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whispersafterdusk · 3 years

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Lost in Time - ch 7

"Oh come on - you're going to eventually own more than two sets of clothing you know."

Eli had once said Gale seemed like 'an animated fellow' - if he was animated then Selene was animated to the power of ten; there were times she thought of the builder as a hyper little puppy and it wasn't a personality type she was entirely used to just yet so the woman's eagerness was a bit daunting sometimes.

"You've already spent a lot of money on me-" Eli started, only for Selene to make a hushing gesture.

"Yes, I have, and I've got gols to spare -- just to rub it in Higgin's face once I purposely made certain I stayed the number one top shop in Portia for three years in a row. That built up quite the savings and I'm not going to be spending it on myself anytime soon. Now come on - you need more than a bed and a tiny table. Go nuts!" the woman laughed, gesturing at the various furniture items that lined the walls of...was it Paulie? Paulie's store. ((Continued below cut))

She'd eventually decided on staying with Selene; Happy Apartments had reminded her too much of the barracks, and she...wasn't ready to deal with that constant reminder yet. So, the offered, spacious room at Selene's had been her choice, and Selene had awakened her bright and early to go furniture shopping. The bed was easy: a simple wooden frame and headboard that had an ivy pattern carved into it and a basic mattress; the frame and headboard were painted a nice cream color and the ivy was a deep green. Along with it she'd chosen a matching bedside table that had two small drawers built in, and she'd deemed that sufficient enough to start out with but Selene was...very insistent on furnishing the entire room.

There was another small table that matched the bed, and the builder woman kept "subtly" nudging her toward a bookcase with matching chair as well as a piece that was half dresser (with mirror) and half armoire; all of it was a pale wood that, while it wasn't the exact shade of cream as the headboard, was still a close enough color that it all could pass as a "matching" bedroom set.

"Even if I say no, this is going to magically turn up in my room isn't it?" she asked dryly.

Selene giggled. "Not 'magically,' no. If you like them, then let's get them -- Paulie'll even move them in for us."

"That's right! Because it's the manly thing to do for such a large order," the giant man laughed.

The man was...pretty obsessed with the word "manly" but his laugh was genuine; he and Selene had that same level of friendliness going on. Hopefully that friendliness would remain after he found out who she was and where (and when) she'd come from.

Anyway...back to the matter at hand. Apparently everything in the shop was something Paulie had made himself, and she had a feeling that everything she picked up now was as high quality as it looked and would probably last her several decades so at least Selene wasn't paying a premium for furniture that would fall apart in two years. "...fine, all right. But just these things and that's IT, got it?"

Selene snickered then held a hand out to Paulie; as Eli watched the man took a handful of gols (why the world had gone back to physical coin-based currency was beyond her) and dropped it into her palm.

"When exactly did you two have time to make a bet on her wearing me down?"

"As you were looking at the bed frames. When the smallish builder sets her mind to something very little will stop her," Paulie said. "And sometimes that means I lose a manly bet."

Selene pocketed the handful of coin, looking smug. "It was a righteous cause, I promise you. You deserve to actually have a comfortable living space."

"I'll have all this delivered by end of the afternoon," Paulie went on. "Did you have a floor plan in mind?"

"Nah, we can move it ourselves once you get it into the house," Selene replied. "Thank you Paulie." She gave the large man a hug and he returned it with enough force to lift the builder from her feet then waved at them as they headed out from the shop.

Outside the wind was blowing but the sky was clear; Eli zipped her jacket back up against the chill and looked to Selene. "Now what?"

"Well... Merlin is helping Petra check for any mention or pictures of the tool we need, so they're busy today. I wanted to wait to see if they found anything and I also have the factory building the last pieces of the lockable elevator car at the moment so even if I had all the measurements or assurances that I could go ahead and try casting that tool we need I'd still have to wait for that to finish. So...basically, we've got the day free aside from being home when Paulie delivers the furniture. Want to get a late breakfast?"

Eli opened her mouth to reply when a comically large set of scissors over a storefront across the way caught her attention. "-is that a salon?"

"Huh? - oh, yeah. Sanwa runs it - cuts, styles, and dyes hair. And beards, but that doesn't apply to you," Selene answered, grinning.

With a small smile she looked away from the scissors shining in the morning sun and back to the builder. "Don't suppose I could rely on your charity for one more thing, could I?"

-----------------------------------------------------------

The apricots Selene grew along the western fence line were juicy and tasted fantastic, and made a for a refreshing snack after an hour or so of moving furniture around.

Paulie had carried it all in and then she and Selene had pushed things into place; Selene was now off double checking on the final pieces of that locking car mechanism, and Eli was sitting on a stool in front of the fence with her back pressed to the wooden slats as she slowly munched on one of the last apricots the builder had gotten off the trees before winter had set in.

It seemed that along with new or hybrid fruits and vegetables a lot of plants she was familiar with had developed a rather long shelf-life on top of having shifted what seasons they typically grew in -- in this case, Selene's apricot trees kept producing right up to the first frost of late fall whereas the trees Eli had known in her time period had mostly stopped dropping fruit by late summer (and the apricots back then definitely hadn't lasted for a few months without showing signs of rot or withering). There was a single apple tree in the little "grove" along the fence and from what Selene had said the apple tree at least produced on a schedule that Eli remembered.

There were neat, orderly rows of planters next to the trees and while they were empty now there were little signs attached to them to identify what had been there: chili peppers, cotton (such a small amount though...surely that wasn't useful enough to grow so little of it?), green lettuce, pumpkins, wheat (again how was it useful to grow just a few tiny planters full, versus an entire field?)

It was a small comfort to actually see proof that not everything had changed so drastically but that was about all that was immediately familiar on the property.

In the planters among the normal plants Eli recognized were more of the weird ones: bamboo papaya, cornball (this one was at least...SORT of understandable? It seemed to be corn that just grew in an orb instead of a long cob), layered carrots (something that tasted like a carrot yet was shaped like a turnip and colored a stripey green and white that resembled neither vegetable), potato fruit (looked like an apple, tasted like a sweet potato), sisal... There were remnants of flowers that Selene had called rainbow flowers, and despite there being only withered stems and dried petals Eli could see the name was very fitting.

And over there, separate from the fruit trees, was a cluster of seven trees that were totally unrecognizable; Selene had called them nitra, zeolora, and crystella trees and Eli had never seen anything so bizarre as trees that grew...rock and crystal-looking "fruit" that hung heavy from the branches or leaked from the bark like a growth. Whatever or however the rocks and crystals grew the builder had said that the trees weren't ready to be harvested but had promised to let her help when it was time; what had gone wrong in nature to create trees that grew rocks?

No... What had gone wrong with the world that gave chemicals and biological weapons free reign to do all THIS?

'At least some of it's familiar...' she kept thinking to herself.

And she had to keep latching on to the familiar things, but there were precious few compared to everything that had changed... Plants were different, the trees were different (even the "normal" ones growing naturally around the shop - Eli didn't recognize those species at all), languages had disappeared, technology was gone...

And then there was all the people, and all the nations, that were gone too.

A twinge hit her in the gut and she leaned her head back against the fence behind her; the change in posture let the light breeze blow right down the front of her, through the little opening between the V-shape of the zipper on her jacket and the tiny gap at her collar bone where her sweater neck drooped slightly. The sudden stab of cold against her skin drew her attention away from the black hole of thought she was about to tumble down and she took a steadying breath.

After a few moments she did zip her jacket up to beneath her chin but she stayed leaning as she was; from the workshop and warehouse across the yard Eli could hear the noise of machines pounding and grinding away -- the locking elevator car was nearly done with only the front and back wall panels needing completion. The lock itself was fairly clever and Selene had seemed especially proud of herself as she showed it off to her earlier; it required both a physical key and a magnet of a certain strength to turn the tumbler and lift an inner locking bar that fit into the gap the door would ordinarily slide effortlessly into, and without the magnet to lift the bar you'd have to tear the entire door apart to get that bar up and out of the way (and by that point you wouldn't even need to as the door would be less a door and more a gaping hole).

Selene had selected a pile of magnets of various shapes and sizes but all roughly the same strength and the plan was only some of them would get a key and some would get a magnet (with a few exceptions - Gale would have both a key and magnet and so would at least one of the Civil Corps members). It essentially meant that it would take two people to get the car unlocked, which Eli considered a little overkill but was willing to let the mayor have the final call.

It did make her wonder what kind of war had just passed between the Alliance and this Duvos...Gale was dead set on absolutely nothing in those ruins falling into Duvos hands even though Eli knew there wasn't a chance in hell that anyone on the planet could replicate anything that could be found down there.

The thrumming and clanking of the workshop factory rather nicely covered up the sound of approaching hoofbeats coming from the direction of the city gates; Eli wasn't even aware Arlo had gotten that close until he'd said hello, and then she felt like an idiot at how she'd jumped out of her skin at the sudden greeting.

---------------------------------------------------

"Didn't mean to startle you, sorry."

Spacer nickered quietly - almost like the horse was also apologizing on his behalf.

Eli sat up from where she'd been leaning against the fence. "Not your fault, was just...thinking, I guess. I need to get back into the habit of listening for every little noise."

With a nod Arlo quietly gave her a once over; she was looking stronger every day, and now that she was out here with Selene she'd be right next to the Civil Corps usual jogging path. "-you're looking well. Does Dr. Xu have you exercising to build your muscles back up?"

"Not yet, but getting out to the facility and working inside it is doing a pretty good job of getting me back to what would be normal for anyone else. It's going to take a lot of work and protein to get back to what's 'normal' for me."

"When the Civil Corps does training exercises we usually start out with a run that begins at the gates and goes right by here - maybe you can start joining us, when we get back to it."

Eli smiled at him. "I'd like that. It'd be a good way to get the lay of the land too." She jerked a thumb over toward Selene's factory. "She's almost got the locking car done so whatever schedule you had before you ought to be getting back to soon."

Arlo gently nudged Spacer a little bit closer so he didn't feel like he was just a few levels shy of shouting at her to be heard over the noise of the factory going at full steam. "I'll be helping to haul it out and install it - how big is it?"

"Big enough to properly fit into the shaft, and with thick walls and door. The lock's actually pretty clever too."

"Good. We need clever to keep people out of there. Has Gale talked to you yet?"

He noted that she paused (it was barely perceptible - could've been mistaken for a flinch) before offering him another smile.

"Yeah, he has. This coming sunday the cat's out of the bag."

"I don't expect any trouble but Remington and I will be there regardless."

Eli nodded and an awkward silence fell; she took a halfhearted bite out of the mostly finished apricot in her hand but was chewing it slowly, like she didn't want to swallow it.

Sensing a change of subject was probably needed Arlo cleared his throat. "-your haircut is nice. Suits you."

"Thanks," came Eli's quick answer - the relief in her tone was palpable. She ran a hand through her hair; it was shaved almost to her skull on the sides and in the back, but the top had been left long enough to comb to the left. "It's how I wore it before. Fits better under helmets and there's less there for someone to grab a handful of if they manage to get close and I don't have said helmet on."

Ha...a haircut doubling as part of personal defense. That was something he hadn't given thought to before. "So you've met Sanwa then. What'd you think of him?"

"Chatty fellow. Selene mentioned I was new to the area and he started waxing poetic about Portia and how peaceful it is out here. I guess that's why you only need three Civil Corps members, eh?" she asked, chuckling quietly.

Arlo smiled faintly, shaking his head. "He does have a point. There's not a lot of interest in joining the Civil Corps because not a lot of people think we need a large group of us because Portia is so peaceful. Gale does have the budget set aside to hire on more people as needed or required, and Paulie helps out as he's able -- we did have a recent incident with a rogue knight that had people clamoring for more town security but that sentiment only lasted a couple of weeks."

"...a...rogue knight?" Eli repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Like, metal armor, sword, chivalry knight?"

"Sort of. He had some armor on and a sword but he was commanding an All Source AI and other AIs to attack Portia. We sustained some heavy damage but were able to fend him off with help from Django."

Eli let out a barked "ha!" before spinning on her stool to rest her arms on the fence and her chin on her arms. "I knew it. That man carries himself too confidently to just be a chef."

"He...what?"

"Django. I met him earlier when Selene and I got brunch. He walks and carries himself with a certain confidence and balance that I'd expect out of someone who's been trained in combat. Is the knight-theme of his diner just for show, or is he some sort of knight too?"

"He's retired. You could tell all that from watching how someone walks?"

Eli nodded. "You can. Might take a bit to notice with some more than others but with him it's a dead giveaway. If you ever want to learn what to look for I can teach you, no problem."

"I'll keep that in mind. Could be useful." Arlo glanced toward the door of the factory; he was tempted to get down and go check on progress but if Eli said Selene almost had it done he was willing to take her word for it. "I need to go on patrol. Would you like to ride along? Get the lay of the land, like you said earlier, and maybe we'll find somewhere you recognize."

Eli seemed to consider that a moment, then nodded; as she stood she whipped her arm and sent what was left of the apricot in hand whizzing toward the compost heap across the yard. Arlo tracked its arc and nodded approvingly as it landed on top and sent a small clump of rotting leaves and cornball husks sliding down the side of the heap.

"Nice throw."

"Thanks. I'll let Selene know where I'm headed and then we can head out."

She headed into the workshop and was back a few moments later; Arlo held a hand out and helped her mount up behind him before nudging Spacer into a trot.

Across from Selene's shop was Sophie's ranch; as they drew away from the workshop the hissing and pounding noises faded and the soft sounds of cattle and horses started to become apparent. The wheat fields had long since been harvested and as they ambled along Arlo could pick out tracks across the field were someone had been walking and another longer stretch that looked like someone had been sledding there. These spots and of course the areas where the cows and horses wandered had thawed out down to the ground underneath and stood out as dark, muddy spots against the remaining slushy snow that still clung to the ground (and was also a reminder of the mud they had to wade through daily to get to and from the facility as well).

"Were there any farms nears Dubei?"

"On the very outskirts, and also hundreds of community plots on the rooftops."

Arlo blinked. "On the rooftops? How?"

He heard a soft chuckle behind him. "Just a reinforced area able to handle extra weight of soil and water, good drainage, that sort of thing. Almost every roof had some sort of food garden or ornamental one - Dubei loved their greenery. Planters and trees on every street and corner, shelves to let vines come down the sides of buildings. Lots of potted plants inside buildings too. From far off it'd be easy to miss among all the lights, signs, and the glass reflecting everything but down in close, on the streets and in the buildings themselves, you'd see green everywhere."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

He felt movement against his back as she shifted, then "-not when you have AIs specifically handling the work."

"An AI for every task, sounds like."

From the corner of an eye he saw Eli nod. "They did the bulk of menial and hard labor, and of course were invaluable assistants in day to day goings on. Lots of data storage, for one."

"The historical records seemed to suggest AIs did everything for humans."

"NOT everything," Eli corrected, tone firm. "They couldn't do everything. And we couldn't trust them with everything anyway."

"Couldn't trust an AI? But I at least thought they were everywhere."

"They were. But would YOU want to trust every aspect of life to something that was one damaged power supply or corrupted file away from shutting down at the worst possible time?"

"I guess not."

They rode on in silence for a bit; the farm passed by and they were approaching the fields beyond Sophie's fences. He turned Spacer to the right and began to follow the fence line up toward where the air balloon platform was. In full view from here was the water wheel that fed an irrigation system for the tree farm, as well as two towering ruins that were little more than metal husks -- they hadn't held much of importance when they'd first officially been delved into about twenty five years ago and since then they'd been stripped of as much useful scrap as they could without causing them to collapse.

Very carefully he turned his head to catch a view of Eli behind him; she was studying the shape of the ruins in the distance and seemed to be comparing them to the water wheel. He stopped Spacer at the DeeDee stop and shifted to look back at her. "Anything seem familiar yet?"

"I'm...PRETTY sure that rounded building there was a planetarium -- a, uh, a place where you could learn about space and the solar system. That rounded top was usually a theater where you could sit and watch a presentation projected onto the ceiling that, because it was rounded and also huge, seemed to drop you right in the middle of the movie. It's easy to trick the brain into thinking you're moving if you're surrounded with the right sensory information so the whole point of the presentation was to make you feel like you were literally flying through space examining planets."

"Sounds like fun."

Eli laughed quietly behind him. "It was. And it's something I'm sure even your level of technology could replicate."

Arlo smiled a bit at that and guided Spacer off to the left, diverting toward the elevator that led up to the hot springs. As he scanned the area and the bluffs ahead he wasn't seeing anything out of the ordinary - there weren't even any footprints up this way. He checked that the elevator was still working as it should and then turned Spacer down the path back toward the road that would lead to the harbor.

Technically he was going well out of the way of his usual patrol route but with Eli with him he wanted to give her the best chance possible to recognize anything in the immediate area; that she'd sort of recognized a planetarium was, he assumed, a good thing, and maybe with a few more landmarks she'd be able to piece together a map of Dubei and know approximately where she was now, 300 years later.

The lighthouse was always in view from almost anywhere you cared to stand once you were south of Sophie's, along with the top of the cargo crane. There was a rumble in the distance suggesting the bus that wheeled around Portia was just past the trees up ahead (that was where the bus stop was, after all) and aside from the soft lapping of waves against the shore there wasn't much else going on out here. He could do a quick loop then circle back north toward Amber Island's bridge, then keep going...

"Was Dubei close to the shoreline?"

"It was built out over the shoreline," came Eli's answer. "Big pylons, gigantic harbor. Docks and walkways. I'm not sure where we are on Dubei's shoreline just yet though."

Arlo nodded and kept Spacer moving at a leisurely trot. Eli seemed a little interested in seeing the "haunted" cave on Amber Island so he made a mental note to make sure she got a chance (knowing Selene if she caught wind of it she'd drag the woman out there herself) and then kept northeast toward Bassanio Falls.

"Is that...desert, over the river?"

Arlo nodded. "It is. Eufala Desert. There's some ruins out that way and Dana's mining operation in Ingall's Mine. If we'd gone across that second bridge we just passed on the right we would've arrived in South Block - it's a tiny outpost right at the edge of the desert." As he glanced back to her he saw her frown, then shake her head. "I'm guessing there wasn't any desert near Dubei in your time."

"No, there wasn't."

She didn't elaborate further; the lift to the top of the falls was where, lately, Arlo had been stopping his patrol route -- now that they were having to keep an eye on the facility in the marsh whoever got the afternoon shift was usually the one who skirted the edge of the marsh and then circled around and down from WOW Industries...

But, the very top of the falls was fairly high up and you could see for miles around up there so that would be the optimal place to have a look from. When they were within walking distance of the lift he got down from Spacer's back and walked the horse the rest of the way; the DeeDee stop would double nicely as a hitching post and there he left Spacer tethered before offering Eli a hand down.

"Let's head up - you might spot something you know."

As soon as they were at the top of the lift Eli immediately spotted the towering ruins of WOW Industries. "Did you people give names to any of these ruins?"

"Not really. But the ones we were able to find mention of, or ones with surviving signs, we just call them by their names. That's WOW Industries."

Eli's eyes lit up. "THAT'S WOW? Well, that's half of WOW. All right...all right, so then..."

She jogged up the path ahead of him and he sped up to keep pace, and then almost collided with her when she abruptly stopped.

"What the heck are THOSE?" she asked then, pointing off to their left where there was a flurry of movement near the tops of the trees.

Arlo squinted off toward where she was pointing and caught the barest glimpse of fluttering wings. "Panbats."

"Pan...bats?" she repeated slowly, turning to look at him in confusion.

"Panbats. They're pests that feed on trees - we had an infestation of them at the tree farm a few years ago. Usually they're pretty harmless but if they're hungry or you scare one they might attack."

Eli continued to stare at him for a few breaths more, then turned on her heel to head up the path further before turning to the left to creep up to the base of a tree; at the base she knelt down, putting the tree partially between herself and the panbats that were flapping around. Arlo came up behind her, counting seven of the beasts; he was more interested in watching how Eli watched them -- he wouldn't say she was sizing them up but she was eying them with far more than a passing curiosity. As they hunched there, observing, Arlo could see one large panbat alight on a bough and pull a shriveled apple free from a dry branch before beginning to suck at it.

"...do you have pandas, and bats, in this world?" Eli asked quietly.

"Bats, yes. Not sure what a panda is."

"Pandas - panda bears. Think...THESE things, but no wings, and about half the size of your horse."

Arlo shook his head. "We don't have those around here, at least. Couldn't say for the rest of the world though."

Eli let out a sigh that trailed off into a faint raspberry noise before she stood and turned back to the WOW Industries building. "Well... The good news is I know WOW Industries, and I know where it was. We're in the southeastern corner of Dubei and now I can also confirm that the shoreline is NOT where it should be, and that none of these bluffs or waterfalls here are where they're supposed to be. It's like...it's like parts of the land got shifted, or sheared off."

He didn't know what to say to that and instead followed silently as she walked up to the building. She stared up at the building and at the door, then circled around the ruin's foundation to the left; there was a flat metal platform here they'd assumed was some kind of loading dock that served double duty as a canopy that covered three enormous pipes coming out of the building. Not far from the edge of the platform was an enormous, wide stone retaining wall that overlooked the eastern border of the Collapsed Wasteland. There was another wall and a line of trees that blocked the majority of the view of the Wasteland from the top of this particular wall - it was hardly more than a crater with a few intact buildings clinging to the land so there wasn't much to see regardless.

Despite the obstructed view Eli was still standing atop the wall and, while he couldn't be sure, it sort of looked like she was measuring distances with her hands - using her fingertips lined up with the landscape and tops of the ruins.

He was content to wait and let her do whatever she needed; down below them he could just make out slurpees wandering about -- he wondered what she'd think of THOSE.

"Oh Fate...why is THIS the way the story goes..."

He just barely heard her speak. "-huh?"

"Nothing. Just having a crisis of faith. Or, in my case, a crisis of Fate."

"Ah."

She ran her hand through her hair again, and paced back and forth a few steps in each direction. "--what religions even exist now?"

"We have the Church of the Light. There might be others but I'm not sure - I've never been very far from Portia." He waited a moment, watching her pace. "What religions existed back then?"

"Hundreds of thousands. Mine specifically was the Foundational Three."

Arlo shook his head. "I've never heard of that one. The Research Center might have, but not me."

"Great..." she sighed. "Well. The Foundational Three are..." She paused, kicking away snow and ice from the stone under her before dropping down to sit. "Fate. Balance. And Judgement. Fate is the Great Curator, and ensures that every soul born into the world has a story to tell and, when those lives are over, makes sure their stories are made a part of the cosmos. Balance is the Silent Observer - Balance makes sure your life isn't too hard or too easy because too hard means you give up and too easy means you don't grow. And Judgement is the Arbiter, the one who carries out decisions made by Balance. Judgement will remove or place obstacles as needed, and punish or reward those as needed -- those who make it their purpose to make other lives miserable will find themselves on the receiving end of Judgement's wrath, and that's not somewhere you want to be. And on the other end of the spectrum are those who are given a helping hand to overcome their troubles if it proves to be more than they can bear."

She trailed off, staring out at the treetops below them. Arlo likewise cleared off a spot to sit and dropped down next to her. "It sounds like a nice religion."

Eli nodded. "Compared to most I'd say it definitely is. Certainly more kind than a lot I'd heard of back then. A lot of religions threatened doom and hellfire and damnation, or the destruction of the soul, or losing the ability to be reborn into another life - always more threats of the bad things versus promises of the good things. The Foundational Three always made the most sense to me though."

"Why's that?" He asked almost without thinking, then quickly added "you don't need to answer that if it's too personal."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, it's fine. In fact, the Three actually encourage you to share information and stories. That's part of why it made sense to me...there's things that should be shared, and remembered. And there's proof all around you that the stories told keep echoing - there's a reason people believe in ghosts. Those are just stories that weren't ready to end."

"I'm not sure I follow."

At that Eli laughed quietly, pulling up a knee to rest her chin on it as she wrapped her hands around her leg. "So, you have ghost stories here, right? I'd assume so being as you have a 'haunted' cave attraction." When he nodded she continued. "A ghost is a soul. A story. And sometimes, when someone dies, instead of their story joining the infinite collection the story itself hangs around. Sometimes it's there because the soul feels their story was cut short and they're upset. Sometimes it remains because the soul feels too strong of a connection to someone else's story, and they can't leave yet because their story is still being written, just on someone else's pages. That's how you end up with guardian spirits or the angry, hateful ghosts that appear in scary stories -- it's just someone's life, someone's story, that wasn't ready to close the cover yet. Eventually though the cover closes, the story returns to the shelves, and the details of that story are written in the fabric of existence where anyone, at any time, may catch a whisper of it even if they never knew that person."

She went quiet after that and Arlo mulled over everything she'd just said; it was a neat and tidy way to think of the universe, for sure. There was even a small bit of comfort in it, thinking that both people he knew and also those he'd never known or would ever know would somehow know about him when he was gone...granted, that thought was terrifying too - a bunch of strangers hearing only bits and pieces of things he'd done or the type of person he'd been. Anyone could make any sort of story out of scraps and believe themselves right.

"What happens when you accomplish whatever Fate said your story was supposed to be about?" he asked into the silence.

Eli shrugged. "How would you know you'd done that?"

"...no idea."

"And no one else would know either. Only Fate would. And even stories that seem complete can keep going. The only thing you can know for sure is you have a starting point in your story, and somewhere there's an ending point, but there's an infinite number of ways to get there." She trailed off again, then inhaled deeply and looked over to him. "Though I definitely understand the NEED to know why your story is going where its going. What am I supposed to accomplish?" With a flick of her fingers she gestured to the Wasteland ahead of them. "How in the world does THIS fit into any reasonable story Fate would want to tell?"

He didn't have an answer for that so he just stayed quiet; the sun was setting and the breeze was getting a bit more chilly and out of habit he rubbed his hands together.

The movement attracted her attention. "We can head back. I've seen enough to have at least some idea of where I am. It's just...staggering that there's so little left."

He nodded and stood, and offered her a hand up; they walked back to Spacer in silence and began to make their way back to Portia.

About halfway there he heard her sigh again - it was more of a groan though. "What's wrong?"

"I just realized something. Something that I was doing."

"What's that?"

"I want to know what happened here, and what that facility actually is and why I was down inside it. And I keep catching myself thinking of those three things - what happened, what it is, why I was there - as all separate pieces of the puzzle, when I SHOULD be thinking of it as one big knot to unravel. Seeing WOW, and spotting the sewer network got me to thinking about what's gone, what should be where, and how the landscape changed and for a moment it was like THAT was the only problem. And I know I'm doing it because, to be blunt, I'm terrified to actually get the answer..."

"I'm sorry," was all he could think to say.

The ride back to Portia was quiet after that.

#Lost in Time #lit #Lost in Time - ch 7 #Arlo #Builder #Paulie #My Time at Portia

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broken-clover · 4 years

Text

AU-gust Day 5- Post-Apocalypse

Ah. Um. Okay. This one is...sad. I mean I guess it kind of is by nature because of the theme? I wanted this to be upbeat and I feel like I missed the mark by a longshot. Wound up crying when I wrote this and tbh it’s probably half-coherent but here please take it. I promise I’ll do something less...this, next time

A massive bonfire lit up the tepid night, licking at the sky with every breeze and stick tossed onto it. Though he could make as big a fire as he wanted with just his hands and a little magic, Sol found a subtle beauty in nurturing a small kindling until it grew powerful enough that it only needed to be contained, swiftly gorging itself on whatever it came across and standing up to buckets of water that once would have been able to smother it a dozen times over. Almost like raising a child, in a way, though at least fire was easier to keep an eye on. And less raucous.

“Hey, old man!”

Speak of the devil. Sol shook his head with a smile and glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah? Thought you were supposed to be harvesting with your dad.”

Sin’s hair was as wild as it had ever been, though it took a little bit longer now for it to scrape the ground than it did before. It seemed easier and less labor-intensive to let it grow out into a shaggy mass nearly as tall as he was before lopping it all off. Sin used to be so intent of keeping it short at all times, but one could only go for so long being so hypervigilant before it turned to boredom and apathy. The only reason he even cut it at all was because of how he would trip over it while hunting and doing chores.

“I wanted to see if the fire was almost ready.” He pushed some of that messy hair back over his shoulder. “Besides, harvesting is boring, I’d rather help with the fire instead of having to carry stuff.”

Sol sighed, prodding the edge of a fire with a stick. “You’re nearly five billion years old, and you still complain about chores like a toddler.”

“Learned from the best!” Sin smirked back.

He was going to fire a retort back, but he could practically hear a little voice in his head chirping ‘Just let it go, Frederick. You know he’s just trying to get a rise out of you.’

“You’re right, you’re right.” He mumbled to himself.

Sin crossed his arms and huffed. “Fine! I’ll sit over with uncle raven then!”

The pale-haired man turned as sin approached the log he was on. “I’m afraid I won’t make for the best of company.”

“Still better than the old man! You use a lot of big fancy words and don’t yell at me when I slouch!”

“Sol!” A voice called from somewhere behind. As expected, when he turned towards it, he found Ky and Dizzy following, each carrying a large basket of greens.

“Figured you’d be longer. The brat didn’t exactly make it easier for you.”

“Well, I suppose a little mischief is alright for tonight.” Said Dizzy. “We were still able to find enough in the field for all of us to have plenty.”

Ky nodded. “And still plenty of leftovers, too. Little bit of mashed fruit, some potatoes, that cheese Raven made three years back, we have a lot! So make sure everyone eats well tonight. Not like we have to save it for anything.”

The man’s expression remained bright, but Sol’s fell. He looked back upwards. The midnight sky was a pale blue, hardly darker than midday. He couldn’t remember when it was truly dark enough to see the stars. Even the moon was little more than a vague crescent. At least the weather was tolerable, even with their hardy bodies, the days had become too hot to withstand, even in the underground bunker they’d shared for the last century or so. The sun was growing bigger and bigger every day, practically enveloping the sky. The few hours of ‘night’ were the biggest relief they got, so it made sense to make the most of what they had left.

Dizzy put her basket on the ground and began pulling out cobs of corn. “Where is Axl?”

“Said he was going on a grocery run.” Replied Ky. “I’m not sure what era though.”

That got Sin’s attention immediately. He sat up stick-straight. “Ooh, he’d better bring back something really good! Chips?”

“Mmm, shame he can’t go back to my time and bring back some of the treats I had in my youth.” Raven said wistfully. “Would probably attract too much attention.”

Sol idly thumbed at the dented lighter in his pocket. He’d run out of cigarettes, and had nothing to occupy his mouth. “He’ll be back whenever, not like he has any sense of deadlines. Just our luck, he’ll skip right past-”

As if on cue, a deep black abyss spiraled in the air nearby, crackling and popping for a moment before someone hopped through, carrying several bags.

“Right on time!” Axl cawed, raising a hand and walking over. “Glad I didn’t miss the party. I brought the food!”

Sin leapt out of his seat and scrambled towards the man, eyes shining. “What did you get? What did you get?”

“Easy, mate, I brought enough for everyone.” The plastic crinkled as he pulled out a variety of different things- packaged hamburgers, snack cakes, fresh fruit, and other things Sol didn’t bother taking note of. He only moved to catch a package of cigarettes as they were tossed to him.

“Maaan, this is much better than being stuck with vegetables!” the youngest’s eyes shone like he had been presented with a priceless treasure. “Jeez, how long’s it been since we’ve seen plastic bags? I think those all broke down ages ago.”

“And to think, people always used to say how wasteful they were, and how long they would take to break down.” Raven quipped, with a blithe little smile. “And now they’re impossibly rare relics.”

“Glad to provide!” Axl did a little bow. “Today, we enjoy the last swiss rolls in existence! Technically speaking.”

The feast started up soon after. Makeshift pots were set up for boiling vegetables, the leftovers were reheated over the fire. Axl’s food was bizarrely pristine alongside everything else, but nobody treated it as anything peculiar. Merriment followed the food, though it mainly just amounted to idle chatter and reminiscing.

“It’s delicious! Very well done.” Ky beamed, though Sol just knew it was bland, at best. “Corn’s so much different than it used to be, but I’m glad we still have that much. Reminds me of that one banquet, uhh, when was it? I seem to be blanking...can’t think of the millennium. I know there were still people back then, does anyone else remember the one with the corn sculpture?”

“Hmm.” Dizzy said. “Was that the one where Leo fell into the courtyard fountain after he drank too much?”

Ky thought for a moment in silence. “...Leo?”

“Scruffy blonde guy, had his own dictionary?” Sin offered.

“It was the first time you were king.” Added Sol.

“First...ah! Now I remember.” He nodded. “Goodness, that was forever ago. It’s hard to keep track. If I told my childhood self that someday I would become the ruler of thirty-five separate nations, I don’t think I would have believed it.”

“I tried once.” Axl replied, between bites of corn. “You thought I was bonkers. Kid-me said the same thing. Guess I don’t blame ‘em. I can hardly believe it sometimes. And I’ve been at this forever!”

“Mostly forever.” Corrected Raven.

“Oh sod off, birdie. B’sides, I could make words mean whatever I want ‘em to. There’s six of us! Who’s gonna stop me from saying ‘cold’ means hot and ‘hot’ means freezin’ your balls off!”

“Alright, alright, settle down.” Ky interrupted him. “We’re not here to fight. We’re here to celebrate. Sin, could you please pass me a hamburger?”

Sol couldn’t take this anymore. “I’ve gotta take a smoke break.”

They all seemed confused by his sudden outburst, but let him leave without too much trouble. He found a place in the wooded thickets that was secluded, where nobody but him could see the way his fingers trembled as he pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it.

Not even the animals were there to judge him. He couldn’t remember the last time those had existed, anyway.

So when the dead reeds began to rustle, he nearly jumped out of his skin. That was stupid of him. It had to be one of the others. Knowing his luck, it would be Sin, pestering him with enthusiasm and trying to drag him back to the fire, or Ky, with those big, soft, sad eyes that still managed to be able to throw him off guard.

“Chief?”

Shaggy blonde and dirty red bobbed in between the reeds, until Axl emerged right in front of him. How many centuries had he owned the same bandana?

“Chief, what was that about?”

Sol huffed, taking a long drawl of nicotine. “Jus’ needed a breather. I told you.”

“Don’t you toy with me.” The other’s voice softened. He pulled out a cigarette from his own pack.

“Didn’t know you smoked.”

“I’ve done just about anything that can be done.” Replied Axl. “I’m serious. What’s wrong? Why did you run off out of nowhere?”

He didn’t want to start a fight, not now. But even at a time like this, it felt preferable to admitting his feelings. It felt like a boulder was on his chest. “How can they be so…”

“So…?”

“So...happy? We can’t take anymore of this. Even if the sun doesn’t consume the planet tomorrow morning, the heat will incinerate everything on the surface and then some. How can they find it in them to celebrate? I know that whole family can be naive, but you and Raven-”

“Sol.” Axl cut him off, softly but firmly. “We know. They all know.”

The answer seemed obvious, but it still felt like a blow to the chest. Sol kept his expression hard and unreasonable. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not.” He said back. “God, why would I lie to you now? It’s the last bloody day in the world, what do I have to lose anymore?”

The space went quiet. The weight only seemed to grow heavier.

“You know, I’m older than the rest of you.” Axl sighed in dismay. “So, so much more. I’ve done this before. Never been this kind of fun, though. I guess I just needed to get hamburgers? Hehe…”

Sol refused to meet his gaze, instead focusing on a glowing bit of ash as it fell to the ground. “You don’t have to be here, y’know. Unlike the rest of us, you can just bail.”

He was met with a slow shake of the head, a patient smile, and sagging shoulders. “I’m an old man, chief. I might not look it, but I’m the oldest thing in the universe. More than you, and Sin, and even Raven. I’ve seen the universe begin over and over again, and every step of it after.”

“And?”

“And I’m tired. I’m really tired of all of this. I’m done. The universe is falling asleep, and I finally want to fall asleep with it. The end of it all is the one thing I’ve never allowed myself to see. It was so tempting at times, but I knew that, even with all of my abilities, I was only capable of living once. I tried changing time. I tried seeing what else there was in the universe. But it all came back to this. Just a handful of people, waiting for it all to end.”

The way his jaw clenched made Sol nearly bite through his cigarette and break his teeth. “Were you the one to tell them, then?”

Another shake. “They’re smart, Sol. I didn’t have to tell them anything. I’d feel so lucky, if I were you. I couldn’t think of anyone better to spend so many eons with.”

It wasn’t right. None of it. But no matter what, Sol knew it didn’t matter. He could spend every last moment of his life screaming and clawing in an attempt to change anything, but there was nothing he could do now. Just a moment of silence before the apocalypse.

So he followed Axl back to the fire. Sol put on one of his rare smiles and hunkered down to chat, regaling dozens of lifetimes with the only people who knew could understand what such an existence was like. The rise and fall of nations, births and deaths and the many long years in between. Wars and peace and prosperity and poverty. Hope and love and crushing despair and the ever-flicking light of human spirit that let them carry on so long, even as the world had begun to end.

Sin ended up falling asleep first, slumped against his mother. Raven and Dizzy and Ky had followed suit eventually, huddled under blankets as Sol glanced between them and the fire.

“Don’t you want to sleep?” He asked his only companion. “I can take care of putting this out.”

A hand slid around his waist. “I want to be with you. Just a little bit longer.”

Sol managed a smirk. “Seems like a waste. You could use it for sleeping.”

He felt the hand trembling slightly, and cling to his clothing. “Is it...is it bad that I’m afraid of being alone for this?”

“No.” Replied Sol, wrapping his own arm around Axl’s body. “It just means you’re human.”

#AU-gust #writing #guilty gear #sol badguy #Axl Low #there are other characters #but I won't tag them

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leslea · 4 years

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One Day of Summer

The Covid has done its best to force us to skip past summer. No swimming, no amusement parks, no winery concerts, no summer camp for the kids, no summer sports (wrestling, tennis), no drive-in movies, no summer reading club...

Okay, so there is still a summer reading club, but without the promise of tangible prizes and trips to the library, I can’t get the kids interested. So, it doesn’t count!

However, the good news is, we have remained healthy. We are all working, those of us who are old enough to work. We have a new student driver. Time marches on!

And today, before school starts inexplicably too soon (again), NEXT WEEK, we stole a day of summer. We got together as a family, all six of us, and had an outing. I chose Schooner Valley Stables in Nashville, IN as the destination. We had a good experience with them a few years ago and we were looking forward to another. I figured it was a low risk environment, since you don’t come into contact with many people, and those you do are wearing masks. The kids were excited to go, so off we went!

After coaxing and prodding all my late risers out the door, we hit the road. The conversation was disgustingly peppered with comments about flatulence and belching (which I refer to as “face farting,” and for once the kids saw the logic in that). We banned the topic, so naturally it kept coming back up. We stopped for snacks in Columbus, Indiana, and then headed west toward Nashville.

When we reached Gnaw Bone, we passed a sign saying “Story, 10 miles” and pointing south, so I impulsively took it, explaining that we would grab lunch in Story and check it out, since we’d never been there. I told the kids it had a General Store, and they were sold! A few minutes later, we encountered construction traffic.

The kids grew more and more restless as we waited for our turn to drive down the one way country back road, which adjoins Brown County State Park. It is a rural back road, the kind that winds through the hills and the trees and often disappears into gravel. The longer we sat, the more one of the boys complained that he had to go to the restroom. Inexplicably, the conversation turned once again to potty talk, before making a wild right angle into the realm of pot. The same boy who needed to go to the restroom informed us that he thought he saw a lot of marijuana plants ringing a corn field that we’d passed. As he put it, “weed.” He wanted to know how it grew out in a field like that, if it was “supposed” to grow inside under lights. Tim explained that it grows everywhere, which is why it is called a “weed,” and that people who use grow lights are hiding illegal drugs in their basements and trying to not get caught. SO. That ate up a few minutes of the traffic stop. Next piped up the baby of the group, asking if this subject was the same as “the weed for smoking,” followed quickly by my instant regret in letting the conversation go on in the first place.

Now, I know marijuana is legal in much of the country, but it isn’t here, and the last thing I need is her telling her classmates, “What did I do this summer? Oh, I went horseback riding and learned about the weed for smoking.”

On the other hand, I believe in educating my kids. If they want to know what drugs are, I will explain to them what I know, which also goes back to the RISKs of such things. And, truthfully, I don’t know a ton about drugs, per se, but...now the baby knows about as much as I do, so...sigh.

The traffic was stopped for about 20 minutes, which was just about untenable for the kids. I told them about the many times I sat still on the highway trying to get off on an exit to see a concert. I don’t know if concerts even work like that now! It was tough for them to imagine sitting 3 hours in a hot car with no air conditioning. As we waited, the radio played John Mellencamp’s “Cherry Bomb,” because of course it did.

When the road reopened, it was a scenic drive to Story, Indiana, which was sadly closed. THEY HAD A GENERAL STORE! And a restaurant. And wine. *sad face*. We contented ourselves with taking photos in the garden, and headed back to town for food.

On the way, Tim suggested we avoid the construction and take Horseman’s Camp Road, which just happens to be the road that runs right through Brown County State Park. The hospitable lady at the gate let us cut through, which was quite nice, although I would have been fine paying admission. She told us to look for the signs that said “North Gate,” so every time we passed a sign, multiple people would say “This way,” or “North gate,” or whatever...and at the last minute, Sean would yell, “NORTH GATE!” It instantly became a meme, along with face farting.

ONE DOES NOT SIMPLY DRIVE INTO NORTH GATE!

It sounds very silly, because it was. On our way through the park, the kids expressed a desire to come back and see it for real, so I said maybe we could, post-covid. Come up and get a cabin for a week or something. We passed several scenic vistas that were just breathtaking, so naturally the kids were like, “Eh,” though they did at least turn their heads each time and look.

Next up, we sampled the fine dining Nashville is known for...McDonald’s!

Honestly, I wish we could have stopped at the Birds’s Nest Cafe, my favorite, or any of the other local cafes, but we really only had time by that point for a quick snack at the Golden Arches. After gobbling down our sustenance, we were off to Schooner Valley!

Schooner Valley was tremendous fun. The staff and volunteers really make you feel at home and the horses are just well-loved and beautiful. They’re not tired old trail horses...although by 3 pm in the hot weather, they sort of were...they still required a little guidance, especially my horse, Karma. She was a bossy lady, but she did as asked, eventually! The kids all had a great time, not just riding through gorgeous Yellowwood Forest, but also in bossing each other around about the proper form for riding. They weren’t shy about bossing me, either. You’d never know I’ve been riding for years.

We finished out our ride in a gentle rain shower that turned into a downpour as we dismounted. The rain felt cool and refreshing, as both our humans and our horses were soaked in sweat. We rode for over and hour, and my old bones and weak muscles were screaming on the way to the car. I admit, I limped a little. I’m a lot heavier right now than I want to be! All the kids and Tim were stiff, I think, except for the two youngest, who are by far the most fit. What amazing exercise that was!

We tried to roll into Nashville for a celebratory ice cream for all the kids, but it was impossible. Chocolate Moose was closed due to Covid-19 (waiting for test results, the sign on the window said!) The other ice cream parlor in town was not safe for us re: peanut/tree nut allergies...so back to McDonald’s! It’s ironic...there is nothing like going to a fun, quirky, tourist-oriented place and just end up eating McDonald’s. So wrong, but for the kids, it was so right.

It rained while the sun shined, something that I’ve usually only seen here at the Treehouse. “Where’s the rainbow?” Sean asked.

We did a little rubbernecking, checking out the area when we saw a for sale sign on a country road. Brown County gets very rural, very fast. More so than Floyd County where we live. I shouldn’t be surprised. I have spent a lot of time in rural Indiana--REAL Indiana, not this semi-suburban rural adjacent kind of place that we adoringly hail from. Where we live, we are metro Louisville, really. REAL Indiana is country AF. It’s corn and potential pot plants and pulling over on a gravel road to ask a man in denim overalls if we’re headed the right direction, knowing he’s going to help. REAL Indiana is a paved road turning suddenly into a gravel road. A trailer next to a log cabin. An artist colony that hides away some of the best scenic views in the country, and a sweet State Park employee who lets you cut through just because the kids are hungry and she can tell you’re not lying to get free admission.

We talked all the way home, through a downpour that lasted about an hour. I almost took the back way through Seymour to avoid the rain, but it let up not long after we passed Muscatatuck. Tim and Sam were both falling asleep. The kids thanked us for the trip...I suggested maybe we could go back this fall. Two of them said yes and two said they needed to think about it. Tim reminded me about Covid. I agreed to put it off for a bit.

The kids reminisced about Piomingo, looking forward to next summer so much. Sean suggested that instead of a trip this fall, we build our own slide at home like the one at Piomingo. He suggested we dig a tunnel and have the slide go underground, before emptying us out into the creek at the back of our property. We shall see.

To the east of the highway emerged an enormous rainbow. Seamus took a photo.

We won’t get to swim this summer. We could. We could make our way to Buffalo Trace or some other semi-local beach, but I can’t take the risk. We’re all healthy right now. I can’t risk some rando swimming up to the kids and ruining that, and I definitely do NOT want to be that mom standing at the beach screaming “SOCIAL DISTANCING! SOCIAL DISTANCING!”

So we had one day of summer. Farts and belches were the topic du jour, only intensified by the horses pooping on the trail. It wasn’t the kind of conversation I would have chosen, but it was EXACTLY the kind of day. Adventurous, spontaneous, full of laughter and fun and a bit of sweat and excitement.

We arrived home smelling of horses and happiness.

#summer #horseback riding #covid19 #brown county #family outing #big family #nashville indiana

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shewhowantsmouseears · 5 years

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Shattered, Chapter 9

Notes: Big thanks to my awesome editors, Drucilla and BlueShifted!

The two named demons are random villain names I picked out of Inducks. Bless you, Inducks.

Some of you guessed correctly about Ratface's identity! This was the first time I'd ever written this pairing. This role in particular got a lot of changes over the years (at one point, it was actually one of the dolls from Mother's house) but hopefully this one worked out.

Summary: Once upon a time, there were angels and demons. A trick was played to seize power, but the entire world wound up paying the price.

Once upon a time, there was a demon who was nothing special. He had the same abilities as his brethren, and he did the same things as them, but none of this made him noteworthy. He knew this, and didn't care for it. To be quite honest, there was nothing he cared about except himself. He didn't care about the futile war between his kind and the angels, the useless humans crawling around the earth, or even his fellow demons who mocked his woes. He wanted to make himself as special as he thought he was, and one day, he discovered how.

~*~

“Blasted angels,” Azimuth grumbled, brushing dirt off his skin. “I almost had them! An entire family of mortals, willing to work for us! Grandparents, uncles, kids, the whole group, I had them right in my hands!”

“But you didn't, so can we cut to the chase already?” Sirena said with a great roll of her eyes, though most of her aggravation wasn't at the big-beaked blabbermouth. “Gladstone! Do you feel like getting up anytime this century?”

Apparently his pretending-to-nap routine wasn't working today. The young man sighed from his perch in the tree, sitting up on the thick branch and looking down at his friends. Well, 'friends' was a stretch – 'acquaintances he could tolerate more than others' was perhaps more accurate, but longer to say. “What do you need me for? I'm no more powerful than either one of you. The day's already shot, let me get back to sleep.”

“Yes, you're a weakling,” Sirena conceded, hands on her hips, blowing some of her blonde hair out of her face. “But you're a charming weakling. You can get a mortal to do whatever you say with one look. If we hurry now, we can get to the next village and pick on some prey before the angels Azimuth ran into catch on.”

“I almost had them,” Azimuth whined again, demanding to be heard. “I was so close! I just needed a little more power!”

“Well, power doesn't grow on trees – and neither do demons.” Sirena then kicked the tree as hard as she could, and with a startled yelp, Gladstone fell down into the bushes. He popped out, his golden curls flopping all over the place.

“Remind me to take my naps further away from you,” Gladstone grumbled as he stood up and brushed himself down. What was the big deal about luring humans to their side anyway? It wasn't going to make any real difference in the end. No one cared about winning this stupid war, they just wanted petty vengeance at this point. Only the truly serious wanted supreme victory, and those fools died as a result of it. Every year there were less angels and demons as a result, and Gladstone figured at that rate, they'd all die out if they put so much stock into feeling superior.

Count him out. He wanted to be superior to both angels and demons, and that way, he figured he'd be alive forever. He stuck his hands in his pockets and followed the taller demons out in the forest, huffing all the while. Sirena, bothersome ninny that she was, had raised a good point. You couldn't just get more power by whining about it, you were born with your talents and that was that. Some demons and angels were born stronger than others, the same with mortals, it was all a game of chance. So Gladstone was never going to be more special than these two idiots.

Although...there was one way to become a more powerful demon. But he knew these two knuckleheads would never agree to it. Few demons would, bitter and selfish as they were.

The village was a short walk, and not worth much, if Gladstone's opinion was asked. It was a desolate dying thing, but the farmers appeared happy enough, digging in the mud for extra vegetables and laughing with abandon when they found extras. One burly man hoisted his son over his shoulders, showing him how to tend to the long stalks of corn nearby. They had no idea about the demons hiding about in the shadows, slinking nearby as they plotted.

“Papa, this field grew twice as much corn as last time!” the little boy discovered, handling an ear of corn in his tiny hands.

His father laughed again. “So it did! We must be the luckiest men alive!”

Gladstone paused in his sneaking, eyebrow raised. There was a word he'd never heard before, and he nudged his friends. “Luckiest? What's a luckiest?”

“You mean, luck? It's some silly concept the mortals came up with,” Azimuth said with a wave of his hand. “The idea of good things happening to you over and over without you having to do anything. They always want some name to destiny, like they have control over their lives. It's incredibly pathetic.”

It was also incredibly brilliant – Gladstone's eyes widened at the idea going through his head. Being superior in life without having to lift a finger? That was right up his alley! He could nap all he wanted and still get away with being better. Maybe mortals were good for something after all. Now there was just a matter of how to be lucky. That was the trick, and if demons were good at anything, it was tricks.

“Will you two pipe down?” Sirena snarled, kicking back at the two men. “We're almost near our target. Gladstone, you charm them. Azimuth, you threaten them. And I'll enchant them.”

“Why can't I enchant them?” Azimuth grumbled. “I'm good at enchanting! Why, last month, I charmed a mortal man into so much strength his muscles tore right though his clothes.”

“And then he whined about destroying everything he touched, so he prayed to the angels, you nitwit.” Sirena kicked him again. “We can only give away so much of our magic, and I'm not letting you waste it!”

There was the problem with Gladstone's desire – he'd need his friends to hand over a portion of their magic to make his own stronger, and once you gave it away, you couldn't take it back. He watched the two of them argue about taking turns, and knowing the day was going to be a waste, turned his attention back to the farmer and his son. A thin wife had joined them, and she lifted the boy into her arms before kissing her husband. The boy stuck out his tongue in disgust, and Gladstone had to agree. It was a gross thing to see, and yet he couldn't tear his eyes away. What were they so happy about?

They were weak. They were boring. They had to know it. So what made them smile?

“They're here!” a voice cried out, young and jubilant, its owner running across the wide fields. “The angels are here!”

“Already?!” Azimuth groaned, before shoving Sirena aside. “This is your fault! You picked the village!”

“It's your fault, they were following your lead!”

Gladstone rubbed his temples. “It'll be both your faults if they find us, so keep it down.” So long as they stayed in the dark shadows, the angels wouldn't notice them, hopefully. It was one of the few advantages the demons had, being nearly invisible in any dark place.

Sirena pouted, not wanting to give up so easily. “Let's head closer into the village. Once the angels leave, the mortals will have their guards down! Follow me!” She continued creeping, and the men reluctantly followed, knowing they'd get an earful for disobedience. The sun was high at its peak, allowing many long shadows to be cast from the short hay and mud-made huts.

In the center of the village were four angels – Gladstone squinted – in a way, it was three angels plus one who was all by herself. All of them were bright, shining beauties, surrounded by mortals who worshiped them and thanked them for their help. They practically glowed with tenderness, petting the mortal's hair as if they were telling dogs what good boys they were. High and mighty snobs, the lot of them, Gladstone thought. But there was something very strange about the fourth one – her wings.

Demons and angels had many physical differences alongside their internal ones. Demons had long nails, slit eyes, and a constant aura of darkness. Angels had long hair, warmth in every touch, and white feathery wings on their back – at least, that's what Gladstone knew about every other angel he'd seen in his life. So why did the fourth one have black wings? That was unheard of!

Black as her short hair that hung around her neck, deep as the lines on her face that told centuries of stories, rich as her eyes that captured the sunlight and kept it. She was beautiful, yes, but not the way angels were supposed to be. Angels were supposed to be about brightness and light, not... that. She was hugging a small silver mirror close to her chest, eyes scanning the area until she spotted the same small boy Gladstone had been eyeing earlier.

Her weary expression softened, and she approached him, one hand held out. “Hello, little one,” she said in a voice so soft that it made Gladstone's heart skip. She knelt down to see the boy better, and the child was hesitant before stepping towards her. “How are you today?”

“I'm... very good,” the boy decided. “We have extra corn, Papa says we're lucky.”

The woman shook her head. “No, it wasn't luck. It was your family working very hard. Remember that. All your victories are made with your own two hands.”

“What a downer,” Sirena mused.

“And an ugly one too,” Azimuth added. “Black wings! Why does she have black wings?”

Gladstone said nothing, continuing to watch, as then the boy's mother suddenly grabbed him by the arm and yanked him away. Her eyes were on those same black wings, fearful of what they meant. The angel was startled, but not surprised, as if this wasn't the first time a wordless accusation had been thrust at her. It still hurt, but it wasn't a fresh wound. “All is well, I assure you. I just-”

“Magica,” One of the normal looking angels interrupted, her voice drone and dull. “Maybe it'd be for the best if you left the rest of this up to us.”

The black angel – Magica? - stood up straight, eyes narrowing. “I led you here with my mirror, I showed you where to go! You'd be wandering around lost if it wasn't for me. I came here to help!”

“Yes, well, you helped, so you can go.” The second angel tried to wave her away, without even looking at her, “You're scaring the poor babies, so, off with you. We'll let you know if we need you.”

Magica's hands clenched her mirror tighter, almost threatening to break it. “They are not poor babies, they're human beings! They're not our pets! If we can help them, then we must, but not so much that they depend on us!” Her temper was rising, and her wings began to jerk in reaction. “Why don't you ever listen to me!” With that, her wings fully stretched out, making her appear larger than she really was - and frightening a dozen villagers who fled back into their huts. Upon seeing their terror, the woman's face fell with guilt, which made no sense to Gladstone as she hadn't done anything wrong at all.

“Nice going, Magica,” the third angel snorted. “Some help you are.”

Magica opened her mouth to likely raise another objection before silently giving up in defeat. Her wings folded up into herself, and she stormed off in the opposite direction. Gladstone watched her until she was little more than a speck in the distance, and might have watched further, had Sirena not pulled both men to her with glittering eyes. “Hey, do you think there's a reason that one has black wings?”

Gladstone blinked at the oddity of such a question. “A reason? You mean you think she wasn't born with them?” “Of course not,” Azimuth rubbed his hands together, catching on to Sirena's train of thought. “They must be special! Anything that unique has to mean something special. They might even be a source of her power!”

“If we got those feathers for ourselves,” Sirena said with a grin, malicious lining every word. “We could be invincible! Unstoppable! We could even be the most powerful demons that ever existed!”

Gladstone chuckled darkly, walking around his friends with crossed arms. “Oh, it's a fine idea,” he lightly mocked. It wasn't a bad idea, per se, and perhaps the wings were a representation of the angel's strength. But there was one glaring flaw. “Yet, it's like the old story goes... who will bell the cat?”

Azimuth cocked his head. “She looks more like a duck to me.”

Sheesh, why did Gladstone hang out with these morons? “What I mean is, if she's that powerful, obviously you can't get anywhere near her without being destroyed. You wouldn't even be able to pluck one feather off her before she used her magic on you, and poof, you're gone.” He snapped his fingers, and enjoyed the sight of the two elder demons wincing. However, the more he explained it, the more strength it gave to his own ideas. Yes, the angel might be the right thing he needed all along. “However... what was that you were saying earlier, Sirena? That I can get people to do what I want with one look?”

Sirena gawked, her eyes widening. “You're not honestly suggesting...?”

“Oh, but I am.” Gladstone stopped walking, holding up one finger. “How hard can it be to win over an angel? I'll just butter her up like a hot meal, and she'll melt in my hands. All those snobby angels just want someone to remind them how pretty and perfect they are. It'll be easy. I can get you those feathers, I'll let you have every single one...” He then held out his hand. “And in return, you two give half your own power.”

“Half!” Azimuth balked, staggering backwards. “Are you insane? I'd never give up that much!”

Sirena clicked her tongue, strumming her fingers on her arm. “Hmmm... if we did get stronger because of those feathers... giving up half our power may seem like nothing in the end. Assuming you can make her hand them over.”

Gladstone kept on his winning smile that had won over many a mortal heart. If ultimately the feathers were nothing but feathers, he still won. As long as he worded the deal perfectly, they'd still have to hand it over, because a contract with a demon was binding, no matter who it was to. He would get a lucky life, and finally be the superior being he'd always known he was. “Do we have a deal?”

Sirena and Azimuth exchanged uneasy glances, but eventually their greed won out. They both held Gladstone's hand – red rings emitted from their hands, symbolizing the contract bound between the three of them. It only lasted a couple of seconds, and when it was done, Gladstone turned around, smoothing down his green jacket. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

~*~

The demon was cleverer than most would give him credit for. He hunted down the black-feathered angel, memorizing her daily walks to find when she would be alone. Yet to his surprise, he learned she was often alone – the other angels were shunning her all but in name. She continued to try and help them, even though time and time again she was turned away for the mere crime of existing. The demon felt he had an easy target, and with greatest confidence, made his move.

~*~

“Hellooo, gorgeous.”

Magica had been walking a smooth path in the grass, her eyes on the mirror in her hands when the sudden noise disrupted her thoughts. She glanced to the side, and saw a well-dressed demon leaning on a tree, his blonde hair shining in the sunlight, as dapper as any true gentleman. He couldn't hide the shape of his eyes or the look of his hands, but he knew his handsomeness would be a good distraction, as it had been to all the other humans he tricked in his life. He held a bouquet of roses in his hand, fondly rubbing one of the petals between his fingertips as he spoke.

“Forgive me for my impertinence,” he said as he sniffed his own present, “but the moment I saw you, I couldn't control myself. Your beauty has captured my soul completely. From this day hence, I belong to you and you alone. I know these flowers pale in comparison to your alluring features, but I ask you on humble grounds to accept this small token of my affection.” He held out the bouquet...

… to no one. He blinked, blinked again, and saw that Magica had kept on walking, face back in the mirror. Having never been snubbed before, Gladstone was unfamiliar with what had just happened to him, and needed a faint moment to process it. Once he collected his senses, he jogged after her. “Hey! Did you hear a word I said?”

��Leave me be,” Magica said, not sparing him a further look. “I have no times for tricks from toddlers.”

Gladstone stared in slack-jawed stupidity. “Did you just... insult me? Angels aren't supposed to insult people! You're supposed to be all... sweet and goody-goody and giggly!” He went after her again, trying to touch her shoulder. “Listen, let's try this again. Your beauty has captured-”

THWAP!

Angels weren't supposed to insult people, but it seemed they could, and now Gladstone knew they could also send people flying with a mere smack of their wings. A sensible man would have given up at this point, but Gladstone's pride had been so roughly beaten up that he couldn't stand it.

The next day, he offered her a box full of gorgeous jewelry that reflected the glow of her skin, and she threw the box right at his face. The day after that, he composed a symphony of poetry to describe her every movement, and she plugged her ears. The day after that, he played ill, laying on the ground, moaning in agony that if he could not receive a kiss from her, he'd surely perish, and she casually stepped over his supposed corpse.

With each passing failure his stubbornness grew. It became less about earning the luck he desired and more about making that woman submit to his glamour. Every day she was more focused on her beauty than his – why else would she be constantly staring at her mirror? She had to be the snobbiest angel that ever existed! His anger and hatred for her bubbled hotter – he didn't ask to be born a demon, she didn't choose to become an angel, so why did she get to feel as if she was better than he was? The irony of his own superior feeling was lost on him.

Things came to a head when on her route, he decided to go for a different routine – hanging upside down from a tree branch as she made her way through the forest where he typically took his naps. “Fair day, my sweetest dove! My heart is full now, seeing your grace.”

It was no different than the flood of other compliments he'd been given her, yet now she looked up at him, the lines under her eyes darker than usual. “Is that all?”

“Is what all?” “Do you have anything else to say about me except my looks?”

“... What else is there?”

Magica scowled, grabbing him by his hair and yanking him down to the ground. He fell with a heavy “Oof!”, before scrambling to his feet. “Hey!” He was quick to smooth his hair back down. “What was that for? What's so wrong with telling you that you're pretty? You must know it yourself, you spend all your time looking at your own reflection!”

“I do not,” she replied, and held up her mirror to show him that it was not in fact a mirror at all – because instead of a reflection, it showed two small human girls at a lake, one of them crying heavily, the other one struggling to console her. “I look at them. I look for those who need my help.”

“What for?” Gladstone said with a heavy snort. “I've seen the way they treat you. You help them out, and what do you get in return? They scream at you, they mock you, they run away, all because of your wings.”

“So you don't think those are pretty,” she snorted right back, and resumed her walk. “Just as well. You have the face of a rat.”

This time Gladstone followed her and refused to leave. “This rat face has won over plenty! Who can you win over? Are you going to help those girls? They won't thank you, I know it.”

“I don't need gratitude. I don't think you'll ever understand.”

Gladstone followed her all the way to the lake, and just as he thought, the girls cowered in fear at the black-feathered angel. But Magica still persisted, kneeling down to their level, and gently asking them the reason for their tears. The younger of the girls said her mother drowned in the lake, and missed her terribly, could the angel bring her back? No, that was beyond her power. But she could offer a warm embrace, and a promise that the mother was always watching her children, and that love was something that did not die with the body.

The girls didn't thank her. Yet Magica was pleased when they began to smile.

~*~

The demon continued trying to woo her over, now following her as she helped the humans. He never interfered, never tried to sway those mortals to his side, and only watched as she lent her help. He rarely saw her use her magic – she preferred to let words heal wounds, for the humans to think for themselves. She never got anything out of it, no praise for her good deeds or rewards of gold. So why was she so happy whenever she did manage to help someone? The demon could not understand. He thought if he continued to watch her help, he could comprehend the joy she got out of it.

~*~

“I don't know what to do,” the young lady wept, the rain getting stronger. Magica held up her wing to try and shield the human from the water as best she could. “I don't want to marry that man, but he's the head of the village. He won't listen to my parents. I'll never love him, I can't.”

Magica frowned, as this was a hard problem to solve. “Some men can't be reasoned with,” she said with a sigh, one arm always tucked around her mirror. “But you must keep your head held high and fight on. Otherwise, you will always lose.”

Gladstone looked back and forth between the women. Typically he'd stand there and watch Magica do all the work, but that woman's sobs were getting on his nerves. Even if Magica was going to be proven right, this woman would never thank her for it. Why bother? “If you ask me,” he said suddenly, “He's the one who should feel like he's losing.”

“Nobody asked you,” Magica growled.

The woman looked at him. “Huh?”

“He wants a wife, and a pretty one, but he doesn't know anything else about you, right?” Gladstone wagged a finger. “Simple – live with him for one day, and be the worst possible wife on the planet. Burn his food, destroy his clothing, make it clear he'll never know a moment's peace. But! Do it all with a smile.” He flashed his own winning grin, showing how it was done. “So he thinks you're trying your best to be a good wife. You'll be kicked out before sunset.”

“That's...” Magica started, and then pouted, miffed because... “not the worst idea I've ever heard.”

The woman appeared to agree, her tears coming to a stop. “It might! It really might! I'll make myself completely undesirable! Why, I'll even stop bathing and wear my worst dress!” Pleased at her upcoming freedom, she flounced inside to tell her parents the plan.

Gladstone grinned at Magica, scooting over to her side. “That's one for me, and zero for you, darling.”

He expected Magica to blow up in jealous anger, and for a few small seconds, her expression said exactly that. But just as quickly it softened into something unfamiliar, and for once when she spoke to him, her voice was smooth instead of volatile. “Thank you.”

It was quite amazing the number of things happening in Gladstone's heart – like Magica, he'd never been thanked before either. Having never received any on her end, she had to know how powerful it was to give it away. He felt floored, like his chest was caving in. No victory over any other demon, angel, or mortal had ever made him feel so... so... what was the word?

… Grateful?

Magica walked on, not caring about the rain that slicked her and feathers, as it was time to help other souls in need. Gladstone watched on, touching his heart, feeling it beat faster.

~*~

From then on, the demon did more than observe the humans that the angel helped – he helped as well. Not all of his advice was useful, and not all of the times it worked, but he found himself wanting to be thanked again. It had felt so nice the first time that he wanted it more. The more he worked, the more he realized he didn't want thanks from the humans – he wanted thanks from her.

~*~

“Don't you say a word, rat face.” Magica hissed as she tried to fit through the small doorway, her large wings making it an obstacle. Even folding them in as tightly as she could still made her wobble on the doorframe. She didn't even have to look at Gladstone to know he was sporting a smirk.

He stood outside, watching with restrained laughter as she tried to push her way inside. “Who would have known that the answer between the war of our species was in tight spaces? One small room could have us take over the world.”

“Shut up or I'll kick you.”

Another chuckle escaped him, and he approached her from behind. “If you promise not to kick me, I could try to help push you in.”

She debated it before groaning. “... Very well. But be careful, they're sensitive.”

Gladstone, gently as someone like he could make it, placed his hands on her wings and slowly began to push inward. They were the softest things he'd ever felt in his life. Dare say, he would have loved to take a nap on them, and enjoyed that mental image. “Why so? Are they the source of your power?”

She glanced at him as if he'd grown a second head. “Are you daft? Of course not. They're just wings.”

Wouldn't Azimuth and Sirena be disappointed – funny how he hadn't thought of them or the bet in weeks, and shook his head to forget them once more. “I guess I was just wondering why they're black. All the other angels I've seen have white wings.”

“It's rare, not impossible. I just have a... defect, I guess you could say.” Once inside, she stretched out her aching wings before folding them up again.

Defect? He didn't like that word. It didn't suit her, as if her wings were a mistake, as if she was a mistake. His combative nature was driven up again. “They're pretty.”

“Oh, don't start that nonsense again.”

“They are! They're like... the wings of... of...” He tried to think of a creature with similar wings and similar beauty, and only one came to mind. “A raven.”

She stopped, looking at him, and then at her wings. No one had ever complimented her wings before, and eventually she had begun to dislike them herself. Gladstone could see the warmth such words gave her, and it made that weird feeling in his chest expand. He wanted to do it again, over and over and over. “Ravens are beautiful creatures, aren't they? Surely you've seen them.”

Magica's eyes met the floor, and her voice became quiet. She tucked some hair over her shoulder, and – and – and there it was. A smile. A real, genuine, one of a kind smile, and Gladstone never wanted to blink should he miss a moment of its existence. It didn't erase the lines on her face or the hardness of her eyes, yet he realized he didn't want those to go away. They were all a part of her. “They are... they are pretty birds.”

Decidedly bashful, she was swift to turn her head away so she could focus on the reason they came. “H-Hurry up. We can't keep the mortals waiting.”

Gladstone smiled too.

~*~

It wasn't long before the demon forgot his bet, forgot the luck he wanted, and forgot everything his life was before he met the angel. He never knew he could be so happy with so little. Soon it became a daily sight for all those around them, the angel and the demon side by side on the same paths. Everyone believed one would betray the other in due time. All the while, the angel never once used her powers, and never once let go of her mirror.

It was a clear crystal night when both of those oddities got an answer.

~*~

There were legends that said demons grew stronger at night and angels grew weaker, but this was a false theory whipped up by mortals. Although Gladstone would have said that he strangely felt strong and weak as Magica lay against his chest, the two of them watching the moon from an empty cliff. In days up to this, they didn't argue less, but they argued softer, and their conflicts ended in more smirks than insults. There were times they were perfectly content not saying a thing, with Gladstone smoothing down her black feathers with his fingers and Magica resting quietly on her side, eyes closed. They would have stayed like that for some time, but the mirror began to make noise within its images - Magica's eyes flew open, and she looked down into it to see what was the matter.

It was a false alarm – a child had stubbed their toe and was wailing as if it was the end of the world. Magica sighed in relief, and Gladstone chuckled quietly. “Sheesh, how do you angels get any rest, if you're constantly on the lookout for trouble?”

“I'm the only angel with a mirror like this,” she answered. “The others just try to guess where people need help, and by then it might be too late. I didn't care for that, so I put all of my magic into this mirror.”

Gladstone nodded – but then stopped. Did he hear right? “All of your magic? Every single last drop?”

“All means all, rat face.” She poked his beak. “You've seen how angels and demons can behave with too much power. They act with reckless abandon, and don't care who they hurt so long as they get what they want and feel good about it. I never wanted to fall to temptation... so I put it all into my mirror.”

Gladstone sat there, dumbfounded at such a sacrifice. He couldn't imagine living without magic – it made him better than mortals. It was a cheat at life. Yet she decided to make her life more difficult, more challenging, just to help people? “Honestly, my dear, I don't think I'll ever understand you.” He wasn't sure that was such a bad thing, though. Learning about her had been fascinating.

Magica looked down at her mirror, and then began to stand up on the ground, with Gladstone following soon after. “You might... if you have this.” She placed the mirror into his hands – it was the first time he'd ever seen her let it go.

“W-what?” Gladstone fumbled with the mirror before clutching it to his chest like a sacred treasure. “What! What what what! This is... all of you, all of your magic! Why on earth on you giving it to me?”

“I'm not giving it to you,” Magica said, folding her arms. “I'm lending it. You will return it to me tomorrow at our usual path. If there's a single crack or smear, I will never, ever forgive you, no matter how many pretty things you say about my wings.”

Gladstone's arms felt very heavy, as if he was carrying bricks instead of a mirror. “But... why?”

“I want you to watch the mortals. Don't interfere, just... watch. Maybe then you'll understand why I do what I do.” Something like a smile played out on her face, but Gladstone couldn't be sure. A chill wind brushed by them, and she sighed, looking at the bright full moon. “Winter will be here soon... I enjoy winter. It's as if all the world has gone to sleep. But all things must come to an end... spring will come, and the snow will melt, and life will move on, as it always does. No angels, demons, or mortals can live forever... so with the time we have here... we must think of what we can do with it. This winter... it will be nice, not to be alone.” Her cheeks were pink, and then, not wanting to embarrass herself any further, she quickly walked away.

Gladstone slowly sat back down, looking at the mirror. The boy who had stubbed his toe was being consoled by his big brother, who played games with him until the pain went away. What did Magica want him to learn from this? That there were people who would help one another without expecting a reward? How silly – the brother's reward was to no longer hear that bothersome crying. Yet even that bite felt dull, as if that answer was an excuse. The brothers were then being lightly chided by their mother, it was time to go bed. She tucked them in, kissed their foreheads, and sang a sweet lullaby to lull them to sleep.

All around the world, Gladstone watched families and friends and lovers ending their days, putting away their tools, finishing their chores, and making plans for the next sunrise. Some he was able to recognize as Magica had helped them before, in small and big ways, and they never mentioned her, never gave thanks. She deserved thanks, she deserved... she deserved everything. He wanted to cup her face and tell her that she was a disgustingly good person, the sort that made the world a kinder place to live, and why did he want to tell her that? Why did he want to hold her hand as they walked while they remained quiet? Why did he want all the other angels to treat her better? He would get nothing out of her happiness.

Except... her happiness. Seeing her happy made him happy.

“Oh.” He exhaled slowly, having come to the conclusion in a way Magica herself probably didn't expect. “That's it.”

~*~

As the demon continued to watch the humans all throughout the night, he never knew he himself was being watched. His friends hadn't forgot the bargain they made, and were impatiently waiting out for him to make his end of the deal. However, with the way things were, they saw an opening.

~*~

Early the next morning, Gladstone whistled a merry tune as he walked down the familiar path he and Magica took routinely every day now. It was the same path he had first pestered her on weeks ago, with trees planted along the side that seemed to become smaller and smaller the further away you walked. He proudly held the mirror to his chest – see, not one scratch, not one smudge! Let's see her complain about that! He couldn't wait to tell her the things he'd seen, and thought up a few compliments that would make her fluster in an adorable fashion.

But... there was something odd about today. He'd been walking for quite some time, yet hadn't seen her. She was supposed to show up by now. Had she decided to sleep in, now that her mirror wasn't telling her where to go? He walked a little faster, a dreadful feeling crawling up the back of his neck, as if he'd forgotten something dangerous.

Then he heard screaming.

In days past, Gladstone would have ignored such a noise, figuring some worthless mortal was wasting his time. But now he ran faster towards the sound, actually concerned that a complete stranger was in pain – and then, to his horror, he realized who was screaming.

There in the dirt lay Magica, and there were was Azimuth and Sirena, the two of them holding her down with their legs as their claw-like nails tore apart her back in a morbid effort to take away all her feathers. The two of them cackled as they snapped the bones in her wings, ripping apart muscle and tendon to get every single last feather out. They thought perhaps if they ate the feathers, they'd gain the angel's magic, so they stuffed their faces with handfuls. Magica's face was drenched in tears and agony, unable to move, her throat raw from screams.

Gladstone dropped the mirror, and when it fell to the ground it now had a single circular crack near the edge. “STOP IT!” he yelled in fear and anger, rushing towards the demons with his own claws out, ready to beat them both if need be. “LEAVE HER ALONE! DON'T YOU TOUCH HER!” But just as he got close enough, red rings of magic blocked his body, the contract in full power.

I can get you those feathers, I'll let you have every single one.

The deal had been made – he couldn't break it. “No! NOOO! PLEASE, NO!” He banged his fists uselessly against the rings that wouldn't budge, pleading with his so-called friends, begging them to stop, but they ignored his cries and continued to destroy her beautiful black wings. He slid to his knees, hot tears rolling down his cheeks, and he saw Magica eventually could no longer scream, could no longer cry. She just lay there in anguish, her eyes growing dull, and Gladstone swore he could see every last bit of good in her dying as he saw his reflection in her eyes.

It felt as if an eternity passed before the two demons had finally gotten every single last feather, and the wounds of broken bone and torn flesh were now tossed aside, leaving Magica's back a bloody, disfigured abomination. The red rings began to fade, now that the contract was fulfilled. Azimuth rose to his feet, wiggling his fingertips. “Hmmm... I don't feel any more powerful.”

“Maybe it takes time to digest,” Sirena suggested, walking over to Gladstone's side. He lay frozen in a state of misery, unable to take his eyes off the still Magica. “I don't know what you were hollering about – can't say that I care – but a deal's a deal. Half of mine, half of Azimuth's.”

“Half our power for her wings,” Azimuth chimed in, his hand on Gladstone's left shoulder, Sirena's on the right. “Aren't you one lucky fellow!” All three of them glowed a sick, dark red, as the magic was transferred from two bodies to one. Gladstone didn't respond or react. All he could see was Magica. All he could feel was Magica.

With the transfer over, Sirena kicked her heels, beginning to walk away. “I bet the power will come any minute now! We'll be able to take down any angels in our way!”

“Maybe it's already working, we handled that one really easily.” Azimuth said as he walked with her – not knowing, as Gladstone realized, that with all the magic in her mirror, Magica had no way to defend herself. The demons laughed at their victory, their wicked cackles echoing in the trees long after they left.

Gladstone choked. He felt ill. Magica. His Magica. She lay there without saying a word, not even twitching, her face unreadable. He tried to reach to her, to touch her hair, and she flinched as if she'd been struck. “No, No, I... I'm sorry, I... y-your mirror! Here, I'll get you your mirror!” Maybe if she took her magic out of it, she could heal herself. If she couldn't, maybe his strengthened magic could do the trick. Yet even as he scrambled to his feet to collect the broken mirror, he knew that nothing would heal the deeper wound – why hadn't he warned her? Why hadn't he told Azimuth and Sirena he didn't want to do it anymore? Why had he even done it all in the first place? For luck? To feel better about himself?

Magica slowly, slowly, slowly began to rise to her knees, her entire body trembling. Gladstone returned to her, kneeling down, offering the mirror, his sobs making it difficult to speak. “I-I know it's cracked, I'm sorry – I'm so sorry – Magica, I didn't mean – this wasn't supposed to happen!”

Magica snatched the mirror from his hands, and for the first time, perhaps due to that accidental crack, she saw her own reflection staring back at her. In that moment, she saw all her pain staring back at her, all her mistakes, and what trusting Gladstone - what loving Gladstone - had done to her. She raised the mirror – and then smashed it to the ground.

And then smashed it again.

And again.

Gladstone cried out, trying to understand what she was doing, but she was done listening. There were endless shards on the ground, and she dropped the mirror to pick up the largest one, holding it in her hands – and stabbed herself in the chest.

She howled, and the wind picked up in an icy chill, faster all around them – the ground underneath their bodies turned into solid ice, and the ground rumbled, hard snow began to fall from the sky, and the wind took the shards and scattered them to the world. Through all this, Magica pressed the shard deeper and deeper inside of her, even as Gladstone pleaded for her to stop.

“I WILL SAVE THE WORLD FROM THIS TORMENT!” she shrieked, louder than the winds, louder than the storm, louder than anyone who could stop her. “I WILL NEVER LET ANYONE HURT THIS WAY AGAIN! FROM HENCEFORTH... THERE WILL NEVER BE LOVE AGAIN!”

With this final cry, gigantic walls of ice began to rise from the ground, encasing the entire forest, creating a castle of ice that reflected nothing and no one. The trees around began to die in the frost, and the cold spread throughout the world. Gladstone, who had barely registered what her declaration meant to him or to anyone, tried to stay, tried to pound on the ice, tried to apologize over and over, but he would not be heard. His own grief tore at his soul, hating his very being and knowing that death would be too swift a mercy for him.

In his suffering, he could only think of how he deserved to be punished for what he had done, and what he had failed to do. He covered his face with his hands, and with every single last burst of magic in his body, transformed his entire body into a pathetic, ugly, helpless bird, so he could never use his magic again. He would live on forever with his sin, never belonging to any world – angel, demon, or mortal.

He flew away, and luck was on his side, for the wind let him sail through the sky.

~*~

The angel spread her cold and her rule throughout the world. Now with her as the most powerful threat, the war between the angels and demons seemed pathetic, and those that did not die in conflict with one another over her shards went into hiding. In her goal to help every creature, she forbade love. To that end, her mirror would help her gain soldiers for her cause, those that once fought against her crusade. They would endure the same shards as she.

One shard to freeze their minds. To bind them to the cold, and keep them in constant pain.

Two shards to freeze their hearts. To eliminate their memories, and confirm their obedience.

Three shards to freeze their souls. To take their very life, and end the mortal coil.

And since then, the Snow Queen's rule has been firmly set, and no one has ever been able to defeat her.

And the demon forever lives with selling his lover for luck.

#fanfic #shattered #magicstone #magica de spell #gladstone gander #ratface

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bkdk-writings-dump · 6 years

Text

Promise Ring

Summary: The midwest in the 1950′s is no place for boys who like kissing boys: something Izuku and Katsuki know all too well growing up there. However, the undeniable bond between the nervous science geek and aloof delinquent will still find a way to blossom in such a desert.

Word Count: 3.5k

Izuku lied heavy on his bed, the cool pillow pressing into one cheek, eyelashes hitting the cover each time he blinked, and ran a finger over the silver ring on his other hand.

It had been months – four months, not that he was counting – since Katsuki left, and each night that passed Izuku lied awake longer and longer, waiting and wishing for him to return. Half of him felt stupid for not going with him; they could have made it in the big city together. But then, his reasonable half knew he ought to finish highschool. As much as he loved Katsuki, he didn’t want to disappoint his mother, either.

On nights like those, the ring gave him solace. Its tight hold on his left ring finger reminded him that Katsuki would not leave him behind and its cold top gave him something to rub lovingly when he could not be touching Katsuki’s cheek or running a thumb over his knuckles. Of course, he didn’t wear it so openly during the day, placing it secure in his pocket or occasionally on a chain around his neck when he dared, but at night he slid it right on his ring finger and let himself dream of the future that placement promised.

“Soon,” he whispered to himself, bringing the ring to his lips and pressing a kiss into it. Somewhat satiated, he closed his eyes and pulled the covers up over his arms to try and get at least a few hours of sleep.

But Katsuki had other ideas.

Izuku heard a thumping noise, something hitting the wall outside, and rose up to sitting in his bed, the covers falling down to settle at his hips. Heart pounding, he stared at the window and waited, eyes shining with hope, until at last a few tufts of unruly blonde hair became visible.

His face lit up, a saccharine smile melting onto his lips and eyes suddenly brimming with tears at the sight of Katsuki opening his bedroom window and sticking his grinning head through, arms resting on the sill.

“Miss me?”

---

Katsuki lived next door, which of course meant about half a mile down the dirt road, past the massive corn field in the two-story blue house with the red barn. Izuku used to walk through the corn and find him halfway to play pretend among the green stalks and bursting husks: cowboys and indians, detectives and damsels, cops and robbers, russian spies and war heroes. They were everything, and everything to each other.

But things began to change when the rickety yellow school bus started to pick them up every morning and drive them all the way down to the public elementary school.

Izuku learned to love reading more than movies, and arithmetic more than play-pretend. Katsuki learned that he had a temper and couldn’t play nice with other kids. Izuku would stay after school to pick up books from the library, and Katsuki to be reprimanded by his teachers.

Still, they met in the cornfield every now and again, never quite tiring of each other’s company despite the knowledge of their differences and despite how little they spoke at school.

Once, Izuku stopped him from hitting a kid for saying he was a degenerate – a word Katsuki didn’t know besides its negative connotation – and the teachers asked him how he knew what to do to calm him down. Izuku simply shrugged. It wasn’t that he knew anything special, he just knew Katsuki his whole life, was all.

They didn’t believe him.

In middle school, Izuku started staying after for hours to research in the library, always working on some extra credit project or simply chasing his own interests. Some nights, he wouldn’t return home until late, riding up the dirt road on his blue bicycle with the sun setting a deep orange on the horizon, and Katsuki would be standing on the porch.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he might say.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Izuku might respond. “Maybe we can hang out this weekend?”

“Don’t have to do your homework or some shit, nerd?” Katsuki would grin.

Izuku, flustered by his profanity, would turn away, the tips of his ears red.

“U-um. It won’t take the whole weekend. I promise,” he’d say, before riding away faster than he’d approached.

It was those years, the blooming teens, when they began to realize something was different. Izuku would find himself staring a bit too long at the leads in his mother’s favorite television shows, something in the crease of their jaws or wide smiles, short hair or strong arms that made his heart beat a little quicker. Katsuki would find himself staring a bit too long at his childhood friend, something in the splattering of freckles or thick, curly hair, big green eyes or always blushing cheeks that made his insides spin and heat rise to his face. And when the boys at school talked about which girls were cute, both of them slipped from the conversation, ashamed at their inability to agree. Ashamed at the things they thought about at night. Ashamed at they feelings they knew they shouldn’t have for one another.

---

“Oh, Kacchan,” Izuku breathed the words into Katsuki’s neck, hands wrapped tight around his back and thin streams of tears flowing down his cheeks. “I did miss you. I missed you so much.”

“I know, I know. I missed you too, nerd,” Katsuki huffed, one hand patting Izuku’s back and the other running through his curls as he leaned down ever-so-slightly to kiss the top of his head.

“Mmm,” Izuku hummed, nuzzling his head into Katsuki’s shoulder and pulling him down so they were both on the bed.

Katsuki chuckled, pushing up to loom over Izuku, who whined as his grip on his back slipped away and held tight to the front of his shirt instead.

“God, you’re so pretty,” he whispered, not giving Izuku any time to react before he pressed their mouths togethers in a wet kiss.

“Mmpf–” Izuku barely stifled a surprised noise, but blinked his eyes closed nonetheless and pressed back, eagerly intertwining their lips. Slowly but surely, he grappled his hands up Katsuki’s sides and back onto his broad shoulders to push his chest down onto his own. He hummed into Katsuki’s mouth at the pressure, something so warm and nice and comforting about being pinned between the bed and his boyfriend.

Katsuki began to kiss lower after that, first at his jawline, then down to his neck and into the crease of his shoulder. Careful not to bruise Izuku’s delicate skin, he pressed sweet, tickling kisses into him until at last Izuku began to giggle uncontrollably.

“Kacchan!” he whisper-shouted, one hand flying to cover his mouth. “My mom could hear us!”

“So quit being so fuckin’ noisy,” Katsuki shrugged, sucking another kiss just under the collar of Izuku’s nightshirt. Izuku rolled his eyes, cheeks undeniably warm by now and chest swelling with dream-like happiness, suddenly determined to make sure Katsuki felt the same thing by the end of the night.

Izuku slid his hand down Katsuki’s back, feeling his spine through his shirt, then tucked his fingertips under the hem. Katsuki audibly gulped at even that small amount of skin-to-skin contact, and a knowing smile grew on Izuku’s face as he slowly pressed his entire hand onto his back, just under his shirt and began to rub circles there.

“Just take my fucking shirt off, you tease,” Katsuki finally hissed, the hand next to Izuku’s face fisting tightly around the bed sheets.

“If you insist,” Izuku practically sang, running his hand up higher, right over his spine this time, and brang the dark cotton shirt up with him. Katsuki lifted himself, sitting back on his heels, and Izuku followed, pulling the shirt up over his head for him.

The fabric discarded on the floor, Izuku exhaled through his mouth and slowly pressed a hand onto one of Katsuki’s defined pecs.

“Like what you see?” he teased, but Izuku responded in earnest.

“God, you’re so handsome.”

Katsuki stilled. He wasn’t sure if it was the words themselves, or the breathy way he said them, or the sheer admiration in his eyes, but it felt like big balloons of mushy feelings puffed up under his chest, hardly leaving any room to breathe or think or feel anything else at all.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispered, cupping Izuku’s face in his hands and shutting his eyes tight as he kissed him again, deeper and softer all at the same time. Izuku melted into his touch, encircling him with those gentle arms, and let the purest contentment settle in his stomach.

---

The public highschool was bigger, and farther away, too. The whole county went there, except for the homeschooled kids, so Katsuki finally found himself something of a clique: kids who wore black and smoked cigarettes and skipped school. Most of them were older than him, and Izuku couldn’t help but notice a concerning pattern.

They never made it to graduation.

But for the sake of retaining what little friendship they had left, Izuku didn’t ask what Katsuki planned to do after highschool. He didn’t ask him to stop smoking, and, perhaps out of respect for Izuku or perhaps in a reveal of his real reasons for doing so, he never smoked when it was just the two of them. However, they found less and less to talk about the older they got. Sometimes, the only thing they could bare to say was I don’t want to stop being your friend.

By sophomore year, they hardly saw each other. That winter, they didn’t say a single word to each other, unless long stares between wishing eyes counted as words, but come spring something miraculous happened.

Izuku, several books that wouldn’t fit in his backpack held tight to his chest, came out the back door of the highschool twenty minutes after the bell rang and found Katsuki walking up out of the woods behind the school, alone.

He didn’t seem to notice him at first, scanning the ground for something until at last he bent down and picked up an object so small Izuku couldn’t tell what it was.

“U-um. Kacchan?” Izuku took a step forward.

“Huh?” he looked up, face set in a scowl, then widened his eyes in surprise at the sight of him. “Oh! Hi…”

“Yeah. Hi,” Izuku nodded.

“What’re you… doing out here?” Katsuki asked.

“I missed the bus,” Izuku admitted. “I thought I was going to stay after with Dr. Geofsky, but it turned out he went home, and I didn’t bring my bike because I was going to wait for the five o’clock late bus, but now I’ve got nothing better to do than start walking home.”

“Oh,” Katsuki pursed his lips. “I, uh, dropped something earlier when we left… well, you know.”

He gulped. Izuku nodded.

“Yeah, um, anyways, I found it – just a stupid pin for my jacket – and I was gonna start heading home ,too.”

“Yeah? How were you planning on getting there?” Izuku questioned.

“Um… usually one of my buddies gives me a ride, but, uh… I guess I’m stuck walking too,” he shrugged.

“Want to walk… together?”

Katsuki sighed.

“Sure. Why the hell not? I’ll show you a shortcut, nerd,” he waved him forward, heading off back into the woods with his hands in his pockets. Izuku followed silently, heart beating fast for some reason he didn’t want to think about, and felt his grip on his books get sweaty. Katsuki was right about the shortcut; instead of walking along the road which would have necessitated taking a sharp left turn an hour outside of the city and walking another two back to their houses, he took the hypotenuse through the woods.

But it was not just faster. It was far, far more private.

At some point, Izuku found himself walking beside Katsuki instead of behind, and the two took turns glancing at each other from the corner of their eyes, trying to contain the flush in their cheeks and the warm feelings blossoming up in their chests.

Izuku didn’t dare act on his thoughts. It was irrational, he thought, to even begin to think that Katsuki could feel the same way, want the same things. As far he knew, he was the only boy in the whole world who desired the company of men the way most his age sought after women.

Katsuki, on the other hand, couldn’t help but feel this was his best chance to act. They were alone, they were together, and this might never happen again. And if Izuku rejected his advances? Then he’d never have to see him again. He wasn’t planning on sticking around in their middle-of-nowhere county too much longer. So, he took in a deep breath, quiet enough for Izuku not to notice, and let his right hand slip out of his pocket and swing by his side instead, inching closer to Izuku by the second. Hesitation caught him, then, and he gnashed his teeth together trying to find the courage again. He was right there! If he could just reach out and touch him, then all those years of wanting and wishing and hoping and dreaming could be realized.

Even if just for a moment, he could grasp the object of his affections, hold him close, press a single kiss into his lips and pray he’d be allowed another.

He settled for a hand on the back. It was the faintest touch, really, but Izuku’s eyes widened and cheeks went rosy regardless. Katsuki gulped, thinking he’d be told to stop already, but Izuku kept walking, perhaps even a tad bit slower to let himself push back on the touch. So Katsuki continued. He let his fingers slip down, under the hem of his shirt, then back up onto his bare back. It was undeniable at that point what was happening, and Izuku stopped, sweaty hands shaking around his books, to look Katsuki in the eye.

“Wha–” he started, then gulped down whatever he was going to say and moved closer. Katsuki took the que and reached his other hand around, pulling him close. Izuku looked up, eyes shining, both with hope and a fresh sheen of tears, and Katsuki slowly leaned down until their lips just barely touched.

It was the wimpiest kiss Katsuki had even seen, but he was frozen after he’d done it, and too mortified to say anything at all. If the rejection was coming, it would come now, and all he’d done was ghost their lips together for half a second.

“K-Kacchan,” Izuku choked out. “Do you really… is this really happening? Do you… like me?”

“Mm-hm,” he forced out.

“I’m not… the only one?” He blinked repeatedly, fighting back tears. “You like boys too?”

“Wha– no shit, you idiot,” Katsuki finally found his voice. “But that’s not the important part. Sure, I like boys, but I’m fucking in love with you.”

---

They met halfway on the road between their houses, a starlit sky looming over the tall cornfield. A late autumn chill rushed over the flat earth, and Izuku tucked his chin in closer to his jacket, finally seeing the dark shape of Katsuki’s car in the night. He was parked on the side of the road and sitting on the hood, looking off into the cornfield, his breath almost visible.

“Hey,” Izuku said, the word sounding far too casual for what he knew was about to happen,

“Hey,” Katsuki responded, then patted the the car, motioning for Izuku to come sit next to him. “I know it’s fucking freezing, so let’s make this quick, kay?”

“I-it’s not that cold,” Izuku sat down, pressing his shoulder in close to Katsuki’s. “Especially not if we… huddle together.”

“Stop being cute,” Katsuki hissed, though his blush revealed the falsity of those words. Izuku giggled and angled his face up, letting his eyelids flutter closed as Katsuki leaned down, gently holding his chin in place to kiss him. It felt like eternity, kissing in the cold on the hood of Katsuki’s junky old car, nothing but the stars and moon to light their midnight escapade, no one but the corn mice to see how tenderly they touched each other.

But, even that eternity could not last forever.

Eventually, Katsuki released him, sliding his hand down his back and wrapping his other arm around into a loose hug, and Izuku let his head fall into Katsuki’s shoulder, hands resting on his chest.

“I have something to give you, before I go,” Katsuki said.

“Yeah?” Izuku picked his head up.

“Mm-hm. It’s right here.” He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a simple silver ring, holding it up so the moonlight reflected off it ever so slightly.

“A… ring?” Izuku asked, voice squeaking slightly and face heating up.

“Yeah. It’s for… well, you know. Like a keepsake to remember me,” Katsuki struggled with the words, his own cheeks growing warmer. “Can I put it on you?”

“O-okay,” Izuku nodded, holding his left hand out with the fingers spread wide, not sure which one he meant.

“Um,” Katsuki hesitated, the grabbed his palm and brought the ring up to Izuku’s ring finger, but didn’t slide it on. “Is this okay?” he asked instead.

Izuku took in a shuddering breath, then nodded.

Katsuki gluped.

“Okay.”

The ring fit perfectly. It was cold against his skin, a slight sting in that chilly night air, but Izuku was so warm with happiness that he couldn’t have cared less. Eyes watering and mouth hanging open without anything to say, Izuku pulled his hand in and touched the ring as if he wasn’t sure it was real.

“It’s… a promise. Too,” Katsuki continued. “That I’ll come back for you. That we’ll always be together.”

“Oh, Kacchan,” Izuku finally gushed. “I love it! I love you! This is… I… I don’t what to say.”

Katsuki flushed and looked down, hiding a bittersweet frown growing on his face.

“Well there’s… only one more thing left to say.”

Izuku froze; he could already feel his heart shattering.

“Goodbye.”

---

“You know, there are other people like us,” Katsuki said, lying tired in a mess of limbs with Izuku.

“Yeah?” Izuku turned his head, imdeiatly curious.

“Mm-hm. I met a bunch of other gay guys in the city. I mean, we still have to be secretive about it, but I think it’s a lot easier when we at least know we’re not alone.”

“Oh,” Izuku nodded slowly. “You don’t… um… I mean, you didn’t… do anything with any of them, did you?”

“What? Hell no,” Katsuki shook his head. “When I say you’re the only one for me, I fucking mean it. You got that?” He pressed a finger into Izuku’s chest, and he smiled wide, his doe eyes shining.

“Yeah,” his voice broke. “I got it, Kacchan.”

“Good.” Katsuki sighed, tracing a finger down the slope of Izuku’s cheek as they stared at each other, faces mere inches apart and lit only by the trickling moonlight from the open window.

“Only two more months ‘till I graduate,” Izuku reminded him.

“I know. I’ll be there, I promise.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, not at the graduation, I don’t want to go anywhere near that school every again,” he clarified, “but after I’ll come and see you, kay?”

Izuku chuckled.

“Yeah, okay. And will you come visit me all summer?” he asked.

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re not going to make me wait another four months?”

“Hell no.” Katsuki shook his head vigorously. “That was… fuck, I’m really sorry about that. It took awhile for me to get settled in and then my car broke down, and I really, really wanted to see you, I swear, but this was as soon as I could make it back here.”

“Ah. Okay,” Izuku nodded.

“But it won’t be long now. You won’t be far once you move up for college,” Katsuki reminded him.

“I know. Then I’ll have to figure out a way to sneak you into my dorm,” Izuku joked.

“Uh, maybe not.” Katsuki looked serious suddenly. “You really shouldn’t give your roommate any clues, or they could get you kicked out. It’s… pretty serious.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That sucks,” Izuku said.

“I know. But that’s the way it is.”

They let the silence settle in for a moment after that, realizing just how tired they were, bare chests rising slowly and cool night air washing over their skin. Katsuki pushed himself up, and Izuku reached out to put a limp grip around his arm.

“Wait. Please stay. Just for the night?”

Katsuki sighed.

“Fine. But I have to get up and go before your mom sees my car outside in the morning,” he said, reaching down for the covers and pulling them up as he settled back down next to Izuku.

“I know, I know. But wake me up before you go to give me goodbye kiss, alright?”

“You big sap,” Katsuki chuckled, pulling him close and pressing their lips together once more. “Fine, I will. But get some sleep now, then. You got school tomorrow, don’t you?”

“I’m not the one who decided to sneak into my room on a school night,” Izuku fired back.

“Oh, shut up. You love me.”

“Hmm,” Izuku hummed, eyes falling closed as he pressed his back into Katsuki’s chest, reaching up to hold the hand Katsuki hand around his waist. “I sure do.”

#bakudeku #katsudeku #izukatsu #my fic #nerd!deku x delinquent!bakugou #pretty self indulgent #one shot #fluff #angst #lots of kissing

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prairiesongserial · 5 years

Text

5.8

John watched Cody through the window until the dust kicked up under the truck’s tires became too thick to see through.

“Your boy’ll be alright,” Nash said easily. “It’s only a hundred muties, right?” He spared John a look in the rearview mirror. “I’m just joking!” He laughed. “Change into this before we reach town.”

“He’s not my boy,” John muttered. A duffel bag hit him square in the chest, tossed back from the front seat.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nash said. “Sure he ain’t.”

John decided not to talk to Nash anymore. He opened the duffel bag and pulled out the clothing inside - fairly nondescript, not showy like Marc’s white suits. John undressed and quickly donned the dark-dyed linen. Just a plain shirt and pants, and the most comfortable thing John had ever worn. Someone had hand-stitched a little gold crown in the right cuff, a little unevenly.

The truck was quickly approaching Retazo, the mid-size agricultural town that bore host to the gang Marc was meeting with today. Marc had called them Las Realezas.

“Realezas...royalty?” John said questioningly. He twisted at the sleeve, trying to get a better look at the little embroidered crown.

“That’s the one!” Nash said cheerily. “Get the, uh, the bandana - yeah, you got it. You need to hide your face, maybe tie up your hair.”

John gave him a doubtful look. He didn’t want to walk into town looking like he was about to stick the place up. He tied his hair back under the black bandana, then set his own straw hat on top.

“You look like a real campesino,” Nash said bitingly. “You’re trying to fit in with the gang, not the town.”

“I like my hat,” said John.

“Jesus Christ. Alright, I’m gonna let you out a mile from town. Don’t want anyone clocking the car. You know the rendezvous point.”

John nodded. He buckled his holster back around his waist.

“See you on the other side, cowboy,” Nash said, winkingly.

John climbed out of the truck and stood in the road while Nash turned around. This was the easy part, he reminded himself, as the truck disappeared in a cloud of dirt. Cody had it much worse. John started walking for Retazo.

Retazo was thriving, and surprisingly, the residents seemed to like Las Realezas. As John neared the town, he started passing ordinary people going about their business, hauling water by the bucket, pulling carts, or heading to market. Whenever one of them passed John in his Realezas uniform, he was met with smiles and warm greetings - though he didn’t understand them. One young woman even flirtatiously flicked the brim of his hat up. John gave her an uneasy smile and put his hat back the right way.

Retazo wasn’t much different from Pith, except it was bigger, and happier. The dirt road was flanked on either side by fields, and John was sorely tempted to abandon the road and investigate their irrigation channels. The surrounding country may have been bone dry, but the crops were lush and full. No wonder the town liked Las Realezas, if the gang had had any hand in their yield.

John found himself slowing down, trying to identify all the different crops they grew here. He saw tomatoes, set back from the road to deter thieves from plucking one on their way by. And of course there were beans, corn, wheat… John’s heart skipped when he saw a small cattle pasture.

He wondered if Thunder and Lightning had assimilated well into Jess Lye’s operation. Lye wasn’t set up for cattle, really, and had never had much luck with livestock… Hopefully Lana would check on them. She knew how dearly John had taken to those calves.

Before he knew it, John was passing houses, then businesses. The buildings were all composed in squares, lovely and simple. Most of them were white, with wrought iron in the windows, but every few houses there would be a red or orange or bright blue one. John stopped in his tracks as a goatherd led his herd across the road. It was a good opportunity to pause and get his bearings.

He was near the city center, if the throng of people with baskets and carts jammed one against the other meant anything. John’s mood soured. There was nothing in this world he disliked more than a market day.

The goatherd greeted John cheerfully in Spanish, and John nodded to him.

“Rafi! Doña Tosia busca a tí,” the man called. “Necesita ayuda con una cosa u otra.”

John nodded again, and very much hoped he would get away with it. The man shrugged and carried on his way.

John stayed where he was for a minute longer, considering Retazo. He did not want to enter the city center. It was horrible, and risky. People kept stopping to talk to him, and sooner or later they were going to get suspicious. But on the other hand, John didn’t appear to have much of a choice. Nash had told him to follow the main road straight through town, and it wasn’t as if John had a map. Getting lost and asking directions really wasn’t an option.

The water compound lay less than a mile outside of town, if John could just cross the plaza. John shifted his weight from foot to foot, staring lividly at a woman hawking oranges. Really he was annoyed with Nash, although he knew he shouldn’t be. Presumably Nash would have dropped him nearer to the compound if the truck wouldn’t have been so visibly out of place on the east side of town. It might have gotten back to Las Realezas that one of Marc’s agents wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

John steeled his nerve. He would have to brave market day.

John entered the throng. Between the shouts of the vendors and the excited chatter of the crowd, every gap and cranny of John’s skull was packed tight with noise. He wasn’t sure if he was going to make it.

One sound cut through the din, pounding in his head like repeating gunfire.

“Rafi! Rafi, Rafi, espérame,” the voice called.

John tried to push in between two matronly women who were shouting over each other about the price of dried lentils, but the sound was getting closer, and louder, almost like it had targeted him specifically, a vindictive swarm of words stinging and stinging at him.

“Rafi, finalmente te encontre!” said the voice. Someone grabbed John by the arm and he turned, alarmed, to find a short old woman clutching him in a vice. He tried to pull his arm back, but stopped halfway through the motion. If he caused a scene, he risked never being able to leave this place.

John stared down at the old woman and gave her an inquisitive smile. She was strange looking - she stood out from everyone else in town. Her skin was a warm brown color, but her hair was dyed bright red, redder than sunset - as red as a freshly painted barn, and curled in a little nest on top of her head, in which sat a pair of sunglasses. She dressed oddly, too - most people in town dressed conservatively in linen shirt and pants, the most decorated among them wearing a sun hat or freshly shined shoes. Not this woman. She wore bangles all the way up her arms, and the cane she used to walk was bright pink. As was the rest of her.

The others in the market gave her a wide berth, and John realized right away that if he stuck with her, whoever she may be, no one would bump into him.

At once, the woman handed him a heavy bag of shopping, which he shouldered without thinking.

“Rafi, te extrañé. Eres tan útil cuando voy de compras,” she said. And she began to make her way through the market, now with John on her arm. She stopped at every stall and talked to every person she met, and soon John had a decent idea of who she was.

Everyone called her Doña Tosia, and she seemed to be friends with everybody. Every conversation she had ended in laughter. She might yell at a man across the market, only for him to yell back some witty joke and make her laugh. Or she might lean in conspiratorially over a heaping basket of strawberries and share some gossip with a vendor, earning herself a gasp and a giggle.

By the time they reached the other side of the market, they had criss-crossed it several times, and both John’s hands were numb from carrying her shopping. Doña Tosia had slowed down as well, favoring her cane more heavily. She now talked only to John, calling him Rafael, Rafi, Rafa, Rafeta, Rafito, Rafucho, and Rafaelito indiscriminately.

Soon John found himself more or less on the east side of town, waiting on the front stoop of a little house with a poorly kept garden, watching Doña Tosia struggle with her keys.

“Rafi!” someone on the street called.

John, who felt he was getting the hang of this, turned and waved at them. There were two men dressed in the same dark linen as himself - their uniforms closer to navy blue from repeated washing. One, tall and slim, had long shaggy brown hair with an askew newsboy cap perched on top. This man propped his elbow on the shoulder of his compatriot, a slightly shorter figure carefully cupping a fried meat pastry in his hands.

“Mira, Antonio,” Doña Tosia snipped. “Mira como Rafi me ayuda con las compras, hm? No deja sola a su abuela.”

Antonio, the man with the pastry, groaned. “Rafi no es su nieto, abuelita.”

The two of them continued to bicker, and the shaggy man winked at John and stole a large bite of the pastry while Antonio wasn’t paying attention.

“Oye, eso es mio,” Antonio said, snatching it back.

“Es demasiado picante,” the shaggy man said, pulling a face.

“...Gilipollas,” Antonio said under his breath. Doña Tosia smacked his arm, which made John think that Gilipollas may not be the shaggy man’s Christian name.

Suddenly, the shaggy man elbowed Antonio hard in the arm.

“Tenemos que irnos - Rafi, vamanos, llegaremos tarde.”

Suddenly, John was being dragged away by the arm, Doña Tosia’s groceries forgotten on her front stoop. At first he was afraid he had been found out - he hadn’t understood much of what the two men had been saying, although most of it seemed to be about grandmothers and Antonio’s sandwich. Sweat rolled down John’s back. The two men were very casual, even pausing to kick a rock down the road, but they were leading John outside of town, out toward the water compound. Why would they do that? Why not reveal him here, and get it over with? Unless they wanted to avoid a scene… maybe Las Realezas were so popular in town because they kept the violent business out of the public eye.

Antonio finished his pastry and wiped his hands on his pants as they walked. He and the shaggy man talked a little - about girls, if John had to guess. Rosa María, whoever she was, came up a few times. He learned the shaggy man was named Santi.

John tried not to look nervous. Maybe he could take them. Two to one, it wasn’t great odds, but…

A hand clapped John’s shoulder, and Santi laughed, ending some far away sentence with, “No te parece, Rafi?”

Rafi, they were still calling him Rafi. They didn’t know.

John thanked God for his bland features, apparently identical to some poor Rafael who he may have to shoot later.

In no time, they had left the town behind, ambling down a familiar dirt road toward the mesa. The ground began to slope upwards, but not too steeply - in fact, the land soon took a sharp cut down, and the three of them carefully picked their way into a manmade valley cut into the earth. Antonio and Santi led the way through the sparse underbrush, although John couldn’t pick out any sort of path.

Within a few minutes, they came to a door - metal, but not mechanic, if John had to guess. Guarding it were three Realezas. John fought the urge to freeze. He had to act natural. He was here to guard the compound too, apparently. He waved to them. One of them waved back, but the other two seemed to be taking their job too seriously for that. Or maybe they just didn’t like Rafi.

“Llegan tarde,” one of them complained.

“Tuve hambre!” Antonio said defensively. “Es culpa de Rafi.”

“Es culpa de su abuela loca.”

“Qué dijiste de mi abuela?” Antonio said, rolling up his sleeves. Santi caught him by the arm and started speaking very quickly.

John stood by and watched. He wanted to wait until the original guards were well out of earshot before he disabled Antonio and Santi, which could be a while. Sound travelled pretty far out here, with hardly any cars on the road. If he wanted to play it safe, he would have to wait at least twenty minutes.

John had lost track of time in the city center, and was suddenly very worried that he was already too late. What if Cody and Sailor had made it past the muties only to be trapped inside with dozens of armed Realezas? What if they were dead?

No, no, that wasn’t likely. The guards coming off duty would have said something about it - had they? Had John missed it? Everything they had said seemed like ordinary ribbing.

The guards had all but disappeared as they picked their way through the brush. They had left the big guns leaning against the side of the door. Antonio and Santi shouldered theirs, sighing. A moment of silence passed.

“Has pensado en lo que pasaría si los mutados bajaran la mesa?” asked Antonio, thoughtfully.

Santi shuddered. “No empieces de nuevo, Antonio. Haces esto cada vez.”

“Pero - ”

The sound of gunfire from behind the door cut Antonio off. He and Santi were fumbling with their guns, strapped uselessly to their backs. John went for his own gun, but before his hand so much as brushed the snap on his holster, Antonio and Santi were lying on the ground. The door had been shot open.

Sailor, covered head to toe in blood, stood before John, a stolen rifle trained on his chest.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, lowering the gun. “Where the hell were you?”

Behind her, Cody appeared, struggling to push a cart loaded with at least a dozen barrels of water. He was drenched in sweat. John untied the bandana from his own head and handed it to Cody, who took it, looking frazzled.

“Come on, we gotta rendezvous,” Sailor snapped. “John, the least you could do is take over the water. Let’s go.”

They were off. John let the moment take him away, the pushcart jolting through the brush, propelled farther by every labored breath out of John’s mouth. Cody ran at his heels, gun trained behind them, in case any Realezas were in pursuit.

“Are you okay?” John asked Cody.

“I could… Are you okay? When you didn’t show - ”

“Doña Tosia had groceries,” John panted.

“Okay - what - ”

Marc’s truck skidded to a halt in front of them, apparently out of nowhere, and suddenly Nash was opening up the flatbed, helping them heave the gigantic barrels aboard.

“You’re late,” he said as he hastily tied tarp down over the barrels. “Marc’s meeting is almost over. We’re gonna have to gun it.”

John hardly heard a word out of his mouth. As the truck tore through the underbrush, all he could think about was how glad he was the real Rafael would still be around to carry Doña Tosia’s groceries tomorrow.

5.7 || 5.9

#story

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xtruss · 3 years

Text

What I Learned When I Rented My Parents’ Former Home as an Airbnb

They’d tried to escape the future by building a home off the grid. But the future found them anyway.

— By Thad Russell

— The Atlantic | August 29, 2021

September 2005 (All photos by Thad Russell)

About the author: Thad Russell is a photographer who lives with his wife and two children in Providence, Rhode Island, and teaches at the Rhode Island School of Design.

Two summers ago, my siblings and I found my late parents’ former house in northern Vermont listed on Airbnb. Once we got over our shock—“Wait! That’s our house!”—we immediately made reservations to rent it for a family vacation. The new owners had known my parents and generously waived our rental fee upon realizing who we were. The online description—“rustic retreat”—brought back memories of countless family gatherings of summers past: taking long walks, swimming in the lake, eating local corn and blueberry pie. I remembered hanging out together on the deck that extended into my parents’ gentle, south-sloping meadow like a pier, appreciating the peaceful view of hay fields, spruce trees, mountains, and an ever-changing sky.

I looked forward to the reunion for months. And yet, as I drove with my wife and young children along winding mountain roads that I knew by heart, I was surprised by the emotions stirring inside me. I began to realize something that should have been obvious. This special, idealized place that I was so excited to return to wasn’t a repository of just happy memories, but of difficult ones too. My parents had been concerned about the political and environmental trends in America. Their place in Vermont was meant to be a political statement in the form of a modern-day frontier house—hand-built, off the grid, and completely DIY. In other words, it was very difficult to live in and maintain. Now that many of their worries about climate change and political unrest have become reality, I understand the prescience of their vision and the virtues of the life they were designing. I also realized something even more important, however, when I rented their home as an Airbnb: No matter how hard you try to escape the future, the future will find you anyway.

May 2015

In the 1990s, my parents sold our family home in suburban Boston and moved to a virgin piece of pasture in Vermont’s rural and remote Northeast Kingdom in order to build a house—and a life—from scratch. They wanted to slow down, to live simply and more in concert with nature and its seasonal rhythms. My siblings, their spouses, and I not only supported this new chapter but were actively involved every step of the way. Though we all had careers, homes, and lives in other places, we would parachute in every August to help pour a foundation, build a timber frame, side a barn, or mow a field. This collective labor gave us a sense of investment in the property—“sweat equity”—and senses of accomplishment, pride, and joy in its growing compound of rough-hewn structures. We finished the “little house” (which is actually tiny) in time for my sister’s wedding one August, and we finished the “big house” (which is actually quite little) in time for my brother’s wedding six years (to the day) later.

This property was the realization of a long-held dream. My father was an MIT-trained architect and builder with his own brand of rugged modernism. His houses were shrines to their specific surroundings, made out of locally sourced wood, stone, and glass. After spending a lifetime building homes for others, he wanted to finally build one for himself and his family.

But he wasn’t trying to construct a well-appointed vacation home, and my parents weren’t hoping to retire comfortably to the country. They were hoping that their modest compound could be a refuge, a place separate and protected from the evil and disease of the modern world, a place to which we could all retreat when the long-prophesied and always-imminent economic and ecological disaster of Man’s own making finally came home to roost. With its solar panels, windmill, vegetable garden, root cellar, and well, it was designed to be a self-sufficient place apart, a lifeboat of sorts.

Though my parents’ organic, less-is-more lifestyle was supposed to be simple, it was never easy. Their life was intentional and incredibly labor-intensive, marked by hard work and discomfort. Their property became an unrelenting taskmaster. Many projects never got completed. Some just didn’t work. The sun didn’t always shine. The wind didn’t always blow. Batteries failed. The bespoke, high-efficiency refrigerator didn’t actually keep food cold. The well was contaminated with surface water from a nearby cow pasture and never produced reliably potable water. My parents’ self-imposed restrictions on energy usage—my father designed an aggressively frugal system that used only one-20th the amount of electricity of an average American family—seemed arbitrary, impossibly difficult, and puritanical; a dishwasher or clothes dryer was out of the question.

They—and we—argued a lot about how they lived, and the choices they had made. I thought theirs should be a model home, an equally attractive, non-fossil-fuel alternative that others could easily emulate so that we could collectively save the planet. My father thought it should be more of a laboratory that embraced cutting-edge experimentation, took risks, and courted failure. He thought it should be difficult by design so as to attract only zealots, purists, and true believers.

August 2019; May 2015

My mother sometimes complained about the ways the house didn’t work and she felt burdened by the endless list of domestic chores that seemed to fall disproportionately on her, but she nonetheless embraced this new life with passion and conviction. Why? For starters, she loved my dad and believed in his genius and vision. She was also a longtime political and environmental activist. Lastly, thanks to her strong Protestant work ethic and her progressive Christian faith, she always believed that wisdom and virtue came from labor, sacrifice, and struggle. I think she loved this new, difficult chapter of her life, not despite the challenges but because of them. It made her feel more alive, more connected to her husband and to herself, her planet, and her God.

One particularly hot and restless night in the summer of 2003, while sleeping in my parents’ barn, I awoke with a scary premonition: Things here were not going to end well. My parents were not going to live forever, and I had a feeling that their path ahead might be far more difficult and treacherous than any of us were prepared for. A few months later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. The next three years were consumed by her illness, including her weekly drives across the state for radiation and chemotherapy. The August after she died, we had a memorial service for her under a tent in the exact same spot in the meadow where my sister and brother had each been married years earlier.

My father lived for eight more years, but his heart was never the same. First it was broken, and then, eventually, it began to fail. What he could do—and wanted to do—shrank considerably. For the first time ever, he stopped planting a garden. “What’s the point?” he said. Mail piled up. Bills went unpaid. Phone calls went unanswered. Dirt and dust collected everywhere. Necessary and long-overdue house maintenance was put off indefinitely. He would spend hours and days sitting and staring, at the clouds in the summer and at the wood fire in the winter. The house he built with his own hands became a waiting room, a purgatory clad in native spruce. One day in November 2013, he couldn’t get out of bed. I was visiting at the time, having driven north from Rhode Island after receiving a call from a concerned neighbor. I remember the ambulance in the front yard, parked on top of my mother’s perennial garden and EMTs dressed in Carhartt overalls taking my dad away on a gurney.

My father died the following August; two months later, we mixed my parents’ ashes and spread them in the meadow as friends and family looked on.

After my father’s death, my siblings and I debated whether to keep the Vermont property. I always thought we would. But the more we talked, the more I realized it was going to be financially and logistically impossible. The buildings were not in great shape. Managing their restoration and preservation was going to be complicated and expensive, and was going to take time, energy, and money that none of us had. Moreover, the property was hard to reach. We also realized that we weren’t simply inheriting a house or a piece of land, but a way of life, a philosophy, a set of values that we all respected but didn’t fully subscribe to. No, we all decided, it wasn’t right—or perhaps the right time—for any of us. With heavy hearts, we decided to let it go.

October 2005

Fast-forward to the summer before last, five years after my father’s death: We were returning to our family homestead, but this time as Airbnb guests. As we approached the house from the long dirt driveway, everything was at once familiar and surprisingly different. I instantly noticed all of the improvements: a new metal roof, new wood siding, and a completely rebuilt breezeway connecting the two houses; lush new landscaping featuring exotic flora and brilliant orange poppies that reminded me of California; a new well, professionally dug, with (I learned later) sweet, cold—and E. coli–free—artesian water.

The interior was stunning and immaculate. Everything seemed carefully and painstakingly finished, no more exposed electrical wires or pipes. A new floor was made out of spotted maple, and a fresh coat of satin varnish covered all the wood surfaces. The decor was modern and sparse—chairs made out of soft Italian leather and German stainless-steel appliances, including a dishwasher and a dryer. To my eyes, the house had never looked better and had never been more beautiful, more finished, more realized. The future looked good on this house. My appreciation was complicated, however, tinged with envy and regret. Why couldn’t this beautifully designed and now brilliantly realized house still be ours?

I also couldn’t help but notice what was no longer there: the vegetable garden; the windmill; the woodshed, wood stoves, and Finnish oven; the solar electric system. The house is now on the grid and comfortably heated with gas, its massive propane storage tank elegantly concealed underground. Sure, the house still looks groovy, but it’s now hippie house lite, like tie-dyes and distressed bell-bottoms one buys at the Gap. It has the counterculture aesthetic but all the dirt, difficulty, and rebelliousness have been removed. As my father might say, “What’s the point?”

But I have come to realize that the new owners have actually been the perfect stewards of our old property. Their careful and systematic restoration has removed the dust, decay, and dysfunction while preserving the essential design and rustic charm. I also realize that it is their house now, not ours, and maybe that’s a good thing. The burden of the property, its deferred maintenance and challenging memories, was too much, and is too much for me still.

The author’s brother, mother, and father. August 2001

Now, two years—and a world of difference—later, I find myself thinking about that piece of pasture in northern Vermont and my family’s 25-year adventure there. We are living through such scary and turbulent times. We are simultaneously in the throes of a resurgent global pandemic and a rapidly emerging climate crisis. Viral death tolls, huge heat domes, megadroughts, and 1,000-year floods mark our daily news. As I write this, dozens of massive western fires burn uncontained, their smoke turning even eastern skies an eerie and unhealthy shade of ocher. The world is changing in ways that many people find hard to believe and hard to endure, but that my parents essentially anticipated. They were preparing for this future; they saw it coming and tried so hard to protect their family—and themselves—from the pain and suffering that they feared it might bring. Now that that future is here, I realize we can’t really escape it. The future always catches up with us, and no matter where we are or where we go, we are all survivalists now.

— Thad Russell is a photographer who lives with his wife and two children in Providence, Rhode Island, and teaches at the Rhode Island School of Design.

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kuroshitsuji-scenarios · 6 years

Note

For the Winter Scenarios, I'd love a scenario for Finnian and the reader playing in the deep snow until their fingers almost freeze off and they have to retreat back to the warm fireplace of Phantomhive manor. Thank you in advance, these winter asks are absolutely adorable!

“Come on, let’s go!”

Finny’s voice echoed through the quiet forest, to your dismay probably scaring off any wild, hungry deer which could be wandering nearby. The magical aura surrounding you both was enough to calm your nerves, both from its breathtaking landscape and the freezing weather. White snow was shining in the dim sunlight barely few minutes ago, now reminding you of a neverending virgin field of smooth, fluffy surface, so picturesque to look at, yet so easy to destroy.

You’ve learned it quite soon after leaving the manor when Finny, all hyped about the winter walk you were going to take, jumped right in the middle of an untouched snow and ran through the garden, visibly enjoying ruining its peaceful visage. Not that you mind, the bright smile on his lips and giggles leaving his mouth were enough to compensate you his actions.

Finny unexpectedly but gently grabbed your hand causing you to follow him on the forest path, now invisible under the deep layers of white fluff.

“It’s somewhere nearby, I’m sure,” he announced cheerfully and you let him lead you further until suddenly turning to the forests’s depths.

“Are you sure about that?” you inquired, now taking your steps slower and more careful than before, aware of the fallen branches and little hills which could easily twist your ankle.

“Yes, I am!” he giggled and pointed at something between the trees, too far away for you to see. “It should be over there, in less than a mile, but if you’re getting tired I can carry you.”

The freeze painted adorable blush in his cheeks and the tip of the nose, making it impossible to realize whether he was blushing after saying those words or just feeling cold.

Eventually, he was right, you reached the hayrack in a minutes and just when you stopped by the wooden construction, Finny began to empty the bag which he was carrying until now. Bread, vegetables, corn and salt were immediately put in the right places, now supposed to wait until deers and other animals will come and feed on them to survive the winter. It was a truly kind gesture, perfectly matching the genuinely happy smile on Finny’s lips when his heart seemed to grow whenever he thought about how much good was he going to bring to the other livings with this simple gesture.

“Now, I think it’ll be okay,” he stated firmly, adding a little ‘phew’ at the beginning of the sentence.

“I am sure it will,” you respended, taking the now empyty bag but before you could place it on your back, the little, fluffy snowball landed on your arm.

Dangerously slowly turning your head to Finny, you peeked at him and noticed how he was covering his mouth, as if he was afraid that maybe he has built the ball with a little too much force and hurt you but after seeing the smile that you simply couldn’t hide, he let out a visible relief, only to get a snowball thrown right in his own face.

“Ha!” you mused proud of your aiming skills. “Do not mess with me, boy.”

He didn’t, instead, he decided to fight for his own honour and soon you were both throwing snow at each other, not caring about creating a perfect snowballs nor destroying the steady surface of fluff. Your laughs were probably the reason why the deers didn’t come for their food for the next few hours but it was still worth it, especially when you were laying on the ground, out of breath, freezing fingers tangled together and you were both the happiest you could ever be.

“Let’s go.” Now it was your turn to rush him. “We need to get back to the mansion before we will catch a cold and to prevent that, we are going to prepare some delicious coca, how does it sound?”

You could swear that the shine which appeared in Finny’s eyes in that moment was brighter than the sun itself.

#kuroshitsuji #black butler #finny #finnian #scenario #scenarios #winter event #humans #finny x reader

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taeken-my-heart · 6 years

Text

Lente

Summary: Reconnecting with your childhood best friend was just what you needed to help heal the hurt.

Pairing: Jungkookx Reader

Genre: Light fluff/Light angst

Word Count: 2327

Warnings: Mentions of mental illness and suicide. Allusion to sex.

“You’re lucky.” You said, peering out of the floor to ceiling windows, wine glass clutched in your hand as you surveyed the evening sky. It had turned from twilight to inky black as you’d stood at that window, listening to the sound of his humming as he searched through old records to find what he wanted to show you. You could see his eyes search for yours in the reflections of the window, fingers paused along the edges of the box he’d pulled from the bookcase.

“Lucky?” He repeated, “In what respect?”

You shrugged, shifting your gaze from his reflection back out to the night sky. “In every respect, I suppose. Your life seems ideal.”

You could hear Jungkook smile as he came to stand behind you, record gripped in his hand. “Trust me, my life is not ideal. I’ve spent years building it to look that way from the outside. I’m an artist and a musician, it’s my job to create illusions of beauty.”

You took another sip of your red wine before setting your half emptied glass on a nearby table and turning to face him. “So did you find it?” Sometimes the subject was best changed when it came too close to facing your demons.

Jungkook grinned, holding the record up for you to see. “I did, and I really think you’ll love it. Here, come with me for a second.”

You followed him as he made his way towards the couch, ushering you to sit down while he got the record situated. “I found it by pure coincidence,” Jungkook said as he grabbed the needle and held it in place, “but it made me think of you.”

As Jungkook pressed the play button you listened intently as notes began to fill the room.

I can think of younger days when living for my life

Was everything a man could want to do

I could never see tomorrow, but I was never told about the sorrow

And how can you mend a broken heart?

How can you stop the rain from falling down?

How can you stop the sun from shining?

What makes the world go round?

And how can you mend this broken man?

How can a loser ever win?

Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again.

You looked up at Jungkook, eyes glassy as your heart pumped painfully in your chest. Your mother’s happy song, as strange as it was. She used to say that Al Green crooning words of sadness helped her to remember to feel happy.

For a while it was your happy song too, but eventually it soured, left a bitter taste in your mouth as you remembered the mother who’d left you with this memory and only that as she’d abandoned you to the grasp of your emotionally unavailable father.

But now…now it was nostalgic. A reminder of a woman you once knew, a woman who’d shown love and affection in the moments and ways she knew how. A dream of a woman that no longer lived in your now and only in the deep recesses of your mind and childhood.

“Jungkook.” You whispered, but you couldn’t find the strength to say anything else and you hoped your eyes could say what you couldn’t. He smiled, looking down at the record player and closing his eyes as the music filled the room.

Your parents divorced when you were 10 years old and they argued constantly about everything, especially about where you were expected to live once they’d gone their separate ways. Frankly, you hadn’t really wanted to live with either one of them.

Your father was distant and unemotional and your mother was…well, she was different. She had her moments of lucidity when she was happy and positive and then there were bad days, days in which she would sleep half the day to then wake in a fit of uncontrollable laughter that couldn’t be explained. She wouldn’t shower and would accuse you of being on your father’s side, though you’d never said a word one way or the other. She’d played this song so many times you still remembered each word, it had been engraved in your mind so deeply.

As you’d gotten older and chosen mental health as your profession you’d come to realize she was suffering from undiagnosed schizophrenia. You supposed as the stress from the divorce was building and her own personal issues were becoming more severe that she’d just given up because the day after the divorce was finalized was the last time you saw her, promising to bring you back something nice from the grocery store. Only, she never did come back.

At first you’d felt confused because she had fought with your father so hard to keep you. Then sad that she gave up and then angry. So, so angry that she’d abandoned you, and with a man who pretended you didn’t exist, no less. Now there was a gentle acceptance of a turmoil you could never have understood and a longing for a woman you supposed you’d never see again. You didn’t even know if she was still alive.

“You told me about this song, once.” Jungkook said softly. “Back in high school when we heard it that one time in the cab of my truck. You remember, right? We were sitting in that corn field talking about our dreams of getting out of that small town, running away from our problems. You from your distant father and me from my alcoholic mother. If I’m being honest, while I hoped for those things I never actually thought I’d get out of there. I knew you would, though.”

You sent him a watery smile, shaking your head. “I knew you’d get out.” You murmured. “You were filled to the brim with potential and you were so, so smart. There was no way you could have been kept there.”

“I missed you,” Jungkook sighed, running his finger along the edge of the desk that held the still singing record player. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You nodded, bowing your head in shame. “I’m sorry I left like that. When I got that scholarship I couldn’t think straight, I just knew I needed to get out.”

Jungkook shrugged, coming to sit beside you and leaning back into the cushions of the couch. “What happened to you after I left?” You asked, “Tell me about your life.”

Jungkook’s smile didn’t reach his eyes and you had the feeling he was going to tell you something that perhaps you wouldn’t like to hear. “Well, my mom got really sick so I had to postpone college to take care of her; years of alcohol abuse, I guess it weakened her immune system. I stayed and worked at the grocery store, you remember Greg’s right?” when you nodded he resumed his story. “Well anyway, about 8 months after I was supposed to go to school she decided she’d had enough of everything and popped some pills.”

“Oh, Jungkook, I’m so sorry!” You gasped, reaching out for his hand before thinking better of it. Perhaps he wouldn’t be appreciative of that kind of gesture.

“She was hardly there anyway,” Jungkook scoffed, frowning out towards the window, but despite his façade of disinterest you could see the grief written into his features, knew him too well, even after all these years, for him to hide behind a mask of biting resentment. “So after the funeral I decided there was nothing left for me to do but finally go to school. They’d said they’d hold my full ride for me for a year and since it had only been 9 months it was the right time, I guess.” He shrugged, running fingers through dark, messy tufts of hair.

“I’m still sorry,” you murmured, “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, even when they’re not what you want them to be.”

Jungkook looked up at you, smiling, and suddenly he was standing. “Would you like to dance with me?”

You blinked in confusion, “but the song has stopped.”

Jungkook marched over to the record player, resetting the needle and pressing the play button once again. He walked back slowly towards you as the notes began to fill the room and held out his hand. “Dance with me?”

You hesitated looking between his hand and his face before smiling softly and allowing him to pull you into his arms as he swayed side to side. You danced slowly, allowing new memories to fill the spaces in the song that your mother had long since left vacant. Memories of running down dirt lanes, swimming in the lake by your house, Jungkook sneaking you out in the middle of the night to drive down back roads just a little too fast with the wind whipping in the windows and through your hair as he helped you escape a night of empty words and hollow eyes at the hands of your father.

Feelings of desolation disappeared after years of no communication between the two of you and you realized in that moment how much you’d missed your childhood friend, how much he really meant to you when you fled from that small town.

Growing up he’d been the only one you trusted in the entire world and now you felt bitter disappointment that you’d left him in the dust to go and find some peace. While you didn’t regret finding that peace you now wish he’d been with you to help fill the lonely spaces in your heart while you’d navigated the new world alone.

Resting your cheek on his shoulder, you sighed, allowing the memories to wash through you. It was a coincidence that you’d met today in that bookstore on 17th and Sable. After insisting to your friend that you would find and purchase The 5th Circle so that you could gush about it with her, you’d completely forgotten in the shock of running into your childhood friend in the fantasy section of that tiny, hole in the wall shop as he scanned dusty tomes, thick glasses hanging from the end of his nose and tongue caught between front teeth.

He’d looked at you, blinking, as though he thought his eyes must be playing tricks on him before ripping his glasses from his face and staring at you in unabashed joy. He’d pulled you into a hug, laughing softly as you’d giggled, spluttering over and over again how you couldn’t believe it, of all the places.

Out of breath and out of your minds, the two of you had stumbled joyfully back into the streets to grab a drink and talk about old times. Lunch had led to dinner and drinks at his 14th floor condo and conversations about all the uncomfortable things you’d been avoiding all day. It was nice to be ending this evening with the arms of your first true friend wrapped around you, holding you close to his chest.

The sound of his voice calling your name brought you from your thoughts and you lifted your face to look up at him. His dark brown eyes, perfectly rounded nose, and soft pink lips all directed at you. He was so handsome, you’d always noticed, but never had the courage to say so.

“Mmm?” You hummed, watching as his eyes scanned your face.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered.

You nearly jolted away from him in shock. Kiss you? He wanted to kiss you? As it was, you managed to remain perfectly still as your bodies came to a standstill and he stared down at you, apprehension drawn into every feature of his handsome face.

You didn’t trust yourself to say anything so you nodded slightly and waited as Jungkook’s hand came to cradle your cheek, watching you carefully as though he thought you might change your mind before bending forward and taking your lips with his own.

His kiss was gentle and left you breathless. You clung tighter to his waist as he kissed you slowly, tenderly, afraid he would break you. Really, he could, you were so fragile after the childhood you’d had. Then again, so was he.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers into his hair and pulling him closer to you, kiss deepening the longer you clung to one another. His warmth seeped into your clothes and straight to your heart, clutching onto you for dear life.

“Please don’t leave me,” Jungkook mumbled against your lips and you pulled back just far enough to see the tears building in his eyes, “I missed you so much. I don’t think I could handle it if I never saw you again. I’ve loved you for so long, I wish I’d had the courage to tell you sooner.”

You swallowed nervously, not quite believing what you’d heard. All those years of wasted time, all those years of secret yearning for the wild eyed, adventure seeking daredevil of a best friend you’d always thought would never feel the same.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jungkook. I’ve loved you all my life; now you’re stuck with me.” You whispered, tightening your hold around his neck and he swooped down to capture your lips again.

His fingers roamed the sides of your waist, settling on your hips as he stepped closer to your body, drawing your lips apart and seeking refuge in the depths of your mouth. You could feel the muscles in his shoulders cording underneath your arms and you pulled him impossibly closer, reveling in his taste and smell. He still smelled of cinnamon and aftershave, after all these years.

“Stay the night?” He whispered, leaning his forehead against yours and you nodded eagerly, unable to respond from lack of breath.

And he soon pulled you under the sheets and you both whispered with gentle touches and small gasps just how much you loved each other.

This story idea has been brewing in my head since 2011 and was inspired by the song Kiss Me Slowly by Parachute. I hope you enjoy it lovelies <3

#jungkook scenario #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook #BTS jungkook

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elizasepistolarytravels · 6 years

Text

A knife.

1.) I've never cried once when I waxed my legs.

I can feel it though.

as I can feel the breeze and the cold

and the salt evaporating from

the sand caked beach.

And its taste on scrambled eggs,

and your rain coat on the peg,

and your stolen eyes

stealing my body

as the door screeches

shut

in that scream that I dread.

And I can hear the sound of pop corn,

and people in the street,

their red mouths like

poppies

and bulls eyes

in a Rolling Stone magazine.

Telling lies.

And yeah, I like my coffee black.

S'how I decided to like it

as I have once in a party

sworn

that I was born

with my tongue flipped backwards,

my taste buds starting at the bitter bit instead.

Said that just to excite them.

I love movies.

But never cry in public.

I'd never cry if it pleased the Republic.

What I do is, I try to get a grip of their minds

See my vision through a

screen.

But lets not get too dark, shall we?

I love the sight of wool-

Transformed and processed,

refined,

Blessed.

And how it scratches on my back,

sharply.

And how it goes around and itches my neck,

hungrily.

And wraps around my waist and burns me.

But that is how I choose to dress.

And yeah I love the feel of rain and stuff,

and cycling,

and laughing,

and falling, and scrambling

and crying,and crying.

And the crisp sheets on my childhood bed,

how when you got lost in them by yourself, tearing the sheets apart.

I felt nothing.

Not the wool, nor the the coffee, not even the leg waxing.

As you saw, as you watched my eyes go forever red.

2.)

The scent of her bluebell

earrings made them mad.

She swayed a halo of hair at their

bluebird eyelashes that wished to fly away

and perch on her shoulders,

adoring her teacups of cracked silence and

dry toast.

The love she held to them was bitter,

conscious of her power,

she did not let them see through

her skin.

Lotus palms higher chakra fingernails

on her parchment thighs and a longing of

consumption of trimmed misery,

a pattern of stolen space shared in corners.

They were all so beautiful.

Their souls were white, I tell you.

And one by one, she would let them into her room

and thank their lives.

Kissing their shoulders with

whiskers of leaves.

They would try to run their hands over

sudden quivering glimpses of lake blue stillness,

that shattered across her eyes.

They were making it worse for themselves,

They were making her remind herself of

the numbing stitches that lay as maps over her brain.

2.)

How is it for you,

as you sit pink eyed?

Your skin, un-stretched

from hurtling warship storms

shines golden,

awesome disney penny golden,

slightly akin to our

Kath Kidston bread rolls and hours of

spiky cricket.

It is easy to fall in love

with your idea of an anxious

death of new-boy,

oxford- sandle- schoolboy.

Beatings.

I relish in your fire.

In your even slightest oxygenation and combustion rust.

When clippings fall off your Thatcher-esque milk-carton teeth.

But that barely satisfies pits of knotted words.

And jaws pulled open to emplace chastity belts.

Onions,

Wikka crosses.

Suffocation.

My body is a battlefield of eyes,

rashes, scratches, and many many apparent scars.

I try to walk across your face,

down expensive liquor suns.

My life was an orphan. My hands

were open and a ghost took them.

Now I can only scream.

Your sight makes me cry and you continue to shine,

And you sit down in the sand and - ‘help me’.

This is snow globe ancient.

It is swoons of acid sooty waves, storms and storms

of the shipwreck cleaner - the orphan.

You explain to me life as if it were a mere

plastic

globe.

Eccentric.

Disposable.

And most probably Toxic.

One of the reasons I am doing this project is because of trauma.

Poetry is so wishy-washy and ambiguous so lets get straight to the point.

Not many people detect this, some may sense pain and things like that, but on the whole, out of all the things this project has turned out to have a connection to, the trauma that also spurs it is not something not talked about a lot. It has paced my life, as good old trauma tends to do. It paces this piece of art. As so, it turns out that this is also an attempt to heal. I am taking courage, taking hold over my life now. I will write and speak and run until I don’t need to, until I feel at last at home in my own crawling skin. I will run to where I feel most protected, where I have felt I can breath at last, the warmth of the earth and the quietness of the fields of Nature. Where I feel I am of the same mud as the rest of this earth.

Trauma. As it is for many others, trauma is insidious. It is a natural, scientific, real, proven, (blah blah look up the research) whatever you want to call it, phenomenon. It changes your brain. It is when something or someone through your childhood development and right into your adult life, comes in and disrupts the healthy boundaries of your body, your mind and your sense of self. When you are ok, you have a normal bubble where a healthy ego may develop and later on in life, thrive. When not your bubble is more this weird mashed potato. Or many different states of mashed potato. When you have not experienced trauma you know the boundaries of yourself and others and more importantly you know how to maintain them. My bubble, both physically and mentally, was distorted (made mash potato), from an early age. It was not for me one event, it was also a, combination of people and moments. The lines are blurry, and yes, I agree, the line of victim and perpetrator is difficult, and sometimes confusing, there there remains a constant. From an early age my boundaries were laughed at made lesser than, later used and twisted. It is the plight of the perception of women or anyone made lesser, their bodies made objects. Just to repeat: My existence, as for most of us, is a lot of pain. It is at times unbearable. You cannot demean this, or make this any smaller than the immensity I feel in my mind at some points of time. I guess this is speaking truth to survive. So back to the little talk on trauma. The healthy development I was meant to have by now is supplemented by the voices of those who opened me up and ate me raw. Psychologically, it is self-doubt and even hatred, somatically, it is sometimes a bodily fear of others or not knowing boundaries, exuding too much closeness and intimate energy and then at times freezing up out fear when my body suddenly realises the danger it put itself in. Or just fading away, giving in, not feeling. It is also crying and panic, yeah that happens. I can’t imagine what it must be like for people with trauma greater than mine, but this is not the point. I am here to talk about my trauma. Because it is time to take back what people took from me like chocolates, when truthfully, if he really cared for and respected me, he wouldn’t have ever fucking done that. There is no way to reconcile that in my mind. I have tried utter, truthful and surrendering forgiveness, but you know what that just didn’t work for me. So here is my story.

I met an old friend the other day, I didn’t expect him to be there, or ever see him again, although paradoxically I knew we would cross paths. This past month has been a month of giving for me, of building up projects like this one. I fucking stamped out the voices that were being stupid and managed to do the things I needed to do. I have had a precious time, I have met wondrous people. If you recognise yourself here, well done! I love you. I have made some true connections and touched others’ lives because I reached out in my truth, and so did hey. Spoke from the soul. It is something that I am proud of, my present life has taken a turn I really like. I am now again fighting for something that is outside of me, but in the process makes us laugh, connect, and feel at home. I am a fucking warrior. I did what I promised to myself, I fucking fought and got out of my hole of self pity, and I was happy for a while. But the golden light passes, as all will pass, and already, as a woman, I feel the end of the cycle coming, a time for darker thoughts needing to be processed. But also, this time was also powered by unsustainable energy, of escapism by excessively giving, and as I realised on the only day I was really sober, that parts of it were numbing. Some of you picked up on that, because after a while you see the cracks in my self, you see that something is wrong, does not quite align, you don’t know what it is, can’t put your finger on it, but something is very off. And that is when usually I ward you off or distract you with part of a persona I create. Frantically. No, I am not always OK. As many of us are.

A person of my family, a close friend of mine, grew to take me and what I am made me separate and lesser, a thing he could use. Anyway, starting off as a weird symbiosis of children it turned into an entitlement to the body of women, because I don’t know, like our sick culture of disgusting posh all boys boarding schools? Just saying. And because of his parents and the rest of the family gradually built him up to think of himself as the best. That can hurt and damage a person forever. What does all that pride give you, when you are a hollow empty narcissistic vessel by night? Just saying. Anyway, that is my trauma, or whatever, or was my thing, I can make it public because I want to, and because I like the idea of revenge, and because you do not overstep my boundaries. This piece of writing is a knife.

When I met you again, dear friend, you reminded me of this. And yes, the beautiful, and real parts of this project, are a part of it, but they are not everything. The need to reconnect with people of my life is because I have presented a frantic, scared, fractured persona a lot of the time. I have manipulated and quickly attached myself to a few people, a few best friends that would fill up my broken terrified heart. I have a string of best friends, relationships, that I become intensely entwined with to feel safe, out of pure need to survive. And then cut them off without the batting of an eyelid. That is fucking terrible. I don’t know how you could stand me for the time you did. I was a manipulative piece of shit, that could probably not respect your boundaries also. And if you took distance, that was very wise of you, I thank you for that, because the pieces of me that can still feel want you to be happy. I would cut off my friends as soon as they saw this. Next. It was all just survival. I would then hunt for my next prey and hope they would fill in this hole by using them in a weird symbiotic way as a part of me. The letter writing is also to not hide anymore, to get back in contact with you, to say sorry, but also, to truly talk to you and laugh about our past, to feel kindred spirits in this world that is tough. Because this state of frenzy has to stop. This fear has to stop. It is time I take back the knife, and stab back where it hurt the most. Enforced empathy. Making you hurt like I hurt even if you don’t want to. Now you will all know. Now the world will know. That I will not shut up. Now we attack back.

This girl fights. You seemed to have forgotten that.

Trauma. We build up this conversation together my dear friend. You who monologues a lot like men do, who forgets that I made this myself too, a part of you may feel good for having helped me, but this is also fucking self-generated. We talked about this together, how trauma is the underlying epidemic to us all. It is the sweeping waves of suicide that we seem to find hard to explain (Duh??). It is the never-ending cycle of creating men (and sometimes steel women) who are not warriors, but machines. Of honouring psychopaths, capable of disguising themselves as heroes, but who are actually machines built up from a world that has taken out a piece of their usual empathetic development. It is not usual male aggression. It is broken boys. Fracturing other peoples sense of self, as traumatising a population becomes the greatest weapon of war. Civilians and women, children, weaker men. Today, battling in Syria and elsewhere, we are not fighting a just war. Our machine men from our psychotic culture are traumatising women and children, sexually abusing other men (remember Abu Ghraib in Iraq? that seemed hard to explain for some reason). The greatest form of destruction is to destroy the minds of a population. Fighting terrorism is a weird Freudian cover up of a will of our population to manipulate and enjoy destroying another. It is the need to keep our women quiet and useable, to satisfy this machine mentality of soldiers off to feel good about killing things.

You and I were a microcosm.

You took a part of me, as some have taken a part of you, to fill in the hole that they start to take out of us, to be part of this culture. We inherit the past of our parents. It is the Ouroboros. The never-ending cycle, a snake eating its tail. Until someone in the chain decides to say fuck off and break from it herself. You also had a choice when we started to see it happen. But you just wanted your own satisfaction really. Psycho.

My escape is a necessity. It has now gotten to the point that it is more dangerous for me to stay silent than to reach out and take control.

This is me yelling. My art is me yelling. Our poetry is us yelling. This is me yelling about the very mantle of trauma that is stitched into the fabric of our society. It is so entrenched, as it has been in society, that it is barely utterable. Like a colour we cannot see, a collective amnesia. And it suddenly started spluttering out: Me too!

And me.

I am one in three women,

Lots of men told to kill their feelings.

Trauma comes in degrees, the refugee families and individuals I have met have amongst our laughter, our alchemy and dancing, talked about their trauma. I relate. It is not my trauma, nor my degree. But it is trauma. A category I relate to.

This is us taking back control. I do it for you but know that it is our turn to fight back. It is healthy to re-establish your boundaries of a world that took yours away. Create your knife.

So lets write, paint, sing, yell, make moments happen. Transform the world. Lets gain back control over narcissists that have fucked our world over. You are allowed to be the best you can. To brandish swards.

So this is my life’s work.

This is why I am doing this. And will continue to do things like this for all my future. And also, I am now going to have a fucking good time and enjoy life and not get caught up on this moment, or what ‘happened to me’, but it is important that it is out there, that it is not told to be kept silent. And if you every want to consider re-building your mind, or if you want redemption, this will be your life’s work too, or I will make it yours by force. Trust me, I am now the girl with the dragon tattoo, a dragon of my Mexican people that have been fucked over by white men like you (By the way, can you feel the power of Mexico and other countries starting to fight back? Being beautiful? Exciting right?).

So these are the letters. The start to break silences, to have stabbing conversations. No I am not tame. No my parents. My family. I will not do this nicely and silently. If you want to write a letter that stabs go ahead, if you want to thank all those who truly saw you and your truth go ahead. If you want to honour the world with your words and your beauty, go ahead. Lets cut to the real.

In a letter, you open the world. You can build and do other things you want from there. So lets start to stitch together connections of real discussions, or raw real open discussions, of the possibility of connecting networks between those who have seen trauma and who understand the pain of the world, and who alchemise it. We are the future.

And fuck those who tell you to be less real, to tone it down. They are cowards.

Dare,

Dare to connect.

We need truth more than ever.

We need reality more than ever.

We need beauty more than ever.

Fuck you Jack.

Eliza.

Right, now this is done, lets get back to life and cycling.

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julesdelorme · 3 years

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Chapter 3 of faller. You can find the whole thing so far at the link at the bottom of this post.... Chapter 3 - the boy

I see him walking across the field, through the patches of dried out tall grass, the rotted out rusted corpses of cars and tractor parts that have been there for as long as I remembered, for what seems like as long as anybody remembered.

I’m not sure he’s real.

I’m not sure he’s human.

He looks like some kind of monster, like some kind of beast from an old TV movie the old people’s stories with the strange shuffling limp and scarred shaved bald head, bare in the hot summer sun, shining in some places and dull in others. Nobody on the Rez walks around with a bare head in the middle of summer.

Sometimes old Pieface Tim comes wandering over from next door, forgetting where he lives, but he has all his hair except for in one spot on the side of his head where somebody hit him with a rock from a campfire and he always wears a Canadian Tire cap.

This one’s definitely not old Pieface. Even old Pieface looks like a human being at first look.

I don’t have any particular feeling about this not stranger or about what he might do. It’s hot and I’m bored and I’m tired.

I’m always tired.

The doctors said I would get tired.

I don’t think that he’s going to ease my boredom or make me not tired in any way that matters, even if he’s some kind of real monster.

When I tell the story later on if I live I’ll probably say that I felt his presence as I stood there and knew that he was going to have a profound effect upon on my world. But it won’t be true. It’ll be a Rez truth. Sort of the truth but with a better story. It’ll make the story a little more interesting and more fun to tell, but it won’t be true. I take less notice of him than I might a crow or a mockingbird setting down on one of those rusted skeletons. It’s the nature of my world that people, even if they bring trouble, and they almost bring some kind of trouble on the Rez, are just one more drip in the monotony of exhaustion and pain that makes up my childhood.

The sad truth of it is that even him looking like some kind of monster, that strange limp, the way that he shuffles instead of walks, the wildness and woundedness of his appearance, isn’t remarkable in this place. Bad nutrition and drink leave so many people looking that way. Some were born that way because their mothers or their fathers or both had drunk too much and eaten too little and everything that they did eat was made of sugar or corn or bleached white something. It’s not all that unusual to see people without arms or legs because of diabetes or because they passed out drunk on the train tracks.

Even with the money from casinos most of us don’t take care of ourselves the way white people do. Maybe because we’re still raised by people who got beat down by the kihnarà:ken, by the white people, till they believed their lives didn’t matter.

I pretty much assume that the man’s going to hurt me.

I mean I don’t think he’s a Wendigo or anything like that. Just something about him like he just gave up on being human.

He’s in jail again. My rake'níha. My father.

I’m all alone except for Goat, and she’s too old to do all that much damage to a stranger. I’m too small and skinny and weak to put up much of a fight. I fight back most of the time anyway. I never seem to have the sense to sit still and just take it the way that other kids on the Rez have figured out to do, to just take it until it comes to a stop. I keep getting up until I can’t get up anymore. I almost always make it worse.

I know that sooner or later someone’s going to kill me.

Maybe I hope that sooner or later somebody will kill me.

I don’t know.

I don’t want much to be alive. I don’t want much to be here.

I just don’t have the energy to kill myself. I’ve thought about all the different ways to do it but it’s too much work.

It’d be so much easier if somebody kills me.

Maybe this strange monster looking limping man will be the one.

Even if he isn’t a Wendigo. He’s probably some kind of monster.

I don’t honestly know any more if I actually want to die or if it’s just not in me to lie down and stay down, that I’m just too stubborn to die.

The doctors say I’m going to die.

But that’s going to take a while.

And it’s going to hurt.

A lot.

People keep saying I’m brave. I’m not brave.

My brain doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to. Even on the Rez people think I’m strange. Some of the older kids compare me to the character in that old movie Cool Hand Luke because they beat on me and I keep getting back up. I love that movie. I thought maybe it was meant as a kind of compliment. But later, when I watched that movie again, when I saw the sick look on the convicts’ faces when Luke wouldn’t stop getting up, couldn’t stop getting up, even when he knew that he’d been licked by George Kennedy. I knew then it’s not a compliment. I figure I might end up like Luke did at the end of that movie. Lying dead on a dirty floor with a big stupid grin on my face.

The beatings from him, from my rake'níha, from my father, and my mother when I see her, and strangers when I see them, are just one more tributary of the monotonous suffering that is the stinking river of my childhood.

This monster looking man will probably hurt me and root through the house, the burned out ruin that passes for our home, my home, in search of something that he can take. He might even kill me. I’m so dulled to pain, so tired, and the possibility of death that I can’t even find a way to care about that.

I’ll miss my Grandmother.

And my friend, Roger. My only friend. He’s older than me but he takes the time to teach me to fight and hunt. I don’t know why. Probably pity.

I’ll definitely miss Goat. She’s as close to a good friend as I’ve got besides Roger.

And I guess I’ll miss my cousin Dianne too. She checks in on me and brings me food. Probably because she feels like she has to. She’s nice. She’s pretty too.

I might miss them if there’s some place you keep being after you die. But I won’t miss my life. I won’t miss waking up every single day weak and sick wondering out what bad thing will happen to me today. If this bad thing will finally be the last bad thing that will ever happen, that wouldn’t be so terrible.

He won’t find anything in the house.

He sold or traded anything that mattered. My rake'níha. My father. He almost burned down the house and even when they gave him money to rebuild the house he spent it on booze and drugs and just left the house the way it was. They even gave him a trailer and he sold that. What he didn’t sell or trade somebody else came and took.

I buried some raccoon and squirrels that I caught. Deep down in a plastic bag with salt. Some nuts too. But he won’t find any of it. I learned how to hide things so well that even a coyote or a badger couldn’t find them. And Goat’s a better guard dog than most dogs when it comes to that. If anyone gets too close to the house she’ll raise a racket, even if she can’t stop them.

She’s raising one hell of a racket right now.

The monster man’s head is down and his shoulders are hunched forward in a way that reminds me of the boxers that I saw when Roger took me to his gym.

He doesn’t look up. Not even once. No sign that he sees me, or even notices Goat, except that he’s walking straight towards us. Every few steps he stops like he’s lost and mutters to himself. Then he kind of sways, like he’s struggling to get going again, and he keeps coming.

I just stand here leaning against the old fence post watching him.

I’m too tired to try getting away.

I could probably outrun him, slow as he is. But trying to get away just isn’t worth the effort. Besides, running would only put off this particular bad thing. If he doesn’t do something bad to me someone else will probably give me a beating today. Or tomorrow.

Maybe I just want it all to come to an end.

I don’t know.

Maybe I’m hoping this stranger, this strange scarred up hollow of a man, might be the one that finally finishes it.

He’s close now. I can make out all the scars. There’s a lot of them. All over his head and all over his face too. He mostly keeps his head down. I can see his hands and knuckles are all scarred up too, and I’m thinking maybe I was right about him being an old fighter. Or maybe just someone who’s as stupid and as stubborn as I am. If I lived long enough I’d probably end up looking an awful lot like him.

I won’t live that long.

Either way this stranger is probably dangerous. Maybe he will be the one to finally end it.

He stops when he’s about twenty feet away and looks at me, blinks, and then looks past me as if he doesn’t actually see me.

I’m used to that look. Lots of people look past me like that.

Mostly just before they hurt me.

He looks around at the yard, at all the garbage and dirt and dried up patches of grass and then up at the sky and then down at the ground. Then he looks at Goat, which gets her raising even more of a racket. If she wasn’t tied up she’d probably go after him.

She and I have got that in common. It doesn’t make much of a difference to either of us that we can’t win the fight.

He just stands there for the longest time.

And I just stand there too.

Waiting.

Neither one of us looking at each other.

People don’t look right at each other on the Rez anyway. That’s asking for a fight.

We stand there, watching what we can out of the corners of our eyes. Even Goat gets quiet and just stands there.Waiting.

I’m used to waiting.

I’m pretty good at waiting.

Waiting is one more thing you get used to on the Rez.

The stranger’s face is all scars and lumps. One eye’s so scarred over that it’s barely open and both his ears are like raw cauliflower. He doesn’t look like an Indian.

But then again, neither do I.

Not really.

I’ve got dark hair and dark skin. It gets real dark in the summer and never burns. But there’s enough of my mother in my features that those kids on the Rez who do look Indian, even though a lot of them have got less of the blood than I do, beat on me for not being Indian enough. And the kids in the city beat on me because I’m not white enough.

This guy’s skin is pale. Not the kind of pale that looks natural. The kind of pale that comes from spending too much time inside.

Prison.

He gets that look when he’s been in for a while. My rake'níha. My father.

The man doesn’t have all the tattoos that most men who spend time in prison have got.

Men like him. My father. My rake'níha.

This guy looks like he can’t remember what it’s like to have freedom. He looks like he’s used to being in a cage.

He has high cheekbones the kind of shape to his face that might make you think that he had Indian blood, but you would have to look closely to see it, or to see that he seems to know this place in a deep way, in the way that comes from growing up in a place like this.

We’re not supposed to call it Indian.

I can’t remember what we’re supposed to call it now.

Kanien'keha:ka for our tribe.

But I can’t remember for the rest of them.

-Much chance you got any water around, I suppose. - He doesn’t say it like a question. More like a fact that he’s already figured on.

His voice sounds tired. Dry and full of gravel. The tips of two of his fingers are nicotine stained. Like he smokes rolled up cigarettes instead of store bought.

-No. - I say. -I emptied the jug last night.

That’s true. I would have said it to him even it wasn’t, but I used up the last of the water and didn’t get around to filling the jug back up yet.

The man stands there staring at the ground. He keeps his thumbs straight on the outside of his hands the way old boxers do.

I’m starting to wish he’d get it over with. I also hope that he’s not one of those that like little boys. I’ve had that tried on me a few times. They always start by telling me how pretty I am for a boy. Up until now I always managed to put up enough of a fight to make them decide that I wasn’t worth all the trouble. I’m not expecting to get away with that forever. But I’m not looking forward to what happens when I don’t.

-Didn’t see no pump. - The man says -Guessing that place of yours got no running water anymore.

Again it was more like he’s stating what he’s pretty sure is a fact than like he’s asking a question.

I think for a moment about lying about where he is. Where my rake'níha is. But it doesn’t seem worth all the effort. He won’t take long to find out that I’m all alone if that’s what he wants.

-There’s a creek back in the woods. - I say -I usually get my water from there.

I don’t know why I said that. I know better than to give anything to a stranger. Even information. Giving anything away that you don’t have to never works out for anything but bad on the Rez.

-It ain’t too clean. - I say.

We stand there for a little while.

I’m already getting bored.

Mostly people hurting each other is just one more way of not being bored in this place.I figure he’s coming due to hurt me soon though.

He just stands there though. Looks around. Looks up at the sky. Then back down at the ground.

It seems to me like he does that a lot.

-I don’t have money. - He says -Don’t... Don’t have too much of nothin.

He shuffles his feet. Something in the way he’s standing there gives me the feeling that he isn’t going to hurt me. But I know better than to trust anything in this place.Or maybe I just hope that he’s going to turn out to be a lot worse than he’s looking right now.

-Don’t suppose you could point me to the creek. - He says -I can’t give you anything for it.

Despite all the scars and the look of somebody who spent a lot of time in prison, there’s something about him that feels kind of gentle. Not kind maybe. And not towards everybody. But towards me and those like me. And he doesn’t talk like most of the people on the Rez or any of the bad ones who spend most of their time in jail.

He isn’t going to hurt me.

Because I’m just a boy.

Maybe because I can’t hurt him.

-I could bring you there I suppose. – I’m as surprised at having said it as he seems to be at my having said it.

He looks straight at me for just a brief moment, as if he was seeing me for the first time and then looks back down at the ground.

We stand there for a while just not looking at each other.

I can tell he isn’t going to hurt me. There’s violence in him. A whole lot of rage and violence. He still seems very dangerous. Even with all the damage I can see that’s been done to him, he still seems like someone who can take care of himself in a pinch. That violence is probably not going to be turned on me. He would probably never use it on someone like me.

I still don’t trust him.

I don’t trust anybody.

That part of me that won’t and can’t believe that even the people who have been good to me, won’t hurt me sooner or later. Maybe he would never hurt someone like me. I still can only see being hurt as something not very important, and not being hurt as a kind of disappointment.

Maybe I’m a little bit sorry that it’s not going to end for me today.

He licks his lips, and the sound that his lips and his mouth make when he does that tells me that he has gone without water and been in the hot sun for way too long.

-If you don’t want me to take you. - I say. -That’s fine too.

I want him to know that I don’t care one way or the other.

I don’t care one way or the other.

But I want him to know that I don’t.

He licks his lips again. They’re dry and chapped, and the inside of his mouth sounds dry and chapped. I can hear it from where I am.

-If it won’t be too much trouble. - He says -I guess I’m pretty thirsty and I could use some water. If that won’t be too much trouble.

I shrug my shoulders. Then I turn and start to head towards the creek. I stop when I realize that he isn’t following.

He’s just standing there with this lost look on his face, like he’s confused or just can’t figure out if he wants the water after all.

-Mister. - I say -This is the way if you want some water.He gives me a kind of startled look and then looks back down at the ground and nods his head. The gesture’s so small and so slight that I barely see it.

-Don’t you want to grab your jug? - He asks me. This time a real question.

I stare at him. Then I go into the house and get my jug.

Goat looks at me when I come back out.I go over and untie her.

-She won’t hurt you. - I say to the man.

Just in case he’s scared of goats. Some people are.

-She needs water too.

I lead them down to the creek.

The monster man follows me with that strange shuffling limp of his.

I’m not all that sure he’ll be able to make it to the creek.

And I’m not all that sure, if he doesn’t make it, if I’ll try to help him make it or not.

I’m not sure if I care one way or the other.

You can find the whole thing so far at.. https://www.facebook.com/delormewriting

#fiction #writing #writers #authors #author #novels #novelnovels #newnovels #julesdelorme #julesfdelorme #faller #delormewriting #scarboroughwritersfightclub #story #bear #native #nativestories #metis #metisstories ..

#fiction writing writers authors author novels novelnovels newnovels julesdelorme julesfdelorme faller delormewriting scarboroughwritersfight

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soap-brain · 6 years

Text

i’m gonna keep the hippie!chris chril au here for uhh further reference and also so if someone reads this you have a direct way of telling me to go write that

FRIENDLY REMINDER THAT I’M ALREADY WRITING A CULMETS AU THAT’S GONNA BE LONG AS FUCK

( @gracieminabox look, now with some extra contentTM)

hippie!chris, who's living out of his van, with his guitar and his linen pants and open flower shirts, adorned with necklaces and rings, just living for the day, playing his guitar, smoking a joint or two, parents out of the picture, just starts showing up around phil's school, attending it but more often than not skipping lessons, and phil, from a strict, proper household, who's working himself ragged for straight A's, who's got more extracurriculars than humanly possible, who's so desperately hiding his sexuality and his wish for freedom, who attends church every weekend. it's the most unlikely love story to happen, but it happens nevertheless, with chris winking at him and flirting until phil tells him to leave him alone, and then chris pulls phil in by his collar and kisses him, short and sweet, and phil’s heart explodes into a million butterflies. he seeks chris out the next morning, waiting at the school gates until well past the beginning of the first lesson, and eventually chris shows up, barefooted and his guitar slung over his shoulder. he takes phil to the school garden and sings to him in the gazebo, songs of an open road and sunsets and exhaust smoke tasting like freedom, and phil’s heart is yearning for whatever it is that chris is promising, but all he gets is a teasing kiss just as the bell rings and a “you should probably head to class.” chris isn’t there when school’s out, so phil makes himself on the walk home, lost in thoughts, until a painted van drives next to him, slow enough to match his speed, and chris is winding the passenger side window down and yells: “come on, i’m gonna show you something!” against his better judgement, phil gets in. chris laughs and kisses him on the cheek again and then speeds up. there’s some soft guitar music on the radio and the van smells like pine needles and smoke. “do you live here?” phil asks, a little in wonder, and chris laughs and says that yes, he does, and it’s great. they drive out to the forest, and chris kills the engine and gets out, bounding around to open the passenger door. “leave your bag,” he says, laughing still, and then he’s leading phil off on a trail into the wood, holding his hand. “doesn’t the ground hurt your bare feet?” phil asks, and “what are you showing me?”, and, a little more sadly, “my parents will be worried if i don’t come back after school.” “we’re almost there,” chris promises, but he keeps promising for an hour while the fear of his parents’ anger is settling into phil’s stomach. they arrive at their destination, a massive tree that’s grown to bend nicely over a small waterfall’s pond, the golden sunlight of a late afternoon filtering through the surrounding trees, and chris makes them sit on the tree with their legs dangling, so close to each other that their thighs are touching, and then he shushes phil so he can hear it. and it doesn’t take too long until phil can hear the frogs croaking too, can hear the birds singing and the wind rushing in the leaves, chris’ heartbeat strong where he’s cuddled almost against the other boy, the waterfall burbling happily. they get up when it’s dark and chris’ smile glitters, the last rays of the sun highlighting his hair, and he leads them back to the glow of fireflies and something profoundly happy in phil’s chest.

of course his parents are angry. of course he barely gets more than two hours of sleep with all the homework he didn’t have time to do, but he can’t stop holding on to the twig he got out of chris’ hair when they arrived back at his van.

chris is in his calculus class the next morning, looking a little loopy, hair still shining a wonderful golden, and he winks at phil. he also goes to sit next to phil at lunch. “wanna drive out to another spot today after school?” he asks, and how can phil say no? that’s how he gets kissed in a patch full of flowers, clumsily slipping his tongue inside chris’ mouth and tasting his laughter. “am i the first guy you ever kissed?” chris teases, and phil holds his face and says that yes, yes he is, and he likes it. and for one spring and one summer, phil is free, laughing every day, getting kissed behind the bleachers and in the fields and going skinny dipping, roasting stolen corn over a campfire while chris plays his guitar. phil feels the touch of another man for the first time, they go steal the horses of a farmer for a wild gallop over the fields, watch the stars at night with ten percent alcohol and ninety percent orgasm thrumming through their veins. and phil’s grades are dropping and he starts wearing jeans instead of dress pants, even if only so chris can hook his fingers through the belt loops and pull him in for a kiss. summer break comes and phil is brought to summer camp, only to immediately get on a train back, and they live out of chris’ van, moving out to another town and working on a farm occasionally, and phil gets a few calluses on his hands and they have sex in a hay loft, lick ice cream off fingers and noses. he learns how to roll a joint and how to change a tire and how to build a fire and what it feels like to be inside another person, what songs to sing under the stars and what to sing on the road and what to sing around a campfire.

then school begins again and chris doesn't show up. not the first day, not the second day, not the third day and never again.

phil finishes top of his class, goes to a high-end college for business law, gets hired practically out of his last year into Pike Inc., to work together with the to-be-CEO, the owner's son, who's got short blonde hair and the first worry lines in his face at barely twenty-eight, who's all sharp lines of a daily fresh suit with a deep unhappiness set behind his eyes, and his handshake tastes of a man who's forgotten what fun feels like.

the first time phil and chris are alone, then, after the introductions have been made and they're now expected to work, chris looks at phil with pain written all over him. "i'm so sorry for leaving you," he says. "i always wanted to come back to you, i never thought i'd never be able to. I'm so sorry." "you could've sent a letter," phil hears himself say. chris shakes his head. "i never visited you. i had no idea where you lived." that's true. "so now you're married," phil says with a nod to the picture of chris and a pretty blonde that's hanging on the wall, remembering the smell of weed in chris' hair and whiskey on his tongue. "that's me and my sister. i'm not married." they both alternate between staring at the picture and each other for a few long moments. "it would probably be better if i didn't kiss you now," phil says. he aches to hold chris again. "yeah, it would be." they stare some more. phil's heart is somewhere in his throat. when they come together, they're not sure who took the first step, who kissed who first, and chris doesn't taste of those mints he used to have in his mouth at all times anymore. but of coffee. his kiss feels the same though, but with an edge of desperation they have sex on the couch in chris' office, and it feels so wrong, so bad, so awful because they were both forced into meeting again under these circumstances while they could also have been traveling the country for years and doing it wherever they wanted to, but it also feels like there are chains falling off from them, and chris looks like he's laughing for the first time in years afterwards and nobody has ever made phil feel as good as chris and his body still feels just as good except now he's gotten buff, probably a stress outlet but also a fantastic feeling under phil's hand and in an hour or so they'll have to step out there and advise people, but right now the world has fallen perfectly into place again. "i should take you to dinner," chris whispers against phil's neck. "you should take me out to stargaze, chris. just ... whatever food, a blanket in a field somewhere and you by my side, that's all i want." "i'll do that, then," chris promises.

chris offers to drive phil home at the end of the day. there's no almost falling apart van in the garage, of course, and the thousand-dollar-leather on the lamborghini's seats doesn't feel nearly as nice as the coarse fabric of the van's wobbly seats. the boardcomputer complains about them not putting on seatbelts, and there's a console between them instead of it being a whole bench, but chris' hand on phil's thigh feels just as good as it always did. there's also no back they can have sex in, and when phil gets out he bumps his head. chris holds him against the side of the car and kisses him until he's forgotten the pain.

at the end of the first week, chris takes phil out in a brand-new range rover that doesn't have backseats. instead, there's a nest of blankets and pillows, and the roof can be retracted back to the front, essentially turning it into an open pickup truck. chris feeds phil chocolates and sandwiches and wine that probably costs more per bottle than the old van was ever sold for in its entire life, but the range rover's suspension doesn't creak at all when they make love, and there are enough blankets that they don't get chilly, and maybe a 9-5 job where you wear a suit isn't all bad, because chris still doesn't wear underwear and his delighted laugh at phil's face when he breaks out the weed is still music and the stars shine just the same.

#hippie!chris chril au #my writing #pls guys look i like it a lot #adventures in word-typing

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mariequitecontrarie · 7 years

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Summer Stock

Summary: It’s the final day of the Gold family’s visit to Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and Belle doesn’t want to leave the corn maze. Rating: T Word Count: 2,300 A/N: My contribution to @rumbellesummervacation and my 50th Rumbelle fic! Yay! Enjoy the fluff, campers. Thanks to @magnoliatattoo for reading it over and @rowofstars for being awesome.

{On AO3}

“Isn’t this fun?” Belle asked cheerfully, blowing a curly tendril of hair out of her eyes.

His wife beamed like the sun, and Rumplestiltskin smothered a frustrated sigh. She was glowing with excitement and a fine sheen of sweat as she led him through the five-acre corn maze at Cherry Crest Adventure Farm in Ronks, Pennsylvania, located deep in the heart of the Amish countryside.

“Fun,” he agreed with a curt nod, angling his way through the rows of corn. Belle was having such a good time he didn’t have the heart to disagree, but two-year-old Gideon was a sweaty weight on his back, their sturdy toddler growing heavier with each step in the backpack baby carrier. The two-hour mark had come and gone and his three-hundred-year-old back was whining in complaint. Why were they wandering through a damn field, anyway? Fields were for working, not gallivanting, but after making Belle wait so long to see the world, he was loathe to spoil even an ounce of her enjoyment. He glanced at his watch and trudged onward.

Beneath their feet, the hard-packed dirt was strewn with hay and corn husks and a dusty smell mingled in the humid air. They wove through the twisting rows of corn, pulling random stalks to the side in tight spots. Before long, they came to another fork in the long, arduous path.

“Which way?” Belle squinted in both directions, weighing the options. “I think left.”

“Then left we shall go.” He motioned for Belle to walk ahead of him.

They meandered in silence for a while, then ran into another dead end. This time it was Rumple who made the choice. “Right?”

Belle tilted her head in his direction. “You’re not having fun, are you?”

He peered up at the sky, now strewn with pink and grey clouds as dusk approached. “Me? I’m having a wonderful time,” he lied. “But we’ve been walking in here for quite a while now. What do you say we use the map and steer ourselves to the finish line?” He met her eyes hopefully.

“And allow ourselves to be bested by a corn maze?” She crossed her arms over her chest with a playful glare. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Rumple?”

“I left it behind at the farmer’s market,” he replied, patting his trim stomach. He shot her a mock leer and framed her hips between his palms, digging his fingers into her flesh. “But I could reclaim it again in our room back at the bed and breakfast.”

Belle giggled and swatted at his wandering hands. Earlier today, they had examined every nook and cranny of the Bird-In-Hand country market, stuffing themselves with Amish-made delights and sipping freshly squeezed lemonade. They had perused aisles of baskets and crafts, admired stacks of homegrown fruits and vegetables, and tasted jewel-toned jams and jellies while Gideon pointed at kittens and puppies and gnawed on a bright red licorice whip that rivaled him for height. Rumple had even presented her with a shining crimson rose, its stem still dripping with dew.

“Is this a real bloom, or a person in disguise?” she’d teased, eyes glittering with amusement. The past was truly behind them, and on a beautiful, sunny day with the two people she loved most in the world at her side, Belle could even reflect on Gaston without guilt.

She smiled at the flushed face and glazed eyes of their two-year-old slung over Rumple’s back. Their boy had been a trooper during the trip, toddling around farms, pointing at the sleek, Amish buggies drawn by horses, and trying new foods from sticky, molasses-laced Shoofly Pie to orange-flavored milk, but even the energetic, affable toddler had reached his limit. Gideon had long since grown bored with the maze and had given up on begging his parents to chase him through the thick rows of corn. “Up Dada, up!” he had insisted, and promptly snuggled against Rumple’s back and popped his thumb into his mouth.

Gideon rubbed chubby fists over his eyes, fighting the pull of sleep, and Belle ran a comforting hand over his chestnut curls, urging him to succumb to exhaustion. At last he closed his eyes, his long thick lashes forming crescents against his flushed cheeks. “Someone’s asleep,” she said quietly.

“What an excellent idea. Aren’t you tired yet?” Rumple prodded.

“Another half hour,” Belle murmured. She was tired, but she didn’t want to admit it to Rumple, who never seemed to run short on energy. After a long day of sightseeing and keeping pace with Gideon, her feet ached and soaking in a bathtub and sinking into the king size feather bed with her husband sounded like heaven. But sleep could wait. It was Labor Day weekend and the last afternoon of their trip before they began the long drive back to Storybrooke, and she wanted to savor every moment before summer drifted away.

She’d fallen in love with Lancaster County; the clean, crisp smells of horses and hay and kettle corn filled the air, reminding her of an endless carnival. Gorgeous displays of black-eyed Susans dotted the countryside and a few elm trees had begun to switch colors, heralding the arrival of fall. The Plain people, with their modest dress and kapps and brimmed hats and simple ways fascinated her, and she vowed to add a section on the Amish to the Storybrooke Library as soon as they were home.

As they continued through the maze, the cheers and chatter of other people became muted, and the high rows of corn prevented them from seeing anyone else. With Gideon fast asleep, for the first time since she and Rumple had lived together at the Dark Castle, it felt like they were the only two people in the world and she was loving every moment. Yes, she could get used to this peacefulness.

“We could head over to that used bookstore we saw on the way here,” Rumple coaxed. “Thousands of titles, it promised.”

Belle hesitated—books were her greatest weakness—but stubbornness won out.

“Nice try.” She shook her head and when they came to another dead end, turned to the right. “Let’s finish the maze, please? It will give us a sense of accomplishment.”

“We have a giant beanstalk crop back home,” Rumple pointed out with a cheeky grin. “If it’s accomplishment you desire, I’m sure the Princeling’s dwarf team would carve a path through it so you could get lost every day.”

“Aha! You do miss Storybrooke.” Belle grinned in triumph. “I knew it! Two weeks away from home is too long for you.”

He harrumphed. “I do not miss that backwater hamlet one bit.”

“At least people drive cars there,” she said, laughing at his stricken expression.

Rumple thought about the Amish buggies and smirked as they rounded another corner in the interminable maze. Since spying the plain black contraptions, precocious Gideon had taken to calling their Cadillac a buggy and wanted to know why it wasn’t pulled by a horse. “We have a car here.”

“There’s electricity back home, too,” Belle said with a sly smile. “Think you could give it up?”

“The bed and breakfast where we’re staying has electricity,” he countered. “Otherwise, I hear no noise, no congestion off the main drag, no telephones ringing, and most of all, no Charmings banging on my shop door for help. There is one problem though. The names of these towns. Blue Ball? Intercourse? And I thought Storybrooke was ridiculous.”

Belle snickered; the Amish did have a curious taste for double entendre.

“You seem very at home here in the country,” Belle considered, admiring his loose blue jeans, half-buttoned blue linen shirt, and sneakers. Pleased he shared her love of Lancaster County’s quiet, rolling hills, she smiled at the memory of a barn cat winding its way through Rumple’s legs and rubbing against his ankle this morning on the porch at the inn. He’d gathered twice as many eggs as she had in the chicken coop and filled pails of frothy, creamy milk faster than any of her father’s servants who had worked in the barns in Avonlea.

Then again, he was accustomed to this.

Hundreds of years earlier, before he’d become the Dark One, her husband had lived a life not dissimilar to the Amish. He’d kept a simple home and labored in hard, honest work, spinning wool in exchange for food and supplies. She felt a pang of guilt and wondered if he missed being a spinner. She knew he didn’t miss the powerlessness, but perhaps he missed his craft? In the two years since Gideon had been born, they’d had one wistful conversation about starting over in the Enchanted Forest, but nothing had ever come of it.

“When we go home, Rumple, you should start spinning again,” she suggested. “You’re so talented.”

“I’ve been meaning to try, but with Gideon we’re so busy.” Rumple dipped his head, his eyes clouding and his brow furrowed. “Do you think you would have liked me as a simple sheep farmer and spinner, Belle?” he asked, giving voice to her thoughts. “If I hadn’t been…”

She laid a seductive hand on his chest, fingers mapping the outline of one pectoral muscle. “The most powerful sorcerer in all the realms?” she whispered.

“Yes.” He made a choking noise as she tweaked a nipple. When Belle touched him, he felt anything but powerful. “If you don’t stop that, you’re going to find yourself on your back in the dirt, my lady,” he threatened, inhaling a sharp breath as her hands drifted over his ribcage.

It wasn’t the life of a spinner he missed; rather, it was solitude he craved. The only reason he liked vacations at all was for Belle’s sake; she wanted to see the world, and he longed to show it to her. Deep down, he wished for their drafty old castle in the snowy mountains, just he and Belle and Gideon, plus any other children the gods saw fit to bless them with. He would spin in the great hall and she would read to their babies. His happy vision darkened—perhaps Belle’s memories of their life in the Dark Castle weren’t as fond for her as they were for him.

At his back, Gideon gave another sleepy sigh and snuggled closer.

As for the maze, he was more than ready to be done with it. “Let’s go this way.” Rumple crooked a finger, eager to get to the end before nightfall. He grimaced at Belle’s towering red sandals, the only ridiculous part of her otherwise sensible shorts and t-shirt. “Your feet must ache in those shoes.”

“Why?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “These heels are two inches shorter than what I usually wear.”

“Turn here.” Rumple cupped her elbow and steered her around another corner.

Belle dug in her heels around the next bend. “Are you using magic to rush to the finish?”

He glanced at the family passing on their right. Freckle-faced twins around Henry’s age gave him a strange look, then pummeled each other and raced by. “Magic doesn’t work here,” he reminded her through gritted teeth when the kids disappeared around the next curve.

“You are, aren’t you?” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Rumple, it’s only a corn maze.”

“Exactly.” He nodded at the unused map still clutched in her hand, dismayed and slightly hurt that she didn’t believe him. He tapped a stalk of corn. “This is supposed to be fun. So why is it so important we do it your way?”

Her face fell. “I never thought of it like that.”

Alarm pricked at him. Something was wrong, and it had nothing to do with the ridiculous corn. “Belle, what is it? Talk to me.”

“Nothing.” She shrugged. “It’s silly. I’m sorry for being bossy. We can go now.”

“It’s obvious something is troubling you, sweetheart.” He reached for her hand and squeezed. “We’re so much better at sharing how we feel now. Worlds away from where we used to be. I’ll tell you what’s on my mind if you tell me what’s on yours, ok?”

“Deal,” she said with a shaky smile.

He nodded in encouragement and waited for her to speak.

“It’s just…you don’t need me, Rumple. You never have…” Her voice was small and weary and his heart clenched in his chest. “You need hardly any sleep, and between you and Gideon I feel like I barely keep up, like you’re always stopping and slowing down for my sake. I guess I wanted to prove I could outlast even you on the final day of our trip and get us through the maze without any help.” Her sigh sounded like defeat. “See? You’re smiling. I told you it was stupid. Now what was it you wanted to say?”

He couldn’t stop the grin plastered across his face if he tried. “I’m exhausted. Our son is exhausted. May we please quit for the day?”

“Really?!” she squealed, clapping her hands.

She sounded so happy he was dead on his feet that he laughed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, pulling her into his arms in the middle of the maze. People scooted around them, giving them questioning stares and rolling their eyes, but he couldn’t have cared less. “I do need you. I need you every single day of my life.”

“Me too.” Moisture gathered in her sapphire eyes. “And Rumple—spinner, Dark One, or pawnbroker, I would have loved you no matter who you were or who you choose to be. I always will.”

“See, that’s why I need you,” he said, wiping away her tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“Is that all you need?” she asked, pressing her cheek to his chest.

“Well, no.” He paused. “I also need another one of those apple dumplings from the market before we leave town.”

She laughed and raised a white flag, signaling for a guide to help them out of the maze. “I think that can be arranged.”

#rumbelle summer vacation #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #gold family #Rumplestiltskin x Belle #gideon gold #summer stock #mqc writes

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garbageismydomain · 7 years

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The Scarecrow in the Corn

Here we are with number 2 for @huxloween 2017. I must admit I had no idea what the hell to do with this one, but I’m glad I resisted turning Hux into Bill Moomy.

Armitage Hux glanced over his shoulder in the fading sun of the country road, he’d expected it to be deserted, but he couldn’t be too sure. If anyone saw him here he’d never live it down. Being strange in a small town was bad enough, chasing down a nightmare was something else entirely. He was sure he’d be even more shunned if anyone saw him.

As soon as he could, he ducked off the road and began following the edge of a huge field of corn. This one was different than the others that lined the roads for miles around. This one wasn’t planted in rows, rather every side was solid and apparently no matter where you tried to push in, you’d find it impassable. He’d heard people talk about there being a gap that appeared and opened into the field on Halloween at dark, but he’d never believed them. That was, of course, before the dreams.

Since the start of October he’d had the same dream every night. He’d be walking down a moonlit corridor of dry corn, surrounded by unintelligible whispers. At the end of the corridor he’d find a scarecrow hung on a cross. Over the month of the same dream night after night, the scarecrow began to move and speak. For a long time the sounds it was making seemed like nothing more than groaning coming from deep within the slashed sack mask it wore, but slowly he began to understand the words.

The figure that was hung there was asking him to let it down. Hux would ask why, and the figure would laugh. Until finally, last night, he received an answer.

“Come to the corn and let me down tomorrow night,” it spoke in a voice not dissimilar to the whispers in the corn. “And you’ll become what you’ve always wished.”

He’d woken up ill rested and feverish. He’d made his decision in the pale dawn light, he’d go to the field and he’d pull the scarecrow down. All of the local legends spoke of those who entered the field on Halloween disappearing and never being heard from again. There was nothing left for Hux in this town but the rotting mansion his father had left him and the sneers of the small minded imbeciles in town. His father had drunk away his college fund, there was no other way for him to escape this wretched place other than a magical corn field that might murder him.

As the light faded finally from the sky, a large dark gap appeared before him. Hux had walked past this area before, when he was examining this monstrosity while he was still very young. There had never been a space here before, but as he approached he could see a narrow corridor had appeared. The dirt was clear of stumps, as if someone had ripped up a path by its roots. The moonlight bounced off of the few dried husks that littered the path. Hux took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and stepped in.

Suddenly all the sounds of wildlife that accompanied life in the country disappeared. Everything was silent except for the wind whispering through the stalks. Hux suppressed a shudder and turned around to see if he could get back out. The gap was now covered with a thick wall of corn. Much as the field appeared during the rest of the year, it was impassable.

No way to go but forward. Hux heard a whisper. He whipped around, looking for the source of the voice.

“Who’s there!?” he shouted, trying to keep the fear from his voice. No answer came, but a shuddering through the corn that had the same rhythmic quality of a deep laugh. Hux took a deep breath and began moving forward.

To his surprise, there was only one way through the field, a narrow corridor turning here and there. He had expected a maze, but it appeared there would be no seeking a way through. There was only one path to follow.

He walked on and on, much longer than he would expect it to take to get into the center of the field. Now and then he’d hear a whisper through the corn, vague threats about his fate if he didn’t turn back. More and more those whispers sounded more and more like his father telling him he was worthless or the bullies in school hurling insults about his slender frame. He gradually stopped paying them any mind, and just as soon as they began to fade into the background Hux found himself stepping into a large open space. He glanced up, the moon exactly at the center of the sky above him. Midnight.

“Armitage Hux,” a voice growled from the center of the clearing. How he had missed the scarecrow strung up on a cross he’d never understand, but at a glance he wanted to scream.

Scarecrows were generally creepy, there was always something unsettling about the bloated look of stuffed clothing. It always reminded Hux of a drowned corpse. This one was no different, it looked like a bloated body trussed up, its face covered in a sackcloth mask with nothing but a slash for a mouth and two shining black buttons for eyes.

“Armitage Hux,” the figure rumbled again, shifting around in its bonds. The sack cloth itself wasn’t moving, but there was a writhing underneath as the thing spoke to him. “You came.”

Hux stared at the figure, agape. It wasn’t a question, simply a statement. The thing laughed.

“Did you come here to stare at me?” the scarecrow growled out while tilting its head, humor in its ragged voice. “Or do you intend to let me down?”

“What will you give me if I let you down?” Hux found his voice. Shaky as it may be, he wanted the terms that this nightmare promised.

“I will make you the most powerful man in history,” it whispered. Hux suddenly felt as if he was going to faint. A spike of discomfort wormed its way into his skull. “I’ve seen your dreams Hux, across time and space. The nights you toss and turn, dreaming of having your enemies fallen before you. Treading over them in fields of blood and broken bone,” the monster continued, the twisting in Hux’s mind getting stronger. “Your ambition is wasted here, in this place. Let me down and I will take you to a place where you are wanted and you will rule,”

Hux felt the twisting thing withdraw and he fell to his knees breathing hard. The invasion had made his eyes water and kicked off a migraine. He was breathing hard, retching with the pain.

“What right do you have to be in my mind, you monster?” he grit out, spitting into the dirt.

“I am the giver of gifts and your greatest love. If you come with me I will give you the stars, even as you destroy them in your wake. Come with me Armitage Hux, and be everything you were meant to be.”

Hux pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his pants. He stood, staring at the figure for a moment. He glanced around again, seeing that a small gap out to a country road had opened up to one side. He was being presented a choice. A poisoned promise from a monster in a sackcloth mask, or a poisoned existence among the riffraff of this worthless town. He stepped toward the figure.

With another whispering sound he saw the gap at the side of the clearing close and heard a cacophony of voices screaming out of the corn. The voice of his father, the bullies, every insult he’d ever had hurled at him screamed through the wind as he approached the figure. He saw a long knife hanging by the figure’s foot and didn’t hesitate to grab it. Damn this town, anything was better than this.

As he pushed himself up on the balls of his feet to cut the twine holding the being up he was hit with the smell of burning hair, ash, and blood. Another screaming whipped through the corn, this was the wail of agony from voices he’d never heard in languages he didn’t recognize. He grit his teeth and held his breath against the smell. The figure was shaking with laughter and as he touched the blade to the rope it snapped, and the figure fell into his arms. The sky went red as he grabbed at the sackcloth to reveal the face of the creature he’d freed. The voices wailed again as he looked into the creature’s glowing yellow eyes.

Starkiller!

General Hux sat up with a start, breathing hard. It had been the dream he had been having since he was a boy. Whenever he tried to grasp what he’d seen it ran away from him, like sand through a sieve. A hand settled on his shoulder, comforting him.

“Bad dream?” Kylo asked, bleary from sleep.

“Yeah,” He said, glancing at a scar on his leg that he’d never really noticed before. Something about farming equipment lanced through his mind, but disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced. “It’s nothing.” Hux finished, laying back down to try to sleep again. Kylo laid down beside him and wrapped his arms around Hux.

“You’ll need your strength tomorrow for your coronation,” Kylo whispered into Hux’s hair.

Sleep came to Hux with the sound of whispers through a cornfield and a young man promising not to fail his father again if he’d just let him down.

#huxloween #fanfiction #prompt: corn maze #general hux #kylo ren

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