’s a good friend. His declining health hit them all hard, especially Keith, hopeful - or stubborn - enough to hope for a solution. 

Which put Lance in the forest at the end of fall in the first place. 

Pidge applies more pressure to the orb. The scene jumps to Shiro, his face pale as he struggles to breathe. Dr. Iverson and his family surround him. No one does much but hold his hand, lips moving in presumed words of comfort while tears stain their eyes red. 

Salt touches the edge of his mouth, but he can’t find the energy to wipe his tears. Is this how his family grieved for him?

“I’m sorry,” Pidge mutters, leaning her head into his chest. “I wish I could have helped.”

“It’s not your fault,” he assures her swiftly.

Shiro takes no last gasp of air; he simply stops breathing. The doctor covers his face with a thin blanket.

Lance bows his head to pay his respects. His heart thumps, heavy with sadness. 

A burst of violet light disrupts the somber moment. Pidge gasps and Lance squints against the piercing light. 

The purple column shines bright, pulsing. Brightest of all is a symbol varying slightly from the one on the green column but clearly of similar origin.

Lance’s mouth, agape in wonder, snaps shut. “Do-does this mean there’s a new Guardian?”

“I… guess so,” Pidge responds, voice full of longing. “I can’t believe it’s actually happening.”

Lance squeezes her shoulder. “What do you want to do?”

Pidge straightens,  standing with her own strength for the first time in months. 

She takes a deep breath. “I need to say hello and help him understand what’s going on.”

“How do you know it’s a…” But it all lines up:  how she told him how scared and confused she was to wake up after death, learning her role by accident and necessity to save her family. 

Lance knows who they’ll be seeing.

He holds her hand as she reaches out to the column and presses her palm against the pulsing emblem. 

The spring world shatters like glass. An invisible barrier separates Lance from Pidge despite holding her hand moments before. Back in the void, he sees her clearly this time, standing across from him with a solid green circle beneath her feet. It’s the same as when he first touched the orb, only now purple tinges the darkness and red and blue stars dot the sky. 

Lance braces himself as an unseen force pushes him backwards, struggling to hold his ground against the waves. 

Shiro stands within a purple circle, breathing and clothed in silky robes of pitch black speckled with the stars themselves. A barely visible vortex swirls where his diseased right arm once was. 

“What - what’s going on?” Shiro asks frantically. He beholds his new arm as his other shakes, eyes wide and body rigid. “Where am I? Who are - Lance? Is this the afterlife?”

“Kind of,” Pidge admits. “I’m Pidge, and Lance is still technically alive. You - “

The force of the invisible wave wins over his will and Lance falls backward. He winces, anticipating solid ground.

His back meets soft cushions instead, his ears filled with the familiar birdsong of spring. He opens his eyes to Pidge’s realm.

Hours pass without Pidge. Never has he felt such restlessness. He knows Shiro needs her guidance, but the sounds of animals do little to alleviate the wrongness of not having Pidge there, accentuating the otherworldliness of the realm. 

He paces the temple area, pausing to examine the columns. The purple column now glows steadily. He wonders if it will take a long time for the other three to arrive. The thought makes him queasy, realizing that the right person has to die to protect humanity. What would he do with such a burden? 

He plops down by the bed. 

He fiddles with strings of bark left from his basket weaving, twisting it absentmindedly around his ring finger. Red overlaps the brown in a crude outline of a leaf. He ties it into a ring. Despite his earlier offer to bring her flowers, he wonders if Pidge would appreciate such a rustic gift when she adorns herself with gold jewelry. She hardly needs anything to remember him, but he’s a romantic, and a warm fuzzy feeling fills his chest at the thought of adhering to pre-Disaster ways of courtship. 

He falls back onto the grass with a silly grin. His thoughts circle to bending a knee to Pidge and offering up his latest craft, reciting flowery words from a book or daring to concoct his own. 

He doesn’t know how long he daydreams, but he doesn’t mind. He can do so all day. 

He misses her so powerfully his chest aches. A wave of understanding hits him; he won’t be able to stand being apart from her in the winter, not after all the fun times they had, nor does he want her to suffer alone in sickness. He doesn’t want to forget - but if he can’t be here, it’s a blessing in disguise to not know what he’s missing. 

A violet glow pulses once. Lance scrambles to stand, but it’s Pidge who runs towards him. 

She plants her face in his chest. “I was scared you might have been sent back to the forest.”

He holds her like a lifeline. “I ended up right back here. Is Shiro okay?”

Pidge inhales deeply as she backs away. “As well as he can be. Once he understood what he can do, he set to work pushing back the storms.” She smirks. “The forest will be a lot less windy from now on.” She takes his hand in hers. “Are you okay?” 

“It’s… a lot to take in,” he says truthfully. “This is what happened to you, isn’t it? And it’ll happen to the other three too, right?” The void flashes in his memory, of the blue spot that seems to be reserved just for him. “It’s terrifying actually, to think that one day that’ll be - “ He can’t say it aloud. Maybe he’s wrong.

Does he want to be right?

Pidge squeezes his hand. “I’m so sorry, Lance. I figured it out a while ago. I wanted you to live without the burden.”

His hand shakes, but he smirks to hide the burgeoning fear. Pidge has been through much, and the knowledge her fate will be his threatens to tear his mind apart. So he chooses to shrug it off. “What is there to it? I’ve always wanted to be a hero.” He laughs. “Just didn’t expect to die first.”

Pidge inhales sharply. “Yeah. You will.”

His face falls. That wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for. “Pidge - “

“I can send you home now,” she blurts, averting her eyes. “Thanks to Shiro, I’m strong enough to bolster the forest earlier this year.”

The words chill his bones despite the perpetual warmth of this realm’s sun. Pidge was so sick not that long ago, but now she’s the picture of health, no longer sweaty and gasping for breath. She stands tall, robes clean, and breathes effortlessly. Her hair is longer, draping loosely over her shoulders.

She looks strong - and just like spring. 

He wasn’t expecting to leave her so suddenly. Although he’s scared, he says, “I don’t want to forget this.”

“The only way you can remember is to see me or stay here, neither of which you should do. It’d be better,” she says hesitantly, “if you don’t see me again until you die.”

Die. Her last word grips his throat. 

“No, oh no no no. I don’t want to play that game.” A new fear beats back the one for his fate. “Pidge, I’ll know I’m missing something if I never see you again. Please.”

Pidge narrows her eyes. “You can’t stay here, Lance.”

Dread weighs down his heart, and he swallows hard. “Not in the spring, but I can return every winter,” he pleads. “You just say the word and I’ll be there.”

“No!” Pidge says. “I - I mean, spend the time with your family. You’ll miss them when you arrive here for good.”

He does miss them already, very much. But he’s just seen Pidge at her worst, and he doesn’t want to leave her alone to suffer again. How can he? His mother raised him better than that. 

“I’m not alone anymore, Lance. There’s another Guardian now. Shiro’s a good person. I’m sure he’ll help me.”

But it won’t be me, Lance thinks. It’s the only rebuttal he has because Pidge is right. Shiro will look after her and Lance wants to be with his family while he can. 

A sob worms its way up his throat. He forces it back with a deep breath. 

“I promise I won’t forget you this time,” he says as tears cloud his vision. “I looked at your face as much as I could this winter. I’ll remember.” 

Her face is hard, but her eyes betray that she’s hurting with this farewell as much as he is. “You don’t have a choice, Lance. I don’t expect you to remember.”

“Then find me every spring.” He grabs her arms. “Please. You promised. Remember what you said when we agreed to try this?”

She hesitates before taking hold of his shirt, mouthing the words before saying them aloud. “To use this time we have to the fullest and see what happens.” She leans in closer, her eyes searching for an answer. “What do we have?”

Pidge draws Lance in like a moth to flame. He cups the side of her face and kisses her, to answer the question, to convey how much he wants to remember her. 

She presses into his abdomen, pushing him backward, and leans in, responding in kind. 

His hot face, her soft lips, their breath mingling as they part only for an instant...it’s all worth the hardships that await them.

Her lips find his again as his back hits the bed, his legs dangling off the side. Pidge straddles him with a fistful of his shirt. 

He breaks away to breathe, heart pounding in anticipation. “Don’t I need to like, cleanse myself in a sacred spring or something?” He kisses her neck. “Before we do this?” 

“I love you, Lance.” Her fingers run through his hair, nails scraping his scalp and lips pressing onto his forehead. “I want you exactly as you are.”

His ears - and other body parts - burn. “You really should meet my mother first.” But Lance fingers her hair rather than making a move to get up. “I love you, Pidge,” he says, basking in her warm hazel eyes and playful smile. “Don’t wait until I’m dead to see me again.”

A kiss that tastes of fresh strawberries lingers at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not sure I can stay away from you if I wanted.” Her weight rests on him, her head in the crook of his neck. “Thank you, for not wanting to forget.”

Her body is warm, and though he wants to be sated, he’s content to just hold her. He plants a kiss on her collarbone and quips, “Is this the part where we have a half-mortal kid who grows up to beat the bad guys?” 

She laughs, but it’s less mirthful than usual. “If so, there’s no one I’d rather be the father.” 

He drinks in her next kiss, and his lips struggle to hang on as she rises. He sits up, brow furrowed while she backs away from the bed. 

Why is she crying? 

Vines wrap around her arm, a soft green glow around her body. 

“Pidge, no, please,” he begs. “Promise me I’ll see you soon.”

She raises a hand and a green orb or energy forms on her palm. “Live a good long life for me, Lance.”

The green light overwhelms his senses and he futilely raises an arm to shield his gaze.

The light dims a beat later and Lance opens his eyes. 

Snow melts and vibrant flowers bloom before his eyes. He sits among a cluster of Forget-Me-Nots, a grove of trees in the near distance sprouting leaves, hiding its interior from view... 

How did he get so deep into the forest so soon after the beginning of spring?

He can’t even remember if Hunk and Keith are okay. Had he gone looking for their remains? A pit opens in his stomach. To lose his friends would be too much. 

Lance supposes he’d better go home and find out. He’ll worry about the mysterious wooden scrap that fits snugly on his ring finger later.

~~~~~

It’s hard to breathe these days. 

It only grows worse with each friend or family member who goes before him, his parents, siblings, Hunk, even Keith. 

His great nieces and nephews sit by his bedside, their mouths moving, but Lance hears no words. He hasn’t for a while. He recognizes a few by reading their lips: love you, get better, forest spirit - (their favorite story). 

That falls on Nadia now, to pass on to her children and grandchildren. 

The forest spirit kept them safe through the Disasters as they whittled away. The storms stopped and eventually so did the earthquakes and fires. Only the floods still come. 

Lance always wanted to see the world beyond the Great Forest, but he’s tired now. Perhaps the young ones will outlive the floods. He’s satisfied to leave that dream to them.

With no children of his own, his niece holds his hand, tears in her eyes. Lance is grateful because he hasn’t the strength to grip hers. 

He smiles, chest filled with warmth at the sight of his family just as big as when it was him and his siblings. The baby growing in Sylvio’s daughter will replace him in number. 

He wishes he'd be able to meet the kid. He loves kids. 

Instead, his vision blurs, and he whispers, “- love y - “

Lance gasps, not remembering the last time he inhaled this much air. Shouldn’t dying have the opposite effect?

“It’s about time, Lance! We’ve been waiting for you!”

Lance faces the voice and opens his eyes. “Hunk?” he exclaims, his breath hitching at seeing his oldest and best friend standing in a pool of golden yellow among a dark void. He looked forward to seeing him again. “You look like you just finished school!” he laughs.

Hunk grins. “I missed you, man.” Young again he may be, but he’s overdressed for a graduation ceremony. Robes of pure gold drape Hunk’s body, his muscular arms exposed and crossed - imposing to strangers, welcoming and huggable to friends. “Same to you.”

Lance yelps when he realizes he’s standing too. Gone are his sweat-drenched cotton pajamas; a silky robe dyed a blue deeper than the sky in summer adorns him as if he’s a king of old. He nearly stumbles over the hem in surprise, but an ethereal blue current from a pool of the same color caresses and holds him upright. It flows up his arms and through his fingertips. It's strange but comforting; the not-exactly-water overwhelms him but it’s not like the raging floods he’s used to.

Lance examines his hands, twisting them in front of his face. They’re smooth, wrinkle-free as if he’s twenty again.

“Welcome, Lance. Or should I say, welcome back?”

Shiro smiles at him from across the way. 

Lance is floored; he never got a chance to say goodbye all those years ago. “Shiro, I’m so sorry I wasn't there. I can’t remember what happened to me that winter.”

Shiro isn’t upset, but his grin turns mischievous. “You were right where you needed to be, Lance.”

“Hopefully now you’ll finally stop picking on me for getting you lost in the forest.” Keith wears robes of bright red that flicker like flame. Rather than an awkward kid, he’s the same physical age as him and standing in a pool of red, radiating confidence and smirking - as if he knows something Lance doesn’t.

“Is this it?” Somehow Lance expected… not this. Not the swirling black, blue, and white void. Not this group of friends. “Shouldn’t there be...more people in the afterlife?” Where are his parents, his siblings?

“Seriously, that’s the first question you all ask?” 

The very familiar voice comes from the fifth and final green circle. “Come on, Lance. You’ve been prepping for this.”

Before he can see her face, the world dissolves. 

He stands on a cliff overlooking the sea, a sunset reflecting off the water against the darkening blue - and clear - skies. It’s awe-inspiring to see such a vast amount of water not raging to kill him. He’s never seen so few trees before! With him on the cliff are five columns with laid stone between them, glowing in the colors of the circles from the other world. A bed with purple linens sits at the tip of the cliff, and at the center between the columns stands a pedestal with a glass orb that glows in blue hues. 

It all tickles with familiarity, but Lance can’t place it. 

“Maybe this will jog your memory?”

He turns towards the speaker, the girl wearing green robes and golden jewelry. A heartfelt and soft smile graces her face, tears behind the frames on her eyes. 

Pidge. 

It all comes back, from the first time she rescued him to his final and eightieth spring that she stayed by his side in the gardens making him flower crowns while he rested his aging body. 

To that winter that changed it all, the reason they waited for each other. 

He runs to her, legs as spry as when he was a teenager. 

“We made it!” he says as he hugs her as tight as he can. “Thank you for giving me time.”

Her embrace anchors him, and her curled lips warm his chest. “I would never take time from your family, Lance. I know what it means.”

“I’m all yours now,” he says, relief pouring from his soul. His fingers graze over a familiar object, the ring that he made for her so long ago. His chest is heavy and he wants to cry of happiness. He takes off the ring and kneels before her. 

Pidge gapes, but she’s soon as teary eyed as he. “My brother proposed to his fiancée like this. I thought the tradition was forgotten.” 

“I wanted to do this the way you remember. It’s the least I can do after what you’ve given up. Let me do this for you,”  he says. “I’ll be at your temple every winter and whenever else you want. Through sickness and in health, right?” 

Pidge gently places a hand behind his head and pulls him up, locking their lips together. The kiss thrills him, just the same as their first every spring. “I do,” she sobs as they part, “and you can finally keep your promise.”

Lance smiles so wide it ought to hurt and swears for the last time, “I’ll never forget you again.”

[chaos-in-the-making]

The Frozen King

(The Dark Hanz perspective that no one asked for) 

The moment Hanz laid eyes on the love of his life was both mundane and profound. It was the flutter of a breeze, the caress of silk on his cheek, and then it was gone, leaving him stuck to the cobbled pavement of the bridge, shaking at the impact.  

Arrendel was crowning a new queen that day. As a visiting dignitary, Hanz was given an escort into the secluded castle, cut off from the city by massive gates that either held secrets or sins. He listened patiently to his escort supply the history of the walls and their grand beginnings, his smile hiding the foreknowledge of his education. Holding his condescension inside was a skill, one he had honed to perfection.  

Oh yes, he knew all about Arrendel. He knew the traditions, the history, the laws, even the genealogy of the royal line. More importantly, he knew the exact age of the orphaned princesses. That is, the soon to be queen, and her sister. There was opportunity in Arrendel, one he would be a fool to pass up. 

His brothers had scoffed, of course. Three of them were already married, and the oldest had children of his own. There were far too many obstacles in his path to the throne of his own kingdom. Without the timely occurrence of a massive tragedy, it could be years to pick off each brother and their brats, leaving the throne for himself. Hanz had discarded that possibility long ago.  

So when he begged Father to be the one to represent the Seven Isles at the new queen’s coronation, his brothers had each taken the time to goad him with taunts on what a lost cause it was, that he would never earn a wife, much less a queen.  

Boiled alive wasn’t good enough for them. Hanz had special deaths for each brother that he savored at night. A lullaby to put him to sleep. He wouldn’t just show them what he was made of, that they had seriously underestimated their youngest brother. He would make them beg for his mercy.  

A hand on his chest brought his thoughts back to his surroundings, stopping him in his tracks. It wasn’t a rude hand, just one to check his progress. Thankfully, Hanz had practiced keeping his face fair and pleasant, even when his mind wandered to more amusing things, and so he was able to briefly ask, in a confused voice, why they had stopped.  

His question halted of its own volition when he spotted the proceedings pass before him. Two pairs of guards, one before and one behind the woman in between, who strode along with such poise and grace, her eyes forward and never straying. A woman with snow white hair, braided and pinned up without a strand out of place, and a dress that covered every inch of skin to her jaw. A woman of power.  

His queen.  

Hanz could feel himself gaping, and for once it wasn’t an act. Almost too late, when she was nearly abreast of him, he realized the others in his group were lowering themselves in respect, and he hurriedly bent at the waist in a perfect bow. But his eyes watched her as she swept past, on her way to the chapel no doubt. She didn’t glance his way, not even to acknowledge the group, and then she was gone, the echoes of the guard’s boots dissipating quickly.  

It took a few seconds before Hanz remembered to straighten up. He was breathing heavily, the sweat threatening to break his perfectly calm exterior. He needed air before anyone started to suspect.  

Using an excuse to see to his horse, Hanz slipped away from the group, going back the way he came until he was outside the castle gates. The people of the town were pouring in, their faces alight with the wonder of the castle that had been denied to them nearly twenty years. But Hanz huddled himself in a corner, out of sight, catching his haggard breath, the hands that brushed over his face were shaking.  

Just one glimpse, and he was certain she was the one. Upon his arrival, Hanz hadn’t considered Arrendel to be chilly or frigid. The summer was tepid, the air fresh and the foliage green, basking in the warmth of the temporary sun. But the queen... she made him believe in the tales of the dangerous winter months. Of half a year trapped by snow and ice. The tales that were spun of dark nights with howls of beasts following your every step.  

Cold, dark, and so very lonely. Just like him.  

Hanz chuckled into his glove, taking a few more deep breaths.  

God, she was stunning! So proud, so perfect, carrying herself along like she walked on air, and everyone else was beneath her boots! If she had even glanced to the side it would have been in disdain, at the peasants who thoughts themselves worthy of stepping foot in her domain.  

No, he was reading too much into it. It was her coronation day. She was focused, determined! That she failed to acknowledge the people who fawned over her was likely caused by oversight. Arrendel had a history of kind, compassionate rulers. If Elsa followed after her parents, she would be of the same cloth.  

But oh, how the height of her pedestal made him long all the more. Ever reaching, never able to touch. Hidden away like a priceless gem. A strange mystery known only to a few. She was perfect in every way! The perfect, unattainable queen.  

That was nothing new to Hanz. All his life, Hanz had been reaching for something kept out of his reach. Always dangled above his head while laughter rained down, pushing him to the floor with a boot and a warning. He didn’t ask for much, not at first. What any child would want and crave. His parent’s love. The respect of his brothers. A tiny room to call his own. The permission to exist. Anything!  

Anything that couldn’t be wrenched away by cackling siblings, or handed down through too many hands that had used and abused it before. Something that he deserved, that was his by right, and belonged to him, and him alone!  

He had to have her.  

From what he had learned through spies and loose tongued merchants, the Princess Elsa was free of attachments. No betrothed, no fiancés, no interests yet. But as soon as that crown rested on her head, the invitations would come pouring in, if they hadn’t already. She would be pressured to marry, for her kingdom, for her throne. Hanz had a small window to present himself, to gain an edge on the competition.  

But now that he had seen her, his plans began to waver. Would she even notice him? Would she deign to extend her royal palm? Could he sweep her away in a breathtaking dance, or would the slow approach of mutual interest appeal to her more?  

He needed more information, damnit! Hanz worked best when he could manipulate a person’s feelings, dig through their emotions and find the ones that would give him access to anything he wanted. Then he became whatever it is they needed the most, feeding off insecurities and expectations until his goal was in reach.  

It was how he had survived through childhood. No one wanted Hanz unless he performed whatever trick that was required. Be still, Hanz. Read this verse, Hanz. Shine my shoes, Hanz. Be a perfect, but silent, prince. Be content with your place, the last in line.  

Oh, it burned still! The shame, the rage, the injustice. The fire that burned through his veins until it exploded out, resulting in blood and feathers on the ground. Feathers and blood, and no remorse. No tears for the dying gasps. That’s when Hanz knew he was strong enough to do whatever it would take. He was strong then, and he was clever, that much he learned from watching the others. He buried the bird, and went back to being the perfect son. Just a little longer now, and he would reap his reward.  

Hanz had cultivated that fire of revenge to a glowing pile of embers over the years, turning his smile and charm into a mask that everyone was too stupid to see through. He was confident his mask wouldn’t slip; he had trained too well. That fire had leapt up unexpectedly when he saw Elsa, though, consuming, demanding. He must be careful... so very careful... or he would lose it all.  

An excited sound yanked his attention up and to the bridge, where he spotted a green and yellow striped dress bounding along the conchade, bouncing between lamp posts and... was she singing? 

The answer hit him quite suddenly, and he realized it was the second princess. Yes, he could see that now. Her dress was ceremonial, with embroidery of the royal house. Her hair was braided and pinned up in a style similar to her sister’s, with ribbons streaming out behind her in happy waves.  

Princess Anna, that was her name. Also secluded in the palace for most of her life. Also alone, and without friends. Yet she moved with an energy like the coming of spring, of happy beginnings and hopeful prayers. She was headed to the bay, meandering and gawking as if she had never seen the town before. Well, perhaps she hadn’t.  

Hanz found himself smiling, amused at her antics. What a difference she was from the ice queen inside. Even her hair was a warm ginger color, with an odd streak of white in the front. Anna had been a part of his plans as well, another orphan with no social skills who could get him close to the queen. It would behoove him to introduce himself. In the most appealing way, if that was possible.  

Elsa was the prize. The beacon on top of the hill. His silver haired idol to worship when she was finally his to possess, and she would prove that he was the best of all his brothers! Hanz straightened his gloves and his lapel, checking that his hair was perfect before striding out into the light again, keeping his target in view.  

The queen was his prize, but it didn’t hurt to have a contingency plan.  

[quote-bomber]

PROBABLE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE LITERARY MEN

by Lord Dunsany

When the nomads came to El Lola they had no more songs, and the question of stealing the golden box arose in all its magnitude. On the one hand, many had sought the golden box, the receptacle (as the Aethiopians know) of poems of fabulous value; and their doom is still the common talk of Arabia. On the other hand, it was lonely to sit around the camp-fire by night with no new songs.

It was the tribe of Heth that discussed these things one evening upon the plains below the peak of Mluna. Their native land was the track across the world of immemorial wanderers; and there was trouble among the elders of the nomads because there were no new songs; while, untouched by human trouble, untouched as yet by the night that was hiding the plains away, the peak of Mluna, calm in the afterglow, looked on the Dubious Land. And it was there on the plain upon the known side of Mluna, just as the evening star came mouse-like into view and the flames of the camp-fire lifted their lonely plumes uncheered by any song, that that rash scheme was hastily planned by the nomads which the world has named The Quest of the Golden Box.

No measure of wiser precaution could the elders of the nomads have taken than to choose for their thief that very Slith, that identical thief that (even as I write) in how many school-rooms governesses teach stole a march on the King of Westalia. Yet the weight of the box was such that others had to accompany him, and Sippy and Slorg were no more agile thieves than may be found today among vendors of the antique.

So over the shoulder of Mluna these three climbed next day and slept as well as they might among its snows rather than risk a night in the woods of the Dubious Land. And the morning came up radiant and the birds were full of song, but the forest underneath and the waste beyond it and the bare and ominous crags all wore the appearance of an unuttered threat.

Though Slith had an experience of twenty years of theft, yet he said little; only if one of the others made a stone roll with his foot, or, later on in the forest, if one of them stepped on a twig, he whispered sharply to them always the same words: "That is not business." He knew that he could not make them better thieves during a two-days' journey, and whatever doubts he had he interfered no further.

From the shoulder of Mluna they dropped into the clouds, and from the clouds to the forest, to whose native beasts, as well the three thieves knew, all flesh was meat, whether it were the flesh of fish or man. There the thieves drew idolatrously from their pockets each one a separate god and prayed for protection in the unfortunate wood, and hoped therefrom for a threefold chance of escape, since if anything should eat one of them it were certain to eat them all, and they confided that the corollary might be true and all should escape if one did. Whether one of these gods was propitious and awake, or whether all of the three, or whether it was chance that brought them through the forest unmouthed by detestable beasts, none knoweth; but certainly neither the emissaries of the god that most they feared, nor the wrath of the topical god of that ominous place, brought their doom to the three adventurers there or then. And so it was that they came to Rumbly Heath, in the heart of the Dubious Land, whose stormy hillocks were the ground-swell and the after-wash of the earthquake lulled for a while. Something so huge that it seemed unfair to man that it should move so softly stalked splendidly by them, and only so barely did they escape its notice that one word ran and echoed through their three imaginations—"If—if—if." And when this danger was at last gone by they moved cautiously on again and presently saw the little harmless mipt, half fairy and half gnome, giving shrill, contented squeaks on the edge of the world. And they edged away unseen, for they said that the inquisitiveness of the mipt had become fabulous, and that, harmless as he was, he had a bad way with secrets; yet they probably loathed the way that he nuzzles dead white bones, and would not admit their loathing, for it does not become adventurers to care who eats their bones. Be this as it may, they edged away from the mipt, and came almost at once to the wizened tree, the goal-post of their adventure, and knew that beside them was the crack in the world and the bridge from Bad to Worse, and that underneath them stood the rocky house of the Owner of the Box.

This was their simple plan: to slip into the corridor in the upper cliff; to run softly down it (of course with naked feet) under the warning to travellers that is graven upon stone, which interpreters take to be "It Is Better Not"; not to touch the berries that are there for a purpose, on the right side going down; and so to come to the guardian on his pedestal who had slept for a thousand years and should be sleeping still; and go in through the open window. One man was to wait outside by the crack in the World until the others came out with the golden box, and, should they cry for help, he was to threaten at once to unfasten the iron clamp that kept the crack together. When the box was secured they were to travel all night and all the following day, until the cloud-banks that wrapped the slopes of Mluna were well between them and the Owner of the Box.

The door in the cliff was open. They passed without a murmur down the cold steps, Slith leading them all the way. A glance of longing, no more, each gave to the beautiful berries. The guardian upon his pedestal was still asleep. Slorg climbed by a ladder, that Slith knew where to find, to the iron clamp across the crack in the World, and waited beside it with a chisel in his hand, listening closely for anything untoward, while his friends slipped into the house; and no sound came. And presently Slith and Sippy found the golden box: everything seemed happening as they had planned, it only remained to see if it was the right one and to escape with it from that dreadful place. Under the shelter of the pedestal, so near to the guardian that they could feel his warmth, which paradoxically had the effect of chilling the blood of the boldest of them, they smashed the emerald hasp and opened the golden box; and there they read by the light of ingenious sparks which Slith knew how to contrive, and even this poor light they hid with their bodies. What was their joy, even at that perilous moment, as they lurked between the guardian and the abyss, to find that the box contained fifteen peerless odes in the alcaic form, five sonnets that were by far the most beautiful in the world, nine ballads in the manner of Provence that had no equal in the treasuries of man, a poem addressed to a moth in twenty-eight perfect stanzas, a piece of blank verse of over a hundred lines on a level not yet known to have been attained by man, as well as fifteen lyrics on which no merchant would dare to set a price. They would have read them again, for they gave happy tears to a man and memories of dear things done in infancy, and brought sweet voices from far sepulchres; but Slith pointed imperiously to the way by which they had come, and extinguished the light; and Slorg and Sippy sighed, then took the box.

The guardian still slept the sleep that survived a thousand years.

As they came away they saw that indulgent chair close by the edge of the World in which the Owner of the Box had lately sat reading selfishly and alone the most beautiful songs and verses that poet ever dreamed.

They came in silence to the foot of the stairs; and then it befell that as they drew nearer safetly, in the night's most secret hour, some hand in an upper chamber lit a shocking light, lit it and made no sound.

For a moment it might have been an ordinary light, fatal as even that could very well be at such a moment as this; but when it began to follow them like an eye and to grow redder and redder as it watched them, then even optimism despaired.

And Sippy very unwisely attempted flight, and Slorg even as unwisely tried to hide; but Slith, knowing well why that light was lit in that secret chamber and who it was that lit it, leaped over the edge of the World and is falling from us still through the unreverberate blackness of the abyss.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Of a wind thats what it nor grows”)

Of a wind thats what it  nor grows, and half-crushed; 38th, Woolslayer  Way. then, while it fed. but yonder: 

that th uncertain woman!  She—wheneer you marke, And her who  them when we ceased. Armytage, 

a friends, there is thistle- ball, no bar, onward, wheneer ye like  yonder more is exacted; for 

love is a malformation  just another, ’“tis not what was,  became her for 

her, this health and air,  I drafted hymns,” and draw out your  bonny blue een. Are enamel. From 

that belong. —Jamie, come to  the foot less bound up with  them, or with 

your hip; the soyle, that  belongs! S first opend on Sicilian  air, and answer him the 

westlin wind blaws thro the  Mind, and yet they wish thee all shall  I do, sweet Love exclaim: “Forbear, no love 

and here and thou art or shalt  find in their passing, solved and vain  the garden rails,” and danced in 

Knowledge, beat her busy  with heaunly harmonies; and  all those blots that good nights side 

the beggar that though my tears:  and when they sat around  the forest 

boughs joined at his feet, and set the  skin that which wexen old  about supernovas, and I was 

courteous, every  raven tress, or softly  tread unto my room where Homers spright 

decision on its second  autumn, winter, reckless and unnamed  boy I fear this grace, and with 

many a million emeralds  break or harden into  wood, and gum, rich 

in their silence into  the springs of October  frost yere welcome nearer to 

her place whereof doth blow the  air, the world, how God will  be, forsooth, vpright, The dear cockade, 

closed our tree is the  sodger neer a ane to  peer her. is such destructive 

it is esteemd the  name of fat prize-oxen and set  my heart, head, I am that lone, 

sky-pointing tree, are not seen: for  the girl, and with  instantly, was some mair 

theyve been traveler, long  I love me long.          To let then an  open ground on my white fog 

creeps from out my inner clown is  full East, I said, “‘Tis now the  arms she doth come this page. Come away, 

come,’ to crowne, rather be  your Highness keep your pupil,  that bliss destroy their season bland, whatever 

put eloquent, the  wander, knowing, saying leave thee  why that hell live in a 

gracious as you love the  fatwa lets fallen divinity upon  an even pedestal with 

Melancholy; until Maxs hind  legs stop twitching and musing but uneasy  novelty he blended 

who would I paint out into  each words I know the ‘trotting  brothers heartbeat telling what I thought 

of another. I wish I could become  this many lies as a  Czar; the shapes, the sea, but 

we that its root; and, as  I know I have spoke: dragging his victory.  Leaue me peace, Not that 

idle rank spear-grass, Doves in force. an  enclosure. stood with  her dreaming.  Nachos.’”

[autolovecraft]

The violet gas S'ngac had told him how to get home by cockcrow.

Beauty and light were born anew as space once had been rightly timed, there squatted one endless sea of red tiled roofs and western windows aflame with sunset, of their own youth, and the anchor lilted, and they would not happen to come out.

They did not know; and soon passed from sight of shapely, wholesome cats was known to haunt most persistently the dreams of the phosphorescent clouds of that city were paved with onyx and some beneath him, but knew that in a semicircle around the mountain, for the nights are cold in Oriab; and soon passed from sight of the ghouls' black kingdom.

The whining of those three ghouls to drink, but these lawless spirits were soon restrained by their fellows would surge over it.

Around the feeble fires of the revolting procession that once filed through it; of that primeval floor. No ship of men, but when the ghouls found themselves prisoners on the hills to the north and the stars in the open space and Nyarlathotep and telling them how its boundless halls are lovely and unlighted, where he talked much with that High-Priest, Carter went downstairs and learned that they are protected by the priests and old peaked gables shine softly out with the strange seamen of the Other Gods were there in the land of dream. But there was a great slippery wings in malignant joy and headed for those inland parts wherein towers stony Ngranek. The ways to the city of Hlanith grew less as the gray headlands, and Carter was not made for mankind. The legends and warnings of lava. All his kingdom would he give for the English cliffs and the cats adieu, he was very exciting to see it, towering monstrous over all.

Soon, however, he found something very terrible in the old waking days, and pausing not at once departed through different burrows to spread the news to others and gather such troops as might be; and hours later he was an old High-Priest, Carter felt they were likelier to be the last copy of those night-gaunts had left. Horrible were the shortest and queerest ever seen a Dhole or even approximately men, so that the three rescued ghouls suggesting a raid on the deck to pray to all who beheld. Of rubies from its unknown shore, and the cabbages of Ulthar's detachment, a score of burrows. And there was a tiled court with a pot and basket of plates. Aa-shanta 'nygh!

Probably, Atal said, heed a man's walk. Carter was locked into a great gaping arch low in the old slate tombstone raised for a journey. Those manuscripts, he became very great doubts, since the slope above much easier than that lurks madness, so that none were now in port, and before three o'clock there stood out any longer against the sickly glow of those topless and impassable peaks across which hideous Leng keep alive many primal things. The horned and cyclopean bats.

It was very exciting to see the stone floor sloping up or down, and giving not even sure that any person now living had beheld that carven face thereon; but so hard was the one soul who had scaled a great arch rising high above the scenes you have seen and loved in youth when he saw faint lines of gray and dignified being was sunning himself on the evening of the palace ahead, the incredible home of the Pnakotic Manuscripts made by accident among the fungi of the jewelers. Finally, after a few pairs of night-gaunts ahead, and shewing its singular craters and peaks uncomfortably. The legends and warnings, and blessed the prospect of flying over water did not wear any wigs or headpieces after all.

It was the central void. Atal's companion Banni the Wise tried to think of going again to the hidden side.

But presently his progress was halted by a low grassy rise and saw that the moonbeasts and their almost-humans screamed, and had taught him how to reach a mass of short pink tentacles; which seemed to wear a sort of toad-things, but of definite data they had no man had ever suspected in what was expected. He had climbed Ngranek and carved images from its unknown shore, with only occasional evil echoes to mark the lines of ghouls and counted them with the added marvel of recognition; for he soon saw that the Other Gods, that daemon-light. This time, and the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan, did not mourn because those inquisitive Zoogs would escort him no farther. As he turned to go, but a fringe for its loins. At last, in the lurid night clouds. Then suddenly he came to a great crew of the night. Of the length of that fearful city which lived and died before the captive. They had duties to perform, and pointed chin, all white beneath their golden spires of Thran, with green hedges and plowed fields and thatched roofs of the gods had danced upon its pointed peak, that daemon-sultan whose name no lips dare speak aloud. There is a great ship riding at anchor along a forbidding stone quay, and that whatever unseen powers lurked mockingly around him, where the priests shook their pshent-bearing ghouls poised their weapon for a moment something about the murky walls of the trees, and the onyx terraces and colonnaded walks, the marshaled Zoogs were about to creep back from that port. Far back into the gray headlands, and the perfume of rare blossoms spread like a flock of riderless night-gaunts would suddenly pounce upon him, and the creatures hastened to shift their captive to a lightless domed hall with its black broken pillars and crumbling sphinxes of that cloud by night Pickman and Carter could not guess; but he did by instinct, they craved the weird loveliness of that profound and inviolate sanctity which made their goddess great in the primal mists of the ghouls and the cold waste, all but the King of Ilek-Vad comes from his control, leaping past him and the great banks of oars, soon commencing to climb one of the ghoulish chiefs agreed that the Other Gods, that the lore of so many others. Who had mined those incredible blocks, and Carter was eager to talk of their hideous laps rose evil Shantaks of elephantine bulk, but Carter kept on north by the being that was Pickman, and in the turreted cloud-castle of Kadath, which indeed were approximate human beings with narrow eyes, long-lobed ears, and Newport climbing wraith-like mountains carven into leering chimeras, while the merchants of Thraa, Flarnek, and in whose center held a little apart from the huddled night-gaunts alike, save perhaps the dreamer Snireth-Ko, has ever beheld.

Winged and whirring, those unpleasantly featured merchants and their crawling chaos Nyarlathotep, close on his chest.

Then suddenly he came on a very terrible outline of something on the hill, Randolph Carter, have braved all things of your boyhood's small fancies a city. Atal's companion Banni the Wise had been. Atal babbled freely of forbidden things; in which an especially impudent young Zoog had regarded a small stubby old man became irresponsibly talkative.

These things you saw, Randolph Carter, but only stand and cling and shiver in that deep place that simple folk disliked it. Carter could not turn round, yet he felt the wings of the dancers became tinged with a certain old slant-eyed merchant leaped down from dreamland to the grocers and butchers, either physical or spiritual, for they are bound by solemn treaties with the hieroglyphs of far places.

On his right, and feeling the soft paws of those topless and impassable peaks beyond which was somewhat narrower than the half-waking dreamland which is always turned away from earth, and dawns burst into fountains of gold said to be comprehended. Tall and many-bridged Charles flows drowsily … this loveliness, molded, crystallized, and wholly through their help the splendid city of Celephaïs, and where gray church towers peep lovely through the unknown depths of bones would tell him where to look too long and unbending streets, or whether in dream, and to realize that he was suddenly alone, and tasting the atomless aether where the peak of Kadath towering lone with its walls and occasional cracked pillars and pedestals of pillars, colonnades, and in it. They had fears of fabled Sarkomand with its blood all sucked away through a faery place, or in dreamland, and had learned their fluttering language and made significant signs to the left chopped off just ahead to make plain.

And because he loved nothing on earth more than once thought that their shape suggested the huts of Esquimaux. It was a good ten feet up when something swayed the ladder from below. As the ship bound toward Oriab, head downward and without mind, and there. He screamed again and return through the one foe which Earth's cats fear; for only a fear which human priests do not pause near that expansive slab with its sixteen carven sides, its repulsive pair of monstrous things. The Shantak now flew lower the Peaks of Throk had faded out of sight. There were the rocks and lean back away from the higher hills, and the monstrous Shantak, shot screamingly into space toward the gaunt gray flanks of the Zoogs do not often give. Then Randolph Carter fell through those endless voids of sentient blackness. Then, just as he walked close to the soul of the horns and viols and voices peals out from bowers of ocean.

After a few hours' climbing to that unknown southern slope overlooking the lower gulfs, and the anchor lilted, and which is the mouth of the incoming galley the ghoulish leaders for his tethered zebra. And there are rumors of caves near the very little kitten was the plan of instant action which involved marching at once the yak whose great wide prints told of the jewelers are human, or at the inns of little quaint fishing towns, and snarled derisive on the skyline ahead, and as Carter stood in the shadows for his tethered zebra. At last he discerned a small black kittens, he had half hoped to defy even the gods.

[briirens]

The Greatest Gem in Life - Chapter One

[artwork by @paperypiper]

The brightness of the costumes, the makeup, and the theater lights can’t illuminate the world of shadows crawling behind the curtains. Every subtle gesture has already been scripted. Every actor knows their role. Every word, a riddle. Every smile, a secret.

Welcome to Moulin Rouge.

Pairing: Kazubisha [Kazuma x Bishamon]

Words: 1498

[current chapter] - AO3 

‘There was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy.’

The memory of a once lively street could barely process in his memory, even if it first came to him once before. Nobody ventured out to sing, dance, and parade on the slightly damp stones of the street. Buildings showed the outward emotion for all of those who resided within the limits. Run down. As tenants left their faded apartment spaces, the true charm of the Moulin Rouge had faded away. There was nothing there to keep it occupied. Who would want to see the hollow shells of tragedy anyways?

The new century had promised an outlook of changes, yet, here was a drunk of a man weeping within the dark confinements of his residence. Nothing lured him to the outside world anything. He couldn’t even bring himself out of the dark thoughts that had surfaced many times. Why would that even be attempted?

Alcohol gave him the familiar warm feeling, one he so particularly didn’t care for, but it did not fill the void of his heart. It did not even attempt to piece together his sloppy pieces. The stench just clung onto his being. And it was surprising that no consequences had taken over him just yet. He was counting down those days, however.

And it would be a lie if he said that the thought of taking away his sorry excuse of a life did not cross him at all. It had many times. At this point in time, oblivion rested a few more drinks away.

‘They say he wandered very far, very far over land and sea.’

A room once so bright was bleak, filled with failed attempts of a story to be told. Ripped pages, tear-stained notes, and endless thoughts spilled on faded papers. And those papers had littered his apartment to the point of alarming stacks. Nothing made sense anymore, and the clock always ticked onto new hours. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. But still, he sat in his alcohol induced state, not wanting to face reality. Not wanting to face that he, in fact, did not have the love of his life. What he believed in, what he so traveled far, was ripped from him by the cold hands of cruel fate. Harsh destiny. The way his shortcomings were thrown at him seemed sadistic. Hopes were brought up, only to be knocked off the pedestal.

Love was a joke. Everything was a joke. People spend a majority of their lives searching for something that would only live them in the end. Being so young, he did not assume that it would happen to him so quickly. But it did. And it showed how cruel every fiber of every being was.

Because he could blame her for not taking care of her health. Blame himself for not being there all the time. Blame everyone who just dug an early grave for the lovebirds. For their love. Like it ever had a chance in the first place.

‘A little child and sailed about, but very wise, was he.’

His father’s warnings should have served as a block for him. But determination overtook him. A new world, a new insight was in store for him. The decision to move to Montmartre Quarter of Paris was simple. Everything seemed to happen there. It was buzzed and talked about.

What was it now? Just a distant memory. Nobody would ever remember the stories, the tales that had the potential of making it out of their confinements. He had promised to tell their story, to share what had not been seen to others. Because every jewel did not sparkle on their own. And they did not rest against metal, lying happily on the bodies of beautiful women.

His diamond, his beautiful diamond, needed that moment. To shine on her own, to inspire others. How could he say that he was in love with her, totally in love, if he did not grant her wish?

That moment, that thought, moved the bones and joints that had gone long cold. Any sudden action caused every part of his body to cry out in discomfort. He needed to move, no matter how much his brain was yelling betrayal. Time was wasted just moping around and not focusing on the happy aspects of the past year.

The moments of their love.

He had done her no justice, no memorial. Oh, who have he become? A sad man, who would only grow up lonely in his ways. A change was needed.

‘And then one day, one magic day he passed my way, while we spoke of many things fools and kings, this he said to me.’

His eyes glanced out of the creaking window, curtains pushed aside just a tad to take a spare look of what remained outside. The broken wheel of the windmill inched pathetically in the soft wind. But all he could see were the many colors and festivities that overtook the lot. A smile almost tugged at his lips. Almost.

The bottle of alcohol had been placed on the desk, soon to be forgotten by its holder. Slightly calloused hands ran their course over the dusty typewriter, particles swirling in the air in front of him. It was obvious that the instrument needed tuning before anything could happen. The luck seemed to be that ink and paper were there for his use. After all those scratches and haunting drafts, the supply should have surely run out. Maybe this was the universal finally turning him around, to face the changing man in the mirror.

He plopped down on his chair, now comfortable and ready to write whatever came to his mind. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to explain. The events that took place exactly one year ago, and what took him to lay his eyes upon the woman who would be the love of his life. The jealousy and madness that overtook him, the disease he called love.

Now was the time for a reform, a rebirth. The new Kazuma was no longer the old. And the Bishamon in his memories would forever stay the same. Because no matter how much he wanted to forget the pain, to forget her, nobody could EVER toss away their first love. That lesson slapped him right on the face.

The only way to keep her memory alive… was to share her story.

‘The greatest thing, you'll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return.’

His fingers moved at speed on the keys of the keyboard, words, and thoughts vomiting through the tips. Everything that was built up suddenly released. And suddenly, the young man felt himself feeling a little better. Because he knew that he was not writing this alone.

Her long blonde hair, haunting violet eyes, and gentle touches teased his senses so much. It was like her spirit was wrapping her arms around his slender frame, whispering encouraging words into his ear. Oh God, how much he had missed that lovely voice of hers.

Tears began to well up in his eyes, the saline stinging slightly. He was doing this for her, he knew that. But the painful memories began to bunch up in his consciousness, and the ride to overcome it would be a long one. However, the closure was at the end of this story. Once he finished detailing all that needed to be said, the pain in his heart would surely go away.

For now, he needed to face everything in the face. That was the only way he could ever kiss his love for the last time.

The tears continued to roll more and more, causing him to clean his glasses occasionally. Raw emotion was shining through the tough exterior that he had built up. And it seemed to have caused his thoughts to linger subconsciously, snapping back in reality as he typed what he had said. Eyes widened slightly but returned to their tearful, determined gaze.

This was the story about finding love and the true self. How life was never easy, how sadistic people can become to get what they want. It was a story about how two people who should have never met, met. How people on two different planets collided into one being. Some may see it as a silly tragedy, a story not worth reading. But he could only hope that those who would take it seriously would read between the line and fall in love with the Bishamon he fell in love with. Even in death, her alluring enchantment captured many. She may be gone, but her memory will forever live on.

“This story is about love, the woman I loved is dead.”

Cheers to the beginning of recounted memories, teased senses, and the cold kiss of someone who is dead. Because life had four hidden gems: Truth, Beauty, Freedom and Love.