peregreenbeans - Tumblr blog

peregreenbeans · 1 year

Text

The Erlking - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

short story format by me

Painting: Der Erlkönig, Unknown Artist, displayed at the Freies Deutsches Museum

Reccomended Audio: Erlkönig, D.328; Franz Schubert

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?

Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;

Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,

Er fasst ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

Wind whips around Hagens face as he drives his heels into the flank of a panting horse, gray as the storm around them. The animal is grunting, heavy hooves thundering on the tossed-up ground below them. Cold, white sweat clings to it's back, foam bubbles at its mouth, the drag of reigns forcing it to round its neck and blow breaths of hot fog into its own chest.

Hagen can feel the steed’s muscles move through even the thick leather of its worn-out saddle that has been bruising its once shining fur for weeks now. It is dull, dull as the sky is, hidden behind stormy clouds and rain that cuts his face like blades of ice. The sea tosses raging waves of salt toward him, punishing him for riding along the dike this late. Trees bend and crack and ache under the force of the element, white bark tears and exposes gentle, brown flesh and golden blood like the souls of the woodlands are dying in this rage, too.

He remembers them, the old stories of the Fae in these woods that would keep him waking, crying in the night.

His mother would tell him of old kings, of trolls and specters between the trunks, looking to lead you astray in the marshes until you sink between moss and roots to be reborn as a ghostly birch yourself. She would stand at the door to await the return of his father, tan with skin of leather forged into armor by the sun and the sea. She would not let him peek out the window when the howling of hounds filled winter nights.

Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht? –

Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?

Den Erlenkönig mit Kron’ und Schweif? –

Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif. –

Hagen looks down at his son, the boys face tucked tightly to his heavy, wool coat that is drenched and heavy with water and mud. The tufts of his soft, black hair are tussled and knotted, his little hands grasp so tightly at him, as though he was afraid the Mother Sea would take him from his father’s arms and cradle him in her depths until he gifts her his last breath.

But then, his boy raises his head, looks past him, behind them on the path. His gray eyes are wide, equal the moon past thinning clouds when autumn rolls around. Soft cheeks redden with cold, lips parted for a gasp of fear. He pulls at Hagen, turns to him, speaks softly, as though he was afraid they be heard by anyone but the hailing rain.

“My father, I see him, the pale Erlenking.”

“The Erlking, my son, is but the hail, ghost of fog and old women’s tale.”

“My father, I see him, the pale Erlenking.”

“What you see is the weather and night, and the birches bark, shining in white.”

„Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!

Gar schöne Spiele spiel’ ich mit dir;

Manch’ bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,

Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.“ –

Cold wraps around Hagens throat, strokes his fingers tenderly across his pulse, sends water and ice down his collar, into his clothes. It is trying to possess him, own him, and Hagen pulls his son tighter to his chest. Still, the boy won’t return to his arms, stares into the fog, allows it to play its tricks on him. He kicks the sides of his mare once more, the animal keens, jumps, runs faster. Its eyes are wide, black exposes white in the frame, and its heart is hammering so loudly Hagen can hear it through the winds and past the thud of each step.

His boy lets loose on his coat, leans past him, mouth ajar as though he is calling into the rain.

They sit on the backs of deer and stag and whitest horse, like they are the snow and the wind and the fog. Ease is about them, the leisure of a stroll even in this stormy night, effortless they trail the rider and his son. Their faces are many, sometimes on the same body, sometimes hidden by the veil of the night. Ghostly, they are, bright and gray and light, the wind shifting and changing all features but one.

He rides on the back of his mare, hooves barely touching the ground. His crown is of leaf, his hair of feather, his skin of bark and his eyes of coal. He is beautiful, and he is terrible, and his smile holds the warmth of spring and the snarl of a beast all the same. Roses wilk in his hair, then grow anew, Holly bejewels his ears, sharp and pointy as a cat’s. Naked, he rides, as his company, and their hounds howl with the breath of the east.

He is a stranger, and familiar all the same.

He is father and lover, suitor and brother.

Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,

Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht? –

Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind;

In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind. –

A cry breaks the night; Hagen turns to look at his son, hands letting loose on the slippery, cutting reigns. Like blades they slip through his fingers, hot blood coats his palm, he reaches and holds his steed’s mane tightly, tinting it red.

“My son, you see things that are not there.”

“The Erlking father, he rides so swift, I see him come closer through fog and hail’s rift.”

“My son, you see things that are not there.”

“The Erlking father, he comes so close, I see shining his crown of Holly and Rose.”

Fear takes hold of Hagens heart, and his arms wrap tighter around his son. His blue eyes stare into the storm ahead, his breaths part across his face like the smoke of a fire. Each draw of air burns him, each drop of rain whips him. His mothers voice speaks in him, warns him to never cross the dike by night, by fog and rain. But there is no truth to it, there is none. Never has he met the sirens on the sea, or the fairies in their circle of mushrooms. Never has a tree spoken, or the sand drawn before him his fates and his life.

„Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn?

Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;

Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn

Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.“ –

Hagen grasps the coat of his son, feels him slip in the saddle, eyes glassy and feverish. Sick is the boy, seeing things, dreaming the night to be the Wotansjagd. There are no hounds, no steeds, no men, their battle against the heavens is theirs alone to fight. How his hands burn, fingers bluely blossoming as a violet. His bones creak and ache, the trees sing their song to him, one of pain and one of loss. He fears, he drives the horse forward, its ankles shuddering, legs close to breaking. No, but a second of time wasted could cost them their lives.

Around him dance Fae, bodies of wood twisting and turning in the dark of the night. Oak, fir, willow; laughter sounds like bells as they reach for him, caress him. Their hair is barely tossed by the weather, their lips are like flowers, their bodies slim and big and small and long. Summer is their scent, and spring, and moss and honey. They taste sweet, the boy is sure, their hands are warm as his mothers, they are the sun in this night, they soothe his fear.

Close they are, as their father, black their eyes like the depths of the lakes and pools in the woodlands.

Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort

Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort? –

Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh’ es genau:

Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau. –

“My father, they lure me, so safe and warm.”

“Their promise deceives you, they will bring you no glee, what you hear is the groan and the howl of a tree.”

“My father, they lure me, so safe and warm.”

“Their fingers are branches, their feet are the roots, this love they may promise will bear you no fruits.”

His sons tears cling to the wool of his coat, shining on the coarse blue much like each drop of rain. They feel so cold, like it wasn’t him that cried them, like it was the night in sorrow and pity for the rider. Hagens boney fingers grip at the boy’s soft cheeks, turn him, hasty, to face him. Glass meets his eyes, marbles, swirls of a storm trapped behind their clear and smooth surface.

His skin feels oh, so pale.

His skin feels oh, so cold.

“Carry me, mare, back home from the hunt! Carry me swiftly, save me and my son! No man shall have him, no beast and no fiend, we must leave this Erlenking behind!”

„Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;

Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch’ ich Gewalt.“ –

Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt fasst er mich an!

Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan! –

His hand feels so cold when it touches his cheek, turns it away from his father and his blue gaze. The boy meets black in its stead, embedded in pale white like gems on a satin pillow. He smiles, the strange man with his wooden crown, his voice a hiss, a whisper. His tongue was not forged for this world, his lips speak another language, not that of his father or mother. No, the Erlking is foreign and wrong, but his being intrigues him, lures him, loves him. His hand raises, so slow, and lays on the palm offered to him.

His grasp is oh, so warm.

His grasp is oh, so safe.

“Come with me, boy, to my woodland realm, all you need do is to tell me your name.

Come with me and dance through each midsummer’s night, leave behind old age, and death, and blight.”

He feels him, he feels his body turn cold.

“No. Stay with me, don’t tell him your name.”

Hagen sees how his son’s head falls forward, sees the rise and all of his chest slow and flatten. His hearts flutter fades, a bird starving in the cage of his ribs.

“No, no! Stay with me, son, stay!”

“Don’t listen sweet boy, to a voice like rust, he lied, your father, he betrayed your trust.

If you do come with me, I promise you this, your life will be beauty and youth and bliss.”

“My name is Felix, like luck and like light, and my heart is sweet as the swallow’s flight.

So take me, oh king of the woodland realm, to willow and oak and fir and elm.”

“Felix!”

Dem Vater grauset’s; er reitet geschwind,

Er hält in den Armen das ächzende Kind,

Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not;

In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.

Original Text: J. W. Goethe, 1782

Translation by Richard Wigmore

Audio Reccomendation by Matthias Goerne and Andreas Haeflinger

3 notes · View notes

peregreenbeans · 1 year

Text

[Currently closed!]

🌜About me!🌛

I am a 21+ queer trans man and go by He/Him pronouns; just call me Peregreen or Pippin or Percival or something.

I speak both English and German fluently, though my first language is German, so I hope any mistakes will be forgiven.

I have been writing and RPing for about 7-8 years now, most of my style is semi/literate, though I enjoy headcanons, text-based adventures, memes and chatting OOC just as much. I view it as something like a whole package deal, really.

When it comes to RP, I prefer plot-based threads with potential of romance and platonic relationships. NSFW is encouraged and enjoyed, but definitely not a must! My muses are largely male and collectively queer, though I am open to all genders of character and all kind of ships!

I like writing: Fantasy, Medieval, Modern, Western, Crime, Popular AU tropes (with a twist), Relationships of any kind, Plot-Heavy adventures, Worldbuilding, Characterbuilding, Balanced/Switch-Dynamics, OC/ OC, CC/ CC, M/ M.

I dabble in: NSFW-Heavy adventures, Sci-Fi, Horror, Survival, Polyamory (lack of experience), Family dynamics, OC/ CC, M/ F, F/ F.

I don't like to write: (Incest), P*dophilia, Racism, Homo/Transphobia, Underage Romance, Watersports, Vore, (severe) Mutilation.

🌜About you?🌛

I have a few requirements regarding my writing partners, but don't take any of those as a total must! I can enjoy other things, but this is what I have just liked consistently in the past:

- Knowing my partner OOC is important to me. That doesn't mean we have to be best friends, but I enjoy the occassional chat and exchanging memes or headcanons.

- Please bring muses with background, character and maybe plot ideas! I enjoy getting invested and HCing together. Don't worry, there's no need for an epos on either end, all I would like is a finished and fleshed out concept.

- I usually like to write switch/balanced dynamics regarding top/bottom depending on the plot (Dom/Sub dynamics are cool with me, this changes between partners and adjusts to their comfort). Meaning: No sub/bottom only blogs please!

- My preferred platform is Discord in small servers with the Tupper-Bot as our immersion tool of choice!

- Hard requirements: 18+, preferably 21+; open to communication and conversation during conflicts or disinterest; no MAPs, racists, homo/transphobes, sexists or bigots of any other kind; open to trigger and problematic/dead dove discussions pre-writing.

I look forward to meeting y'all!

🌜Thanks for reading.🌛

#roleplay #writing #genshin rp #mature rp #queer rp #mxm rp #fandom rp #cod rp #problematic rp #roleplay partner finder #roleplaying #literate rp #roleplay partner search #roleplay partner ad #roleplay partner wanted

2 notes · View notes