#water mist at trellis | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

owillofthewisps · 4 years

Text

the water i’m wading in

notes: i’m in it now, lads. idk what *gestures at this whole post* this is, but it’s here i guess. this was supposed to be smut lol. probs a bit too soft for geralt but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ i just really needed to get this out of my head. imma go scream into my hands ljsldfjsldf

title is from lykke li’s ‘i follow rivers’

rating: teen. fluff, but geralt still has a terrible mouth and also maybe a lil bit melancholy.

pairing: geralt x gender neutral reader

word count: 1.3k

a Witcher’s burden is heavy, and the world’s touch can be exhausting, but you will always let him rest.

He’s tired.

The exhaustion rolls off him like morning mist, soft and suffocating. Geralt drops his spaulders to the floor as you rise from your spot by the hearth.

You had thought you’d seen him as tired as he could get. Thought you’d seen it all - injured, energy depleted, a hunt gone wrong, a creature that was no monster slain without reason - but today, there is a weariness to him that is foreign, a skeleton sketch beneath his skin.

He is a statue come to life, living, breathing stone, hard-edged and heavy and achingly delicate. Statues shatter too, you know, are worn down by the world around them, eroded by existence.

You cross to him quickly, cup his face between your palms. He meets your gaze steadily, the firelight catching on his amber eyes, glazing them soft golden. You ache for him. It’s a low, humming pain, rooted deep inside of you, a bruise that can’t quite heal.

“Are you alright?” you ask quietly.

“I’m fine. Long hunt.”

He isn’t. It wasn’t - it’s been a scant few days since he left. But you don’t need to scrape him to the bone, to cut into the meat of him and make him bleed just for him to tell you what you already know.

You kiss him, pull him to you and drink from his lips. He curls an arm around your waist and tugs you closer, fits you into the curve of his broad frame. His shoulders slump, that mountain range of muscle crumbling just slightly, and sometimes you forget that Geralt wears more armor than most. You sweep a thumb across his cheekbone softly.

“Come,” you say, pulling away. He chases you, one massive hand rough at the nape of your neck, his calloused fingertips striking sparks under your skin, a tinder strike touch. His kiss, though - his kiss is slow, an ember’s soft glow, gentle and steady. You melt into him, weave your fingers through the snowfall drift of his hair.

Geralt teases your breath away with his tongue, steals something from you that you’ve always been willing to give.

“Come,” you say again, whispered against his lips as he rests his forehead against yours. You close your eyes, feel his breath like hearthfire against your lips, all lingering warmth. His thumb traces your jawline, a crescent moon of a scar cut into the thick digit catching against your skin. You tilt your head into his touch, press a kiss against his palm. “Bath, then bed.”

He grunts. You nip at the pad of his thumb.

“No arguing,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

You laugh softly, the sound trickling out of you like wine, full-bodied and rich. “You didn’t need to,” you tell him. “Go.” You nod towards the full copper tub tucked near the hearth.

He goes.

It tells you all you need to know, lets you see that the exhaustion has sunk into the very marrow of him, lines all of his bones. He moves slowly as he undresses, his fingers almost clumsy. His pale skin is warmed by the fire’s glow. You watch the shift of his muscles beneath his skin, swallowing as they cord and flex, a testimony of the raw power he carries in his broad body.

There’s a wine dark bruise spilling across his back, puddling just beneath the thick ridge of his shoulder blade. You should be used to it, you know. You've become an astronomer of sorts, can trace the constellation of scars he’s collected through the years without looking, but the star map of his skin is ever changing, new scars always blooming into being, scattered stark and raised across his body. You will never grow entirely used to it.

You putter around, preparing for an early night. There’s a quiet, familiar crackle of flames, just for a breath. Igni, then. You glance over your shoulder.

Geralt steps into the copper tub and the steam curls up around him, winding up the trellis of his thick thighs before fading into the air. Your breath catches. The firelight throws him into stark relief, kisses golden across his scarred skin, shadows the cut of his hip. It is easy to be blinded by the sheer strength of him, the way his muscles ripple and bunch.

There is more to him, though. There always has been. He sinks into the water, wearing weariness like a cloak, something silken and heavy that lines every inch of him. “Fuck,” he groans, tilting his head back as the water envelops him.

He cracks open an eye as you pad to the washtub. His golden gaze always reminds you of sunlight; you can feel it warm on your skin each time he looks at you.

“Budge up,” you say, stooping to press a kiss at the corner of his lips.

“Demanding little thing.”

“Yes,” you say, starting to strip.

Geralt grunts, watching with interest as you bare your skin, reaching out to trace wet fingers over the curve of your hip, dipping low to drag his thumb against the crease where your thigh and hip meet.

You pull in a soft breath, the callused pad of his thumb catching on the silk of your skin. Geralt looks up at you, and the softness of the early dawn is in his eyes, those hushed hours when the world belongs to just the two of you tucked secret into his gaze.

“Move,” you chide, nudging at him gently.

He grumbles but sits up to let you settle behind him in the tub. It’s not the most graceful thing you’ve ever done, but it’s worth it to have your thighs bracket his hips, his wet skin slick against yours.

A hush drapes over the two of you like the night sky, encompassing and tender. You pull Geralt’s hair loose, the strands gone silvery at the water’s touch. It flows over your fingers like moonlight. You hum to yourself as you work delicately at the knots, knowing your soft touch unravels more than just the tangles.

Geralt is quiet, but you have long learned to hear the words in his silence.

You coax him forward and sink your soapy hands back into his hair, your fingers slow and firm against his scalp. You dig your thumbs in the wide, knotted column of his neck and drag them up to the base of his skull.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, his voice thick gravel. You huff a little laugh.

You rinse the lather from his hair slowly. The water slips over him, waterfalls over skin and scars alike. You press a kiss to a ropey scar that winds fat over the ridge of his shoulder, the feel of it familiar and foreign in the same breath, like a dream fading from memory as you wake. You card your fingers through his hair before weaving it into a heavy braid. It’s an intricate pattern, one that anyone from your village would tease you for, a declaration without words.

Geralt has never asked about it, but you think he knows.

You recline against the tub’s high side, tugging at Geralt gently until he follows you. His broad back is warm against your chest, and you can feel each breath he takes, how it ebbs and flows like the tide. You don’t need words, not right now.

He sinks into you, into the cradle of your body, lets you envelop him like water. You can feel the exhaustion melting into something softer, seeping from him like poison from a wound.

You close your eyes and wrap your arms around him, keep him close.

The world makes him weary, you know.

You will always be a place for him to rest.

taglist: @beautifuluniversityhoagieslime @writingstudent @ayamenimthiriel @bumblingandblooming @sageandberries-png @alwayshave-faith @nonamejustshame @1950schick @bucksgoat @whitewolfandthefox @tutuwho @inber @mstgsmy @hina-chans-stuff @riviawitch3r @yespolkadotkitty @weaponizedvirtue @raspberrydreamclouds @consultingdetextive @theunwantedomega @restingnurseface @msgeorgiarae @fairytale07

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine

231 notes · View notes

theheartsmistakes · 3 years

Text

Any Other Name- Chapter 3

Once the dishes were all dried and put away— dishes that didn't even belong to them, to begin with— and the kitchen cleaned, Cordelia helped Sona unpack a few more boxes of kitchen supplies and pack away some of the things that Tessa left behind. They labeled the boxes storage so no one would throw them away and tucked them into the empty hall closet.

When it was only half an hour to ten, the Inquisitor and Consul finally left, leaving the Carstairs family once again alone in the house that felt nothing like home.

At some point during the hour and a half discussion spent inside of the study, her father had loosened his tie, abandoned his jacket, and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. Dark circles etched around his eyes and a distinct shadow appeared along his jaw and neck flecked with silver amongst the black.

Cordelia stared at the door they’d just left through and silently sent a prayer to the Angel that they both died in a terrible, albeit ironic, accident on their way home.

“Well,” said her mother, her voice echoed in the empty foray. “What did they say?”

As much as Cordelia wanted to stay and listen to her father’s debriefing, she only had twenty minutes left to meet with Lucie and she still had no idea how to get to the location Lucie left her. She’d never ventured alone around London before and with all the buildings and streets and mundane vehicles, it might as well be a maze to her.

“I think I’ll wait to hear the overview over breakfast,” said Cordelia as she turned towards the stairs. “There is only so much nonsense the stomach can handle. Too much is just not good for the digestion.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” said her father. “Thank you for tonight. They were both quite impressed by you.”

With her back towards her parents, she rolled her eyes and ran up the rest of the stairs.

Once back inside Lucie’s bedroom, she peeled off the cotton dress and tossed it on the bed. She pulled on a pair of black jeans, a black long sleeve shirt, and her favorite leather jacket that she zipped up to her chin and flicked the hood over her head. She tugged on her combat boots and tucked in the laces before grabbing Cortana, a stele that she tucked into her inside jacket pocket, and a couple of daggers before she shoved open the window and climbed out on the roof.

A fine mist had started just enough to make everything wet. Cordelia’s rubber soles gripped the tiles as she snuck across the tile until she found the trellis that usually had delicate pink roses clinging to a climbing vine this time of year. It was long dead and fallen to the ground in a pile of brown sticks and thorns.

Cordelia hooked her foot into a hole in the trellis and began her descent; the toes of her boots taking purchase in every nook they could find until her feet landed in the flower bed outside of the now dark dining room window.

Cordelia shook the water from her hands and shoved them into her jacket pockets to keep them warm before heading out to the main road.

The rune her mother gave her before they portaled to London still burned and kept her invisible from the mundane eye and her relatively mundane clothes wouldn’t attract the attention of any Shadowhunters that might be out on patrol. As she strolled through Mundane London, which remained surprisingly bright and alive at almost ten at night, with loud vehicles motoring past on narrow roads, horns blaring, or someone’s obnoxious bass beating into the night, Cordelia found that in some ways it did remind her of the city in Tehran. When she’d go out on patrol with Hettie and Minu it would often look quite similar to London.

If she hadn’t been running late, she might have lingered to ogle at some of the buildings or traveled her preferred way over the rooftops. High above the crowds, where she could see the gabled peaks of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the moon glittering off the River Thames. But tonight she was short on time.

Once a few miles away from the Institute, Cordelia took out Lucie’s note and her stele and drew a tracking rune onto the sheet. It burned to life in her hand and flapped in an invisible wind. She followed its lead down Fleet Street until they reached the corner at Ludgate Hill and it tugged her down St. Paul’s Churchyard.

She had to run to keep up with the possessed page. Cordelia began to wonder if it was some cruel trick Lucie was playing on her as it turned down Cannon St, then Queen Victoria St, then Mansion House, and Cornhill. She nearly gave up when it took a slight left from Leadenhall to Aldgate when the bells of the old clock tower began to chime the hour.

She could see the clock now. Its round face was bright in the night and its ancient wooden structure looked decrepit as it titled slightly towards the left. The paper tugged itself stubbornly towards the tower nearly ripping itself out of Cordelia’s hand.

Cordelia tucked the paper back into her jacket pocket even as it continued to twitched and force itself out. She picked up a jog and jumped at the iron gate protecting the park where the old tower stood in the center. With little effort, she was able to clear the gate and land back on her feet on the other side.

The park was empty except for an oblivious security officer staring at his phone from his odd-looking golf cart. The angle of the phone and the light reflecting off his face gave him an unattractive double chin. She never wanted anything to do with mundane technology, it served as too much of a distraction. That mundane might as well offer himself to a demon for dinner. If Shadowhunters allowed themselves to be that vulnerable, there’d be far fewer of them.

Minu, she knew, would want to mess with him. Minu enjoyed teasing mundanes when given the chance, especially if what the mundanes were doing was dangerous and negligent.

But she didn’t have time to think about what Minu would do or that the security guard was distracted by his phone.

Cordelia walked the rest of the way to the clock and carefully ducked under the yellow caution tape surrounding it. By the burning runes etched into the wood, she knew it was glamoured. She wondered what it looked like to the mundane eye when they walked past.

Cordelia spun around looking for a shadow or a shape that might be Lucie waiting for her. She hoped she wasn’t too late and Lucie left.

“Lucie,” she whispered into the night. “Lucie, I’m here. Where are you?”

After a moment when the only sound that responded to her was a pigeon's coo, she circled the base of the tower until she found a back door propped open with a brick.

Never one to need a moment of courage, Cordelia took a deep breath to calm the tightening in her chest and opened the door on its senescent hinges.

A serpentine staircase twisted its way up the tower for what looked like miles where Cordelia stood. A few field mice scurried away to their burrows at the sudden intrusion, their droppings and mess littered the wood stairs that groaned under Cordelia’s weight as she started her slow ascent, testing each beam before trusting it. She skipped a few that bowed in the middle and those that were already missing and wondered how Lucie hadn’t fallen to her death climbing her way to the top.

London and their pride over their ancient structures, Cordelia thought to herself. It was no wonder the whole building had to be cautioned off. It would only take one idiotic mundane with a death wish to climb these and plummet to their doom.

She began to wonder what would happen if she were to fall and be found dead at the bottom of the tower. Surely she’d disgrace her family who would wonder what would bring her out to an abandoned old clock tower in the middle of the night. The Clave would think the reason was something scandalous most likely. One thing was for certain though, she’d become the Bridgestock’s personal poltergeist in her afterlife.

Nearly at the top now and clinging to the unreliable railing, she could see the light from the watch face and feel the reverberating beats of the mechanisms through the wood underneath her feet as each hand of the clock moved half an inch for each second.

Once at the top, the paper in her jacket pocket went still. She stepped into the empty room and took in her surroundings. The clock face was a window that looked out over London. She could see the points and peaks of Buckingham Palace and Big Ben’s watchful eye in the distance. The lights from Regent’s park lit up the night as well as the red and white traffic lights around King Cross station. She had to admit if only to herself, London was beautiful from up high. Looking down on it, she felt how Pip might have felt in Great Expectation. From down below, London appeared ugly, crooked, narrow, and dirty. But from up above, it represented the ultimate milieu in terms of success. The equivalent of civilization; a world where only the most successful go; a tireless city of possibilities; and a bit romantic.

“You came,” said a soft, familiar voice behind her. Cordelia turned, her hood dropping away from her face, as she faced Lucie standing in the dull shadow the clock face made on the floor. She held something in her hands pointed directly at Cordelia. It wasn’t a knife or a sword or even an ax-- Lucie’s preferred weapon-- but a gun.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” said Lucie, her hands steady. The barrel of the weapon never once dipped or swayed. “Give me your weapons.”

Cordelia raised her hands. “Lucie, I’m not here to hurt you—“

“Remove your weapons and toss them here,” said Lucie firmly. “I won't ask you again.”

Cordelia wasn’t sure if that meant Lucie would shoot her or leave if Cordelia refused, but she didn’t prefer either outcome. She removed Cortana first and laid it on the ground at her feet and kicked it gently towards Lucie. Then the duel blades from inside her jacket and her stele.

“Now remove your jacket and your boots,” said Lucie, eyes still locked over the barrel.

Cordelia unzipped her jacket and dropped it to the floor. Then she kicked off both of her boots and tossed them into the pile too.

“Put your arms out to your sides,” said Lucie as she took a step towards Cordelia, “and spread your legs.”

Cordelia did as she was told watching Lucie carefully as she approached, holding the gun in one hand now while the other quickly patted Cordelia down for any more hidden weapons.

“I’m clean.”

“Don’t speak,” said Lucie, feeling around in Cordelia’s pockets.

“I thought that was why you asked me to come here,” said Cordelia, as Lucie pushed the gun into Cordelia’s side and frisked both of her legs. “To talk.”

“Then why did you bring the weapons?” Lucie stood and took several steps backward once she was satisfied Cordelia had no more weapons.

“I’m a Shadowhunter, I brought them in case I needed to defend myself,” said Cordelia. “Why did you bring the gun?”

“For the same reason.” Lucie hissed.

“Guns don’t work on demons.”

Lucie’s gaze narrowed. “Not all of them.”

Cordelia dropped her arms back down to her sides and took a moment to appraise her friend— though she wasn’t so sure she could call her that anymore. She looked nothing like the girl Cordelia used to clash pretend swords with or make chains out of the wildflowers that would grow in the fields of Alicante when they’d visit during Spring. Her eyes changed in the five years since they last saw each other. Once wide, excited, and curious, they were now focused and on guard, like an expert gambler waiting for an opponent to show their tell, and lined in thick black ink that bled down to her lower lash line. She cut her mousy brown hair to her narrow shoulders where it curled in an uneven pattern, similar to her brother’s.

“Lucie, it’s me.” Cordelia exhaled and stepped forward.

Lucie pulled down the hammer on the gun until it clicked into place. “What nickname did my brother give you when we were children and why?”

A test, Cordelia understood. A question only the real Cordelia and not some imposter would know the answer to. “Daisy. He called me Daisy because when we were little girls we were playing and you fell from the edge of a cliff. I caught you and held you there until help came. James said that when they pulled you up, I collapsed from exhaustion into a pile of daisies.” Tears sprang to her eyes at the memory. “It’s me, Lucie. I’m not here to hurt you.”

The corner of Lucie’s mouth twitched right before she lowered the gun down to the floor and disengaged the hammer, her eyes never leaving Cordelia.

“I had to be sure,” whispered Lucie. “I’m sorry for being this way, but you have to understand the precautions are necessary. It’s incredibly dangerous for me and you to be here right now, but I had to speak with you and I knew that if anyone would be willing to meet with me, it would be you.”

Cordelia nodded and took a tentative step closer. “I understand. No need to apologize. How did this happen, Lucie?”

“Bridgestock finally got his way." She shoved her gun into its holster at her hip. “We can’t even use angelic weapons anymore. He had them be remade by the iron sisters so that they wouldn’t respond to anyone with even a little bit demon blood, the bloody tosser. It wasn’t enough that he stole our home, he had to take our one form of defense away.”

“That’s awful,” said Cordelia and looked down at the pile of weapons on the floor.

“He believes that we cannot be Shadowhunters because of our linage,” said Lucie.

“But why?” asked Cordelia. “It doesn’t make sense. Your family has never done anything to deserve this kind of treatment.”

“He believes our blood to be dirty,” sneered Lucie. “He always had something to say about my mother’s paternal side but he didn’t fight anyone on it until my mother became pregnant with James. Then, he really started to build his whole agenda around the purity of Shadowhunter blood. No one paid him any mind until James accidentally disappeared into the Shadowrealm in front of Augustus.”

“He what?!”

“It was an accident,” shouted Lucie. “Augustus was saying horrible things about my mother and James retaliated by punching Augustus in the face. When Augustus grabbed him to throw a punch, James just disappeared out of his grasp. Of course, Pounceby ran home to his father to tell him of the situation and that seemed to be the last straw. They gathered enough votes to remove Charlotte from her position as Consul and have us banished.

“No one cared that Augustus said my mother was nothing more than a Shadowhunter’s whore that my father knocked up on accident because he couldn’t keep his—“ Lucie shuttered and her whole face turned red. “He said some nasty things, but no one cared about that. No, they only cared that James’s demon blood gave him abilities that were not gifted by the angel. They didn’t want to risk anymore of the blood being passed on when James or I married, so they banished us. They fucking banished us.”

Cordelia fought the urge to run over and hug her. Even words failed her, what could she say that could fix any of this. To say “ I’m sorry” felt disingenuous because she wasn’t sorry, she was livid. She wanted to ask Lucie who she wanted her to murder first.

In the end, she decided to say nothing and let Lucie speak.

“It’s also partially punishment,” continued Lucie, “because my father continued to refuse Bridgestock’s and Pounceby’s advancements on the separation of Shadowhunters from Downworlders. Downworlders are also not from the Angel and therefore we should not have an alliance with them. We should govern and control them. He wants us to disassociate ourselves from our friends, Cordelia. He wants us to manage and control them like they’re beneath us. He wanted to strip them of their rights, rights that they earned from the truce created between us so long ago. He’s a dictator, Cordelia, and he’s going to start a war.”

Cordelia nodded. “I know. I agree. What can we do?”

Lucie closed her eyes and exhaled. “Nothing. He has the majority of the clave so wrapped around his finger that he can manipulate them to do his work like little marionettes.” She imitated the movements with her hands.

“What about your Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel? Charlotte and Henry? Sophie and Gideon?” asked Cordelia. “They make up a large part of the Clave surely their opinions have some sway.”

“He threatened them,” said Lucie. “When they banished us at the Clave meeting, they told everyone that disagreed with the decision that they could be exiled as well and they would be forced to give up their Marks. Christopher, Matthew, and Thomas were willing to do it, but their parents stopped them and then forbid them from seeing James or me! Did you hear what they did to Matthew?”

Cordelia nodded and felt like she might be violently sick.

“I can still hear James screaming in my mind when they removed the mark from Matthew.” A far-off look washed over Lucie’s face. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to erase whatever had taken over her vision.

“What about Brother Zachariah?” asked Cordelia. “Jem and the rest of the Silent Brother’s. Surely, they wouldn’t agree to this.”

“Brother Enoch’s exact words were ‘they do not doddle in the affairs of mortal men’.” Lucie rolled her eyes. “Just another way of saying it’s not their problem. We haven’t heard anything from Jem because to try to intervene would be going against his vows. We have been utterly abandoned.”

“No,” Cordelia stepped forward again until she stood only a few inches from Lucie. “I’m here. I won’t abandon you.”

“You can say that now but you haven’t been here the past six months,” said Lucie. “If anyone knew you came here to see me tonight you’d be publicly punished, possibly stripped of your Marks, or something worse. I shouldn’t have ever asked you to come. It was selfish of me, but I don’t have very many choices and you’re the only one that can help me with this.”

Without hesitation, Cordelia blurted, “What do you need from me? How can I help?”

“When you go to the next Clave meeting in Alicante, there is a book from the library there that I need you to find,” said Lucie. “It’s the first volume of the Shadow Codex ever written. You’ll most likely find it in—“

“I know where I can find it,” said Cordelia, the warmth from her skin drained. “Lucie, it’s forbidden to touch that book, you know that. It’s protected with wards and a glass encasement. It’s an ancient relic for us. To look at that book is a privilege; to touch— to steal it— would be cause for punishments we haven’t even heard of.”

“I know, I know,” said Lucie. “I wouldn’t be asking you this if I had any other choice. I can’t ask anyone else because they’re all constantly being watched by Augustus and his friends. You have less of an affiliation with us than anyone else. They won’t be watching you as closely and you’re incredibly clever.”

“Flattery will not work right now, Lucie,” said Cordelia as she began to pace. “What do you want with the Shadowhunter Codex anyway? What’s in the original that isn’t it one of the hundred volumes published for public access?”

Lucie averted her eyes. “I can’t tell you.”

Cordelia huffed. “Why not? If I’m to do this I deserve to know what I’m doing it for.”

“You’re doing it to help me and my family.” The hardness returned to Lucie’s gaze and tone as she looked back up to Cordelia. “If you believe what’s been done to us is wrong and needs to be stopped then you will help me with this, no questions asked.”

Cordelia let out a deep breath and tried to make sense of her racing thoughts. If she did what Lucie was asking and stole the very first Shadowhunter Codex written and illustrated by the first three then it wouldn’t just mean her punishment, but her family’s punishment as well. They’d be humiliated by her, disappointed, and possibly cast out. But if she wasn’t caught and within this book was a way to help save the Herondales and tear Bridgestock and Pounceby down from their reign of power, then the risk may be worth it… as long as she wasn’t caught.

“I’ll try,” said Cordelia. “I’m not promising anything and I’m not risking my own family, but you were a good friend to me when I had no one else, so I will try.”

Lucie’s eyes swam as she gave Cordelia a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

The shadow outline of the clock on the floor of the shack reflected it was forty-five minutes past the hour. She should be getting home for tomorrow she would be training with Augustus and she needed all of her sanity not to club him in the nose with the blunt end of Cortana.

“The meeting is going to be held in two weeks,” said Cordelia as she walked to her pile of clothes and weapons. “I will meet you back here on the Saturday that follows at the same time. If for some reason I don’t make it then it will be the next night or the following. If I don’t show up after three days then it’s safe to assume that I was caught and thrown in prison; in which case I hope that you find a way to win and take those bastards down.”

She shucked on her jacket and slid her feet into her boots.

“We were supposed be Parabatai,” said Lucie and handed Cordelia Cortana. “It would have been an honor. I would have been lucky to have a warrior partner like you.”

Cordelia took her sword from Lucie. “I still believe we will be. Until then, we will continue to treat each other as such.” She placed a hand on Lucie’s shoulders before turning towards the stairs and began her descent back into the night.

---------

A heavier rain began to fall as she made her way back towards Fleet Street. Cordelia pulled up her hood and shoved her cold, wet hands into the front pockets of her jacket as she walked, Cortana nudging her back with each step she took. The city had finally quieted some: the roads were less crowded except for the occasional bright yellow taxi.

Without Lucie’s runed letter to follow, all of the roads and buildings looked the same to Cordelia. She hadn’t exactly been paying attention to landmarks or street signs when she was following a possessed page down dark streets in corners. She did the best she could by memory but found herself growing less and less familiar with her surroundings.

It may have been her growing frustration with herself or her paranoia after seeing Lucie, but she couldn’t shake the odd sense that she was being followed. Though every glance she threw over her shoulder, she found nothing to be lurking in the shadows even with her night vision rune still burning on the inside of her arm.

She found herself wandering down a road that was still rowdy for this time of night. Flickering lights of red and yellow flashed from signs hanging over doorways where loud music and shouting filled the streets. The air smelt thick of spilled ale and magic. As she passed by, she could have sworn eyes followed her from the patrons standing outside of the clubs. She hid her face deeper within her tunic and tried to keep her gate casual to not draw attention to herself.

When she got to the end of the road, she took a right but found that it was a darkened alleyway that came to a dead-end only a few feet in. Frustrated, she turned around and nearly collided with a man.

No, not a man, a Fae warrior. His long black hair was tucked behind each of his pointed ears and when he flashed her a predatory smile sharp incisors glistened in the lights that lined the roof.

Cordelia regained her balance quickly and looked at him then the two other warriors standing on either of his sides.

“You’re a long way from your side of town, Nephilim,” he said in a deep gravely voice. “And all alone.”

“What makes you assume I’m alone?” said Cordelia, fighting to keep her voice even.

“We’ve been following you for the past half hour,” said the Fae. “You seem a bit lost.”

The Fae were not their enemy. She had nothing to fear from them, but for some unknown reason, she felt uneasy in their presence alone. Her hand itched to reach for Cortana, but to do so would show her apprehension and she didn't want to appear as a threat.

So she told them the truth. “I'm a bit lost. I’m new to London and my escort seems to have abandoned me. I’m looking for Fleet Street. Would you mind pointing me in the right direction?”

The Fae took a step forward, forcing her to take a step backward farther down the alley. “A Nephilim alone in our side of town is fair game. Perhaps we should make an example of her the way her kind make an example of us when we wander too far into their parts?”

The other two warriors grunted their agreement.

Cordelia did reach for Cortana then and with a sharp pull, removed the sword from its scabbard. “I don’t want to harm any of you. I’m here by accident and I’d like to leave without any unnecessary bloodshed. If you would kindly move, I will be on my way.”

The Fae warrior removed two blades from the scabbards at his sides and glided them across each other so they made a spark. “She is a lovely thing. Perhaps we could take turns with her and return her back to her people used.”

Cordelia swung Cortana and positioned herself to fight. “You can try, but I strongly advice you let me pass.”

“Or what?” grinned the head Fae. “You’ll cut all three of us down by yourself with that little blade in your hand?”

He moved towards her again, and this time Cordelia refused to give one step.

“Oh, I wouldn’t doubt her, Bevan,” said a voice from the opening of the alley. “I’ve seen her take down men twice as skilled as you.”

As the three Fae men turned to look behind them, Cordelia took her chance and lunged for the lead Fae.

A/N: Comments, likes, and reblog are my main source of motivation so please let me know what you think.

Next chapter comes out: Fri, June 11th.

#the shadowhunter chronicles #jordelia fanfiction #james x cordelia #james herondale #cordelia carstairs #the last hours #chain of gold #chain of iron #chain of thorns #alternative universe #shadowhunters #cassandra clare

14 notes · View notes

virgil-writes · 3 years

Photo

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (eventual Heisenberg x OC)

on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four

chapter 4 - the hag’s cabin

SFW, mentions blood and mutilation, around 2K words.

It was like he had snapped out of a bad dream.

A flash of red blinded him for just a moment, hand shooting up to cover his eyes as he stood up straight, fingertips dripping with blood that wasn’t his. He opened his eyes to a much clearer view of the woods, a pressure relieved from his shoulders, and a strange yet friendly face staring down at him with avid curiosity. Blood-tinted eyes watched him closely, an amiable smile on her wrinkled face. The hag’s skin was light enough to glow in the scant moonlight, spindly silver hair wild and framing her face in the most awkward of ways. He was reminded of Mother’s little game of disguise, the unassuming crone of riddles and wisdom.

Maybe it was Mother all along, and in that case, he better be on his best behavior. She was surely capable of it all, confusing him on the path and assuming the form of some horrible abomination; but why would she bother? She did seem genuinely surprised, perhaps even wary. Was this another one of her games to keep them all on their toes? To ensure obedience, another way of displaying her powers to remind him that even at his best, he was not an omniscient near-god. In her eyes, he was a second class citizen with a thing for tinkering that she kept around. A dangerous, homicidally inclined one, but a second class failure nonetheless.

The hag’s dirty clothes fluttered in the wind, the smell of death seeming to emanate from within her bones, strong enough to choke him. For a moment, he expected her to cackle, conjure up a staff made of bones to wave at him while she spoke her nonsense, telling him to repent and surrender to the Black God. Instead she laboriously extended a frail hand to help him up, blackened fingertips offering him no comfort.

“Come closer, dear, let us have a look at you.” She spoke at last, tender, almost motherly, her voice sounding like a legion of disjointed souls pooling together to form a sentence. She took a step in his direction when he did not answer, bones cracking with effort, frame barely supporting her own weight. It looked to him as if her every movement was torture, like she had been living on borrowed time for far too long and the earth had grown tired of waiting to reclaim her to dust. “Let us bathe you, take care of you.” Her words were sweet, her tone malicious. “Everything will be fine.”

Oh, yes, naturally. She looked like she had come straight out of a fairytale book, but surely it would all end up alright. It would all be fine, surely, him being bathed in a large bubbling cauldron with herbs and salt for soap, trapped inside a cage being fattened for later use in culinary endeavors. The fat on his body would be used for tallow, the skin for the shade of some lamp, the heart to power said lamp.

“Think I’ll pass.” Was all he could say through gritted teeth, barely a whisper in the dissonance of his thoughts. Her snicker was low and delighted, form fading away in a cloud of crimson mist.

The terror that had consumed him had disappeared just as quickly as it had taken hold, his racing heart and staggered breathing giving way to the burning rage and overconfidence he usually carried with him. He looked around for the yellow flowers Donna used to trick people’s minds, for any sign that what he had witnessed was an illusion. The snow felt real as he crushed it with his fingers, the wind caressed him just so to keep him alert and awake. Heisenberg looked down at himself to look for anything that might be amiss, a misshaped piece of fabric, a hue that looked off; he counted ten fingers, pulled back his sleeve to look at his wristwatch, numbers crisp and clear. Not a dream, not a hallucination. Sheer terror, like he had not felt in years, adrenaline pumping in his veins to make him feel alive after decades of keeping his nose just above the water. Despite it all, he felt light as a feather. In a way, he felt free.

He rose to his feet to take the path ahead, ducking to miss the arch of the twisted tunnel, holding onto branches and feeling like they held onto him in return. A mere couple of meters away, a crude fence and wooden gate separated him from a clearing he had never seen. Slabs of stone marked the way towards it, visible despite the icy landscape, their surface well-worn and freshly disturbed. Had the hag come this way? Would he meet a series of monsters that made him offers he could not refuse, like the tales Miranda had concocted of him and his siblings?

He knew the mountain held a multitude of paths and clearings, nooks and crannies untouched by man and lost to time, mazes and caves and all manners of things he had only read in old books of fiction. The villagers would always say there was much that surrounded them, not altogether pleasant, older than them, older than the bones of this earth. Monsters and spirits, legends lost just beyond the village gates. Even as a child, swallowing his fear like a bitter pill, he labeled them all fools, pawns in the hands of a cruel bitch who kept them isolated, a flock of tarnished sheep that would never break free of their bonds. And yet it seemed the joke was on him, was it not? Here he was, mother’s prophecy fulfilled, standing alone in the forest deep, lost like the child who ran away to pick berries, having just witnessed something he could not explain.

Heisenberg peered into the trees in silence, breathing labored and pulse too loud in his ears. He watched for eyes in the forest, long fingers that camouflaged in the tree bark. Silver hair mistaken for spider webs, humanoid shadows that tricked the unwary. All he sees is a curious hare that stops to stare at him before going deeper into the woods to find its den, all he hears are the sounds of the night and the forest alive at last.

The smell of rotting carcasses inundated his nostrils as he walked, a series of carefully placed, crusty wooden stakes protruding from the ground like sickly trees that refused to wither. Blood dripped and congealed at its base, the decapitated heads of lycans and samcas and moroaicas neatly impaled, but looking so alive. He could almost hear it, the groaning and stretching of broken jaws as they tried to break free.

An incredulous smile crept up to his lips as he reached out to touch a nearby lycan’s head, skin soft and clammy underneath his fingers, veins protruding on swollen flesh. Sharp teeth and exposed gums, no doubt a lycan, and he is too slow to react when the creature bites down onto his hand and all but tears the skin between his thumb and index fingers. It tries to finish the job but cannot break free, just enough movement to open and close its jaw, and Heisenberg looks down in disbelief to his bleeding hand, to the monster that should have turned to dust.

He reaches for the hammer in a half-horrified haze, swings with full strength to knock the stake to the ground, amazed when all heads spring to life and groan at him in a last breath that would never end. His morbid curiosity has him bring the hammer over his head and down onto the earth, bones cracking with the impact as the failed experiment finally crumbles to dust beneath the metal. What kind of fuckery was this? The pain in his right hand felt too real to be an illusion, the blood dripping onto his boots too viscous to be a trick of the mind. His mind spun with theories, with curiosity. Before he leaves, he should confiscate one of these for further study at the factory.

Heisenberg could hardly contain his excitement as he vaulted over the fence, anxious for the next chapter of this night full of surprises. He expected a gruesome display; an altar proudly displaying a sacrifice, the hunched over beast he had met before munching on an animal corpse. The hag kneeling by the stream, washing bloody clothes as a presage of war and death. A circle of witches chanting in tongues and cursing his entire, nonexistent bloodline for generations to come. An enchanted maiden with a delicate bosom and sinuous form inviting him to ravage her innocence, only to eat him alive liver first in a fit of madness.

Instead he was greeted by a curious chicken peeking at him from a hole in the trellis of its coop, a tiny goat grazing by his feet. There was a horse, real this time, penned in and cozy for the night, oblivious to his presence.

The small hoofed animal doesn’t seem bothered when Heisenberg grabs it unceremoniously, inspects its fur and hoofs and horns, pinches at its flesh for any hint of supernatural. On the contrary, the goat seems to enjoy it, tiny tail wagging rapidly as Heisenberg stares it down like one would an annoying baby that is too cute for one to be angry at. It seems almost sad when it is put back down onto the snow, gives Heisenberg a tentative headbutt and walks away in defeat when he ignores it to investigate the rest of the place.

A small cabin stood just beyond, green shingles on the roof and walls covered in clay, narrow porch and swinging front door, a light bleeding out into the night through the narrow window of the attic. Suspiciously innocuous. There were no chicken legs, it was not made of sweets, and instead of decay, what he smelled made his stomach growl in response. He would eat that damn black horse the moment he saw it again, leg first as he moved up his feast.

A delicate wreath of wildflowers adorned the red door, slightly ajar to encourage his exploration. He did not recognize the symbol drawn just beneath his feet at the threshold - was it a warning? A welcome message? Heisenberg made sure to remain perfectly quiet as he stepped inside, taking care that his boots would not squeak against the wooden boards. The warmth of the house was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, the colorful woven rug a pleasant change from the bleak scenario of ice and death. He pushed the door all the way to reveal a room that was equal parts cozy and mysterious.

To his right was a wood stove, a bucket of firewood resting beside it, white ceramic kettle embellished with blue flowers whistling loudly on top. A shelf stocked with grain and spices stood just beyond, hooks with a multitude of pots and pans beneath it. The small kitchen also had a rustic counter and ceramic sink, cutting board and bone-white knife abandoned halfway through a large carrot. The small dinner table was set for two, a pair of teacups resting at the end of it. There was no sign of electricity, candles and lanterns of wrought iron working double time to ward off the dark of night.

He walked further in to to look at the rest of it, the diminutive living room that was also kitchen and dining area. The couch was a wooden skeleton covered in coarse fabric, cushions looking like they had patched a thousand times over. Somehow, they looked leagues more comfortable than any of Alcina’s fancy armchairs. Dusty tomes fought for space on a wooden stool beside it, candle wax frozen solid halfway over the edge onto the ground. A rickety ladder was almost hidden next to it, woolen socks overhanging one of the steps.

Right in front of him, on the far wall, was a sturdy brick fireplace, cast iron pot hanging over it, the tasty looking stew he had smelled from outside bubbling invitingly. A soft whimper alerted him to the presence of a furry creature curled up in front of the fire, looking compact despite its real size, oblivious to his presence and sound asleep. Heisenberg chuckled as he walked closer and bent down to pet it with a little too much force, the shaggy shepherd hound lifting its head to look at him in annoyance before busying itself with its nap once again, too tired to give a fuck about anything else. Craning his body to the left he peeked at the mezzanine, candle lit but bed empty. No one home, it seemed.

It was difficult to remain quiet when anger bubbled under the first layer of his skin; he was furious at his Mother and sister, at whoever had pulled the stupid prank earlier. He had been sent on a wild goose chase, had gotten lost in the woods, had bled his own blood and now stood inside a poor soul’s shack doubting every single thing that had happened this far. Even a man like himself had limits, however, and if he had simply stumbled upon a well-kept homestead of a peasant trying to live their life alone in the middle of the woods, he would leave just as quietly as he had entered. It was only fair, considering he, too, would do the same if given the chance. Perhaps his prey still wandered somewhere and he had gotten lost along the way, but it was time to go back to the road and hunt down the motherfucker who had almost made him piss his pants.

A couple more minutes and he would leave the forest, march up to Castle Dimitrescu and give Alcina a piece of his mind. Maybe he should climb up to the belfry, call everyone over and proudly display his limp dick as he twirled it around like a helicopter blade. Imagining the look of disgust in his sister’s face brought him some comfort.

“So this is the monster that lives in these woods, huh?” He asked the dog, half expecting an answer, with his back turned to make his way out.

“Oh, I am afraid that would be me,” said a woman’s voice somewhere behind him.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #virgil writes #long post //#tw blood

3 notes · View notes

themousefromfantasyland · 4 years

Text

"The Wild Swans" by Hans Christian Andersen

Just sharing one of my favorite fairy tales

FAR away in the land to which the swallows fly when it is winter, dwelt a king who had eleven sons, and one daughter, named Eliza.

The eleven brothers were princes, and each went to school with a star on his breast, and a sword by his side. They wrote with diamond pencils on gold slates, and learnt their lessons so quickly and read so easily that every one might know they were princes. Their sister Eliza sat on a little stool of plate-glass, and had a book full of pictures, which had cost as much as half a kingdom.

Oh, these children were indeed happy, but it was not to remain so always.

Their father, who was king of the country, married a very wicked queen, who did not love the poor children at all. They knew this from the very first day after the wedding

In the palace there were great festivities, and the children played at receiving company; but instead of having, as usual, all the cakes and apples that were left, she gave them some sand in a tea-cup, and told them to pretend it was cake.

The week after, she sent little Eliza into the country to a peasant and his wife, and then she told the king so many untrue things about the young princes, that he gave himself no more trouble respecting them.

"Go out into the world and get your own living," said the queen. "Fly like great birds, who have no voice." But she could not make them ugly as she wished, for they were turned into eleven beautiful wild swans.

Then, with a strange cry, they flew through the windows of the palace, over the park, to the forest beyond. It was early morning when they passed the peasant's cottage, where their sister Eliza lay asleep in her room.

They hovered over the roof, twisted their long necks and flapped their wings, but no one heard them or saw them, so they were at last obliged to fly away, high up in the clouds; and over the wide world they flew till they came to a thick, dark wood, which stretched far away to the seashore.

Poor little Eliza was alone in her room playing with a green leaf, for she had no other playthings, and she pierced a hole through the leaf, and looked through it at the sun, and it was as if she saw her brothers' clear eyes, and when the warm sun shone on her cheeks, she thought of all the kisses they had given her.

One day passed just like another; sometimes the winds rustled through the leaves of the rose-bush, and would whisper to the roses, "Who can be more beautiful than you!" But the roses would shake their heads, and say, "Eliza is." And when the old woman sat at the cottage door on Sunday, and read her hymn-book, the wind would flutter the leaves, and say to the book, "Who can be more pious than you?" and then the hymn-book would answer "Eliza." And the roses and the hymn-book told the real truth.

At fifteen she returned home, but when the queen saw how beautiful she was, she became full of spite and hatred towards her. Willingly would she have turned her into a swan, like her brothers, but she did not dare to do so yet, because the king wished to see his daughter.

Early one morning the queen went into the bath-room; it was built of marble, and had soft cushions, trimmed with the most beautiful tapestry.

She took three toads with her, and kissed them, and said to one, "When Eliza comes to the bath, seat yourself upon her head, that she may become as stupid as you are." Then she said to another, "Place yourself on her forehead, that she may become as ugly as you are, and that her father may not know her." "Rest on her heart," she whispered to the third, "then she will have evil inclinations, and suffer in consequence." So she put the toads into the clear water, and they turned green immediately.

She next called Eliza, and helped her to undress and get into the bath. As Eliza dipped her head under the water, one of the toads sat on her hair, a second on her forehead, and a third on her breast, but she did not seem to notice them, and when she rose out of the water, there were three red poppies floating upon it. Had not the creatures been venomous or been kissed by the witch, they would have been changed into red roses.

At all events they became flowers, because they had rested on Eliza's head, and on her heart. She was too good and too innocent for witchcraft to have any power over her.

When the wicked queen saw this, she rubbed her face with walnut-juice, so that she was quite dirty; then she tangled her beautiful hair and smeared it with disgusting ointment, till it was quite impossible to recognize the beautiful Eliza.

When her father saw her, he was much shocked, and declared she was not his daughter. No one but the watch-dog and the swallows knew her; and they were only poor animals, and could say nothing.

Then poor Eliza wept, and thought of her eleven brothers, who were all away. Sorrowfully, she stole away from the palace, and walked, the whole day, over fields and moors, till she came to the great forest. She knew not in what direction to go; but she was so unhappy, and longed so for her brothers, who had been, like herself, driven out into the world, that she was determined to seek them.

She had been but a short time in the wood when night came on, and she quite lost the path; so she laid herself down on the soft moss, offered up her evening prayer, and leaned her head against the stump of a tree.

All nature was still, and the soft, mild air fanned her forehead. The light of hundreds of glow-worms shone amidst the grass and the moss, like green fire; and if she touched a twig with her hand, ever so lightly, the brilliant insects fell down around her, like shooting-stars.

All night long she dreamt of her brothers. She and they were children again, playing together. She saw them writing with their diamond pencils on golden slates, while she looked at the beautiful picture-book which had cost half a kingdom.

They were not writing lines and letters, as they used to do; but descriptions of the noble deeds they had performed, and of all they had discovered and seen. In the picture-book, too, everything was living. The birds sang, and the people came out of the book, and spoke to Eliza and her brothers; but, as the leaves turned over, they darted back again to their places, that all might be in order.

When she awoke, the sun was high in the heavens; yet she could not see him, for the lofty trees spread their branches thickly over her head; but his beams were glancing through the leaves here and there, like a golden mist. There was a sweet fragrance from the fresh green verdure, and the birds almost perched upon her shoulders.

She heard water rippling from a number of springs, all flowing in a lake with golden sands. Bushes grew thickly round the lake, and at one spot an opening had been made by a deer, through which Eliza went down to the water.

The lake was so clear that, had not the wind rustled the branches of the trees and the bushes, so that they moved, they would have appeared as if painted in the depths of the lake; for every leaf was reflected in the water, whether it stood in the shade or the sunshine.

As soon as Eliza saw her own face, she was quite terrified at finding it so dirty and ugly; but when she wetted her little hand, and rubbed her eyes and forehead, her skin gleamed forth once more; and, after she had undressed, and dipped herself in the fresh water, a more beautiful king's daughter could not be found in the wide world.

As soon as she had dressed herself again, and braided her long hair, she went to the bubbling spring, and drank some water out of the hollow of her hand.

Then she wandered far into the forest, not knowing whither she went. She thought of her brothers, and felt sure that God would not forsake her.

It is God who makes the wild apples grow in the wood, to satisfy the hungry, and He now led her to one of these trees, which was so loaded with fruit, that the boughs bent beneath the weight.

Here she held her noonday repast, placed props under the boughs, and then went into the gloomiest depths of the forest.

It was so still that she could hear the sound of her own footsteps, as well as the rustling of every withered leaf which she crushed under her feet. Not a bird was to be seen, not a sunbeam could penetrate through the large, dark boughs of the trees.

Their lofty trunks stood so close together, that, when she looked before her, it seemed as if she were enclosed within trellis-work. Such solitude she had never known before. The night was very dark. Not a single glow-worm glittered in the moss.

Sorrowfully she laid herself down to sleep; and, after a while, it seemed to her as if the branches of the trees parted over her head, and that the mild eyes of angels looked down upon her from heaven. When she awoke in the morning, she knew not whether she had dreamt this, or if it had really been so.

Then she continued her wandering; but she had not gone many steps forward, when she met an old woman with berries in her basket, and she gave her a few to eat.

Then Eliza asked her if she had not seen eleven princes riding through the forest.

"No," replied the old woman, "But I saw yesterday eleven swans, with gold crowns on their heads, swimming on the river close by."

Then she led Eliza a little distance farther to a sloping bank, and at the foot of it wound a little river.

The trees on its banks stretched their long leafy branches across the water towards each other, and where the growth prevented them from meeting naturally, the roots had torn themselves away from the ground, so that the branches might mingle their foliage as they hung over the water.

Eliza bade the old woman farewell, and walked by the flowing river, till she reached the shore of the open sea.

And there, before the young maiden's eyes, lay the glorious ocean, but not a sail appeared on its surface, not even a boat could be seen. How was she to go farther?

She noticed how the countless pebbles on the sea-shore had been smoothed and rounded by the action of the water. Glass, iron, stones, everything that lay there mingled together, had taken its shape from the same power, and felt as smooth, or even smoother than her own delicate hand.

"The water rolls on without weariness," she said, till all that is hard becomes smooth; so will I be unwearied in my task. Thanks for your lessons, bright rolling waves; my heart tells me you will lead me to my dear brothers."

On the foam-covered sea-weeds, lay eleven white swan feathers, which she gathered up and placed together. Drops of water lay upon them; whether they were dew-drops or tears no one could say.

Lonely as it was on the sea-shore, she did not observe it, for the ever-moving sea showed more changes in a few hours than the most varying lake could produce during a whole year. If a black heavy cloud arose, it was as if the sea said, "I can look dark and angry too;" and then the wind blew, and the waves turned to white foam as they rolled.

When the wind slept, and the clouds glowed with the red sunlight, then the sea looked like a rose leaf. But however quietly its white glassy surface rested, there was still a motion on the shore, as its waves rose and fell like the breast of a sleeping child.

When the sun was about to set, Eliza saw eleven white swans with golden crowns on their heads, flying towards the land, one behind the other, like a long white ribbon.

Then Eliza went down the slope from the shore, and hid herself behind the bushes. The swans alighted quite close to her and flapped their great white wings. As soon as the sun had disappeared under the water, the feathers of the swans fell off, and eleven beautiful princes, Eliza's brothers, stood near her.

She uttered a loud cry, for, although they were very much changed, she knew them immediately. She sprang into their arms, and called them each by name.

Then, how happy the princes were at meeting their little sister again, for they recognized her, although she had grown so tall and beautiful.

They laughed, and they wept, and very soon understood how wickedly their mother had acted to them all.

"We brothers," said the eldest, "fly about as wild swans, so long as the sun is in the sky; but as soon as it sinks behind the hills, we recover our human shape. Therefore must we always be near a resting place for our feet before sunset; for if we should be flying towards the clouds at the time we recovered our natural shape as men, we should sink deep into the sea. We do not dwell here, but in a land just as fair, that lies beyond the ocean, which we have to cross for a long distance; there is no island in our passage upon which we could pass, the night; nothing but a little rock rising out of the sea, upon which we can scarcely stand with safety, even closely crowded together. If the sea is rough, the foam dashes over us, yet we thank God even for this rock; we have passed whole nights upon it, or we should never have reached our beloved fatherland, for our flight across the sea occupies two of the longest days in the year. We have permission to visit out home once in every year, and to remain eleven days, during which we fly across the forest to look once more at the palace where our father dwells, and where we were born, and at the church, where our mother lies buried. Here it seems as if the very trees and bushes were related to us. The wild horses leap over the plains as we have seen them in our childhood. The charcoal burners sing the old songs, to which we have danced as children. This is our fatherland, to which we are drawn by loving ties; and here we have found you, our dear little sister., Two days longer we can remain here, and then must we fly away to a beautiful land which is not our home; and how can we take you with us? We have neither ship nor boat."

"How can I break this spell?" said their sister. And then she talked about it nearly the whole night, only slumbering for a few hours.

Eliza was awakened by the rustling of the swans' wings as they soared above. Her brothers were again changed to swans, and they flew in circles wider and wider, till they were far away; but one of them, the youngest swan, remained behind, and laid his head in his sister's lap, while she stroked his wings; and they remained together the whole day.

Towards evening, the rest came back, and as the sun went down they resumed their natural forms.

"To-morrow," said one, "we shall fly away, not to return again till a whole year has passed. But we cannot leave you here. Have you courage to go with us? My arm is strong enough to carry you through the wood; and will not all our wings be strong enough to fly with you over the sea?"

"Yes, take me with you," said Eliza. Then they spent the whole night in weaving a net with the pliant willow and rushes. It was very large and strong.

Eliza laid herself down on the net, and when the sun rose, and her brothers again became wild swans, they took up the net with their beaks, and flew up to the clouds with their dear sister, who still slept.

The sunbeams fell on her face, therefore one of the swans soared over her head, so that his broad wings might shade her.

They were far from the land when Eliza woke. She thought she must still be dreaming, it seemed so strange to her to feel herself being carried so high in the air over the sea.

By her side lay a branch full of beautiful ripe berries, and a bundle of sweet roots; the youngest of her brothers had gathered them for her, and placed them by her side. She smiled her thanks to him; she knew it was the same who had hovered over her to shade her with his wings.

They were now so high, that a large ship beneath them looked like a white sea-gull skimming the waves.

A great cloud floating behind them appeared like a vast mountain, and upon it Eliza saw her own shadow and those of the eleven swans, looking gigantic in size. Altogether it formed a more beautiful picture than she had ever seen; but as the sun rose higher, and the clouds were left behind, the shadowy picture vanished away.

Onward the whole day they flew through the air like a winged arrow, yet more slowly than usual, for they had their sister to carry.

The weather seemed inclined to be stormy, and Eliza watched the sinking sun with great anxiety, for the little rock in the ocean was not yet in sight. It appeared to her as if the swans were making great efforts with their wings. Alas! she was the cause of their not advancing more quickly.

When the sun set, they would change to men, fall into the sea and be drowned. Then she offered a prayer from her inmost heart, but still no appearance of the rock.

Dark clouds came nearer, the gusts of wind told of a coming storm, while from a thick, heavy mass of clouds the lightning burst forth flash after flash.

The sun had reached the edge of the sea, when the swans darted down so swiftly, that Eliza's head trembled; she believed they were falling, but they again soared onward. Presently she caught sight of the rock just below them, and by this time the sun was half hidden by the waves.

The rock did not appear larger than a seal's head thrust out of the water. They sunk so rapidly, that at the moment their feet touched the rock, it shone only like a star, and at last disappeared like the last spark in a piece of burnt paper.

Then she saw her brothers standing closely round her with their arms linked together. There was but just room enough for them, and not the smallest space to spare. The sea dashed against the rock, and covered them with spray. The heavens were lighted up with continual flashes, and peal after peal of thunder rolled. But the sister and brothers sat holding each other's hands, and singing hymns, from which they gained hope and courage.

In the early dawn the air became calm and still, and at sunrise the swans flew away from the rock with Eliza.

The sea was still rough, and from their high position in the air, the white foam on the dark green waves looked like millions of swans swimming on the water.

As the sun rose higher, Eliza saw before her, floating on the air, a range of mountains, with shining masses of ice on their summits. In the centre, rose a castle apparently a mile long, with rows of columns, rising one above another, while, around it, palm-trees waved and flowers bloomed as large as mill wheels. She asked if this was the land to which they were hastening.

The swans shook their heads, for what she beheld were the beautiful ever-changing cloud palaces of the "Fata Morgana," into which no mortal can enter. Eliza was still gazing at the scene, when mountains, forests, and castles melted away, and twenty stately churches rose in their stead, with high towers and pointed gothic windows.

Eliza even fancied she could hear the tones of the organ, but it was the music of the murmuring sea which she heard. As they drew nearer to the churches, they also changed into a fleet of ships, which seemed to be sailing beneath her; but as she looked again, she found it was only a sea mist gliding over the ocean.

So there continued to pass before her eyes a constant change of scene, till at last she saw the real land to which they were bound, with its blue mountains, its cedar forests, and its cities and palaces.

Long before the sun went down, she sat on a rock, in front of a large cave, on the floor of which the over-grown yet delicate green creeping plants looked like an embroidered carpet.

"Now we shall expect to hear what you dream of to-night," said the youngest brother, as he showed his sister her bedroom.

"Heaven grant that I may dream how to save you," she replied. And this thought took such hold upon her mind that she prayed earnestly to God for help, and even in her sleep she continued to pray.

Then it appeared to her as if she were flying high in the air, towards the cloudy palace of the "Fata Morgana," and a fairy came out to meet her, radiant and beautiful in appearance, and yet very much like the old woman who had given her berries in the wood, and who had told her of the swans with golden crowns on their heads.

"Your brothers can be released," said she, "if you have only courage and perseverance. True, water is softer than your own delicate hands, and yet it polishes stones into shapes; it feels no pain as your fingers would feel, it has no soul, and cannot suffer such agony and torment as you will have to endure. Do you see the stinging nettle which I hold in my hand? Quantities of the same sort grow round the cave in which you sleep, but none will be of any use to you unless they grow upon the graves in a churchyard. These you must gather even while they burn blisters on your hands. Break them to pieces with your hands and feet, and they will become flax, from which you must spin and weave eleven coats with long sleeves; if these are then thrown over the eleven swans, the spell will be broken. But remember, that from the moment you commence your task until it is finished, even should it occupy years of your life, you must not speak. The first word you utter will pierce through the hearts of your brothers like a deadly dagger. Their lives hang upon your tongue. Remember all I have told you."

And as she finished speaking, she touched her hand lightly with the nettle, and a pain, as of burning fire, awoke Eliza.

It was broad daylight, and close by where she had been sleeping lay a nettle like the one she had seen in her dream. She fell on her knees and offered her thanks to God.

Then she went forth from the cave to begin her work with her delicate hands. She groped in amongst the ugly nettles, which burnt great blisters on her hands and arms, but she determined to bear it gladly if she could only release her dear brothers.

So she bruised the nettles with her bare feet and spun the flax. At sunset her brothers returned and were very much frightened when they found her dumb.

They believed it to be some new sorcery of their wicked step-mother. But when they saw her hands they understood what she was doing on their behalf, and the youngest brother wept, and where his tears fell the pain ceased, and the burning blisters vanished.

She kept to her work all night, for she could not rest till she had released her dear brothers. During the whole of the following day, while her brothers were absent, she sat in solitude, but never before had the time flown so quickly.

One coat was already finished and she had begun the second, when she heard the huntsman's horn, and was struck with fear.

The sound came nearer and nearer, she heard the dogs barking, and fled with terror into the cave. She hastily bound together the nettles she had gathered into a bundle and sat upon them.

Immediately a great dog came bounding towards her out of the ravine, and then another and another; they barked loudly, ran back, and then came again.

In a very few minutes all the huntsmen stood before the cave, and the handsomest of them was the king of the country. He advanced towards her, for he had never seen a more beautiful maiden.

"How did you come here, my sweet child?" he asked. But Eliza shook her head. She dared not speak, at the cost of her brothers' lives. And she hid her hands under her apron, so that the king might not see how she must be suffering.

"Come with me," he said; "here you cannot remain. If you are as good as you are beautiful, I will dress you in silk and velvet, I will place a golden crown upon your head, and you shall dwell, and rule, and make your home in my richest castle."

And then he lifted her on his horse. She wept and wrung her hands, but the king said, "I wish only for your happiness. A time will come when you will thank me for this."

And then he galloped away over the mountains, holding her before him on this horse, and the hunters followed behind them.

As the sun went down, they approached a fair royal city, with churches, and cupolas. On arriving at the castle the king led her into marble halls, where large fountains played, and where the walls and the ceilings were covered with rich paintings.

But she had no eyes for all these glorious sights, she could only mourn and weep. Patiently she allowed the women to array her in royal robes, to weave pearls in her hair, and draw soft gloves over her blistered fingers.

As she stood before them in all her rich dress, she looked so dazzingly beautiful that the court bowed low in her presence.

Then the king declared his intention of making her his bride, but the archbishop shook his head, and whispered that the fair young maiden was only a witch who had blinded the king's eyes and bewitched his heart.

But the king would not listen to this; he ordered the music to sound, the daintiest dishes to be served, and the loveliest maidens to dance. After-wards he led her through fragrant gardens and lofty halls, but not a smile appeared on her lips or sparkled in her eyes. She looked the very picture of grief.

Then the king opened the door of a little chamber in which she. was to sleep; it was adorned with rich green tapestry, and resembled the cave in which he had found her.

On the floor lay the bundle of flax which she had spun from the nettles, and under the ceiling hung the coat she had made. These things had been brought away from the cave as curiosities by one of the huntsmen.

"Here you can dream yourself back again in the old home in the cave," said the king; "here is the work with which you employed yourself. It will amuse you now in the midst of all this splendor to think of that time."

When Eliza saw all these things which lay so near her heart, a smile played around her mouth, and the crimson blood rushed to her cheeks. She thought of her brothers, and their release made her so joyful that she kissed the king's hand.

Then he pressed her to his heart. Very soon the joyous church bells announced the marriage feast, and that the beautiful dumb girl out of the wood was to be made the queen of the country.

Then the archbishop whispered wicked words in the king's ear, but they did not sink into his heart. The marriage was still to take place, and the archbishop himself had to place the crown on the bride's head; in his wicked spite, he pressed the narrow circlet so tightly on her forehead that it caused her pain.

But a heavier weight encircled her heart- sorrow for her brothers. She felt not bodily pain. Her mouth was closed; a single word would cost the lives of her brothers. But she loved the kind, handsome king, who did everything to make her happy more and more each day; she loved him with all her heart, and her eyes beamed with the love she dared not speak. Oh! if she had only been able to confide in him and tell him of her grief. But dumb she must remain till her task was finished.

Therefore at night she crept away into her little chamber, which had been decked out to look like the cave, and quickly wove one coat after another. But when she began the seventh she found she had no more flax. She knew that the nettles she wanted to use grew in the churchyard, and that she must pluck them herself. How should she get out there?

"Oh, what is the pain in my fingers to the torment which my heart endures?" said she. "I must venture, I shall not be denied help from heaven."

Then with a trembling heart, as if she were about to perform a wicked deed, she crept into the garden in the broad moonlight, and passed through the narrow walks and the deserted streets, till she reached the churchyard.

Then she saw on one of the broad tombstones a group of ghouls. These hideous creatures took off their rags, as if they intended to bathe, and then clawing open the fresh graves with their long, skinny fingers, pulled out the dead bodies and ate the flesh!

Eliza had to pass close by them, and they fixed their wicked glances upon her, but she prayed silently, gathered the burning nettles, and carried them home with her to the castle.

One person only had seen her, and that was the archbishop- he was awake while everybody was asleep. Now he thought his opinion was evidently correct. All was not right with the queen. She was a witch, and had bewitched the king and all the people.

Secretly he told the king what he had seen and what he feared, and as the hard words came from his tongue, the carved images of the saints shook their heads as if they would say. "It is not so. Eliza is innocent."

But the archbishop interpreted it in another way; he believed that they witnessed against her, and were shaking their heads at her wickedness.

Two large tears rolled down the king's cheeks, and he went home with doubt in his heart, and at night he pretended to sleep, but there came no real sleep to his eyes, for he saw Eliza get up every night and disappear in her own chamber.

From day to day his brow became darker, and Eliza saw it and did not understand the reason, but it alarmed her and made her heart tremble for her brothers.

Her hot tears glittered like pearls on the regal velvet and diamonds, while all who saw her were wishing they could be queens.

In the mean time she had almost finished her task; only one coat of mail was wanting, but she had no flax left, and not a single nettle.

Once more only, and for the last time, must she venture to the churchyard and pluck a few handfuls. She thought with terror of the solitary walk, and of the horrible ghouls, but her will was firm, as well as her trust in Providence.

Eliza went, and the king and the archbishop followed her. They saw her vanish through the wicket gate into the churchyard, and when they came nearer they saw the ghouls sitting on the tombstone, as Eliza had seen them, and the king turned away his head, for he thought she was with them- she whose head had rested on his breast that very evening.

"The people must condemn her," said he, and she was very quickly condemned by every one to suffer death by fire.

Away from the gorgeous regal halls was she led to a dark, dreary cell, where the wind whistled through the iron bars.

Instead of the velvet and silk dresses, they gave her the coats of mail which she had woven to cover her, and the bundle of nettles for a pillow; but nothing they could give her would have pleased her more.

She continued her task with joy, and prayed for help, while the street-boys sang jeering songs about her, and not a soul comforted her with a kind word.

Towards evening, she heard at the grating the flutter of a swan's wing, it was her youngest brother- he had found his sister, and she sobbed for joy, although she knew that very likely this would be the last night she would have to live. But still she could hope, for her task was almost finished, and her brothers were come.

Then the archbishop arrived, to be with her during her last hours, as he had promised the king. But she shook her head, and begged him, by looks and gestures, not to stay; for in this night she knew she must finish her task, otherwise all her pain and tears and sleepless nights would have been suffered in vain. The archbishop withdrew, uttering bitter words against her; but poor Eliza knew that she was innocent, and diligently continued her work.

The little mice ran about the floor, they dragged the nettles to her feet, to help as well as they could; and the thrush sat outside the grating of the window, and sang to her the whole night long, as sweetly as possible, to keep up her spirits.

It was still twilight, and at least an hour before sunrise, when the eleven brothers stood at the castle gate, and demanded to be brought before the king. They were told it could not be, it was yet almost night, and as the king slept they dared not disturb him. They threatened, they entreated.

Then the guard appeared, and even the king himself, inquiring what all the noise meant. At this moment the sun rose. The eleven brothers were seen no more, but eleven wild swans flew away over the castle.

And now all the people came streaming forth from the gates of the city, to see the witch burnt. An old horse drew the cart on which she sat. They had dressed her in a garment of coarse sackcloth. Her lovely hair hung loose on her shoulders, her cheeks were deadly pale, her lips moved silently, while her fingers still worked at the green flax. Even on the way to death, she would not give up her task.

The ten coats of mail lay at her feet, she was working hard at the eleventh, while the mob jeered her and said, "See the witch, how she mutters! She has no hymn-book in her hand. She sits there with her ugly sorcery. Let us tear it in a thousand pieces."

And then they pressed towards her, and would have destroyed the coats of mail, but at the same moment eleven wild swans flew over her, and alighted on the cart. Then they flapped their large wings, and the crowd drew on one side in alarm.

"It is a sign from heaven that she is innocent," whispered many of them; but they ventured not to say it aloud.

As the executioner seized her by the hand, to lift her out of the cart, she hastily threw the eleven coats of mail over the swans, and they immediately became eleven handsome princes; but the youngest had a swan's wing, instead of an arm; for she had not been able to finish the last sleeve of the coat.

"Now I may speak," she exclaimed. "I am innocent."

Then the people, who saw what happened, bowed to her, as before a saint; but she sank lifeless in her brothers' arms, overcome with suspense, anguish, and pain.

"Yes, she is innocent," said the eldest brother; and then he related all that had taken place; and while he spoke there rose in the air a fragrance as from millions of roses.

Every piece of faggot in the pile had taken root, and threw out branches, and appeared a thick hedge, large and high, covered with roses; while above all bloomed a white and shining flower, that glittered like a star.

This flower the king plucked, and placed in Eliza's bosom, when she awoke from her swoon, with peace and happiness in her heart. And all the church bells rang of themselves, and the birds came in great troops. And a marriage procession returned to the castle, such as no king had ever before seen.

THE END

#fairy tales #fairy tale art #fairy tale aesthetic #fairy tale illustration #long reads #reading #hans christian andersen #the wild swans

35 notes · View notes

noveltea-lolita · 4 years

Text

Freyja’s Flower {NorFin}

AO3 link: Aph Rarepair Week 2020

This is for @aphrarepairweek2020! Major kudos to my best friend @fluffybunnyblue for helping me come up with the plot <3

Valkyries were female warriors of Odin. I’ve taken creative liberties and made one male.

TW: implies suicide at end

Day 1- Flowers

Tucked away in a small forest on the outskirts of an even smaller village in Norway, there is a cottage with a garden the townsfolk have taken to calling magical. They say the white petals of the sneezewort can bloom in any kind of weather; they say they have witnessed fringed pinks to grow to be forty inches tall; and they say they have heard the liljekonvall sing, and they do not say that to sound poetic- they truly believe they have heard the drooping white bulbs sing in the breeze.

What inanity, some in the town will say when their wives or daughters or son-in-laws whisper these fantastical rumors at the dinner table. Sneezeworts are made to thrive in the toughest of weather conditions; fringed pinks can grow to be quite tall; and you must have mistaken that singing for a bird. There, rational explanations! Now hush and eat your porridge.

Rational explanations, indeed, but those who are blinded by the majesties of this ancient land are never to venture into the garden behind the cottage, for they will never be able to find it. They will miss the path in the evergreen forest, or a mist will arise and they will wander around aimlessly before stumbling back to town, or a thunderous storm will crackle across the heavens and keep them far away from the outdoors. They will stay beside their roaring fires with their hunting dogs at their sides and pipes rolling between their fingers, and they will grumble,

“Singing flowers… this town is full of fools.”

But there are fools who believe in these inanities, and they will find an open path from their village to the forest that leads them to a quaint cottage deep within the evergreens. The first thing they will take in is the exquisite smell, no matter the season it smells of parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, of roses, lavender, jasmine, and chocolate cosmos. It summons the fools forward, beneath the intricate white trellis with wisterias sewed through archway, and into a floral paradise.

Pinks, blues, whites, and yellows align a tiny path etched through the garden, allowing guests to carefully tread through the haven. If their fur laden boots brush against a petal or stem, a gentle wind will push them back to the middle of the path, but it goes unnoticed by the ones it guides. If it is able to grow in Norway, then it is here, in this garden. There are hyacinths in the shade, and freesias in the light; there are moonflowers awaiting the night, and sunflowers stretching their limbs toward Sunna. There are lilies floating across the small pond in the center of the garden, and purple heather swaying around the waters. Hydrangeas, and snowdrops, and lilacs. Stor nøkkeroses, and vivendels, and revebjelles. There is a still beauty in this garden, one every guest can attest to.

There is beauty, and magic, for if you looked- really looked- you would find little creatures bustling about the flowers. Tiny fey folk resting in the bulbs of the flowers, trolls keeping the stems of greenery straight and strong, and maybe even a few merfolk in the “small pond”. These little creatures keep away from the eyes of prying humans, they only ever make their presence known when small children tumble down the paths, so they may tell their mothers of the things they saw. But of all the fey and trolls in this garden, they are incapable of running it. They are not the ones who live in the cottage.

The garden’s guests will tell others the one who sells flowers and herbs is a young man who is too beautiful to even be a man. They say the violets in his garden are the same color as his eyes, and that he dresses humbly in furs and jerkin like the rest of them, but also adorns two rings with sparkling jewels atop. They say he is kind even if he doesn’t smile, they say he looks at his plants as if they were little children, and they say he lives alone. They say they know him.

They are mistaken, for if they truly knew him they would know he is, in fact, a witch. Not the ones humans have made up with their fears of the unknown- no, he is a real witch, one who works with nature, and the gods, and the trolls and fey. They would know he wears one ring in honor of his patron goddess Freyja, goddess of love, beauty, fertility, and battles who loves sparkling jewels, and he wears the second ring in honor of his beloved.

No one truly knows the witch in the cottage, but no one ever pries and the witch never utters a word unless it is about flowers or prices.

By the time the guests have left, either empty handed or with pockets full of seeds, they are happy and content to have found such a wondrous place in their lackluster town. They have spent their entire day in an enchanted garden, though they are not entirely sure what makes it enchanted or magical. They just know it is. When the stars arrive, they close their eyes and drift off to sleep and dream of singing flowers and a mysterious man with eyes of violet.

When they wake, there are more important things to do than visit the garden, but there are always others who find the path and wander inside. Always.

The witch’s garden is open every day, except for one day out of every month. The path is hidden to all so no one may stumble upon it. The night before, the witch waits. He sits in his garden with the fey and trolls, and looks to the night sky and awaits the one coming to him. No matter the weather, no matter the time, he waits, and tonight he waits with a clay pot in his bare hands.

Lukas Bondevik, the witch of the garden, hears the approaching wings in the otherwise silent night and tilts his head back to the black sky. He sees the figure soaring through the stars, a symphony of freedom echoing through the forest with every beat of the figure’s wings. A winged horse. Most would believe themselves drunk if they were to see such a thing, but Lukas could always see more than the average person, and that, believe it or not, had nothing to do with his witchery. He was simply an odd case.

The winged horse draws closer and closer until it drops to the garden, its white coat shimmering in the full moon light. The horse is a magnificent creature, truly a beast of legends, but it is not the horse that Lukas looks to, it is the winged rider.

Armor adorns him, but it is not bulky like the ones worn by the soldiers of Denmark Lukas has seen when he ventures to market. This armor wraps around its wearers body like silk, apart from his shoulders which are, in fact, very bulky. Resting atop his forehead, beneath soft blond hair, is a circlet made of the same material as his armor with metal wings at the sides of it. A round shield is strapped to his forearm, and strapped to his back is a spear. Soft lavender eyes rest on Lukas, their hunger for battle quenched, as it always is whenever he visits his love.

Lukas’s heart will not cease its rapid beating, and he wants nothing more than to run to his beloved and pull him from his horse, but he will not. He will be patient, as always, and stay put until the other has dismounted. The armor is silent, it does not obnoxiously clang with every little movement made. Armored boots step against the ground, between the flowers, and the witch and warrior regard one another. The warrior drops his shield and unstraps his spear before he takes off across the flowers and flings himself against the witch, who put the pot down in order to hold his beloved.

His beloved smells of flowers, of liljekonvall- lily of the valley. He always smells of the drooping flower, and that is why it is Lukas’s favorite flower.

“I have missed you, my dear,” the warrior Timo whispers against his ear. “More than usual.”

Lukas can feel Timo’s tears against his neck- he always cries when they see each other after their time apart- and he tightens his hold. He does not have the strength or the courage to whisper how much he, too, missed the warrior, or how lonely he has been recently. Not even the trolls could chase away his bitter loneliness, it was too deep and thick, an ever consuming pool of black tattooed along his bones and stitched through his throat. All he can do right now is tighten his hold and hope Timo understands.

Timo lets go first and smiles, creating tiny dimples against his cheeks. It is blasphemous to think, but Lukas believes Timo to be more beautiful than Freyja when he smiles. Lukas’s knees shake and he silently tells himself to keep still less he wants Timo to poke fun at him. But Timo only takes his bare hands in his own and says,

“Have you missed me?”

So much so I thought I would lose my mind. “A bit.”

It is not the truth, but Timo’s smile widens anyway. “That makes me happy, I am happy now, Lukas!” The white wings stretched behind Timo give a small flutter, further proving his point. “I am very happy.”

Lukas’s lips twitched, and he doesn’t bother stopping their movement. It was inevitable. “I am aware, but it is unnecessary to tell me, I can see it on your face.”

“Ah, human ways are very strange.” Lukas’s smile fades. Timo is not human, he is far from it. If he didn’t have his wings, there was a possibility he could pass for one, but there is an otherworldliness to him. It shines in his eyes, and twitches with his movements, and may the gods forbid anyone see him fight. “But I love being here, I can smile as much as I want! Now shall we go inside, or walk the garden? I wish to hear about you, my dear, you and your witchery and your flowers. They haunt my dreams, do you know?”

But it didn’t matter how different Timo was from Lukas, for Freyja blessed the world with love so everyone may one day find it. And Lukas found it in a Valkyrie.

“Wait.” He picks up the pot at his feet and curses his slightly trembling fingers. “I wish to give you a present first.”

“A present!” Timo gasps. He comes even closer, lowering his head to exam the pot. “You are giving me a pot of dirt? Oh, how glorious! I will cherish it forever, though I was not aware humans gift one another dirt.”

Maybe Lukas would have laughed if he weren’t so nervous. “No, no, it is not dirt. It is… a new breed of flower I created with magic.” Timo’s brilliant eyes found his, and he was quite sure he fell into Hel for he swore his heart stopped. “It only blooms when someone gives it to the one they love, and that love must be mutual.”

The slight mischief in Timo’s eyes died as Lukas finished his vague explanation. He says nothing more as he stares at the pot- he does not ask what sort of magic was used, nor does he ask what the flower will look like once it blooms. The one who is usually brimming with questions and bubbly conversations is quiet. Still, and unnaturally so. Lukas holds his breath. He is not one to make gifts such as these. He will make his best tea, he will offer his softest furs, but never magic. It is sacred to him, and strange to others. But Timo is not “others”. He is Timo, Lukas’s one and only, and he wishes to share something new with him, something no one else has ever seen in his garden. And that is this.

Calloused hands rest atop his own and pull the pot closer. Together, they hold the pot and stare at the dirt. An indigo light begins to shine from within, glowing ever so softly. And then a small green sprout appears through the dirt. The indigo light guides it up, further, urging it on. The stem becomes longer until petals begin forming. They droop slightly, as they should, as the blue light spins colors together. When the light vanishes, sky blue and white whorl together along soft petals that face the dirt it came from, and the stem sways softly in the gentle wind. Their love created a flower, a gorgeous one that has never been seen by anyone else in this town, in this country, in this world.

But Timo does not comment on the flower. He raises his brilliant gaze and stares at Lukas across the blue-and-white flower with a peaceful look on his face. He is not smiling, but he seems content, calm. “When we Valkyries die, we either go to Odin’s Valhalla or Freyja’s Fólkvangr, but not I. I will come here and live among your flowers until Ragnarök is upon us. So when I die, when a month passes and I do not come in this form, plant our flower so I may find solace there.”

Lukas doesn’t know what to say. He usually doesn’t, but this time he can hardly breathe. The only thing he can do is lean over their flower and press his lips to Timo’s. They are as soft as petals, his breath is as sweet as nectar. Timo parts his lips and Lukas is undone. They break away in order to put their flower down, but they find each other again. Timo wraps his arms around Lukas’s waist and lifts him up effortlessly with strength hidden within his small body, and Lukas complies by wrapping his legs around armored hips and ignoring the tears staining his cheeks. They disappear inside the cottage, leaving behind the witch’s garden, the warrior’s winged horse and their flower.

An entire month passes, one entire moon cycle, and the guests who find the path take it. Mesmerized, they walk beneath the trellis and wisteria and are taken into the floral paradise, but they do not marvel at the beauty this time. They gawk at the still, pale body curled around a singular blue-and-white flower, naked apart from the rings on his fingers. The tears have long since dried on his cheeks, and the warmth has long since faded from his skin, for this happened during the night with only the fey, trolls, merfolk, and flowers as witnesses. It is a collective effort, but his body is buried in his garden, among his flowers and creatures of myth.

When Lukas Bondevik’s younger brother arrives a few days later to watch over his deceased’s garden, he finds two blue-and-white flowers dancing in the gentle breeze, side-by-side, with their roots tangled together beneath the surface.

#aphrarepairweek2020 #norfin #aph norway #aph finland #hws norway #hws finland #tea writes

27 notes · View notes

gloriousranchshepherdzonk · 3 years

Text

Growing Marijuana Indoors - How To Get Started With Growing Weed Indoors

If you are an avid gardener or an aspiring one, you have probably heard of growing marijuana. You may already have some plants and are using them to produce flowers, or as potpourri. Perhaps, you would like to try to grow more, but are unsure about how to go about it. Here is some information on successful growing, not just for beginners, but for experienced growers as well.

Growing marijuana is similar to growing any other plant, except that marijuana requires a special medium, known as soil. Most plants prefer good quality soil, with the right pH level, amount of nutrients, and drainage. Cultivating techniques for other purposes also differ from soil gardening. The two primary methods of cultivating marijuana are hydroponic and aeroponic. Hydroponics can be done using plastic garden bags, with the indoor plants suspended in water, or through a process called misting.

If you want to grow your plants indoors, consider using plastic or mesh pots, since they won't retain moisture and humidity. Growing inside makes it easier to control the environment, since the gardener can manipulate the amount and kinds of light and temperature offered to the plants. Growing outdoors is better for long-term growth, but not always better. Some experts say that some kinds of marijuana are better grown outdoors, especially when the plant has already reached its mature size.

Watering is another issue that many novice marijuana growers face. Some prefer to water their plants only at night, and then do no watering until the next morning. Others find that it is important to water their plants daily and then do no watering for a couple of days. One way to know which method works best is to start out with a small plant, and see how it responds to watering.

Marijuana is sensitive to changes in the environment, so it's best to keep it indoors during the day. However, indoor growing marijuana requires more frequent and larger pruning to take care of the vigorous growth that some indoor growers want to see. Many enthusiasts like to use artificial lights, but the result of these lights can be very fake looking. Some indoor growers, however, choose to go with the natural sunlight.

Some marijuana plants can become weeds and spread all over the place. The best way to prevent this is to provide your plants with structure. One way to do this is to put weeds in containers that have small gaps in the walls. Another thing that some indoor growers do is to use a trellis system that allows the plant to grow tall and upright. This helps to provide a great deal of support to the plant. This also provides the best results to help with getting the plant to produce large buds.

When it comes to growing marijuana indoors, there are many things to consider. The first is that you should know how to properly water the plants. Mist the topsoil and make sure to water the soil below the roots as well. It is also important to keep a close eye on the other plants around to make sure they are getting the proper amount of water as well. It is recommended that you use organic soil and fertilizer to avoid any chemical issues that might affect them negatively when growing weed.

Many people like to start growing cannabis plants weed inside because the process is much easier and faster than growing outdoors. Growing marijuana indoors does require a bit of extra maintenance to get everything set up properly, but many of the issues that people face while growing indoors can be avoided through practice. If you want to try this type of growing, it is important to remember that you need to get the basics down first before anything else.

1 note · View note

onlineplantsnz1 · 9 months

Text

Unveiling the Beauty of Monstera Adansonii: Your Online Shopping Guide in NZ

In the world of indoor plants, the Monstera Adansonii stands as a captivating and sought-after botanical treasure. With its unique, hole-riddled leaves and trailing vines, this plant adds a touch of exotic charm to any living space. If you're a plant enthusiast in New Zealand and eager to introduce this green beauty into your home, we have good news for you. In this blog, we explore the allure of Monstera Adansonii and unveil your online shopping guide to bring this delightful plant into your NZ abode.

The Fascinating World of Monstera Adansonii:

Monstera Adansonii, also known as the "Swiss Cheese Plant," hails from the tropical rainforests of Central and South America. Its captivating foliage, characterized by heart-shaped leaves adorned with unique holes and splits, has made it a favorite among plant collectors and interior designers alike. The striking appearance of Monstera Adansonii adds a touch of natural artistry to any living space, making it a perfect addition to your home in New Zealand.

Why Opt for Online Shopping?

In the fast-paced world we live in, convenience is key. Online shopping for plants like Monstera Adansonii offers numerous advantages. From the comfort of your home in NZ, you can explore a wide variety of options, compare prices, read customer reviews, and select the healthiest and most vibrant plant that suits your preferences. Moreover, online plant sellers ensure secure packaging and delivery right to your doorstep, ensuring the plant's safe arrival in pristine condition.

Choosing a Reputable Online Plant Seller:

Before you embark on your online plant shopping journey, it's essential to choose a reputable seller. Look for online nurseries or specialized plant stores in NZ that have a positive reputation and good customer reviews. A trustworthy seller will provide detailed plant descriptions, care instructions, and excellent customer service to guide you through your Monstera Adansonii purchase.

Ensuring the Health of Your Monstera Adansonii:

When buying Monstera Adansonii online, keep an eye out for healthy and well-established plants. Look for plants with lush, green leaves, and avoid those with yellowing or browning foliage. Check for signs of pests or diseases, and inquire about the plant's age and growing conditions to ensure its adaptability to your home environment.

Care Tips for Your Monstera Adansonii:

Monstera Adansonii is relatively easy to care for, making it a perfect choice for both novice and experienced plant enthusiasts in NZ. Place it in a location with bright, indirect light and provide it with regular watering, allowing the soil to dry out between watering sessions. Mist the leaves occasionally to maintain proper humidity, and consider providing a moss pole or trellis for the plant to climb and thrive.

Conclusion:

Bringing the allure of Monstera Adansonii into your home in NZ is now just a few clicks away. With its striking appearance and ease of care, this tropical beauty is sure to brighten up any indoor space and become a focal point of admiration. Embrace the convenience of online plant shopping and choose a reputable seller to ensure the health and vitality of your Monstera Adansonii. Let this green gem grace your living space, infusing it with the beauty of nature and a touch of tropical charm. Happy plant shopping!

0 notes

chooseyourplant · 4 years

Photo

#MonsteraDeliciosa is recognizable by its large, glossy unique #green leaves with deep splits and holes called fenestrations that appear when the #plant matures. #Monstera is a climbing plant native to southern Mexico and Central America that uses its aerial roots to cling to large trees, so you should provide it with moss-covered support sticks or a trellis. If its aerial roots get unruly you can trim them, but it’s best to just tuck them back into the pot. Monsteras are toxic if ingested, so think it twice before getting one if you have cats, dogs or children. . Image by @livinlavidalewis 📸 . Join our community, share your images with us, your videotutorials, promote your profile, recommends us shops and more! . Tips ✔️ : - Mist the leaves to increase humidity. - Wipe the leaves with a damp cloth and gently dry to keep them clean and healthy. - Don't let your Monstera remain in the water. - Monstera Deliciosa roots are not the type of roots that damage walls or surfaces. - Rotate your Monstera Deliciosa periodically. - Use totems or structures to let it climb so it can grow even bigger. . . Learn how to take care of a Monstera Deliciosa, see images and tutorials from the community and discover plants that look similar and plants with the same requirements at @chooseyourplant 🌱. ________________ To learn more visit 👉 https://www.chooseyourplant.com/monstera-deliciosa . . #Swisscheeseplant #MexicanPlant #Hurricaneplant #plants #nature #plantsofinstagram #indoorjungle #plantsmakepeoplehappy #houseplants #catswithplants #womenwithplants #menwithplants #urbanjungle #milennialplants #plantlover #homedecor #houseplantclub #plantlife #naturelovers https://www.instagram.com/p/B-K5ZraAdzN/?igshid=1g9ws613vhbjz

1 note · View note

dunmerofskyrim · 5 years

Text

“It’s bound to something. That’s the way with them, curses. Always are. Have to be! Like…” Llolamae screwed her face tight, almost scowling with concentration. “Imagine a knot. The complicated fisherman’s kind. There’s loops and there’s twists and there’s, like, knots tied to knots. But if you know how it got tied, you know how to undo it. See?”

“I think so,” said Simra.

The sun was setting in Vedith’s garden, already halfway hidden behind the high mountainsides that walled the valley in. Pink sky. Heat and green and growth or not, it was still Winter, and the days were short, the nights dark and sudden.

“How’s that help us?” said Simra. He was fidgety with second thoughts he was trying not to have. His knee trembled as he sat by the water, boots and footwraps off, and cleaned his feet in the cold of it.

Funny, how quick an ‘us’ had cropped up. Him and the mer he came here to kill, and the girl who guided him to the place where he could do it. Funny, how sometimes when you call something funny you call it that so as not to call it something else.

“Well…” Llolamae sat in the elbow of a thick and gnarled tree, legs crossed under her. She cocked her head, frowning. “Knots, right? A pull on the right part, and it comes undone. That’s curses. Causalities and conditions, all hung on a central contingency.” Tutored words, told off pat. She closed her eyes and nodded then, smiled a little, like she was proud to have remembered a part of some long-ago lesson.

“I understand that alright. But say you come across a knot you didn’t tie, and don’t know how to tie. Not much more you can do than just fumble at it, is there? Pick and scrabble. Hope your fingernails are just the right length and your luck’s just right to come across the right bits. See what comes loose…”

“Aye…” Llolamae admitted. “I’d best get started then.”

Simra’s back straightened and he turned full around through his waist. Raised a wet leg onto the streamside and leaned chin on hands, hands on knee. He looked at Llolamae, brows low and creased. “On…fumbling?”

“Did you not hear me?” Llolamae dropped out of the tree in a flop of feet and falling cloth. “Just sort of got to start feeling round the edges of it, seeing if I can find the thing. Contingency. The thing it’s bound to.”

On his feet now, Simra drew up close to Llolamae, lowering his voice. “Why? I mean, like it or not, I’m on this path now. I could’ve killed him. Sort of still don’t know why I didn’t. But what about you? What’s your reason? Sympathy? Loyalty? Whatever Vedith knows about the torquestone?”

Llolamae shrugged and gave a faint simple smile. “Have you not seen Master Vidanu’s Tel? I don’t want to sleep in a hole under canvas anymore, waiting for a proper spire to grow. Vedith can help.”

Simra bent low, drying his feet and picking up his boots to hide the smile that cracked across his face. “Wise is what that is!” His best imitation of Vedith; a decent one, at least. “Wise is what I call that!”

Poor taste, might’ve been, to joke about someone just as soon as you get done breaking their fingers with their own teakettle. It got Llolamae laughing though, which meant the blame was shared, halved. You take what chances to laugh as life gives you.

The old gardener had retreated inside, into the creeper-grown cottage, alone. Jokes or not, Simra couldn’t blame him. Reckoned it was best he leave him that way. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried to get back on talking terms with someone he’d pulled a blade on, but that was one of many things that didn’t get easier with practice. Leave it till tomorrow. He let Llolamae head inside, alone, and alone he stayed out here.

Fast shadows along the ground. They lengthened and grew with the sinking sun, then spread like damp over everything. Planting beds and plants; the root-branches and branch-roots of the tall things that weren’t quite trees. Walls of the cottage as the dusk came down and a golden light glowed up inside. Llolamae’s magelight. No windows, but it fissured out through the cracks and gaps; made it look like it was breaking apart.

Simra walked in the warm dark, between the beds, the tree-things, the trellis. Careful planted feet, going nowhere. Going nowhere, he told himself, going nowhere; reassuring himself of it, confirming it in his mind. A fragile thought, wavering like a candleflame.

Harder to keep smiling once you’re alone. He made himself breathe from his belly, hand jumping from the hilt of his sword to the sheathes on his knives to the woodbound grip of his sword, uneasy again. If he’d been one for praying, he thought, now would’ve been a good time. Sparing a life — not the kind of thing you want cause to regret. He’d’ve liked cause to do it more often.

…

It wasn’t falling asleep that came hard. Out in the warm dark open, in sweat-stiff clothes, with his mantle balled round his scarf for a pillow, sleep fell on Simra quick and heavy as a Summer’s sudden rain. He’d been so tired. Days of tumbling first this way then that, never knowing where he was headed, or how he was meant to get there. Confusion can exhaust you, same as anything else.

But he woke before dawn, mist on his cheeks and soaked into his outer shirt, world still grey and faded. Couldn’t get back to sleep after that. He picked himself up, stretched, arms above his head and back arching. Regretted it. Grunted a curse and hobbled a few steps, trying to work out the new knots he’d tied in his muscles.

He’d heard of people – swordsmen, ascetics, people with time on their hands – who’d start each day stretching. They’d move from one pose to another, each with their own special names. Scorpion Rears to Strike; Swallow Takes Flight; Spinning Silk. After that it’d be like they’d shaken off all the weight of their body and it’d go through the day light as thought, doing what it was told. Simra didn’t know any stretches like that. Part of him wished that he did. The rest scoffed at the whole idea, or at least the idea that it would work for him. Some things just hurt. Some things, once broke, stay broken.

It was still hot, cloying. The warmth down here didn’t come from the sun, didn’t leave with it either. Just pooled like water, regardless of night or shade. Made you sluggish. It was a warmth that wore you like wet clothes.

A teacup lay on its side, half-forgotten in the flattened grass where he and Vedith had fought. Knees clicking, Simra bent and picked it up, took it over to the watercourse that ran through the garden. Filled it. The cup’s dark glaze turned the water to ink. He splashed a careful measure onto the hobstone and hovered his calloused left palm above it. He felt it grow warm then hot as he fed its enchantment another splash of water.

The teapot was dented, muddy, discarded same as the teacup. He fetched his own – dark fire-blackened bronze, small and sturdy, just more than enough for one person and barely that – and made tea.

With nothing to eat, he drank the whole pot.

There was light enough to read by now. No food, little sleep, but at least he had that. Crouching by his bookbag, he unlaced its mouth and pawed through. Paper, parchment, a book written on slats of wood, laced together like window shutters. Best not to read anything that mattered, that needed to last — not in this wet heat.

He fanned out the handbills and bounties he always had, stuffed and dogeared in the bag’s bottom. Woodcut prints of faces the law, or some lord, or the Temple had put a price on, all of them land and sea and leagues away, useless to him. Old news from elsewhere. Boat refugees from Bravil moved on by measured and merciful force from Narsis; told there’s land for settling in Vvardenfell; meanwhile, the violence in Cyrodiil rages on. Always violence, unrest, discontent — a decade of the same and getting worse each year, and they still didn’t call it a war. First the Concordat that lost Hammerfell, now this ‘violence’, and the Empire still wouldn’t admit it was anything less than whole. For certain it wouldn’t admit it was at war with itself; ablaze with a fire that threatened to spread. That was last year, last Summer, and nothing Simra didn’t already know. Caselif had told him enough for that. He stuffed the bill back in his bag, keeping it for scrap paper.

The writ stood out. It was long, not a scrap but a scroll, and made from fine silkpaper. Not block-printed in bulk, but written in his own formal hand — decent, even with the strike and scratchiness that came with employing a dip-pen to write a script meant for the brushes he’d never quite learnt to use. Ulessen’s scribe had hunched over his shoulder, watching as he wrote it. Now, with the sun rising slow, a change in the dark before it shed any light, he sat in the shade of the trellis and began to read.

It was his usual. He’d done his own writwork for years now, he’d said. Set his own terms. And he never left much room for worming out by one clause or another, not for him, and not for the client. That was the idea. Keep things stark, simple, in plain words, but lengthy enough, detailed enough, to make things seem professional, polished, planned for. In this writ, only the clause about up-front pay was changed. There was no pay at all, just a debt held over him, clear and quiet and smug, sure there was no way out from under it but the way Ulessen had offered him. A backroads lender, you could run from, hide from. A Telvanni magister, one with all the force and power of an old Tel behind them, would always find you.

A shrill from inside the cottage and Simra was already on his feet. It wasn’t the same sound as hurried him up that snowbank two yesterdays ago, and into a triangle of Kogaru with spears and sour red-painted faces. But it was still Llolamae, and it was close enough. He trampled beds, weeds, grasses. Found the door and shouldered it in, hand gone to his knives and twitching one out of its sheathe.

Vedith was asleep, on his back, on a palette of green wood and silky mushroom skin. Open mouth and pot-belly rising, falling. His broken hand was clawed shut, clutched to his chest like a pigeon’s bad wing.

Llolamae turned to look at Simra with ricebowl-wide eyes, sparkling with her grin even before he saw it in her red-gummed mouth, her mismatched child and unchild’s teeth. She shrieked again, words this time:

“I done it!”

Simra slackened and stopped. The hand on his knife-grip, the half-drawn blade, was heavy and weak now. His shoulders sagged. “You figured it out?” He said it flat. Couldn’t muster any feeling into the words, not while his heart was still pounding, choking the back of his throat and fooling his tongue dry and clumsy.

“I reckon so, aye!”

“Then why scream about it?” He saw Vedith was still sleeping, even through all the noise. Seemed Simra had strength left to feel bitter on that, at least.

Llolamae half-turned away, a slight hang to the angle of her head. “Thought you’d be pleased…”

Simra held back a grunt, a huff, and slumped against one of the cottage walls. “I am.” Seemed he had sense left to feel bad over snapping at her, at least. To feel bad all round. Aching shuddering muscles, battle-blood draining sick and away before he even knew it was up and upon him. “That’s good. Really good, maybe.”

“Sort of wondered if you’d come running again, too…” A part-moon sliver of Llolamae’s grin had stayed on her face. She turned it to him now.

Simra shrugged. He was here, wasn’t he? “What’d you find out? Can you break it? The curse.”

“Not with magic, no. Reckon I know how, though.”

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon

8 notes · View notes