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sokkascroptop · 4 years

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would you be mad if i asked you if you can write a zuko x y/n drabble abt their relationship before he was banished? 🥺🥺

here it is!!! we’ll call this, a traitor prequel. I know that my inbox is about to be bursting with Zuko x Y/N headcanons and love and I’m okay with that. You think Azula was soft for Y/N? Zuko was a fucking Y/N simp from day fucking one.

Also, for reference, Ren is Y/N’s oldest brother. And gd, I wish I had thought of this idea when I first was writing traitor instead of dropping this in the middle of the series. It would have given Y/N a bigger (and easier) reason to leave the Fire Nation.

“You’re weak on your left side.” It was the third time that night she’d pointed it out and Zuko’s frustrations with her were growing.

“Shut up, Y/N!” Zuko came at her with a vengeance. A well aimed blow was blocked by her. Zuko crossed his other sword overtop his right one, trapping hers between them.

“I’m just trying to be helpful,” Y/N boasted. She pulled her sword away and backed off, still en garde. She gave him a little smirk. He wasn’t really mad at her, he just didn’t like to be corrected.

Zuko dropped his swords to his sides. “Why do you antagonize me?”

“Ooh, big word!”

“Yeah, do you know what it means?” Zuko mused.

Y/N scowled and let her own sword fall. “Of course I know what it means!” She waved the tip of her sword in his direction. “Come on let’s finish sparring.”

Zuko shook his head and fitted his swords together. “I’m done for tonight.”

“But neither of us won!”

“Not everything has to be a competition Y/N. Sometimes we can just have fun together.” Noticing Y/N’s frown he added. “I have to get up early for firebending training.”

She sheathed her sword and they walked side by side back to their rooms. Zuko didn’t say anything more and Y/N wondered if she was wrong and he really was mad at her. “I’m sorry if you thought I was being mean,” Y/N said.

“You sounded like Azula,” Zuko commented.

“What?” Y/N stopped dead in her tracks.

Zuko ducked his head and looked at her sheepishly. “Ever since Ty Lee and Mai left you spend all your time with Azula. It makes you say things she would say.”

“Azula’s my friend, Zuko.”

“Well so am I! But every time we’re together you treat me like she does.”

“What does that even mean?” Y/N’s voice intensified with each word.

“You’re cold. The only difference is you still apologize afterwards. You’ll stop doing that too.” Zuko turned on his heel and walked away from her. His back was tense and he had fists gripped at his sides.

Y/N was left in the hallway to try and figure out why what he said bothered her so much.

---

“I came to apologize for yesterday.” Zuko had his hands behind his back and his head bowed. He was in his formal armor, not the lighter training clothes they wore when they would spar.

Y/N frowned and opened the door more, motioning for him to come inside.

He shook his head. “Lets walk in the gardens.”

“Why?”

“Just come on.” Zuko rolled his eyes and started walking away without her, she had to jog to catch up.

“You never apologize. Especially when you think you’re right.”

“Am I right?” Zuko raised an eyebrow.

It was Y/N’s turn to roll her eyes. “About me being like Azula? I don’t know? I also don’t know how that’s a bad thing if I was.”

Zuko didn’t answer her as they walked side by side down the steps and into the garden. He parted the leaves of the lone willow tree and motioned for Y/N to walk under them.

The willow tree was the largest tree in the garden by far, it’s expansive branches created an oasis underneath the canopy where you couldn’t see out, but more importantly, no one could see in. It had become Zuko and Y/N’s favorite spot to hide away. They both sat at the base of the trunk and leaned against the bark, bumping their shoulders together.

“My mother and I used to sit out here every day by the pond.”

Y/N turned to look at her friend. Zuko didn’t mention his mother anymore much, and when he did there was often a hint of resentment in his voice, now it was just wistful and sad.

“I know,” Y/N tried to think of something else to say to fill the quiet. She hadn’t known Ursa for very long, but the memories, however few and far between they were, were fond ones. “She was kind,” Y/N said finally.

Zuko didn’t reply; that didn’t matter to Y/N. They sat in a comfortable silence watching the bees flit around and pollinate the willow blooms. If Y/N ducked her head down she could see the edge of the pond under the willow leaves and the turtle ducks swimming around. But Y/N still had one question on her mind...

“Zuko, why did you bring me out here?” He didn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t even look at her, so Y/N continued. “Surely, you didn’t drag me out here to plant one on me again?”

Y/N grinned at Zuko’s reddening cheeks. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that!” he grumbled. “And I brought you here to apologize.”

“You apologized when you came to my door. So what is this really about?”

Zuko had a nervous energy surrounding him, he began fidgeting with his hands in his lap. “I don’t like fighting with you, Y/N. We left on a bad note last night.”

Y/N sighed. “I know you and Azula don’t get along anymore. But don’t put me in a position where I feel like I need to choose between you two.”

“I don’t want you to have to,” Zuko said earnestly. “I found out about a war meeting tonight. I’m going to try and get in, you should come with me.”

“A war meeting? No, why would I want to go to that?” Y/N had no interest in a meeting where generals like her father talked like they were Agni’s gift to the world. She had no idea why Zuko would want to either.

Logically, Y/N knew that Zuko was to be Fire Lord, he was the heir and eventually he was going to have to partake in things like that. But, wouldn’t he want to avoid it as long as he could? Instead of jumping right in?

“Don’t you want to see what you’ll be doing one day?”

Y/N thought hard about that question. That had never occurred to her before. She never really imagined herself as a war general before, but that didn’t mean that other people didn’t see her potential to be one, and apparently even Zuko could see her doing that. Hopefully the war would be over before she ever had to make that decision, because that was not the person she wanted to end up being.

“Not particularly,” She answered softly.

---

Y/N waited in one of the wide hallways that filled the palace for Zuko. She didn’t want to attend a war meeting, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to know what one was like. Zuko hadn’t immediately come back, so he apparently had been let inside.

Y/N didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was enough that she had slid down the wall and leaned her head on her bent knees. Servants had given her strange looks as they passed her carrying trays of food or laundry but they didn’t say anything to her; knowing that it would probably be better to just not ask.

Finally, when Zuko emerged from around the corner, Y/N jumped to her feet.

“Well? How was it?” Y/N realized her voice was much too excited for how she had been speaking about the war meetings earlier and she toned it down. “Was it everything you had imagined?”

Zuko’s face was paler than usual, and he began walking away without answering her. Y/N ran to catch up and grabbed his arm, spinning him around to face her.

“What happened, Zuko?”

He grimaced and didn’t meet her eyes, instead opting to scout out the halls, looking to see if anyone was around them. Upon not finding anyone he backed them up into a recessed doorway; his golden eyes shining in the dim light.

“I said something at the meeting.” Zuko looked at her, shellshocked at his own actions.

Y/N grasped his arms. “What happened?!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Zuko said, but it sounded like he was speaking more to himself than he was to her. “I disrespected this general–spirits I didn’t even know his name. He said he was going to send in a troop of new recruits to fight the Earth Kingdom army. They were going to be bait, Y/N. He was going to get them all killed and I told him he couldn’t do that...” Zuko’s voice trailed off. Y/N knew there was something he wasn’t saying.

She dug her nails into his sleeves. “Zuko, what else happened?”

“My father. He said I have to fight in an Agni Kai for disrespecting the general,” Zuko murmured.

Y/N’s heart began to race. An Agni Kai? She stepped back letting her body sag against the wall. She shut her eyes, closing off the tears that were brimming them. She wanted to scream at Zuko for being so foolish, but her voice came out in a whisper. “Zuko, why would you do something like that? Why couldn’t you have just kept your mouth shut.”

Apparently, Zuko was not above yelling. “I had to!” His voice echoed through the hallway.

When Y/N cracked open an eye he was avoiding looking at her face, choosing to stare at his feet. “Why?” she rasped. In Y/N’s heart, she knew what he was going to say. They’d been friends for too long and she knew that there were few things that he would use his voice to speak out against. He was always protecting her.

“It was the 41st division. I couldn’t–” Zuko sighed.

“Ren.” Y/N nodded and a tear slipped down her cheek. Zuko’s face softened and he laid a hand on her shoulder but that’s not what she needed right now. She wrapped her arms around Zuko and sobbed into his shoulder. “They’re gonna kill my brother, aren’t they?”

Y/N had never feared something more in her life. Coming from a military family, she knew the risks they all took when they signed up, but it had never hit her that this could happen to her. Ren wasn’t just some faceless soldier on the front lines, this was her brother, and those generals were playing with his life like he meant nothing.

Zuko was hesitant to hug her back, but he eventually did. “That’s why I said something. I couldn’t have you think that I was somehow in on it.”

Y/N pulled away to look at Zuko, but looking at his hopeful face made her want to cry all over again. “I would never think that. But look at what you have to do because of me now.”

Zuko furrowed his brows. “I��m going to win, Y/N.”

Y/N wished she had the same arrogant, blind optimism that Zuko had about his Agni Kai. It didn’t matter who got burned and who threw the flame that burned them because in Y/N’s eyes, neither person was going to be the winner.

---

Y/N didn’t knock and the guards that stood outside of Zuko’s door didn’t stop her from entering. She wouldn’t have let them stop her anyways. She’d waited for a week to come and see Zuko and she was running on adrenaline and tea. The moment she had heard what happened at the Agni Kai she wanted to run to him, but no one would tell her where he was. On one hand she wished she had been there, on the other, the thought of seeing the Fire Lord burn her friend’s face turned her stomach and she was glad she hadn’t tagged along with Azula.

He wasn’t in bed, like she expected–in fact she wasn’t even sure what she had expected anyways; Zuko lying there half-dead?

He was sitting on the floor, cross-legged in front of the tall mirror they all had in their rooms. He looked… the same. The unmarred side of his head was facing towards her and he was just staring at himself.

He didn’t move even though the door to his bedroom slammed shut behind her. She approached cautiously, unsure of how he was going to take her showing up without any announcement.

She stood behind him but she had yet to look down at his face, scared for what she was going to see. Instead, she stared at her own reflection, her tearful eyes that were threatening to overflow with each blink.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Her voice broke halfway through the sentence.

She glanced down involuntarily and stifled a gasp. Half of his face was wrapped in white bandages. What was behind those bandages, she wondered, sickly. Did he still have his eye? Could he still hear out of that ear?

Whoever had treated him had shaved his hair back leaving just his phoenix tail. It made him look older, meaner; or maybe that was just the hard expression on his face. Y/N had never seen it before.

Y/N didn’t even realize she was sinking to her knees until they hit the cold marble floor. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to tell herself that he was real and still in front of her, because after so many sleepless nights she had convinced herself that Zuko was dead. Finally, after what seemed like ages of staring in the mirror; staring at him waiting for permission, Zuko met her eyes. Y/N surged forward and held him. Zuko clung to her arms and their sobs filled the air.

What had she done? Zuko had stood up for her in that meeting and for that he had lost half of his face, his honor, and for what?

“When do you leave?” she asked, her throat still thick with tears.

“Two days,” Zuko sniffled. Y/N stared at his one gold eye in the mirror and Zuko stared back with just as much intensity.

“Promise me you’ll come back safe.” Y/N eyes were burning with more tears as she said it but she refused to look away. Zuko didn’t have to answer her because they already knew the answer. Y/N turned and pressed a kiss into his cheek that was still wet with tears. And they sat like that–for minutes or hours–Y/N didn’t know, with Y/N’s arms wrapped around Zuko and him leaning back into her chest. Y/N didn’t need his protection anymore–no, she was going to protect him.

#this is for my sokka fic so i am taggin #sokka x reader #zuko x reader #zuko #azula #traitor #ask and ye shall recieve #atla #atla fics #avatar the last airbender #avatar: the last airbender #avatar #avatar resurgence #avatar fic #avatar zuko

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eternalstrigoii · 4 years

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Protector of the Moors

Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Tundra Healer Dark Fey Reader aka @vespertineoracle gets more Nyvi because these are Soft Hours(TM).

It was a new day, the dawn of a new chapter for you all. The air was crisp and briny, and work on a magical bridge between the kingdoms was already underway.

Which meant it was all the more crucial for you to map the territory and identify places in need of preservation for their medicinal qualities, and to do so quickly.

The plan, or the rudimentary outline of one you’d sussed out the night before while gathered around a bonfire with your tired (and often wounded) kinsmen, involved taking your entire stock of pressed paper and making as detailed a map as possible while on foot. It would’ve been much easier from the skies, and much better for you to identify relative locations – and it wasn’t as though you were the only one with the same desire.

But you didn’t ask anyone to join you.

You were all tired. You were glad the battle passed quickly, because night had barely fallen when a great many of you took up residence in the trees. Now that you were liberated from your nest of origin, the collective of you hesitated to return, lest your freedom be fleeting.

A handful of you stayed awake well into the night. Ini fell asleep at the bonfire, watching the embers mingle with the stars. Borra listened to the night-sounds until one of the fledglings Udo returned for nodded off against his leg, and you ignored the fierce flutter in your heart when he gathered them to return to their nest-mother.

It was him you thought of while you gathered water from the white oaks – water that could be used for healing, as it broke fevers and staunched wounds. You thought of the cloth bandage around his arm and how lucky he’d been that it hadn’t gone a bit further in either direction. How difficult you’d always thought him, deliberately toying with iron to build his pain tolerance.

But he hadn’t fallen, and you refused to dwell on those of you that had, because you had a task at hand. You were fond of him, and he was alive, and you were glad.

And you desperately wanted to find some mullein. It would soothe the irritation so many of your people found themselves with, now, from the tainted iron in the air.

You made a small note in the corner of your page of the plants you hoped to find, your foot supporting your woven water-basket. The sun on your neck and the breeze in your wings carried the pungent perfume of sweet mandrake, and you paused your note taking to breathe it in.

And nearly kicked over your water-basket when you heard the earth shift behind you.

“Fallen stars!” You whirled around, nearly slapping Borra with one of your flared, snowy wings.

He had the nerve not play chastised, leaving the ghost of a heart-rending smile on his lips when you faced him. “Are you doing that all by yourself?”

You floundered. “Were you spying on me?” you managed when you regained the ability to speak.

He quirked his head, and you had half a mind to pull back a branch and trap his big horns in it. “I’m not unfamiliar with the territory.”

“So I’ve noticed!”

Horrible, you thought pointedly when his mouth started to quirk, poorly-repressed laughter threatening to slip out. “Did I scare you?”

“No more than you have in the past, you piebald nuisance!”

He did laugh, then, and though your irritation was largely for show, you thought the sound might’ve quieted even the deepest fury. He laughed so rarely. It was like stumbling upon a secluded oasis; a gift for you and you alone.

“I’ve got scouting to do,” he said as though he knew about your map and your plans without being told. Maybe he did; he did see you writing. “I prefer you don’t go alone.”

You couldn’t even pretend it was because of your long-injured wing; he was just like that. Not even Suren, Ini or Shrike were spared.

You sighed theatrically and stowed your water-basket safely in the low branches. You rolled up your materials and stuffed them in your satchel before accepting his offered arms – taking your sweet time about it just to be a thorn in his side.

Not that he minded. As wary as he was of what lied beyond the river and beyond the moors, you’d both waited too long not to grasp your freedom by the antlers.

“Do not drop me,” you cautioned playfully as you wound your arms around his neck, and got tugged flush against his body for your trouble. He was all powerful muscle, and his radiant heat made you shiver.

“Then hold on.” His bright eyes glinted with mischief, and his huge wings beat so hard yours folded instinctively. He launched you both into the sky on a self-created windstorm, the force of which made the leaves tremble on the branches.

You clung to him, your satchel trapped between your hip and his, until you cleared the canopy.

Skies, it really was beautiful.

Were it not for your half-limp wing, you would’ve made this journey yourself hours ago.

Your wings flared instinctively to aid the both of you in coasting. He was unfazed by your weight against his chest, drawing you up until you nearly kissed the clouds. You saw what he’d described in moons-old plans – fields of grain packed dense like walls, a slow-moving windmill just above a mortal village, and the moors. They were so large, so deep, that it was no wonder Ulstead alone had the nerve to prey on them. How many people could wander in and just vanish, lost to the sheer treachery of the landscape alone?

You tightened your grasp when you flattened only for Borra to turn slowly, affording you the proper aerial view.

Below, you saw the moor-folk returning to their lives. You saw flower-people fluttering between the meadows and the streams, people like iridescent dragonflies glinting and shimmering in the sun. You saw Suren tossing berries at the raven Diaval from her respective perch in the trees – as a bird, rather than a man – and him trying to catch them from his branch before they fell, and were stolen by the amphibious peoples who lived in the brook between them.

It was a magical place. Something well worth fighting for, like the man supporting you whose eyes had never left your face. You were so happy to be soaring over the moors that you forgot, for a time, to harbor fear that it might still all be taken away.

“How well do you know this place?” you asked at last. You’d veered toward the peaks and, as interested in fully mapping the territory as you were, you hoped to identify your necessities first.

“Well enough,” Borra replied. Well enough to feel secure in battle, then, which meant well enough to propose your list.

You told him what you were looking for in hopes that he memorized what those plants were; he was no stranger to your work, and he was keen enough that you imagined he’d have at least a rough idea what you were talking about.

He thought it over for a moment, and slowly curled his wings around yours.

You took the cue and let him steer.

He let you glide on top of him until you were ready to dive, and the slow turn of your bodies made you intimately aware of how close you’d gotten, your leg hooked comfortably around one of his. Your eyes flickered up to his, and you must’ve been a little frosty, because his mouth quirked into that ever so lovely not-smirk that meant he was absolutely laughing at you inside.

It wasn’t your fault he looked like that. Wasn’t yours that he acted like that, either, the peacocking fool.

Just for you, you reminded yourself, and the flush of pleasure almost echoed the burn of frost in your cheeks.

You touched down in a meadow, and you flushed terribly at the way he held you up rather than let you slow your own descent once your feet touched the ground.

“Over there,” he said, much too casually letting go of your waist.

You unhooked yourself as though from a pup-cling and tidied your robes. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head, content to wait.

It was so bright, there. You couldn’t imagine the world outside could be much brighter than the jungle fey’s territory, but the hues of green in the leaves, the way shadow and cloud-shifted light danced over the bark of the trees, astounded you. You savored every step through the tall grasses, careful to keep the little sprites that rose to meet you from being caught in your clothes.

A dense cluster of mullein was nestled on a sunny ridge. Exactly what you’d been hoping for. And there was enough to take back to the nest to cultivate, should your people need the resource.

Leave it to Borra to take you right to the most important thing you could think of.

You began note-taking immediately, sketching out the rough outline of a map – marrying the sights of your flight with the rough-hewn one you recalled vividly from being etched into the stone floor of the meeting hall. You’d only covered a small portion of the moors, but you did your best to describe them accurately – here was the starting point, set back from the river; here were the peaks you’d neared. Here was the valley you currently stood in, and right, specifically, there, was the little grove of mullein.

You’d have to come back to uproot whole plants, you realized with a small measure of dejection. You’d only brought enough containers to secure parts for use.

A great peep-and-flutter arose behind you, and a part of you hoped that Borra was behaving himself. You took a bit from a portion of the plants, careful not to impact any of their growth significantly. You noted on another page their health, their size, their gathering time and what portions you’d harvest.

He laughed. Again.

It gave you pause the way the sun on your skin encouraged you to linger. You turned, your slender writing-charcoal still in-hand, and you nearly had to sit down.

The moor-folk were all over him, swarming like bees to sweet. He had several in each of his open palms, and you imagined that one settled and one became a dozen, but, no – he lightly skimmed his thumb-talon down the backs of one of the flower-people, and they shivered with delight.

“I remember you,” he said to one of the willow sprites that dared practically perch on his face. “You were unharmed?”

They chattered fiercely and though there was no way he understood them (you presumed, though he had spent more time on the moors than any of the rest of you), he paid attention to them while they hovered before him on thin, leafy wings.

There were six more of them in his hair, you realized, playing with it. And he let them.

“Good,” he said, though you hadn’t followed a word of it beyond the essence.

They were faeries he’d saved on his private crusade, his incidental attempts to uproot their new companion from her role as protector of the moors. The ones he’d saved from being stolen, who he’d freed himself. Before or after killing their captors, you’d never asked, and it didn’t seem to matter. They knew him, and they loved him, and you saw him that gentle so rarely that, for a moment, you swore your heart might fully frost over.

One of the little dragonfly-people touched his cheek, their high-pitched murmurs of concern drawing tears to your eyes.

“No, no,” he soothed, “they’re natural. It’s decorative.”

Ancestors be with you, you had never loved another as fiercely as you did him.

They touched, marveled. They’d seen horns and wings on Maleficent, but maybe never that way. Maybe they knew her too well (you hadn’t yet learned of their once-tenuous relationship with your people). His wings shifted at the brush of petals on his cheek, and a great chorus of oh! rose up from them.

He smiled so widely that it caused a physical ache in your chest. You brushed away the dampness on your lashes that threatened to make itself apparent. How long had it been since you saw him so at peace? Since you knew without uncertainty that he was happy?

“Alright.” His shoulders rolled, and a few of them giggled as they dislodged. “No more of that.”

The willow sprites in his hair giggled the loudest.

“How proud you are of your dirt,” you muttered, halfhearted, into your notes.

“What was that?” he had no trouble faux-raising his voice to remind you he could hear you all the way across the field.

You’re a dirty little magpie and I love you with all my heart, you thought, though you said, “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve rubbed dust into my clothes!”

He grinned, but it was different. The glimmer was back in his sandstorm eyes, and the little fey knew better than to linger close. They scurried off into the fields, giggling as they watched him launch himself at you – like you were fledglings again, roughhousing in the belly of your people’s nest. He caught you around your white-robed waist and pulled you up off the ground.

You dropped your things and grabbed the straps of his leather armor in warning. “Borra, don’t you dare--!”

“I dare,” he grinned, and your breathlessness at the sight of him fell second to your absolute distrust of the mischief in his eyes.

“I’ll kick you!”

He hauled you up against him like you weighed nothing, like you were as light as his gaggle of faeries despite the furry lining of your clothes. You gripped him for dear life, folding your wings in close.

He flopped backward in the grass hard enough to make you huff. Dropped like a weight, you thought, and followed it up with, sunk like a stone. A big, much too pretty stone.

“You’re the one who wanted to go picking leaves, but you complain about getting dirty.”

You had half a quick retort in mind, but you stopped yourself. It was over now. The war, the preparation. Things could change. You could sink into the springs with him, work a fish-bone comb through his hair with the utmost patience. You might even be able to tend the more obvious cracks at the base of his horns, though whether or not their severity worsened naturally with age or if it was just from benign neglect, you weren’t entirely sure.

“I’m not complaining,” you muttered, and it said far more than you expected it would. You loved him. You were as grateful as they were. For the mullein, for the map, for his obsessive attention to detail, for his love, for his joining you this morning, and for his being with you now. Oh, skies, how you loved him, like a flutist who only knew one song.

He laid still under you, and it took you a moment to realize that he was toying lightly with a lock of your hair. It was so nice to rest, even among obligations. Even if you knew he would never go unprepared, you could see it in his face – in the slow blink of his eyes and the soft set of his jaw beneath your fingers – there was hope he would know peace.

You lowered your forehead and pressed horns gently with him. He was sunshine-radiant against you, and you heard him make his low, purr-like sound at the frost that bloomed where your skin met.

“Thank you,” you murmured. For the help, and for not dying; for his love and a thousand other little things whose names escaped memory.

“Mm.” He bunted gently against your horns in return. “Tell me when you’re ready to move on.”

You lingered there, against him, for a little while longer. The flower people had come to play with your hair and touch your skin and marvel at your cold and the softness of your wings, and you were happy to let them.

“Protector of the moors,” you muttered.

He smiled a bit wider, and you couldn’t resist kissing him.

The flower people had a field day with that.

If you liked this and want to see more, click here.

#Borra x Reader #Borra #Maleficent Borra #Borra Maleficent #No Beta We Die Like Men #Fluff!There Is No Plot Only Zuul #I have no excuse for this I just have Big Feelings about MurderBird + GentleSoft With Tiny Fey #If you're wondering: Borra's sexuality is Top. That's it. Send tweet.#No preferred gender only Top.

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obsidianfr3sk · 3 years

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Falcon in the Dive

Summary: Piercing into the sky and higher, Ace thrived. The weak cowered, but the fittest, like him, survived. He didn't wait until the darkest hour, he didn't wait until they spring alive. He, with claws of fire, devoured like a falcon in the dive.

AO3

As my contribuiton to the Multifandom Gift Exchange 2020 (hosted by the wonderful @darkalinas and @scxundress), here’s a gift for my little sister and favorite villain apologist (?) @alecjamesartino. As soon as they told me I was your gifter... well, I was really happy!!! And then x’d I knew I had to write something about Ace and this song just... LIKE I JUST KNEW I HAD TO WRITE SOMETHING ABOUT ACE INSPIRED IN FALCON IN THE DIVE, ALL RIGHT???? I JUST ✨K N E W✨

Before y’all start reading xd I need to... kinda clarify something. So, I don’t know if you know, but I actually based all of my fics on this timeline made by @honey-hippie-harper and @healing-winston-pratt, and I kinda just started to create my headcanons from it. But, today I decided to throw all of them through the freaking window and base this fic on this timeline, made by my giftee:’))) She uses it for her fic Love and Anarchy (which you should totally read!). That said, this work has nothing to do with my other fics (for example, Rise of the Renegades or The Origins), I’m just experimenting with new headcanons:’)

Another important thing x’d On this fic I mention Leroy’s eyes turn green when he uses his powers and that Hugh’s eyes are gray instead of blue. This are not my headcanons, they’re actually from this drawing made by @healing-winston-pratt. Go check it out and reblog it!!)

Now... well, my dear little sister Alec, I hope you like this gift. I know how much you like Ace and the Anarchists, and I have never written anything about them (Begginings and Endings doesn’t count, it was from David’s POV x’d) so this was a complete challenge for me. But what kept me going was... thinking that I was doing this for you. And honestly, your timeline just gave me so much space to play with new headcanons and scenarios, so thank you for that:’)) Personally I consider myself someone with a extraordinary imagination, but you, Alec, left me dumbfounded (quedé dirían en mi tierra). You are so young, and brilliant, and adorably deathly that I just want to hold you and protect you from the the bad things that happen on this world:’)

I’d say I love you but I’m akward so I’ll just say I’m really fond of you. I think you have a lot of potentential and I hope I get to see you become a wonderful woman. Felices fiestas✨✨✨

Knock in the doors, lock up the city,

track him down through this town,

and be quick about it... now!

How the devil can I ever prevail when I'm only a man?

I can never be duped by that scurrilous phantom again.

Year 0, month 0

“I thought you were going to be taller.”

Ace stopped looking at the chandelier hanging over his head to look at the woman to his right. “Sorry?”

“I thought you were going to be taller,” she repeated almost yelling.

“Fuck, Honey ...”

Ace turned to his left. “What?” Honey asked. “I’m just saying, geez.”

The young man's eyes went from dark to toxic green.

“Leroy,” Ace interrupted, “your chair is ... burning.”

Leroy removed his hands from the armrest of the chair he was sitting in, cursing underneath. There were drops of a greenish liquid coming from his fingers and the wood smelled like a burnt tree. As he did his best to clean up the mess he had made with his powers, Ace turned his attention back to Honey. “Did you think it was going to be taller?”

Honey tucked one of her blonde curls behind her ear. She was wearing a white coat with rhinestone as buttons; a group of prodigies had given it to her in exchange for allowing them to join their ranks. Ace had replied that it was not necessary to pay any kind of tribute and that anyone who agreed with the values of the Anarchists, could consider themselves as such. Despite this, one of the boys insisted on giving Honey the coat, because from the moment he saw it, he thought it was “fit for a queen”. That was the moment when Ace's theory was confirmed: Honey had a weakness for compliments and gifts. She accepted the coat with a smile and even defended the boy when Leroy muttered, “Ahem, simp.”

That was also the moment when he realized that Leroy's weakness was driving Honey out of her mind.

Regardless, Ace could tell that they had some kind of… appreciation for each other. The first time he saw them use their powers was when Honey sent a cloud of wasps to a group of cops who tried to get Leroy into one of their trucks and when Leroy burned the face of a guy who had grabbed Honey from wrist strong enough to make her scream.

Those two were powerful and loyal without falling into blind fanaticism. Ace needed people like that in his ranks.

The whole world needed such people in its ranks.

“I mean, yeah,” Honey continued. “I had heard so much about Ace Anarchy that… well, I have to admit I did build up some expectations.”

Ace fixed his gaze on Honey's feet. She was wearing heels. Obviously. “Why don't you get off those stilts and say it to my face?”

Honey burst out laughing right away and Ace too. He could even see Leroy trying not to smile before crossing his arms on his chest.

The three were on the seat of the cathedral, Ace sitting on the main chair where the priest who officiated the mass sat, and Honey and Leroy on the chairs to the sides, generally reserved for the seminarians who helped during the celebration. He had taken the table out of the way with his powers and stored it in a cellar, in case it was needed again. During those last three weeks that they had been using the cathedral as a base, Ace had given some speeches there. The light coming from the windows illuminated his face and the crucifix behind him made him feel a kind of power that he could not describe. Also, the main chair was wide, tall, and shiny. It would have looked like a throne if it were covered in some golden metal...

Stop it.

“I think no one else is coming,” said Leroy. “we better get out of here. These chairs are uncomfortable.”

“Use a cushion, like me,” Honey commented, proudly displaying the small cushion she had placed on the chair to make it easier to sit.

Leroy couldn’t look more disgusted. “Why would you put your ass on the same cushion you use to sleep?”

As his allies began to argue again, Ace put his arms on the sides of the chair, focusing on the immense doors of the cathedral.

As far as they knew, Ace was waiting for recruits. It was a fairly common thing to happen. Many prodigies (like the simp and his henchmen) had been flocking to the cathedral, seeking help, acceptance, or a chance to prove themselves worthy of being within Ace's close circle. It was a bit tiring at times, but at the moment he couldn't afford to turn them away without even bothering to see what their powers were. If he knew something, it was that no power could not be taken advantage of in some way, and if that way could benefit him, the better.

But at dusk, the chances of people coming to the cathedral began to disappear, because at night the city became dangerous. Thus, Ace knew that he would not receive any new potential recruits until the next morning, and he knew that his allies need to rest and eat something.

However, he also knew that David could be the one to walk through that door at any moment.

Ace was still furious with him. He probably would be furious with him for the rest of his life. David was a condescending, deluded guy who didn't bother to think outside the box for the good of those who were like them.

But at the end of the day, that guy was his blood (whoever he liked it or not) and he wanted to make sure he was still alive.

David Artino would never miss an opportunity to exercise his authority as an older brother and scold him for the first reason that crossed his mind. He could see him hiding like a mole in some hole in the city, losing his mind to the chaos that his younger brother was slowly planting in every corner of planet Earth.

However, he could also see him being killed in the street by an angry horde who knew he was a prodigy, or by a group of policemen who mistook him for one of the hundreds of protesters that had filled the city, and although the thought made him uncomfortable, it might be best if things stayed that way.

After all, if David went out to the real world, the world that was out there right now would probably kick him to the ground, take out his eyes, and eat them before stabbing him and letting him there to die.

Yes, things should stay that way. With Ace Anarchy alive and building the world as it must have been from the start, and with the Artino brothers dead, buried in a sealed tomb from which not even their souls could escape.

He was about to stand up when someone knocked on the door. Honey’s bees, which had been quietly resting on the church pews, began to buzz like watchdogs barking at the presence of a stranger.

Alec knew those four knocks.

Honey and Leroy suddenly fell silent and settled into their chairs almost unconsciously. Ace put on his helmet and then, with a wave of his hand, he slightly opened the cathedral door.

His hair was longer than normal. He recognized the same coat he was wearing the last time he saw him, but he had changed his pajama bottoms for faded jeans. He had a mysterious blow to the head and the deepest circles under his eyes he had ever seen. That, plus that unkempt beard, made Ace even more certain that, had he seen him on the street, he probably wouldn't have recognized him.

At least until he saw his blue eyes. David had unmistakable blue eyes.

“Good evening, fellow anarchist,” Ace greeted from his seat. “How can we help you?”

David gripped the door and frowned. “Alec?”

The bees buzzed louder and Honey turned to see him. “Do you know him?”

Leroy and his toxic green eyes seemed to ask the same question.

“You don't want to mention that name here,” Ace warned, ignoring his allies. “Seriously.”

David did not reply. Not that he expected him to. “Come in,” he assured him, nodding slightly. “Us Anarchists are willing to help any prodigy. We fight for all of them. Even for those who prefer to give in to the system that oppresses us in the first place. "

His allies fell silent. Ace knew he wasn't going to be wrong about them; they were fully aware that their opinion was not necessary at that time.

David's old sneakers squeaked on the marble floor of the church. The white shoelaces were stained with dark blood. “I… I looked for you everywhere,” he muttered.

“I didn't go anywhere,” he replied. “I was always here.”

He resisted the childish urge to ask where he had been, precisely because that was it. Childish. Something that only a kid would do.

And Alec James Artino, the kid, was dead.

David reached the first step of the altar and Ace stood up. “Don’t.”

His brother stopped before taking another step. He even stepped back and put his hands to his chest, as if his heart had ached at that simple word.

You see? Weak.

“I'm not here to take you anywhere,” he assured.

Ace gave a mocking laugh. “So?”

“I'm here to join you.”

The smile faded from Ace’s face. However, he did not interpret it as a sign of weakness, because immediately, he was able to recover from the blow and remain expressionless as his brother's gaze pierced his like stakes.

Even with him there, right in front of Ace, standing in the middle of the cathedral, he knew that David didn't belong there. He was not an Anarchist like them. Something was missing. Maybe courage. Maybe it was determination.

Perhaps what he lacked was that spark of life that rage gave when it started a fire in the depths of your gut.

So why bother?

Before the question slipped from his lips, the answer came to his head and it all made sense to him.

Ace was right. The day anarchy was born, the Artino brothers had died, but there was no one alive to bury them. The ghost of David Artino had spent days searching for his only remaining family, wandering around town like a beggar.

Because deep down, he needed him more than Alec had ever needed David.

How did he explain that the little brother he was looking for was dead, and now only the man he had become remained?

He knew how to explain it, but David was stubborn. Even if Ace chose the most appropriate words for the situation, he could never make him see things the way he wanted him to. At least not if he knew Alec was dead.

He did not know that in an ideal world, the only one still alive was Ace Anarchy.

It wasn't the perfect scenario, but the perfect thing about that scenario was that David didn't need to know that just yet. Alec's ghost could come out of his grave as many times as necessary and Ace could use that to his advantage for as long as he wanted.

That would make the ghost David very happy. And if David was happy and he could take advantage of that happiness, then Ace would be happy too.

Ace removed his helmet and laid it gently on his chair. When he returned his gaze to David, his eyes were full of tears.

He also tried to cry, but couldn't. Therefore, he decided to extend his arms and allow David to stumble his way to him, giving him the strongest hug he had ever received while stroking his hair and sobbing: “I missed you so much, my little nightmare.”

Alec took Ace by the arms and placed them on David's shaking back. “I missed you too.”

But he was lying. He wondered if ghost David was lying too.

He better not.

***

I wasn't born to walk on water,

I wasn't born to sack and slaughter,

but on my soul, I wasn't born

to stoop, to scorn, and knuckle under.

A man can learn to steal some thunder.

A man can learn to work some wonder.

Year 4, month 7

When it all started, Ace did not like to think of himself as a leader. At least not a leader like the previous ones. God, just thinking about becoming one of those who used to rule the world before he turned things around made him feel sick.

However, over time he grew tired of explaining to each of those who arrived, full of desire to prove something (to the world, to Ace, and themselves), that he was not a leader as such. Little by little, he started to ignore those types of comments and just let himself go with the flow.

At least until David noticed his unconformity with the matter and approach him to talk about it.

It was a couple of months after he arrived. Ace was saying his prayers before going to bed when someone knocked on his door.

Four times. As always.

He quickly crossed himself and muttered, “Come in.”

David came in, holding a candle and wrapped in a robe that "the simps" had given to Leroy (it hadn't fit him, but David was so malnourished that it was like the robe had been made for him.)

Ace put on his robe too. “How can I help you?”

David fixed his gaze on the figure of the Virgin Mary that Ace had on a ledge. “Were you praying?”

“Of course,” he answered, feeling a little defensive.

David scoffed. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I thought ... I thought you didn't do it anymore.”

Ace rolled his eyes and pretended to arrange the covers on his bed (they didn't need to be arranged, he was very meticulous about that matter). “How can I help you?” he repeated.

David finally took his eyes off the Virgin Mary and turned to see him.

It surprised him he still had bags under his eyes. He thought that now that he slept in a decent bed, ate decent food, and no longer had to go through the same stressful situations that he went through before, his face would start to look more youthful again.

Maybe the bags under one’s eyes were like expression or acne marks. They would always be there.

Just like experiences.

Then David started talking to him. A lot. About how he had noticed his discomfort when people called him a leader. About him believing that he shouldn't feel that way because being placed in such a position was completely expected and even natural for it to happen. (“Don't interrupt me.” “I wasn't going to.” Oh, but he was going to.) About if he really wanted things to work out, the world was going to need someone to guide it down the path of good, and David did not doubt that someone was Ace.

They spent several hours just ranting about it. There was a point where the two of them were lying on his bed, Ace covered by his red blanket and David tightly holding a pillow against his chest. The candle was getting smaller and smaller, and David had chosen to place it next to the figure of The Virgin Mary as if it had been lit for her from the beginning.

Only that there was a God who saw everything, and that God knew that the candle had not been lit for her.

Ace was staring at the wooden ceiling when David told him, “I could never be a leader.”

“Why?”

Obviously Ace knew that David could never be a leader, but he wanted to know why his brother thought that way.

David clung to the pillow tighter. He wasn't looking at the ceiling; he looked at Ace. Sideways, but he was looking at him. “I don’t know. I think it's just not my… personality. Even when the guys and I were out there doing the… protests and stuff, I never led any of them,” he explained. “I've always been more of a follower.”

Ace did not answer. Yet he hoped David would interpret his silence as a sign that he had agreed with him.

“But on the other hand, you... Alec, you are a leader.”

His jaw clenched when he heard his name. He had to work on it. “What makes you think that?”

“Because… seriously, why wouldn’t you be a leader?” He turned around so he could look at him and Ace felt obligated to turn to see him as well. Only that he decided not to. “People look after you. They know you are a leader and they follow you. See how much you've changed in a matter of weeks. Inadvertently, you have led people up to this point in history. No one had ever come this far. No one except you.”

Then, Ace couldn't take it anymore and turned to meet his brother's eyes. “But won't that make me like everyone else?”

“Everyone else?” asked a very confused David.

Because David never understood anything.

“Like all the other leaders,” he replied, trying not to lose patience. “Leaders who are corrupt and selfish and—“ His brother interrupted his monologue with laughter. Much to someone who had complained when he tried to cut him off in the middle of a ridiculously long explanation. “—What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry,” David replied smiling. “It’s just… forget it.” He put a hand on his cheek and kept laughing underneath. “Alec, you’re not going to be like the other leaders.”

“And how are you so sure of that?” he asked a little louder than he wanted to.

David hardly seemed to notice. “Because you are not like that. You are not evil.” He sighed. “Now… there is the potential for evil everywhere, but the only way to combat it’s if more people choose goodness. If more people choose heroism. And you… you are one of those people. I am sure.”

And with those words, the candle extinguished, and Ace decided that it was time for both of them to go to sleep. He allowed David to stay the night. It was not like he had given any sign of wanting to go back to his room anyway. Ace spent most of the night awake, but not necessarily because his older brother's snoring kept him from sleeping.

What kept him from sleeping was thinking that maybe... maybe he was right. Maybe Ace did have to start taking the role of leader. After all, human beings were like that. They were always looking for someone to follow, someone they could cling to that would protect them in some way or another. That someone could be the parents. Older brothers. God himself.

But sometimes that someone was not looking for what was best for them. For example, Ace and David's parents never made the slightest effort to hide how much they hated their children. He was still a kid when his brother took him by the hand, put a coat on him, and told his parents that they were going out to the park. Ace didn't want to go to the park; he wanted to stay home to play with his wooden cubes, but David told him that if he went to the park with him, he would give him a surprise on the way home.

However, they passed the park and David went to a clothing and suitcase store that was near the dock where various boats full of tourists departed. On his way out, he bought his younger brother a lollipop and two one-way tickets to Gatlon City.

They never looked for them. Although if they had, he doubted they would have found them.

For a long time, Ace didn't fully understand what had happened. He just knew that he was never going to see his parents again. Regardless, it was not a thought that haunted him. After all, he hated his parents. And he didn't feel bad about it. Ace had David. David would never hurt him in any way.

At least that's how it was until he grew up. He grew up and realized that David had lied and stolen to get them out of Italy. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing; they would never have survived in Italy anyway. The bad thing was when David lied to him and robbed him for his own benefit. He lied to him about Gatlon's hate towards prodigies and he stole money from his savings when what he earned wasn't enough to pay the monthly rent on his apartment.

And then… there was God.

God existed. Clearly. It was one of the few things Ace didn't feel like he needed proof for. However… God hadn't always been there for him. God had been used as a weapon for hundreds of years to attack prodigies like Ace...

Yes, God was not going to save him. He wasn't going to save any of the millions and millions of prodigies that were counting on Ace Anarchy. God was not a hero.

But Ace could be.

So from that day on, Ace began to be the head in practically all the operations that the Anarchists carried out. Nothing happened without him finding out and approving it first. He recorded numerous videos and wrote dozens of speeches that they would use to spread his word around the world. Prodigies from all countries began to rise against their respective governments, and although some of them gave them what they wanted, the vast majority made the mistake of underestimating them and denying their more than reasonable requests.

Because, well, Ace didn't find anything outrageous about a bunch of people asking their governments to recognize their basic human rights.

Sometimes the prodigies of those places could take down their governments by themselves. However, on a couple of occasions, Ace had to travel to those places to give them a hand. They weren't too far away, so Ace could use his powers to transport himself there, and he still had enough strength left to turn the helicopters and tanks that they sent to try to finish him into unusable pieces of metal. There wasn’t a single place where he had not succeeded, and there was not a single place where people did not make him a symbol and call him a hero.

Not even a single one.

That was why he did not understand people who wanted to leave the trenches.

The first time people from the cathedral had explicitly told him that they wanted to resign were the Benitez twins, Fénix and Tritón. He was a water elemental and she was a fire elemental, who had fought alongside Ace and hundreds of other prodigies like him when they took over the government palace of their country and liberated the population. They were young but strong, like most of those who joined the cause. They spent a year and six months helping on missions that Ace, Honey, or even Leroy assigned them, and never received anything other than good comments from their superiors...

“Then why do you want to leave?” Honey asked them.

She, Leroy, the twins, and he were in what had been the bishop's office after he summoned them all to a meeting where they would assess the situation. Not because he felt a special affection for them; they weren't too different from the other people Ace had in charge of. He just wanted to know why and approve the situation.

Like he always did.

Tritón smiled charmingly at Honey. He and his twin sister had the same curly black hair, but she never smiled. “As we said before… it's nothing personal,” he replied. “Fénix and I were never mistreated here, but... we want to find our own way in life.”

Honey and Leroy turned to see each other. Leroy looked quite indifferent to the situation as if he wished to be in his lab, looking for new ways to finish burning his eyebrows, while Honey seemed quite suspicious regarding the true intentions behind Tritón's words and Fénix's deadly silence.

Ace stood up and looked out the window.

“Are you going back to Mexico?”

“Yes. But not to the same place we came from.”

“And how are you going to—“

“Stop overwhelming them with so many questions, my Queen,” Ace interrupted while turning around. “They are old enough to make their own decisions.”

Tritón sighed in relief, and Fénix didn't even look up to see him. “They had already packed their things, apparently,” and he pointed to the backpacks they were carrying. The same ones with which they had arrived at the cathedral.

“Yes, it's just… we didn't want to make a big fuss about our departure,” Tritón replied. “We want it to be respectful and press-free, please.”

That comment managed to make him smile slightly. “I see no reason to keep you as prisoners,” he said, addressing Honey and Leroy. “If they want to leave, they can.”

Leroy raised his only remaining eyebrow. “Can they?”

“They can,” he repeated. He turned slightly to continue staring out the window. It was a lovely day out there. “Wanting to look for something more than what we are capable of offering is a valid reason to leave.”

“Not that we’re filling like something’s missing here,” Tritón said. “On the contrary, we have never been more… blessed. We promise that we will always keep in mind all the things the Anarchist taught us. We will be on your side even if it is from a distance.”

Now it was Honey's turn to raise an eyebrow. “I don't know, this is too—“

“Excuse me, Queen Bee,” Tritón interrupted, “but ... we're in a bit of a rush.”

“An ally has promised to take us to the border in his truck,” Fénix said, speaking for the first time during the entire conversation. “He's going to pick us up in an hour and it's a long way to the meeting point.

Ace looked through the window to find David welcoming some of the prodigies who had come out to find more supplies for the cathedral. He pointed out where they were being kept and offered to help them carry some boxes up the stairs.

Ace had to go to check on that.

“Acey...”

“Take care of yourselves, Tritón and Fénix,” Ace said, heading for the exit. “Thank you very much for your loyalty. Let me show you the door.”

The twins looked at each other, immediately nodding slowly and leaving the room, walking in front of Ace, shoulder to shoulder, and muttering something. As they walked down the stairs, Ace was too busy thinking about the new shipment that had arrived to care about their conversation, until he tried to overhear them and realized they were speaking in Spanish.

They never spoke Spanish. Not in the cathedral. No one could have understood them if they did. What was the point of hiding something?

Unless they are hiding something.

He turned his attention back to the backpacks they carried. Yes, they were the same ones that they had brought the first day they arrived, but now they seemed fuller than before. And when Ace said fuller, he meant it. Those backpacks were about to explode.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The twins kept walking as if they hadn't realized that Ace was no longer with them. Honey and Leroy caught up with him, while Honey was saying something about this situation making her babies (the bees) very nervous, and she knew that was a bad sign. Leroy replied that those "babies" should take a Xanax, but he didn't sound too convinced of his words either.

Fénix took his brother's hand and Tritón looked back, making contact with Ace's dark eyes.

The backpacks. The backpacks were too full.

Ace used his powers to rip them off their shoulders, at the same time he grabbed them from the collars of their clothes and lifted them like a mother lioness would have carried her cubs. The two cried out in shock but fell silent when they came face to face with Ace.

Neither of them said anything. Not even Tritón. They only held on tighter by the hand as Ace opened their backpacks, dropped their contents on the floor, and revealed that they were carrying, along with their personal belongings, tons of food and hygiene items taken directly from the cathedral warehouse.

The warehouse that David was supposed to watch.

“My bracelet!” Honey exclaimed. “That... bitch was taking my bracelet!”

A group of bees returned the bracelet to her queen. Honey thanked them in a low voice and immediately, her face was completely changed by her anger. “How dare you?” she asked Fénix putting a finger on her chest. “How dare you disrespect me like that ?! Is that how you were going to pay the man who was going to take you to the border!?” But Fénix didn’t say anything. Again. “Answer me!”

“More like how dare you!” Fénix suddenly yelled. Honey took a step back from shock. “How dare you take everything from people who have nothing!”

“Fénix... por favor...” Tritón whispered.

“Shut the fuck up, Diego!” she yelled at his brother. “Tell me, Harper! How do you sleep at night?” she kept asking. “How do you sleep at night knowing that you have helped destroy the world as we know it? How can you reason that what you’re doing is right?!”

“Eleonor! Eleonor, por favor!”

Fénix started to try to free herself from Ace's grip, but that only made Ace cling tighter to the collar of her blouse. “How dare you even think you’re the good guys?”

Then, she looked him dead in the eye and spat, “How dare you call yourself a hero, Alec Artino?”

Ace thought hearing his name was going to make him lose his mind. Yet some way or another, his face remained expressionless. Even when Honey slapped the shit out of Fénix and the bees began to fly around her, stinging every bit of skin that wasn’t covered by her clothes. He also remained expressionless when he heard Tritón yell at Honey to leave her sister alone, calling her a "pinche vieja bruja" in the process, or when Leroy (who didn't understand anything, but knew it wasn't a compliment) held both of his wrists to prevent it from forming a wave of water that would drown all the bees instantly. It did not cause him anything at all to hear the poison melting Tritón's skin, making him cry in pain, or Fénix yelling and cursing.

And he didn’t even flinch when he broke Tritón's neck. Or when he left Fénix alive just the exact amount of time for her to process what her actions had caused to the only family she had left before breaking her neck too.

Ace dropped what was left of the Benitez twins. The bees moved away from the body and returned to Honey as if they were children hiding in their mother's skirts after having been lost for hours in the market, and Leroy let go of Tritón’s wrists without saying a word. Ace looked around and realized that a big amount of people had watched the entire scene from a distance.

One of those people had been David.

At that moment, Honey's bracelet fell off her hands. Ace picked it up with his powers and Honey whispered, "Thanks, Acey". She tried to put it on, but her hands were shaking so much that Leroy reached out (reluctantly) to help her adjust the clasp.

She didn't take her eyes off the corpses. “Someone come pick them up,” Leroy ordered.

Ace pointed to the first group of people he encountered. “You,” he barked. The trio of anarchists trembled slightly. “You’ve heard Cyanide. Clean up this mess.”

He turned to tell Leroy and Honey to go with him to the office, but they had already made their way to Honey's quarters, while she was babbling about something insignificant and a cloud of agitated bees followed them. David was also not where he had last seen him, but found him turning his back on him and putting the supply crates in the warehouse.

The warehouse that was his responsibility. The warehouse that the Benitez twins had managed to steal from it without anyone noticing.

David couldn’t stay there. He would have to get him a new position, the sooner the better.

Being a hero was not doing things that everyone considered right. Being a hero was to be a revolutionary, one who was willing to make sacrifices to protect the people who were on his side. Especially when those sacrifices meant the death of traitors who only sought their own benefit, completely forgetting the rest of them.

To protect the people who were on his side. Not the enemy. Never the common good.

The common good was not something Ace believed in, because that would mean looking after his oppressors, and they had never looked after prodigies at any point in human history.

Why start doing it now that the tables have turned?

Perhaps those thoughts made him more than just a revolutionary. Ace was probably a visionary.

But did those thoughts make him a villain too?

***

And soon the moon will smolder,

and the winds will drive.

Yes, a man grows older, but his soul remains alive.

All those tremulous stars will glitter,

and I will survive!

Year 10, month 11

For a lot of people, the answer was yes.

Being a visionary was the same as being a villain.

No one had ever said that to his face, but Ace knew it was what they were thinking. He saw it on the journalist’s faces, who came from time to time to the cathedral to report the latest advances in some important mission or some notable event. He felt it in the air of the cathedral, where some of his allies bent down every time they saw him as if they were not worthy to look him in the eye. He felt it every time he looked at his brother's expressionless eyes, working in the basement that served as a workshop where he created weapons for the Anarchists.

However, none of those silent reproaches mattered to him. Ace knew what he was doing was the right thing. Even if that made him not fit into the perfect image society had in its head of what a hero should be.

Ace had learned that there were no heroes or villains. Not like everyone thought.

The world would one day understand it as well as he did. But in the meanwhile, he had to sit down and observe that embarrassing spectacle.

They had managed to fix the TV that was at the former’s bishop's office. The only channels that were still actually broadcasting anything, besides the same old shows over and over again, were the news channels. But then he decided to do it just when it was absolutely necessary, for example, when they lied or got too close to a truth the public didn't need to know.

After all, freedom of speech was a human right.

Leroy was sat on the comfy chair Honey always sat on when they were in Ace's office. David offered Honey his chair and she said that she expected no less from someone as chivalrous as him (“Definitely some men should start taking your example”), but then added he shouldn’t worry about it, Ace was surely going to allow her to sit on his desk. Ace didn't see why not. She even brought her pillow with her. She put it over the desk, at the exact place she was going to sit on, and had her eyes fixated on the TV like she were a little girl watching colorful cartoons.

They were broadcasting from the West Zone of the city. An Anarchist truck was on fire in the background of the image. The trio of prodigies that Ace himself had sent to exchange some weapons for medicines with the usual gangs they always trade with, were tied with a chrome chain as if they were animals. The sky was still blue, but the evening light made the clouds turn orange and illuminated the faces of the two figures standing at the base that held the statue of a man with a copper-colored helmet.

Ace had never seen that monument as an ode to himself. He didn’t even know it was there until David told him about it, after going out to the city to visit that girlfriend of his. It seemed that some prodigies had come together and built it on their own. They hadn't left a signature or a way to prove who were they, but they did leave a golden plaque that read: "Long live to anarchy".

To anarchy. Not him. He was just the face they had given it.

He thought that everyone would think the same, but apparently, that pair didn't see it that way.

Because again, apparently, that pair shared a single brain cell.

One of them had brown skin and his cape flapped in the wind. His entire body looked slightly translucent, probably due to the nervousness that caused him to have that many people looking at him. Ace had met enough prodigies to identify when their powers gave away their mood. However, most of the general public would not be able to know exactly what he was feeling, because a black mask covered most of his facial features and he was not saying a single word.

He was terrified.

Poor little thing… sure.

The other was blond and his eyes were full of courage. The more words that came out of his mouth, the more his cheeks turn red and the tighter he clenched his fists. He was also wearing a mask, but even someone less observant than Ace could tell exactly what he was feeling.

“…and now this!” he yelled at the crowd. “Now this statue! A statue in the middle of the city, as if having experienced firsthand all the misfortunes that his anarchist reign has brought to our lives has not been enough, now he wants to constantly remind us that he won. He won—” His voice cracked, and he tried to hide it by coughing. Honey burst out laughing. “—and he will keep winning until someone stops him!”

The boy in the cape put his hand on the monument. “You know what this reminds me of? It reminds me of loss.” He became invisible and within seconds, he was sitting on the statue's outstretched arm. “Because Ace Anarchy has taken away from us so many things—” He jumped off and fell gracefully onto the base again “—that he took our fear with him.”

“That’s why we are here,” the other continued. “We are fed up with Ace Anarchy and his government, and I'm sure you are too.” He took a deep breath and smiled at the nearest camera. “But we don't blame you if you still don't understand. There is nothing wrong with being paralyzed with fear. That is what Ace Anarchy has wanted us to do during these ten years that he has been in power. The good news is that there is a cure for fear, and that cure is hope.”

A young, dark-skinned reporter pushed her way through the crowd. Her microphone had a number five printed on it, and Ace recognized the channel immediately.

He had killed one of its journalists after she refused to stop digging graves. He had to do it; if she dug too much, she would surely have found Alec Artino's body.

After all, freedom of speech was a human right. Messing up with the dead was just a quicker way for you to end up like them.

“Georgia Rawles, for Channel Five,” the reporter said with a heavy breath. “I think we're all asking ourselves the same question about—” She tried to search for the correct words, but the time was running out and she couldn’t find it, so she sighed and just blurted out, “Who are you?”

Leroy rolled his eyes. “More reporters like her, please...” he mumbled sarcastically.

She handed the microphone to the one with the cape. For a few seconds, he was almost completely invisible, but the insistence of the reporter Rawles brought him back to reality and his voice did not tremble as his legs did when he said: “We are that hope.”

The other boy tapped Georgia Rawles’ shoulder and she swiftly passed him the microphone.

He never stopped smiling. “We are the Renegades.”

Georgia Rawles drew back slightly. He couldn’t tell whether her expression was one of horror or joy because right after replying, the boy smashed the monument to anarchy with a single blow and turned it into pieces.

They both jumped from the base before the monument could crash them. Dread Warden and Captain Chromium ran towards the city, without any reporter bothering to follow them.

Ace turned off the television with his powers, and for about five seconds, neither of them spoke.

“They're not good at picking aliases,” Honey spat out of nowhere.

“So that’s the problem you have with this?” Leroy blurted out.

“Dread Warden… that has nothing to do with his powers,” Honey explained as if she were explaining to a five-year-old why the sky is blue. “And Captain Chromium is too… cheesy to be a real alias. Are we sure they were serious when they gave their names to the reporters from the first channel that arrived on the scene?” She cleared her throat and said (trying so hard to imitate the voice of a teenage boy whose voice hadn’t change yet), “He won,” before burst out laughing again.

“How mature of you…” David muttered.

“Do you have something to say, brother?” Ace asked.

For a second, he thought that David would not answer him, as he had been doing lately whenever he asked him that question. However, this time he did not remain silent and turned to see him. Not in the eyes, of course. “Actually, I do.”

Ace leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead then.”

“I don't think we should take this lightly.”

Honey scoffed. “Who says we are taking this lightly? The invisible twink and his lesbian boyfriend hate us, so what? They’re not the first ones, like… get in line, girl.”

“Well, you don’t seem too worried about the whole situation, to be honest.”

“It's because Honey doesn't shut up about the names thing, right?” Leroy asked in a slightly teasing tone.

“It's just my marketing major talking,” Honey said, slightly kicking him, barefoot. “I know about branding and stuff.”

“You dropped out.”

She put on her left heel and kicked Leroy. “You too!”

David massaged his temple. Ace turned around in his rotating chair and looked out the window. The sky had turned the same color as the clouds.

“Alec,” David called him. “It seems like… they—the Renegades think of themselves as heroes, and… they see you as the villain. I don't know, they could be a real threat, you shouldn't ignore them.”

Ace really wanted to tell David to just go back to his workshop. What did he know? They were just a couple of children who had destroyed a monument, who hadn't even been able to reveal their true identities and hid the entire time behind their masks, like criminals.

They were not a real threat.

But then, the seventeen-year-old Ace Anarchy appeared on the other side of the window, challenging him to finish that sentence inside his head. The seventeen-year-old Ace Anarchy who had dismantled entire governments and liberated millions of prodigies simply by wearing that helmet and its powers.

And when Ace blinked again, it was no longer the dark eyes of his old self that were staring at him from the glass, but the gray eyes of Captain Chromium, with that smug and arrogant smile, that he used to charm the cameras moments ago, passing his fingers through his hair as if his life depended on it.

Ace couldn’t look away from him.

He resembled Ace, but it was not enough. The old Ace didn't smile at his oppressors and he didn't have an unhealthy obsession with his hair either. He did not seek to protect people to win their affection, because he didn’t care if people like him or not, he knew he was doing the right thing.

The old Ace was not a kid playing to be a superhero, because superheroes didn't exist in the first place.

When he blinked, none of them were there anymore. Just his present self.

He smiled at himself to regain confidence.

Ace had learned that there were no heroes or villains. Captain Chromium was going to have to learn it too, and soon. Ace was willing to be the one to teach him that lesson.

And he would, whether he liked it or not.

***

There was a dream, a dying ember.

There was a dream, I don't remember,

but I will resurrect that dream,

though rivers stream and hills grow steeper.

For here in hell where life gets cheaper.

Oh, here in hell the blood runs deeper!

And when the final duel is near, I'll lift my spear and fly!

Year 20, month 5

The main difference between Ace and his brother was that David always fled at the first sign of danger. Always.

When the boys at his school began to suspect that he was a prodigy, David skipped school for weeks, getting his clothes dirty enough to make it look like he had spent breaks running after a ball along with his bullies. When his mother slapped him with the hot metal spoon, yelling he would not eat dinner that night, they both hid in the closet of his room, while David hugged him tightly and sobbed, telling him he rather be dead. When his father came home from work a few hours later and almost killed him, David took them both out of that house and out of Italy.

He said it was because he knew that the next beating would be the last and that when he was gone, Mr. Artino was going to focus all his anger on Alec, who would end up having the same fate as David. He didn't want that for his little nightmare.

What he didn't count on was that if Ace had been in his place, he would have turned around and slammed the bullies into the concrete wall of the school. He would have endured hunger and weariness with dignity and would have killed his father before he could touch a single one of his hairs. Ace wouldn't have turned his back on his problems. Ace would have fought for himself, just as for twenty years he had been fighting for all prodigies.

And now this.

He always knew that David didn't have what it took to be an anarchist. He was too deep in his own thoughts to even make an effort to listen to him. Ace had decided not to bother to explain to him the whole situation because there was no force on Earth able to change his mind anyway, and he had much more important things to worry about.

They were both sitting in the tiny white dining room in the apartment where he, Tala, and the girls lived. Ace had arrived unexpectedly so she had put more water to boil because the one they had put in for breakfast had cooled down. She apologized for the inconvenience, but he assured her that there was no problem, she could take all the time she needed. David had a cup of cold tea in his hands. He had never lost that disgusting habit of biting his nails.

No, David was not an anarchist. But Ace never thought he was a traitor.

Not until now.

The kettle began to boil at the same time the baby cried from the other room.

Tala turned off the stove and Ace could tell she was debating between pouring his tea or going to see what was going on.

“Don't worry,” Ace said walking towards her, “I'll serve it, you go take care of your daughter. Would you like me to make one for you too? "

He knew he intimidated people, but Tala took it to another level. She looked at her feet the whole time, her hands were shaking and she didn’t even answer the question before running into the next room, where Nova was complaining about her little sister's cries.

Ace took another splintered mug from the cupboard. With his powers, of course. The place looked clean (they probably spent a lot of time cleaning for lack of other hobbies), but he didn't trust them. “I've always said it: Tala is a lovely woman,” he said.

David didn't even flinch.

He had never been good at hiding his feelings.

“How does she like her tea?”

“Uh?”

He put his hands behind his back and opened the jar where they kept the chamomile tea. “How does Tala like tea?” he asked again.

David finally came back to reality. “Oh… three of sugar. She likes to add three spoons of sugar.”

Ace tried his best not to roll his eyes. I see this wife of yours wants to give herself cavities.

By the time the tea was served, the baby had stopped crying and Tala left the room again, with Nova following her. “Uncle Alec!”

David and Tala turned to see her with a single exclamation on their lips.

No.

But they didn't say anything. It was too late. Nova was already hugging his legs and Ace was stroking her strands of poorly cut hair. “Good morning, Nova, how are you?”

“Terrible,” Nova replied in all honesty. “Evie has been si—“

“Tala, Alec made you some tea,” David interrupted suddenly.

“Oh, that’s true.” He levitated the cup towards her and couldn't help but smile when he saw her recoil as the cup approached her, wondering if this was how she would see the barrel of a pistol approaching her forehead. “With three tablespoons of sugar. Just the way you like it.”

For the first time, Tala looked at him. “I don't like my tea with sugar,” she said in a calm voice. She shot David a stern look. “I thought we have talked about it.”

David looked so... small and weak. “I forgot about it. I'm sorry.”

But that "I'm sorry" didn't sound at all like the "I'm sorry" someone says when the only wrong they've done is forgetting how their wife prepares her tea.

It was the "sorry" of a traitor.

It was the "sorry" that Ace was waiting to receive.

Then he held out the other cup. “I apologize, that was my mistake. Take this cup then. I don't like to add sugar to my tea either.”

Tala accepted the cup. She took a sip and Ace recognized that micro-expression of disgust as she felt the hot chamomile water touch her palate.

It didn't surprise him that she had lied to him. That whole family was full of liars.

Nova turned to see her dad, laughing as only a child could laugh. “Oh, silly papà…” she said, hiding her head in his uncle's neck.

David smiled almost imperceptibly and raised his arms slightly so that Nova could run into them.

It reminded him a lot of when he wanted Alec to run into his arms.

But, like Alec, Nova didn't go to him. She liked being in her uncle's arms. “Oh, silly papà” Ace repeated. “Silly, silly papà...”

And the imperceptible smile disappeared completely.

“What were you saying, Nova?” he asked. "Moments ago. Are you having a terrible day? "

Nova knew immediately what he was talking about. She wasn't too busy drowning in the bitter taste of her lies. “It's just that Evie hasn't stopped crying for days,” she exclaimed with a face of pure exasperation. “We have given her everything, but nothing calms her down, and I always have to—”

“Alec, I have to tell you something.”

David had stood up and his fists were clenched on the splintered table. His knuckles had turned white and his bushy eyebrows betrayed the real nervousness behind all that facade of sternness.

He was so pleased by the image that he didn't even comment on how inappropriate it was to interrupt a woman when she was giving her point of view on something, or when Tala took advantage of this seemingly distracting moment to snatch Nova from his arms.

That was the moment. David was going to ask for forgiveness. He was going to break as he had broken that night when they were hidden inside the closet and just as he had begged his abusive father before he smashed his head against the nightstand. He would tell him that he regretted betraying him and that from now on, he would agree with him on everything. He would accept that he had never been anything but a coward who escaped trouble at the first opportunity and would run into Ace’s arms one more time.

That was the time for David to choose Ace as the god to whom he would pray for mercy.

That was the moment.

But of course, it would have been too dangerous. Therefore, he was not at all surprised, when he looked down at his teacup again and blurted out, “Evelyn has been very ill, and… we have run out of options. You know I wouldn't bother you with this if it wasn't important, but I wanted to know if… you know.”

“If I could get some medicine for Evelyn?”

David nodded energetically. “That's right.”

Ace pretended to stop to think about it. He wanted to see the desperation in his eyes and wanted him to suffer at the thought that he might never get the much-needed medicine for his little daughter.

He wanted David to suffer in every possible way he could, and when he thought it was going to break, Ace replied, “I think I have a contact that could help us with it.”

“When will you—”

“And with that medicine, Evie is finally going to stop crying?”

Now it was Nova's turn to interrupt him. If he weren't so blinded by the pain he wanted to inflict on his brother, he probably would have had found the act of Nova being the one interrupting her father delightful.

Tala tried to hide Nova with her arms when Ace approached them, but it was useless because he used his powers to gently pull Nova towards him, making her laugh out loud at the feeling that the levitation caused in her entire body. “I assure you, Nova, that with that medicine Evie will stop crying,” he replied, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “But in the meantime, you have to help your mom and papà, and keep doing what you say you do to calm her down. Now… how do you calm down your little sister?”

“I put her to sleep.”

David threw down a chair and ran over to Nova. Ace felt like she had been snatched from his arms again.

Having the two of them there, side by side, made him more aware of how similar they looked. Although Nova had always been a perfect mix of her two parents, Ace was much of the idea that one could know a lot about a person by looking into their eyes.

Nova had the same eyes as her father, but without the golden details that gave away the stardust that David was able to manipulate since birth.

The fact that their eyes were very similar but not identical could mean a lot of things. Perhaps it was that Nova had the worst quality of her mother and the only prodigious thing inside her was the half of the blood that ran through her veins. It would be a shame. The world did not need the oppressors to continue to reproduce with the oppressed and to gradually extinguish the spark with their inferior genes each prodigy had. It was only one of the thousand ways in which they were slowly annihilating them.

However, it could also mean that Nova was not like David, but not in the sense of being or not being a prodigy. Maybe those golden sparks were actually that her brother's soul had been born rusty and that was what would never allow him to see the world as Ace did. Instead, Nova did her name justice and could symbolize a new beginning for them, much like the supernova that granted them their powers had been.

For a second, she saw Nova not as a child, but as raw and pure potential.

Did he know? Was David aware of how precious was what his rough hands were holding?

“She sings her to sleep,” he explained hastily. “Nova loves spending time with her little sister, and she loves carrying her. Whenever she cries she insists that we let her hold her and that always calms her down. It is like—”

“Magic?”

David hesitated. “Yes… magic.”

Nova played with the collar of her dad's shirt, thinking about God knows what, until something made click inside her brain. “Uncle Ace!”

“Yes, Nova?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but David silenced her with a severe look.

Ace offered Tala his help with washing the dishes before leaving. He assured them that he would be back as soon as possible and asked Nova to kiss little Evie goodnight for him. He gave Tala a quick (and unrequited) kiss on the cheek and a handshake to David.

The same hands that could have defended themselves from the abusers, that could have stopped the burning spoon before it slapped him, and those that could have wrapped around their father's neck before blood stained the old carpet in the room.

He decided that there would be no survivors. Not even the ghost of David.

David always ran from danger, but now he was the danger that could destroy what it took Ace years to build. Ace wasn't running from him. Ace noticed it, faced it, and defeated it.

Because, in the end, Ace Anarchy was the real danger.

***

Piercing into the sky and higher,

and the strong will thrive.

Yes, the weak will cower while the fittest will survive

If we wait for the darkest hour,

'till we spring alive...

He had already been to the dome of the cathedral on other occasions. The first time he had done it, it was dark. The entire city was in lockdown and there was not a single light because Ace had managed to uproot the building that provided basic service to all the city. Then, he thought that maybe, just maybe, that night the sky would be so clear that he would be able to see the stars. And what better place for stargazing than the dome of the cathedral.

He was right. He could see every last star. Their light was not like the light posts in the parks or the lamps in his old room. Their light was energy, it was strength, and it was sheer power.

They were so present in the sky and seemed so close to his fingertips that he felt one of them himself. But he did not believe that his energy, his strength, and his power was similar to that of any of those stars; it would be like reducing himself to being something that he was not, so he could fit into a mold that he did not to fit in and please people who did not appreciate him.

And like that, under the stars and on the dome of that cathedral, the birth of anarchy was announced with the explosion of a supernova.

Ace Anarchy was a supernova. Ace Anarchy was born on that dome.

Now he wondered if he was going to die there too.

Hugh Everhart was in front of him. He didn't move a single muscle and he didn't make a single face, not even when Ace spat his name like it was a blasphemy. With one hand he held his spear and with the other, he clung to the piece of cloth that passed through his chest and that held a baby dozing on his back. He took a step forward, and Ace imitated him, too blinded by adrenaline to even think that this image was too good to be true and that Hugh Everhart would never give himself up like this, on a silver platter, and without his allies by his side, unless he didn't plan on giving himself up in the first place.

It was the worst mistake he could have made. And he didn't even notice it until he began to feel… that.

It was as if he was being absorbed. Someone ran their hands from his head to the tips of his toes, causing the feeling of lightness with which he had lived for so long to gradually fade away. The cars he launched, the walls, and the corpses he used as weapons against the friends and relatives of the dead were growing heavier and Ace had never carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. At least not that way.

Never like this.

The fire inside him was getting smaller, and smaller, and the only thing that seemed to remain was a single spark.

Ace stepped back, but Hugh Everhart kept on walking towards him.

There came a time when there was no more dome Ace could stand on and he fell to his knees.

For that thousandth of a second, he felt the presence of Tala and the baby behind him, looking at him with a deadpan expression. David's ghost, made of the same stardust that his fingers could manipulate, laid his hand on his shoulder and a tear, bright and white, fell on the fabric of his trench coat.

It was a pure tear, waiting to be paid for with another tear that was just as pure as the first one. But Ace had long since lost the ability to cry.

Hugh Everhart pulled the helmet off his head with such force that he backed away a couple of meters. The air swiped away the ghosts of his brother, his wife, and daughter, leaving only Alec Artino, with his knobby knees and messy hair, looking at him as the lost child in the middle of the battlefield that he was.

He ran towards him and wrapped his thin and fragile arms around him telling him that perhaps it was time to accept his own humanity.

Because… what is Ace Anarchy without his helmet?

His enemy readied his spear and Ace turned to see the boy asking the question, who was looking at him as if his mere presence was the answer.

What was Ace Anarchy without his helmet? Was he that weak child, with a stuffy nose and restless hands? Was he the man he saw in the reflection of his eyes, with a sloppy beard and deep dark circles?

Was he the ghost he would soon become?

Alec held Ace by the cheeks, with those bony little hands that were always cold, no matter how many gloves he wore or how many times David wrapped his around them and rubbed them to keep them warm.

And then he asked him, “How do you kill a god?”

The answer was what brought him back to reality and the one that made him realize, that it had only been a couple of seconds from the moment he fell to his knees and now that he was standing up, Alec’s ghost fading for the last time.

Because David and Alec Artino should have died completely since day one. In a perfect world, the only one alive was Ace Anarchy.

Someday, that vision of a perfect world would become real, and neither Alec nor David would be there to intervene.

Someday...

The only thing that remained inside of him was a spark, but even a single spark could start the biggest of fires.

How do you kill a god?

How do you kill Ace Anarchy?

Oh, my little nightmare.

You don’t.

And with that, he spread his arms and leaped straight into the flames.

...then with claws of fire, we devour like a falcon in the dive!

#multifandom gift exchange 2020 #renegades #archenemies #supernova #renegades trilogy #alec james artino #ace anarchy #david artino #honey harper #leroy flinn #queen bee #obsi's writs #falcon in the dive

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mortuarybees · 5 years

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mr. Bees i sprained my ankle and am bedridden until further notice, please rec me ur fav fics under 8k (that adhd attention span is fun)

I’m so sorry to hear about your ankle!! I’d be happy to rec some fics. i’m only tagging authors if they have their urls listed with the fic! if you want me to add your url, just lmk :). also if my mutuals have posted fics feel free to put them in the replies bc yall have Taste:

salinity and other measurements of brackish water by drawlight / @drawlight - 3.5k - if you haven’t read salinity yet, drop absolutely everything and do it right now because it’s phenomenal and atmospheric and it absolutely aches!!! “It's an odd thing, getting on after the End of the World. Crowley takes to sea-watching.”

quiet light and ad astra (explicit) by drawlight @drawlight - the first clocks in at around 2k and the second at 8k. it’s the shortest and most effective slowburn i have ever read. quiet light is unconfessed love; ad astra is a love confession and first time and they’re beautiful

everything just stops by witching - 4.5k - idk how long you’ve been following me but when i first read it i FULLY had a meltdown and took all of you with me. it’s that “i love you deep, angel” shit “I love your silly aziraphale things” shit! they have the tenderest fucking conversation in literary history while crowley is drunk in a bath it’s wonderful

a culmination of miracles by prettydizzeed / @genderqueercrowley - 1.3k - an absolutely beautifully written fic about crowley having chronic pain and informing aziraphale about it six thousand years later

i keep a window for you (it’s always open) by prettydizzeed / @genderqueercrowley - 2.4k - a complete fkcing war crime of a fic of crowley getting emotional about romeo and juliet and continuing to be emotional about it for centuries and then, even worse, quoting r+j in a love confession.

such surpassing brightness by handful_of_silence - 7.7k - one of my favorite fics of all time! aziraphale is the patron of queer people and has been for thousands of years! fuck!

it’s the light (it’s the obstacle that casts it) by handful_of_silence - 5.7k - “The Patron Saint of London's LGBT Community is real, and he lives in Soho.” aziraphale and crowley speak polari. literally so up my alley i melted when i saw it

your hair was long when we first met by aziraphvle / @aziraphvle - 1.4k - crowley asks aziraphale to cut his hair and we are taken on a thousand-word journey about how aziraphale loves his hair and loves him and it’s. a whole lot. bringing samson by regina spektor into it was entirely uncalled for. again i am Weak for aziraphale loving and caring for crowley.

and then i will kneel down (explicit) - 5.4k - f. fleabag omens. it’s the confession scene but it’s aziraphale and crowley. it is More than you could ever possibly imagine

hard feelings/loveless by witching - 2.3k - "Aziraphale said it was like the opposite of the feeling you’re having when you say things like “this feels spooky.” Crowley didn’t know what to make of that, but he expected it was something like the opposite of the feeling you get when the only person who truly knows you makes a cryptic remark suggesting that you can’t understand love. Crowley understood love all too well.”

the saddest part of my day by witching - 3k - "crowley is preparing to leave on a demonic assignment, and he's very nervous about leaving aziraphale in charge in his absence.” they have a very open and honest and loving and very adult conversation about their feelings and tbh? That’s My Kink

summer and his pleasures by witching (explicit) - 7.2k - “absence makes the heart grow fonder, and crowley and aziraphale’s hearts were plenty fond to begin with. a story told through phone calls while they are separated for work-related reasons.”

penance by blissymbolics / @blissymbolics (explicit) - 5.9k - praise kink/crowley finally gets off after six thousand years of trying

like a prayer for which no words exist by lipsstainedbloodred - 8.1k - “In which Crowley and Aziraphale do not dine at the Ritz after that nasty business with Heaven and Hell, and Crowley has an existential crisis instead.”

men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that by mercuryhatter - 713 words - Robbie Ross’ funeral. “Aziraphale finds an age slipping away from him.”

where you stay i will stay by mercuryhatter - 866 words - men at the Hundred Guineas Club went by women’s names. aziraphale chose naomi and paid to keep the name ruth available in case crowley woke up. aaaaa

the hour/the spot/the look/the words by planethunter - 2.5k - “Crowley watches Pride and Prejudice (2005) and it spurs a realisation.” you can imagine what a trial it is to read p+p 2005 being brought into good omens but life is nothing but suffering apparently, i’ve learned that this summer through this fandom

and the punchline to the joke is asking SOMEONE SAVE US by princex_N / @princex-n - 5.8k - “The fact of the matter is that Crowley was the first bitter cripple to limp across the face of this planet. It's been 6000 years and things don't seem to have gotten much better.”

birds of a feather by idiopathicsmile - 3.6k - idiopathicsmile of world ain’t ready fame. if your life can be divided into Before Les Mis and After Les Mis, you understand. “Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals.”

covet by mirawonderfulstar / @mirawonderfulstar - 2.4k - “Aziraphale, little good though it did him, wanted desperately. He wanted with an urgency that scared him. He wanted wine, and cocoa, and the occasional tea. He wanted gravlax with dill sauce, and Pappardelle Bolognese, and those awful little iced biscuits they had at Tesco at Christmastime. He wanted dinners at the Ritz and long walks in the park and late nights in the back room of his shop. He wanted Crowley. Fervently, achingly, he wanted Crowley.”

indellible by greased_lightning_rod / @aziraphallist (explicit) - “It turns out glitter is miracle-proof and, also, that it itches. Crowley needs some help preening. He gets a bit more than he bargained for.” Wing kink. yall know i’m weak for aziraphale taking care of crowley sue me

get religion quick (cause you’re looking divine) by brinnanza - 4.2k - “So it was fine. Even if Crowley couldn’t love him, he clearly liked him well enough, and that was almost the same thing. It no doubt would have continued to be fine, or at least fine-adjacent, were it not for a narrowly averted apocalypse and several bottles of a really quite nice Riesling Aziraphale had found in the back room of his newly restored bookshop.”

the nuances of “together” by mirawonderfulstar @mirawonderfulstar 2.8k - “Everybody in the whole world can tell Aziraphale and Crowley are a couple. Everyone except, apparently, Crowley.”

listen (he’s already told you five times) by darcylindbergh / @forineffablereasons - 1.8k - “Not everything Crowley says is said out loud. Aziraphale doesn't always hear him at first, but he's learning to stop being surprised.” Love!!! Languages!

sudden and surprising moments of overwhelming affection by darcylindbergh @forineffablereasons - 2.7k - “Aziraphale has not shut up in thirty-four minutes. Crowley’s been counting.” O More I Love Your Silly Aziraphale Things Shit. if you’re a neurotic talkative gay and insecure about it that particular genre of good omens fic is ruinous.

things truly terrible by darcylindbergh / @forineffablereasons - 1.2k - “Crowley has said some truly terrible things over the years, but this was the worst.” tooth-rotting-sweet love song-fueled confession.

tell me all the ways by tinsnip - 1.6k - “Crowley was out in the garden. Aziraphale was in his study, most definitely not looking out the window. Really. Really. One little speck of sentiment: was it so much to ask?” More! Love! Languages!

a name for earth by regencysnuffboxes - 1.1k - “Demons can’t say holy names, and Aziraphael accommodates his new friend accordingly.”

a home at the beginning of the world by stereobone / @stereobone - 5.8k - crowley just kind of. moves in with aziraphale. Meaningful Interior Decorating! Couch Metaphor! yall know what i’m weak for

#i hope you're back on your feet soon!#and i hope these keep you occupied until then :)#henry speaks #good omens #fic rec #caniwritemywayout

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phyripo · 4 years

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33 with EstLiet? 👀

33. “You’re cute with glasses.”

Yeee! I’m so sorry that this took an actual century! What happened is: I wrote three separate stories for this prompt pretty quickly, didn’t like two of them and accidentally turned the third into a different pairing (but I did like it so I will post it in the near future), got discouraged, read the entirety of Return of the King in procrastination, and then I wrote this high fantasy... Thing. Honestly, I’m still not sure I’m satisfied and it’s very Out There considering the prompt but yeaH,, I hope you like it anyway :V

uhh so names are pretty straightforward but y’know, Tolys is Liet, Eduard is Est, Raivis is Lat, Erzsébet is Hun and Nadzeya is Bela c:

Finally, they have arrived in the southern Elven kingdom, and Tolys’s Elvish traveling companions have been whisked away by their kin immediately, expectedly. This has left him with only Raivis, who is sitting on a high table and looking around in wonder at the Elven building. His small legs swing out as he leans back on his hands.

“I knew we were traveling with an Elven Queen,” he says, “but this is all so incredible!”

Tolys nods. He could never have predicted that his search for his family’s long-lost heirlooms might lead him to find company in not only Raivis, who is most likely the first of his kind to travel so far south, but also in a party of three northern Elves seeking to join their kin in the newly reclaimed southern kingdom. Let alone could he have foreseen, of course, that one of them would actually be the Queen-in-exile.

“Everyone will be so jealous back home,” Raivis is now saying, as he inspects the fine, light clothes the Elves have gifted them. Although the lands remain yet war-torn, the Elves of the south have been more than generous to the Halfling and the Man. Tolys wagers that Erzsébet has been exaggerating their involvement in overcoming the obstacles on the way here. She acted as the Queen’s guard and became fond of Raivis in particular, having hardly met his kind before.

It's also difficult not to be fond of Raivis in general, Tolys thinks.

As approachable as Erzsébet was, with none of the expected Eleven superiority or contempt, so closed off and cool were Queen Nadzeya and the Elven clerk, Eduard. At least, when first they met. Both of them looked like northern Elves, tall and pale with hair of starlight and eyes like the lakes in their kingdom, and Tolys had been starstruck by their otherworldliness, thinking at first that Eduard must be a prince himself. However, he was merely a scribe, traveling along to record the Queen’s journey south, and he was, in fact, Erzsébet’s cousin.

“Do you think we’re allowed to leave?” Raivis asks, jumping the considerable height off the table so that his bare feet thud on the wooden floor. The buildings here have been rigged up by some ingenious engineering, or perhaps magic, between the jagged mountains and the unnaturally tall trees.

Many of the trees were felled over the past centuries, since the Elves were driven away far before Tolys was born, and more yet torn down in the battle to reclaim the land. It hadn’t been difficult to feel his companions’ sorrow as they entered their kingdom. Erzsébet had appeared particularly upset at the jagged wood, and Eduard had sung softly to the earth itself. New sprouts were already coming up.

Tolys imagines Raivis wants to take a look at the young trees himself—Halflings, that much he has learned, have a fondness for all growing things.

“We weren’t told to stay here, were we?”

Raivis shrugs, standing on his tiptoes to peer out of the window. His blond curls barely reach the edge. He gasps.

“Tolys, Nadzeya is coming over here!”

Raivis never quite warmed up to the Queen, which, in all honesty, Tolys doesn’t blame him for. She is so intimidatingly beautiful that it’s difficult to see past. It took him many weeks, and he attributes it to his upbringing more than anything.

Now, he stands and opens the door at her knock.

Unsure what the proper Elven greeting for a monarch is, he bows.

“Welcome, Your Majesty.”

Raivis follows his example, albeit with a stutter and clasping his hands together in what must be the way of the Halflings.

Nadzeya blinks, silent. Her eyelids are painted dark as ever—apparently a sign of mourning in the north, for family she lost in the battle for the south. Erzsébet had marked her body with intricate ink patterns in the southern way. Eduard had cut his hair short. He had, he told Tolys, lost his younger brother in the fight led by the southern Prince.

It’s still difficult to believe that he is related to Erzsébet. They look so little alike.

All of a sudden, Nadzeya laughs, just for a second as if startled into it. It definitely startles Tolys and Raivis in turn.

“Your—” Tolys starts. She shakes her head sharply.

“Oh, please, I’ve had enough of that for a few centuries. Eduard is looking for you, I think you’ll find he has important news.” She rolls her eyes. “The idiot.”

Tolys bristles a little on Eduard’s behalf, and Nadzeya snorts in the most un-royal manner. She isn’t wearing any kind of crown now, not even the silver circlet she wore to travel. Her hair is, in fact, completely unbound. He knows that is unusual for Elves. Maybe, it’s part of some sort of ceremony or ritual.

“Where can I find Eduard…” He bites his lip. It feels strange not to add an honorific. “My Lady?”

“You know what, even that’s too much.” Nadzeya’s expression is unreadable, as usual. “As for Eduard; he is, of course, in the library. We have some extensive genealogies preserved of important families of Men.”

“Ah,” Tolys breathes, now recognizing the amused spark in her eyes. “Yes, of course. Where…”

Gesturing, Nadzeya says, “That way, the building says library. I know you read Elvish.”

“Shall I come?” Raivis asks nervously, glancing up at the Queen. Tolys shakes his head.

“I’ll return shortly.”

As he leaves, he hears Nadzeya say something dry to the Halfling, and hopes he will be all right.

It seems odd for the Queen to be out like this, but then again, what does he really know about Elvish traditions? Let alone courtly ones? Perhaps, this is just how it goes around here.

It is a short walk to the library, and he meets no one on his way there. More Elves are expected to arrive over the coming year, to help restore the kingdom and make it the thriving realm it once was, but as of yet, very few are here.

Eduard is easy to spot. The Elf sits by a window, pale hair shimmering in the golden sunlight. He’s shielding a scroll from the sun, long fingers skimming over the parchment. With his other hand, he adjusts—

“I have never seen an Elf wear eyeglasses before,” Tolys finds himself saying.

Eduard starts, looking up at him through the round spectacles, pinched on his nose with golden a golden frame.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

At that, he smiles and shakes his head. He carefully rolls the scroll and slides it back into its casing.

“I don’t mind at all.” He adjusts the frames, smiling faintly. “It’s good to have them back. My handwriting is much better when I can see what I’m writing.”

Tolys takes a seat at the high desk across from his Elven friend, glancing down at the scroll’s tube. He bites down on a wry smile.

“That’s good. They look nice. You’re—you’re cute with glasses.”

“That…” Eduard is stunned silent, which is endearing, and obviously not thinking about the scroll at all, which is good. “Cute?”

“Hm.” Tolys bites his lip and leans his chin in his hand. “Like a young Halfling would be, I imagine.”

“I’ve never—do you know how old I am?”

Interested, Tolys leans forward. He actually does not know. It was enough to understand that he was the youngest in their little company. Raivis, despite appearances, is almost forty years old, a few years older than Tolys. Halflings age slowly. Elves, of course, hardly age at all.

“Two thousand two hundred and twenty-two years old, and you call me cute.” He sounds more amused than indignant. It’s quite a pleasant sound.

“That’s a nice number,” Tolys says absently, much more interested in the sparkle that has entered Eduard’s light eyes than the glasses itself.

“I suppose it is.” He glances away. Sighs, and laces his long, elegant fingers together in front of his chest. “I was injured during the first battle. It damaged my sight.”

“I apologize.”

“No need. Most Elves use charms to see when such injuries occur, but we passed through a human kingdom on the way north, where I was introduced to eyeglasses like these. I find that they’re much less straining.”

Tolys know the story of the Elven refugees well.

“The kingdom of Vilnius,” he whispers. He cannot help but look at the scroll again, the familiar crest on the case. If his father had known the Elves kept all those histories here, protected for centuries…

“Indeed.”

They study each other for a long while. Tolys knows he doesn’t look like much to an Elf, even after being given the opportunity to bathe in a natural hotspring and festooned with an outfit far too fine for the likes of him. He isn’t terribly tall, and his brown hair is always a mess, curling when he doesn’t want it to and getting in his face despite his best efforts. Eduard is… Well, he’s an Elf. While they were on the road, it was easy to imagine that they were friends, and perhaps they are, still. But Tolys has no illusions that it will be the same. That he will ever get the chance to address the profound trust he has in Eduard, the appreciation for his almost Mannish groundedness but Elven whims at the same time.

Especially not when Eduard, who’s possibly the smartest being Tolys has ever met, clearly know that Tolys has lied to him, if just by omission.

“I met Queen Saulė, as we fled north,” Eduard eventually says, voice soft. “They said she had eyes like the plains of her kingdom, but they reminded me of the forest I left behind.”

Tolys lowers his own eyes. He studies the elegant woodgrain of this desk, that had stood here for all that time. It must have been protected somehow, and it wouldn’t surprise him if Eduard himself had placed the guarding charms.

“I know you looked familiar.”

With a sigh, he meets Eduard’s eye.

“I am the first in a long time, my father has told me, to have her eyes.” He tucks his hair away. “He saw it as a sign, especially after the Elves went south. It’s an age for reclaiming, he said.”

“Maybe, he was right,” Eduard says, looking thoughtful. “When Vilnius fell and your people were exiled like mine, the north came to their aid. We weren’t many and couldn’t fight for the realm, but we have since preserved the symbols of Queen Saulė’s power. Your family’s power.”

“What?” Tolys blurts. In his shock, he nearly topples of his stool, and Eduard grasps his arm, fingers cool through his fine green tunic. He smiles.

“That is what your father wants you to find, isn’t it?”

Tolys nods, wide-eyed.

“My people will bring the Sunstaff south. You may take it, and we would send Elves with you to take Vilnius, if you wish.”

“That—no—but.” Tolys takes a very deep breath. “I’ve lied to you. I lied to the Queen. Will Nadzeya even—”

Eduard ducks his head, clearing his throat. The pointed tips of his ears flush.

“I lied,” Tolys repeats faintly. Raivis knew, because just wanted to help, but…

“Yes, you did, but it’s no matter.” Again, Eduard clears his throat, and he finally removes his hand from Tolys’s arm to adjust his eyeglasses. “Not when your lie was no greater than any of ours.”

“What do you mean?”

He keeps fiddling with his glasses. The gesture is endearing, strangely.

“I hope… I hope you can forgive us—me. It would be a terrible loss to lose your…” He meets Tolys’s gaze, his eyes like sea-glass, strong yet brittle and colored like a quiet tide. “Companionship.”

“Nadzeya isn’t the Queen, is she?”

“Nadzeya is a northern noble. Her brother and sister followed my brother as he rode out.”

“Your brother.”

“I tried to stop him, but he was so young, barely an adult when we left the south. I always knew he would be the one to lead the quest, and I think I always knew I would lose him for it.”

“Your brother led the Elves?” Tolys feels quite heavy as the understanding of what this means dawns on him. “Your brother was the Prince-in-exile.”

“He was.” He sighs. “And a stubborn fool, too.”

“But that means you…” He bites his lip. “Erzsébet is the Queen.”

“Indeed. We decided to travel incognito.”

There had been some skirmishes on the road, nasty traveling beasts and Men who always went for Nadzeya on her horse, attracted to her gown and jewels even if they weren’t aware she was the supposed Queen. Tolys had thought it seemed inadvisable to travel with such a small party, at least at first. Erzsébet, who not only had mourning inks but also warrior’s lines and scars across her body, could probably have fought all the enemies off by herself, especially because they never paid attention to her, but Tolys was glad to help, and Nadzeya defended herself admirably with an innate magic that hurt Tolys’s eyes and head whenever he tried to look at the crackling darkness.

More than before, he feels for Nadzeya, because her position in this was one where she could be killed, and she had evidently taken that risk willingly.

Eduard wasn’t much of a fighter, but he held his own, and so did Raivis, much to the Elves’ surprise. Tolys already knew Halflings were a hardy folk.

“But… Why put any of you in danger like that?” he asks. “Why not travel with the larger caravan, or pretend none of you were royalty?”

Eduard smiles wryly, pushing his short hair away from his handsome face.

“It was known the Queen would travel south—rumors have wings—and the larger caravan will also have an Elf pretend to be her. It was mainly Erzsébet’s idea to go swiftly, before the enemies gather larger groups.” He sighs. “I am sorry I couldn’t tell you. I don’t wish to lose your trust.”

Tolys reaches across the desk, although he refrains from touching the Elven clerk.

“You haven’t.”

And, really, it is easy to see how this was the best decision given the circumstances, similar to how he hid the nature of his own quest from the Elves. Eduard looks at his hand, the rough fingers so different to his own slender ones. With a curious frown, he touches them quickly.

“Then, I thank you, Tolys of Vilnius.”

“Thank you,” he breathes in return, gaze flicking to the scroll again.

“I would be honored to come with you, of course,” Eduard continues, adjusting his glasses again. “If you would have me.”

Tolys wasn’t lying, earlier. He looks younger with the spectacles. A little less ethereal, more like someone warm and trustworthy, as he truly is.

“I would be honored to share it with you, Eduard.” He curls his fingers, grazing Eduard’s warm palm.

For a while, they are both silent, gently touching across the desk. Eduard is smiling absently, those light eyes shimmering in the sunlight as it dims ever so slightly. Tolys cannot wait to show him his home; even though it will be next to nothing compared to this place, even in disrepair as the kingdom is, he will be proud to share it with the Elf.

“Oh!” Eduard says. “I had nearly forgotten. I promised Erzsébet to take you and Raivis to her. She would like to extend the official friendship of the Elves to both of your people.”

“I left Raivis with Nadzeya.” He blinks. “So she isn’t royalty at all?”

An amused little smirk crosses Eduard’s lips, and Tolys breathes out slowly, curling his fingers a little more.

“What is it?”

“If Erzsébet has any say in it, she will be.” Suddenly, he frowns, peering over his glasses. “You left Raivis with Nadzeya?”

“I’m certain he’ll be fine. He’s tough.”

Eduard looks dubious, but he stands and gestures for Tolys to follow him to the grand door of the library. It has turned dusky, and the light filters through leaves to tinge his pale hair gold and his eyes almost translucent as he stands in the arch of the doorway. There, he turns to Tolys, bowing a little to bring their faces level.

“Thank you,” he says, voice soft and Elven accent giving the words a musical lilt.

“For what?”

“Being here.” He touches Tolys’s upper arm, letting his long fingers linger. “Letting me know you.”

“Of course.”

The fingers slowly trail up to his shoulder, sliding across the smooth green fabric until the tips touch his clavicle. Tolys reaches his own hand up and covers Eduard’s with it. The Elf rests their foreheads together for a moment that feels like a promise.

Just then, they both hear Erzsébet’s distinctive laugh, echoing merrily over the carved walkways. Both of them straighten to see her coming their way, her face bright and an intricate crown of golden leaves resting on her dark hair.

“My friends!” she says, and is hauling Tolys into a hug before he can even greet her, let alone think of bowing. “I’m so glad to see our secret has not put a strain on your friendship.”

There is an emphasis on friendship that Tolys doesn’t imagine for a second is the product of her accent.

“It couldn’t have, when my own secrets are similar, Your…”

“Just call me Erzsébet. Eduard was right, then? We will be equals before long.” She smiles. “And I’m certain my cousin will be glad to help you, should you so desire.”

“Erzsébet,” Eduard says, sounding long-suffering and not at all like a Crown Prince, which he is and Tolys will be soon enough. His cheeks are getting red. Tolys didn’t know Elves blushed, but finds that he would like to see it more often. It is mesmerizing.

“There you are,” come Nadzeya’s dry tones from the direction of Tolys’s temporary home. He hears the distinctive tread of Raivis’s bare feet approaching behind her nearly inaudible footsteps, and when they come into view, the Halfling bow slightly towards Erzsébet.

“Your Majesty.”

“I tried to tell him Erzsébet would be fine,” Nadzeya informs the Queen, and Erzsébet laughs again.

“Come, we have much to talk about. Much to plan.” She gestures all of them along. Eduard touches Tolys’s wrist. Raivis catches his gaze, quirks his eyebrows and grins.

Tolys smiles back and runs his fingers along the back of Eduard’s hand. It appears the journey was worth it.

#scarlettlillies #quaestiones #estliet #Phyripo writes things #whatever this is #Hetalia #aph estonia #aph lithuania

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whiteappalachianwitch · 4 years

Text

The Eight Sabbats

There are eight major holidays Pagans celebrate throughout the year known as Sabbats. These holidays date back to pre-Christianity and are related to the movement of the sun. They are given names relative to the Celtic agricultural festivals.

Historically we were once farmers and believed the sun moved around the earth. Modern Pagans are far moved from this way of life. However, the Sabbats are still important for connecting to the cycles of the seasons and human life.

There are four astronomical holidays included in the Pagan Sabbats: the equinoxes and solstices--and the four traditional holidays in between. These eight festivals make the Wheel of the Year, observed in Wicca and Neo-Paganism religions that are Wicca-influenced.

I Samhain: October 31st

One of the most well-known Sabbat is Samhain, celebrated on October 31st. This holiday is celebrated as Halloween or All Hallows Eve also. Halloween is the time of the year when everyone participates in spooky activities and ancient superstitions. Culturally, Pagans and Witches are paid the most attention during this time of the year.

Samhain is a term derived from the Irish Gaelic language meaning “summer’s end.” During this time, the days are short and the darker half of the solar year is near. Farmers will use up the remaining stores of perishable fruit and vegetables, and preserve other food to keep throughout the winter. Livestock is also slaughtered that does not feed through the winter, a reason why Samhain is referred to as the Third Harvest, or Blood Harvest.

Pagans and superstitious peoples believe the boundary between worlds is at its thinnest during Samhain. This holiday is referred to as Ancestor’s Night or the Feast of the Dead. Many witches believe Samhain is the best time to communicate with ancestors and honored spirits, also known as the beloved dead. Lonely or angry spirits are believed to wander the earth on Samhain night looking to irritate humans.

Celebrate How To

Samhain is the beginning of the new year for Pagans. Reflection and celebration are the focal points of this holiday. Casting off the old year’s attachments and turning attention to winter and it’s scarcity. Feast on the last of summer’s harvest and contemplate what is worth saving and nurturing during the dark times of winter; make friends with Death.

It is important to note participating in the celebrations of Halloween and trick or treating. This is a celebration of muggles, but has its roots in old Pagan beliefs anyway.

Samhain rituals may involve ancestor alters, where participants are invited to place mementos and offerings for the beloved dead. The priest or priestess may invoke a deity ruling over transitions or migration of souls, such as Morrighan, Hecate, or Hermes. Individuals who died during the previous year or long ago may have their names spoken.

Feasting is important in Samhain rituals. To eat sweets is to acknowledge the sweetness of life and its impermanence. To eat meat is to acknowledge all flesh must die and become nourishment. Food is also an offering to the dead for communication of fond memories, pay of respects, and appease hungry ghosts. Some Pagans will leave a plate out at the Samhain table for spirits that may visit. Dumb supper is a silent meal when Pagans invite their ancestors both known and unknown to come and feast.

II Yule: ~December 21st

The Winter Solstice, or Yule, is the longest night of the year. If you live in the northern hemisphere Yule falls on or around December 21st. The darkest parts of the year is over and the days begin increasing in length after the winter solstice.

Christmas falls around this time of year, adopting Yule customs. Christmas is the belief of the birthday of a divine infant who is conceived in the spring. The dark of midwinter is the time of the confinement of the Goddess in labor as she prepares to welcome the solar child. On the longest night, the Sun God is born as the earths creatures praise and thank Him.

Celebrate How To

Passive, personal magick during Yuletide is the best practice for short days of work and long nights of dreaming. Set your intentions and incubate plans. Mental and spiritual preparation is important during Yule for the light half of the year. Some Pagans keep a midwinter vigil while they wait for the rebirth of the sun at dawn.

Yule is not usually a time for group ritual gatherings since many are visiting family and traveling. For this reason, the rituals during Yule are more home-y and conventional.

Decorate with evergreens and holly, exchange gifts, and light a candle to herald the return of the sun on Midwinter Eve. If you are ambitious, set the Yule log blazing. Give thanks for the life-giving energy of the sun.

III Imbolic: February 1st

Imbolc is a festival of spring and purification. Celebrated on February 1st, the day of not yet spring in most of the world. This is the first of the three Pagan fertility festivals, with the other two Ostara and Beltane.

Imbolc is an Old Irish term meaning “in the belly” associated with the coming of lambing season. Other festivals that coincide with Imbolc are Candlemas, a Christian festival, and the old farmer’s oracle Groundhog’s Day, both on February 2nd.

Imbolc is significant for our ancestors because this was the beginning of the ground thaw when planting season preparations were made. The land was surveyed and inventory of tools were made for repairs and modifications that were necessary. Witches would also prepare by cleaning and blessing the altars and making sure tools of practice were attuned with intent for use.

The mythical side of Imbolc is a celebration of awakening the Goddess after her journey of birth to the young God at Yule. The first stirrings of life after winter are observed. Energies of creativity and imagination are brought about by Imbolc. For this reason, many projects that were put on hold are now being picked back up again. Midwinter dreams resolve into visible shapes.

Celebrate How To

Brigid holds Imbolc especially sacred as the Celtic Goddess of hearth fire, healing, the bardic arts, and smith work. Brigid can be honored with candlelight, poems, and woven ornaments known as Brigid’s crosses within Imbolc rituals. Cleansing, healing and blessing are appropriate since the first light of spring is evident.

During Imbolc, it is a time for spiritual dedication and re-dedication. New members are often initiated in covens, especially women’s covens, at Imbolc. Examining and refreshing your practice during Imbolc is appropriate if you are a seasoned Pagan. If you are too relaxed and have not given time to your craft, Imbolc is an opportunity to purify intent and reconnect spiritually. Light candles, open windows, and wash the floors to cast winter gloom out. You may also use Imbolc for divination for the year’s harvest ahead.

This holiday is not a time for feasting. The first food of the year is dairy, butter, milk, and cream; foods for the Imbolc table.

IV Ostara: ~March 21st

The spring equinox, also known as Ostara, falls on or about March 21st in the northern hemisphere. This equinox is the time Pagans refer to as Mabon, the opposite of the autumn equinox.

Ostara is the second of the three fertility festivals, where blessings of spring become more apparent in the natural world. Flowers are blooming, birds and bees are twitter pated, and pastel-colors fill the stores. Eggs and bunnies, ancient fertility symbols, appear everywhere; Ostara is the Sabbat with the rabbit, ha!

Ostara is the midpoint of the year where the day and night are equal. The Sun God has been growing and gathering his strength since Yule, making his age an adolescent. The Great Goddess is getting younger and in her maiden form. The two are youthful, full of lust, and the same age, which will soon have them conceive a child born at Yule.

Celebrate How To

The time of Ostara is a great time for love, prosperity, and gains of any kind within your magickal work. Harness the energy of the lengthening days to propel your desires and projects into fruition. The land is beautiful and nourishing, and the earth Goddess is honored.

Ostara is a good time of reflection on the principle of balance. For this reason, it is a good time to balance work, family, art, spirituality and all your responsibilities. Take time to notice things that have shifted your balance. Reset priorities.

V Beltane: May 1st

The ancient name for the May Day rite is Beltane. This festival was originally a fire festival and celebrated in Ireland and Scotland before the days of Christianity. The god Bel, or “the bright one,” is responsible for the name of this festival and means “Bel’s fire.” On the Celtic Pagan calendar, Beltane is the second of the two principle festivals, with the other one being Samhain. Samhain and Beltane are the two markers of the magickal year, when the gates of Faery and the spirit world are the most open to travel.

Within Wicca, Beltane is a festival of sexual activity since it is the last of the three fertility festivals. During this time, the Maiden Goddess takes the young God as her lover. Wiccans will marry as the Great Rite to enact this drama the High Priestess and High Priest; their union will bless the land.

Celebrate How To

With unbridled sensuality and revelry, Beltane is the time of sexual rites. However, this is a rare occurrence and you’re most likely to witness a symbolic Great Rite with a chalice and athame, or a dance around the maypole rather than an orgy.

Bonfires, festivals, concerts, and campouts are the social aspects of Beltane season. If you are a solitary witch, you may make an altar to the young god and Goddess, or connect with a lover. Flowers, Honey, sweets, and wine are good things to place on your altar. This is also a good time for illusion, seduction, and Faery tricks.

Beltane is a popular time for proposals, handfastings, and renewing of vows. The combination of masculine and feminine energy will become a powerful alchemical surge for any spell work.

VI Litha: ~June 21st

The summer solstice, or Litha, is the time in the northern hemisphere around June 21st. Bonfires to keep the sun’s light alive for long as possible are lit. Blessing of the crops in the fields and banishing evil spirits is common practice.

Litha is the day when the Sun God is his most powerful self. The sun and the element of fire rule Litha. After Litha, the nights will be longer and the sun will move farther away. Within Litha, anticipating crop is evident as the fall harvest is imminent. The Midsummer Night was blessed, according to Medieval people, and whatever a person dreamed on this night will come true.

Celebrate How To

Rituals are usually outdoors during Litha, as it is the time to take advantage of the long hours of day. This Sabbat is joyous with bonfires and summer games. Decorate the altar with solar symbols and honor the God as Father.

Any magick ruled by the sun is perfect for Litha. Spells of cleansing, protection, charisma, and truth are especially appropriate.

VII Lammas:~August 1st

This holiday is the first harvest festival on the Pagan calendar. This celebration is related to an old agricultural holiday of reaping of grain. Lammas most likely comes from the Old English term for “loaf mass.” Loaves of bread would have been prepared from the first grain and blessed by churches. Lammas is also known as Lughnasadh, named after the Celtic sun God, Lugh.

The days grow shorter in the summer, and the sun God will lose his strength. He will die in the fields to nourish the people in preparation for rebirth at Yule.

Celebrate How To

During this time, it is appropriate to welcome the harvest. Give thanks to this year’s work and plans as you will soon enjoy the fruits of labor. Grain is the food of tradition for Lammas, in the form of wheat, barley, beers, and ales.

Lammas/Lughnasadh is celebrated in Celtic Paganism as the feast of Lugh, who is an agricultural god, but also a poet, musician, and craftsman. Showing off skills and trading them for things you need is a common practice. This time is usually a time of craft fairs and local markets.

VIII Mabon:~ September 21st

The final of the eight Sabbats is Mabon, or the autumn equinox. The days will begin to shorten and winter is coming. Mabon is also known as the Second Harvest because of the reaping of autumn fruits and nuts. This holiday brings with it the time of deep contemplation for what we have worked for in the previous year and the rewards for reaping. Giving thanks to the waning sunlight in preparation for storing bounty away for the scarce season. The shift from active magick to contemplative magick is made in Mabon. This is the final time for prosperity, gratitude, security, and balance work.

Celebrate How To

The hard work of harvest is done and now we must celebrate! It is sad to watch the growth season’s beauty fade, but the mild weather and rest autumn brings is welcomed.

With Mabon brings comfort foods that promote fond memories and connection through sharing. Bake, brew, pickle, and can; offer wine, cider, fruits, and boughs upon the Mabon table. The Cornucopia is the centerpiece of most Pagans during Mabon.

Mabon is the turning point to the dark half of the year on the Pagan religious calendar. The shift away from youthful merriment is made. Honoring the Crone and Sage deities, the cycles of aging and death, and the spirit world are appropriate during Mabon.

This Sabbat is a popular time for outdoor rituals large in size mostly because of the weather. Gathering to feast and express gratitude for the planet during Mabon is the focal point. Some cities will host public Mabon rituals as a part of their annual Pagan Pride Day. If you are a Pagan in solitary you may celebrate Mabon with offerings at a home altar, or walking in the woods in deep contemplation.

Reference

Gruben, M. (2017, November 26). The eight Sabbats: Witch's holidays. Retrieved July 19, 2020, from https://www.groveandgrotto.com/blogs/articles/the-eight-sabbats-witchs-holidays

#mabon #lammas #lughnasadh #litha #beltane #ostara #imbolc #yule #samhain #White Witch #Greenwitch #wiccan #wicca #pagan #pagans

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wistfulcynic · 3 years

Note

34 and 35, please!!!

34. Copy and paste an excerpt you’re particularly fond of.

Opting for the opening of The Very Witching Time, which was the first time I really attempted description of this sort.

Emma Swan lived atop a jagged cliff in a house that seemed an extension of it, rising up from the wind-hewn face into pointed towers that stood stark against the sky. The house was of the same stone as the cliff itself, great slabs of it, slabs too large to be used for construction, slabs that, observing them, one felt could have been formed only by the hand of nature and never that of man. It was a part of the landscape, that house, as old as the earth and only slightly younger than the sky, perched at the edge of those perilous cliffs in a way that made it impossible to imagine them without it.

The back of the house, or rather the front, as that was where the door was set, however, presented an altogether different aspect; one of a delightful cottage of typical grey Maine clapboard, squat and cheerful with a steeply sloping roof trimmed in white and a low stone wall surrounding a tumbledown greenhouse and a garden where bushes, trees, and flowers jumbled together and neither rhyme nor reason appeared to play any role. On the casual observer the effect was charming in an artless way, yet a keener eye would note method behind the garden’s seeming madness, an ancient wisdom in the randomness of the tumbling riots of colour that shifted and transmuted with the seasons. Where in spring it boasted bright red poppies and purple larkspur, delicate white anemones and pink blossoms on the apple trees twisting around each corner of the wall, summer brought fragrant freesia and heather for the bees, its warm breezes rustling through the tall irises and lilies. Autumn ushered in the muted oranges and yellows of chrysanthemums and the fluffy white of Queen Anne’s Lace, salvia and yarrow and berries from the rowan tree. Even in winter the garden provided: the glossy green leaves and red berries of the holly bushes brightened the snowy vista as pansies and orchids flourished in the greenhouse.

Beyond the garden wall a forest sprawled, dark and wild and perilous, from the very edge of the cliff where trees clung by their gnarled roots to the borders of the village where it dwindled into fenced yards and tidy houses. Here your casual observer would feel a shivering prickle on the back of his neck, that uncomfortable sensation of being watched by things not quite of this world that is more commonly reserved for graveyards at dusk and abandoned Victorian houses. He would move quickly through the dense woodland—yet not so quickly that he appeared to be hurrying—and upon emerging he would feel the sunshine as a balm on skin grown far colder than he’d realised.

The keen observer would, of course, not go into the forest at all.

35. Ramble about any fic-related thing you want!

I attempted this before and couldn’t think of anything to ramble about! I guess I’ll attempt a bit of gushing about people who read and comment and kudos and reblog. You are all brilliant and I adore you. Thank you thank you thank you ❤️❤️❤️

fic asks for Friday or any other day!

#fic asks #kmomof4 #asked and answered #profdanglaisstuff

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lonely-bored-writer · 4 years

Text

Not So Alone

Fandom: Danny Phantom & Ben 10 (2005)

Summary: The life of a hero is often a lonely one, filled with anguish and danger, as much as it is filled pride and gratification. The weight of that life is crushing for any soul, let alone one much too young for such powers. One can only be lucky to find someone that can relate on a tiniest of gains, but luck seemed to be on these two boys. One finds a friend, the other finds a family.

Warnings: Although these are kids shows about kids, it does touch on the harsher reality of things than the shows do. It's gonna be overall angsty and heavy. This is the only overall warning I'm giving, and also some characters are de-aged to fit the story/theme. Enjoy!

The life of a hero was often a lonely and tiring path, one with high expectations. If a hero made one mistake, it could be a grave one. Lives are on the line, a hero doesn't have time to make mistakes. However, one cannot live a perfect life. Guilt was a heavy weight, especially on the minds of the young.

Benjamin Tennyson is only ten years old when this weight was pressed into his life. The Omnitrix was a complex device, one that allowed the young hero to take forms of various alien life-forms. As exciting as the idea of possessing such power was, Ben found that with powers comes villains. The detection of such powerful alien-technology brought forth a sea of those wanting it for themselves, and aliens appearing all across Earth. Seemingly always wherever the young Tennyson wanted to relax and be a child.

That was where the young hero found himself, stumbling upon yet another disaster needing his help.

Ben found himself smiling as the sound of the helicopter whirled in the air. Today was going to be good, just him with Grandpa Max and Gwen visiting a Rich guy's new hotel. The man was a millionaire, he had to have his own security detail, which means the Omnitrix shouldn't be needed and his time will finally be free. To have fun, to be a kid, and maybe to cause a little trouble of course. But what could you expect from a ten-year old.

He chose to tune out Grandpa's reunion with Donovan, instead choosing to take in the sights of the helipad on the roof. It was amazing, no fights against aliens could stand up against experiencing things like this. It was stuff Ben could only dream of having, let alone seeing. He turned his gaze to the boy standing next to the other man, pulling a smile that dropped quickly when the other boy frowned and turned his head. Ben was used to not being liked, but that's usually after his already spoke. School didn't count.

"Hi." Ben smiled when Mr. Grand Smith introduced them to Edwin.

"Yea, whatever." The child responded, crossing his arms in a way of disinterest. Ben frowned, turning to meet his cousin's own surprised look. People normally liked Gwen, he couldn't imagine how weird it was for someone to dislike her before she started on her smart talk. Ben held in a sigh, turning back to the adults. Neither of them commented on Edwin's rude behavior. But Ben knew if that was him, Grandpa would have most definitely said something.

"Ready to take the plunge?" Donovan smiled, motioning towards a set of doors that opened. He followed the others in, glancing to see Edwin giving both Tennyson kids a side-glare.

The group silently made it onto the raft, Ben glanced over and watched Edwin stare off into the distance. Neither Gwen or Grandpa Max caught his gaze. He was excite sure, this was going to be fun. But it's hard to have fun when you're so used to it all taking a deep dive at sooner or later. No pun intended. Nonetheless his smile was clear as day as the raft made its way down the tube. Gwen turned, grinning at him before turning to their Grandpa. It was nice, he was too used to their bickering, he forgot sometimes they can get along.

Ben watched in awe as the water glistened around the mostly clear tube, sea-life swimming past them. Ben wasn't sure if his new fondness of the sea was because of Ripjaws, but the sea always seemed peaceful to him. Even when sometimes a sea creature comes out and tries to eat you.

"You sure this is the safest place to build a resort like this?" Grandpa Max asked, grabbing Ben's attention. If Grandpa was feeling uneasy, that usually means something's going to happen. For once, Ben wished it wouldn't. More so than any other time. Ben didn't catch Mr. Grand Smith's response, but he did grab the next thing that came out the oldest Tennyson's lips. "I mean you're smack dab in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle." That caught Gwen's attention as well.

"Growing up you were always the worry wart, Max." Donovan laughed, looking out at the vast sea. "Never the risk taker. I give you the world's first, and only, underwater resort." The man flourished with a gesture of his arm. Ben sat up straight, looking forward in awe. It was beautiful.

Ben didn't quite catch what the man said as they got closer to the docking. Mr. Grand Smith was talking about some things about the hotel with Grandpa, but Ben was much to excited to explore. He grinned up at Gwen who matched his grin. The moment the raft settled, he and Gwen were already headed off.

The two stopped in front of one of the many glass windows, staring in awe at all the beautiful and colorful fishes that swam by. Ben heard the others approaching behind them.

"I read about your resort in-" Ben tuned out the rest of Gwen's talking. Focusing on all the fishes, before his eyes landed on the scuba diver. He knew that was the gear from older models at least, but it really did make the experience come just a bit more alive. "Isn't the glass reinforced-" Ben caught when his cousin cut herself off. He felt a spark of anger in him when he heard Edwin cough into his hand.

"Butt-kisser."

Donovan continued the conversation as if nothing happened. However, Ben hated it. This was one of the few places he didn't want to be kicked out of, or grounded in. His mind glossed over the science talk that happened. He did catch that the place had nine whole pools, and that it costed two billion dollars. Even Ben had to be impressed.

"But you know, money isn't everything." Donovan smiled, only to quickly drop to a frown when his grandson chimed in.

"Changed the family motto, Grandpa?" Edwin scoffed, hands still crossed. Ben glanced at the other kid, eyes furrowing. It wasn't had to tell the kid didn't want to be there, and it's not like Ben knew what it was like being rich, but he sure did think this place was cool enough to want to be in. Ben's eyes zeroed in on a little yellow pin resting against the burgundy sweater.

"Hey, I'm into Sumo Slammers too." Ben tried, moving a little closer. "Where'd you score that pin?" He asked, gesturing towards the pin. He tried not to let it get to him when the other boy still looked away from him.

"Sumo slammers slam-down V in Helsinki." Edwin responded, still not meeting Ben's eyes. "We flew on my Grandpa's private jet just to get it." That must have been fun, Ben remembered when he first heard about it and how much he wanted to go, but knew he couldn't.

"And Edwin says the pin's already tripled in value." Donovan chimed in, resting a hand on his grandson's shoulder. The older gentleman then turned to Grandpa Max. "Kid's got a head for business, grooming him to take over the empire one day. Gotta keep it in the family." Ben grinned, turning to look at his Grandpa.

"I've sort of been following in my grandpa's footsteps this summer, too." Ben smiled, he's learned not to give too much out too soon after the incident with Grandpa's old partner. But this was something he was proud of, being good at something for once. It was at that moment the lights began to flicker, and an alarm sound rang through the air. Ben tensed, glancing around and tried to find any immediate dangers.

Everyone turned in time to see the Scuba diver, that caught Ben's eyes, lose his balance as the water around him surged towards the fans below. His eyes watched as the man fell, only stopping when his tether got caught up in railings. His eyes caught sight of the water pooling into the mask, as the man struggled to get back up. He barely caught the words Donovan spoke in response to what happened. A power surge.

"Will he be okay?" Ben asked, turning to look at the eldest in the room.

"Hmph, if the sharks don't get him first." Ben glanced over, feeling an uneasiness at how emotionless Edwin said that.

"I can't have an employee turned into fish food right before the opening. The press will ruin me." Mr. Grand Smith spoke, turning and rushing to go do something. Ben grounded his teeth, they spoke like a man's life wasn't in danger. He could easily save him if he turned into Ripjaws, but that wasn't the point of the trip. The Grand Smiths had to have it covered.

A glance from Gwen, however, told him otherwise. He rushed off to an area he was sure he could transform in without being seen. Ripjaws it was. Ben pressed against a pipe, turning the Omnitrix until Ripjaws silhouette popped up. With a sigh, he pressed it. Feeling the familiar tug and slight ache as his biology transformed, but this didn't feel like Ripjaws.

"Seriously, for once I was better off as me." Ben groaned staring down at the grey skinned hands of Grey Matter. He blinked, feeling the familiar reptilian lids slid over his eyes. Nonetheless Ben quickly leaped into the water. A man's life was on the line, even if he wasn't well suited to help, he couldn't wait.

He pushed through the water as fast as he could, watch the sharks circle around the dangling man. Two. The man was struggling, which never helped in a situation like this, but Ben understood the fear. He was feeling the same fear as he tried to run through a plan to help save the man. Instinctively he grabbed on to one of the shark's fin, hitching a ride as it took another round.

Ben reeled back his arm and took a straight punch to the shark's eye, throwing it off course. He continued to punch, even as the shark made a beeline for the man, mouth open and ready to bite. His heart hammered away at his chest, before his eyes landed on the second shark. To his luck, or maybe Grey Matter's calculations, the shark he rode on bit into the second one.

His grip slipped on where he gripped the gills, and he was projected away from the fighting sharks. Only to land smack dab in the middle of the helmet's window. Ignoring the ache in his lungs from how long his been holding his breath in such a small form, he smiled at the man staring eye-wide at the alien. To his luck, he heard the fan start to slow down before reversing.

The water propelled the two upwards, knocking the man's helmet off his head. The bubbles that came out the moment the helmet came of scared Ben for a second, before he found himself being launched into air, rather than water.

Ben winced as his hand hit full-force on the edge of a replica boat hanging off the ceiling. The copper dung harshly into his palm, but he made sure to tighten his grip when the ever familiar beeping sounded. Quickly followed by a flash of light, and Ben having to readjust to being normal again. Almost losing his grip, but securing it in time to hear Edwin speak.

"Hey, where's your cousin?"

"Just hanging!" Ben called from his place, waving his other hand. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he laughed. "Does anyone have a ladder?"

It didn't take long for Ben to find himself back on solid ground. He watched as the Scuba diver stumbled away from them. He felt bad for the man. Especially when Donovan spoke about doubling his salary, but at least the press wouldn't know. The man's life had to be more important than money or reputation, right?

"But who would believe him, he said some six-inch rat with two legs saved him." Donovan laughed, shaking his head.

"Just buy him off." Edwin spoke, arms still crossed, and looking at no one in particularly. To Ben it seemed like a kid whose pouting about not getting his way, but what kid can pout through all this. "Now, that's the Grand Smith way."

"Ahem. Edwin, why don't you take Ben and Gwen on a tour so their grandpa and I can catch up on old times?" Donovan cleared his throat before smiling. Ben still can't believe everyone was just letting the kid act like this. Then again, money changes everything. That's what every ones' told him and that's what he's come to learn.

"Oh man." Ben quietly groaned, the same time Gwen did too. "Ugh."

Ben watched as the two walked away, not really listening to the words but processing it for later. Ben quietly followed Edwin in the opposite direction, not bothering to attempt small talk, and neither was Gwen.

It didn't take long before the trio found themselves walking up to a mock-beach with a large water-slide that Ben most definitely had to try at least twice. If going Grey Matter was the only incident for the rest of the stay, this could be one fun time. "Nice." Ben broke the silence, looking in awe at the twisty slides.

"Not bad." Edwin spoke as well, his 'better than you tone' ever so present. "In the morning, I have my own swim coach and person trainer to work out with." Which if Ben was being honest he wouldn't have expected, but then again, no one would suspect him of spending a good part of his summer fighting aliens and criminals.

"You're a swimmer?" Gwen asked, not bothering to hide her surprise.

"Long-distance." Edwin responded, creating the movements as if he were swimming. "My grandpa say it builds character."

Ben couldn't help but mock him the moment he walked away. Gwen laughed at him, before following the rich kid. Ben shook his head before following along, he made a mental note to make sure to come back and visit this mock-beach.

The next stop also had Ben stricken with awe. A submarine hung from the ceiling, an open pool underneath. One would assume it was functional, and Edwin filled in any thoughts with some facts.

"It's called the Undersea Manta Ray." Edwin spoke, moving closer to it as the other two followed. "It's my grandfather's."

"Well, it looks cool." Gwen spoke, just as in awe as Ben.

"You want to take it for a ride?" Edwin asked, having not turned around.

"Definitely." Ben spoke first, not taking his eyes off the submarine.

"You sure it's okay?" Gwen asked, turning a suspicious look to Edwin. Ben bit back a sigh, they were kids, they were meant to cause trouble sometimes. Edwin never really responded though, instead smirking at the two Tennysons.

Edwin instead instructed them to follow and he lowered the submarine. Ben grinned at Gwen who only looked worried. "We shouldn't do this." Gwen whispered as Edwin worked the submarine open.

"Come on Gwen, when would we get this opportunity again?" Ben grinned, following Edwin in. He didn't have to worry if Gwen was going to follow or not, she always did.

The kid knew what he was doing in terms of driving the submarine, that was for sure. But Ben couldn't tear his eyes away from the different forms of sea-life swimming by. The color fishes, the glowing pink jellyfish.

"Wow, some of these fish look totally prehistoric." Gwen's worry seemed to vanish as the nerd side of her came out. Ben had to agree though, some of these looked like those fishes Ben caught sight of when Gwen was watching her documentaries. Ben smiled, when Gwen looked back at him with her own grin. This was nice, like really nice. Everything was so pretty and peaceful down here.

The submarine descended a few more levels before gliding forward through the dark depths with ease. The lights illuminating the once pitch-black waters. Ben wasn't paying much attention to anything but the sea-life until Gwen spoke up.

"Okay, now that's weird." Just then a glowing blue, squid-like robot jolted in front of the window. Quickly the robot latched itself to the window, and rammed an almost beak-like part into it. Ben tensed, turning to see Edwin looking shocked and scared.

"And that's weirder." He said. One more popped up at Edwin's window, following the same actions as the first one. Ben tensed, glancing around as more swarmed the submarine. The bots made screeching noises as the rammed up against the windows. Fear flooded into Ben's system, along with adrenaline. He wanted to relax, not deal with another adrenaline high.

The familiar sound of glass cracking sounded through the noise, before the sound of rushing water filled through and an alarm blared. Ben could tell he needed to step in, but how could he when there was nowhere to run or hide.

"What do you think those creatures what?!" Edwin asked, glancing back at Gwen.

"I don't think it's to play Marco polo." Came her usual nervous response. Ben's face settled in determination.

"We've gotta go back to the hotel." Edwin's face seemed to settle at his words, the kid pulling a lever and moving the submarine faster and upwards. Ben sighed a quiet sigh of relief as he saw some of the creatures lose their grip and float away. He knew they were chasing them, others still clinging to the ship.

He had to put as much faith as he could into Edwin, if he tried to help, he'd out himself. He flinched when the first explosion sounded, one of those creatures' made contact with an apparently live bomb. The train reaction followed quickly, the other ones near by going off as well.

The submarine jolted around, and Ben's hope slowly started to fizzle out. No other creatures seemed to take a dive with those explosions. Ben's eyes flipped around at the creatures and debris flying through the sea.

"Grandpa, do you copy?" Edwin spoke into a radio, which Ben silently wish he'd done earlier. No response. Ben turned, catching his cousin's eyes. He didn't want to but he knew that look. Nodding, he unbuckled his belt and made his way to the exit. Being sure to close the door behind him. The ship didn't need to take on any more water.

"Turn me into Wild Mutt, you're dead meat." Ben grumbled, hoping that he got Ripjaws. They couldn't afford another mishap like earlier. Not this time. He felt the familiar tug and aches, before the light died down. "Okay, now we're talking." He breathed, eyes trailing over the familiar greenish scales.

Taking down the bots was much easier as Ripjaws, the sharp claws and strong teeth ripped through them without a problem. Swimming through the water was much easier as well, his legs slinging together into a tail. The worry came with trying to get all the creatures away from the submarine before they destroyed it and put Gwen and Edwin's lives more endanger.

Once he finally caught up with the submarine, he chomped the closest one in half. That seemed to do it. Most of the creatures paused, before turning their attention to him. The tentacles were annoying, that's for sure. Even through the adrenaline, Ben could feel the faint aches of where the bruises would form. Ripjaws was the best one for the job, even if his skin wasn't as tough as some of the others.

Ben barely manage to take out six that swarmed him at once, before high-tailing it towards the submarine. He glanced inside to see Gwen's relieved face, and Edwin's worried one. Not stopping to eavesdrop, he quickly moved on from creature to creature. He took out the last one when the familiar beeping chimed near his gills, followed by the soft flash of red.

His fear spiked when he reached the hatch, pulling desperately on it, but there was no give. In his haste to destroy the creatures, he didn't notice the damage the submarine took. He does now remember the harsh blow on his back from the impact. He barely pulled open the latch, and swung himself inside when the flash came over him. He pushed open the door, water falling to the ground, and dripping from him but he didn't pay attention.

Inhaling deeply, he feel to his knees, resting against the metal flooring. His lung ached in the time it took him to fully adjust and get in, and exhaustion settled in his bones as the adrenaline slowly seeped out of them. They weren't in the clear yet, but his body could only panic for so long.

Ben felt his heart drop in relief once they passed through those doors. Silently the trio made their way out of the submarine and onto the deck. Alarms blared loudly around them, signifying that the base was also under attack.

"We're flooding." Donovan spoke, glancing among them all. "They broke the glass."

"I knew you shouldn't have taken it. I knew it." Edwin cut in urgently.

"Edwin quiet. I'm sure it has nothing to do with this." Donovan hushed him, but Ben couldn't help but focus his gaze on Edwin.

"Taken what Donovan." Grandpa Max cut in, Ben could hear the anger already settling his grandpa's voice.

"Edwin doesn't know what he's talking about." Donovan excused. Ben tensed with ever second that passed. This back and forth, along with the alarms and the threat right outside the door. He couldn't calm down.

"How would you know? All you ever hear from me is what you want to hear." Edwin all but yelled as his grandfather. The sound of zapping electricity brought the others attention back to the matter at hand. A few of those creatures appeared above the submarine.

"Let's go." Max commanded, everyone immediately following his order. They rushed quickly into the elevator, barely making it through before the creatures would have been on top of them.

"Donovan, what is going on?" Grandpa Max asked, once they settled in the elevator.

"Okay, the underwater volcano thing didn't work. The resort was doomed." Ben had no clue what he was on about, but he had a feeling alien technology was involved. "I was about to become a punch line to a bad joke. Then I found this other energy source on this weird craft way down below. It was like nothing I've ever seen before. "

"And now, I bet those aliens want it back." Gwen chimed in. Ben's face hardened, this man put every ones' lives at risk over a stupid resort.

"Yea, the same ones with the underwater parking lot full of boats and planes." Ben said. Everyone glanced among each other.

The moment those elevator doors opened, the group made their way out only to be met with a rush of water and creatures headed their way. They made it through another doorway, Ben barely picked up a comment Grandpa Max made about his job and the Bermuda triangle. He glanced his watch and clenched his teeth. Still red.

They did manage to make it onto a raft, water spilling from holes everywhere. Everyone sat in silence for a moment, waiting for their turn up the tube to leave. Ben glanced and caught sight of Donovan's angry and defeated face.

"look on the bright side grandpa, you still have fifteen resorts worldwide." Edwin tried to comfort Donovan. Ben watched as the older man didn't say anything, simply moving the raft to exit. Ben heard it first, a soft noise before the tentacles arrived, wrapping over the edge of the raft. Nothing could ever go that simply.

The raft was torn apart effortlessly, Ben cried out as he watched Grandpa Max and Mr. Grand Smith be pulled in the opposite direction as the kids. Ben screamed along with the other kids as their half started free-falling back into the resort. His mind racing with the reality that the resort down there was falling apart and should collapse and be fully submerged soon.

Ben caught sight of Gwen coaching Edwin, having him cover his eyes. He caught her eyes next before nodding. Lucky for him, the watch had enough time to reboot. He didn't need to swim, he needed to get them out of there as soon as possible. Stinkfly it was. Ben focused on holding tightly to Edwin and Gwen as Gwen gave a lame excuse to the other boy.

"Hold on." Ben spoke, glancing at Edwin before focusing his attention on the road before them. His heart rate picked up with every lucky dodge of a tentacle he made. He could see the sharpness and ridge of them. He knew if he let even one of them touch any of them, it could be some serious damage. In his attention to the spikes, he didn't notice the stream of water before it was too late.

They hit the water hard, Ben berating himself mentally as him came up. "My wings are too wet, I can't fly. And, oh, yea I can't swim either." He spoke, finding himself falling back under the current. To his luck, Gwen and Edwin caught him quickly and supported him up on the surface.

"Don't worry, we got you. Ben." Edwin spoke, giving the bug a knowing look.

"That's not Ben." Gwen tried to defend, but Ben already know. Edwin knew it was him, but he didn't seem like he was planning to tell anyone.

"Yea right, good aliens just showing up to help us." Edwin responded. "While your cousin always happens to be gone? How dumb do I look? So how do you do it?" He turned to Ben.

"Edwin Listen to me." Gwen pulled the boy's attention to her. "That energy orb-if the aliens are here for it, we have to get to it first."

"Alright, let's get it." Edwin spoke after a short pause, and Ben was just relieved to have the attention off him. "But it's all the way on the other side of the resort."

"But we can't make it in the water." Ben pointed out.

"Who said anything about swimming." Gwen smirked, Ben followed her gaze to the air ducts.

They were making good progress in the vents, Gwen being the only one really speaking. Ben was too worried about if his grandpa made it up alright, and if he could get the others out safely. The Gwen made some comment about getting there quicker, and the pipes decided to give right there and then. As they free fell through the pipes, Ben cursed how unlucky they were until they landed.

By speed boats.

"Alright, now we're talking." Ben laughed, watching Gwen take a seat before going to follow suit. Just as he was about to pull himself up he felt a iron-tight grip surround his leg and a yank down-ward.

He fought harshly against the tentacle, holding in his breath. To his luck, the watch beeped before turning him back. Making him smaller, giving him the chance to slide out of the grasp and swim upwards. He felt the strong ache in his lungs. He gasped for air the moment he broke the surface, turning a gaze at the creature popping up. Pulling himself up onto the boat, Gwen immediately put it to drive. Edwin followed behind, oar in hand and took out the creature.

"Thanks." Ben offered with a thumbs up.

"Thank you. That was awesome." Edwin responded, and Ben couldn't help but note that the kid was smiling for the first time since they got there. "Hey lookout!" Gwen narrowly missed a collision with one of those creatures.

The rest of the ride consisted on trying to doge every one of those things, and keeping close enough to each other so they didn't lose anyone. Before long they made it to the orb, without anymore incidents.

"If the orb can power this whole resort, just imagine what the aliens did with it." Gwen awed, staring at the small pink orb.

"Stealing all those ships and planes would be a good guess." Ben retorted, remembering that those were the creatures responsible for the Bermuda Triangle.

"Maybe if we reverse the connections, it would turn its outward power inward." Edwin offered, Gwen peaking up at the science driven solution.

"And make the whole resort implode." Ben tensed, glancing down at his watch. Red. It was a smart plan though.

"With those aliens in it." He finished.

"Good thinking Edwin." Gwen praised, and Ben offered him a smile.

"Thanks, but we still need to get out of here." Edwin pointed out. Ben paused, before smirking.

"I have an idea." As long as the watch rebooted in time.

Edwin quickly reverted the power surge, the creatures started to flock to it the moment they were heading out. Ben smiled softly as the key component to his plan came into view.

"That's your escape plan?" Edwin asked surprised. Ben nodded, looking at the replica submarine. "It's only for show!" Edwin pointed out.

"And when I'm done with it, it'll be for go." Ben responded, eyes landing on his watch. Green. Hoping it gave him what he needed this time. "Upgrade." He whispered as the glow and feeling washed over him. He made quick work of wrapping himself all along the submarine and merging into it.

He propelled them forward, pushing with all his might as he felt the water around them tremble. The explosion was going to catch up to them, but he needed to get them to an opening. Lucky for them, all the creatures were distracted down below, they made it out without much more of a hitch. The explosion helping Ben propel them forward, towards the surface.

Once they were close enough to the surface that momentum alone would get them to the top, Ben merged himself back into the main space. The beeping sounding and turning him back just as he got inside. Ben couldn't focus too much once they got on dry land. The exhaustion of the day hitting him, but nonetheless he smiled.

Ben smiled and laughed along with everyone before they were biding their good-bye's and making their way back to the RV. Ben yawned, quietly listening to Gwen recount the story to Grandpa all the way to the rust-bucket.

"You kids did good." Grandpa Max smiled, before turning his attention to Ben. "Are you okay Ben?" He asked, concern folding into his features. Ben smiled with a nod and a laugh.

"I'm just beat." He grinned, ignoring the dull aches and throbs that ran through his muscles. All he wanted now, was a nap.

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echothelover · 4 years

Note

Ok I have been meditating on the snippets u have posted abt ur current writing project for DAYS and I need to know: what’s ur absolute favorite part of what u have so far?? which bit makes u go “oh this is incredible” when u reread it??

Oh! Ok! This was difficult to answer. I have a bad habit of writing my story out of order as I get new ideas for scenes, but after looking through everything I wrote I found a scene that takes place far in the future compared to where I actually am in writing this story.

It's about family, and building a home, and going from passively suicidal to actively wanting to live.

Character reference: Bren= main character, semi-immortal in the sense thathe can live for over 1000 years. Mistral= a ghost + Bren's husband (not yet as of this scene). Stellan= a person in a strange unreachable state between life and death (not quite a ghost, it's complicated) + Bren's spouse (yeah this is a poly love story between a sorta immortal and two sorta dead people, what of it?). Yréwen= basically Bren's sister cause I'm all about found family, Qinek= Bren's adopted daughter+ actually immortal (not just having a really long life span like Bren).

The tree that they got the clippings from was the tree that Stellan was buried under.

Actual scene after the cut

It was his sole purpose for so long.

A home in a forest far from Silkrift, near the rivers, where the stars shined brighter than they had ever witnessed. There was clay in the riverbeds, enough that he could cover the entire forest with the form he’d gotten so good at sculpting. A quiet place where he and Stellan would eventually settle, away from everything they’d always planned to run from. And here Bren was, everything just like they’d whispered under the blanket of night hundreds of years ago.

He always figured he’d die after achieving his purpose. He’d been happy at the thought. It was strange. Maybe it’s because it wasn’t like they’d imagined. Not even Stellan was brilliant enough to know what the future held.

They’d gathered up as much as they could carry, which had been a lot between Yréwen’s magic and the carriage. Bren had wanted to bring more, but Mistral pointed out that if they shoved anymore in, Bren wouldn’t be able to fit during their ride back. Bren had almost said to do it anyway, because what was important was that Stellan got to see the home Bren made for them, but he saw the look in Mistral’s eyes before he’d even opened his mouth and had simply climbed in after him.

Now that they had their collection spread out around the shop and every single room with even the tiniest bit of light, Bren had to agree with his friends that he had been perhaps the tiniest bit excessive, but he’d be damned if he threw out a single one of them.

The house was practically drowning in them, sunlight tinted green as it was filtered through a truly absurd amount of leaves from hundreds of branches waiting to put down roots. It wasn’t just clippings they’d grabbed. Thousands of fruits, which they’d carefully carved the seeds out of before cooking up the rest of the flesh. Some clippings of the blossoms, which had thankfully not wilted by the time they got back, were quickly swarmed and cross pollinated with the trees that had been in place long before they’d arrived.

With so much here, at least one tree had to live. It had to. They had to.

Maybe they’d all live. Maybe they’d crowd out the house and grow through the floorboards, blending the clearing in with the rest of the forest.

A whole forest full of Stellans. Bren actually laughed at that thought. If anyone asked, he’d simply say that the pollen was the reason his eyes were watering when he gently brushed his hand over one of the flowers.

No one gave his tears a second glance though, not even Qinek, her eternally curious mind distracted by the simple joy of running through the newfound jungle her world had become. She started talking, more than she ever had before, as if simply observing a leaf forcing its way out of its protective shell was enough to send her into bloom as well. Even when she went quiet again, all it would take was going outside where they kept the blossoms to have her dancing alongside the bees that had become a permanent fixture near the house. She only spoke about the trees, but it was more than enough to hear her questioning where there had once been nothing, her ever watching eyes given a voice.

No one could blame her for being curious. When Mistral had gently told her it would take a few years before the saplings even began looking like trees and at least a decade before they grew more than ten feet, her eyes had sparkled and she’d started excitedly asking, “Only a decade? It will only take a decade?” and Bren was shocked to find that he understood her. Trees grow oh so slowly, but still far faster than her, still far faster than Bren, or Yréwen, never truly in the same stasis as Mistral. How strange that he used to think that the Silkriftian tradition wasn’t as beautiful as Stellan deserved, as if the miniscule seeds they’d been buried with would never reach the constellations that they’d adored.

“Dad, did you know that they glow right before they sprout? They look like little stars!” Qinek asked after running to him, bouncing on her heels. And Bren had known and knew that the glow would become permanent once the trees matured, but he said he didn’t anyway so that she could excitedly inform him, as he was suddenly caught up in the fact that unlike all the other times he’d been called her dad, this time it stuck.

“Like the earth after it rains,” Mistral said about the bright sing-song words. There was too much fondness in his own voice for Bren to even be slightly annoyed that the first thing Mistral got from his daughter’s (his daughter’s) voice was mud. It helped that the comparison made her shout in joy that “plants need rain and soil to grow, Dad! We’re helping them grow!” After that she was too overjoyed to speak again, but it was okay because she kept grinning.

It’s strange to live past your purpose.

It’s even stranger wanting to.

#this scene is basically the culmination of Bren's character arc #as well as a way to blend together Bren's old life and his current one #just so you know stellan DOES actually show up in the story. its just hard for them to reach into the world of the living #anyway thank you for asking me this! I always love to share my writing #xander's personal rambles #my writing

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sandersfander1820 · 5 years

Text

I’m Here: Part Thirteen

Summary: This is Roman’s last chance to get this right, but he’s still struggling. He can handle it though, right?

Words: 1,815

Author’s Note: God, I am so sorry this took so long to get done and finished. I didn’t want it to wait so freaking long, honestly. But sometimes things happen. This chapter is actually pretty significantly shorter than previous chapters, so sorry about that, but I felt it was okay to end where it did. Also, this hasn’t been fully proof read, and I’m sorry about any typos there are in there. Anyway, I really hope you like this chapter and I hope it was worth the wait.

I will not be putting the taglist on this right now because it’s late and I want it posted. I will put it on in the next few days maybe.

(I’m not sure if Tumblr is still doing that thing where posts with outside links don’t show up in search results, so I won’t link the Ao3 file, but it’s ‘I’m Here’ by SandersFander1820 (RobinPlaysTrumpet15).)

He’d read through the script at least three times already throughout the day, and not because he didn’t have anything to do. Honestly, Roman had so many things to do that he might have lost time by rereading a script he was completely and totally familiar with.

But something about it just wasn’t sitting right.

He couldn’t pin down the feeling until about halfway through practice that afternoon.

Dr. Allen had them start over from the beginning and go through every scene leading up to the confession. Smaller scenes that didn’t have Roman and Sera in them together were skipped in favor of getting to the “important” bits. Not to say the scenes without them were unimportant, Dr. Allen specified, but everyone knew the of issues they’d been having.

Almost three quarters of the way through the scene and it finally hit him what felt all wrong.

“Alright, stop! Stop, stop, stop,” Dr. Allen called. She waved her hands through the air in a cutting motion, getting all the attention on her. The woman sighed, squeezing her eyes shut and pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Roman…” she huffed on a hard breath. “What is the issue? What did I tell you do to yesterday?”

Roman winced, stepping away from Sera and facing their director.

“I- I know, Dr. Allen, but-”

“So what is the issue?”

“Well, I had a thought-”

“You know what I said, Roman.”

“I know-”

“If you don’t get this scene down by this evening, you won’t be in opening night.”

“I know that, ma’am-”

“Roman Prince.” Dr. Allen’s tone took on a deadly blunt edge. “What does everyone in this theater know about calling me ma’am?”

Roman took a deep breath. “That we are not to call you that, ever, under any circumstances.”

Dr. Allen nodded. “Exactly. That’s right. Now,” she turned and looked him directly in the eye, “what have you been trying to say?”

Deep breath. Swallow. “Prince Edward’s reaction to finding out Ginger is his soulmate doesn’t make sense.”

She paused in her pacing, cocking a skeptical eyebrow up at him, challenging. “Oh really? Enlighten me.”

“Okay,” Roman said, taking as calming a breath as he could. “Well, for starters, this scene is written as if Edward and Ginger had just met for the first time. But actually, they’re already friends. They already love each other. This scene is huge and over the top, which, yes, is usually right up my alley, but it doesn’t fit into the dynamic that the rest of the play has built so far.”

Dr. Allen’s eyebrows furrowed as her gaze dropped. Then she was picking up her discarded script and flipping through it, reading lines and then flipping more pages and reading a few lines. After a few moments in which Roman started to sweat out of pure unadulterated nervousness, she looked back at him with a contemplative look. She motioned for him to continue.

Roman swallowed, glancing around the theater, his eyes drawn up movement up in the balcony. There he saw Logan rushing in through the door to put his bag down as if he was late. He watched for a second in which Logan leaned over to exchange hushed words with Jordon. Then Roman felt Logan’s deep brown eyes focus on him.

Roman took a split second, closed his eyes and sucked in a slow, deep breath, then opened them again and focused on Dr. Allen.

“Ginger herself had already had her suspicions up to this point about Edward being her soulmate, so her own reaction would be a lot calmer than it’s portrayed. And as for Edward and his over the top proclamations of undying love for her, those don’t fit either. Because they’ve already become friends and grown close. Ginger and Edward already love each other, and they know they love each other…” Roman trailed off, his eyes wandering back up to the balcony and settling on Logan again. A feeling that was soft and fuzzy red swelled in the middle of Roman’s chest, right where his lungs were. It felt just a little harder to breathe, but in a good way. He felt a smile grow on his face. “It’s really just a matter of knowing for sure that they’re ‘meant to be’, and that’s cool and all but… it’s doesn’t change their feelings. Crazy, out-there, excessive pronouncements of love just don’t fit in here because they aren’t needed.”

Roman almost hadn’t realized when he’d stopped talking. He just smiled up at Logan, watching him smile back, blissfully unaware of the silence and growing number of eyes on him for the moment.

Until Dr. Allen brought him crashing back down to earth rather forcefully.

“Well, Roman,” she said, seeming loud in the silence, “That was very good insight. I appreciate it. And beyond that, you clearly learned something last night, and I believe you are now a better actor for it.”

“Thank you, Dr. Allen-”

“And as valid as your points are, and as right as you are, unfortunately we cannot change the play now. I am impressed and pleased that you noticed, though.” She smiled at him, closing her script and tossing it gently back onto the seat at her side. “Now, can we take this scene from the top, please, everyone?”

Dr. Allen clapped her hands at them, a teasing, bright smile firmly on her face. Roman smiled back at her, turning back to Sera and his other cast mates with a pep in his step.

He could do this. He could make this happen.

It took another half run before Roman fulling found his groove again. But by the end of rehearsal that day, he was feeling confident and sure and everyone was smiling and laughing and joking around. They were going to be so ready for opening night, they’d knock the audience’s socks off.

And only one thing changed.

In Roman’s mind, the scene was no longer Prince Edward proclaiming love for poor little Ginger Baker. It was just Roman, telling just Logan all the things he’d ever thought and felt and practiced in his head. Glancing up and finding one of his fated loves watching with rapt attention, and imagining him in his arms instead.

No offense to Sera, but still. It worked.

Roman kept his eyes on the balcony a little more than was truly warranted, but he didn’t want to miss this. He didn’t want to miss his chance to actually meet his soulmate. He butchered the first time, so the second time was going to be perfect.

Well, maybe not perfect, but that was okay. Roman could live with okay.

As he changed out of his costume backstage, his phone buzzed from its place atop his pile of clothes. He let it wait until he was finished undressing and redressing, then checked it. He had a message from Logan.

Pocket Protector @ 8:18 | Would you mind very much if I asked you to join me for a cup of soothing tea on our way back to our dorms?

Roman barked a laugh suddenly and loudly.

Queen Bee @ 8:27 | How long did it take you to write that?

Roman tucked his phone away in his pocket for a moment while he grabbed the rest of his items. As he turned for the door to leave, he heard a knock on the doorframe of the dressing room.

“Too long,” a familiar voice admitted.

Roman couldn’t help the way the air left his lungs in a tiny, high pitched gasp. It was a familiar voice with a familiar timbre that Roman could recognize in his sleep. Except that this time, there was no distortion, no static, no electronic, metallic, clangy sort of fuzz to it.

When he turned fully around and came face to face with Logan, he nearly threw caution to the wind and scooped him up right then and there.

But he didn’t. Because Roman knew and remembered that Logan didn’t like a whole lot of physical contact. He might not appreciate a sudden, impromptu hug from him. So Roman forced himself to stay his ground, bounce a little on his toes and squeal a bit in the back of his throat. He couldn’t stop smiling.

And it seemed, neither could Logan.

This was so, so much. First Virgil yesterday, now Logan (for real) today. It was all so, so, so so perfect. And Roman had no idea where to go from here.

After a second where the air started to turn clammy with an air of awkwardness, Logan cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing an embarrassed pink. His eyes dropped to the floor and he fidgeted in place nervously.

“So… tea?” Logan offered, peaking back up at Roman.

It was just too fucking cute.

Roman’s smile brightened (if that was at all possible) and he nodded. Suddenly his princely charm and calm, collected demeanor was back. Blushing and cute. Roman knew exactly what to do with bushing and cute.

“Sure, cutie,” he agreed with a fake teasing wink. He closed the distance between them in a few steps, invading Logan’s personal space just a little bit so he could add in a whisper, “I know a little place that’s open twenty four seven. The tea’s not five-star, but I hear the company is pretty outstanding.”

Roman wiggled his eyebrows a little bit for good measure.

Logan almost snorted, rolling his eyes and giving his soulmate a fond look.

“Oh, yeah?” he challenged, something mischievous glinting in his eyes. “I guess I’ll have to decide that for myself, Prince Charming.”

Logan? Flirting?

That was something Roman never thought he’d see in a million years. But he supposed there was a first time for everything. Perhaps Virgil and Patton coached him or gave him lessons in their spare time in the past few weeks.

Not that Roman was sure either of them could flirt either.

Either way, Roman was not going to pass this opportunity up.

“So where is this hole in the wall?” Logan teased as Roman finally stepped out into the hallway and closed the dressing room behind him.

“Oh, not far. But be prepared,” he warned, “you might leave covered in glitter.”

Logan’s clearly carefully crafted outer persona faltered a little. “Why?”

Roman shrugged, relaxing back from his flirting. “Because I like it, and it gets on literally everything. It’s the herpes of the craft world, they say.”

Logan shook his head, adjusting his glasses. His casual, neutral expression returned, a look Roman was far more accustomed to.

“Just as long as it’s not in my tea,” he commented.

Roman smiled softly as they exited the building together.

A hand brushed against his cautiously. His brushed it in return.

Carefully, Logan slid his hand into Roman’s.

“I promise,” Roman said quietly, almost too softly. “No glitter in the tea.”

A squeeze to his fingers.

“Thanks.”

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la-metamorphosis · 4 years

Text

Hesse-Iris

During the spring of his childhood, Anselm used to run joyfully in the green garden. One of his mother’s flowers was called the blue flag, and he was especially fond of it. He used to press his cheek against its tall bright green leaves, touch and feel its sharp points with his fingers, and smell and inhale its wonderful blossoms. Long rows of yellow fingers rose from the pale blue center and stood erect. Between them a light path ran deep down into the calyx and into the distant blue mystery of the blossom. He loved this flower very much and used to stare inside it for moments on end. At times he envisioned the delicate yellow members like a golden fence standing at a king’s garden, and at other times they looked like a double row of beautiful dream trees, and no wind could sway them. The mysterious path into the inner depths ran between them, interlaced with living veins that were as delicate as glass. The vault spread itself out enormously, and the path lost itself infinitely deep between the golden trees in the caverns. Above the path the violet vault bowed majestically and spread thin magic shadows over the silent miracle that was anticipated. Anselm knew that this was the mouth of the flower, that its heart and its thoughts lived behind the splendid yellow protrusions in the blue cavern, and that its breath and its dreams streamed in and out along this glorious bright path with its glassy veins.

Next to the large blooming flowers stood small blossoms that had not yet opened. They were on firm ripe stems in small chalices with brownish-green skin. The young blossoms forced themselves quietly and vigorously from these chalices, tightly wrapped in light green and lilac. Then the young deep violet managed to peer forth erect and tender, rolled into fine points. Veins and hundreds of lines could already be seen on these tightly rolled young petals.

In the morning, each time Anselm came out of the house, drawn from sleep and dreams and faraway places, the garden stood waiting for him. It was always there and always new. If yesterday there had been the hard blue point of a blossom tightly rolled and staring out of a green husk, there was now a young petal that hung thin and blue as the sky with a tongue and a lip, searching and feeling for its form and arch, about which it had been dreaming for a long time. And right at the bottom, where it was still engaged in a quiet struggle with its sheath, a delicate yellow plant with bright veins, one could sense, was preparing its path to a distant fragrant abyss of the soul. Perhaps it would open at noon, perhaps in the evening. A blue silk tent would arch over the golden dream forest, and its first dreams, thoughts, and songs would emanate silently out of the magical abyss.

Then a day would come when the grass was filled with nothing but bluebells. Then a day would come when suddenly a new tone and fragrance enveloped the garden. The first tea rose would hang, soft and golden-red, over the scarlet leaves soaked in sun. Then a day would come when there were no more blue flags. They would be gone. There would be no more path with a golden fence that led gently down into the fragrant mysteries. Stiff leaves would stand sharp and cool like strangers. But red berries would ripen in the bushes, and new, incredible butterflies would fly freely and playfully over the star-shaped flowers, red-brown butterflies with mother-of-pearl backs and hawk moths with wings like glass.

Anselm talked to the butterflies and the pebbles. The beetles and lizards were his friends. Birds told him bird stories. Ferns showed him secretly the brown seeds they had gathered and stored under the roof of the giant leaves. Pieces of green sparkling glass that caught the rays of the sun became for him palaces, gardens, and glistening treasure chambers. If the lilies were gone, then the nasturtiums bloomed. If the tea roses wilted, then the blackberries became brown. Everything fluctuated, was always there and always gone, disappeared and reappeared in its season. Even the scary strange days, when the cold wind clamored in the pine forest and the withered foliage clattered so pale and dead throughout the entire garden, even these days brought still another song, an experience, or a story with them until everything subsided again. Snow fell outside the windows and forests of palms grew on the panes. Angels with silver bells flew through the evening, and the hall and floor smelled from dried fruit. Friendship and trust were never extinguished in that good world, and when once snowdrops unexpectedly shone next to the black ivy leaves and the first early birds flew high through new blue heights, it was as if everything had been there all the time. Until one day, once again, the first bluish point of the bud peered out from the stem of the blue flag, never expected and yet always exactly the way it had to be and always equally desired.

For Anselm, everything was beautiful. Everything was welcome, familiar, and friendly, but the most magical and blessed moment for the boy came each year when the first blue flag appeared. At one time in his earliest childhood dream, he had read the book of wonders for the first time in its chalice. Its fragrance and numerous undulating shades of blue had been for him the call and the key to the creation of the world. The blue flag accompanied him through all the years of his innocence. It had renewed itself with each new summer, had become richer in mystery and more moving. Other flowers had mouths, too. Other flowers also diffused fragrance and thoughts. Others also enticed bees and beetles into their small sweet chambers. But the boy adored the blue flag or iris more than any other flower, and it became most important for him. It was the symbol and example of everything worth contemplating and everything that was miraculous. When he looked into its chalice and, steeped in thought, followed that bright dreamlike path between the marvelous yellow shrubs toward the twilight deep inside the flower, then his soul looked through the gate where appearance becomes an enigma and seeing becomes a presentiment. Even at times during the night he would dream about the chalice of the flower and see it enormously opened in front of him like the gate of a heavenly palace, and he would enter riding on a horse or flying on swans, and the entire world would ride and fly and glide gently with him, drawn by magic down into the glorious abyss where every expectation had to be fulfilled and each presentiment had to become true.

Every phenomenon on earth is symbolic, and each symbol is an open gate through which the soul, if it is ready, can enter into the inner part of the world, where you and I and day and night are all one. Every person encounters the open door here and there in the course of life, and it occurs to everyone at one time or another that everything visible is symbolic and that spirit and eternal life are living behind the symbol. Of course, very few people go through the gate and abandon the beautiful phenomenon of the outside world for the interior reality that they intuit.

It thus appeared to the young boy Anselm that the chalice of his flower was the open, silent question toward which his soul was moving in growing anticipation of a blessed answer. Then the lovely multitude of things drew him away again, in conversations and games with grass and stones, roots, bushes, animals, and all the friendly aspects of the world. He often drifted off and sank into deep contemplation of himself. He would abandon himself to the marvelous features of his body, feel his swallowing with closed eyes, his singing, the strange sensations as he breathed, the feelings and imaginings in his mouth and throat. He also groped there for the path and the gate through which one soul can go to another. With amazement he observed the meaningful and colorful figures that often appeared to him out of the purple darkness when he closed his eyes, with spots and half circles of blue and deep red and bright glassy lines in between. Sometimes Anselm experienced a glad and shocking jolt as he felt the hundreds of intricate connections between eye and ear, smell and taste, felt for beautiful fleeting moments sounds, tones, letters of the alphabet that were related and similar to red and blue, to hard and soft, or he was amazed upon smelling a plant or peeled-off green bark at how strangely close smell and taste were and how often they fused and became one.

All children feel this way, although they do not feel it with the same intensity and sensitivity. And with many of them all of this is already gone, as if it had never existed, even before they begin to learn how to read the alphabet. For others, the mystery of childhood remains close to them for a long time, and they take a remnant and echo of it with them into the days of their white hair and weariness. All children, as long as they still live in the mystery, are continuously occupied in their souls with the only thing that is important, which is themselves and their enigmatic relationship to the world around them. Seekers and wise people return to these preoccupations as they mature. Most people, however, forget and leave forever this inner world of the truly significant very early in their lives. Like lost souls they wander about for their entire lives in the multicolored maze of worries, wishes, and goals, none of which dwells in their innermost being and none of which leads them to their innermost core and home.

The summers and autumns of Anselm’s childhood came softly and went without making a sound. Time and again the snowdrops, violets, lilies, periwinkles, and roses bloomed and withered, beautiful and sumptuous as ever. He experienced it all with them. Flowers and birds spoke to him. Trees and springs listened to him, and he took his first written letters and his first problems with friends in his customary old way to the garden, to his mother, to the bright multicolored stones alongside the flower beds.

But one time a spring arrived that did not sound or smell like all the earlier ones. The blackbird sang, and it was not the old song. The blue iris blossomed, but there were no dreams and no fairy-tale figures wandered in and out along the golden-fenced path of its chalice. The hidden strawberries laughed from their green shadows, and the butterflies glittered and tumbled over the high lilies, but nothing was as it used to be. The boy was concerned with other things, and he had many quarrels with his mother. He himself did not know what the matter was or why it continued to disturb him. He only saw that the world had changed and that the friendships of earlier times had dissolved and left him alone.

A year went by like this, and then another, and Anselm was no longer a child. The brightly colored stones around the flower beds bored him. The flowers were mute, and he stuck the beetles on pins in a box. His soul had taken the long hard detour, and the old joys were vanquished and withered.

The young man rushed impetuously into life, which now seemed to him to have really begun. The world of symbols was blown away and forgotten. New wishes and paths enticed him. An aura of childhood could still be seen in his blue eyes and soft hair. However, he did not appreciate being reminded of it, and he cut his hair short and assumed as bold and worldly a posture as he could. His moods kept changing as he stormed through the scary pubescent years, at times a good student and friend, at other times lonely and shy. During his first youthful drinking bouts, he tended to be wild and boisterous. He had been compelled to leave home and saw it only when he returned on short visits to his mother. He was changed, grown, well dressed. He brought friends with him, brought books with him, always something else, and when he walked through the old garden, it appeared to him to be small and silent as he glanced about distractedly. He no longer read stories in the colorful veins of the stones and leaves. He no longer saw God and eternity dwelling in the mysterious blossoms of the blue iris.

Anselm went away to high school and then college. He returned to his home city with a red cap and then with a yellow one, with fuzz on his upper lip and then with a young beard. He brought books in foreign languages with him, and one time a dog. Soon he carried secret poems in a leather case in his breast pocket, then copies of ancient proverbs, and finally pictures of pretty girls and their letters. He came back from trips to foreign countries and took voyages on large ships across the sea. He returned and was a young teacher, wearing a black hat and dark gloves, and the old neighbors tipped their hats to him as he passed and called him professor, even though he had not yet become one. Once again he returned wearing black clothes, slim and somber, and walked behind the slow hearse upon which his old mother lay in the coffin adorned with flowers. And then he rarely returned.

Now Anselm lived in a big city, where he taught students at the university and was regarded as a famous scholar. He went about, took walks, sat and stood exactly like other people of the world. He wore a fine hat and coat, was serious or friendly, with lively and sometimes tired eyes. He was a gentleman and a scholar, just as he had wanted to become. But now he felt the exact same way that he had felt when his childhood came to an end. All of a sudden he felt the impact of many years sliding by that left him standing strangely alone and discontent in the middle of the world that he had always strived to attain. He was not genuinely happy as a professor. He was not deeply gratified to be greeted by the people of the city and the students who showed him great respect. Everything seemed dull and lifeless. Happiness lay once again far away in the future, and the way toward it seemed hot and dusty and ordinary.

It was during this time that Anselm made frequent visits to the house of a friend whose sister attracted him. He no longer felt at ease running after pretty faces. Here, too, he had changed, and he felt that happiness had to come for him in some special way and did not lie waiting for him behind each and every window. He liked the sister of his friend very much, and he often suspected that he was truly in love with her. But she was an unusual girl. Every one of her moves and words was unique and marked in a certain way, so that it was not always easy to keep pace with her and find the same rhythm. Sometimes in the evening, when Anselm walked back and forth in his lonely apartment and listened attentively to his own footsteps echoing through the empty rooms, he would argue with himself about this woman. She was older than the wife he had desired. She was very peculiar, and it would be difficult to live with her and to pursue his scholarly goals, for she did not like to hear anything about academics. Also, she was not strong and healthy and could not put up with parties and company very well. She preferred most of all to live with flowers and music and to have a book, in quiet solitude. She waited for someone to come to her, and she let the world take its course. Sometimes she was so fragile and sensitive that when anything strange happened to her, she easily burst into tears. Then there were times when she would glow quietly and softly in happy solitude, and anyone who saw this felt how difficult it would be to give something to this strange beautiful woman and to mean something to her. Sometimes Anselm believed that she loved him, and at other times it seemed to him that she did not love anyone. It appeared that she was just tender and friendly with everyone and wanted nothing from the world but to be left in peace. However, he wanted something more from life, and if he were to marry, then there had to be life and excitement and hospitality in his home.

“Iris,” he said to her, “dear Iris, if only the world had been differently arranged! If there were nothing at all but a beautiful, gentle world with flowers, thoughts, and music, then I would wish for nothing but to be with you my entire life, to listen to your stories, and to share in your thoughts. Just your name makes me feel good. Iris is a wonderful name. But I have no idea what it reminds me of.”

“You certainly know,” she responded, “that the blue flag flower is called iris.”

“Yes,” he responded with a feeling of discomfort. “Of course, I know it, and just that in itself is very beautiful. But whenever I say your name, it seems to remind me of something else. I don’t know what it is, but it’s as if it were connected to some very deep, distant, and important memories, and yet I don’t know what they could be and haven’t found the slightest clue.”

Iris smiled at him as he stood there helplessly, rubbing his forehead with his hand.

“That’s how I feel,” she said to Anselm in her voice that was as light as a bird, “whenever I smell a flower. Then my heart tells me each time that a memory of something extremely beautiful and precious is connected to the fragrance, something that had been mine long ago and became lost. It’s also the same with music, and sometimes with poems — all of a sudden something flashes, just for a moment, as if all at once I saw my lost home below in a valley, and then it immediately disappears and is forgotten. Dear Anselm, I believe that we are on earth for this purpose, for contemplating and searching and listening for lost remote sounds, and our true home lies behind them.”

“How beautifully you put all this!” Anselm complimented her, and he felt something stir in his own breast almost painfully, as if a hidden compass there were pointing persistently to its distant goal.

But that goal was completely different from the goal he sought, and this hurt. Was it worthy of him to gamble away his life in dreams by chasing after pretty fairy tales?

One day after Anselm had returned from a lonely journey, he found the stuffy atmosphere in his barren study to be so cold and oppressive that he rushed over to his friend’s house and asked the beautiful Iris for her hand.

“Iris,” he said to her, “I don’t want to continue living like this. You’ve always been my good friend. I must tell you everything. I must have a wife, otherwise I feel my life will be empty and without meaning. And whom else should I wish for my wife but you, my dear flower? Will you accept, Iris? You’ll have flowers, as many as I can find. You’ll have the most beautiful garden. Will you come and live with me?”

Iris looked at him for a long time, calmly and straight into his eyes. She did not smile or blush as she answered him with a firm voice.

“Anselm, I’m not astonished by your proposal. I love you, although I had never thought of becoming your wife. But look, my friend, I’d make great demands on the man I marry. I’d make greater demands than most women make. You’ve offered me flowers, and you mean well. But I can live without flowers and also without music. I could do without all of this and much more if I had to. However, there’s one thing I can’t and won’t do without: I can never live, not even just for a day, if the music in my heart is not at the core of everything I do. If I am to live with a man, then it must be one whose inner music harmonizes perfectly in a delicate balance with mine, and his desire must be to make his own music pure so that it will blend nicely with mine. Can you do that, my friend? If you do, you’ll probably not achieve fame and reap any more honors. Your house will be quiet, and the wrinkles that I’ve seen on your forehead for many years will have to be erased. Oh, Anselm, it won’t work. Look, you’re one of those who must study so that more and more wrinkles appear on your forehead, and you must constantly create more and new worries for yourself. And whatever I may mean and am, well, you may certainly love and find it pretty, but it is merely a pretty toy for you, as it is for most people. Oh, listen to me carefully: Everything that you now consider a toy is for me life itself and would have to be the same for you, and everything about which you worry and for which you strive, I consider a toy and not worth living for. I’m not going to change, Anselm, for I live according to a law that is inside me. Will you be able to change? And you would have to become completely different, if I were to become your wife.”

Anselm stood and could not utter a word, for he was startled by her willpower, which he had thought was weak and whimsical. He was silent, and without realizing it, he crushed a flower he had picked up from the table with his shaking hand.

When Iris gently took the flower out of his hand, it felt in his heart like a severe reproach, but then she suddenly smiled brightly and lovingly as though she had unexpectedly found a way out of the darkness.

“I have an idea,” she said softly, and blushed as she spoke. “You’ll find it strange. It will seem like a whim to you. But it’s not a whim. Do you want to hear it? And will you agree to follow it and allow it to decide everything between you and me?”

Without understanding her, Anselm glanced at Iris with a worried look in his pale features. Her smile compelled him to trust her, and he said yes.

“I’d like to set a task for you,” Iris said, and she became serious again very quickly.

“Very well, do it. It’s your right,” her friend conceded.

“I’m serious about this,” she said. “And it is my final word. Will you accept it as it comes straight from my heart and not haggle and bargain about it, even if you don’t understand it right away?”

Anselm promised. Then she stood up and offered him her hand as she said, “You’ve said to me many times that whenever you speak my name, it reminds you of something that you’ve forgotten, something that was once very important and holy to you. That’s a sign, Anselm, and that’s what has drawn you to me all these years. I also believe that you’ve lost and forgotten something important and holy in your soul that must be wakened again before you can find your happiness and attain your destiny. Farewell, Anselm! I’m giving you my hand and asking you to go and find whatever it is in your memory that is linked to my name. On the day that you rediscover it, I’ll become your wife and go with you wherever you want, and your desires will be my very own.”

Anselm was dismayed and confused and wanted to interrupt her and reproach her for making such a whimsical demand. But with one clear look, she admonished him and reminded him of his promise, and he kept quiet. He took her hand with lowered eyes, pressed it to his lips, and departed.

Anselm had undertaken and completed many tasks in his life, but none had been as strange and important and thus as discouraging as this one. Day after day he ran around and thought about it until he became tired, and time and again he would arrive at a point when he cursed the entire quest and angrily and desperately tried to dismiss it from his mind as the whim of a female. But then something deep within him would oppose this, a very slight mysterious pain, a very soft, barely audible warning. This faint voice in his own heart conceded that Iris was right, and it made the same demand that she did.

But this task was much too difficult for the learned man. He was supposed to remember something that he had long since forgotten. He was supposed to rediscover a single golden thread from the cobweb of buried years. He was supposed to grasp something with his hands and bring it to his beloved, something that was nothing but a drifting bird call, something like a pleasant or sad feeling that one has while listening to music, something thinner, more fleeting and more ethereal than an idea, something more transitory than a nocturnal dream, more shapeless than a morning mist.

Sometimes when he despairingly tossed his search to the winds and gave up in a terrible mood, he would unexpectedly be stirred by something like a breath of air from distant gardens. He would whisper the name Iris to himself, ten times and more, softly and playfully, like one testing a note on a taut string. “Iris,” he whispered, “Iris,” and he felt something move within him with a slight pain, as in an old abandoned house when a door opens and a shutter slams without cause. He examined memories that he thought he had ordered neatly within himself, and he made strange and disturbing discoveries in the process. His treasure of memories was infinitely smaller than he had imagined. Entire years were missing and stood empty, and when he tried to recall them, they were like blank pages. He found that he had great difficulty conceiving a clear picture of his mother once again. He had completely forgotten the name of a girl whom he had ardently pursued for one year during his youth. He recalled a dog that he had once bought on an impulse during his student years and that he had kept for some time. It took him some days before he could remember the name of the dog.

With growing sorrow and fear, the poor man painfully saw how wasted and empty the life that lay behind him had become. It no longer belonged to him but was strange and disconnected, like something once memorized that could be recalled only with difficulty in the form of barren fragments. He began to write. He wanted to write down, year by year, his most important experiences in order to get a firm hold on them again. But what were his most important experiences? Becoming a professor? Receiving his doctorate? His high school or university days? Forming short attachments and liking different girls in forgotten times? Terrified, he looked up. Was that life? Was that all? He slapped his forehead and could not stop himself from laughing compulsively.

Meanwhile time flew. It had never flown by so quickly and relentlessly! A year was gone, and it seemed to him that he was in exactly the same position that he had been when he left Iris. However, he had changed a great deal during this time, something that everyone saw and knew except him. He had become both older and younger. He had become practically a stranger to his acquaintances, who regarded him now as absentminded, moody, and odd. He gained the reputation of a strange eccentric, and people said it was a shame about him, but he had remained a bachelor too long. Sometimes he forgot his responsibilities at the university, and his students waited for him in vain. Sometimes, steeped in thought, he would meander down a street and walk by houses, brushing the dust from the ledges with his tattered coat as he passed. Many thought he had taken to drink. Other times he would stop right in the middle of a lecture in front of his students and try to remember something. Then his face would break into a childlike smile that was very soft and unusual for him, and he would continue his lecture in a warm and moving tone that stirred the hearts of many of his students.

After years of searching hopelessly for the fragrances and scattered traces of his remote past, Anselm had developed a new sensitivity that he himself could not recognize. It seemed to him more and more frequently that behind what he had previously called memories were even more memories, like an old painted wall where sometimes even older pictures lie concealed behind the old ones that have been painted over. He wanted to recall something like the name of a city where he had once spent some days as a traveler, or the birthday of a friend, or anything at all, and as he now dug up and rummaged through a small piece of the past as though it were debris, something entirely different occurred to him in a flash. A breeze surprised him like an April morning wind or like a misty day in September. He smelled a fragrance. He tasted a flavor. He felt dark tender sensations here and there on his skin, in his eyes, in his heart, and gradually it became clear to him: There must have been a day one time, blue and warm, or cool and gray, or some kind of day, and the essence of this day must have been caught within him and clung there as a dark memory. He could not determine exactly the spring or winter day that he distinctly smelled and felt in the real past. He could not name or date it. Perhaps it had been during his student days. Perhaps he had still been in the cradle, but the fragrance was there, and he felt something within him that he did not recognize and could not name or determine. Sometimes it seemed to him as though these memories reached back beyond life into a previous existence, although he smiled at the thought.

Anselm found many things during his helpless wanderings through the caverns of his memory. He found many things that moved and gripped him, and many things that scared him and made him anxious, but he did not find the one thing that signified the name Iris for him.

One time, in the midst of his torment over not being able to find his goal, he went back to visit his old home city, saw the woods and streets, the paths and fences again, stood in the old garden of his childhood, and felt the waves surge over his heart. The past enveloped him like a dream. Sad and silent, he returned to the city and told everyone that he was sick and had all visitors sent away.

However, one visitor insisted on seeing him. It was his friend, whom he had not seen since the day he had asked Iris to become his wife. This man came and saw Anselm sitting in a neglected condition in his dismal apartment.

“Get up,” he said to him, “and come with me. Iris wants to see you.”

Anselm jumped up.

“Iris! What’s wrong with her? Oh, I know, I know!”

“Yes,” said his friend. “Come with me. She’s going to die. She’s been sick a long time.”

They went to see Iris, who lay on a sofa, light and slender like a child, and she smiled cheerfully with magnified eyes. She gave Anselm her soft white child’s hand, which lay like a flower in his, and her face was as though transfigured.

“Anselm,” she said, “are you angry with me? I set a hard task for you, and I see you’ve kept your pledge. Keep searching and keep going until you reach your goal! You thought you were doing it for my sake, but you’ve really been doing it for your own. Do you know that?”

“I suspected it,” Anselm replied, “and now I know. It is a long way, Iris, and I would have turned back some time ago, but I can no longer find my way back. I don’t know what will become of me.”

She peered into his sad eyes and gave him a slight and consoling smile. He bent over her thin hand and wept for a long time, so that her hand became wet from his tears.

“What will become of you?” she said with a voice that was only like a glimmer of memory. “You must not ask what will become of you. You have searched a great deal in your life. You have sought honor and happiness and knowledge, and you’ve sought me, your little Iris. All these things were only pretty images, and they abandoned you as I must leave you, I, too, have experienced this. I always searched, and I kept finding lovely and beautiful pictures, and they kept fading and vanishing. Now I have no more pictures. I’m no longer searching. I’ve returned home and have only one more step to take, and then I’ll be home. You, too, will arrive there, Anselm, and you won’t have any more wrinkles on your forehead.”

She was so pale that Anselm cried out in desperation. “Oh, wait, Iris! Don’t go yet! Give me a sign that I won’t lose you entirely!”

She nodded and reached into a glass next to her bed and gave him a fresh blue iris in full bloom.

“Here, Take my flower, the iris, and don’t forget me. Search for me, search for the iris. Then you’ll come to me.”

Weeping, Anselm held the flower in his hands. And weeping, he took his leave. When his friend sent news of Iris’s death, he came again and helped adorn her coffin with flowers and lower it into the earth.

Then his life fell to pieces around him. It seemed impossible for him to continue spinning his thread. He gave everything up. He left his position at the university and the city and vanished. He was seen here and there. One time he appeared in his home city and leaned over the fence of the old garden, but when the people asked after him and wanted to look after him, he disappeared into thin air.

He continued to be fond of the blue flag. Whenever he saw these flowers growing, he bent over one, and when he stared into its chalice for a long time, it seemed as though the fragrance and presentiment of all the past and future fluttered toward him out of its blue depths. But he would sadly continue on his way because fulfillment did not come. It was as though he were listening at a half-opened door and heard the most lovely secret breathing behind it, and just when he thought that everything would now be given to him and fulfilled, the door slammed shut, and the wind of the world swept coolly over his loneliness.

His mother spoke to him in his dreams, and now for the first time in years, he felt her body and face very clearly and nearby. And Iris spoke to him, and when he awoke, something continued to ring in his ears, and he would try to recall it the entire day. He did not have a permanent home. He traveled as a stranger through the land, slept in houses and woods, ate bread or berries, drank wine or the dew from the leaves of the bushes.

He was oblivious to everything. Many people considered him a fool. Many thought he was a sorcerer. Many feared him. Many laughed at him. Many loved him. He learned to do things he had never been able to do before — to be with children and take part in their strange games, to talk to a broken twig and a little stone. Winters and summers flew by him. He looked into the chalices of flowers and into brooks and lakes.

“Pictures,” he sometimes said to himself. “They’re all just pictures.”

But he felt something essential inside him that was not a picture, and he followed it. And at times this essence within him would speak, and its voice was that of Iris and that of his mother, and it was consolation and hope. He encountered miracles, and they did not surprise him. And one winter he walked in the snow through a field, and ice had formed on his head. And in the snow he saw an iris stalk standing stiff and slender. It was bearing a beautiful solitary blossom, and he bent over it and smiled, for now he realized what the iris had always reminded him of — he recognized the childhood dream again and saw the light blue path that was brightly veined through the golden pickets leading into the secret heart of the flower, and he knew that everything he had been seeking was there, that this was the essence and no longer a picture.

And once again he was struck by memories. Dreams guided him, and he came upon a hut, where he found some children who gave him milk, and as he played with them, they told him stories. They told him that a miracle had occurred in the forest where the charcoal burners worked. These men had seen the gate of spirits standing open, the gate that opened only once every thousand years. He listened and nodded while envisioning the lovely picture and continued on his way. Ahead of him was a bird singing in the alder bush. It had a strange, sweet voice like the voice of the dead Iris. He followed the bird as it flew and hopped farther and farther over a brook and deep into the forest.

When the bird stopped singing and could no longer be heard or seen, Anselm stopped and looked around him. He was standing in a deep valley in the forest. Water ran softly under wide green leaves. Otherwise everything was quiet and full of expectation. But the bird kept singing inside him with the beloved voice and urged him on until he stood in front of a stone wall covered with moss. A small, narrow gap in the middle of the wall led into the interior of the mountain, and an old man was sitting in front of it. As soon as the man saw Anselm approaching, he stood up and yelled, “Go back! Go back! This is the gate of the spirits. No one has ever returned after entering it.”

Anselm looked up into the rocky entrance. He noticed a blue path that lost itself deep inside the mountain, and golden pillars that stood close together on both sides. The path sank downward as though into the chalice of an enormous flower.

The bird was singing brightly within his breast, and Anselm walked by the guard into the gap between the golden pillars, into the blue mystery of the interior. He was penetrating into Iris’s heart, and it was the blue flag in his mother’s garden into whose blue chalice he floated, and as he quickly approached the golden twilight, all memory and knowledge came to him at once. He felt his hand, and it was small and soft. Voices of love sounded nearby and familiar in his ears, and the glistening golden pillars sparkled as they had in the remote past, during the spring of his childhood.

And the dream that he had dreamed as a small boy was also there again, his dream about entering into the chalice, and behind him the entire world of pictures came and glided with him and sank into the mystery that lies behind all images.

Anselm began to sing softly, and his path sloped gently down into home.

#herman hesse #iris #love #childhood

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