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ineluctablehere · 3 years

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To Achilles, the sky would always turn grey

The sky was grey. A vivid dark grey with clouds that resemble smoke. The air smelled like blood and dust. It smelled like flames .. Like agony. It smelled like war.

The white blood trickling flag tied high on the pole was seen far away . Too small to be noticed .

A white flag, splotched with browning red was tied high on a pole, a long way away from her castle. But they were here already. Their metal clicking , clanking swords dripping blood onto the soil that reeked red. The piles of bodies created a pattern nobody would want to trace and yet the queen was calm in her castle.

Her armour was loose and detached as the last left huddled around her. Their heads bent low in shame and fear. This was the end . This is what they feared the most. The ending where they would never return home.

Nobody dared to speak a word. There was nothing else to do. Their queen would have to surrender. She would be beheaded or worse-become a slave. They had heard of the King of the North. The atrocities people suffered in his prison. How women would plead to be killed than be graced with morning’s light. Mercy was something he had long forgotten.

The silver shields crowded in the room reminded her of her coronation. Except the blood sticking to the wounds and the fear that hung low in the air, sticky and suffocating. Her knight speaks up , his voice too bold.

“ I’ve prepared the west wing, my Queen. They are well equipped. The swords , the cannon , we have plenty-” he is interrupted.

“ We will still lose.” her words are sharp and painful ,like the final breath leaving the living.

“ We have the archers given swords too , I think if we try to attack from the south quadrant-”

“Achilles .” The queen gently places her hand on his bruised knuckles . He looks up, too fragile to be viewed at the moment. He had lost hope.

“Why do you lie, Achilles? You hated liars when we were young. Have you changed perhaps?” There is a small smile that grazes the queen's face. Her green eyes searching the golden sea. He blinked before standing straight. “ That’s all we can do .”

“ Is it ?” her smile falters a little. Carefully looking at the torn boy in front. “ My Queen the south quadrant is fully-”

“ Achilles , I’ll come to the foreground.” The golden eyed man looked shocked , betrayed. tell himself this was a nightmare , a terrible terribly cruel nightmare he would wake up from. He would wake up and be 10, a child with loose flowing tangled ebony hair. He would run across the halls of the castle hoping to see his best friend . He would smile at his best friend, grass green eyed girl with juvenile mischief.

“Prepare to clear the entrance, I want no civilians , no soldiers . No one . Bring me the chariot.”

“My Queen-” the murmurs erupt , the walls rumbling .

“ I have sworn to protect my kingdom and that is exactly what I shall do. This is an order. You are my army. You will listen to me and nobody else.” her voice bounces, ricochets off across the crystal sheets of the ceiling , erupts into the ash sky and the sun gleams ,pouring his vessel onto her.

The queen in all her majesty sat on her golden throne , engraved with carvings of silver and ivory. Her sword firm in her hand . the white gown sprawled across the floor. She looked powerful.

She was the ruler and nobody else. The dark blue streaks slightly danced across the tips of her hand. Achilles stood emotionless beside his queen. Witnessing something he never wanted to.

“ Now leave. Do not fear them. Fear can kill you before death. -” There is a loud sigh.

“ I hope I've been a worthy queen.”

There was pain in their eyes. The fear is long gone. There is guilt . There is remorse .They look at their queen one last time before leaving the hall , determined to fight for her. But she was determined to die for them. They chose her and here she was giving away her life for her kingdom, the same that might forget her in years. The men and women adorned with weapons swore to never forget her. They swore to build temples to celebrate her, and promised to chant hymns to praise her. Carve her name over and over again on the walls of the kingdom. The children will sing about her to their children. Their children to theirs.

The wind would cry her story and the trees would listen.

But in the end she is a child. A child forced to wear a crown , forced to rule a kingdom. A child who lost her childhood. They wish to see her smile again. Dance across the halls of the castle, sing during festivals and grant the wishes of the children that cross the doors .

It’s too late now.

Achilles waits for her to explain herself. Tell him to not lose hope. Tell him the fight has just begun. He stares at her. Watching her lips curve into a solemn smile.

“ Some days come sooner than we think they would. There is nothing to mourn here Achilles-”

“ What do you mean ?!” The boy roars. “ You are going to ..die” his sword clatters onto the floor. The tears finally streamed down his tanned face. He sobs. His head safe in his palms, his body trembling.

“ Do not cry , you need to accept reality. This is what I’m born for. This is what the people want. They want to live and I'll let them live.”

“ Do not deny me the right to cry! You are going to die and there is no-thi-ng I can do.” he looks at his empty hands.

“ There is a lot you can do , you can stand with your men and women, with your kingdom. You can be the greatest knight in history.” the queen steps down from the podium.

“Rise dear Achilles, I wouldn't want our farewell to be this way. Lead me to the battle will you?

Stay with me till they come.” It was a silent plea. A small consideration for everything they shared.

“ We could ask for help from the West-”

“Achilles, do not lie to your queen. You know this better than me. We all will die. I cannot sacrifice my people, not anymore. I can't be selfish. A queen can never be selfish.” She walks past her dear companion.

“Do not blame yourself , do not be guilty. This is my choice.” There is an uncomfortable silence that settles. The wind was heard slow and humming beyond the long glass windows.

The queen is afraid to look back, afraid she might break seeing him. If she had to choose, it would be to turn blind. “ Can I hold you, before you….go?” The voice is too faint to be heard. It's not a request , it was a plea.

“I’m afraid not.” The queen's voice is cold and she regrets her words. Like thorns pricking her fingers or nails digging into her flesh. There is pain and remorse but there is duty and responsibilities.

She wasn't afraid to die. She was afraid of what she would leave behind. She was afraid that if she held him, she wouldn't want to let go.

“Achilles,” the queen looks ahead “ They need you right now. The people , the kingdom. Do not waste your tears on me.”

“I love you.” The words are louder and clearer echoing softly. There are no staggering waves of confrontation . She wondered if it killed him to say it out aloud. She remembers repeating the same words to him over and over again. But they were 10 then and he called her a fool. He reminded her who she was and who he was. They both were fools.

“ I know.” The queen leaves him behind.

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As she walks across the shining marble hallways of a castle she won't ever enter again, she feels empty. The slow blue light draping across her hair, her armour tightened, her sword replaced, there is a power that flows through her. The blue light flickers between her fingers. Slow and light waiting to destroy everything.

And as the tall , heavy ivory doors of the castle push open, she smells the death that approaches. She hears the scream of her name , echoing in the empty hallway a little distance away followed by quick footsteps. It was her brother , the boy with the huge wondrous eyes and cheerful laugh.

“Prepare for coronation Edmund.” She orders the General.

“Your highness-”

“This is an order!” The queen proclaims looking past the crowd of fighters left.

He bows , tears staining his ashen face.

“Two days from today you will have a new King.”

They bow.

“Also do me a favour Edmund, don't let him see this . Lock him up for all I care but don’t let him watch me die.” The older man drenched in war responded with his gleaming eyes. The prince was ordered to be locked up right away.

There are screams and shuffles of resistance heard. Her brother shouts her name over and over again, trying to tackle the soldiers.

“Close the gates as I leave. Everyone stays inside.” The man confirms.

“Thank you. For everything.” She pats his shoulder. The older man watches the tall girl with a pale face. “Your Highness.” They bow down.

If God is who saves you then their queen was their God.

She had twenty full moons to 24.

24 was her favourite number. Sometimes what you need the most are things you could never have.

The blue flames rise slowly , seeping into her skin.

She was alone in the barren land. This isn't a curse for sure. To die for what you love, it never was a curse. As the blue slowly dripped into her blood, she knew she was a grenade. A ticking a bomb that would kill them all.

The castle was so far away. She wondered if Achilles would ever speak of her to his children . tell them about the queen whose hair would sparkle blue fire. About the queen who tried too hard to not love.

She yields her sword like a feather in the wind and the blue bursts into the sky, the land burns in blue fire. There are screams of agony and the land mourns behind.

She saves the day and never herself.

Achilles had lied, his favourite was blue but as the land burned blue and indigo , he hated it so much.

He always loved green.

#oc inspo #tumblr writers #writersofinstagram #story ideas #mystical #knightcore #queen #writers on tumblr #writerscafe #story #original character

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theimaginesyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

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Foreigner’s God {Three}

Chapter Three: Persistence

Chapter One Chapter Two

This is pretty much the only thing I have to post right now. I’m super busy with my work so hopefully this can tide people over even if no one seems to be reading this series. Perhaps it will pick up from here. Anyways, comments and feedback are appreciated, as always. And I hope you all enjoy. <3

It had been a week since Ilona had met with Frigga. She sat on the small cot she was allowed as a servant and scratched at the cuff around her ankle. The room was filled with quiet snores and a few rumbling roars. The breaths of the sleeping all blurred together but she wasn’t one of them. She was awake. And alert. And not because she wanted to be, because someone else did.

She was tired. Not just because of her inherent insomnia from being trapped so far from her true home, nor the fact that she was still awake. Perhaps a better word was exasperatd. If she could say anything of Loki, it was that he was indeed skilled at being the trickster he claimed to be. At first, it was simple enough to ignore his little tricks; the small messes, the random footsteps behind her when no one was around, the whispers from every crack and crevice. But now he was everywhere; watching and waiting. That he was getting to her made her suffering all the worse.

“One night of peace,” She spoke to the dark, “That’s all I ask.”

No answer sounded but she hadn’t expected one. She tried to see through the shadows but she was hindered by the anklet. She huffed and stood, storming to the door in her thin nightgown. She whisked into the hallway, a subtle wind flitting out with her and she set off down the corridor. He had followed her out of the sleeping chambers, she knew. She couldn’t stand it. She was always one who was straight to the point and this game was getting old.

She headed towards the tall window at the end of the next corridor. There she could at least gaze up at the moon; clear her mind. She needed to steady herself and moonlight was healing. She leaned on the window sill, the silver rays embracing her pleasantly. She didn’t know how it limned her figure through the thin cotton of her sleeping gown. She was thick and shapely unlike these waifish Asgardians.

A shadow loomed to her left and turned flesh in the eerie night light. She looked over as Loki smirked down at her. She glared at him, pulling her long braid over her shoulder as she turned her attention back to the window. She felt his warmth closer to her as he inhaled her scent, his nose brushing the top of her head. If she were not restrained, she would have had him by his throat already.

“How many times must I tell you no?” She growled.

“Until you say yes,” He slithered. “How long can you hold out without your magick? Is it not tortuous to be able to see it but have no defense against it?” She stayed silent, leaning out the window further, her elbows in the stone window pane. “Even just a little bit? Just enough to close a door without rising or warm the kettle without a flame. Even just for an hour of sleep?”

“I want nothing but your absence,” She sighed.

“It is not a trick. I could request of my mother that your restraint be lessened. Your magick would still be dampened but you would be allowed more than you have now,” He was behind her, he was trying not to touch her. It was as if he was waiting to cross that line until it would truly affect her.

“Do you expect me to believe that you would restore any magick to me? Do you think me naive enough to believe any of your words, Loki Laufeyson?” She challenged, standing upright and turning on him only to find him already closing in. His hands were on either side of the window frame and he leaned in so that the moon outlined his features.

“I will only make this offer once,” He said in a low voice. “Refuse and that’s it. When you are mine, you will be as powerless as you are in this very moment.”

“Yours?” She scoffed. “I belong to no one.”

“You belong to the crown of Asgard.” He retorted, “Naturally, ownership would pass to a prince. A birthright, if you will.”

Her nonchalance wavered and her heart sank. She knew where she stood in this life but Loki made it ever more obvious. She had minded her own business, done her work, kept her mouth firmly sealed. She had done everything to avoid attention and yet she had drawn the eye of the most venomous snake in the garden.

“My answer remains the same,” She stated, waiting for him to move from her path. “I should like to sleep now, if that is all.”

“I didn’t dismiss you,” He said sharply. He stared her down, growing frustrated as she refused to flinch. He pushed himself away from her and huffed. “Very well, go on. Go lay in the dark.” He waved her away as he turned his back to her. “Oh and,” He looked over his shoulder, “The next time you fail to address me by my proper title, I will make sure you are adequately punished for the offense.”

Loki stepped away, fading into the dark with a green puff. Ilona’s cuff trembled against her ankle as her magick seethed and flared against its restraint. The moon had refreshed her strength and she was ready for a new day. She would not give up so easily.

Ilona had spent hours scrubbing the kitchen floors. Dirt had caked along her fingernails and her apron was streaked with grime. The duty was thrust upon her not so spontaneously by Della who was eager to reassert her superiority. Every servant had their turn at the mercy of her spite. Every one made to suffer for one slight or the other; imagined or otherwise.

All but the dishwashers had left before Ilona finished her task, having to work around the feet of the other servants. She stood, gripping her broad hips and stretching her lower back. She lifted the bucket of dirty water, draping the filthy rage over its brim and taking the mop in her other hand. She said her good nights to the few servants still at their work and they parroted her nicety as she neared the wide door.

It was late enough that the castle felt near empty. The nobles had retreated to their private chambers, alone or not, and only a few personal servants ventured the hallways on their masters latest request. Ilona was careful not to spill the water as she traversed the stone floor, the stairs a challenge in themselves.

Below, she found the small round door used only by those of her status. She pushed it open and dumped her pail into the muddy pit. A hidden deformity of Asgard; wet dirty twisting every downward, swallowing whatever met its depths. A sign of magick misused. Some ancient spell miscast and hidden by the royal architecture.

Ilona rinsed her bucket and mop in the laundries and replaced them in the cupboard which held dozen of wooden vessels and their lanky companions. She stretched her moisture-wrinkled fingers as she walked along the shadowed corridor, holding back a yawn. Her nocturnal habits had not improved and she expected little sleep. A shower would at least be a reprieve.

The servants showers, like their chambers, the kitchens, and the laundries, were held in the lower levels of the palace. At this hour, they were abandoned. They would be busier come the first light when all prepared for their daily toil. Brass spouts were set into the stone walls, no dividers to shield one from their neighbour. Servants had little want for privacy; few had ever known that privilege.

The showers were uncanny at this time of night. She had rarely been there when they were not filled with steam and bodies; voices bouncing from the stone in a cacophony. Ilona untied her apron, hanging it in the small room at the east of the showers. Hooks lined the wall and benches filled the space, vacant of the usual crowds.

She slowly unlaced her gown, tugging at it over her shoulders awkwardly as it loosened enough to slip past her hips. She stepped out of the dusty beige garment and added her shift to the bunch. She left her shoes below the bench and tucked her stockings inside. She untied her hair, letting the loose waves spill down to her bottom as she passed through the door frame into the washing chamber itself.

She liked being here alone. There were no one else to stare at her tattoos and whisper. She didn’t mind their judging but she detested their endless gaping. They couldn’t seem to fathom the inky raven nestled just over her cleavage, wings spread across her collarbones, reaching to her shoulders. Down her arms flew loose feathers into winding vines and foliage, thorns and thistle intertwined. These pattern continued all the way around her neck and the top of her shoulder blades, with critters hidden behind the greenery. A forest sewn into her skin.

She neared a spout and twisted the faucet until the water spilled forth. At first it was cold to her skin; rousing, but it quickly turned hot. Steam rose around her in a column as she faced the fountainhead, the water soaking into her thick tresses. She scrubbed at her scalp, reaching for the vial of oil upon the showers ledge. She spread it over her hair and rinsed it thoroughly.

Next she took the small tin of scrub; an assortment of honey and oil. She closed her eyes as she turned her back to the shower, letting the hot water rinse away the remnants of the wash. She wiped away the water from her eyes, opening them to a shadow along the far wall. If she were foolish, she would cover herself, gasp, and shy away, but she knew it was a game.

Loki’s green eyes glowed, coming clearer from the dark as he neared her, unashamed of his imposition. She continued to cleanse herself as if he was not watching her, wasn’t slowly closing in on her. He stopped only a foot away from her, smirking as he took in her nudity. His eyes lingered on the tattoos which marked her rich skin, tauntingly descending lower as if daring her to shield herself. He sighed as he took in the swell of her chest, the curve of her waist, the plumpness of her thighs. She held in the shudder which threatened, turning to stem the flow of water.

She reached for the towel awaiting her along the metal bar but a pale hand stilled her own. Loki was almost flush to her naked back, holding her in place with his shadow. Close enough without truly being against her. “Ilona,” He greeted. It was almost a threat.

“Your majesty,” She recalled his previous warning. He relinquished his hand and stepped away, pleased by her recollection. She wrapped herself in the towel, but kept herself from rushing. “Forgive me, I am ill-prepared to receive a prince.”

She twisted her long locks a little at a time as she turned to look at him. He reached out to touch a strand, exploring the length with his fingers. He inhaled deeply and let go of her hair. “You’ve received me just fine.” He grinned, “You even cleaned yourself up...just for me.”

Ilona couldn’t help the curl of her lips at his words. She steeled herself as his fingers settled on the lines of her tattoo, tracing the winds of the bird. “My father always favoured ravens. Smart birds,” He commented, “Clever…vengeful. My mother is wise to keep you restrained. I see that loathing in your eyes. You hate us, don’t you? What we did to your home.”

She blinked at him, taking his hand from her collarbone boldly, turning it so that she could see his palm. “A trickster you are,” She traced the first line, “But you cannot hide who you truly are. This break, signifies insecurity, this one uncertainty, and this,” She ran her thumb along the pad below his thumb, “A lack of purpose. What could one expect of a second son.”

Loki snatched away his hand, snarling as he turned away from her. She waited for the tempest to begin but the prince merely lowered his head and clasped his hands behind his back. He swirled back to her, a smirk once more upon his lips. “A marvelous trick you have there. The next time my mother is seeking entertainment for her ladies, I should recommend you.”

“Your majesty,” She quelled the tide rising within her. Why should he vex her so much?

He chuckled and stepped closer once more. “Do not worry, sorceress, I haven’t come to take you just yet. Not until you’re all mine.” He leaned down, his hand cradling her chin as he ran his nose along her cheekbone, lowering his voice, “And you will be mine.”

He was gone then. Leaving his sentence hanging before her in the fading steam. She hugged her towel tighter to her body as goosebumps formed along her naked flesh. She should have ignored him that night at the feast, as he had intended for all to do. Shouldn’t have been so forward as to confront his glamour. She had unwittingly turned the trickster’s eye upon herself.

#loki #fic #series #part 3 #marvel #mcu

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ihaveonlymydreams · 5 years

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Every now and then I come back to this opening of a story that I wrote some years ago and that I can hopefully return to writing soon now that I’m almost finished dissertating. I don’t really know anything about it except that it’s about a bandit with social anxiety who calls himself Stardust and a wordmage named Emiliana with a smartaleck magic book. I would love some feedback on it!

Stardust adjusted his white mask with some care, checking his reflection in the perfectly polished surface of the dress saber he never used. He wore it more for the sake of fashion than for combat - a bandit was not a duelist, no matter what popular tales said. What the saber's feelings were, on the loss of dignity incurred by being relegated to the status of a lady's hand mirror, had not occurred either to Stardust or to his winged partner, who chose this moment to snort emphatically and stamp one heavy feathered hoof.

“You wouldn't have me rob the king's skyway without looking my best, would you, Silence?” Stardust protested, tugging the leather straps tight after making sure that the eyebrow ridges overshadowed his eyes, hiding their peculiar shade of blue. The mask fitted to his face as if it had been molded there, leaving only his eyes, mouth, and chin uncovered. The short white stubble on his face and the shaggy white pelt of his hair, combined with the subtle shapes and wrinkles of the mask, gave him the impression of being a good twenty years older than he was.

Silence, true to his name, said nothing, but tossed his pale mane scornfully and whinnied. Little shivers ran across his golden coat as he stretched his wings, nearly knocking Stardust off his feet with a gust of wind.

“Keep your feathers on!” the bandit exclaimed, sheathing his saber. “I'm coming.”

He double checked the pistols in his holsters, adjusted the bandoliers over both shoulders, and fitted both parts of his long rifle into their straps on Silence's saddle. He slipped into the leather harness that strapped around his chest and waist, making certain that the long ropes attaching him to Silence were secure and would bear his weight. Finally, he double-checked the short-barreled derringers in their waterproof sheaths at the top of his thigh-high boots. That bit of tech had cost him a good part of his savings, but it had been worth every cent.

Stardust vaulted easily up onto his companion's back and gathered the reins, taking one last fond look around him as he always did. His nest was the result of fifteen years' work, careful planning and execution, bargaining and haggling, having the right contacts and buying nothing that he and Silence could not carry themselves: soft carpets on the ground, walls of bookshelves, tapestries covering the cave's original stone walls, and gentle glowlamps that drew their power from nothing but the faint gleams of daylight that streamed down during the day, from the one and only entrance high above their heads. Several steel-bound chests held most of his profits, built as solidly as the other few pieces of furniture he had acquired. A hay-strewn nook on the other side of the cave was the only proof of non-human habitation—otherwise the room might have belonged in any of the world's finest castles. Stardust gave a little sigh of satisfaction and imagined the fine carved mantelpiece that he'd had an eye on recently, fitting neatly into the area between his favorite chair and his bed. If his contact had been right about today's transaction, he should have more than enough gold to buy it without having to dip into his emergency funds.

“Let's go make some money,” he told Silence, and slid his feet into the stirrups that connected to the wing harness. A sharp tug down with his heels told the pegasus to rise, and with one powerful downsweep of wings they were airborne, climbing almost vertically towards the narrow crack in the stone high above them. It seemed barely wide enough for Silence's wingspan, but he soared through without so much as brushing the sides of the crevice, then banked to avoid the pines that clung stubbornly to the bare jagged rocks. Weaving deftly through them, he stayed low to the ground until it fell away under them in a sheer cliff and he shot out, like some vast golden bird catching the reflection of the light, into a panorama that never failed to make Stardust catch his breath.

The vast sheer peaks of the Pillars stretched out beneath them, unutterably high and crowned with green, shooting up from the clouds as if some giant's towers, older than the ages, crumbled into disarray, had taken on the patina of nature but somehow had failed to hide their long-forgotten purpose. The rising sun shot out over the mists in rays of diffuse golden light, silhouetting the high narrow shapes, making of the cloud-cover a foaming white sea. Stardust knew that the clouds rarely, if ever, parted, and wondered again how far below them was the real sea—whether he would even be able to see the white tops of its waves, or the undulating shadows of the serpents under its blue skin. He knew they were too high for birds or wyverns here, in the thin bracing air that few creatures could breathe easily. He'd had to spend his first profits on a very discrete, very expensive corpmage who had increased his lung capacity and his blood's ability to carry oxygen. Now he could breathe easier in the high altitudes than on the sea level, so it was with some regret that he pointed his toes and gave Silence the signal to dip below the cloud surface.

This was Silence's native environment. In the gray-white world, his plumage almost disappeared, and the pale gold of his coat dimmed nearly to gray without the light to reflect it. Strands of mist swept away from his quiet velvet wings, which made him inaudible as well as invisible. He was little more than a cloud within a cloud, and Stardust, dressed all in white leather, was hardly a shadow on his back.

He didn't attempt to guide his companion's flight, apart from pointing him in the right general direction. Fingers of rock rose as pale shadows within the mist almost as they passed, and Silence banked between them as effortlessly as if he could see, his chest rising and falling under Stardust's knees as he sent out his inaudible calls. His ears flicked back and forth in a constant pattern, catching the echoes that bounced back to him, alerting him of obstacles ahead.

Stardust timed a half hour on his silver pocket watch and waited until he knew they had emerged from the wildest section of the Pillars. The peaks that rose on the outskirts were shorter, more suitable to human habitation, and the skies above them tended to be clearer. He pulled his telescope from a pocket—another expensive techmage modification—and sighted through it, lowering the lever on the side that activated the long-range sonar. After a noticeable pause, the shadowy image of a castle resolved to his right. They had come out nearly where he had predicted, over the skyroute that led from Castle Condor, on his right, to the more densely populated city of Tristan's Peak, about half a day's flight to the south. Few people traveled here, Castle Condor not being the most hospitable of locations due to the cold northern seas that surrounded it and the thick stone walls that protected it against the long winters. But it was a good place to store your treasure, if you wanted it safe from prying eyes and greedy hands. Stardust had never stormed the castle, and he did not mean to do so now. Skyway robbery was his game.

They shadowed the skyroute from above, barely out of sight in the cloud-cover, until Stardust caught the shadowy image of a carriage coming towards them.

“At last, praise the six wings of the archangel,” he muttered in Silence's ear. “I was starting to get cold up here.”

Silence snorted softly and plunged forward and up. They banked sharply and dropped down through the clouds, coming out silent and and precise behind the carriage.

At first Stardust was convinced he had the wrong travelers. A v-wing of merely five wyverns carried the square vehicle beneath them, their powerful muscular bodies barely straining at the weight suspended by powerful steel cords. There were no outriders, only one driver perched on the head wyvern. Stardust sighed, flipped the lever on his telescope back up, and peered through it at the insignia on the driver's livery: a condor in flight, surmounted by two stars.

“Well, this is the right one, after all,” he told Silence. “Maybe they think to disarm suspicion by transporting the treasure this way. Fools,” he judged, and leaned forward, unhooking his long rifle from beside his legs and fitting the parts together as he pointed his toes down.

Silence flapped his great wings once and then glided swiftly down, pulling back with quick but quiet wingstrokes just before dropping into the empty space inside the v-wing. The wyverns shied away, all but the first, whose rider went stiff as the barrel of Stardust's rifle touched the back of his neck.

“Pull out your weapons and drop them, if you don't want a bullet in your neck,” Stardust warned in a low growl.

The unfortunate man nodded frantically and pulled out his regulation shotgun, tossing it down. It fell a long way, and the splash was both invisible and inaudible. He gulped.

“If you try anything at all, my pegasus will pick you off your wyvern and send you down to join it, understand?” Stardust growled. The driver nodded again, putting his open hands up in the air. He didn't move a muscle when Stardust removed the rifle and slung it loosely by the saddle.

“I'll be back,” he told Silence, and launched himself off into the open air, his gloved hands sliding over the ropes that smoothly unspooled from the saddle. His aim was precise—a few feet directly above the carriage, his hands closed over the ropes. He twisted upward, executing a perfect flip before landing on both feet, knees slightly bent.

The carriage was large enough to hold several of him. A quick glance over the side showed him a simple windowed door, unlocked. Stardust paused for a moment—something was not right—but he had no time to wait and no choice but to continue. He swung down on one rope, twisted the handle, and swung into the carriage as the door opened.

He was greeted by a very female gasp.

Oh, not a person! was Stardust's first thought, followed quickly by, a woman?

He looked around him. He was standing in a passenger carriage, clearly built for comfort, with two plush seats, built into beautiful wooden cabinets for storing luggage, with clear glass windows on all four sides, and even patterned carpet on the floor. One of the seats was empty. The other contained a woman of indeterminate age, with untidily braided dark hair that was escaping in wild curls in all directions, and a pair of keen gray eyes enhanced by large spectacles. Those eyes were currently examining him, with a great deal of curiosity and very little fear.

“Are you a bandit?” she asked.

Obviously, lady, Stardust said inside his head. Why else would I be wearing a mask and dropping from the sky?

Outwardly, he choked slightly on the beginning of a word, gave it up as a bad job, and drew one of his pistols with a sigh. He hated holding people up, if only because it was human interaction, of a kind, and their eyes always made him self-conscious.

“T - Treasure,” he managed to say without stumbling too much over the word, and waved his pistol gently in her direction, trying not to meet her eyes.

“Surely you don't intend to threaten me with an uncocked pistol?” she asked, folding her hands primly over the book in her lap.

Stardust groaned inwardly. Now you decide to be perceptive. He cocked the pistol a little more aggressively than necessary, and pointed it in her general direction again.

“I'm sorry to have to say this, after you've gone to all the trouble,” said his irritatingly calm victim, “but I don't actually have any treasure. Other than a few books, some second-rate gowns, and myself, you're not going to find anything in here. You're welcome to search if you don't believe me.”

He was forced to meet her eyes. She looked completely harmless, and more to the point, entirely sincere—with a piercingly direct gaze that reminded him forcibly of an owl. On a sudden impulse, he uncocked the pistol again, holstered it, and then reached out to pull the too-large spectacles off her nose. She squinted, her eyes growing vague, and her face came into focus—a fairly young woman, too old to be marriageable but too young to be a spinster. Not exceptionally pretty, with a slightly crooked nose and a too-square chin, but her mouth was well-shaped. Something in her looks nagged at him, like the ghost of a memory trying to resurface, but he couldn't grasp it.

Then he heard the high-pitched scream of the gryphons, and his eyes shifted to the window behind her. There they were, mere dots in the sky, but he knew from experience that they would take minutes to arrive. He turned to look beside him, behind him—they were coming from all directions.

Either someone had set him up, or this girl was far more valuable than she seemed. He dropped the spectacles, fumbled for his telescope, and almost lost it out of the open door he had entered. Yes, he could see their livery—no bandits these, but King's Riders, in the flashy scarlet and gold that stood out against blue sky for all to see.

Stardust whistled for Silence and began to curse, quietly and fluently, as he put the telescope back into its pouch. He consigned his contact, the King's Riders, and the inhabitant of the carriage to the lords of every one of the seven flaming hells and their torturers. There must have been at least fifteen gryphons—a full wing. Why?

Silence swooped down past the door, and Stardust flung himself after, catching the saddle as the pegasus swung upward and began to climb. The sudden movement shook loose his rifle, and he cursed again as it fell past him into oblivion. There went the only chance he had of picking off the enemy before they closed on him. His feet couldn't find the stirrups, but that hardly mattered now—both of them had trained for this particular, if unlikely, eventuality, and Silence would simply do what any pegasus might, confronted by gryphons: climb. His huge wingbeats felt slow, too slow, as the Riders began to close in and up, stretched almost flat on their mounts. If there had been less of them, Stardust might have chosen to fight—gryphons were lighter-boned and frailer than pegasi, and their beaks and talons would make little immediate impression on Silence's tough hide—but in a flock, they were deadly because of their speed. Only one hope—to fly out of their altitude range and lose them in the cloud-cover.

“Climb, Silence,” Stardust entreated, and began to pray rather than curse. Surely at least one of the seven archangels would be willing to help him!

Then the Riders came into shooting range. He could almost reach up and touch the cloud-cover when the first shot hit him in the right shoulder. Long-range rifles were tricky to use in flight; they must have reached their highest altitude and stopped to hover in place.

“Almost there, boy,” he whispered, trying to ignore the pain and the blood that was beginning to ooze out onto his white coat.

Silence faltered, his left wing suddenly blooming red. For the space of a long wingbeat he held his course; then the wing crumpled, hanging useless. One of the Riders, either too lucky or too skilled, had shattered the joint with a single shot. Silence fell, twisting under Stardust as he corkscrewed, beating his one good wing in vain. The gryphons waited, circling. They'd swoop in and pluck him off as they fell, leaving the pegasus to strike the water too far below.

Stardust gritted his teeth. “Dive!” he barked, pulling himself up. As Silence obeyed, pulling in his wings and dropping like a stone, the bandit leaped off the saddle, his feet springboarding off the pegasus' back. He rose straight in the air, ropes unfurling beneath him as he pulled his pistols and cocked them in one smooth movement. They were close enough now, and they hadn't expected an attack. He shot two of them off their mounts, recocked, and shot again. They swooped in to grab him, regardless of the casualties, but the ropes had run their course, and he was jerked swiftly and painfully down. The empty talons closed over his head.

He had no time—the air was getting choked out of him as he was dragged down by Silence's swift descent, but he shot again and again. Six shots per pistol, and every one of them counted. The gryphons were scattering, disorganized, trying to save their riders, when he finally dropped the guns into their holsters and pulled the ropes on his harness. The parachute blossomed up behind him, and he cried out in sudden pain as he jerked to a stop, the harness around his torso tightening.

For a moment he thought the magic would fail and he would be crushed to a pulp. He had never actually tried carrying Silence before. Although the techmage had assured him the harness would carry well over a thousand pounds, they'd only ever used it for treasure before—and a thousand pounds of treasure was not something that you found every day. Stardust grunted in pain as the reinforced straps pressed into his chest and shoulders, nearly crushing his ribs. But the pressure did not increase—it remained constant, painful but bearably so. He peered down at Silence, hanging twenty yards below him, saw his good wing move, and breathed a careful sigh of relief. The other half of the harness had held too.

The parachute's open canopy obscured his view of the sky, though here and there gryphons were darting off, some with double loads, others riderless. Just in case, Stardust pulled one pistol out and started to reload it, ignoring the hot pain in his shoulder. There had to be some Riders left unwounded, and they were notoriously persistent, just like their fierce mounts. He knew he was right when he heard the whizz of a bullet over his head.

“Where are you?” he muttered, craning his neck. He felt singularly helpless, floating in the air with a thousand-pound weight hanging under him. If the Rider was smart, he'd be keeping his position behind Stardust's back and trying to pick him off with the rifle.

A second bullet struck him in the left leg, below the knee. He was right—the shot came from behind him. The next one would probably strike much closer to his heart. If only he could see behind him—then he almost laughed. The little-used saber came swiftly out of his sheath, and with a quick twist of his bleeding arm he found the enemy's reflection. The Rider was closing in, waiting until he was within pistol range, rather than waste a long shot on what he believed to be a helpless man. Stardust waited a long moment, until the saber showed him the rifle moving down, taking aim.

Then with one swift movement of his left hand, he flipped the pistol's muzzle over his shoulder and fired. The saber showed him the Rider as he slumped backwards over the saddle, dropping the rifle from lifeless fingers. The gryphon screamed, a sharp, defiant sound, and Stardust fired again, hating himself for it but knowing there was little choice. Most gryphons attacked in packs, but they would attack singly if the prey was helpless; he had to prove himself capable of fighting back. The gryphon screamed again, but this time in pain.

A moment later the sky was clear. He had to check in all directions, but no one seemed to be following him any longer. Stardust sheathed his sword, holstered his pistol, and breathed a short prayer of thanks to whichever archangel had decided to protect him. The wind changed, and below them the blue sea grew closer and closer, dotted with tiny islands. Now they had only to survive falling in the water and being attacked by sea-serpents.

Life is good, Stardust reminded himself. We're going to stay alive.

#Ria's writing #my fiction #Stardust Bandit #It doesn't really have a title yet

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makingoutinyour30s · 7 years

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one part of me sighs, “boys are dumb.” another says, “this is really all about the bison.”

Oh hi, S!

I just want to take a moment to voice my anxiety now that I have finally made an appearance. I realize my first blog post better be really damn good.

S, I am not annoyed with you for how you are feeling. I feel a mess of emotions, most fueled by the love I feel for you and how much I want this to be easy, joyous, enriching, and simply happy for you. When things are harder than they should be my sister-feathers get ruffled. You are not wrong to sense that I am annoyed, though. My annoyances circle around me a bit like a swarm. Hard, at first, to find the center. But, as I’ve reflected on it the center isn’t you. It is, as you might expect, DD4. Perhaps even more accurately, my struggles in coming to a stable understanding of what is going on here.

I know that through this experience you have sometimes been less than vulnerable. Felt that you have been choosing to stay guarded when maybe, you know that you are more interested in engaging with life bravely and without walls up. However, like I said to you this morning, I have felt like you told him much more clearly than he has communicated to you that you like him. You have physically initiated. You have been cute and charming. You have been thoughtful about the experiences you’ve crafted to share with him. You have carved out space for him physically, emotionally, cognitively, and socially. You have explicitly said that YOU like HIM. While you have used strategies to avoid opening up in many ways, you have not filled your answers with vagaries when it comes to how you like him. My greatest unease comes from his employment of ambiguity in answers to questions that specifically place YOU as the subject. He is a smooth and thoughtful talker when it comes to topics where HE is the subject. I think I just want to see you at the center of his thinking. My own stuff with J made me realize that I am someone who can be spun around by smart people who know how to talk about feelings and desires but then exhibit behavior that feels incongruent. Some of what you’ve shared gives me that familiar feeling of being spun.

One can be spun by accident and one can be spun on purpose. We both tend towards giving people generous reads. Giving people the benefit of the doubt. Giving people space enough to fuck up with us without losing us. A new edge for me, a new skill I am learning now is to simply notice and then pay attention to an underdeveloped intuition. The feeling that something here is off. By no means do I think that things are over here. By no means do I think DD4 is a Bad Dude. I want you to engage hopefully. I want you to manifest exactly what you want and we have talked about how it is important to engage in interactions with the energy you wish to infuse them with and not out of places marked by fear and hesitation. During this time of confusion, I think my expressions of annoyance are my way of holding some of that for you. Holding some hesitation. My left eyebrow raised, firm gaze, eyes slightly narrowed, arms crossed, standing in front of my sister feeling a bit unimpressed by what sometimes looks like a very handsome but “dumb boy.” You just deserve more. That is all my annoyance is trying to communicate to me and to you.

Last night I had some friends over for dinner, drinks, games, and hangs. Near the end of the night, after you and me texted a bit, I filled them in on some of the latest happenings with DD4. They know a bit about what happened with OH and have asked about you from time to time. (You’ve got a little network of concerned strangers out here.) As I relayed the specifics and described the state of things (as of last night), they all effectively responded with “boy bye.” As you and I both tend to be more generous, I felt surprised by the firmness in their response. “Not worth it and this feels like game playing,” one said. “Boys are stupid but they are usually clearer than this,” another chimed in. Some unimpressed grimaces went around the room. But, I felt uneasy about this too. We are researchers right? I kept thinking, especially early on in getting to know someone, how on earth do you tell the difference between someone retreating and needing time to think and someone who is playing games? How can you differentiate between someone who is self-reflective and trying new and unfamiliar ways of being in the world (which would explain being clumsy in their execution) and someone who is manipulating things to keep them unclear? What is the right balance between being firm about what is right for you and being generous with others and allowing people to learn and grow and fumble things? How can we be advocates for ourselves while embracing that people are imperfect? I just do not have a good answer to this. And perhaps it is unknowable early on. I do feel like a detective, though, trying to suss that out.

My verdict is still out as to whether DD4 will or will not be capable of giving you that which you deserve. I have been playing a ton of basketball again, and I feel a bit like a coach, giving one last start to a player who has a ton of inherent potential but who has not been applying himself enough. A player who is not showing up for the team enough to go to the next level or in ways that I believe he is capable of showing up. I am waiting to see if DD4 can be a leader, a co-captain, and deserves to start more games—or if he’ll be moved to the second string (a friend), or ultimately benched (not even a friend). Right now, depending on his next moves, the generous part of me that feels right about accurately seeing his potential is willing to give him another start.

As I was beginning to outline my thoughts, L was in the kitchen making us breakfast when she suddenly came into the living room. In her blue patterned robe, she walked in with conviction, and stopped just a few feet into the room. “It feels to me like S thinks she has something to prove and she doesn’t. Not to him.” I agreed. Then, “I had something else, but I forgot.” (She never remembered, by the way.) I jotted down the comment about proving something and smiled at how endearing I found her second comment. She turned and left, returned to making poached eggs. S, you don’t have anything to prove. Not to him. I think you had something to prove to yourself about vulnerability. About bravery. About not letting yourself down. Something about how you would push yourself to remain vulnerable and to engage with the world wholeheartedly despite the hurts you have suffered. Despite having spent time in Azkaban. Despite sometimes still shaving off old layers left behind by the time spent with OH.

I have been talking a lot about feelings and vulnerability with a new important friend I met on that retreat I went to, which we all affectionately call “therapy camp.” (An experience I should tell you more about in its own post perhaps.) I shared with her, and I want to share with you this amazing supernatural “advice column.” It’s poetry, really. A poet channels Baba Yaga (my girl!) and offers profoundly beautiful perspective to people’s questions. All our talking about the feelings that have come up for you, about vulnerability, and about how you have handled everything life has thrown at you reminded me of this post:

When I stop investing time in thinking about DD4 and just think about you, my feelings change dramatically. And I want to tell you that I am so proud of you. Your friend joked, accurately, about how the Really Hard Time was akin to serving a sentence in Azkaban. But I don’t believe you were locked up in misery. Instead, I saw you walking, every day, towards the bison herd. OH’s actions affected you, but they did not imprison you. You never let them imprison you the way I let things with J imprison me for some time. Those experiences have not changed you and they have not damaged you into becoming some other person, some version of yourself that is forever changed or forever different. You never aimed to approach the bison as something to be killed and butchered. You also never tried to wall them in leaving them to fester and sicken. You are one of the bravest people I know.

I’ve been enjoying “bison” a lot. (Bison as emotions and bison as a visual to engaged with.) In a previous post you talked about the sensation of growing wings. Sometimes when I am feeling elated, so connected to the world or to people, or joyful about newly imagined futures in which I thrive, I imagine a posse of bison walking behind me. We stroll down the campus mall in harmony, enjoying the sun and the breezes. We listen to a new playlist I just started filled with music that make bison sway, and we radiate smiles and good vibes to those around us. You have been gentle and generous with your reads of DD4, I hope you give yourself the same courtesy when reflecting on any mistakes you may have made this round. May your bison give you a nod for the bravery you showed this weekend. May your bison give you a nod for the follow up text you sent to DD4. I’m proud of you for proving to yourself that you are capable of new ways of being vulnerable and ever more authentic ways of being in the world.

I read through a bunch of old posts before writing this one. Since the Really Hard Time, man has the sun ever come out. Some mornings maybe you still wake up to a cloudy day. Some experiences, like this confusion with DD4, bring some mist and fog rolling back in… but oh how the sun is shining on you dear sister, and it makes my heart happy.

Girl, when I see you in December, I am pretty sure it is going to feel like our bison are frolicking through downtown Chicago together. Not long now.

xo,

#dd4

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dothewrite · 7 years

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pieces, number seven

“Let it all out, let it all out. It seems we’re full of unanswered wants, doesn’t it? But that’s great, because they led me to you, after all.” - Let It Out, Miho Fukuhara

You don’t remember much, but the hands that held you were warm. You fit into a single palm, and you remember the walls of warmth that you were free to wrap yourself in.

The next earliest memory, was when those hands put you down.

It was cold, wet, and suddenly the walls weren’t warm but chilly. You started wrapping around yourself for warmth instead. You remember waiting for those hands to come back for you, but the walls were high and narrow, and it was hard to remember comfort when it was only. Moisture.

You were just a small thing to begin with. No larger than a regular lizard, and the only saving grace you had was your inner fire that simmered when you slowly became of age.

Before when you would be able to swim around in the waters that never receded, never dried, now your tail hits the opposite end with little effort, and your head is often twisted against your chest in an effort to make more space for yourself.

After a while, you learned to stretch yourself upwards instead of outwards for your snout to breathe in clearer air.

You kept waiting for those hands to come back. There was only ever a small circle directly above you that showed sunlight and all the changing colors of the sky- you instinctively knew it was the sky. What good would your wings be if you didn’t even know what they were born for?

Be that as it may, you had never stretched your wings out before.

You enjoyed spending most of your time guessing the weather patterns. There wasn’t much to do in your difficult confinement, and you delighted particularly when the sun was either searing hot, or when the rain poured and poured. It cooled you down, or made you burn even hotter.

In time, your scales grew thick, and you haven’t needed to feel cold in a long time. The rain was never quite enough in that narrow area of yours to cool you quite right, and the sun only warmed patches of your skin.

Your claws, an invaluable asset for any creature on earth, were only annoyances. They always caught on something whenever you tried to move, and you wished that you could remove them entirely.

So you sat, counted the clouds on azure days, and tapped the tip of your tail against the cold bricks to the beat of your breaths.

The hand would come back, you remembered. It would come back, and here, you would wait.

The first time you ever cried was when you sneezed from some stray ash that had floated down, and you breathed fire. It was a violent, sudden thing, and it melted several bricks together in front of you. You cried because you realized you had become so warm that you could no longer remember the feel of those gentle hands. Whatever was in you, burned too bright for your memories to catch up.

Time was endless, pointless, and your patience was its only measure.

You had wondered if those hands would ever find you, but you hid those thoughts away quickly in shame. They had kept you going on your darkest of days, and they didn’t deserve your doubt.

Today, you think, is the strangest day you’ve ever had.

There were voices the moment you woke up- perhaps they woke you, you’d never know- and they were odd little things that sounded very melodic. You had always liked melodies, especially in nature. Your head swayed a little to their language.

“Hullo,” and suddenly those voices were very close. You startled, and peered up into the light with your huge irises.

“Hullo,” you say, very carefully.

“That’s a very odd place to be, isn’t it? Can’t be too comfortable down there.”

“It’s alright,” you grow more confused by the second. The sounds are nothing you’ve ever heard before, but each word is clear as a spring brook.

Their sounds are a lot different from your sounds, but they seem to take it in stride too.

“Well, it does look very cool for hot days! Today is a very hot day, I must say!”

“It’s alright.”

“You don’t make much conversation, do you?” The odd creature grins at you with its beak. It’s a short beak, and it has wings too, although they seem much softer and have lovely gradients on them.

“No, I’m afraid not.” You reply woefully. “You’re the first moving things I’ve seen since those hands of mine.”

“Hands?” The creature cackles and wiggles its feathery brows. “Those are nasty human things! You and I have claws! Much better for hunting, in my opinion.”

“Humans?”

“Humans.” The creature nods sagely. “I reckon they’re the ones who put you in that nasty looking hole too.”

You look down at your home a bit shamefully.

“Bokuto, you shouldn’t insult someone’s home, you know.” You look up to find that the creature has a companion: another similar looking creature but with slightly longer feathers and a slimmer beak.

“You’re much darker,” you say, still staring at the newcomer.

“Hm? Compared to Bokuto here? Yes, I must be. There are still fowl darker than I, of course.”

“Fowl?”

“Birds, flying folk. You can fly too, but we’ve got feathers, and you, scales.”

“So you’re… birds?”

The darker one begins to speak, but ‘Bokuto’ caws loudly in laughter. “We’re birds, yeah! You should get out more, my friend, see the world and its sights! We’re owls, me and Akaashi right here. Bigger than the usual variety sadly, we don’t quite fit into trees.”

“We’re older,” Akaashi adds, “old like you are. There aren’t many of us left anymore. Most of the owls out there are smaller and have forgotten how to talk.”

“No better than baubles,” Bokuto comments sadly.

Akaashi nods, and you find yourself nodding along with him. These owls were very friendly, you decide, and you could’ve been far unluckier and met someone nasty for your first encounter.

“Is the outside filled with your owls?”

“I wouldn’t say filled,” Akaashi frowns, “there are a few of us left, but the world is far bigger than we. Us ancient creatures are often in hiding, you see. The great ravens, the sly werecats, the mountain bears and the twilight swans of legend- they’re all out there in their own corner of the world.”

“That’s why we’re so thrilled to have found you!” Bokuto beams. “I haven’t seen a dragon in these parts for a good half of a century!”

“I’m… alone?”

Bokuto looks a little uncomfortable at that, but answers still. “I… suppose, but then again this is human territory, and you don’t find many great beasts here. In the mountains you’ll find your kind, I’m sure of it!”

You fall into a terrible silence. The birds perching on top of your home say nothing, until they hear a small sniff and a tiny burst of flame.

“There, there,” Akaashi’s soothing voice floats down towards you, and it echoes, “you have us now. We shan’t leave you if you’d like us to stay by. You can travel with us for as far as you’d like, until you find a good place for a lair of your own.”

“This is my lair,” you sniff. “I grew up here.”

“A well?” Bokuto sounds bewildered at the very idea. “A well’s no place for a dragon like you! Your majesty is utterly lost if you don’t get to spread your wings and raze forests!”

“Let’s not try and encourage environmental destruction, Bokuto.” Akaashi sighs, and Bokuto slaps a wing over his beak. “He’s right, though. You’re born into greatness, into myth and legend. You must’ve found your way into a well by accident when you were a new hatchling.”

“Odd,” Bokuto agrees behind his wing, “all the dragons I know guard their eggs like the gates to the afterlife.”

“You’ll understand when you have your own nest, Bokuto.”

“Bah. I don’t fancy the idea of staying in any one area. Traveling with you is just fine with me.”

You didn’t know that you came from an egg. You didn’t know that you could be guarded, even- the only memory was of you being cradled, and even then you were open and free to the harsh mistress of winter. The only protection you know is in this ‘well’ of yours. Leaving sounds inconceivable.

“I’m afraid I can’t join you,” you murmur, “I’m waiting for a pair of hands, you see.”

“Hands? That’s even more odd! Will any do? I reckon I can pluck a pair for you somewhere.”

“Bokuto. That’s harassment.”

“I know, I know. Waste not, and all that. I’ll bring the whole human, how about that? Are you terribly hungry?”

“I’ve never eaten before. I drink a lot.”

“Stale, well-water! Come with me and I’ll show you all the best spots for water fresh from a glacier.”

“Those hands,” Akaashi interrupts very gently, “what’s so special about them? Have you been waiting here all your life?”

You nod. “They’re the ones that put me here. They were very warm, and I’ve always thought they’d come back for me, so I’ve been waiting.”

“Do you know why they put you here?”

You shake your head.

“How about whose hands they were?”

You shake your head again, and suddenly a sad countenance sweeps over Akaashi’s feathery face.

“I’ve heard of this happening before, if I remember correctly.”

“What happened? What happened?” Bokuto flutters his wings impatiently.

“Back when there were more dragons around, it was very popular for human villages to drive expeditions into the mountains to search for those golden eggs. Of course, they weren’t golden, and only reflected the gold from the flames they are bathed in upon birth. So they started farming for hatchlings, instead. Dragon scales are the hardest material in existence, and they made very good armour. Humans liked to harvest those, and soon, they smuggled a lot of dragon eggs here and there.”

You perhaps must be a babe newly hatched, and something must have happened to the smuggler. A well is a very odd place to put a dragon indeed, and I think they must have met some trouble and planned to pick you up from here once it was over to continue on their journey. They must not have made it, then, if you’re still here to this day.”

“If there were humans around this area, then it must have been quite some time ago.” Bokuto says.

“Close to a century, perhaps. My memory isn’t as clear as it used to be. Now the only humans here farm for crops in the ground, and none approach dragons anymore, not after the great fire sixty years ago.”

“What fire?” You ask, very tiredly.

“One of the greatest dragons, thankfully still alive today, had his hatchling stolen. In his fury, he went on a rampage and razed an entire human settlement down. Humans have stopped stealing from the great wyrms since.”

Akaashi finishes his story, and a tired heaviness blankets your thoughts. Those hands that you had been so terrified to forget- they had long perished. The warmth that you had felt had never been kindness, but greed, and perhaps it has been so long that your blood kin would have forgotten you, and moved on.

For the first time in your life, you begin to feel hatred for this well.

To think that you had once wanted to stay here forever, to tear our your claws for this very place! Your tail begins to twitch out of control, smacking into the confined space that you have, and the well rumbles several times from your efforts.

“It is not too late,” Akaashi’s voice of reason sounds again, and your trembling stops if but for a while. “Many of us have terrible stories, origins we choose to forget over time, but you must not let your anger overcome you.”

“Right,” Bokuto nods, “you’re young! There is no time that cannot be made up for with freedom, with exploration! You have much to learn about the outside, and you can find a new pair of hands- I daresay maybe even a pair of claws- that hold even greater meaning!”

“Don’t give up,” Akaashi tells you kindly, “it is but two steps for you until your prison is no more.”

Your heat rises to your throat, and you keep it there with effort. Your large eyes blink and flicker up to see the brilliant figures of your two new friends, who have taught you more about yourself than you would ever know through mere existence.

Bokuto grins again. “Never forget, you’re a dragon, my friend. The oldest, greatest beasts to have ever been born into this glorious world, and nothing- not even the strongest well in the world- can hold you back from being all that you were born to be.”

Akaashi smiles at his companion fondly, and Bokuto’s chest puffs up in pride at both his speech, and at your majesty. Your muted majesty that you have never considered, and you wonder if you can really call yourself a dragon if you have never even stretched your wings.

Oh, the sky, that expanse which has always sung to you in your nightmares, tugged at your very heart on nights unending. You look at Bokuto and Akaashi’s elegant wings, and suddenly you are overwhelmed by a great urge to soar into the timeless skies.

Not quite yet, not with you still stuck in a space far too small for you, and a stray tear leaks from your eyes. It steams on the coolness of your scales, and Akaashi smiles fondly at you too.

“You shan’t get lost with us guiding you. Would you like to come up and join Bokuto and I?”

This is the bravest you think you will ever be, and courage fuels your desire to be. To live.

“Yes, please.”

“Then push!”

With a great cry, Akaashi and Bokuto spread their wings that easily eclipse your window to the outside world and lift themselves off the ground. So beautiful, so effortless are their movements that you forget for a moment what you were about to do.

Their massive figures float in shadows above your groove in the ground, and you know that even if you were to die tomorrow, you would find a way to join them where you will never have to curl up around yourself for room again.

Your claws dig into the brick like steel on chalk. Step by step, you push yourself up from the bottom and closer, closer to where the edge meets the world. You stumble twice, but your great tail slaps the base and you are propelled upwards once again.

With the first breath you take, you roar.

You roar for the life you have yet to live, and the trees around you shake. The dry dirt balloons up in awe and you place one great paw on the land in front of you. There is a thunderous crack, and the side of the well underneath your feet begins to crumble.

Wordlessly, you watch as your home collapses onto itself, and you have nowhere to return to.

“Spread your wings!” You hear Bokuto call from his place in the sky, “flap them and come join us!”

You spread your wings. Leathery and heavy, they tug at your joints in unfamiliar ways. You give them an experimental flap, and you almost yelp in surprise when you lift yourself off the ground.

“Again!” Bokuto yells, “again! Keep doing it!”

Again you flap, once, twice, three times until the burn begins to grow familiar and your unused muscle springs into life. Soon the trees are far underneath you, and the only sound you can hear for miles is the slow beating of your wings intertwined with the gentle flapping of your friends above you.

Akaashi glides down to meet you. You look at him with undisguised terror, and he laughs.

“You must be the first dragon to be afraid of heights,” he teases, and you blush. “But I can see that you love the sky. You will get used to it very soon, but first we must hurry. Dusk is almost upon us, and we should get to a safe place before the sun sets.”

Bokuto does several dives and swoops around you as you slowly flap your way forwards.

��Feels good, eh?” You nod enthusiastically. “Wait ‘till I teach you all the cool moves!”

“Before that,” comes Akaashi’s dry tone, “you should learn how to glide. Flap your wings when you need to gain speed or height, but it is a much easier experience for you to glide when you want to maintain your velocity. Try.”

The relentless thrumming of air halts immediately when your wings still in their positions. Suddenly you can hear the birds, the howl of wind through the forests and the emptiness that is the planes of sky and clouds.

You glide past a low reaching cloud, and recall how you counted them in your well.

It is impossible to stop the tears, and with your limbs tucked safely against your body, there is no method for you to wipe them away. The sniffles are a lot quieter in the air, but the owls hear them anyway.

They say nothing and keep their vigilance at your side.

Akaashi smiles, and so does Bokuto, and when the tears finally stop and the sniffles end, your smile stretches the widest of all.

#akaashi keiji #bokuto koutarou #female original character #creatures au #pieces series #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu!!#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu #i writes the haikyuu

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ghostsnbees · 5 years

Text

HELLO here’s the short story I worked on for a couple of hours for a school contest,,,,,,,,,,,,,, its called “And Time Stopped When I Saw You”

tw for hints of self-harm (though theres nothing explicit and it just seems like thats whats being implied) and bleeding ;;

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Another minute passes by.

Tick. Tock. Tick. To-

“Okay, fine, you win.”

I pressed the ball-point pen a bit too hard, leaving a visible red mark on my forearm. The badly scribbled sentence on my arm was barely legible- nobody I knew understood it. Except for one particular person.

All of a sudden, as if like magic- blue ink strokes were swirling on my arm. If it really was “magic”, it didn’t feel that way anymore. This was normal for me. This was normal for us. The once unrecognisable strokes became clearer and clearer, until it formed..

“☺”

“..Rude.”

The culprit of the blue and neatly drawn smiley face was Karamveer- or K for short. He was to me what most would call… a soulmate, perhaps. We were bound together by fate or whatever- and though most people had what we called “The Red String of Fate”, or the “Grayscale view” that connected two soulmates, K and I were tied differently. Different in a way that whenever he drew on himself, the marks would appear on me, too, and vice versa. We used this to communicate with one another- because for some odd reason, he doesn’t want to tell me where he is, or if there’s any other way i could communicate with him. So we were stuck like this- drawing dumb marks on our limbs in a somewhat desperate attempt to talk with one another.

“See? Even you admit it. I’m just that irresistible.”

“Yuck, shut up.”

“;))”

I let out a small chuckle. This boy is gonna kill me someday— if he hasn’t already.

“wait brb gonna do smth. don't die while I'm gone lol”

My eyes blink over towards the clock rested beside my bed— it was 2am. I had school.

“on the subject of death, i’ll be signing off for tonight. its like. 2am here. Night K.”

I wince at how hard I pressed on my forearm again, and at how bad my handwriting was. I hope he could still understand.

“Gnight Ani <3”

I feel something flutter in my chest seeing the little heart scribbled beside the stupid little nickname he gave me. After staring at the blue symbol on my arm for what felt like a while, I brush the feeling off and head to bed.

—

“Animosah Agbon?”

My eyes tear open upon hearing my name. I was dozing off in class again.

“What’s the answer for number 11?”

I blink at the chalkboard and reposition my big reading glasses. “Uhhhhh….” The whole class is staring at me, a few of my classmates snickering and talking between themselves. I frown.

“Sixteen…four… no, in the equation 2y+16=6y-4, y is equal to 5.”

My classmates whoop and cheer while my teacher subtly smiles to herself. I slink back into my chair shyly and take my favorite retractable black pen out of my pencil case, rolling up my long sleeve to see if he’s written anything.

“please save me. i don’t like it in school anymore.”

Not a few seconds later, a reply is scribbled on my palm. “Ohhh, i hear ya. The only thing that kept me sane was the actually decent food they had there. Other than that, school is quite literally a juvenile prison.”

“,,,,why are you talking in past tense????”

“its for me to know and for you to find out :))”

“I hate you”

“ I love you too <3”

I try and hold back a small smile, but it peeps out anyway. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed. They’re all pre-occupied with something- Alvis with her string of fate, Callum asking his friend Xavier what color the chalk on the board was, Elenoir re-checking the ink of his token pen. Before I can fully fall asleep, the school bell chimes and everyone is rushing to their next class.

—

I plop onto my bed and read the conversations we shared throughout the day. He kept me awake through the majority of my subjects but stopped replying by the time I was writing on my ankles. I wasn’t sure what his timezone was, but I do admit- it would look pretty weird if he was scribbling with a colored gel-pen on his leg in public. Not even in public- just in general.

“I dont know if your still awake but good night”

“**you’re”

I groan and scrawl a small ‘e’ beside the misspelled word.

“goodnig”

The next few letters don’t come, and the text smudges itself. I subconsciously frown. What was he doing? I feel my stomach turn in knots in worry and I choke on my spit. Head screaming for relief, I shut my eyes tight and force my probably malfunctioning body to fall asleep.

—

When I open my eyes the next morning, the sun’s rays immediately burn and blur my sight, causing me to roll out of bed with a unceremonious thump! After lying on the floor for what seemed like 5 minutes, I check my arm to see if K wrote anything new.

..Nothing.

Before panic settles in, I lift the hem of my pajamas to check if the ones he wrote on my right leg were still there.

..All of his marks were gone.

Perhaps he just took a bath?

That’s.. impossible. He never washes the ink thoroughly enough for it to disappear.

..Is he okay?

“Are you okay?”

—

5 hours later and he still hasn’t replied.

At this point I’m awkwardly sprawled on my bed, occasionally lifting my arm to see if he’s said anything.

Where did he go?

—

2 weeks and still nothing.

I’ve been doing worse in school. My parents are getting uneasy, my teachers are concerned.

I wish I could talk to him again.

—

One month.

One month and my limbs are clean, aside from the numerous writings I’ve left asking where he was.

I haven’t slept well since the day he stopped replying. Am I too clingy? Am I too concerned? Should I stop trying?

..Maybe I am. Maybe I should. But no, I won’t.

I guess I just.. really, really miss him.

—

“Class dismissed!”

I stand up quickly and fumble for my bag and everyone rushes out of the room.

“..Animosah, can you stay for a bit?”

I grimace at my teacher, and she responds by softening her worried smile. I approach her slowly without maintaining eye contact with her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I really don’t want to.”

She must’ve noticed me rubbing my forearm because her face grows with concern.

“Animosah, what’s on your arm..?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Animosah. Show me.”

“Ma’am, please-“

“Ani.”

I almost gag at the nickname she called me.

Hesitantly, I shakily roll up my sleeve and lift up my right arm. It was nearly fully covered with ink marks- desperate pleas begging to know where my soulmate was. Tears start to roll down my cheeks as I quickly withdraw my arm and bend over to stifle my cries. My teacher quickly leaps to her feet and kneels to reach my eye level. She cups my face in her hands and pulls me into a hug.

“..Everything will be alright soon, dear. He will come back to you soon. I promise.”

And I hoped she was right.

—

My eyes feel a little dry after crying.

The town was a bustling, lively place of no sleep. The people there were a smiling and happy bunch- nearly everyone knew each other, and nearly everyone was friends. Though the townspeople greeted me with countless ‘good morning!’s and ‘hello!’s, I wasn't in the mood to even wave back. I felt like a sulking rat in a sea of adorable rabbits.

I hated it.

The roads were already familiar to me, so I walk in an almost rhythmic pattern to try to lighten my mood. Street Maya, Street Kassel, Street Avida, Street Ramas, Street Ettiel, Street Maya, Street Kassel, Str-

Wait.

I glance at the street sign. I’m at Street Avida.

..What.

Suddenly the air feels tight in my throat. I gasp ang gag, silently crying for air. I’m kneeling on the sidewalk when I see someone walking towards me. HELP! HELP! I try to scream, but I just cough harder.

The person walks past me without any sign of acknowledgement.

No, wait-!

In an instant, I’m dragged by the collar into an alleyway I didn’t even notice was there. When I’m pushed against the wall, I feel the air get knocked out of my lungs and I’m left hacking and coughing on the floor. The stranger who dragged me looms over me in a somewhat curious manner, examining my features slowly. They brush the hair off my face and I get a clear look at them- Their face is shrouded by a black hood, but with what little light peaking through they appeared to be young. The hood extended into a cloak reaching until their feet. The only eye-catching thing about them was a carefully-crafted pocket watch dangling off their hand.

“Who.. Who are you?”

“That’s not important, dear.”

Their voice rung in my head like an alarm clock- except it was less annoying. They spoke in an echo-y mixture of voices- my mom’s, my dad’s, my teachers’, my friends’, and so many other people. It felt calming in so many ways, but it also raised a dozen more questions.

“What’s important to you is what I have to offer.”

“What? Offer? I’m really sorry but I’m not interested in another car de-“

Even if I couldn’t see their face, I could tell they were glaring.

“Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright, love.” They look at my arm. “..You miss your soulmate, yes?”

I painfully look away and nod lightly.

“I see. I was like you once. I had a left wing of white feathers and my soulmate had the right of black. We flew together in the skies, hands intertwined. One day, however, he stopped wanting to fly with me. He never told me why, but all answers came to me once all my feathers fell out. I suppose we both flew too close to the sun.”

I gulp and mouth a subtle “I’m sorry”.

“..I’m sorry too, dear. I’m afraid I might've gone on a little tangent there. See, that might’ve happened to me, but that doesn’t have to happen to you, too.”

I look up at them. “What do you mean?”

“Fate has given you a chance, sunshine. As a sorceress of time, they’ve instructed me to give you a choice.”

“Time will stop in this world and shall only go on for you both. You have all the time in the world to look for him. And when you two meet eyes, the cycle of the earth shall continue. But you must hurry. Best of luck to you, love.”

“Hurry? Why? Is something wrong?”

..They’re gone.

—

When I wake up the next morning, everything is in black and white.

I check my alarm clock and it’s frozen at 6:12 am.

..That wasn’t a dream?

..That was real. Which means-

I jump out of bed, throw on a long sleeve blouse and pants and bolt towards the door. I almost trip on the stairs and when I fling the front door open, I tumble on a package that nearly sends me flying. I regain my composure and open the package. In it was a necklace with a red gem etched with mysterious writings and a note. The note said:

“This necklace will be able to transport you to whichever place you wish to be and light up whenever he may be near. Just say the word and you shall be there. Good luck, my dear. May the stars be forever in your favor. -SHUVHISKRGH”

I didn’t feel like decoding their name anymore. All I knew was one thing- I had to look for him.

I bring the necklace to my lips and whisper..

“Bring me… Bring me to my heart.”

The gem glows, and the mysterious writings ring in my ears in a unknown language. I shut my eyes tight as I’m enveloped by the red light and..

I fall to the ground and I groan.

I quickly get up and stumble a bit. Where was I? I was somewhere unfamiliar and new, that was for sure. I shuffle on tiled grounds. The place was filled with people that didn’t look all that friendly. The buildings surrounding me stood proud and tall like skyscrapers- and it was driving me crazy. I try to remain calm and examine my surroundings.

The necklace I held tight in my hand glowed faintly.

He’s here.

I dash from street to street, checking if the necklace would glow any brighter. And when it was as bright as a fire in my hand, I look up and see a figure looking down from a window.

The shadow places its hand on the glass, and glances at me. Suddenly my chest feels like its being tugged towards it, causing me to stumble. I hit the ground and before I can get up, something taps my shoulder

“Are you alright, miss?”

“Yes, I-“

..Wait, what?

The stranger has his arm stretched out, so I take it and heave myself up.

“..Thank you, sir.” I say as the man begins to walk away.

Time’s moving. That means-

I shoot my head up and see the figure by the window. It looked clearer now- it appeared to be a young boy my age in a hospital gown. He writes something on his left arm, lifts his right, smiles, and I realize who he was.

I run towards the building as quick as I can. My chest is pounding and I’m running out of breath but I don’t care. Before I reach the entrance, pain shoots up my left arm and I fall over. Blood was seeping through my sleeve and I cry out for help. With the little strength still left in my body, I roll up the cloth and see something etched into my inner forearm in very familiar neat cursive writing. When the realisation hits me, I start to cry even harder.

“i love you.”

..Always and forever.

#over-write #UGHHHHH IM SLEEPY GOOD NIGHT #oof #anyway u can.. give ur opinions on this id love to hear it #this is the first time ive written something original and kinda long so please bear with me hh

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poorjamesbond · 7 years

Text

The 9150, Part 3.

Finally, zero was all that mattered.

Between moments of its totality, our faces colored darkly violet in the blacklight, conversations about everything and nothing poured from our mouths like we had all the time in the world. Mostly because we did. Time was not a factor, only distance, which was nonexistent. I told her several people had left me in their dust for being too affectionate. Little points of purple light reflected off the lenses of her eyes as she posed the question, laughing only slightly between the words. "How's this for affectionate?" she asked, leaning her face toward my own so quickly I was sure her forehead would break my nose, not afraid of the pain. She sprayed my face with lip prints, one after the other, each falling in a different place, overlapping only slightly to make sure the entire surface area was covered with the ink of her immediacy. I felt each one like a shard of shrapnel breaking my skin, her face a detonation of the kind of love only found in half-lit bedrooms. Her lips, as unique as her fingerprints, covered all the marks that others left, faded out like old tattoos, yet lingering on through memories of days when my bed faced a different direction. Each print was a zero, an ouroboros consuming itself, lacking the ones needed to spell anything more than the sound of her quick breaths between the shots. If she were venomous, I accepted the chance that I may not live long enough to see morning. And I didn't care.

If the world were a warzone, we were both making the best of a ceasefire, hiding beneath a rickety wooden overhang in a trench on the wrong side of a conflict that would remain irrelevant until our names were called, dogtags thrown into the muddy water gathered around the bed of our clothes, her fingers running over the birthscars that peppered my back, sunspots that would never fade, soft light creeping in across the edges of our skin, allowing us to see the contours of all we usually hid from eyes and the cold that somehow didn't come in through the open door, a 4AM cigarette jumping from between our mouths, the little bottle of Jameson capped on the bedside table, unneeded, handing her water that I drank only after she was finished with it, yet another thing to pass between our tongues, though none of it could fill us up, enough only in the fact that it was never quite enough, never close enough for us to reach a sense of satisfaction for any more than a fraction of a second, reaching back toward each other, each of us eclipsing the opposite body in quick succession, rolling over and over in sheets of grass, leaves of shimmering green sprouting out from the rains finalizing the tail end of the long drought, Gregory singing in the background as she bit her bottom lip, a grin so sharp it cut my vision apart like Lucifer's light, the little vial sewn into my skin, torn out, tossed between the bars of his prison for him to pour back down his throat, his influence dying, unwanted, we tumbled like precious stones, our edges wearing down into smoother surfaces, the patterns we held becoming clearer than the perfect imperfections of a fine quartz, veins of what we couldn't see beneath the scratches and gouges of our regrets, old mistakes becoming blessings as they led us into each others scars, tissue broken apart, allowing muscles to stretch for the first time in years, movements we forgot about, shadows dancing on the walls like smoke in the wind, shadows of the passers by in the alley of our becoming, worlds colliding, solid planets liquefying as they met in the vast emptiness of space, gravity far too strong to fight against, breath becoming secondary to our embrace, gods watching from above and below, refusing to use their powers of divine control, allowing us to simply be, pages flying out from the books piled high around us, tearing themselves from the spines of their bindings, no longer needing to be parts of a whole, covers flapping like predatory wings, falling from the sky in their final dives, plummeting toward the earth, never looking down to fight the acceptance of fate, the cusp she was born on grinding against my centerform, reaching across the divide between our constellations, sparkling like seaglass worn smooth over decades beneath the surface of the ocean, the ribs of a chip allowing us to see inside, the clarity of a world within, usually obscured by frosted surfaces, death clenching his fist outside the window, knowing he would have to wait at least a few more hours, the killers of my darkened city sleeping through the whimpers in our wake, memories seeping into me of trains barreling through tunnels along the Feather River as I fought back sleep in my tent, the skin of my arms tingling sharply, catching static electricity from the dew of dawn’s break, wanting so badly to share the moment, knowing I may never have the chance, and accepting that some things have no words, but she was there around me, even then, across the the sea of the 9150, space being made for a memory years before it could be filled, we danced a two step across my bed, horizontally absolute, our feet meeting nothing but the tops and bottoms of each other, socks still covering hers in ways I could never live with on my own, the ashtray resting on my chest, a hint of warmth seeping through the glass, her fingers placing the filter against my lips before taking it back, walls moving out to give us space, souls of a sunken city separated for eons, nearly forgotten through the ages, brought back together if only to remember how it was before the fall of the tower, the fall of the empire lost in the water, speaking in tongues of a language written, but never recorded, sponging sweat from our stomachs with each others foreheads, tasting all the reasons we kept going.

Zero. The second mark ever to be drawn in the sand.

The first being a line waiting only to curve in upon itself.

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