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spindlesandrosethorns · 5 years

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So Bad At Playing It Cool @@ War and Peace

In which Aurora and Reza share an awkward drink after prom and it only goes downhill from there. [Takes place on June 13th (Look at this point posting these things months late is just tradition)]

tw: heart break. like, a lot.

AURORA

Aurora had left just before they had announced Prom King and Queen, unable to pretend like there wasn’t somewhere else she’d rather be anymore. Because the fact was that no number of dance partners or flirtations could patch up the hole in her night where Reza usually stood, grumping off to the side. It was pathetic, really, how much she missed his sarcastic commentary and occasional soft smile, but there it was. She missed him. It was sad, and she felt small admitting it.

She would have been perfectly content going straight home, curling up in bed with a glass of wine and watching bad telly, but she’d left her toiletry bag at Reza’s house from when she had been getting ready with Lamia and Fadela, and when she had seen her leaving, Lamia had passed off two bottles of wine she had snatched from the bar for Aurora to sneak home. So she had to stop at his house.

Sighing softly to herself, Aurora easily let herself in the front door. As much as she would like to kick off her heels, there were too many straps and buckles in the way, so instead she just ‘clack’ed as quietly as she could to the kitchen…

Stopping dead once she realized the lamp next to the couch was on, and there was a body sitting in the small ring of light. “Reza?” Aurora asked softly, not wanting to wake him if the man was sleeping.

REZA

Aurora was at the house. He hadn’t expected her to be - he would’ve put a shirt on if Lamia told him she was bringing her over after prom. Instead he was sitting on the couch in goddamned nothing but sweatpants reading a book, and his apprentice who was deeply in love with him was here.

Fuck.

He willed away any anxiety (Aurora was getting so much better at magic so quickly, if he thought too hard about the situation, she’d see Some Kind Of Reagent to give it away) and looked over in the direction of her voice.

“Get a lot of compliments on your dress? I thought it was really pretty.” What? He wasn’t going to just stop being honest with her just to trick her into not loving him. Experience told him that didn’t work.

AURORA

Okay, that just wasn’t fair.

Aurora had spent the whole night trying not to think about Reza, and here he was, sitting shirtless in the dim light and complimenting her dress like she had been dying to hear all night. It was even better in his beautiful, musical accent, and Aurora was at a very real risk of swooning. Instead she simply blushed brightly, unable to stop her pleased smile as she tugged shyly on a curl of hair with the hand that wasn’t holding the wine.

“A few, from friends and some of the regulars at the shop, but it’s still nice to hear,” she said, looking down at the floor bashfully. Gosh, why did it mean so much more coming from him!? Like, she knew, but why!? Damn her squishy, easy-to-sway heart!

Even though getting closer was the last thing she should do, Aurora came over so she could lean her hip against the back of the couch, giving Reza a small smile. “Sabiha already in bed?” she asked, very pointedly meeting his eyes and not looking below his neck. She would not oggle her sorcery master, she would not oggle her sorcery master.

REZA

Not that he should be surprised, but the little purpley-pink wisps were around Rory’s head again. The flowers would form soon enough. He hated those flowers. They made him feel guilty.

At the mention of Sabiha, Reza relaxed. Sabiha was easy to talk about. This was good, safe territory. “Out like a light,” he said. “She wanted to stay awake to see Lamia and Fadela but we’re making bedtime only two hours late in the summer.”

“Kid needs some structure.”

AURORA

Aurora smiled fondly at the mention of Reza’s daughter, giggling at the mental image of a sleepy Sabiha struggling to stay awake. “Hey, structure is never bad,” she joked. “Makes her easier to wrangle at rehearsal.” A well-rested Sabiha was always better than a sleepy one, even if Sleepy Sabiha had recently started to join Aurora for her naps in the auditorium.

Shifting the wine bottles in her arms, Aurora held one up for inspection. “Lamia sent me back with stolen goods, want some?” she offered. Because she was a moron. Sitting and drinking wine with a Shirtless Reza was so far from a good idea that the very concept of ‘Good Idea’ had been abandoned in an alternate timeline. But Aurora could be startlingly self-destructive at the best of times, and they didn’t get a lot of quiet moments alone together. Usually Sabiha or one of Reza’s sisters were around, and if not them then Aurora was getting called or pulled away to resolve a problem in the shop. The shop was closed, Sabiha was asleep, and Lamia and Fadela were still at prom.

There was no better time than now.

REZA

He almost was like, ‘I can’t, it’s Ramadan’. Before he remembered, he’d celebrated Eid already with Donald and the rest of the Mafia. The Muslim Single Dad Mafia. He was just looking for an excuse to say no.

When he couldn’t find one, he agreed. “I do have a month of drinking to catch up on.”

AURORA

Aurora smiled brightly at Reza's reply, handing him one of the bottles to hold before heading to the kitchen. "Be right back!" she whispered as loud as she dared, not wanting to risk waking Sabiha.

In the kitchen, she set down the second bottle of wine where they kept the rest of the alcohol before pulling two wine glasses from the cabinet, along with a corkscrew. She came back with her spoils in hand, smiling brightly at Reza as she took her seat at the opposite end of the couch (yes, she was an idiot, but not that much of one; his side of the couch was the Danger Zone). Both glasses were set on the coffee table, and Aurora held out her hand expectantly.

REZA

He handed her the wine without a word, and settled back into the couch, closing the book he was reading and setting it aside. Between them. To make it harder for her to just slide up next to him. He wouldn’t have minded, strictly factually speaking. They were close now. Aurora was welcome in his personal space bubble like any good friend would be.

But he wasn’t just a close friend to her, was he? He saw the reagent, he knew the truth, and didn’t want to give her any more reasons to feel that way about him.

Conversely, he didn’t want to do anything to hurt her that would make her more inclined to hate him.

He was at an impasse here.

AURORA

Aurora didn’t notice the strategic placement of the book between them, and if she had, she wouldn’t have minded. She was staying very far away from Reza and his bare chest, thank you. She was still aiming for a whole evening without passing out.

She took the wine bottle from Reza with a smile, twisting the corkscrew into the cork that kept it sealed up tight. Then - in a move that was a little more difficult if only because of the skirt of her dress - wedged the bottle between her legs so she could hold it in place with her thighs while she pulled the cork out. It was the easy, practiced move of the Designated Wine Opener on girls’ nights, and she casually tossed the corkscrew onto the table before pouring them both a glass.

Picking up her glass, she held it out to Reza with a grin. “To structure,” she joked.

REZA

“Structure,” Reza parroted, raising his glass and taking a sip. “Mm. You said Lamia chose this wine? She doesn’t drink malbec. I do. Curious.”

Except, not curious at all. God, no, because he knew his sisters too well. Fadela was his best friend. Lamia, Reza practically raised. They sent Rory here alone intentionally with Reza’s wine, didn’t they? What were they expecting? Reza to suddenly gain the capacity to have feelings for another person over a bottle of malbec with his adorable, witty apprentice?

It wasn’t going to happen. And it was unfair to her.

“Lamia must have assumed I was lonely tonight and needed some company.” He mused, swirling his wine in the glass. “Mm. Tell her it wasn’t dire, but appreciated. A pleasant surprise.”

AURORA

Aurora took a sip of her wine before setting it down on the coffee table, flipping part of her skirt up so she could finally undo all the buckles that kept her heels on. Her hair formed a curtain between them, which turned out to be a good thing when Reza’s words caused her face to flush. Aurora was fairly certain it was less for Reza’s benefit than her own; early in the evening, Aurora was doing fine pretending she didn’t miss Reza or Sabiha’s presence. But by the time Lamia had approached her, it was fairly obvious that Aurora was wilted and lonely without them there.

Plus, Lamia absolutely knew about Aurora’s feelings for Reza, and seemed to take perverse joy in teasing Aurora about those feelings. Bitch.

But Aurora didn’t say any of that, instead laughing softly as she popped her foot out of the second heel, setting it neatly aside. “Tell her yourself,” she returned, tossing her hair back before picking her glass back up and curling up on the couch. “Although I will be adding ‘a pleasant surprise’ onto my resume,” she joked.

After a moment, Aurora looked at Reza from under long, dark lashes. “It’s a shame you and Sabiha couldn’t make it, tonight,” she said as casually as possible. “I almost didn’t know what to do with myself without you two to look out for.”

REZA

Reza laughed politely at her joke-that-he-knew-wasn’t-a-joke about him and Sabiha, but he was letting her think he thought it was one behind his glass, the slight feeling of discomfort in his chest ballooning. Nope, nope, shut that shit down quick.

Don’t let her know you’re onto her, Reza. Think about how much you like this wine instead. Yes, let her see nothing but a twinge of Satisfaction.

“Nonsense. You look lovely tonight, I’m sure you found plenty of people to dance with, a flirtation or two or three. Much more fun than reminding me to smile. Or keeping Sabiha from tripping on her own skirts.”

AURORA

Yeah, he was so not allowed to compliment her while shirtless. That had to be illegal. Aurora quickly ducked her head, her cheeks and ears turning a pretty shade of pink. “I did get to dance with Claude, and this lovely gentleman named Arthur, I think? But no grand flirtations, unfortunately.” Or at least, every time she had tried to reciprocate the flirting, her mind had drifted to the people she would much rather be with; making her a rather distracted conversation partner.

“Besides, neither of those things sound dull in the slightest,” she said. “Getting a smile out of you in public is more challenging than any game.” Aurora was teasing him now, reaching out to knock her heel against his covered knee playfully before drawing back to her half of the couch. “And Sabiha hardly needs my help! She’s more graceful than I am most days.”

REZA

Six months ago, he was hoping for this kind of comfortable, easy physical contact with Aurora. It was supposed to mean that they were friends, that he had more than just the two women with whom he shared DNA in this town. It wasn’t supposed to mean Rory clawing for some semblance of… whatever she wished this was.

No, now, the physical contact felt wrong. As if somehow tainted.

He rolled his eyes, as if she were Lamia teasing him about being a grumpy bastard, and let out a huff through his nose. “I told you I was boring, Aurora. You knew what you were getting into when you became friends with me.”

“You speak so highly of her, but you didn’t see her completely eat it in ballet class last week.”

AURORA

Aurora’s eyes caught on Reza for a moment, not due to any reagents or anything like that. There was just something in his expression, something she couldn’t identify that made her want to stop and make sure everything was alright. But it was gone in a heartbeat, and she decided not to pry. Not when they were having such a nice evening.

“It’s true, I did,” she said with a fond shake of her head, sticking her tongue out at Reza before taking a sip of her wine. At Reza’s next statement, she nearly choked on her wine, barely keeping her giggling quiet as she covered her nose and mouth and fought not to cough. Her knees curled up to her chest as she rocked back against the couch, snorting into her hand.

“Oh no! Poor baby, did she really?” she asked, glittering with mirth. “No wonder she was pouting so much that night!”

REZA

“Well, she was mad at me. I laughed at her; it’s really funny when she falls down. Her facial expression is always just - pure betrayal. Like how dare her body not stay airborne? Uhmm, rude?” Reza mimicked Sabiha’s inner monologue, voice going up a couple octaves. He laughed and took a sip of his wine and looked to Rory.

Just in time to see her literally glitter talking about his daughter. Reza hated that he had to see that, and only get further confirmation that he wasn’t being careful enough, he’d let Aurora get too close to Sabiha and vice versa. He downed the rest of his wine and poured himself another half glass, quickly downing half of that, too.

The pit in his stomach grew. He didn’t know what to do about this. God, he wanted to sink into the earth and slither away.

“Hm. Suppose she’s not old enough for me to tease her for her misfortunes.”

AURORA

Aurora had to set her wine glass down, lest she risk spilling it all over her dress as she laughed. His impression of Sabiha was spot on, and she had to actively muffle herself so she didn’t wake the little girl up. Reza laughed and the sound filled her up from head to toe, settling warm in her bones and muscles and making her toes curl just a little. God his voice was pretty. It was enough to make her own giggles calm down, and she leaned against the back of the couch with a soft smile.

Only for her smile to dim when Reza quickly downed nearly a whole glass of wine like it was water. Okay, she knew he was glad to be able to have alcohol again, but that was a little much. She sat up a little more, watching him with a furrow between her eyebrows. Now that she was really looking at him, she could see how muddled and muted the reagents around him were, like they were being smothered before they could fully form.

She hummed distractedly at his comment, pursing her lips before she decided to take the plunge. “Thirsty?” she asked, pointedly looking at his glass and then back at him. The silent ‘Are you okay?’ was clear on her face, but she hoped it was subdued enough that he knew she wasn’t trying to push him.

Sometimes he just needed a reminder that she was there, waiting and willing to help if he decided he needed it.

REZA

He schooled his expression, reigned in his emotions, and awkwardly laughed. “I just really missed alcohol during Ramadan. Have a lot of drinking to catch up on.” Reza lied, a genuinely warm but deceitfully carefree smile on his face.

Reza brought his glass to his lips again and took a small sip, to show that the drinking like a fish was over (for now). A beat. Two, five. “Actually, Aurora-” the older sorcerer said, sighing and straightening his posture. “-I need to tell you something.”

It felt dirty, that he knew and she didn’t know she knew. Like he’d read her diary without her permission, or like he’d walked in on her stark naked and instead of closing his eyes he’d just stood there and looked. The only thing keeping this from being a total violation of Aurora was that reagents weren’t secrets. Not to him, not to any sorcerer. It hadn’t been his fault he found out her feelings for him; it’d been right there, in the flowers around her head.

No, not a violation, but an unfair advantage perhaps. In any case he felt it only fair he confess that he wasn’t nearly as clueless as he pretended to be.

“Aurora, I know.”

AURORA

Aurora managed not to sigh when Reza brushed her off, but just barely. She couldn’t push him. It wasn’t her place. But her slight disappointment was quickly waved off when Reza sighed and sat up, saying he had to tell her something.

Sitting up straight as well, Aurora’s eyebrows furrowed together in concern. Had something happened? Was everything all right? “I’m listening,” she said gently, giving him a small smile.

His words sounded so final, so weary… too bad she had no idea what he was talking about. Her head tilted to the side curiously, lips pursed slightly in confusion. “Know… what, Reza?” she asked. Was he talking about the ice cream trips with Sabiha after rehearsals? She wasn’t exactly keeping that a secret, she had just… never officially asked if it was okay.

REZA

God, damn. Did he have to be explicitly direct about it? Did he have to struggle through forming that awful, dangerous, four-letter word, and blatantly discuss this problem? He’d hoped she would understand so they could just leave it there. But he’d been vague. Purposely vague, but it was too vague.

He needed more alcohol for this. Drinking much more would only hurt her feelings though. She’d think the idea of her feelings for him was so horrible he had to drink to broach the subject. And no matter how much he told her ‘no, ‘Rora, it’s not like that at all’, she wouldn’t believe him.

So he held his glass in his hand, careful not to move it upward, and made the gentlest, least accusatory eye contact he could. “At the risk of sounding like a conceited antagonist in a CW show, I know you’re in love with me, Aurora.”

AURORA

Aurora met his eyes easily, willing to wait patiently until his words came together. And then they did. It took a moment to register, actually, but once it did her eyes went wide as all the color drained from her face.

Oh, fuck.

She laughed awkwardly, immediately regretting setting her wine glass down if only because it meant she had nothing to hold on to. Her hands clutched at the skirt of her dress, instead. “I’m what?” she asked, trying to play it off and failing horribly thanks to the barely hidden panic in her voice. She knew she had been too obvious! God, she had prayed this wouldn’t happen; she didn’t want to talk about it. She already knew where this conversation was going. It was there in how gentle he was trying to be, in the drinking and the awkward, vague ‘I know’.

She had been so willing to ignore it, to never bring it up, to let the boat remain unrocked in still waters. Reza was pushing her onto the plank.

The blood quickly returned to her face until she was entirely red, embarrassment and shame squirming in her gut and throat. Aurora couldn’t look away from him though; she was locked in place, unable to look away from the heartbreak she knew had been coming from the moment she had admitted to herself what her feelings for him had become. “What makes you say that?” she asked, voice small. It wasn’t a denial, but it also wasn’t an outright confession either. She wouldn’t lie, but she… she didn’t want to talk about this.

She could have managed if they had never talked about it.

REZA

He knew he had to be appealing to women, again, at the risk of sounding conceited. She wasn’t the first woman with one-sided feelings for him, but the first in a long time that he actually cared about. Aurora was his friend, his apprentice. She wasn’t just someone, she was someone to him.

“I may be stupid, but I know what’s in front of me. The reagents have been everywhere, Rory. The flowers… they really are lovely. I’m a waste of such raw beauty,” Reza muttered, then cleared his throat. “I regret that I’m incapable of reciprocating, Rory. I don’t— I’ve never—“

AURORA

Bizarrely, under the horrified embarrassment and the beginnings spasms of a freshly-broken heart, Aurora was kind of insulted that it was her reagents that had given her away. Really? It wasn’t anything else? Not the blushing, not the staring, not the quiet attention she paid to only him? It had to be her traitorous magic that wasn’t even hers ratting her out? Bullshit.

She tried to cling to that annoyance, as it was a much easier emotion to handle than whatever it was that was twisting her guts at his next words. She didn’t even know how to quantify it, just that it hurt. There were no flowers now, but she reached up anyways like she might be able to pluck them out and see them.

(See the part of her Reza found beautiful, even if it was the only part that wasn’t even her. And wow, wasn’t that a fun thought to get shoved into her gut like a knife.)

And then it came.

‘I regret that I’m incapable of reciprocating.’

There was a difference between knowing something, and hearing it said out loud. Reza might even be able to describe the difference in how they looked or sounded or their effects in spells and potionmaking. All Aurora knew was that there was a difference between knowing Reza wouldn’t love her back, and hearing him say it. It was the one thing she had wanted to avoid, and it struck her so hard she gasped softly when it hit.

Oh, god. That hurt.

It felt like a bolt to the heart, her stomach twisting into empty, aching knots as she tried to force herself not to feel it. She needed this conversation to end. Right now.

She held up her hands. “You don’t-” she started, clearing her throat when she realized how weak and watery and pathetic she sounded. “You don’t have to explain. I know. I never… I never expected that of you. You don’t have to- to apologize or anything like that.” How she managed it, she’ll never know, but Aurora managed a small, shaky smile.

“We don’t have to talk about it. I just… I always planned to keep it to myself.”

‘I didn’t want you to say it out loud. I never wanted to hear that. I wanted getting over you to be as easy as falling into you.’

“I won’t change anything if you won’t,” she said, finally looking away from him to stare at her lap. She didn’t want him to see her silently begging him for mercy.

REZA

He may have fucked up here. Just a bit.

(‘A lot bit, you fucking moron,’ Fadela’s voice in his head sneered.)

The goal was to confront it, to talk about it, and hopefully she could get over it. Over him. Someone who didn’t deserve her affection, and who wasn’t even capable of returning those feelings. He never could return feelings like that for people, nor could he initiate them. Love songs never made sense to him. Shakespeare’s sonnets bored him to tears but the one. He didn’t even have that kind of love in his heart for Rafika as he watched her give birth to his child.

It simply wasn’t possible. That’s what Rory needed to understand. What he wanted her to understand. But the right words just didn’t exist.

Wine, he needed wine.

“It’s not you. I’m a cold, emotionless person. I mean- I must be,” he admitted. “I think you misunderstood what I meant by ‘incapable’, it - it’s nothing to do with you. I meant it when I said you were wonderful, because you are, Rory. What’s wrong isn’t you, it’s me. Something has to be wrong with me to have never loved anybody, especially when I’m lucky enough to have gotten you as my best friend.”

“I could sit here all day and list, alphabetically if I had to, everything wonderful about you. You understand?”

AURORA

Aurora definitely couldn’t look at him anymore. Not when each word seemed to press her chest further in on itself.

“No, you aren’t,” she said quietly, voice shaking ever so subtly. And he wasn’t. Cold and emotionless, that was. He loved his daughter and his sisters so much, and, to a point, he loved her too. Just not the way she loved him. And she was fine with that.

Being confronted with it was what was fucking her up.

“Please stop,” she gasped, shoulders by her ears. How she wasn’t crying yet she had no idea. She couldn’t survive hearing him tell her how ‘wonderful’ she was while her heart was getting stomped into the dirt. She would rather jump off the plank and let herself drown in her heartbreak than let him shoot her with well-meaning.

“I-I appreciate it, but please… stop. I-I can’t- I…”

Aurora clutched the bodice of her dress in one hand, like she could stop the pain from spreading. It wasn’t enough.

REZA

Okay, so he fucked up big time on an emotionally sensitive matter. In other news, water is wet.

He looked down at his lap to avoid looking at Rory and the awful, ugly reagent creeping across her chest and down her arms, making her skin look like cracked windshield glass. All he wanted to do was get Rory to get over her silly crush on him. She deserved to be free of those emotions so her heart could be open to the right someone someday.

And you know. He wasn’t really giving her the best environment to get over him, was he? Think about it.

Reza was stupid enough to allow his daughter to be attached to Rory’s hip. It wasn’t fair to Aurora, or to Sabiha, to let her fill part of the traumatically-vacated role of mother in that child’s life. Not when Reza wasn’t even sure he was staying in England past Lamia’s university education. Especially not when the woman helping to raise Sabiha wasn’t even romantically involved with him.

Not when she was in love with him and really, really shouldn’t be. I’m not good for you, Aurora, he wanted to say, but didn’t.

“I...think we need to talk about Sabiha.” He said instead, making an even bigger mess of this situation. Aurora probably wouldn’t talk to him after tonight anyway. Best to get it all over with. “Rory, I- I don’t want Sabiha to make your feelings for me more complicated, or vice versa. And I - I feel like you’ve gotten just a bit too close to her. I would be more comfortable if you took a step back for a while. You care about her, and that’s sweet, it is. But you aren’t her mother, and I’m worried that your feelings about her might change as you realize what an asshole I am after tonight.”

AURORA

You know, she hadn't thought it could get worse. Aurora was taking a long drink of wine - hoping it would soften the breaking, cracking feeling in her chest - but when Reza mentioned Sabiha, all her intentions to make a hasty retreat vanished like smoke. Instead, her head snapped around like she was possessed and she could only stare at him, gaping.

Okay, she knew he was a little emotionally-insensitive sometimes, but what the actual fuck.

She actually flinched from him, the cracks across her chest getting deeper and spreading further across her chest under her dress like spiderwebs. "I'm sorry," she started, voice taking on an edge, "but are you saying that I only care about Sabiha as much as I do because… because I have feelings for you?" Was he trying to imply that she would just abandon her as soon as Reza broke her heart?

More than anything else he had said that night, that hurt. That was the really revealing moment. Because if Reza thought she was capable of that, it meant that all of those things he had tried to placate her with - all those lines about how it wasn't something wrong with her, that she was wonderful despite not being someone he could love - were bullshit. And that… that made her mad.

(Anger was easy. Anger was simple. Anger blocked out the pain of having her heart broken again and again, mercilessly, within the span of only a few minutes.)

"I can not," she hissed, "believe you are doing this now, and that you're doing this like this. I care about Sabiha because she is a brilliant, wonderful girl, not just because she's yours. That's not going to change no matter what you say or do to me, and that fact that you think it would is incredibly telling. I know I'm not-" Aurora's voice hitched, and she wanted to slap herself "- I'm aware of what I am and am not." No matter how much she wanted to be.

"You're her father and I will respect your wishes, but you better have a damn better reason to make me abandon her than the fact that you apparently think I am capable of bailing out the second you make me sad," Aurora nearly growled, lilac eyes burning with hurt and anger and unshed tears. "I never expected you to return my feelings, Reza. I care about Sabiha because she is deserving of care and love, not because you're a package deal. A broken heart isn't going to change that."

REZA

It was getting comedic how truly awful Reza was at this. God, he was the definition of an asshole. But that was the point, wasn’t it? That Reza was an asshole with so much baggage that Rory needed to just… just understand that. Just use him to master her magic because that’s all he really could do for her.

A part of him wanted to just snap at her, that he never asked her to have these feelings for him, that he shouldn’t feel like navigating them was his responsibility. Wasn’t that what it was to be human though? To navigate the minefield of other people and their emotions and hope you weren’t fucking it all up?

“Aurora, I don’t want her to get confused.” Reza said weakly. “Or- or her heart broken if suddenly you’re not there at all. I’m not asking you to not be around her. I’m only asking you to take a step back until this...isn’t a problem anymore.”

AURORA

God, she wanted to be mad at him. She wanted to fight with him! Wanted to scream and yell at each other until she didn’t hurt as much, until she could claim she hated him. Fuck, she just wanted it to hurt a little less.

But then he reminded her of one of the reasons she fell in love with him and all she could do was look away. Biting her lip and fighting back tears because damn it, why did he have to be such a good person? He was just trying to do what was right for his daughter.

“God, fine,” she gasped out, shoulders by her ears. Like if she curled up enough she could keep her glass chest from cracking any further. “I’ll take a step back. But I’m not leaving her completely, I-I can’t do that to her, Reza. I can’t abandon her.”

She would take a step back until this wasn’t a problem, like he asked. Until she wasn’t a problem. Her and her stupid heart, continually caught up on the wrong right guy.

“Fine,” she whispered, hiding behind her hair as the tears began to flow.

REZA

“I’m not asking you to abandon her,” Reza said softly. “I would never.”

A step back meant a step back, not running away. It’s not like he was barring Rory from seeing Sabiha. No, she was part of the family now! But she was a cool auntie figure, not a mother. And Reza worried Sabiha was starting to see Aurora like the latter.

“I’m sorry. I just want Sabiha to recover emotionally from losing her mother. And for her to recover in a way that doesn’t run the risk of confusing her again later.”

AURORA

“No, don’t be sorry,” Aurora said faintly, voice wet, not looking up from her bare toes. “You’re right. It’s not fair to her.”

And at the end of the day, that’s all she wanted. The best, for both of them. She didn’t need Reza to love her back, or for Sabiha to see her as more than a family friend, she just wanted to know they were both happy. Aurora was happy to sit back and let them find that happiness, even if it didn’t involve her, she really was.

Didn’t stop the tears currently rolling down her cheeks.

She sniffed, trying to wipe her eyes as quickly and subtly as she could. She didn't want to confirm that she was crying, didn't want to think too hard about how she must look to him. Pathetic and small, crying over things that weren't hers and never had or would be. She reached out and downed the rest of her wine quickly.

"I should go," she said quietly. Reaching her foot out, she snagged one of her heels by the strap and dragged it back to her like it weighed hundreds of pounds. She didn’t bother putting them on, didn’t bother getting her toiletry bag she had intended to collect in the first place. She just stood from the couch, and not looking back, walked out the door.

Walked past the happy people leaving prom.

Walked past the street lamps and shop fronts.

Walked until her feet were aching and sore, until she was in her own flat.

And all alone, collapsed to her knees and sobbed as her heart finally shattered in her chest.

#c: reza kasraoui-muller #t: so bad at playing it cool #;;war and peace #tldr Reza tells Aurora he knows she's in love with him and rejects her out of nowhere and breaks her heart

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babylon-crashing · 6 years

Text

pizarnik’s ‘extracción de la piedra de locura’

-1-

CANTORA NOCTURNA Joe, macht die Musik von damals macht…

La que murió de su vestido azul está cantando. Canta imbuida de muerte al sol de su ebriedad. Adentro de su canción hay un vestido azul, hay un caballo blanco, hay un corazón verde tatuado con los ecos de los latidos de su corazón muerto. Expuesta a todas las perdiciones, ella canta junto a una niña extraviada que es ella: su amuleto de la buena suerte. Y a pesar de la niebla verde en los labios y del frío gris en los ojos, su voz corroe la distancia que se abre entre la sed y la mano que busca el vaso. Ella canta.

a Olga Orozco

NIGHT SINGER Joe, make the music of those days …

The one who died of her blue dress is singing. She sings imbued with death, sings to the sun of her drunkenness. Inside her song there is a blue dress, there is a white horse, there is a green heart tattooed with the echoes of the beats of her dead heart. Exposed to all that’s doomed, she sings along with a lost girl that is herself: her amulet of good luck. And despite the green mist on her lips and the cold gray in her eyes, her voice eats away at the distance that opens between thirst and the hand that seeks the glass. She sings.

for Olga Orozco

][][

VÉRTIGOS O CONTEMPLACIÓN DE ALGO QUE TERMINA

Esta lila se deshoja. Desde sí misma cae y oculta su antigua sombra. He de morir de cosas así.

VERTIGO, OR CONTEMPLATION OF SOMETHING THAT ENDES

This lilac is leafless. It falls from itself and hides its old shadow. I must die by things like that.

][][

LINTERNA SORDA

Los ausentes soplan y la noche es densa. La noche tiene el color de los párpados del muerto. Toda la noche hago la noche. Toda la noche escribo. Palabra por palabra yo escribo la noche.

BULL’S EYE LANTERN

The absent ones sigh and the night is thick. The night’s color is that of the eyelids of the dead. I make the night all night long. All night I write. Word by word I’m writing the night.

][][

PRIVILEGIO

I Ya he perdido el nombre que me llamaba, su rostro rueda por mí como el sonido del agua en la noche, del agua cayendo en el agua. Y es su sonrisa la última sobreviviente, no mi memoria.

II El más hermoso en la noche de los que se van, oh deseado, es sin fin tu no volver, sombra tú hasta el día de los días.

PRIVILEGE

I I’ve already lost the name that I was called, her face circles around me like the sound of water at night, of the water falling into water. And her smile is the last thing I lose, not my memory.

II The most beautiful of the night are those who leave, you who I wanted, it is endless your not returning, you’re a shadow until the day of the days.

][][

CONTEMPLACIÓN

Murieron las formas despavoridas y no hubo más un afuera y un adentro. Nadie estaba escuchando el lugar porque el lugar no existía. Con el propósito de escuchar están escuchando el lugar. Adentro de tu máscara relampaguea la noche. Te atraviesan con graznidos. Te martillean con pájaros negros. Colores enemigos se unen en la tragedia.

CONTEMPLATION

The terrified shapes died and there was no longer an outside and an inside. Nobody was listening to that place because it did not exist. In order to listen they are listening to that place. Inside your night-mask come flashes of lightning. They cross you, cackling. They hammer you with black birds. Enemy colors come together in tragedy.

][][

NUIT DE COUER

Otoño en el azul de un muro: sé amparo de las pequeñas muertas. Cada noche, en la duración de un grito, viene una sombra nueva. A solas danza la misteriosa autónoma. Comparto su miedo de animal muy joven en la primera noche de las cacerías.

THE HEART’S NIGHT

Autumn in the blue of a wall: be a shelter for the little dead girls. Every night, in the duration of a scream, a new shadow arises. It’s autonomous and mysterious and dances alone. I share the fear of a very young animal going out on the first night of its hunt.

][][

CUENTO DE INVIERNO

La luz del viento entre los pinos ¿comprendo estos signos de tristeza incandescente? Un ahorcado se balancea en el árbol marcado con la cruz lila. Hasta que logró deslizarse fuera de mi sueño y entrar a mi cuarto, por la ventana, en complicidad con el viento de medianoche.

WINTER’S TALE

The light of the wind among the pines. Do I understand these signs of incandescent sadness? A hanged man swings in the tree marked with a lilac cross. Until he managed to slip out of my dream and enter my room, through the window, in complicity with the midnight wind.

][][

EN LA OTRA MADRUGADA

Veo crecer hasta mis ojos figuras de silencio y desesperadas. Escucho grises, densas voces en el antiguo lugar del corazón.

IN THE OTHER DAWN

I see figures of silence and despair coming up to my eye-level. I hear gray, thick voices calling from the empty place of my heart.

][][

DESFUNDACIÓN

Alguien quiso abrir alguna puerta. Duelen sus manos aferradas a su prisión de huesos de mal agüero. Toda la noche ha forcejeado con su nueva sombra. Llovió adentro de la madrugada y martillaban con lloronas. La infancia implora desde mis noches de cripta. La música emite colores ingenuos. Grises pájaros en el amanecer son a la ventana cerrada lo que a mis males mi poema.

NO FOUNDATION

Someone wanted to open a door. They hurt their hands clinging to their prison of bones from bad omens. All night she struggled with her new shadow. It rained in the dawn and was pummeled with weeping women. Childhood pleads from my night’s crypt. The music blooms in naive colors. Dawn’s gray birds are to the closed window what this poem is to my pain.

][][

FIGURAS Y SILENCIOS

Manos crispadas me confinan al exilio. Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda. Me quieren anochecer, me van a morir. Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.

FIGURES AND SILENCES

Twitching hands confine me to exile. Help me not to ask for help. They want me my dusk, they’re see I’ll die. Help me not to ask for help.

][][

FRAGMENTOS PARA DOMINAR EL SILENCIO

I Las fuerzas del lenguaje son las damas solitarias, desoladas, que cantan a través de mi voz que escucho a lo lejos. Y lejos, en la negra arena, yace una niña densa de música ancestral. ¿Dónde la verdadera muerte? He querido iluminarme a la luz de mi falta de luz. Los ramos se mueren en la memoria. La yacente anida en mí con su máscara de loba. La que no pudo más e imploró llamas y ardimos.

II Cuando a la casa del lenguaje se le vuela el tejado y las palabras no guarecen, yo hablo. Las damas de rojo se extraviaron dentro de sus máscaras aunque regresarían para sollozar entre flores. No es muda la muerte. Escucho el canto de los enlutados sellar las hendiduras del silencio. Escucho tu dulcísimo canto florecer mi silencio gris.

III La muerte ha restituido al silencio su prestigio hechizante. Y yo no diré mi poema y yo he de decirlo. Aún si el poema (aquí, ahora) no tiene sentido, no tiene destino.

FRAGMENTS TO MASTER THE SILENCE

I The powers of language are the lonely, desolate ladies who sing through my voice that I hear from afar. And from far away, in black sand, lies a heavy girl full of ancestral music. Where real death? I wanted to enlighten myself in the light about my lack of light. The bouquets of memory are dying. The girl in the sand nests in me with her wolf mask. The one that could not stand it anymore and implored flames, the one we burned.

II When the roof is flung off the house of language and words do not shine, I speak. The ladies in red are lost in their masks but they would return to sob in the flowers. Death is not mute. I hear the mourners’ song sealing the cracks of silence. I hear your sweet song bloom into my gray silence.

III Death has restored to silence haunting its own prestigiousness. And I will not say my poem and I will have to say it. Even if the poem (here, now) has no meaning, has no destiny.

][][

SORTILEGIOS

Y las damas vestidas de rojo para mi dolor y con mi dolor insumidas en soplo, agazapadas como fetos de escorpiones en el lado más interno de mi nuca, las madres de rojo que me aspiran el único calor que me doy con mi corazón que apenas pudo nunca latir, a mi que siempre tuve que aprender sola cómo se hace para beber y comer y respirar y a mí que nadie me enseñó a llorar y nadie me enseñará ni siquiera las grandes damas adheridas a la entretela de mi respiración con babas rojizas y velos flotantes de sangre, mi sangre, la mía sola, la que yo me procuré y ahora vienen a beber de mí luego de haber matado al rey que flota en el río y mueve los ojos y sonríe pero está muerto y cuando alguien está muerto, muerto está por más que sonría y las grandes, las trágicas damas de rojo han matado al que se va río abajo y yo me quedo como rehén en perpetua posesión.

SORCERY

And the ladies dressed in red for my pain and with my pain consumed my breath, crouching like fetuses of scorpions on the hollow of my neck, the mothers in red who sucked the only heat in my barely beating heart, I always had to learn only how to drink and eat and breathe, I was never taught to cry and no one will teach me even the great ladies attached to the interlace of my breathing with reddish drool and floating veils of blood, my blood, mine alone, which I procured and now they come to drink after killing the king who floats in the river and moves his eyes and smiles but is dead and when someone is dead she is dead, regardless of all your smiles, and the tragic ladies in red have killed the one who floats downstream and I remain as a hostage in perpetual possession.

][][

-2-

UN SUEÑO DONDE EL SILENCIO ES DE ORO

El perro del invierno dentellea mi sonrisa. Fue en el puente. Yo estaba desnuda y llevaba un sombrero con flores y arrastraba mi cadáver también desnudo y con un sombrero de hojas secas. He tenido muchos amores – dije – pero el más hermoso fue mi amor por los espejos.

A DREAM WHERE SILENCE IS GOLDEN

The winter dog opens my smile. On the bridge I was naked and wore a hat with flowers and dragged my naked corpse wearing a hat of dried leaves. I’ve had many loves – I said – but the most beautiful one was my love for mirrors.

][][

TÊTE DE JEUNE FILLE (ODILON REDON)

de música la lluvia de silencio los años que pasan una noche mi cuerpo nunca más podrá recordarse.

a André Pieyre de Mandiargues

TÊTE DE JEUNE FILLE (ODILON REDON)

music like rain of silence the years who spend a night my body will never again remember.

for André Pieyre de Mandiargues

][][

RESCATE

Y es siempre el jardín de lilas del otro lado des río. Si el alma pregunta si queda lejos se le responderá: del otro lado del río, no éste sino aquél.

a Octavio Paz

RESCUE

And it’s always the garden of lilacs on the other side of the river. If the soul asks you if it is far away, you should answer: on the other side of the river, not this one but that one.

for Octavio Paz

][][

ESCRITO EN EL ESCORIAL

te llamo igual que antaño la amiga al amigo en pequeñas canciones miedosas del alba

WRITTEN IN THE ESCORIAL [1]

I’ll call you just like yesterday friend to friend in little songs fearful of the dawn

][][

EL SOL, EL POEMA

Barcos sobre el agua natal. Agua negra, animal de olvido. Agua lila, única vigilia. El misterio soleado de las voces en el parque. Oh tan antiguo.

THE SUN, THE POEM

Boats on natal water. Black water, animal of forgetfulness. Lilac water, the only vigil. The sun-baked mystery of the voices in the park. O how old this is.

][][

ESTAR

Vigilas desde este cuarto donde la sombra temible es la tuya.

No hay silencio aquí sino frases que evitas oír.

Signos en los muros narran la bella lejanía.

(Haz que no muera sin volver a verte)

TO BE

You watch from this room where the fearsome shadow is yours.

There is no silence here only phrases that you avoid hearing.

Signs on the walls they tell of the beautiful distance.

(Don’t let me die without seeing you again)

][][

LAS PROMESAS DE LA MÚSICA

Detrás de un muro blanco la variedad del arco iris. La muñeca en su jaula está haciendo el otoño. Es el despertar de las ofrendas. Un jardín recién creado, un llanto detrás de la música. Y que suene siempre, así nadie asistirá al movimiento del nacimiento, a la mímica de las ofrendas, al discurso de aquella que soy anudada a esta silenciosa que también soy. Y que de mí no quede más que la alegría de quien pidió entrar y le fue concedido. Es la música, es la muerte, lo que yo quise decir en noches variadas como los colores del bosque.

THE PROMISES OF MUSIC

Behind a white wall are the variations of the rainbow. The doll in her cage is crafting autumn. It is the start of the sacrifices. A new garden, a wail behind the music. And let it always sound, so that none will attend to the movement of birth, the imitation of the offerings, the speech of the woman that I am bound to, this silent thing that is also me. And see that nothing remains of me but the joy of those who were asked to enter and were granted. It’s music, it’s death, what I wanted to say on nights varied like the colors of the forest.

][][

INMINENCIA

Y el muelle gris y las casas rojas. Y no es aún la soledad Y los ojos ven un cuadrado negro con un círculo de música lila en su centro Y el jardín de las delicias sólo existe fuera de los jardines Y la soledad es no poder decirla Y el muelle gris y las casas rojas.

IMMINENCE

And the gray dock and the red houses. And it is not even loneliness And the eyes see a black square with a circle of lilac music in its center And the garden of delights only exists outside the gardens And loneliness is not being able to say it And the gray dock and the red houses.

][][

CONTINUIDAD

No nombrar las cosas por sus nombres. Las cosas tiene bordes dentados, vegetación lujuriosa. Pero quién habla en la habitación llena de ojos. Quién dentellea con una boca de papel. Nombres que vienen, sombras con máscaras. Cúrame del vacío – dije. (La luz se amaba en mi oscuridad. Supe que no había cuando me encontré diciendo: soy yo.) Cúrame – dije.

CONTINUITY

Do not name things by their names. Things have jagged edges, lush vegetation. But who shall speak in the room full of eyes? Who starts with a paper mouth? Names that come, shadows with masks. Cure me with emptiness, I said. (The light was loved in my darkness. I knew there was nothing when I found myself saying: it’s me.) Cure me, I said.

][][

ADIOSES DEL VERANO

Suave rumor de la maleza creciendo. Sonidos de lo que destruye el viento. Llegan a mí como si yo fuera el corazón de lo que existe. Quisiera estar muerta y entrar yo también en un corazón ajeno.

SUMMER FAREWELLS

Gentle rumor of growing weed. Sounds of what the wind destroys. They come to me as if I were the heart of all that exists. I would like to be dead and also enter into someone else’s heart.

][][

COMO AGUA SOBRE UNA PIEDRA

a quien retorna en busca de su antiguo buscar la noche se le cierra como agua sobre una piedra como aire sobre un pájaro como se cierran dos cuerpos al amarse

LIKE WATER UPON A STONE

to the one who returns searching for her old search the night closes like water upon a stone like air around a bird or like two bodies clasping on to each other in love

][][

EN UN OTOÑO ANTIGUO

¿Cómo se llama el nombre? Un color como un ataúd, una transparencia que no atravesarás. ¿Y cómo es posible no saber tanto?

a Marie-Jeanne Noirot

IN A FAR-FLUNG AUTUMN

What is the name of the name? A color like a coffin, a transparency that you will not go through. And how is it possible not to know so much?

for Marie-Jeanne Noirot

][][

-3-

CAMINOS DEL ESPEJO

I Y sobre todo mirar con inocencia. Como si no pasara nada, lo cual es cierto.

II Pero a ti quiero mirarte hasta que tu rostro se aleje de mi miedo como un pájaro del borde filoso de la noche.

III Como una niña de tiza rosada en un muro muy vieja súbitamente borrada por la lluvia.

IV Como cuando se abre una flor y revela el corazón que no tiene.

V Todos los gestos de mi cuerpo y de mi voz para hacer de mí la ofrenda, el ramo que abandona el viento en el umbral.

VI Cubre la memoria de tu cara con la máscara de la que serás y asusta a la niña que fuiste.

VII La noche de los dos se dispersó con la niebla. Es la estación de los alimentos fríos.

VIII Y la sed, mi memoria es de la sed, yo abajo, en el fondo, en el pozo, yo bebía, yo recuerdo.

IX Caer como un animal herido en el lugar que iba a ser de revelaciones.

X Como quien no quiere la cosa. Ninguna cosa. Boca cosida. Párpados cosidos. Me olvidé. Adentro el viento. Todo cerrado y el viento adentro.

XI Al negro sol del silencio las palabras se doraban.

XII Pero el silencio es cierto. Por eso escribo. Estoy sola y escribo. No, no estoy sola. Hay alguien aquí que tiembla.

XIII Aún si digo sol y luna y estrella me refiero a cosas que me suceden. ¿Y qué deseaba yo? Deseaba un silencio perfecto. Por eso hablo.

XIV La noche tiene la forma de un grito de lobo.

XV Delicia de perderse en la imagen presentida. Yo me levanté de mi cadáver, yo fui en busca de quien soy. Peregrina de mí, he ido hacia la que duerme en un país al viento.

XVI Algo caía en el silencio. Mi última palabra fue yo pero me refería al alba luminosa.

XVII Mi caída sin fin a mi caída sin fin en donde nadie me aguardó pues al mirar quien me aguardaba no vi otra cosa que a mí misma.

XVIII Flores amarillas constelan un círculo de tela azul. El agua tiembla llena de viento.

XIX Deslumbramiento del día, pájaros amarillos en la mañana. Una mano desata tinieblas, una mano arrastra la cabellera de una ahogada que no cesa de pasar por el espejo. Volver a la memoria del cuerpo, he de volver a mis huesos en duelo, he de comprender lo que dice mi voz.

ROUTES OF THE MIRROR

I And, above all, look innocently. Like nothing happened, which is true.

II But I want to look at you until your face fades away from my fear, like a bird on the sharp edge of the night.

III Like a girl in pink chalk on a very old wall suddenly erased by the rain.

IV Like when a flower opens and revealing the heart that it does not have.

V All the gestures of my body and my voice to make of me the offering, the bouquet left by the wind on the threshold.

VI Cover the memory of your face with the mask that you will become and scare the girl that you were.

VII The night for them dispersed with the fog. It is the season of cold foods.

VIII And thirst, my memory is of thirst, deep down in me, in the well, I drank, I remember.

IX Fall like a wounded animal in the place that was going to be safe for revelations.

X Like someone who does not want a thing. Not a thing. Mouth sewn shut. Eyelids stitched closed. I forgot myself. Inside the wind. It all closed and the wind inside.

XI To the black sun of silence the words were golden.

XII But the silence is true. That’s why I write. I’m alone and I write. No, I’m not alone. There is someone here who trembles.

XIII Even if I say sun and moon and star, I mean things that happen to me. And what did I want? I wanted perfect silence. That’s why I speak.

XIV The night has the shape of a wolf’s cry.

XV You sense the delight of getting lost in the image. I rose up from my corpse, I went in search of who I am. The female pilgrim of me, I have gone to the one that sleeps in a country of the wind.

XVI Falling endless into my endless fall where no one waited for me, where I looked to see who was looking for me and saw no one but myself.

XVII Something fell into silence. My last word was «I» but I was referring to the luminous dawn.

XVIII Yellow flower constellations draw a circle of blue earth. The water trembles full of wind.

XIX Dazzle of day break, yellow birds in the morning. A hand releases darkness, a hand drags the hair of a drowned woman who crosses endlessly through the mirror. Back to the memory of the body, I have to return to my bones in mourning, I have to understand what my voice says.

][][

-4-

EXTRACCIÓN DE LA PIEDRA DE LOCURA Elles, les ámes (…), sont malades et elles souffrent et nul ne leur porte-reméde; elles sont blessées et brisées et nul ne les panse. Ruysbroeck

La luz mala se ha avecinado y nada es cierto. Y si pienso en todo lo que leí acerca del espíritu… Cerré los ojos, vi cuerpos luminosos que giraban en la niebla, en el lugar de las ambiguas vecindades. No temas, nada te sobrevendrá, ya no hay violadores de tumbas. El silencio, el silencio siempre, las monedas de oro del sueño.

Hablo como en mí se habla. No mi voz obstinada en parecer una voz humana sino la otra que atestigua que no he cesado de morar en el bosque.

Si vieras a la que sin ti duerme en un jardín en ruinas en la memoria. Allí yo, ebria de mil muertes, hablo de mí conmigo sólo por saber si es verdad que estoy debajo de la hierba. No sé los nombres. ¿A quién le dirás que no sabes? Te deseas otra. La otra que eres se desea otra. ¿Qué pasa en la verde alameda? Pasa que no es verde y ni siquiera hay una alameda. Y ahora juegas a ser esclava para ocultar tu corona ¿otorgada por quién? ¿quién te ha ungido? ¿quién te ha consagrado? El invisible pueblo de la memoria más vieja. Perdida por propio designio, has renunciado a tu reino por las cenizas. Quien te hace doler te recuerda antiguos homenajes. No obstante, lloras funestamente y evocas tu locura y hasta quisieras extraerla de ti como si fuese una piedra a ella, tu solo privilegio. En un muro blanco dibujas las alegorías del reposo, y es siempre una reina loca que yace bajo la luna sobre la triste hierba del viejo jardín. Pero no hables de los jardines, no hables de la luna no hables de la rosa, no hables del mar. Habla de lo que sabes. Habla de lo que vibra en tu médula y hace luces y sombras en tu mirada, habla del dolor incesante de tus huesos, habla del vértigo, habla de tu respiración, de tu desolación, de tu traición. Es tan oscuro, tan en silencio el proceso a que me obligo. Oh habla del silencio.

De repente poseída por un funesto presentimiento de un viento negro que impide respirar, busqué el recuerdo de alguna alegría que me sirviera de escudo, o de arma de defensa, o aun de ataque. Parecía el Eclesiastés: busqué en todas mis memorias y nada, nada debajo de la aurora de dedos negros. Mi oficio (también en el sueño lo ejerzo) es conjurar y exorcizar. A qué hora empezó la desgracia? No quiero saber. No quiero más que un silencio para mí y las que fui, un silencio como la pequeña choza que encuentran en el bosque los niños perdidos. Y qué sé yo qué ha de ser de mí si nada rima con nada.

Te despeñas. Es el sinfín desesperante, igual y no obstante contrario a la noche de los cuerpos donde apenas un manantial cesa aparece otro que reanuda el fin de las aguas.

Sin el perdón de las aguas no puedo vivir. Sin el mármol final del cielo no puedo morir.

En ti es de noche. Pronto asistirás al animoso encabritarse del animal que eres. Corazón de la noche, habla.

Haberse muerto en quien se era y en quien se amaba, haberse y no haberse dado vuelta como un cielo tormentoso y celeste al mismo tiempo.

Hubiese querido más que esto y a la vez nada.

Va y viene diciéndose solo en solitario vaivén. Un perderse gota a gota el sentido de los días. Señuelos de conceptos. Trampas de vocales. La razón me muestra la salida del escenario donde levantaron una iglesia bajo la lluvia: la mujer-loba deposita a su vástago en el umbral y huye. Hay una luz tristísima de cirios acechados por un soplo maligno. Llora la niña loba. Ningún dormido la oye. Todas las pestes y las plagas para los que duermen en paz.

Esta voz ávida venida de antiguos plañidos. Ingenuamente existes, te disfrazas de pequeña asesina, te das miedo frente al espejo. Hundirme en la tierra y que la tierra se cierre sobre mí. Éxtasis innoble. Tú sabes que te han humillado hasta cuando te mostraban el sol. Tú sabes que nunca sabrás defenderte, que sólo deseas presentarles el trofeo, quiero decir tu cadáver, y que se lo coman y se lo beban.

Las moradas del consuelo, la consagración de la inocencia, la alegría inadjetivable del cuerpo.

Si de pronto una pintura se anima y el niño florentino que miras ardientemente extiende una mano y te invita a permanecer a su lado en la terrible dicha de ser un objeto a mirar y admirar. No (dije), para ser dos hay que ser distintos. Yo estoy fuera del marco pero el modo de ofrendarse es el mismo.

Briznas, muñecos sin cabeza, yo me llamo, yo me llamo toda la noche. Y en mi sueño un carromato de circo lleno de corsarios muertos en sus ataúdes. Un momento antes, con bellísimos atavíos y parches negros en el ojo, los capitanes saltaban de un bergantín a otro como olas, hermosos como soles.

De manera que soñé capitanes y ataúdes de colores deliciosos y ahora tengo miedo a causa de todas las cosas que guardo, no un cofre de piratas, no un tesoro bien enterrado, sino cuantas cosas en movimiento, cuantas pequeñas figuras azules y doradas gesticulan y danzan (pero decir no dicen), y luego está el espacio negro -déjate caer, déjate caer-, umbral de la más alta inocencia o tal vez tan sólo de la locura. Comprendo mi miedo a una rebelión de las pequeñas figuras azules y doradas. Alma partida, alma compartida, he vagado y errado tanto para fundar uniones con el niño pintado en tanto que objeto a contemplar, y no obstante, luego de analizar los colores y las formas, me encontré haciendo el amor con un muchacho viviente en el mismo momento que el del cuadro se desnudaba y me poseía detrás de mis párpados cerrados.

Sonríe y yo soy una minúscula marioneta rosa con un paraguas celeste yo entro por su sonrisa yo hago mi casita en su lengua yo habito en la palma de su mano cierra sus dedos un polvo dorado un poco de sangre adiós oh adiós.

Como una voz no lejos de la noche arde el fuego más exacto. Sin piel ni huesos andan los animales por el bosque hecho cenizas. Una vez el canto de un solo pájaro te había aproximado al calor más agudo. Mares y diademas, mares y serpientes. Por favor, mira cómo la pequeña calavera de perro suspendida del cielo raso pintado de azul se balancea con hojas secas que tiemblan en torno de ella. Grietas y agujeros en mi persona escapada de un incendio. Escribir es buscar en el tumulto de los quemados el hueso del brazo que corresponda al hueso de la pierna. Miserable mixtura. Yo restauro, yo reconstruyo, yo ando así de rodeada de muerte. Y es sin gracia, sin aureola, sin tregua. Y esa voz, esa elegía a una causa primera: un grito, un soplo, un respirar entre dioses. Yo relato mi víspera, ¿Y qué puedes tú? Sales de tu guarida y no entiendes. Vuelves a ella y ya no importa entender o no. Vuelves a salir y no entiendes. No hay por donde respirar y tú hablas del soplo de los dioses.

No me hables del sol porque me moriría. Llévame como a una princesita ciega, como cuando lenta y cuidadosamente se hace el otoño en un jardín.

Vendrás a mí con tu voz apenas coloreada por un acento que me hará evocar una puerta abierta, con la sombra de un pájaro de bello nombre, con lo que esa sombra deja en la memoria, con lo que permanece cuando avientan las cenizas de una joven muerta, con los trazos que duran en la hoja después de haber borrado un dibujo que representaba una casa, un árbol, el sol y un animal.

Si no vino es porque no vino. Es como hacer el otoño. Nada esperabas de su venida. Todo lo esperabas. Vida de tu sombra ¿qué quieres? Un transcurrir de fiesta delirante, un lenguaje sin límites, un naufragio en tus propias aguas, oh avara.

Cada hora, cada día, yo quisiera no tener que hablar. Figuras de cera los otros y sobre todo yo, que soy más otra que ellos. Nada pretendo en este poema si no es desanudar mi garganta.

Rápido, tu voz más oculta. Se transmuta, te transmite. Tanto que hacer y yo me deshago. Te excomulgan de ti. Sufro, luego no sé. En el sueño el rey moría de amor por mí. Aquí, pequeña mendiga, te inmunizan. (Y aún tienes cara de niña; varios años más y no les caerás en gracia ni a los perros.)

mi cuerpo se abría al conocimiento de mi estar y de mi ser confusos y difusos mi cuerpo vibraba y respiraba según un canto ahora olvidado yo no era aún la fugitiva de la música yo sabía el lugar del tiempo y el tiempo del lugar en el amor yo me abría y ritmaba los viejos gestos de la amante heredera de la visión de un jardín prohibido

La que soñó, la que fue soñada. Paisajes prodigiosos para la infancia más fiel. A falta de eso -que no es mucho-, la voz que injuria tiene razón.

La tenebrosa luminosidad de los sueños ahogados. Agua dolorosa.

El sueño demasiado tarde, los caballos blancos demasiado tarde, el haberme ido con una melodía demasiado tarde. La melodía pulsaba mi corazón y yo lloré la pérdida de mi único bien, alguien me vio llorando en el sueño y yo expliqué (dentro de lo posible), mediante palabras simples (dentro de lo posible), palabras buenas y seguras (dentro de lo posible). Me adueñé de mi persona, la arranqué del hermoso delirio, la anonadé a fin de serenar el terror que alguien tenía a que me muriera en su casa.

¿Y yo? ¿A cuántos he salvado yo?

El haberme prosternado ante el sufrimiento de los demás, el haberme acallado en honor de los demás.

Retrocedía mi roja violencia elemental. El sexo a flor de corazón, la vía del éxtasis entre las piernas. Mi violencia de vientos rojos y de vientos negros. Las verdaderas fiestas tienen lugar en el cuerpo y en los sueños.

Puertas del corazón, perro apaleado, veo un templo, tiemblo, ¿qué pasa? No pasa. Yo presentía una escritura total. El animal palpitaba en mis brazos con rumores de órganos vivos, calor, corazón, respiración, todo musical y silencioso al mismo tiempo. ¿Qué significa traducirse en palabras? Y los proyectos de perfección a largo plazo; medir cada día la probable elevación de mi espíritu, la desaparición de mis faltas gramaticales. Mi sueño es un sueño sin alternativas y quiero morir al pie de la letra del lugar común que asegura que morir es soñar. La luz, el vino prohibido, los vértigos, ¿para quién escribes? Ruinas de un templo olvidado. Si celebrar fuera posible.

Visión enlutada, desgarrada, de un jardín con estatuas rotas. Al filo de la madrugada los huesos te dolían. Tú te desgarras. Te lo prevengo y te lo previne. Tú te desarmas. Te lo digo, te lo dije. Tú te desnudas. Te desposees. Te desunes. Te lo predije. De pronto se deshizo: ningún nacimiento. Te llevas, te sobrellevas. Solamente tú sabes de este ritmo quebrantado. Ahora tus despojos, recogerlos uno a uno, gran hastío, en dónde dejarlos. De haberla tenido cerca, hubiese vendido mi alma a cambio de invisibilizarme. Ebria de mí, de la música, de los poemas, por qué no dije del agujero de ausencia. En un himno harapiento rodaba el llanto por mi cara. ¿Y por qué no dicen algo? ¿Y para qué este gran silencio?

EXTRACTING THE STONE OF MADNESS They, the souls …, are crazy and suffer and nothing brings them a remedy; they are injured and broken and nothing comforts them. Jean de Ruysbroeck [2]

The bad light has come and nothing is true. And if I think about everything that I ‘ve read about the spirit … when I closed my eyes, I saw luminous bodies that turned in the fog, in the place of evasive communities. Do not fear this, nothing will happen to you, there are no more corpse snatchers. The silence, always silence, the golden coins of the dream.

I speak as I speak. Not my voice intent in mimicking human speech but the other one that testifies that I am still a beast of the forest.

If only you saw the one who sleeps in a garden, in ruins, in memory without you. There I, drunk with a thousand deaths, talked about me to me, curious if it’s true that I lay under the grass. I do not know their names. Who will you tell that you do not know? You wish that you were someone else. Your other self wishes you were another. What happened in that green orchard? It happens that it isn’t green, there isn’t even an orchard. And now you hide your crown by acting like a slave. Who gave you that? Who anointed you? Who consecrated you? The invisible people of the oldest memory. Lost by your own design, you have renounced your kingdom for ashes. The one who hurts you the most reminds you of all your old homages. Even now you cry unhappily and evoke your madness and even want to extract it, cut it out from you, that which remains like privilege or a stone. On a white wall you draw the allegory of repose and she is always a mad queen who lies under the moon on the sad grass of the old garden. But do not talk about the gardens, do not talk about the moon, do not talk about the rose, do not talk about the sea. Talk about what you know. Talk about what vibrates in your marrow and lights and shadows in your eyes, speaks of the incessant pain of your bones, speaks of vertigo, speaks of your breathing, your desolation, your betrayal. It is so dark, so silent this process that forces me. O speak of silence.

Suddenly possessed I’m filled with fatal foreboding of a black wind that prevents breathing. I sought-after the memory of joy that would shield me, like armor or a weapon, or even attack. I looked like the Ecclesiastes: I searched in all my memories and nothing, nothing under the sun’s black fingers. My trade (also in sleep) is to conjure and exorcise. When did this shame begin? I don’t want to know. All I want is silence for myself and the other selves I once was, a silence like the little hut that the lost children find in fairyland forests. And what will become of me if nothing rhymes with anything?

You fall. This endless despair, flowing with the current and against it to the night of the bodies where scarcely a spring dries up when another resumes its path.

Without the forgiveness of water I cannot live. Without the marble tomb of heaven closing I cannot die.

It’s nighttime inside you. Soon you will witness the animal that you are rearing up. Heart of the night, speak.

To have died in the one you were and the one you once loved, to turn and not turn, like a sky that is both stormy and celestial.

I would have loved more than this and I would have loved nothing.

She comes and goes, she calls herself as she swings alone. A lost sense of the days fall drop by drop. Lures of concepts. Vowel traps. Reason shows me a path away from the spot where they raised a church in the rain: the wolf-woman deposits her cubs on the threshold and flees. Mournful candle light is stalked by a cancerous breeze. The wolf-girl cries. None who sleep hears her. May all the plagues plague those who sleep in peace.

This impatient voice of mine comes from old lamentations. Naively you exist, you dress up as a little assassin, frightening yourself in front of the mirror. To sink into the earth while the earth to closes up around me. Ignoble ecstasy. You know they humiliated you until they showed you the sun. You know that you will never know how to defend yourself, that you only want to present the trophy, I mean your corpse, so that they will eat it, so that they will drink it.

Consolation’s home, the consecration of innocence, the unadjectival joy of the body.

What if suddenly a painting comes alive and the ardent Florentine child extends a hand and invites you to remain by his side in the terrible joy of being an object gazed at and admired? No (I said), to be separate you have to be different. I am outside this framework but the way of offering ourselves is the same.

Leaves of grass, headless dolls, I call for my name, I call for myself all night long. And in my dream there is a circus wagon full of dead corsairs in their coffins. A moment before, with beautiful trappings and black eye-patches, the pirate captains jumped from one sailing ship to another like waves, like beautiful suns.

So I dreamed captains and delicious coffins of colors and now I am afraid of all the things that I keep inside, not pirate booty, not well buried treasure, not all the many things set in motion, how many small blue and gold statuettes gesticulate and dance (but they are mute), and then there is the black space—you shall fall and fall—through the threshold of your greatest innocence or perhaps only through madness. I understand my fear is a revolt of these little blue and gold statuettes. A departed soul, a shared soul, I have wandered and missed so much in order to start a union with the Florentine, to be painted as an object to contemplate, and yet, after analyzing the colors and forms, I found myself making love with a living boy even as the painted man stripped me naked and dragged me behind my closed eyelids.

He smiles and I am a tiny pink puppet with a celestial umbrella I enter his smile I build my little house on his tongue I live in the palm of his hand closing his fingers on golden powder, a bit of blood, goodbye O goodbye.

Like a voice not far from the night, this is how the most exact fire burns. Without skin and bones, the animals roams through the ashes of the burnt forest. Once the song of a single bird had brought you thrilling heat. Seas and diadems, seas and snakes. Please, watch how the little dog skull is suspended from the blue-painted sky swings with dry trembling leaves. Cracks and holes in my flesh escaped from a fire. To write is to look for the charred bone of the arm that corresponds to the burnt bone of the leg among the tumult of a great fire. Miserable mixture that I restore, that I reconstruct, I am surrounded by death. Without grace, without halo, without truce. And that voice, that elegy to a first creator: a shout, a breath, there is breathing among the gods. I say my evening prayers. And what about you? You rise out of your lair and you do not understand. You return and it does not matter whether you understand or not. There is no breathe and yet you speak of breathing gods.

If you talk about the sun I shall die. Lead me like a little blind princess, slowly and carefully, like autumn falling in a garden.

You will come to me with your voice tinged with a vague accent that forces me to evoke an open door, with the shadow of a beautiful named bird, with the remains of a shadow left in my memory, with what is left behind when they throw the ashes of a young woman dead to the wind, with the strokes pressed into the sheet of paper after erasing a house, a tree, a sun, an animal.

If he did not arrive it’s because he did not arrive. It’s like autumn arriving. You expect nothing from his arrival. You expect everything. Shadow of my life, what do you want? A delirious party, a language without limits, a shipwreck in your own waters, O so greedy.

Every hour, every day, I would like to not have to talk. Others are like wax figures, me especially, I am more other than the others. All I want from this poem is to clear my throat.

Quick, use your most hidden voice. It transmutes, it transmits to you. So much to do so I fall apart. They excommunicated you from yourself. I suffer, then I do not know. In dreams the king died of love for me. Here, little beggar, they’ll immunize you. (And you still have the face of a girl, but in several more years you won’t even be able to seduce dogs.)

my body opened to the knowledge of my being and of being confused and diffuse my body trembled and breathed all to a song long forgotten no fugitive of music I knew the place of time and the time of place I opened myself up to love and rhythms the old gestures of a mistress inheritrix to the vision of a forbidden garden

She who dreamed, she who was dreamed. Colossal landscapes for the most faithful of childhoods. In the absence of that -which is not much-, the voice that slanders is right.

The dark luminance of drowned dreams. Painful water.

To late to dream, too late for white horses, too late to leave behind a melody. The melody pulsed in my heart and I cried at the loss of my one good thing, someone saw me crying in the dream and I explained (as far as possible), using simple words (as far as possible), good, safe words (far as possible). I took possession of myself, I plucked her from her beautiful delirium, I annihilated her in order to calm the terror of someone who said that I’d die at home.

And me? How many have I saved?

I have prostrated myself before the suffering of others, I have silenced myself in honor of others.

My red elemental violence receded. Sex at the heart, the path of ecstasy between my legs. My violence of red winds and black winds. The real parties take place in the body and in dreams.

Doors of the heart, the beaten dog, I see a temple, I tremble. What happens? Nothing is happening. Once I detected a total writing. The animal throbbed in my arms with hints of living organs, of heat and heart and breathe, all musical, all silent at the same time. What does it mean to translate yourself into words? And the projects of long-term perfection? Every day you measure the probable elevation of my spirit, the disappearance of my grammatical errors. My dream is a dream without alternatives and I want to die at the foot of the letter of the law of the humdrum that says dying is the same as dreaming. Who do you write for? The light, the forbidden wine, the vertigo. Ruins of a forgotten temple. If only celebrating were possible.

Mourning a mangled visions of a garden with broken statues. Your bones hurt at the edge of dawn. You tear yourself open. I’m warning you and I warned you. Disarm. I’m telling you. I told you. You undress. You get laid. I predicted all this. Suddenly it breaks down: no birth. You take yourself and you overtake yourself. Only you know of this broken rhythm. Now for your booty, you pick them up one by one, this great boredom, where to leave them. Had I been closer I’d have sold my soul in exchange for invisibility. Drunk with myself, with music, with poems, with -why not just say it?- the hole in my emptiness. In a ragged anthem tears roll down my face. And why doesn’t someone say something? And what’s with this great silence?

][][

EL SUEÑO DE LA MUERTE O EL LUGAR DE LOS CUERPOS POÉTICOS Esta noche, dijo, desde el ocaso, me cubrían con una mortaja negra en un lecho de cedro. Me escanciaban vino azul mezclado con amargura. — El Cantar de las Huestes de Igor

Toda la noche escucho el llamamiento de la muerte, toda la noche escucho el canto de la muerte junto al río, toda la noche escucho la voz de la muerte que me llama.

Y tantos sueños unidos, tantas posesiones, tantas inmersiones, en mis posesiones de pequeña difunta en un jardín de ruinas y de lilas. Junto al río la muerte me llama. Desoladamente desgarrada en el corazón escucho el canto de la más pura alegría.

Y es verdad que he despertado en el lugar del amor porque al oír su canto dije: es el lugar del amor. Y es verdad que he despertado en el lugar del amor porque con una sonrisa de duelo yo oí su canto y me dije: es el lugar del amor (pero tembloroso pero fosforescente).

Y las danzas mecánicas de los muñecos antiguos y las desdichas heredadas y el agua veloz en círculos, por favor, no sientas miedo de decirlo: el agua veloz en círculos fugacísimos mientras en la orilla el gesto detenido de los brazos detenidos en un llamamiento al abrazo, en la nostalgia más pura, en el río, en la niebla, en el sol debilísimo filtrándose a través de la niebla.

Más desde adentro: el objeto sin nombre que nace y se pulveriza en el lugar en que el silencio pesa como barras de oro y el tiempo es un viento afilado que atraviesa una grieta y es esa su sola declaración. Hablo del lugar en que se hacen los cuerpos poéticos –como un cesta llena de cadáveres de niñas. Y es en ese lugar donde la muerte está sentada, viste un traje muy antiguo y pulsa un arpa en la orilla el río lúgubre, la muerte en un vestido rojo, la bella, la funesta, la espectral, la que toda la noche pulsó un arpa hasta que me adormecí dentro del sueño.

La muerte es una palabra.

La palabra es una cosa, la muerte es una cosa, es un cuerpo poético que alienta en el lugar de mi nacimiento.

Nunca de este modo lograrás circundarlo. Habla, pero sobre el escenario de cenizas; habla, pero desde el fondo del río donde está la muerte cantando. Y la muerte es ella, me lo dijo el sueño, me lo dijo la canción de la reina. La muerte de cabellos del color del cuervo, vestida de rojo, blandiendo en sus manos funestas un laúd y huesos de pájaro para golpear en mi tumba, se alejó cantando y contemplada de atrás parecía una vieja mendiga y los niños le arrojaban piedras.

Cantaba en la mañana de niebla apenas filtrada por el sol, la mañana del nacimiento, y yo caminaría con una antorcha en la mano por todos los desiertos de ete mundo y aún muerta te seguiría buscando, amor mío perdido, y el canto de la muerte se desplegó en el término de una sola mañana, y cantaba, y cantaba.

También cantó en la vieja taberna cercana del puerto. Había un payaso adolescente y yo le dije que en mis poemas la muerte era mi amante y amante era la muerte y él dijo: tus poemas dicen la justa verdad. Yo tenía dieciséis años y no tenía otro remedio que buscar el amor absoluto. Y fue en la taberna del puerto que cantó la canción.

Escribo con los ojos cerrados, escribo con los ojos abiertos: que se desmorone el muro, que se vuelva río el muro.

La muerte azul, la muerte verde, la muerte roja, la muerte lila, en las visiones del nacimiento.

El traje azul y plata fosforescente de la plañidera en la noche medieval de toda muerte mía.

La muerte está cantando junto al río.

Y fue en la taberna del puerto que cantó la canción de la muerte.

Me voy a morir, me dijo, me voy a morir.

Al alba venid, buen amigo, al alba venid.

Nos hemos reconocido, nos hemos desaparecido, amigo el que yo más quería.

Yo, asistiendo a mi nacimiento. Yo, a mi muerte.

Y yo caminaría por todos los desiertos de este mundo y aún muerta te seguiría buscando, a ti, que fuiste el lugar del amor.

DREAM OF DEATH OR THE PLACE OF THE POETIC BODIES

“Tonight, he said, from sunset, they covered me with a black shroud and set me on a cedar bed. They poured blue wine mixed with bitterness over me.” — The Song of the Hosts of Igor

All night long I hear the call of death, all night long I listen to the song of death by the river, all night long I hear the voice of death calling me.

So many dreams brought together, so many possessions, so many plunges, in my possessed dead little girl left in a garden of ruin and lilacs. By the river death calls out to me. Desolate and torn, in my heart I hear the song of the purest joy.

And it is true that I have awakened in this place of love because, when I heard its song, I said: this is the place of love. And it is true that I have awakened in the place of love because, with a smile in mourning, I heard their song and I said to myself: this is the place of love (trembling, phosphorescent).

And the mechanical dances of ancient dolls and all the inherited misfortunes and the rushing water going in circles, please, don’t feel afraid to say it: the rushing water going in short circles while on the shore the frozen gesture of the stopped arms in an embrace, in the purest of nostalgias, in the river, in the fog, in the weak sun filtering through the fog.

More from within: the unnamed object that is born and ground into small-grains in the spot where silence weighs as heavy as gold bars and time is a sharp wind that crosses a crack and that is its only statement. I speak of the place where the poetic bodies are made — like a handbasket full of little girls’ corpses. And that is where death sits, dressed in a very old suit, playing a harp on the shore the gloomy river, death in a red dress, the beautiful one, the dismal one, the ghostly one, the one that played the harp all night until I fell asleep inside my own dream.

Death is a word.

The word is one thing, death is also a thing, a poetic body that strength from the place of my birth.

You’ll never be able to surround it. It speaks, but only on a stage of ashes; it speaks, but only from the bottom of the river where death is singing. And death is her, the dream told me, the queen’s song told me. The death of hair the color of crow, dressed in red, brandishing in her menacing hands a lute and bird bones to beat on my grave. She walked away singing, looking like an old beggar while children threw stones at her.

I sang in a foggy morning unfiltered by the sun, the morning of birth, and I walked with a torch in my hand through all the deserts of this world and even dead I would still continue to search for you, my lost love. Let the song of death blossom out within a single morning and she sang, she sang.

She also sang in the old tavern near the wharf. I found a teenage clown there and I told him that in my poems death was my lover and my lover was death and he said: your poems speak truth. I was sixteen and had no choice but to seek out absolute love. And it was in the harbor tavern where she sang her song.

I write with my eyes closed, I write with my eyes open: that the wall crumbles, that the wall becomes a river.

Visions of birth: blue death, green death, red death, lilac death.

Blue and silver phosphorescent suits of the mourners on the medieval night of each of my deaths.

Death is singing by the river.

And it was in the harbor tavern that she sang her song of death.

I’m going to die, she said, I’m going to die.

At dawn, please come, my good friend, at dawn come.

We have recognized ourselves, we have disappeared, I and the friend that I most wanted.

Me, attending my own birth. Me, at my own death.

And I would’ve walked through all the deserts of this world, even if I were dead, looking for you, you who were the place of love.

][][

NOCHE COMPARTIDA EN EL RECUERDO DE UNA HUIDA

Golpes en la tumba. Al filo de las palabras golpes en la tumba. Quién vive, dije. Yo dije quién vive. Y hasta cuándo esta intromisión de lo externo de lo interno, o de lo menos interno de lo interno, que se va tejiendo como un manto de arpillera sobre mi pobreza indecible. No fue el sueño, no fue la vigilia, no fue el crimen, no fue el nacimiento: solamente el golpear como un pesado cuchillo sobre la tumba de mi amigo. Y lo absurdo de mi costado derecho, lo absurdo de un sauce inclinado hacia la derecha sobre un río, mi brazo derecho, mi hombro derecho, mi oreja derecha, mi desposesión. Desviarme hacia mi muchacha izquierda —manchas azules en mi palma izquierda, misteriosas manchas azules—, mi zona de silencio virgen, mi lugar de reposo en donde me estoy esperando. No aún es demasiado desconocida, aún no sé reconocer estos sonidos nuevos que están iniciando un canto de queja diferente del mío que es un canto de quemada, que es un canto de niña perdida en una silenciosa ciudad en ruinas.

¿Y cuántos centenares de años hace que estoy muerta y te amo?

Escucho mis voces, los coros de los muertos. Atrapada entre las rocas: empotrada en la hendidura de una roca. No soy yo la hablante: es el viento que me hace aletear para que yo crea que estos cánticos del azar que se formulan por obra del movimiento son palabras venidas de mí.

Y esto fue cuando empecé a morirme, cuando golpearon en los cimientos y me recordé. Suenan las trompetas de la muerte. el cortejo de muñecas de corazones de espejo con mis ojos azul—verdes reflejados en cada uno de los corazones .

Imitas viejos gestos heredados. Las damas de antaño cantaban entre muros leprosos, escuchaban trompetas de la muerte, miraban desfilar —ellas, las imaginadas— un cortejo imaginario de muñecas con corazones de espejo y en cada corazón mis ojos de pájara de papel dorado embestida por el viento. La imaginada pajarita cree cantar; en verdad sólo murmura como un sauce inclinado sobre el río.

Muñequita de papel, yo la recorté en papel celeste, verde, rojo, y se quedó en el suelo, en el máximo de la carencia de relieves y de dimensiones. En medio del camino te incrustaron, figurita errante, estás en el medio del camino y nadie te distingue pues no te diferencias del suelo aun si a veces gritas, pero hay tantas cosas que gritan en un camino ¿por qué irían a ver qué significa esa mancha verde, celeste, roja?

Si fuertemente, a sangre y fuego, se graban mis imágenes, sin sonidos, sin colores, ni siquiera lo blanco. Si se intensifica el rastro de los animales nocturnos en las inscripciones de mis huesos. Si me afinco en el lugar del recuerdo como una criatura se atiene a la saliente de una montaña y al más pequeño movimiento hecho de olvido cae —hablo de lo irremediable, pido lo irremediable—, el cuerpo desatado y los huesos desparramados en el silencio de la nieve traidora. Proyectada hacia el regreso, cúbreme con una mortaja lila. Y luego cántame una canción de una ternura sin precedentes, una canción que no diga de la vida ni de la muerte sino de gestos levísimos como el más imperceptible ademán de aquiescencia , una canción que sea menos que una canción, una canción como un dibujo que representa una pequeña casa debajo de un sol al que le faltan algunos rayos; allí ha de poder vivir la muñequita de papel verde, celeste y rojo; allí se ha de poder erguir y tal vez andar en su casita dibujada sobre una página en blanco.

SHARED NIGHT IN MEMORY OF RUNNING AWAY

Beating on the grave. On the edge of language they are beating on the grave. Who is it? I asked. I asked who is it. And how longer will this intrusion of external into internal go? or the less internal into the internal, woven like a burlap veil over my unspeakable poverty. It was not the dream, it was not the vigil, it was not the crime, it was not the birth: it was only fist-beatings, like a heavy knife piercing the grave of a friend. And the absurdity of my right side, the absurdity of a willow leaning to the right over a river, my right arm, my right shoulder, my right ear, my dispossession. To deviate towards my left girl — blue blotches on my left palm, mysterious blue blotches — my region of virgin silence, my resting place where I am waiting for myself. Is she still too unknown yet? I still do not know how to recognize these new sounds that begin as a song of objection different from mine own, which is a burnt song, which is a song of a girl lost in a silent city of ruins.

And how many hundreds of years have gone by since I died and I loved you?

I listen to my voices, the choruses of the dead. Trapped between the rocks: embedded in the cleft of a rock. I am not the speaker: it is the wind that makes me flutter so that I believe that this chorus of chance was formulated by the movement of words that came out of me.

And this was when I started to die, when they struck these foundations and I recalled myself. Death’s trumpets can be heard. The courtship of dolls with mirror-hearts stare with my blue eyes — green reflected in each one of the hearts.

Imitate these old-worn, familial gestures. The ladies of old sang among the leper’s wall while listening to death’s trumpets, while watching the procession — they, the imagined ones — an imaginary procession of dolls with mirror-hearts and in each heart stared my golden paper eyes slouching in the wind. This imagined little bird believes she can sing; in truth she just murmurs like a willow leaning over a river.

Paper doll, I cut her from green, red, blue paper as she remained on the floor, at the edge of relief and dimensions. In the middle of the road they buried you, little traveler, you are in the middle of the road and nobody knows you because you do not differentiate yourself from the ground even if sometimes you scream, but there are so many things that scream. Why would anyone come to gaze on a green blotch, a light blue blotch, a red blotch?

If you squeeze them, even the blood and fire, all my images leave traces in the air, without sounds, without colors, not even white. If the traces of nocturnal animals are intensified, are inscribed on my bones — if I root in the place of memory as a creature rooted to the ledge of a mountain and whose smallest movement will make oblivion falls — I speak of the irremediable, I ask for the irremediable — the body unleashed and the bones scattered in silence upon the traitorous snow. Look ahead for my return, cover me with a purple shroud. And then sing me a song of an unprecedented tenderness, a song that does not mention life or death but only of the slightest of gestures, of the most imperceptible of agreements, a song that is less than a song, a song that is a drawing of a small house under a sun that is missing some of its rays; that is where the green and red and light blue doll might live. Perhaps she will stand up and perhaps she will walk into her little house, the one drawn on a blank sheet of paper.

][][

NOTES: [1] The Escorial is a vast royal building complex located in San Lorenzo de El Escorial, near Madrid. [2] One of the Flemish mystics of the medieval Catholic Church.

#alejandra pizarnik #extracción de la piedra de locura #spanish translation #i love this so much

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nyaacatboy · 6 years

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Fate’s Door, Chapter 6: Life’s A B*ach

Masterpost/Chaper 5/Chapter 7

Roman Theularus was the sort of person who, reasonably, thought they should be happy with their lot in life, but through some cruel twist of fate, was not. Perhaps it was the enormous stresses of being the kingdom’s next king, implemented since birth, or maybe it was the persistent gender dysphoria that begged them to do things that irritated his father and the whole court. Nonetheless, Roman was not happy, they were in fact sad, restless, and moody to boot.

Today had started no better than any other, with being roused at the crack of dawn by the leader of the military and forced to run three miles in the sweltering heat. Supposedly, this was going to build their stamina and resilience for kingship, but Roman was of the opinion that it was a way to break down their resistance so that they’d have no willpower to disobey anyone. Following was Roman’s daily hiding from the castle hairstylist, who had been ordered to cut their unruly locks no matter what methods she had to use. While Roman was slipping her any gold he could find to keep her from searching much harder for them, it was best to keep up the charade of hiding so that she didn’t lose her job.

Next up was attending classes with their governor and speeding through the work while acting as if they actually cared about taxes and territories and budgets...they were already spiritually asleep. Lunch soon followed, and Roman thought about the temptation of adventure through twelve debates the King’s Cabinet had, which eventually softened into a drone of figures and facts. They defeated several dragons, and rescued many princes, princesses, and fellow nonbinary royalty after daring deeds and with passionate kisses. Roman got lost in their thoughts, spicing up their stories with plot twists, betrayals, and red herrings.

“Roman, did you catch that?” his stepmother asked, her painted face tilted towards them in an expression begging the prince to follow court decorum and actually pay attention for once.

Roman lived to disappoint. “Nope. What’s the big news?”

Every face of their father’s cabinet looked at them gravely, as if they hadn’t fully understood the seriousness of the situation. The king spoke. “I’ve decided to abdicate the throne early, leaving you to rule the country with me in an advising position. We’ll coronate you on the solstice. I think you’re ready for this responsibility.”

No. Nononononono. Roman was not going to rule the kingdom. For one, they didn’t even qualify as a king, and with his knowledge of the current political state, the king was planning to let his past mistakes fall on his child’s shoulders. Roman had watched deal after deal being signed by the king bearing the names of the richest in the land, and despite the community-focused speeches the king gave afterwards, they knew that only bad things would come of them. It was quite the impressive inheritance, but Roman wanted no part in it. They’d declare all of them defunct if there was a way, but there was no way Roman could actually get them put into practice with the current cabinet. Not to mention that there was no way they’d get full kingship. Roman’s father did not like giving away power, and Roman didn’t want to be the figurehead for his tyrannical plans.

The idea of seeking an adventure sounded less like a fantasy and more like a valid escape plan now. Roman played the part of a diplomat and weathered everyone’s questions, answering affirmative to the kingship because they knew there was no other choice. The conversation swung around to something else, and one of the higher-ranked servants made the mistake of bringing up sorcery. As per usual, everyone pretended the servant hadn’t said anything, but they did not resume their previous topic as usual. Several dukes and duchesses looked at one another worriedly, and two cabinet members even began a heated whispered conversation. Roman scanned the faces at the table, looking for a clue as to what they were all concerned about, but the grim expressions yielded nothing.

Now was the time for them to leave. Roman made a quick excuse, then dashed up to their quarters. They looked in the bathroom mirror, studying the reflection. Roman knew one thing for certain: there was no way in all of the world that they would become king of Straith under these conditions. Their escape from kingship had to be the adventure they’d always wanted. It was now or never, as much of a cliche that was.

Their clothes were much too opulent to blend in, so Roman rummaged through their drawers to find the simplest outfit he owned. Awkwardly, as Roman was not used to dressing without servants, they put it on. They sighed at their reflection. The intricate embroidery on the shirt and pants gave it away. Roman probably needed to grab clothes from the servant’s laundry in order to blend into a crowd of common people. Throwing a fairly nondescript cloak over their more simple outfit, they gathered up some money, water, and a compact tent. Who knows where the path of adventure will lead? Stuffing everything into a sack, Roman made their way to the laundry without being spotted. They grabbed one set of the outfit there was the most of, then changed in a broom closet. Roman put the cloak on as well, although they knew that the red trim might give them away.

Roman made one more foray into their room to gather some medical supplies, and the scarf their mother made for them while she was pregnant. They couldn’t stand to part with it, the bright red yarn always reminded them of the stories told about their brave, adventurous, dead mom. She’d died so that they could live, and Roman kept that sacrifice with them always. They threw a penknife and some layers into the sack, and climbed out their bedroom window and down the castle’s ancient bricks. Roman was going to find their adventure before they were forced into an unwanted crown, and starting as soon as possible was essential.

Weaving through the crowd of errand boys and half-day commuters, Roman kept an eye out for anyone who looked like they were doing something adventurous. The mysterious characters who kick start a story, or the ordinary events that kick off a journey, those were the ones they watched for. Technically, their life wasn’t a fantasy novel, but that didn’t mean Roman couldn’t live it like one.

After helping out several overburdened pedestrians, who did not turn out to be the Fairy Godmother, and so would have rewarded them immensely for their kindness, Roman felt their harebrained adolescent plans coming to absolutely nothing. They’d wanted to meet her too, the Fairy Godmother’s fashions were absotively legendary. Roman wandered around a little longer, trying and failing not to feel the pressure of ruling Straith in a few weeks on their shoulders.

Most people in front of the castle were walking or moving in some form if they weren’t buying something, which made anyone stationary stand out. Roman’s roaming gaze landed on a lone figure in a deep black cloak standing at the side of the road, facing the castle. Their feet moving before they consciously made the decision to, Roman walked towards the person.

She had dyed blond hair falling past her shoulders, paired with a dark blue shirt, slightly stained black pants, and leather boots that had moved past well-worn into in need of a replacement. Her focus was entirely on the castle, eyes moving and taking in information. Virgil had made up her mind about what she was going to do.

“What are you looking at? It’s not really the most impressive architecture,” Roman said, trying to pry information out of this stranger.

“I’m looking for the dungeons,” she said, “and, what, no ‘hello’”

“Hello,” they said, “I apologize for my lack of manners, you were so intriguing I appear to have pushed them aside out of curiosity.” Roman gave a slight bow, trying to remember every way they’d ever learned to convey respect.

“Well, I’m Virgil, and unless you know where the dungeons where and how to get to them, I suggest you leave me alone.” She swept her cloak so that her face was obscured from Roman again.

“I do know where the dungeons are,” Roman said, turning themself more towards her, “but I have to know why you need to know. Your average layperson doesn’t typically go seeking out the dungeons. I’m Roman, like the prince.”

Virgil turned to face them full-on. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I’ve kept one from everyone for three years, so yeah.”

“There’s a doomsday prophecy that will kill us all on the solstice and the only way to stop it is releasing a top-security prisoner from the castle dungeons.” She watched them carefully, eyeing Roman’s reaction.

“Ok. How high security of a prisoner are we talking? I can show you the way to the dungeons right now, unless there’s something you need to do first.” Despite their calm expression, Roman was having a mini freakout party in their head. A doomsday prophecy? A mysterious prisoner? They’d found their adventure.

Virgil looked shocked, but went with it anyways. “Highest of the high-security, and maybe wait a while before leading me to the dungeons, since I don’t have a plan to break the prisoner out.”

“What do you need to break them out?” Roman asked, rearranging his cloak so that it concealed them from the crowd better.

“It’s better if I explain this to you somewhere else,” Virgil said, glancing at the people in the crowd behind Roman.

“I...I know a place.”

“Well, let’s go then. No time like the present.” Roman led Virgil through the most secretive entrance to the castle, using ancient passages they were sure no one else knew of until the two arrived at the door to their room.

“So, I’ve got a bit of a confession to make,” Roman began.

“We met five minutes ago. I’d be more surprised if there wasn’t one.”

“So when I said I was ‘Roman, like the prince,’ I neglected to mention that I am actually the prince.” Roman closed their eyes, bracing for some inevitable fangirling or anger from Virgil.

Virgil looked at her surroundings, as if truly taking them in for the first time. She considered the situation, then looked back at Roman again, whose eyes were comically squinted at her. “You’ll make a very useful ally,” she said.

Roman tentatively opened their eyes to find a determined Virgil looking at them like they were going to be very, very important for the plan she had in mind.

TAGS: @fanficptsd

#starredwrites #roman sanders #princey sanders #ts roman #virgil sanders #anxiety sanders #ts virgil #chapter 6 #fate's door #sanders sides

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aconboyindependent2021 · 3 years

Text

Fourth draft of script of ‘Now and Then’

[AGATHA]

Hello.

My name is Agatha.

I need to tell you something forthwith. This hospital makes my heart and my soul burn with wrath, for I remember a grim truth behind here.

Having a mind as sharp as a tack can be more of a curse rather than a blessing - the piercing knowledge of non-fabricated events, needless cruelty and “what if’s” stab at your brain and heart, and you bleed blood only you can see. The blood then covers you and seeps back into your very being. And in some tragic cases, determines what becomes of you. Then & Now.

This hospital, where you might have been treated as a child, where all the nurses were caring and your parents visited you for comfort, was once a workhouse.

Where innocents died.

Where I died.

At the hands of foul, wretched bastards.

(Outside the workhouse, Raining and wind as well as rock breaking)

WORKMASTER: Right, Wilkins? You do hear me, yeah?

WILKINS: Yes, Sir. Sorry

WORKMASTER: Well, when I say jump, you jump!

All of ya, let’s get these rocks broken. That’s what you’re meant to be here for. Work first, eat later. Nobody owes you a living!

ALL: Sir!

WORKMASTER: Come on! You’ve got to earn your keep here!

[AGATHA]

The staff who bullied those us who lived here, have no place in heaven, as much as they spoke of performing “God’s work”.

The good book told us to love thy neighbour, and to love the child, but they had no love for us.

I walk these grounds – destined to never gain peace until their sins are acknowledged.

Sins, behind the comfortable buildings, the friendly person at the desk, as old as the derelict outhouses and crumbling buildings and the beautiful trees that surround the site. I feel the weight of oppressive and tragic memories. Real people in the past. Real suffering.

Suffering no soul should have to experience has occurred here. And there is no going back.

Hospitals are good, so they now say. They help people. Tend the sick. Comfort the dying. Save their lives. Birth their babes…

Children laughing in unbridled joy. Wondrous machines that heal like magic. Scents of anaesthetic, gauze and medicine reassure us, especially to one more accustomed to dust, whisky and dung.

(Images of the hospital, Sounds of people and medical machinery)

CHILD: Can I see mummy now? (giggling)

NURSE: Of course you can, sweetness. She was so brave – and now you have a sister!

GROGGY MOTHER: Ugh… Where am I?

DOCTOR: Your child is healthy. She is sleeping. Your family has come to visit.

FAMILY: Hello!

[AGATHA]

I know that this place is now full of comfort and modernity, It all appears as sorcery to me.

The ones that suffered the most were mothers with their precious babes, snatched away both crying, screaming.

I remember, long ago, I was lost, forgotten, lonely, hurt, hungry, thirsty, sick, unloved. Everyone was too busy protecting their own hides to care.

Back then, our health and wellbeing were not uppermost in the minds of the staff. Nor that of my dear, lost infant child.

No one tried to understand our wretched minds. My soul wracked with the loss of a child, taken from me to achieve a better life.

I could have had that life if it was given to me. But oh no, they did not believe I deserved that chance.

Our worth was judged by social standing, not our deeds or characters.

I was undeserving and was told this each and every day. I did not deserve the gift of my child.

I deserved nothing but disdain, contempt - rarely even pity.

I was lower than a charity case.

I never had the chance to travel, live, learn, grow. To be a mother.

Never even saw the sea a mile from here.

I had nothing, so was nothing, so now I remain nothing…. And I walk the night, searching for the child snatched from me, to live a better life with a rich couple living on the far side of this town. To line the pocket of a corrupt workhouse nurse. I never saw my child grow.

But I remember her, an innocent squirming babe, sweet and fresh in my arms. She was all that I had left. And I hate those who left me bereft ….

[Agatha opens her mouth in rage and screams an ungodly scream. The scene fades to a positive view of the hospital site today and the welcome sign for the mothers and babies unit].

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ellanainthetardis · 7 years

Text

I guess this is what they call a rare pairing ? I have no idea to be honest. @akachankami requested some becho and I just love Echo so much I said yes. Blink and you will miss the ship but it this is Echo centered. =) Let me know what you think! [FF] or [AO3]

Eko Kom Nou Kru

The sky is nothing like Echo imagined.

Three weeks and she is still as lost and bereft as she has been when she first put foot on what the others call ‘the ring’. Raunon. She still cannot wrap her head around it after a month of living on it. She saw it with her own eyes, she knows they are on an actual ring shaped construction but it does not feel round. She can walk for hours and come back to where she started and she will not have met any proof of curve.

Raven tried to explain the phenomenon to her and she understood it had to do with machineries and science but to her, somehow, it still feels a little like magic. Or sorcery.

She walks around it at night and she yearns for blue sky, grass and trees. She yearns for her trusted bow and the thrill of the hunt. She yearns for the solid companionship of an army at her back, ready to obey her orders. She yearns for war and the blood singing in her veins. She yearns for her sword and a worthy opponent. She yearns for a king or a queen to protect.

She yearns.

There is plenty to do during the day. Or at least, when the clock on the walls or one of her companions tell her it is daytime. Once Raven repaired them, the lights started turning on and off automatically to simulate a dawn and a dusk. It is even more depressing to her.

To feel the caress of the sun on her face…

Echo yearns.

She walks along the dark corridors, the dim lights of what she and Emori call Naitaim between them – night time – enough to find her way. She is uncomfortable with the electrical lights still but she prefers it to the pitch dark black of the first few days on the Ark. She has never been afraid of the dark until she’s been confronted to the empty vacuum that is space.

It is all the more lonely during naitaim. They all took to their new lives with an ease Echo envies. Harper and Monty are always the first ones to leave after they all shared food from plastic bags – MREs, they are called, which is just as confusing a name as everything else – quickly followed by Murphy and Emori when they bother to attend meal time. Raven and Bellamy often talk late into the night. She is welcomed to stay, she knows, but she never has anything to contribute and so she often leaves them to it.

Now that they have settled and that they can spare the power, they are talking about trying to communicate with the bunker. It is a good thing, Echo thinks, because she also yearns for her kru. What used to be her kru, at least.

They aren’t being successful though and Raven doesn’t want to risk taking more power from the crops they are trying to grow. There is always plenty of work to do and she is happy to help although reduced to a mindless pair of arms because she doesn’t understand half of what they are talking about.

She sought Emori’s company at first, assuming the girl would be just as lost as she is… Emori never blinks twice and has a knack for making herself useful though. She is a survivor to the core and while Echo doesn’t want to die, she has never felt the same despair to survive. She is a warrior born. Death, to her, is nothing but an inevitable enemy she would one day lose to. It isn’t the same for Emori. Outsider she might be but not the fish out of water that Echo is.

She doesn’t belong.

How can she?

She brushes her hand against the steel of the wall as she walks, the quiet sound of her footsteps her only companion. She tries to remember what Earth sounds like and she comes to a frightening blank. For a second, she cannot recall the chirping of birds or the ruffling of bushes in the wind. All she can hear is the quiet hum of the engine.

Raven described it to her as the heart of the Ark.

It is a heart.

The heart of the steel beast in whose belly they are trapped.

Often she wonders if she wouldn’t have preferred dying down there. Often she resents Bellamy for stilling her hand. Often she hates herself for her cowardice.

Hers would have been an honorable death. Where was honor in the sky?

She stops in front of the biggest window and watches the red ball that the ground has become.

Somehow, naitaim after naitaim she always ends up here.

It is the best place to yearn.

Fresh air that doesn’t leave her breathless for more. Food that tastes like actual meat or ripe fruit. Water that doesn’t smell of chemicals. The heat of the sun instead of the unforgiving cold of the sky… Snow and fallen leaves and dirt under her fingertips… The comforting rhythm of her own language… Rain pouring down on her face… A lover’s hand in her hair… A friendly embrace… Fayawa. Warmth.

“It was one of my favorite places when I was a kid.”

She doesn’t startle but it is a close thing. It only makes her more wary of herself, of who she is up there, that she cannot even hear the untroubled approach of someone who isn’t trying to be discreet. She was the best warrior Azgeda had to boost. Wormana to Queen Nia and then to King Roan. Warrior. Spy. Royal guard. Chief war advisor. And now… Now who is she? Echo of nowhere.

Bellamy comes to stand next to her and watches the dead earth in silence.

If she asked, he would leave. At least she thinks he would. He is respectful of other people’s wishes up to a point, she has observed. He persists only when he deems it necessary. When Monty becomes too sad over someone named Jasper. When Harper slips into a quiet but obvious panic. When Raven gets angry at something she cannot fix or not quickly enough for her tastes at least. When Murphy gets frustrated by his past deeds. When Emori doubts her acceptance in the group.

It is in her nature to observe, to ascertain the threat they represent, to quantify their weaknesses.

She has been with those people for a month. She knows them now. Better, perhaps, than they know themselves.

They aren’t very impressive individually – except maybe for Raven’s brain, she isn’t much of a warrior but she has a mind Echo cannot help but admire – but when they come together, they are like one of those stories old warriors pass along around a campfire after a battle.

“Disha ste thonken.” she finds herself saying after a little while.

She has never minded silence and Bellamy’s presence is comforting rather than oppressing but the confession slips out before she can think twice about it. She is always more at ease with Bellamy than she is with the others.

Maybe because he grieves and she understands his pain.

She lost a king.

He lost a queen.

“I used to think that too.” he shrugs. “The Ark… Space… It does feel hollow. Then I got down to Earth and… I realized I was the hollow one.” He paused for a bit and then a sad smile played on his lips. He hasn’t bothered shaving in a few days and there is the shadow of a beard on his jaw. She likes it and she hates how her body reacts to the thought of how that stubble would feel under her fingertips or against the soft skin of her inner thighs. She hasn’t laid with a man in too long. Her eyes dart back up when he speaks again, his own gaze still riveted to the burning planet below. “It’s what you make of the world around you that counts, what you do to make it better. I was lucky enough to meet people who taught me that.”

“Clarke.” she says with confidence and respect. She might not have seen eye to eye with Wanheda on every subject but she’s seen enough to admire the girl’s skills. Clark kom skaikru had the spirit of a leader.

“She was one of them, yeah.” Bellamy confirms with the same pain in his voice there always is when he mentions her. Love takes long to wither, she knows this and doesn’t push. “Kane too.”

“Skaikrus bandrona. Your ambassador” she clarifies.

She has spent less time with him than with Wanheda and while she knows King Roan has held respect and even affection for the man, she never had a real opportunity to make a clear idea for herself. Alliances shifted too often for trust and without trust it is hard to make an honest opinion of a person.

“He is our Chancellor too.” he reminds her, a bit short, as if she is disrespecting Marcus Kane by forgetting that fact.

Chancellor holds little meaning to her. It is merely a word she has no translation for. Marcus Kane is no king to his people. He is no heda or chief. Those are titles that matter. Chancellor… She doesn’t know what to make of a role that keeps switching from people to people. Leading a kru is a sacred duty for her people, not something that is left to chance as Skaikru seems to be doing. Leaders emerge from chaos. They are not brought upon by a consensus.

Besides, it seemed to her as if Wanheda was the one in charge. Clarke has certainly been the one making decisions.

“Yu hodnes em.” she states.

It’s not really a question. She sees it on his face. He loves that man he talks about with so much respect.

“He is a great chancellor.” he retorts, almost defensive. Or even embarrassed. “A great man.”

“He was your king. Or its equivalent anyway.” she frowns. “There is no shame in loving your king.”

“There’s no reason to assume he didn’t make it into the bunker. He still is my chancellor.” he snaps and there is nothing but anger and frustration in his voice this time. Helplessness too, maybe. There was no time for his sister to say for sure who would live and who would die. She understands. If she had been uncertain as to the fate of her own king, she would have been distressed too. She prefers to keep her peace, let him cool down on his own. She achieves more like this than by pushing him. She only pushes when she is out of options. It is almost two whole minutes before he speaks again. “I never knew my dad. It’s stupid probably but… Kane… Kane was good to me.”

She wonders if that’s why he stopped shaving, to be more like the surrogate father he left behind.

“You miss him.” she ventures.

“What aren’t we missing those days?” he snorts without any amusement.

For a second, she sees how ragged he really is.

Bellamy is always walking around, it seems, checking on everyone, making sure they all stick together, always promising it would get easier and that they would walk on the ground again… He is the one making sure they don’t fall apart.

But, Echo realizes, nobody comforts him.

He never lets them see that he needs it.

Like a true leader would. He puts his kru first and his own needs come second to that.

“I missed my father’s advice for a long time after he passed.” she confides. “He was a warrior. He died a noble death.”

It is the important thing, she reminds herself, as always when the sorrow wants to grip her heart with its cold dead claws. Her father died a honorable death like her mother before him. Both renown warriors of Queen Nia. Both celebrated long after their passing. It doesn’t stop her from missing his voice or her perfume. It doesn’t stop her from wishing they hadn’t been torn away from her. But war is a merciless creature. She understands it better than she understands some people.

“I wonder about what happened to people from Azgeda too.” she adds. “Octavia promised me the clan would have a place with the rest of them.”

“Then, she kept her promise.” he offers quietly, with enough certainty to calm the nasty doubts that rise on some days. “Your clan will survive.”

She shakes her head, crossing her arms in front of her chest even though she knows it will betray her distress. “Azgeda isn’t my clan any longer. My king banished me. Ai laik dim Eko kom Azgeda noumo. Ai laik Eko kom nou kru. Ai laik Eko kom dropof.”

She hates herself for betraying how bitter she is about it, how bitter she feels… She hates this feeling of not belonging. She has always been part of something bigger. She has always served. Her life for the one wearing the crown.

“You’re not from nowhere.” he frowns.

“Yet here I am, in the middle of nowhere.” she argues. “Not only lost to my people but lost in the sky. Before we left you told me we would be tested… Is this my test? Tell me, Bellamy, what is a general without an army to command? What is a spy without people to spy on? What am I?”

Bellamy moves away from the window but it is her turn to resolutely stare at the scorched Earth. Even when he leans against the thick glass to study her, she doesn’t let her gaze stray away, pretending the burning sensation in her eyes comes from looking too long at the red blaze.

“Okay.” he says eventually and he sounds amused. As if she is being stupid. That’s another thing she hates about the sky. Echo isn’t stupid, far from it. She is a strategist. She knows how to win hopeless battles. She is fast and she is clever. It is why she’s been raised to a position of power so young in the first place. And yet their science makes her feel like an idiot. Emori is better at hiding her confusion and has experience on Becca’s island that Echo lacks. Bellamy’s amusement angers her but before she can lash out he continues. “One: don’t go wishing for wars, you’re going to jinx us. Two… You’re not Echo of no clan, you’re one of us now.”

She does look at him, then. Out of surprise if nothing else.

She never really thought about it like that. A clan. And yet now that he said the word, she sees it.

She’s speechless for a second and it’s all it takes for Bellamy to shuffle awkwardly.

“Look, I know there’s some bad blood between us…” he winces.

“There is.” she acknowledges quickly. “But we saved each other a few times too. What I did I did out of duty, it was my clan against yours. It was never me against you.”

His face hardens and she knows he’s thinking about the mountain. Or maybe he’s thinking that she almost killed his sister twice. She can’t deny not feeling a lot of remorse over Moun-de but she is glad she hasn’t beat Octavia. Oktavia kom Skaikru is someone she wouldn’t have minded calling Heda.

“It doesn’t matter.” he declares and his face softens again, his eyes sparkle and she is glad to see the twinkle that disappeared with Clarke’s death is coming back. “You proved yourself those last few weeks. So… What do you say? We’re just a band of misfits trying to survive in a hostile environment but… We can be your clan if you want us.”

A fourteenth clan. Of sort.

She pauses to think about what that would mean when they would go back to the ground – if they go back to the ground, she understands it will be just as difficult as going up – and she decides it doesn’t matter. Her first loyalty has always been to her people. She has been bereft without a clan and now…

“Gon ai koma, kom ai swison. Ai badan yu op, ai Haihefa.” The traditional oath rolls off her tongue with ease. How many time did she practice it so it would be flawless when Queen Nia elevated her to power? She has never meant them with as much fervor as she does now though. Maybe because Bellamy gave her a place to belong when she had no purpose. Maybe because he is someone she would be proud to serve. He seems lost and unsure. She thinks it might be because her language confuses him as much as his sometimes confuses her, so she translates for him, so there will be no doubt about her allegiances. “On my honor, with my sword. I serve you, my king.”

He takes a hasty step back, a look of horror mixed with terror on his face. “I’m no one’s king, Echo. We’re all equal here.”

He is either blind or unwilling to admit the power he wields. If anyone’s been certain of one thing since they reached the Ark, it’s that Bellamy is in charge. It has remained unspoken but it is in every order given and received.

She almost argues but decides to allow him his discretion for now. It doesn’t matter to her as long as it is clear who is in charge. And if unrest ever rose… She would be ready to shield him. As her duty dictates.

“I will be proud to be a part of your clan.” she nods.

He relaxes and squeezes her shoulder. “You already are. I just didn’t think you saw it.”

She averts her eyes, unwilling to disclose more but aware that a month in close proximity – and the five years that would follow – doesn’t allow much privacy. “It is difficult not to belong.”

“You belong.” he insisted, squeezing her shoulder again.

His hand is warm. She can feel it through the thick frayed woolen sweatshirt she had found abandoned in a room. She craved that warmth but she doesn’t quite dare claim it as hers.

Not yet.

Not until his heart stopped bleeding for the one he lost.

She doesn’t like the idea of being the default choice, she will conquer his heart just like she conquered impossible battlefields. It is something to look forward to. Something to hope for the future.

Not yet.

But soon, she thinks.

#echo #bellamy blake #becho #the 100 #becho fic #the 100 fic #echo kom azgeda #eko kom nou kru

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ycursavicr-blog · 5 years

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welcome to the framework, LOKI LAUFEYSON. we hear you were a ANTI-HERO going by GOD OF MISCHIEF, and from MARVEL. memories of that life will seem like a dream. here, you’ll be a INTERPRETER. we hear you can be CHARISMATIC but CUNNING. hopefully that won’t be a problem.

BASICS

NAME: loki laufeyson

NICKNAMES: liesmith, odinson, god of mischief

AGE: 1053

FACECLAIM: tom hiddleston

GENDER: male

PRONOUNS: he/him/his

CIVILIAN/MUTANT/ENHANCED: asgardian/alien

IN THE FRAMEWORK

FAMILY: unknown, presumably a mother and father

OCCUPATION: interpreter

PETS: a black cat named da vinci

EDUCATION: college, double major in linguistics and chinese in undergrad, masters in linguistics but also knows french, spanish, german, italian, and latin

HOBBIES: reading, sex, blogging, drinking wine, being dramatic in multiple languages

IN THE REAL WORLD

FAMILY: adoptive: thor, odin, frigga, hela; biological: laufey, unknown others

AFFILIATION: himself, asgard, thor

TRAINED IN: combat: what was required of him and what his mom helped with for his advantage, spells: high levels of sorcery

WEAPONS: daggers && knives

ABILITIES: illusion manipulation, shapeshifting, mental manipulation, presence concealment, conjuration, telekinesis, cold immunity, regenerative health, superhuman strength && stamina

Q U E S T I O N N A I R E

WHAT WAS YOUR CHARACTER DOING WHEN THE GIFTED WARS BROKE OUT?

after he overpowered odin, he was keeping his business strictly to asgard which consisted of mostly enjoying himself and promoting the arts, safely disguised as odin and pretending to be long dead. under his disguised rule, asgard was prospering, maybe the rest of the universe was in chaos, but he didn’t really know ( probably for lack of caring to ). what really mattered was staying far out of thanos’ reach and thoughts.

thor showed up anyway and apparently was catching up on the infinity stones business loki failed to tell him about before “dying.” and, as one could expect, demanded they go look for their father. which was a task because he wasn’t where he left him since midgard was practically destroyed, finding more sadness in that than he expected or anyone could expect from him.

they found out, following odin’s death, that they had an older sister all along and following the fight with her, loki found himself on sakaar, quickly paving a way as high as he could. motivated by fear, he did anything to gain the grandmaster’s favor, including attending some orgies and an invitation to a more private rendez-vous. being where he was on sakaar was far safer that what the universe outside offered.

still, in his pursuit of comfortable safety, following one last betrayal of thor, he learned that he truly just wanted to be at his brother’s side and would do what he could, to the best of his abilities, to stay there and in get in his good graces again. he joined the fight to save asgard, officially helping its end by triggering ragnarok, but not before taking the tessaract from the vault.

while on their way to find a new home for asgard, thor decided to return to earth to see what had happened since their last visit. loki followed, knowing he’d be doing that forever in the future, feeling secure at his brother’s side. still, he hadn’t known what was going to be waiting for them on earth when they got there.

HOW WAS YOUR CHARACTER CAUGHT AND PLACED INTO THE FRAMEWORK?

loki initially managed to avoid capture by escaping while thor was captured, but when he went back to save him, he was captured too and put into the framework, unable to avoid detection before being successful.

WHAT ARE THE BIGGEST DIFFERENCES IN YOUR CHARACTERS LIFE FROM THE REAL WORLD TO THE FRAMEWORK?

in the framework, he never really had a solid family, bouncing around between foster homes, some worse than others, but all the same learning at a young age not to get attached. in his younger years he tried to impress, trying to be a kid the foster family wanted to keep and fall in love with, but the want dulled over time, soon finding that it was far easier to protect himself from hope and believe the worst in every situation.

living in a handful of different situations with only the promise of having to get used to another on the horizon, he developed a quick wit and and found ease in being cunning. every conversation, every action became calculated to make sure he lost less than anyone else in any given situation. though tall, he was hardly ever physically intimidating so he learned to use words and gaining of knowledge to be ahead of everyone else. it lead to a lonely existence, but he reasoned at least someone he trusted couldn’t hurt him if he trusted no one.

he found solace in knowledge and reading. both were a constant no matter how many foster family members or friends his life filtered through and in the pursuit of wanting more of each, he fell in love with learning languages, knowing they only broadened his horizons. following high school, he went to college off scholarships and an aptitude for finding a way to get money through various means, a job being lesser of the ways.

following his masters in linguistics, he went on to freelance in translation, whether it’s through the written word, working in the private sector, or helping out in public services where they’re short handed. he’s made a decent amount of money, making himself comfortable, through his work. in his private life, he continues his practice of not letting anyone too close, leading a life of one night stands and keeping friends, but making sure no one ever knows too much about him.

EVERY CHARACTER HAS BEEN GIVEN A SINGLE REAL WORLD MEMORY RETURNED, WHAT MEMORY HAS YOU CHARACTER GOTTEN?

he remembers watching the skin on his forearm and hand turning blue at another’s touch then back to pale again.

#d: charsurvey #abandonment issues tw #neglect tw #sorta?#i decided to re-do his survey to freshen it up a bit #the biggest changes are his framework life #and i also didn't forget his cat's name this time lol

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swipestream · 7 years

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Conan: The Scarlet Citadel

We continue reading Robert E Howard’s Conan yarns in publication order, and noting how they have improved with age. Often dismissed as a mere boyish adventure tales, adult eyes rereading these alleged boy’s stories will see depth to them.

Let us return to 1933, and recall the spirit of the time. The Great War, meant to end wars, ended not long ago, but war is in the air again, darkening Europe. Communists, Nazis, Fascists and other Leftwing socialists are already committing atrocities beyond any historical precedent. The democracies in the West groaning under a government-created Great Depression, faith in civilized man has fallen to a cynical low.

In popular entertainment, the Lone Ranger, The Shadow, The Green Hornet, and other iconic figures destined to outlast their generation were on that new apparatus, the radio; KING KONG starring Fay Wray was due to open later that year, as was DUCK SOUP starring the Marx Brothers. Edgar Rice Burroughs, in the second decade of his career, had just published Lost on Venus, and Tarzan and the Lion Men, and was busily penning Swords of Mars. Tom Swift was in the third decade of his career. He had just invented a giant magnet and was about to invent his television detector.

Robert Howard published The Scarlet Citadel. It first appeared in WEIRD TALES, January of 1933. It is the second published story in the oeuvre, immediately following Phoenix on the Sword, published in the December issue of the previous year.

The story opens with striking images, audible then visual:

THE roar of battle had died away; the shout of victory mingled with the cries of the dying.

Like gay-hued leaves after an autumn storm, the fallen littered the plain; the sinking sun shimmered on burnished helmets, gilt-worked mail, silver breastplates, broken swords and the heavy regal folds of silken standards, overthrown in pools of curdling crimson.

Take a breath and admire. Howard makes such prose look effortless. It is not the curt sentences of modern thrillers, which omit all description, nor is it the heavier, ornate prose of his contemporaries Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith.

This tale picks up in the same period as the last, when Conan is no longer a barbarian in bearskins, but a king in a crown, but whose uneasy kingdom is threatened by foe without and treachery within. He is a warrior king, beleaguered by foes, the standing when all his men are fallen. We see him first as if at a distance, as a “grim iron-clad figure looming among the dead.”

Before the savage blue eyes blazing murderously from beneath the crested, dented helmet, the boldest shrank. Conan’s dark scarred face was darker yet with passion; his black armor was hacked to tatters and splashed with blood; his great sword red to the crosspiece. In this stress all the veneer of civilization had faded; it was a barbarian who faced his conquerors.

The tale, as such, is summarized simply: Conan is overcome, not by the might of his enemy kings but by the malice of an evil sorcerer Tsotha. In chains, he is offered gold by two kings in return for his abdication; an offer he spurns with memorable scorn:

“What you inherited without lifting a finger—except to poison a few brothers—I fought for. I climbed out of the abyss of naked barbarism to the throne and in that climb I spilt my blood as freely as I spilt that of others. If either of us has the right to rule men, by Crom, it is I!”

For this defiance, he is cast into the wizard’s dungeon of horrors, builded atop the ruins of a haunted temple where a buried gateway to the netherworld yet gapes. By the mischance of a gloating enemy, he escapes his cell, only to find himself in a buried labyrinth patrolled by a monster python to whom men are as rats.

Unnatural, unearthly and perhaps extradimensional horrors fester in the darkness there. He discovers an empty-eyed but human figure strangled and caressed by a blood-drinking vine, whose red blossoms all move and swell like the hoods of cobras at Conan’s panther-soft footfall. He frees the man, who is one perhaps better left bound: a rival wizard of Tsotha’s named Pelias.

With a wizard’s unholy aid, the two escape the menace of the pits, and, by peering into a magic stone, Conan sees his kingdom besieged, and knows the plans of his enemies. He is too far from the besieged city, even on the swiftest horse, to return in time. Pelias provides a mount.

“There are creatures,” said Pelias, “not alone of earth and sea, but of air and the far reaches of the skies as well, dwelling apart, unguessed of men. Yet to him who holds the Master-words and Signs and the Knowledge underlying all, they are not malignant nor inaccessible. Watch, and fear not.”

Conan is carried by a winged monstrosity through the air. The finale sees the confrontation between Conan and the two kings who previously overcame him in the midst of a besieged city. The people are heartened to see Conan not dead. There is battle and slaughter.

Tsotha alone flees into the dusk, with Conan in pursuit. A dark eagle from the sky slays Tsotha’s steed, and so the sorcerer turns, and raises in his hands, a globe of alchemical fire in either fist. Conan eludes the fire, decapitates the sorcerer, and hears in horror as the head continues to curse and gibber. The headless body steps forward, groping. But Pelias’ laugh is heard from on high; the dark eagle strikes again, and carries off the undead and screaming head by its hair. Conan stares as one turned to stone as the headless body runs clumsily after the bird, until both are lost in the distant gloom.

“Crom!” his mighty shoulders twitched. “A murrain on these wizardly feuds! Pelias has dealt well with me, but I care not if I see him no more. Give me a clean sword and a clean foe to flesh it in. Damnation! What would I not give for a flagon of wine!”

The tale, of itself, does not linger in the memory. The various horrors, bloated or nigrescent, oozing or animate or anthropophagous, lurking in the wizard’s vault or horrors, are difficult to distinguish from similar denizens of similar eldritch stories. The names of the evil kings fade: I cannot recall which was the fastidious, snakelike one, and which the dark and wrathful. The dispositions of the troops, their arms and equipment, which Howard depicts with the care and precision of an historian, I cannot recall.

Albeit I daresay a wargamer could faithfully reproduce the battle on a tabletop with counters to represent the Aquilonian knights, Shemite archers, spahis from Koth, Poitanian infantry, Bossonian archers, and keen pikemen from Gunderland, Pellian soldiers, and so on, each with his proper gear properly described, burgonet, habergeon, or brigandine, casque, cuirass or scale-mail corselet. It does my history buff heart good to see the word ‘oliphant’ used correctly (it is a battle-trumpet, not a mastodon).

The events are not what lingers in the memory, nor meant to.

What lingers is an overwhelming sense of allure, half wonder, half nostalgia — if nostalgia is a word that covers not mere longing for times past, but for a visionary, semi-unfamiliar time haunting the gloom one step older than history.

Such tales might not appeal to one and all. I can imagine a reader repelled by the barbarism of this savage, manly milieu. I can also imagine a lukewarm glass of milk eaten with unbuttered toast. I can imagine a reader attracted by the same. I cannot imagine indifference. The story is magnetic, in part due to its unheroic hero with his brawny, primitive majesty, in part due to the landscape, the names, the gods, all taken from the earliest strata of history: Ophir and Stygia and Cimmeria; Set and Ymir and Crom.

This allure is not lessened by the conceit that all these lands are changed, some drowned under the sea, their mighty towers fallen, their dark secrets forgotten, their brave deeds of wonder and horror forever lost.

To cross swords with such staunch yet savage foes or outwit hidden, subterranean horrors is a dream buried in many a boyish heart. Men grow sick of peace, and of the soft life progress brings. They seek to know the secret of steel.

Gamers will understand me when I say this: I cannot read such a story without wanting to play a game set in that background. Some stories have an automatic, almost mesmeric fitness and rightness that make them perfect for a campaign.

Not only it this no surprise, it is inevitable. The Hyborian Age sounds like perfect gaming material because gaming sprang out of this influence. These stories were the main influence on Gary Gygax. Conan and the other tales in Howard’s world (overlapping the worlds of Lovecraft and others) are the most memorable of Sword and Sorcery tales, written three decades before Fritz Leiber thought to coin a term for them. These stories had the property of being good gaming material before games like D&D were even dreamed.

Fairy tales lack this property of ‘playability’, as do most Tolkeinesque high fantasies. In this first case, the tale tends to be too personal: there is no adventure to the be had in the world of Sleeping Beauty or Snow White outside the immediate circle of the endangered or enchanted princess. In the second case, the stakes tend to be too impersonal because they are so high.

While, in theory, a satisfying adventure should exist elsewhere in Middle Earth, such as dwarves fighting orcs in the Mines of Moria, or Rangers of Ithilien raiding Southron supply lines, in reality, if the Fellowship of the Ring fails in their quest, all is lost and for all time foreseen; and if they succeed, Sauron and all his foul empire collapses in a moment. The soldiers of Dain Ironfoot or Faramir son of Denethor are not heroes in an epic quest of world-shattering proportions. They might as well be in Ophir or Koth, in a sword and sorcery setting, instead.

The difference is that any one might want to be Conan, if only for a day, but who wants to be Sleeping Beauty? The matter of high fantasy is epic enough to allure one to wish to step into it if only one could, but epics are more tightly woven with theme and moral and character, so that there is little room for improvisation, or separate adventures outside the main quest.

I am tempted to use STAR WARS as an example of a background to tightly woven to be playable, but the expanded universe, and the very wide variety of spinofffs in all media, including games and online games, cautions me to resist the temptation. Instead let me say instead that sufficient additional material has been invented so that adventurers all over the galaxy, rogues and rebels, pirates and princesses and jedi not yet slain by clones, can face quests other than the destruction of the Death Star, or the death of Palpatine. This allows characters not of the Vader family to feel they are doing something important.

Nonetheless, the very nature of a franchise like STAR TREK or STARGATE offers what is an innately more open and inviting universe to play in, and neither needs any additional effort or additional material to make it so.

Playability involves a balance of several elements, including an exotic background, primitive enough for one man to make a difference in the history of the small and unstable kingdoms around; including a certain relaxation of moral strictures, as it is precisely the confines of civilization, and the high, strict standards of Christendom, which the imagination fleeing into heathen times seeks to escape; and including vivid but straightforward dangers both natural and supernatural.

The structure of such stories requires the victories to be episodic rather than final. These tales are not meant to end with hero wedding princess to live happily ever after. These are similar to certain Westerns, where a wandering stranger is meant to encounter a solve a terrible but strictly local evil. But in the the end the hero, without waiting to be thanked, rides off into the sunset. Further adventures await.

It is not the Fall of the Roman Empire or the apocalypse of the world a tale of this type describes, but, rather, a single battle or a siege; or a warlord’s death or a queen’s salvation; or the ghastly vengeance of a cursed witch; the downfall of a cursed city; or a heist, an abduction, or an assassination; or a clash or privateers and slavers on the high seas.

Dark Lords are strictly for the toffs. Sword and Sorcery is blue collar.

Perhaps I have not defined this strange quality of allure I here call playability. No matter. You will recognize it when you see it. If you read The Scarlet Citadel, you will see it.

Conan: The Scarlet Citadel published first on http://ift.tt/2zdiasi

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knownshippable · 7 years

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Role-Playing for One: Revisiting the Fighting Fantasy Gamebook Series

https://gamebooks.org was used as reference for this piece, with background from http://www.eurogamer.net/articles/2013-08-16-you-are-the-hero-a-history-of-fighting-fantasy

I've always loved reading. When other kids were playing our school's custom made tennis ball tag game (largely an excuse to whip tennis balls at people), messing around in class or just generally engaging in grade-school mayhem, I always had a book handy.

I read in class when I was done my work (and sometimes when I wasn’t). I read on car trips. I read on the bus rides home, or while walking. I read when I had nothing else to do. I read at home instead of going outside, or even instead of video games; my usual escapist pastime of my formative years.

By the summer I turned eleven, I was reading literally anything I could get my hands on, from the Animorphs series, X-Files episode novelizations, ‘Young Adult’ novels about first aid, or even the Star Trek technical manual. I will even admit to having read crappy novelizations of Ninja Gaiden and Blaster Master at some point.

In my defense - it was a different time.

So, while kids my age were at summer camp, my idea of a day out was either going to my local bookstore or biking over to the library. I'd spend entire afternoons wandering the air-conditioned stacks, checking books out armfuls at a time, then spending stretches of days inside alternating between console RPGs and reading stacks of books by my bed.

It was around that time, on one of my trips that I first found a gamebook.

You probably know them as the Choose Your Own Adventure books. At very least, you’ve probably seen the covers. The concept behind the series is simple: books with non-linear page numbers dividing the narrative into decision points, ending in a number of ways based on your decisions throughout.

The series has always been the poster child for utterly ridiculous deaths - and some of them were downright gruesome for a series that was aimed at pre-teens. An illustrated scene featuring your character being strangled by a Yakuza assassin is just the tip of the iceberg. In fact, as a connoisseur of truly awful video game character deaths - a trait developed from a childhood playing adventure games, I can confirm that some of these are actually pretty gruesome.

I was content enough in my discovery, but little did I know that the well went deeper. I still hadn’t heard about Gamebook Adventures. While the Choose Your Own Adventure series got its start in the 70s, the concept of a gamebook that was also a role playing game didn’t materialize until the start of the Fighting Fantasy series of books, starting with 1982’s The Warlock of Firetop Mountain.

The book was penned jointly by Ian Livingstone and Steve Jackson both of Games Workshop founding fame (Not to be confused with the man behind Steve Jackson games - who confusingly started writing Fighting Fantasy books as well) as an attempt to describe the substance of tabletop role-playing to a wider audience. The end result was something else entirely; a self-contained RPG adventure with Choose Your Own Adventure trappings.

The concept proved decently popular, and Fighting Fantasy exploded to include almost seventy entries in 25 years, including Sorcery!; a story told across 4 separate books that allowed players to transfer their character between them.

But I wasn't aware of them until the 1990s, when I fished a copy of Appointment with FEAR from a shelf of dog-eared paperbacks at what was quite possibly the world’s most disorganized used bookstore. It’s easy to see why I bought it - It’s pretty hard to say no to a cover this cool.

When I got home, I remember just about flipping out when the book asked me to go get some dice and a pencil to fill out a character sheet. And even though my first run probably ended in failure - most of them do - I was hooked.

I was hooked because, for me, the Fighting Fantasy series was a relief. Beyond it being a cool concept, it allowed a scared, lonely, depressed kid lacking in friends and safe places to see what was so engaging about pencil and paper games. The books hint at what makes pencil-and-paper gaming what it is: skill checks, dice rolls, inventory, combat, and world building, since most of the books take place in the world of Titan - a stand-in for the world building of Dungeons & Dragons without needing the critical element - people. And I love them for it.

These days, a handful of the books have made their way to mobile devices, boasting quality of life improvements like and bookmarks, which saves me trying to read a paperback while trying to hold it like a bowling ball - fingers trying to save various decision points to go back to when you failed.

And fail you would; Fighting Fantasy books are the worst of D&D dungeon design that we love to hate so much - or maybe just hate, depending on your taste. Dead end skill checks that force a restart of the entire book, insufferable mazes that required reams of graph paper to map properly, entire branches of the book that served as red herrings, and even unwinnable states, triggered by forgetting to pick up a key items early in the story. Some of the books boast an instant-death kill-count well in the 30s, not counting combat deaths. I’m working through House of Hell right now, and haven’t gotten more than a few encounters in before dying to some seemingly harmless choice.

While some of the earlier entries show their age, there’s still a lot of worth here - with some caveats. There is a lot of nostalgia at play here. If you’re not the sort of person that likes to make their own maps in video games, or write down notes, this might not be the right fit for you. Many of the Fighting Fantasy apps, published by Tin Man Games on iOS and Android, have a mode where you can “Play like an old-school cheater!”, allowing you to bypass skill checks or item checks that normally lock you out of choices otherwise.

While I certainly don’t think they’re perfect, I do still think they’re worth a look, especially at their price point on mobile - less than $3 on the Canadian Apple or Google Play stores. I don’t guarantee you’ll find them great, but hopefully you can find something of value looking back over what I have no trouble calling a criminally underrated series.

#fighting fantasy #gamebook #cyoa

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readbookywooks · 8 years

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Of Beren and Luthien

Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that come down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Luthien. Of their lives was made the Lay of Leithian, Release from Bondage, which is the longest save one of the songs concerning the world of old; but here is told in fewer words and without song. It has been told that Barahir would not for sake Dorthonion, and there Morgoth pursued him to his death, until at last there remained to him only twelve companions. Now the forest of Dorthonion rose southward into mountainous moors; and in the east of those highlands there lay a lake, Tarn Aeluin, with wild heaths about it, and all that land was pathless and untamed, for even in the days of the Long Peace none had dwelt there. But the waters of Tarn Aeluin were held in reverence, for they were clear and blue by day and by night were a mirror for the stars; and it was said that Melian herself had hollowed that water in the days of old. Thither Barahir and his outlaws withdrew, and there made their lair, and Morgoth could not discover it. But the rumour of the deeds of Barahir and his companions went far and wide; and Morgoth commanded Sauron to find them and destroy them. Now among the companions of Barahir was Gorlim son of Angrim. His wife was named Eilinel, and their love was great, ere evil befell. But Gorlim returning from the war upon the marches found his house plundered and forsaken, and his wife gone; whether slain or taken he knew not. Then he fled to Barahir, and of companions his he was the most fierce and desperate; but doubt gnawed his heart, thinking that perhaps Eilinel was not dead. At times he would depart alone and secretly, and visit his house that stood amid the fields and woods he had once possessed; and this became known to the servants of Morgoth. On a time of autumn he came in the dusk of evening, and drawing near he saw as he thought a light at the window; and coming warily he looked within. There he saw Eilinel, and her face was worn with grief and hunger, and it seemed to him that he heard her voice lamenting that he had forsaken her. But even as he cried aloud the light was blown out in the wind; wolves howled, and on his shoulders he felt suddenly the heavy hands of Sauron's hunters. Thus Gorlim was ensnared; and taking him to their camp they tormented, seeking to learn the hidings of Barahir and all his ways. But nothing would Gorlim tell. Then they promised him that he should be released and restored to Eilinel, if he would yield; and being at last worn with pain, and yearning for his wife, he faltered. Then straightaway they brought him into the dreadful presence of Sauron; and Sauron said: 'I hear now that thou wouldst barter with me. What is thy price?' And Gorlim answered that he should find Eilinel again, and with her be set free; for he thought Eilinel also had been made captive. Than Sauron smiled, saying: 'That is a small price for so great a treachery. So shall it surely be. Say on!' Now Gorlim would have drawn back, but daunted by the eyes of Sauron he told at last all that he would know. Then Sauron laughed; and he mocked Gorlim, and revealed to him that he had only seen a phantom devised by wizardry to entrap him; for Eilinel was dead. 'Nonetheless I will grant thy prayer,' said Sauron; 'and thou shalt go to Eilinel, and be set free of my service.' Then he put him cruelly to death. In this way the hiding of Barahir was revealed, and Morgoth drew his net about it; and the Orcs coming in the still hours before dawn surprised the men of Dorthonion and slew them all, save one. For Beren son of Barahir had been sent by his father on a perilous errand to spy upon the ways of the Enemy, and he was far afield when the lair was taken. But as he slept benighted in the forest he dreamed that carrion-birds sat thick as leaves upon bare trees beside a mere, and blood dripped from their beaks. Then Beren was aware in his dream of a form that came to him across the water, and it was a wraith of Gorlim; and it spoke to him declaring his treachery and death, and bade him make haste to warn his father. Then Beren awoke, and sped through the night, and came back to the lair of the outlaws on the second morning. But as he drew near the carrion-birds rose from the ground and sat in the alder-trees beside Tarn Aeluin, and croaked in mockery. There Beren buried his fathers bones, and raised a cairn of boulders above him, and swore upon it an oath of vengeance. First there for he pursued the Orcs that had slain his father and his kinsmen, and he found their camp by night at Rivil's Well above the Fen of Serech, and because of his wood craft he came near to their fire unseen. There their captain made boast of his deeds, and he held up the hand of Barahir that he had cut off as a token for Sauron that their mission was fulfilled; and the ring of Felagund was on that hand. Then Beren sprang from behind rock, and slew captain, and taking the hand and the ring he escaped, being defended by fate for the Orcs were dismayed, and their arrows wild. Thereafter for four years more Beren wandered still upon Dorthonion, a solitary outlaw; but he became the friend of birds and beasts, and they aided him, and did not betray him, and from that time forth he ate no flesh nor slew any living thing that was not in the service of Morgoth. He did not fear death, but only captivity, and being bold and desperate he escaped both death and bonds; and the deeds of lonely daring that he achieved were noised abroad throughout Beleriand, and the tail of them came even into Doriath. At length Morgoth set a price upon his head no less than the price upon the head of Fingon, High King of the Noldor; but the Orcs fled rather at the rumour of his approach than sought him out. Therefore and army was sent against him under the command of Sauron; and Sauron brought werewolves, fell beasts inhabited by dreadful spirits that he had imprisoned in their bodies. All that land was now become filled with evil, and all clean things were departing from it; and Beren was pressed so hard that at last he was forced to flee from Dorthonion. In time of winter and snow he forsook the land and grave of his father, and climbing into the high land of Doriath. There it was put into his heart that he would go down into the Hidden Kingdom, where no mortal foot had trodden. Terrible was his southward journey. Sheer were the precipices of Ered Gorgoroth, and beneath their feet were shadows that were laid before the rising of the Moon. Beyond lay the wilderness of Dungortheb, where the sorcery of Sauron and the power of Melian came together, and horror and madness walked. There spiders of the fell race of Ungoliant abode, spinning their unseen webs in which all living things were snared; and monsters wandered there that were born in the long dark before the Sun, hunting silently with many eyes. No food for Elves or Men was there in that haunted land, but death only. That journey is not accounted least among the great deeds of Beren, but he spoke of it to no one after, lest the horror return into his mind; and none know how he found a way, and so came by paths that no Man nor Elf else ever dared to tread to the borders of Doriath. And he passed through the mazes that Melian wove about the kingdom of Thingol, even as she had foretold; for a great doom lay upon him. It is told in the Lay of Leithian that Beren came stumbling into Doriath grey and bowed as with many years of woe, so great had been the torment of the road. But wandering in the summer in the woods of Neldoreth he came upon Luthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian, at a time of evening under moonrise, as she danced upon the unfading grass in the glades beside Esgalduin. Then all memory of his pain departed from him, and he fell into an enchantment; for Luthien was the most beautiful of all the Children of Iluvatar. Blue was her raiment as the unclouded heaven, but her eyes were grey as the starlit evening; her mantle was sewn with golden flowers, but her hair was dark as the shadows of twilight. As the light upon the leaves of trees, as the voice of clear waters, as the stars above the mists of the world, such was her glory and her loveliness; and in her face was a shining light. But she vanished from his sight; and he became dumb, as one that is bound under a spell, and he strayed long in the woods, wild and wary as a beast, seeking for her. In his heart he called her Tinuviel, that signifies Nightingale, daughter of twilight, in the Grey-elven tongue, for he knew no other name for her. And he saw her afar as leaves in the winds of autumn, and in winter as a star upon a hill, but a chain was upon his limbs. There came a time near dawn on the eve of spring, and Luthien danced upon a green hill; and suddenly she began to sing. Keen, heart-piercing was her song as the song of the lark that rises from the gates of night and pours its voice among the dying stars, seeing the sun behind the walls of the world; and the song of Luthien released the behind the walls of the world; and the song of Luthien released the bonds of winter, and the frozen waters spoke, and flowers sprang from the cold earth where her feet had passed. Then the spell of silence fell from Beren, and he called to her, crying Tinuviel; and the woods echoed the name. Then she halted in wonder, and fled no more, and Beren came to her. But as she looked on him, doom fell upon her, and she loved him; yet she slipped from his arms and vanished from his sight even as the day was breaking. Then Beren lay upon the ground in a swoon, as one slain at once by bliss and grief; and he fell into a sleep as it were into an abyss of shadow, and waking he was cold as stone, and his heart barren and forsaken. And wandering in mind he groped as one that is stricken with sudden blindness, and seeks with hands to grasp the vanished light. Thus he began the payment of anguish for the fate that was laid on him; and in his fate Luthien was caught, and being immortal she shared in his mortality, and being free received his chain; and her anguish was greater than any other of the Eldalie has known. Beyond his hope she returned to him where he sat in darkness, and long ago in the Hidden Kingdom she laid her hand in his. Thereafter often she came to him, and they went in secret through the woods together from spring to summer; and no others of the Children of Iluvatar have had joy so great, though the time was brief. But Daeron the minstrel also loved Luthien, and he espied her meetings with Beren, and betrayed them to Thingol. Then the King was filled with anger, for Luthien he loved above all things, setting her above all the princes of the Elves; whereas mortal Men he did not even take into his service. Therefore he spoke in grief and amazement to Luthien; but she would reveal nothing, until he swore an oath to her that he would neither slay Beren nor imprison him. But he sent his servants to lay hands on him and lead him to Menegroth as a malefactor; and Luthien forestalling them led Beren herself before the throne of Thingol, as if he were an honoured guest. Then Thingol looked upon Beren in scorn and anger; but Melian was silent. 'Who are you', said the King, 'that come hither as a thief, and unbidden dare to approach my throne?' But Beren being filled with dread, for the splendour of Menegroth and the majesty of Thingol were very great, answered nothing. Therefore Luthien spoke, and said: 'He is Beren son of Barahir, lord of Men, mighty foe of Morgoth, the tale of whose deeds is become a song even among the Elves. ''Let Beren speak!' said Thingol. 'What would you here, unhappy mortal, and for what cause have you left your own land to enter this, which is forbidden to such as you? Can you show reason why my power should not be laid on you in heavy punishment for you insolence and folly?' Then Beren looking up beheld the eyes of Luthien, and his glance went also to the face of Melian and it seemed to him that words were put into his mouth. Fear left him, and the pride of the eldest house of Men returned to him; and he said: 'My fate, O King, led me hither, through perils such as few even of the Elves would dare. And here I have found what I sought not indeed, but finding I would possess for ever. For it is above all gold and silver, and beyond all jewels. Neither rock, nor steel, nor the fires of Morgoth, nor all the powers of the Elf-kingdoms, shall keep from me the treasure that I desire. For Luthien your daughter is the fairest of all the Children of the World.' Then silence fell upon the hall, for those that stood there were astounded and afraid, and they thought that Beren would be slain. But Thingol spoke slowly, saying: 'Death you have earned with these words; and death you should find suddenly, had I not sworn an oath in haste; of which I repent, baseborn mortal, who in the realm of Morgoth has learnt to creep in secret as his spies and thralls.' Then Beren answered: 'Death you can give me earned or unearned; but the names I will not take from you of baseborn, nor spy, nor thrall. By the ring of Felagund, that he gave to Barahir my father on the battle field of the North, my house has not earned such names from any Elf, be he king or no.' His words were proud, and all eyes looked upon the ring; for he held it now aloft, and the green jewels gleamed there that the Noldor had devised in Valinor. For this ring was like to twin serpents, whose eyes were emeralds, and their heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers, that the one upheld and the other devoured; that was the badge of Finarfin and his house; Then Melian leaned to Thingol's side, and in whispered counsel bade him forgo his wrath. 'For not by you,' she said, 'shall Beren be slain; and far and free does his fate led him in the end, yet it is wound with yours. Take heed!' But Thingol looked in silence upon Luthien; and he thought in his heart: 'Unhappy Men, children of little lords and brief kings, shall such as these lay hands on you, and yet live?' Then breaking the silence he said: 'I see the ring, son of Barahir, and I perceive that you are proud, and deem yourself mighty. But a father's deeds, even had his service been rendered to me, avail not to win the daughter of Thingol and Melian. See now! I too desire a treasure that is withheld. For rock and steel and the fires of Morgoth keep the jewel that I would possess against all the powers of the Elf-kingdoms. Yet I hear you say that bonds such as these do not daunt you. Go your way therefore! Bring to me in your hand a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown; and then, if she will, Luthien may set her hand in yours. Then you shall have my jewel; and though the fate of Arda lie within the Silmarils, yet you shall hold me generous.' Thus he wrought the doom of Doriath, and was ensnared within the curse of Mandos. And those that heard these words perceived that Thingol would save his oath, and yet send Beren to his death; for they know that not all the power of the Noldor, before the Siege was broken, had availed even to see from afar the shining Silmarils of Feanor. For they were set in the Iron Crown, and treasured in Angband above all wealth; and Balrogs were about them, and countless swords, and strong bars, and unassailable walls, and the dark majesty of Morgoth. But Beren laughed. 'For little price,' he said, 'do Elven-kings sell their daughters: for gems, and things made by craft. But if this be your will, Thingol, I will perform it. And when we meet again my hand shall hold a Silmaril from the Iron Crown; for you have not looked the last upon Beren son of Barahir.' Then he looked in the eyes of Melian, who spoke not; and he bade farewell to Luthien Tinuviel, and bowing before Thingol and Melian he put aside the guards about him, and departed from Menegroth alone. Then at last Melian spoke, and she said to Thingol: 'O King, you have devised cunning counsel. But if my eyes have not lost their sight, it is ill for you, whether Beren fail in his errand, or achieve it. For you have doom either your daughter, or yourself. And now is Doriath drawn within the fate of a mightier realm.' But Thingol answered: 'I sell not to Elves or Men those whom I love and cherish above all treasure. And if there were hope or fear that Beren should come ever back alive to Menegroth, he should not have looked again upon the light of heaven, though I had sworn it.' But Luthien was silent, and from that hour she sang not again in Doriath. A brooding silence fell upon the woods, and the shadows lengthened in the kingdom of Thingol. It is told in the Lay of Leithian that Beren passed through Doriath unhindered, and came at length to the region of the Twilight Meres, and the Fens of Sirion; and leaving Thingol's land he climbed the hills above the Falls of Sirion, where the river plunged underground with great noise. Thence he looked westward, and through the mist and rains that lay upon those hills he saw Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain, stretching between Sirion and Narog; and beyond he descried afar the highlands of Taur-en-Faroth that rose above Nargothrond. And being destitute, without hope or counsel, he turned his feet thither. Upon all that plain the Elves of Nargothrond kept unceasing watch; and every hill upon its borders was crowned with hidden towers, and through all its woods and fields archers ranged secretly and with great craft. Their arrows were sure and deadly, and nothing crept there against their will. Therefore, ere Beren had come far upon his road, they were aware of him, and his death was nigh. But knowing his danger he held ever aloft the ring of Felagund; and though he saw no living thing, because of the stealth of the hunters, he felt that he was watched, and cried often aloud: 'I am Beren son of Barahir, friend of Felagund. Take me to the King!' Therefore the hunters slew him not, but assembling they waylaid him, and commanded him to halt. But seeing the ring they bowed before him, though he was in evil plight, wild and wayworn; and they led hi northward and westward, going by night lest their paths should be revealed. For at that time there was no ford or bridge over the torrent of Narog before the gates of Nargothrond; but further to the north, where Ginglith joined Narog, the flood was less, and crossing there and turning again southward the Elves led Beren under the light of the moon to the dark gates of their hidden halls. Thus Beren came before King Finrod Felagund; and Felagund knew him, needing no ring to remind him of the kin of Beor and of Barahir. Behind closed doors they sat, and Beren told of the death of Barahir, and of all that had befallen hi in Doriath; and he wept, recalling Luthien and their joy together. But Felagund heard his tale in wonder and disquiet; and he knew that the oath he had sworn was come upon him for his death, as long before he had foretold to Galadriel. He spoke then to Beren in heaviness of heart. 'It is plain that Thingol desires your death; but it seems that this doom goes beyond his purpose, and that the Oath of Feanor is again at work. For the Silmarils are cursed with an oath of hatred, and he that even names them in desire moves a great power from slumber; and the sons of Feanor would lay all the Elf-kingdoms in ruin rather than suffer any other than themselves to win or possess a Silmaril, for the Oath drives them. And now Celegorm and Curufin are dwelling in my halls; and though I, Finarfin's son, am King, they have won a strong power in the realm, and lead many of their own people. They have shown friendship to me in every need, but I fear that they will show neither love nor mercy to you, if your quest be told. Yet my own oath holds; and thus we are all ensnared.' Then King Felagund spoke before his people, recalling the deeds of Barahir, and his vow and he declared that it was laid upon him to aid the son of Barahir in his need, and he sought the help of his chieftains. Then Celegorm arose amid the throng, and drawing his sword he cried: 'Be he friend or foe, whether demon of Morgoth, of Elf, or child of Men, or any other living thing in Arda, neither law, nor love, nor league of hell, nor might of the Valar, nor any power of wizardry, shall defend him from the pursuing hate of Feanor's sons, if he take or find a Silmaril and keep it. For the Silmarils we alone claim, until the world ends.' Many other words he spoke, as potent as were long before in Tirion the words of his father that first inflamed the Noldor to rebellion. And after Celegorm Curufin spoke, more softly but with no less power, conjuring in the minds of the Elves a vision of war and the ruin of Nargothrond. So great a fear did he set in their hearts that never after until the time of Turin would any Elf of that realm go into open battle; but with stealth and ambush, with wizardry and venomed dart, they pursued all strangers, forgetting the bonds of kinship. Thus they fell from the valour and freedom of the Elves of old, and their land was darkened. And now they murmured that Finarfin's son was not as a Vala to command them, and they turned their faces from him. But the curse of Mandos came upon the brothers, and dark thoughts arose in their hearts, thinking to send forth Felagund alone to his death, and to usurp, it might be, the throne of Nargothrond; for they were of the eldest line of the princes of the Noldor. And Felagund seeing that he was forsaken took from his head the silver crown of Nargothrond and cast it at his feet, saying: 'Your oaths of faith to me you may break, but I must hold my bond. Yet if there be any on whom the shadow of out curse has not yet fallen, I should find at least a few to follow me, and should not go hence as a beggar that is thrust from the gates.' There were ten that stood by him; and the chief of them, who was named Edrahil, stooping lifted the crown and asked that it be given to a steward until Felagund's return. 'for you remain my king, and theirs,' he said, 'whatever betide.' Then Felagund gave the crown of Nargothrond to Orodreth his brother to govern in his stead; and Celegorm and Curufin said nothing, but they smiled and went from the halls. On an evening of autumn Felagund and Beren set out from Nargothrond with their ten companions; and they journeyed beside Narog to his source in the Falls of Ivrin. Beneath the Shadowy Mountains they came upon a company of Orcs, and slew them all in their camp by night; and they took their gear and their weapons. By the arts of Felagund their own forms and faces were changed into the likeness of Orcs; and thus disguised they came far upon their northward road, and ventured into the western pass, between Ered Wethrin and the highlands of Taur-nu-Fuin. But Sauron in his tower was ware of them, and doubt took him; for they went in haste, and stayed not to report their deeds, as was commanded to all the servants of Morgoth that passed that way. Therefore he sent to waylay them, and bring them before him. Thus befell the contest of Sauron and Felagund which is renowned. For Felagund strove with Sauron in songs of power, ad the power of the King was very great; but Sauron had the mastery, as is told in the Lay of Leithian: He chanted a song of wizardry, Of piercing, opening, of treachery, Revealing, uncovering, betraying. Then sudden Felagund there swaying, Sang in a song of staying, Resisting, battling against power, Of secrets kept, strength like a tower, And trust unbroken, freedom, escape; Of changing and shifting shape, Of snares eluded, broken traps, The prison opening, the chain that snaps. Backwards and forwards swayed their song. Reeling foundering, as ever more strong The chanting swelled, Felagund fought, And all the magic and might he brought Of Elvenesse into his words. Softly in the gloom they heard the birds Singing afar in Nargothrond, The sighting of the Sea beyond, Beyond the western world, on sand, On sand of pearls on Elvenland. Then in the doom gathered; darkness growing In Valinor, the red blood flowing Beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew The Foamriders, and stealing drew Their white ships with their white sails From lamplit havens. The wind wails, The wolf howls. The ravens flee. The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea. The captives sad in Angband mourn. Thunder rumbles, the fires burn- And Finrod fell before the throne. Then Sauron stripped from the their disguise, and they stood before him naked and afraid. But though their kinds were revealed, Sauron could not discover their names or their purposes. He cast them therefore into a deep pit, dark and silent, and threatened to slay them cruel, unless one would betray the truth to him. From time to time they saw two eyes kindled in the dark, and a werewolf devoured one of the companions; but none betrayed their lord. In the time when Sauron cast Beren into the pit a weight of horror came upon Luthien's heart; and going to Melian for counsel she learned that Beren lay in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth without hope of rescue. Then Luthien, perceiving that no help would come from any other on earth, resolved to fly from Doriath and come herself to him; but she sought the aid of Daeron, and he betrayed her purpose because he would not deprive Luthien of the lights of heaven, lest she fail and fade, and yet would restrain her, he caused a house to be built from which she should not escape. Not far from the gates of Menegroth stood the greatest of all the trees in the Forest of Neldoreth; and that was a beech-forest and the northern half of the kingdom. This mighty beech was named Hirilorn, and it had three trunks, equal in girth, smooth in rind, and exceeding tall; no branches grew from them for a great height above the ground. Far aloft between the shafts of Hirilorn a wooden house was built, and there Luthien was made to dwell; and ladders were taken away and guarded, save only when the servants of Thingol wrought her such things as she needed. It is told in the Lay of Leithian how she escaped from the house in Hirilorn; for she put forth her arts of enchantment, and caused her hair to grow to great length, and of it she wove a dark robe that wrapped her beauty like a shadow, and it was laden with a spell of sleep. Of the strands that remained she twined a rope, and she let it down from her window; and as the end swayed above the guards that sat beneath the house they fell into a deep slumber. Then Luthien climbed from her prison, and shrouded in her shadowy cloak she escaped from all eyes, and vanished out of Doriath. It chanced that Celegorm and Curufin went on a hunt through the Guarded Plain; and this they did because Sauron, being filled with suspicion, sent forth many wolves into the Elf-lands. Therefore they took their hounds and rode forth; and they thought that ere they returned they might also hear tidings concerning King Felagund. Now the chief of the wolf hounds that followed Celegorm was named Huan. He was not born in Middle-earth, but came from the Blessed Realm; for Orome had given him to Celegorm long ago in Valinor, and there he had followed the horn of his master, before evil came. Huan followed Celegorm into exile, and was faithful; and thus he too came under the doom of woe set upon the Noldor, and it was decreed that he should meet death, but not until he encountered the mightiest wolf that would ever walk the world. Huan it was that found Luthien flying like a shadow surprised by the daylight under the trees, when Celegorm and Curufin rested a while near to the western eaves of Doriath; for nothing could escape the sight and scent of Huan, nor could any enchantment stay him, and he slept not, neither by night nor day. He brought her to Celegorm, and Luthien, learning that he was a prince of the Noldor and a foe of Morgoth, was glad; and she declared herself, casting aside her cloak. So great was her sudden beauty revealed beneath the sun that Celegorm became enamoured of her; but he spoke her fair, and promised that she would find help in her need, if she returned with him now to Nargothrond. By no sign did he reveal that he knew already of Beren and the quest, of which she told, nor that it was a matter which touched him near. Thus they broke off the hunt and returned to Nargothrond, and Luthien was betrayed; for they held her fast, and took away her cloak, and she was not permitted to pass the gates or to speak with any save the brothers, Celegorm and Curufin. For now, believing that Beren and Felagund were prisoners beyond hope of aid, they purposed to let the King perish, and to keep Luthien, and force Thingol to give her the mightiest of princes of the Noldor. And they did not purpose to seek the Silmarils by craft or war, or to suffer any others to do so, until they had all the might of the Elfkingdoms under their hands. Orodreth had no power to withstand them, for they swayed the hearts of the people of Nargothrond; and Celegorm sent messengers to Thingol urging his suit. But Huan the hound was true of heart, and the love of Luthien had fallen upon him in the first hour of their meeting; and he grieved at her captivity. Therefore he came often to her chamber; and at night he lay before her door, for he felt that evil had come to Nargothrond. Luthien spoke often to Huan in her loneliness, telling of Beren, who was the friend of all birds and beasts that did not serve Morgoth; ad Huan understood all that was said. For he comprehended the speech of all things with voice; but it was permitted to him thrice only ere his death to speak with words. Now Huan devised a plan for the aid of Luthien; and coming at a time of night he brought her cloak, and for the first time he spoke, giving her counsel. Then he led her by secret ways out of Nargothrond, and they fled north together; and he humbled his pride and suffered her to ride upon him in the fashion of a steed, even as the Orcs did at times upon great wolves. Thus they made great speed, for Huan was swift and tireless. In the pits of Sauron Beren and Felagund lay, and all their companions were now dead; but Sauron purposed to keep Felagund to the last, for he perceived that he was a Noldo of great might and wisdom, and he deemed that in him lay the secret of their errand. But when the wolf came for Beren, Felagund put forth all his power, and burst his bonds; and he wrestled with the werewolf, and slew it with his hands and teeth; yet he himself was wounded to the death. Then he spoke to Beren, saying: 'I go now to my long rest in the timeless halls beyond the seas and the Mountains of Aman. It will be long ere I am seen among the Noldor again; and it may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life, for the fates of our kindreds are apart. Farewell!' He died then in the dark, in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, whose great tower he himself had built. Thus King Finrod Felagund, fairest and most beloved of the house of Finwe, redeemed his oath; but Beren mourned beside him in despair. In that hour Luthien came, and standing upon the bridge that led to Sauron's isle she sang a song that no walls of stone could hinder. Beren heard, and he thought that he dreamed; for the stars shone above him, and in the trees nightingales were singing. And in answer he sang a song of challenge that he had made in praise of the Seven Stars, the Sickle of the Valar that Varda hung above the North as a sign for the fall of Morgoth. Then all strength left him and he fell down into darkness. But Luthien heard his answering voice, and she sang then a song of greater power. The wolves howled, and the isle trembled. Sauron stood in the high tower, wrapped in his black thought;but he smiled hearing her voice, for he knew that it was the daughter of Melian. The fame of the beauty of Luthien and the wonder of her song had long gone forth from Doriath; and he thought to make her captive and hand her over to the power of Morgoth, for his reward would be great. Therefore he sent a wolf to the bridge. But Huan slew it silently. Still Sauron sent others one by one; and one by one Huan took them by the throat and slew them. Then Sauron sent Draugluin, a dread beast, old in evil lord and sire of the werewolves of Angband. His might was great; and the battle of Huan and Draugluin was long and fierce. Yet at length Draugluin escaped, and fleeing back into the tower he died before Sauron's feet; and as he died he told his master: 'Huan is there!' Now Sauron knew well, as did all in that land, the fate that was decreed for the hound of Valinor, and it came into his thought that he himself would accomplish it. Therefore he took upon himself the form of a werewolf, and made himself the mightiest that had yet walked the world; and he came forth to win the passage of the bridge. So great was the horror of his approach that Huan leaped aside. Then Sauron sprang upon Luthien; and she swooned before the menace of the fell spirit in his eyes and the foul vapour of his breath. But even as he came, falling she cast a fold of her dark cloak before his eyes; and he stumbled, for a fleeting drowsiness came upon him. Then Huan sprang. There befell the battle of Huan and Wolf-Sauron, and howls and baying echoed in the hills, and the watchers on the walls of Ered Wethrin across the valley heard it afar and were dismayed. But no wizardry nor spell, neither fang nor venom, nor devil's art nor beast-strength, could overthrow Huan without forsaking his body utterly. Ere his foul spirit left its dark house, Luthien came to him, ghost be sent quaking back to Morgoth; and she said: 'There everlastingly thy naked self shall endure the torment of his scorn, pierced by his eyes, unless thou yield to me the mastery of thy tower.' Then Sauron yielded himself, and Luthien took the mastery of the isle and all that was there; and Huan released him. And immediately he took the form of a vampire, great as a dark cloud across the moon, and he fled, dripping blood from his throat upon the trees, and came to Tar-nu-Fuin, and dwelt there, filling it with horror. Then Luthien stood upon the bridge, and declare her power: and the spell was loosed that bound stone to stone, and the gates were thrown down, and the walls opened, and the pits laid bare; and many thralls and captives came forth in wonder and dismay, shielding their eyes against the pale moon light, for they had lain long in the darkness of Sauron. But Beren came not. Therefore Huan and Luthien sought him in the isle; and Luthien found him mourning by Felagund. So deep was his anguish that he lay still, and did not hear her feet. Then thinking him already dead she put her arms about him and fell into a dark forgetfulness. But Beren coming back to the light out of the pits of despair lifted her up, and they looked again upon one another; and the day rising over the dark hills shone upon them. They buried the body of Felagund upon the hill-top of his own isle, and it was clean again; and the green grave of Finrod Finarfin's son, fairest of all the princes of the Elves, remained inviolate, until the land was changed and broken, and foundered under destroying seas. But Finrod walks with Finarfin his father beneath the trees in Eldamar. Now Beren and Luthien Tinuviel went free again and together walked through the woods renewing for a time their joy; and though winter came it hurt them not, for flowers lingered where Luthien went, and the birds sang beneath the snow clad hills. But Huan being faithful went back to Celegorm his master; yet their love was less than before. There was tumult in Nargothrond. For thither now returned many Elves that had been prisoners in the isle of Sauron; and a clamour arose that no words of Celegorm could still. They lamented bitterly the fall of Felagund their king, saying that a maiden had dared that which the sons of Feanor had not dared to do; but many perceived that it was treachery rather than fear that had guided Celegorm and Curufin. There fore the hearts of the people of Nargothrond were released from their dominion, and turned again to the house of Finarfin; and they obeyed Orodreth. But he would not suffer them to slay the brothers, as some desired, for the spilling of kindred blood by kin would bind the cures of Mandos more closely upon them all. Yet neither bread nor rest would he grant to Celegorm and Curufin within his realm, and he swore that there should be little love between Nargothrond and the sons of Feanor there after. 'Let it be so!' said Celegorm, and there was a light of menace in his eyes; but Curufin smiled. Ten they took horse and rode away like fire, to find if they might their kindred in the east. But none would go with them, not even those that were of their own people; for all perceived that the curse lay heavily upon the brothers, and that evil followed them. In that time Celebrimbor the son of Curufin repudiated the deeds of his father, and remained in Nargothrond; yet Huan followed still the horse of Celegorm his master. Northward they rode, for they intended in their haste to pass through Dimbar, and along the north marches or Doriath, seeking the swiftest road to Him ring, where Maedhros their brother dwelt; and still they might hope with speed to traverse it, since it lay close to Doriath's borders, shunning Nan Dungortheb and the distant menace of the Mountains of Terror. Now it is told that Beren and Luthien came in their wandering into the Forests of Brethil, and drew near at last to the borders of Doriath. Then Beren took thought of his vow; and against his heart he resolved, when Luthien was come again within the safety of her own land, to set forth once more. But she was not willing to be parted form him again, saying: 'You must choose, Beren, between these two: to relinquish the quest and your oath and seek a life of wandering upon the face of the earth; or to hold to your word and challenge the power of darkness upon its throne. But on either road I shall go with you, and our doom shall be alike.' Even as they spoke together of these things, walking without heed of aught else, Celegorm and Curufin rode up, hastening through the forest; and the brothers espied them and knew them for afar. Then Celegorm turned his horse, and spurred it upon Beren, purposing to ride him down; but Curufin swerving stooped and lifted Luthien to his saddle, for he was a strong and cunning horseman. Then Beren sprang from before Celegorm full upon the speeding horse of Curufin that had passed hi; and the Leap of Beren is renowned among that had passed him; and the Leap of Beren is renowned among Men and Elves. He took Curufin by the throat from behind, and hurled him backward, and they fell to the ground together. The horse reared and fell, but Luthien was flung aside, and lay upon the grass. Then Beren throttled Curufin; but death was near him, for Celegorm rode upon him with a spear. in that hour Huan forsook the service or Celegorm, and sprang up[on him, so that his horse swerved aside, and would not approach Beren because of the terror of the great hound. Celegorm cursed both hound and horse, but Huan was unmoved. Then Luthien rising forbade the slaying of Curufin; but Beren despoiled him of his gear and weapons, and took his knife, sheathless by his side; iron it would cleave as if it were green wood. Then Beren lifting Curufin flung him from him, and bade him walk now back to his noble kinsfolk, who might teach him to turn his valour to worthier use. 'Your horse,' he said, 'I keep for the service of Luthien, and it may be accounted happy to be free of such a master.' Then Curufin cursed Beren under cloud and sky. 'Go hence,' he said, 'unto a swift and bitter death.' Celegorm took him beside him on his horse, and the brothers made then as if to ride away; and Beren turned away and took no heed of their words. But Curufin, being filled with shame and malice, took the bow of Celegorm and shot back as they went; and the arrow was aimed at Luthien. Huan leaping caught it in his mouth; but Curufin shot again, and Beren sprang before Luthien, and the dart smote him in the breast. It is told that Huan pursued the sons of Feanor, and they fled in fear; and returning he brought to Luthien a herb out of the forest. With that leaf he staunched Beren's wound, and by her arts and by her love she healed him; and thus at last they returned to Doriath. There Beren, being torn between his oath and his love, and knowing Luthien to be now safe, arose one morning before the sun, and committed her to the care of Huan; then in great anguish he departed while she yet slept upon the grass. He rode northward again with all speed to the Pass of Sirion, and coming to the skirts of Taur-nu-Fuin he looked out across the waste of Anfauglith and saw afar the peaks of Thangorodrim. There he dismissed the horse of Curufin, and bade it leave now dread and servitude and run free upon the green grass in the lands of Sirion. Then being now alone and upon the threshold of the final peril he made the Song of Parting, in praise of Luthien and the lights of heaven; for he believed that he must now say farewell to both love and light. Of that song these words were part: Farewell sweet earth and northern sky, for ever blest, since here did lie and here with lissom limbs did run beneath the Moon, beneath the Sun, Luthien Tinuviel more fair than mortal tongue can tell. Though all to ruin fell the world and were dissolved and backward hurled unmade into the old abyss, yet were its making good, for this- the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the seathat Luthien for a time should be. And he sang aloud, caring not what ear should overhear him, for he was desperate and looked for no escape. But Luthien heard his song, and she sang in answer, as she came through the woods unlooked for. For Huan, consenting once more to be her steed, had borne her swiftly hard upon Beren's trail. Long he had pondered in his heart what counsel he could devise for the lightning of the peril of these two whom he loved. He turned aside therefore at Sauron's isle, as they ran northward again, and he took thence the ghastly wolf-hame of Draugluin, and the bat-fell of? ThurIngwethil. She was the messenger of Sauron, and was wont to fly in vampire's form to Angband; and her greatfingered wings were barbed at each joint's end with and iron claw. Clad in these dreadful garments Huan and Luthien ran through Taur-nu-Fuin, and all things fled before them. Beren seeing their approach was dismayed; and he wondered, for he had heard the voice of Tinuviel, and he thought it now a phantom for his ensnaring. But they halted and cast aside their disguise, and Luthien ran towards him. Thus Beren and Luthien met again between the desert and the wood. For a while he was silent and was glad; but after a space he strove once more to dissuade Luthien from her journey. 'Thrice now I curse my oath to Thingol,' he said, 'and I would that he had slain me in Menegroth, rather than I should bring you under the shadow of Morgoth.' Then for the second time Huan spoke with words; and he counselled Beren, saying: 'From the shadow of death you can no longer save Luthien, for by her love she is now subject to it. You can turn from your fate and lead her into exile, seeking peace in vain while your life lasts. But if you will not deny your doom, then either Luthien, being forsaken, must assuredly die alone, or she must with you challenge the fate that lies before you-hopeless, yet not certain. Further counsel I cannot give, nor may I go further on your road. But my heart forebodes that what you find at the Gate I shall myself see. All else is dark to me; yet it may be that our three paths lead back to Doriath, and we may meet before the end.' Then Beren perceived that Luthien could not be divided from the doom that lay upon them both, and he sought no longer to dissuade her. By the counsel of Huan and the arts of Luthien he was arrayed now in the hame of Draugluin, and she in the winged fell of ThurIngwethil. Beren became in all things like a werewolf to look upon, save that in his eyes there shone a spirit grim indeed but clean; and horror was in his glance as he saw upon his flank a batlike creature clinging with creased wings. Then howling under the moon he leaped down the hill, and the bat wheeled and flittered above him. They passed through all perils, until they came with the dust of their long and weary road upon them to the drear dale that lay before the Gate of Angband. Black chasms opened beside the road, whence forms as of writhing serpents issued. On either hand the cliffs stood as embattled walls, and upon them sat carrion fowl crying with fell voices. Before them was the impregnable Gate, an arch wide and dark at the foot of the mountain; above it reared a thousand feet of precipice. There dismay took them, for at the gate was a guard of whom no tidings had yet gone forth. Rumour of he knew not what designs abroad among the princes of the Elves had come to Morgoth, and ever down the aisles of the forest was heard the baying of Huan, the great hound of war, whom long ago the Valar unleashed. Then Morgoth recalled the doom of Huan, and he chose one from among the whelps of the race of Draugluin; and he fed him with his own hand upon living flesh, and put his power upon him. Swiftly the wolf grew, until he could creep into no den, but lay huge and hungry before the feet of Morgoth. There the fire and anguish of hell entered into him, and he became filled with a devouring spirit, tormented, terrible, and strong. Carcharoth, the Red Maw, he is named in the tales of those days, and Anfauglir, the Jaws of Thirst. And Morgoth set him to lie unsleeping before the doors of Angband, lest Huan come. Now Carcharoth espied them from afar, and he was filled with doubt; for news had long been brought to Angband that Draugluin was dead. Therefore when they approached he denied them entry, and bade them stand; and he drew near with menace, scenting something strange in the air about them. But suddenly some power, descended from of old from divine race, possessed Luthien, and casting back her foul raiment she stood forth, small before the might of Carcharoth, but radiant and terrible. Lifting up her hand she commanded him to sleep, saying: 'O woe-begotten spirit, fall now into dark oblivion, and forget for a while the dreadful doom of life.' And Carcharoth was felled, as though lightning had smitten him. Then Beren and Luthien went through the Gate, and down the labyrinthine stairs; and together wrought the greatest deed that has been dared by Elves or Men. For they came to the seat of Morgoth in his nethermost hall that was upheld by horror, lit by fire, and filled with weapons of death and torment. There Beren slunk in wolf's form beneath his throne; but Luthien was stripped of her disguise by the will of Morgoth, and he bent his gaze upon her. She was not daunted by his eyes; and she named her own name, and offered her service to sing before him, after the manner of a minstrel. Then Morgoth looking upon her beauty conceived in his thought an evil lust, and a design more dark than any that had yet come into his heart since he fled from Valinor. Thus he was beguiled by his own malice, for he watched her, leaving her free for awhile, and taking secret pleasure in his thought. Then suddenly she eluded his sight, and out of the shadows began a song of such surpassing loveliness, and of such blinding power, that he listened perforce; and a blindness came upon him, as his eyes roamed to and fro, seeking her. All his court were cast down in slumber, and all the fires faded and were quenched; but the Silmarils in the crown on Morgoth's head blazed forth suddenly with a radiance of white flame; and the burden of that crown and of the jewels bowed down his head, as though the world were set upon it, laden with a weight of care, of fear, and of desire, that even the will of Morgoth could not support. Then Luthien catching up her winged robe sprang into the air, and her voice came dropping down like rain into pools, profound and dark. She cast her cloak before his eyes, and set upon him a dream, dark as the outer Void where once he walked alone. Suddenly he fell, as a hill sliding in avalanche, and hurled like thunder from his throne lay prone upon the floors of hell. The iron crown rolled echoing from his head. All things were still. As a dead beast Beren lay upon the ground; but Luthien touching him with her hand aroused him, and he cast aside the wolf-hame. Then he drew forth the knife Angrist; and from the iron claws that held it he cut a Silmaril. As he closed it in his hand, the radiance welled through his living flesh, and his hand became as a shining lamp; but the jewel suffered his touch and hurt him not. It came then into Beren's mind that he would go beyond his vow, and bear out of Angband all three of the Jewels of Feanor; but such was not the doom of the Silmarils. The knife Angrist snapped, and a shard of the blade flying smote the cheek of Morgoth. He groaned and stirred, and all the host of Angband moved in sleep. Then terror fell upon Beren and Luthien, and they fled, heedless and without disguise, desiring only to see the light once more. They were neither hindered nor pursued, but the Gate was held against their going out; for Carcharoth had arisen from sleep, and stood now in wrath upon the threshold of Angband. Before they were aware of him, he saw them, and sprang upon them as they ran. Luthien was spent, and she had not time nor strength to quell the wolf. But Beren strode forth before her, and in his right hand he held aloft the Silmaril. Carcharoth halted, and for a moment was afraid. 'Get you gone, and fly!' cried Beren; 'for here is afire that shall consume you, and all evil things.' And he thrust the Silmaril before the eyes of the wolf. But Carcharoth looked upon that holy jewel and was not daunted, and the devouring spirit within him awoke to sudden fire; and gaping he took suddenly the hand within his jaws, and he bit it off at the wrist. Then swiftly all his inwards were filled with a flame of anguish, and the Silmaril seared his accursed flesh. Howling he led before them, and the walls of the valley of the Gate echoes with the clamour of his torment. So terrible did he become in his madness that all the creatures of Morgoth that abode in that valley, or were upon any of the roads that led thither, fled far away' for he slew all living things that stood in his path, and burst from the North with ruin upon the world. Of all the terrors that came ever into Beleriand ere Angband's fall the madness of Carcharoth was the most dreadful; for the power of the Silmaril was hidden within him. Now Beren lay in a swoon within the perilous Gate, and death drew nigh him for there was venom on the fangs of the wolf. Luthien with her lips drew out the venom, and she put forth her failing power to staunch the hideous wound. But behind her in the depths of Angband the rumour grew of great wrath aroused. The host of Morgoth were awakened. Thus the quest of the Silmaril was like to have ended in ruin and despair; but in that hour above the wall of the valley three mighty birds appeared, flying northward with wings swifter than the wind. Among all birds and beasts the wandering and need of Beren had been noised, and Huan himself had bidden all things watch, that they might bring him aid. High above the realm of Morgoth Thorondor and his vassals soared, and seeing now the madness of the Wolf and Beren's fall they came swiftly down, even as the powers of Angband were released from the toils of sleep. Then they lifted up Luthien and Beren from the earth, and bore them aloft into the clouds. Below them suddenly thunder rolled, lightnings leaped upward, and the mountains quaked. Fire and smoke belched forth from Thangorodrim, and flaming bolts were hurled far abroad, falling ruinous upon the lands; and the Noldor in Hithlum trembled. But Thorondor took his way far above the earth, seeking the high roads of heaven, where the sun daylong shines unveiled and the moon walks amid the cloudless stars. Thus they passed swiftly over Dor-nu-Fauglith, and over Taur-nu-Fuin, and came above the hidden valley of Tumladen. No cloud nor mist lay there, and looking down Luthien saw far below, as a white light starting from a green jewel, the radiance of Gondolin the fair where Turgon dwelt. But she wept, for she thought that Beren would surely die, he spoke no word, nor opened his eyes, and knew thereafter nothing of his flight. And at the last the eagles set them down upon the borders of Doriath; and they were come to that same dell whence Beren had stolen in despair and left Luthien asleep. There the eagles laid her at Beren's side and returned to the peaks of Crissaegrim and their high eyries; but Huan came to her, and together they tended Beren, even as before when she healed him of the wound that Curufin gave to him. But this wound was fell and poisonous. Long Beren lay, and his spirit wandered upon the dark borders of death, knowing every an anguish that pursued him from dream to dream. Then suddenly, when her hope was almost spent, he woke again, and looked up, seeing leaves against the sky; and he heard beneath the leaves singing soft and slow beside him Luthien Tinuviel. And it was spring again. Thereafter Beren was named Erchamion, which is the One-handed; and suffering was graven in his face. But at last he was drawn back to life by the love of Luthien, and he arose, and together they walked in the woods once more. And they did not hasten from that place, for it seemed fair to them. Luthien indeed was willing to wander in the wild without returning, forgetting house and people and all the glory of the Elf-kingdoms, and for a time Beren was content; but he could not for long forget his oath to return to Menegroth, nor would he withhold Luthien from Thingol for ever. For he held by the law of Men, deeming it perilous to set at naught the will of the father, save at the last need; and is seemed also to him unfit that one so royal and fair as Luthien should live always in the woods, as the rude hunters among Men, without home or honour or the fair things which are the delight of the queens of the Eldalie. Therefore after a while he persuaded her, and their footsteps forsook the houseless lands; and he passed into Doriath, leading Luthien home. So their doom willed it. Upon Doriath evil days had fallen. Grief and silence had come upon all its people when Luthien was lost. Long they had sought for her in vain. And it is told that in that time Daeron the minstrel of Thingol strayed from the land, and was seen no more. He it was that made music for the dance and song of Luthien, before Beren came to Doriath; and he had loved her, and set all his thought of her in his music. He became the greatest of all the minstrels of the Elves east of the Sea, named even before Maglor son of Feanor. But seeking for Luthien in despair he wandered upon strange paths, and passing over the mountains he came into the East of Middle-earth, where for many ages he made lament beside dark waters for Luthien, daughter of Thingol, most beautiful of all living things. In that time Thingol turned to Melian; but now she withheld her counsel from him, saying that the doom that he had devised must work to its appointed end, and that he must wait now upon time. But Thingol learned that Luthien had journeyed far from Doriath, for messages came secretly from Celegorm, as has been told, saying that Felagund was dead, and Beren was dead, but Luthien was in Nargothrond, and that Celegorm would wed her. Then Thingol was wrathful, and he sent forth spies, thinking to make war upon Nargothrond; and thus he learned that Luthien was again fled, and that Celegorm and Curufin were driven from Nargothrond. Then his counsel was in doubt, for he had not the strength to assail the seven sons of Feanor; but he sent messengers to Himring to summon their aid in seeking for Luthien, since Celegorm had not sent her to the house of her father, nor had he kept her safely. But in the north of his realm his messengers met with a peril sudden and unlooked for: the onslaught of Carcharoth, the Wolf of Angband. In his madness he had run ravening from the north, and passing at length over Taur-nu-Fuin upon its eastern side he came down from the sources of Esgalduin like a destroying fire. Nothing hindered him, and the might of Melian upon the borders of the land stayed him not; for fate drove him, and the power of the Silmaril that he bore to his torment. Thus he burst into the inviolate woods of Doriath, and all fled away in fear. Alone of the messengers Mablung, chief captain of the King, escaped, and he brought the dread tidings to Thingol. Even in that dark hour Beren and Luthien returned, hastening from the west, and the news of their coming went before them like a sound of music borne by the wind into dark houses where men sit sorrowful. They came at last to the gates of Menegroth, and a great host followed them. Then Beren led Luthien before the throne of Thingol her father; and he looked in wonder upon Beren, whom he had thought dead; but he loved him not, because of the woes that he had brought upon Doriath. But Beren knelt before him, and said: 'I return according to my word. I am come now to claim my own.' And Thingol answered: 'What of your quest, and of your vow?' But Beren said: 'It is fulfilled. Even now a Silmaril is in my hand.' Then Thingol said: 'Show it to me!' And Beren put forth his left hand, slowly opening its fingers; but it was empty. Then he held up his right arm; and from that hour he named himself Camlost, the Empty-handed. Then Thingol's mood was softened; and Beren sat before his throne upon the left, and Luthien upon the right, and they told all the tale of the Quest, while all there listened and were filled with amazement. And it seemed to Thingol that this Man was unlike all other mortal Men, and among the great in Arda, and the love of Luthien a thing new and strange; and he perceived that their doom might not be withstood by any power of the world. Therefore at the last he yielded his will, and Beren took the hand of Luthien before the throne of her father. But now a shadow fell upon the joy of Doriath at the return of Luthien the fair; for learning of the cause of the madness of Carcharoth the people grew the more afraid, perceiving that his danger was fraught with dreadful power because of the holy jewel, and hardly might be overthrown. And Beren, hearing of the onslaught of the Wolf, understood that the Quest was not yet fulfilled. Therefore, since daily Carcharoth drew nearer to Menegroth, they prepared the Hunting of the Wolf; of all pursuits of beasts whereof tales tell the most perilous. To that chase went Huan the Hound of Valinor, and Mablung of the Heavy Hand, and Beleg Strongbow, and Beren Erchamion, and Thingol King of Doriath. They rode forth in the morning and passed over the River Esgalduin; but Luthien remained behind at the gates of Menegroth. A dark shadow fell upon her and it seemed to her that the sun had sickened and turned black. The hunters turned east and north, and following the course of the river they came at last upon Carcharoth the Wolf in a dark valley, down the northern side whereof Esgalduin fell in a torrent over steep falls. At the foot of the falls Carcharoth drank to ease his consuming thirst, and he howled, and thus they were aware of him, But he, espying their approach, rushed not suddenly to attack them. It may be that the devil's cunning of his heart awoke, being for a moment eased of his pain by the sweet waters of Esgalduin; and even as they rode towards him he slunk aside into a deep brake, and there lay hid. But they set a guard about all that place, and waited, and the shadows grew long in the forest. Beren stood beside Thingol, and suddenly they were aware that Huan had left their side. Then a great baying awoke in the thicket; for Huan becoming impatient and desiring to look upon this wolf had gone in alone to dislodge him. But Carcharoth avoided him, and bursting form the thorns leaped suddenly upon Thingol. Swiftly Beren strode before him with a spear, but Carcharoth swept it aside and felled him, biting at his breast. In that moment Huan leaped from the thicket upon the back of the Wolf, and they fell together fighting bitterly; and no battle of wolf and hound has been like to it, for in the baying of Huan was heard the voice of the horns of Orome and the wrath of the Valar, but in the howls of Carcharoth was the hate of Morgoth and malice crueller than teeth of steel; and the rocks were rent by their clamour and fell from on high and choked the falls of Esgalduin. There they fought to the death; but Thingol gave no heed, for he knelt by Beren, seeing that he was sorely hurt. Huan in that hour slew Carcharoth; but there in the woven woods of Doriath his own doom long spoken was fulfilled, and he was wounded mortally, and the venom of Morgoth entered into him. Then he came, and falling beside Beren spoke for the third time with words; and he bade Beren farewell before he died. Beren spoke not, but laid his hand upon the head of the hound, and so they parted. Mablung and Beleg came hastening to the King's aid, but when they looked upon what was done they cast aside their spears and wept. Then Mablung took a knife and ripped up the belly of the Wolf; and within he was well nigh all consumed as with a fire, but the hand of Beren that held the jewel was yet incorrupt. But when Mablung reached forth to touch it, the hand was no more, and the Silmaril lay there unveiled, and the light of it filled the shadows of the forest all about hem. Then quickly and in fear Mablung took it and set it in Beren's living hand; and Beren was aroused by the touch of the Silmaril, and held it aloft, and bade Thingol receive it. 'Now is the Quest achieved,' he said, 'and my doom full-wrought'; and he spoke no more. They bore back Beren Camlost son of Barahir upon a bier of branches with Huan the wolfhound at his side; and night fell ere they returned to Menegroth. At the feet of Hirilorn the great beech Luthien met them walking slow, and some bore torches beside the bier. There she set her arms about Beren, and kissed him bidding him await her beyond the Western Sea; and he looked upon her eyes ere the spirit left him. But the starlight was quenched and darkness had fallen even upon Luthien Tinuviel. Thus ended the Quest of the Silmaril; but the Lay of Leithian, Release form Bondage does not end. For the spirit of Beren at her bidding tarried in the halls of Mandos, unwilling to leave the world, until Luthien came to say her last farewell upon the dim shores of the Outer Sea, whence Men that die set out never to return. But the spirit of Luthien fell down into darkness, and at the last it fled, and her body lay like a flower that is suddenly cut off and lies for a while unwithered on the grass. Then a winter, as it were the hoar age of mortal Men, fell upon Thingol. But Luthien came to the halls of Mandos, where are the appointed places of the Eldalie, beyond the mansions of the West upon the confines of the world. There those that wait sit in the shadow of their thought. But her beauty was more than their beauty, and her sorrow deeper than their sorrows; and she knelt before Mandos and sang to him. The song of Luthien before Mandos was the song most fair that ever in words was woven, and the song most sorrowful that ever the world shall ever hear. Unchanged, imperishable, it is sung still in Valinor beyond the hearing of the world, and the listening the Valar grieved. For Luthien wove two themes of words, of the sorrow of the Eldar and the grief of Men, of the Two Kindreds that were made by Iluvatar to dwell in Arda, the Kingdom of Earth amid the innumerable stars. And as she knelt before him her tears fell upon his feet like rain upon stones; and Mandos was moved to pity, who never before was so moved, nor has been since. Therefore he summoned Beren, and even as Luthien had spoken in the hour of his death they met again beyond the Western Sea. But Mandos had no power to withhold the spirits of Men that were dead within the confines of the world, after their time of waiting; nor could he change the fates of the Children of Iluvatar. He went therefore to Manwe, Lord of the Valar, who governed the world under the hand of Iluvatar; and Manwe sought counsel in his inmost thought, where the will of Iluvatar was revealed. These were the choices that he gave to Luthien. Because of her labours and her sorrow, she should be released from Mandos, and go to Valimar, there to dwell until the world's end among the Valar, forgetting all griefs that her life had known. Thither Beren could not come. For it was not permitted to the Valar to withhold Death from him, which is the gift of Iluvatar to Men. But the other choice was this: that she might return to Middle-earth, and take with her Beren, there to dwell again, but without certitude of life or joy. Then she would become mortal, land subject to a second death, even as he; and ere long she would leave the world for ever, and her beauty become only a memory in song. This doom she chose, forsaking the Blessed Realm, and putting aside all claim to kinship with those that dwell there; that thus whatever grief might lie in wait, the fates of Beren and Luthien might be joined, and their paths lead together beyond the confines of the world. So it was that alone of the Eldalie she has died indeed, and left the world long ago. Yet in her choice the Two Kindreds have been joined; and she is the forerunner of many in whom the Eldar see yet, thought all the world is changed, the likeness of Luthien the beloved, whom they have lost.

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