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dorki-c · 3 years

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My Guardian Demon| Chapter 1, Part 3: Inheritance

Relationship: Izuku Midoriya X (Reader)

Rating: 16+

A/N: I thought writing this part would be really hard...Nope. Not at all. I’m surprised! I hope you all enjoy!

TW: Brief mention of Fire, Swearing

[Masterlist] [<— Previous| Next —>]

(Song recommendation for this chapter: All the good girl’s go to hell By Billie Eilish)

PROMPT QUESTION FOR THIS STORY ARC: Are all demons ‘bad’?

“But I’m not giving up on my dream, if you aren’t going to give up on yours.”

Alas, the gloriously golden sun highlighted the features of the old dusk that was soon turning into their new dawn.

(And might I say, if society got in their way, they will pay their dues the hard way.)

The two of them knew they had to paint the sky a fresh light blue, to develop the painting of the environment with creative splatters of white to resemble the clouds.

With the sun almost sliding to horizon’s edge, a cloudy vermillion mist (that was his demon) slipped into the view of the sun, highlighting their features but not letting a shadow smudge the surface of the pretty earth that the star ruled over.

“I know you won’t give up on your dream.” Even from three footsteps away, Izuku could still make out the multitude of voices mixed together.

“So, I won’t give up on my own dream.” Although, even if one voice is made up of many sounds, that doesn’t mean it can’t resonate with tenacity.

“Got it!”

From a roof top of an apartment building to the lonesome streets below, it was still unbelievable to the middle schooler that he…literally met All Might.

(And that he had learned of All Might’s weakness.)

Nonetheless, after every battle we grow stronger.

(Right?)

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The days of our years always past through fingertips that have soaked in sin.

Yet, those who want to fight are the ones who shoulder said sins like an unlucky medal garnished in pure gold.

And how this medal got passed into Izuku’s somehow capable hand, who knows?

Where the demon stood at the back of the mass of people surrounding them, Izuku was at front of the crowd. A racing horse of many thoughts drowned his selfish needs and his demon’s hopeless demands.

How can he prove to society that he is capable to be a hero?

How can he do it?

The scene of a filthy crime, the stage was set with a hostage and villain. One of them had manifested as a flaxen haired male, maybe around Izuku’s age? Though the moment the green-haired boy saw a familiar dandelion crackling outlining the big BOOM destroying the landscape around the hostage—he just started moving too fast for his demon’s claws to catch.

(T-That’s—that’s the same villain who attacked him!)

At first, a cold breeze of (what he believes might be) your hands about to catch him. Were you about to halter or allow him to write a new beginning?

(No, you weren’t stopping Izuku. Did you want to see this event play out?)

Sure, when the main act was about to end, maybe another new role can rush in and save the show.

Why were you staying behind? Did you approve of his actions? Izuku thought you hated it when he played the saviour role. Was he wrong?

(Izuku has never been a clairvoyant, however, he can be a saviour.)

Knocking and shoving past the innocently confused bystanders, visions of red scorching the surface of the road, the sight of that same gloopy villain cackling in satisfaction at the catch they managed to reel in.

“None of us have the right quirks to stop a villain like this!” The false heroes would always say.

“I’m not a real hero…” The Symbol of Peace may whisper to himself after saving many people.

“I want to be a hero!” Is the cry of a boy whose been doubted for his whole life.

Will he be successful in his attempt of grabbing “KACCHAN!” out of the sludge after throwing his yellow bag straight at the target?

(He ends up hitting the villain’s eye! Whoop! Whoop! Bullseye! )

If it wasn’t the summer sun of this fateful day.

Then it was the memories of childhood youth coming to ride the sailing riptide of the small green-haired boys kindness.

Where pebbles tumbled down the riverway above the stream of shallow river water travelling downwards was a large tree trunk pretending to be a safe bridge for the five children carelessly bumbling across it.

As the ringleader lost his footing and slipping down, down, down into the small riptide, if it wasn’t for the cicadas- clicking away with their summery sounds whilst they hide in the bushes- then a small splosh of water could’ve sounded like splashing into a large rain puddle.

(But it didn’t, instead the sound was nearly as silent as a dormouse sneaking into your fridge for cheese.)

Underneath Mother Nature’s bridge, casted a shadow blanketing the vermillion mist where the desolate being stood waiting for its owner to notice them, but the owner ignores the mist like he usually did and opts for helping the blonde-haired ringleader.

(He’s always helped people. (Y/n) can’t tell you when he hasn’t helped anybody.)

Extending his chubby baby hands, the green haired boy asked the blonde one “are you alright?” Though the demon knows that Izuku didn’t intend for that sentence to make the other child to narrow their crimson eyes.

However, whoever anybody is, Izuku will always extend a hand.

This does not exempt from his childhood friend, Bakugo Katsuki.

(This is what it means to be a saviour. Not a hero.)

The performance of a brave act had concluded with a boring aftermath.

(Like how can a demon say that watching All Might change the weather was exciting?)

Clobbered around Izuku’s tired form was a few (false) heroes who lectured him about how he should “be careful, because you could’ve easily died” to that villain.

(Though the demon had the audacity to scoff at the shitty remarks, if those heroes did their jobs properly and pulled Bakugo out of the villain’s grasps, then Izuku wouldn’t have had to.)

Let’s not forget, that Izuku was the one who had the guts to do what the heroes couldn’t do and that Bakugou was praised for his bravery.

What ‘bravery’ was there to show? If anything, those vermillion eyes showcased fifty shades of fear and that’s not tipping the iceberg of what those falsities had said about bravery.

(They were only boosting his ego.)

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“Do you think I did the right thing, (y/n)?” Izuku muttered out loud, although his demon was occupied with ignoring the ‘demon therapy’ poster that hung desolate on a lamp post and instead had the goal of catching a freaking butterfly.

When their hand reached out to grab it. They halted, turned towards Izuku, then asked “were you talking” because they were highly busy trying to catch an insignificant insect to notice that Izuku said something out loud.

“N-no! Don’t worr—” A rough, maybe a tad bit too loud of a bark cut Izuku off when he heard the familiar insult of “DEKU!” from the distance.

“Oh god, what does Bakugo want?” Izuku simply shrugged. Nobody really knows what Bakugo wants anymore. Is it validation? Pride? A sense of superiority?

Nobody, not even Izuku’s demon, could make out what he wanted by his little prompt speech about not owing Izuku a dime of gratefulness. With his whole act of calling Izuku a “quirkless failure who wouldn’t cut out to be a shitty rent-a-cop, even if he tried.”

Furthermore, how dare the blonde-haired boy think that Izuku was looking down on him. He first calls Izuku a “weakling” after all he had done, then accuses him that “he did nothing to help,” and then decided to strut off like the moody teenager he is.

(But what if you were mistaken to think he was moody?)

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

When passing maybe two, perhaps three corners of rows with houses lined down the sides of the passageways, with boxed in backyards and the sun starting to lay its weary head down for a long desolate nap, Izuku was once again setting his mind straight and into autopilot.

“Hey Izuku?” You were asking the questions and he was answering back with his answers. Usually, you either stayed quiet or screamed at anybody (besides his mom) who dared to touch his precious face, so if he was guessing why you were asking him a question; it was because you were asking him an ‘important’ question (or so you labelled them to be important, because they seriously aren’t).

“Y-Yes (Y/n)?”

And of course, Izuku isn’t clairvoyant, so how would he know that your upcoming question was “what were the colours of the sky?” since your quite forgetful at times.

What? Why were you asking that question again? He’s told you a couple times before “there’s only one colour of the sky, its blue” but knowing you and your airheaded attitude, he has to stay patient. With your small nod to his answer, you seemed satisfied with the small talk until—

“I AM HERE!” Booms behind the green-haired boy (unexpectedly).

If it wasn’t for puberty, then Izuku could’ve lost his voice by the singlehanded scream of “ALL MIGHT! WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?!”

(And what’s the point of saying “I stand for justice!” when you can’t stand up in your hero form for five minutes before spewing blood from your mouth?)

All joking aside, when the pro-hero stood in front of Izuku in his rawest form, he had a statement to say for the green-haired boy.

“Young man, I came here to thank you and discuss your question.” What? All Might was giving up his time and energy to speak to him? A quirkless nobody?

Well…colour his demon’s pointed look at the worn-down man, in the richest colours of a rainbow. What does this pro-hero want with Izuku? .

“If you hadn’t told me about your life or had run into that fight, then I would have been a worthless bystander.” With the movement of his face allowing the thin-skinned cheek muscles to stretch his lips up to his onyx encircled blue eyes, All Might had presented the most sincerely painful smile he could muster in this small snippet of time.

Though, not surprisingly enough, this caught Izuku off guard. His expression paling as he frantically waved his hands about and only managing to utter the words of “N-no! No! It was my fault to begin with! If I hadn’t wasted your time and made you drop the villain t-then--!”

All Might cutting Izuku off mid-sentence was like a miracle out of the ninth circle of hell for (Y/n).

“I’m not done talking,” Hushing the 14 year old, All Might had continued his statement from earlier, “You told me you were powerless, so when I was standing in the crowd—watching this timid, quirkless kid rush into danger.”

The pro-hero paused in trying to find the right words.

“That inspired me to act as well.”

With a hand on his heart, the moment was truly overwhelming for Izuku.

“AND WITH THAT!”

All Might had poofed back into his hero form as soon as the sent his exclamation out to the world.

“I HAVE DEEMED YOU WORTHY OF INHERITING MY POWER!”

(Wait…what?)

The revelation of what the hero had unveiled to both the green-haired boy and his red demon was very confusing to process.

(And when did heroes become so self-righteous? Like jeez, calm down on that ego of yours All Might!)

Taglist:

@glitterfreezed, @izukubabe, @sweater-weather-seven, @nyanyabisjjj, @quietlegends, @dragonsdreamoffire, @candybabey, @honeylavender13

CREDITS:

All content and art used within this story belongs to their respective owners. PLAGARISM WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!

Art credits: Dorki-C and @glitterfreezed

[MASTERLIST OF “My Guardian Demon”] [MAIN MASTERLIST]

#Izuku midoriya #Izuku midoriya mha #Izuku midoriya bnha #Toshinori Yagi mha #All Might bnha #all might mha #Izuku midoriya x y/n #Izuku Midoriya X you #Izuku Midoriya X Demon! Reader

31 notes · View notes

ivegotbreadinmypants · 4 years

Note

16 normal witcher au , 1 , 34

Geralt/Jaskier—Angst

Prompt list post—

AU: 16 - Supernatural AU

Trope: 1 - Friends to Lovers

Prompt: 34 - “I don’t even know why we’re doing this.”

A/N: Oh lord, this ended up being so long lmao. I got pretty damn inspired by this prompt and my brain got carried away. But I swear, not every prompt is going to be as long or angsty as this one. This one—oof

Word Count: 3317

Warning: Angst, light self-loathing on Geralt’s side.

By the time they leave the tavern, the village has been swallowed by darkness, the sky an inky black. The innkeeper who gave them their contract didn’t spare details, possibly the result of the air of fear emanating from everyone in the village.

People wander into the woods in the middle of the night, usually after days of complaining of horrific dreams; it’s brought everyone on edge, eyes full of distrusting hope when they see the Witcher and the bard enter the tavern.

They’ve crossed the blood-stained meadows and are already skirting the edge of the forest when Jaskier asks, “What is it? The creature?”

The poor bard nearly slips on an unseen rock, giving a startled yelp that disturbs the rows of crows resting on branches above them. Geralt turns around, a nasty glare in his glowing amber eyes. Jaskier used to think they were beautiful.

“Shut up,” the Witcher grits out, continuing down the path without waiting for the bard. A deep frown covers Jaskier’s face, eyes dull, but only for a second, because he doesn’t want—

Jaskier straightens up and forges on, ignoring the hollow beating of his heart.

When Geralt approached him two months ago—a full year after it—Jaskier had thought things would change, that everything would be different and being with Geralt doesn’t have to mean having his heart squeezed and broken as if it were a nailed to a wheel—the cycle repeating over and over.

He thought everything would go back to the way it was, but better, after the Witcher had willingly apologised—after the man had opened his heart and let every hurt pour out in full view for the bard. He’d been wrong.

Geralt is still as well-guarded as he was, even after they shared a painfully tender moment when he gave his apology. It’s like Geralt wants to erase the memory of that having happened.

At first, Jaskier thought it was down to Geralt still not used to being generally open with his feelings—that the man needs a little more time to adjust to their slightly different dynamic. But as time passed, as the scathing remarks and dry barks from the White Wolf never once relented, Jaskier had a slow dreadful realization. Geralt isn’t going to change.

And it’s only a matter of time before it—Jaskier’s heart skips a tormenting beat—happens again.

Jaskier doesn’t want to be here when his whole world inevitably burns down to ashes again.

He trails after Geralt a little ways, giving them both space—space that Jaskier despises now because he knows no matter how much land there is between the two of them, Jaskier will always feel like there’s galaxies of space separating them.

He feels like a husk, an empty shell of who he used to be, and it’s getting worse the longer he lingers and waits for his heart to be shattered in the hands of the man he used to trust with his life.

He has to leave. It’s hurting him in ways he can’t even see, can’t even fathom. He can’t see the extent of his grisly scars because they’ve been woven into his skin for so long he’s forgotten.

Twenty-two years and counting.

Jaskier bites on his lip, pressing hard until it tears through. Copper tinges his tongue and he wonders how much longer will he not feel the pain. Everything is so numb it hurts.

Geralt stops, sniffs the air.

The bard inwardly sighs, an ire-stricken face of one Witcher popping into his head. He doesn’t have to meet Geralt’s eyes to feel the vexation.

“Jaskier, what the fuck?”

This time, Jaskier sighs out loud, “What, Geralt? It’s nothing.”

Geralt spins on his heel, a twitch in his eyebrow when he notices the space between the two of them, and crosses the threshold to enter Jaskier’s space.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Just bit my lip on accident,” Jaskier mutters, quiet and meek and nothing like him.

Geralt doesn’t need Witcher senses to know something is wrong, because even he cocks his head a little to the side, a curious look to his otherwise irritated gaze.

Jaskier looks up, drawing his eyes to meet amber ones. He’s struck with the thought this may be the last time he’ll ever see them.

His voice is soft. “I don’t even know why we’re doing this.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, some of the hated ire vanishing. “To finish the contract. The alp.”

Jaskier’s lips stretch into half a smile, but it’s hollow and dimmed. His words are defeated, softer now. “That’s not what I mean, Geralt.”

The Witcher loses some of his confused fog, something acute and sharp in his eyes replacing it.

“Jaskier,” there’s the smallest pressing tone in his voice. The bard only breathes out, a cheap imitation of a chuckle, a little too quick for it to be a normal conversation; even then, it sounds flat.

There isn’t even a shadow of anger in Jaskier’s body, all of the fiery feelings snuffed out over hours, days and months of waiting for Geralt to change. But there’s a deep sadness painted on every surface within, delicate and unwavering, never leaving.

Jaskier’s blue eyes bore into Geralt’s, words easing out of his mouth. “I can’t keep doing this.”

The sharpness in golden honey hardens, the gruffness accentuated, “Jaskier.”

Jaskier takes a step back—avoiding his touch—when the Witcher reaches out, as if he wanted to shake sense into the bard. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier sees something in Geralt crack.

The poet—but is he one anymore? He hasn’t written anything in so long—shakes his head, standing taller. “I’m leaving, Geralt.”

There’s a sharp inhale, the leather of his armor creaking when he reels back, the line of Geralt’s jaw hardening under the moonlight, as if he was struck.

Jaskier dimly realizes this may actually hurt Geralt.

But he forges on, blue eyes unrelenting in the darkness, “I’m leaving.”

“No,” Geralt bites out, his upper lip curling.

Something in Jaskier sparks, blazing hot for a split second. “What do you want? C’mon Geralt, what do you really want? You tell me to go away and when I do, you come running back. Then when I say I’m leaving, you don’t allow me to.”

His words aren’t as cutting as he wants them to be, but it gets the point across.

Geralt stares, the Adam’s apple of his throat bobbing.

“I have to leave, Geralt. I have to go.”

Then his eyes go unfocused, staring past Jaskier, the line of his shoulders going straight as a rod.

Jaskier opens his mouth, but Geralt puts a hand up, tilting his head a bit.

The heat comes back roaring within Jaskier, “How dare—”

“Shh.” Geralt comes closer, his eyes now searching the line of trees surrounding them. Jaskier narrows his eyes, but then the anger in him dies out quickly when he hears it too. Crunching grass. Footsteps.

“Must have smelled your blood,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier pushes Geralt, “Go.”

But Geralt doesn’t budge, his hand snapping out to grab onto Jaskier’s wrist, his full attention now on the bard. Not for the first time, Jaskier feels trapped under golden eyes, but instead of anger or exasperation greeting him, there’s pained desperation.

“Stay,” Geralt says, as if leaving was out of the question. Jaskier takes another step back, shaking his head, but he’s held in place by Geralt’s grip on his wrist. “No, Geralt, you don’t understand. I have to.”

“No, I understand, Jaskier. I do. But, please, fuck—please,” Jaskier flinches at the sound of a twig snapping. She’s getting closer.

Geralt’s tightened fingers bring him back, cornflowers on gold. A battered heart meeting desperation.

There’s nothing fake about it, only the most earnest desolation swimming in amber honey.

“Stay.”

Tightened fingers go lax, turning around Jaskier’s wrist so Geralt’s thumb can skim over his pumping pulse. The touch is gentle, delicate and scared.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, not even twitching at the sound of louder footsteps, and tugs lightly on the bard, bringing the speechless man a little closer. They’re breathing the same air, almost nose-to-nose, and Geralt only has eyes for him.

“Don’t leave.”

Jaskier can feel something else in him spark, brighter than anything.

The sound of a shriek is what breaks Geralt out of his trance, but the haunted urgency doesn’t leave. He turns around and there she is—

Naked, blood-soaked, red-headed. The alp.

Geralt turns back to Jaskier and somehow, the anguish in his face is worse.

Jaskier can’t stop the rushed words escaping him, “I won’t.”

Geralt opens his mouth, but Jaskier places his hand over his lips, speaking faster now, “At the inn. I promise.”

Then Jaskier nudges him, nodding to the impatient vampire awaiting the Witcher. Geralt only spares the smallest of nods, and spins on his heel, brandishing his silver sword.

Jaskier doesn’t waste a moment, turning in the other direction and sprinting away from the action.

For a moment, Jaskier wants to run away. To leave.

——

The fight is rushed, over relatively quick. Maybe it’s because of the Black Blood coursing through his veins, or maybe it’s because of the relentless fear rushing through his body—piercing his heart and haunting his mind.

He cuts the head off of the alp and heads off to the tavern. He storms through the rotting wooden door—with the urgency of a man scared of losing the most important thing to him—and drops the head on the bar, staring at the barkeep with blackened eyes and blood-splattered armor.

The man is quick to toss the bag of coin his way, and when Geralt catches the bag, he turns away to rush out, not wasting time to speak a word. He steps towards the inn—the smallest of tension leaking out of his shoulders when he scents the pine and cedar and sea-salt at the threshold of the inn.

He skips steps when he climbs the stairs, following the awfully familiar scent like a dog following a treat. He fears the scent is old, because it’s the same room they got the previous night, and that Jaskier is long gone—run away like he said he would.

But he opens the door and the scent overwhelms him, drowning him in painful relief and dread.

Now that the danger has passed, he’ll have to face something worse than an alp.

Jaskier is sitting upon the bed, staring out the window with an air of melancholy that smells like cold soot—like a campfire that died overnight. The man turns to face him and it’s Geralt’s turn to feel trapped. He realizes all of the bard’s belongings are packed, right next to the man in question.

“I admit. I was thinking of—”

“Leaving,” Geralt finishes, his throat closing against his will. Jaskier nods, taking a soft breath that punches Geralt’s out of his chest.

Jaskier’s brows furrow, “The potion hasn’t run its course?”

He must be seeing the inky blackness of Geralt’s eyes, the deathly grey veins spanning over his sallow skin.

“Yes. I wanted to—” Geralt swallows hard, glancing to the floor, changing his words, “I didn’t want to be too slow.”

“So… you just ran over here?” Jaskier asks, slow, as if he’s scared of the implication. Geralt nods, jerky and awkward. He steps away from the doorway and glances at Jaskier, asking permission.

Jaskier looks between him and the door, something warring within his eyes, but something must have won because he ducks his head and quietly says, “Close it.”

Geralt inhales shakily and shuts the door behind him. He takes the first step towards the bed, knowing how horrible he must look in candlelight—bloody, pale, and spellbound by one thing and one thing only.

Jaskier looks away and that—

The small crack in Geralt splinters.

Geralt grits his teeth and steps away from the bed, settling down next to the fireplace, away from the bard. Everything feels precarious, like glass, like everything is balancing on one point and Geralt—God, he will do anything in his power to stop it from tipping over.

Jaskier sits there, waiting. Geralt knows he doesn’t have much time. There’s nothing right now that’s in his favour, except for the fact Jaskier is still here.

God, he’s still here.

Waiting, expecting something more—something that Geralt should have given him a long time ago.

Waiting.

Even after everything.

Geralt knows he’s so fucking selfish, asking him to stay when the bard should have left the moment he met the Witcher in Posada.

Asking him to stay when he almost got him killed, his throat torn to shreds.

Asking him to stay when he has the fucking gall to say the infuriating bard isn’t his best friend—his only friend.

Asking him to stay when he shut Jaskier out, letting an invitation to his open heart and a trip to the coast fall on deaf ears.

Asking him to stay when he said the only thing he knows will break the bard, blaming every shitshow he gets himself into on the poor man.

Begging him to stay when he has no fucking right to even look at those cornflower eyes.

Geralt is the first to break the deserved silence, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier doesn’t even look up. “For what? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“For everything.” Geralt’s tongue thickens in his mouth. “Everything I let you go through. Everything I did to you.”

Jaskier is quick to shake his head, “Geralt, you didn’t do anything to me—”

“Yes. I did.” Geralt looks down. “When was the last time you wrote a song?”

It’s silent. It’s enough of an answer for the Witcher.

“Jaskier.” His tone is almost begging, hoping the man will meet his eyes. And he does, but the look in those eyes he loves with every fibre of his being is stricken, teary and hurt. “I know you’re hurting yourself the longer you’re with me. I can see it.”

Jaskier’s breath becomes shaky.

“Jaskier. You can leave—I’ll let you leave. I will.” Geralt is wishing to every djinn out there that he won’t.

He licks his lips and hopes his heart doesn’t pop out of his chest from how hard it’s thumping in his ribcage. “If you listen to what I’m going to say.”

Jaskier nods his head, patient and still looking the saddest Geralt has ever fucking seen him.

Geralt locks his gaze onto Jaskier, pouring every bit of his heart into his eyes.

“Jaskier—”

Geralt clenches his fists.

“I love you.”

A beat.

Nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, his teeth grinding as his heart spills out from his sleeve and onto the carpet in front of him.

The sound torn from Jaskier’s mouth is harsh, cutting and so fucking grating it twists something in Geralt.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, right?” Jaskier rocks backwards on the bed, a cold laugh bubbling in his throat. But when he faces Geralt again, his face is splotchy, eyes red and tears glistening in warm candlelight—looking heartbroken.

“You can’t—Geralt,” his name sounds raw and wobbly out of the bard’s mouth, “You can’t fucking say that. You can’t.”

Geralt’s jaw is hardened when he grits out, “But it’s true.”

“How long?” Jaskier snaps.

Geralt straightens up, meeting his gaze. “Cintra. The bathtub.”

Jaskier’s gaze cuts deep, splaying him open, and Geralt can’t keep the eye contact, looking away.

“Right after I said I didn’t…” Geralt furrows his brows, “need anyone.”

“I realized what I said was wrong. But I didn’t want—I couldn’t take it back.”

Jaskier looks even sadder, something dark swirling in those bright irises. They used to remind Geralt of the sea, full of life and depth. Now, all he sees is dull, glassy eyes.

“Geralt—”

“I know I can’t apologize for everything overnight,” he blurts, something in him pushing him forward to pull through, “I know I can’t. But I want to try. Fuck, I want to try. For as long as it takes.”

It’s like steel forging within him, giving him the strength to yank out the last bit of brutal honesty. His words are a rumble, like thunder in a storm, “Because I don’t want to travel the Continent without you by my side.”

Jaskier is silent, parsing Geralt with his beautiful eyes.

The longer the quiet stretches, the more his hope dwindles in his chest, fluttering down into nothing.

“Promise me.”

“Anything,” Geralt is quick to say. It pulls a twitch of the lips from the bard.

“Promise me you’ll try. You can hurt me with your words and I’ll bite back—I swear to all the Gods, Geralt—I’ll fucking bite back.” Jaskier narrows his eyes, breathing out slowly. “But I’ll forgive you because I know you’re trying.”

Jaskier digs his fingers into the blankets, “So you have to promise me you’ll try. Otherwise I’ll leave. I’ll leave and I’ll never go out of my way to look for your stupid face again.”

“I promise, Jask,” he mutters, the words so deafening over the quiet crackling of the fire behind him.

“I-I’ll never sing your stupid songs, I’ll never speak of you again, I—” his voice cracks, a sob echoes and Geralt snaps up, his heart breaking at the sight of Jaskier crying, “—I won’t have to pretend like every insult of yours doesn’t make me question if everything is real—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt snaps and oh Gods, Jaskier fucking whimpers and fuck—

Geralt can’t stop himself from jumping to his feet and rushing over to Jaskier, picking up the man and plopping him into his lap as he sits on the bed, despite the bard’s protests.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles. The second his hand starts running through Jaskier’s brown hair, the bard quietens, his hands gripping onto Geralt’s armor as if it were an anchor.

They settle like that, Jaskier’s heart-breaking sobs muffled by Geralt’s blood-stained armor, his strong arms curled protectively around the bard.

But Jaskier wiggles out of his hold after a long moment, and braces his thighs around Geralt’s hips and—

He kisses Geralt.

The Witcher isn’t one to waste time, quick to reciprocate in movement and emotion.

It’s both everything and nothing that Geralt had imagined it to be. He never thought it would be salty with tears, or that they’re both so hurt and raw and open in a way Geralt never is. But it fills the gaping hole in his chest just like he thought it would, warm and tantalizing and soothing like a balm.

Everything isn’t going to be fixed overnight, they both know that. Everything is on the line for the two of them; the bard has his whole heart, soul and mind devoted to this; Geralt doesn’t want to lose the only thing that matters to him.

So, Geralt has to try. Wants to try. To fix every little tear and scar between the two of them. It may take days, months, years—Geralt doesn’t care. He’d spend his whole fucking life trying to make it up to the bard if he must.

But he has to start somewhere. And so he starts honesty in every action.

Geralt pulls away for a moment and grumbles on Jaskier’s lips, “In the forest, you said, ‘you don’t know why you’re doing this’.”

Jaskier nods, confused. Geralt’s arm tightens its hold on the other man’s waist, pulling them flushed, and the Witcher mumbles, “I’ll give you my answer. Because I want to touch you so much—”

Geralt’s nose trails the line of Jaskier’s throat, teeth grazing his collarbone, reveling in how the man in his arms shivers. “—it fucking burns.”

And he must say, it’s already looking up.

#geralt #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier angst #angst #my writing #my fish #prompt #anon ask #anon prompt

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years

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King’s Landing: Images of burning.

The show used a mediterranean setting for King’s Landing. White stone, paved streets. We saw lots of exploding rocks and rubble, but very little actual burning apart from the dragonfire itself. That always bothered me because it didn’t really look like a city on fire.

The books will have a different take:

Pate had never seen King’s Landing, but he knew it was a dauband-wattle city, a sprawl of mud streets, thatched roofs, and wooden hovels. (ACOK, Prologue)

It’s a tinderbox. Once it starts burning, it’ll be a firestorm with little opportunity for escape.

Arya may be on the ground like she was on the show. She certainly gives us some intense images of fiery destruction on settlements and architecture in earlier books, to imagine the scene.

A day later Dobber spied a red glow against the evening sky. “Either this road went and turned again, or that sun’s setting in the north.” Yoren climbed a rise to get a better look. “Fire,” he announced. He licked a thumb and held it up. “Wind should blow it away from us. Still bears watching.” And watch it they did. As the world darkened, the fire seemed to grow brighter and brighter, until it looked as though the whole north was ablaze. From time to time, they could even smell the smoke, though the wind held steady and the flames never got any closer. By dawn the fire had burned itself out, but none of them slept very well that night. It was midday when they arrived at the place where the village had been. The fields were a charred desolation for miles around, the houses blackened shells. The carcasses of burnt and butchered animals dotted the ground, under living blankets of carrion crows that rose, cawing furiously, when disturbed. Smoke still drifted from inside the holdfast. Its timber palisade looked strong from afar, but had not proved strong enough. (ACOK, Arya)

This is a village and it lit up the horizon.

The barn’s on fire, she thought. Flames were licking up its sides from where a torch had fallen on straw, and she could hear the screaming of the animals trapped within. (…) Rushing through the barn doors was like running into a furnace. The air was swirling with smoke, the back wall a sheet of fire ground to roof. Their horses and donkeys were kicking and rearing and screaming. The poor animals, Arya thought. Then she saw the wagon, and the three men manacled to its bed. Biter was flinging himself against the chains, blood running down his arms from where the irons clasped his wrists. Rorge screamed curses, kicking at the wood. “Boy!” called Jaqen H’ghar. “Sweet boy!” The open trap was only a few feet ahead, but the fire was spreading fast, consuming the old wood and dry straw faster than she would have believed. Arya remembered the Hound’s horrible burned face. “Tunnel’s narrow,” Gendry shouted. “How do we get her through?” “Pull her,” Arya said. “Push her.” “Good boys, kind boys,” called Jaqen H’ghar, coughing. “Get these fucking chains off!” Rorge screamed. (...) “You take her!” she yelled. “You get her out! You do it!” The fire beat at her back with hot red wings as she fled the burning barn. It felt blessedly cool outside, but men were dying all around her. She saw Koss throw down his blade to yield, and she saw them kill him where he stood. Smoke was everywhere. There was no sign of Yoren, but the axe was where Gendry had left it, by the woodpile outside the haven. As she wrenched it free, a mailed hand grabbed her arm. Spinning, Arya drove the head of the axe hard between his legs. She never saw his face, only the dark blood seeping between the links of his hauberk. Going back into that barn was the hardest thing she ever did. Smoke was pouring out the open door like a writhing black snake, and she could hear the screams of the poor animals inside, donkeys and horses and men. She chewed her lip, and darted through the doors, crouched low where the smoke wasn’t quite so thick. A donkey was caught in a ring of fire, shrieking in terror and pain. She could smell the stench of burning hair. The roof was gone up too, and things were falling down, pieces of flaming wood and bits of straw and hay. Arya put a hand over her mouth and nose. She couldn’t see the wagon for the smoke, but she could still hear Biter screaming. She crawled toward the sound. And then a wheel was looming over her. The wagon jumped and moved a half foot when Biter threw himself against his chains again. Jaqen saw her, but it was too hard to breathe, let alone talk. She threw the axe into the wagon. Rorge caught it and lifted it over his head, rivers of sooty sweat pouring down his noseless face. Arya was running, coughing. She heard the steel crash through the old wood, and again, again. An instant later came a crack as loud as thunder, and the bottom of the wagon came ripping loose in an explosion of splinters. Arya rolled headfirst into the tunnel and dropped five feet. She got dirt in her mouth but she didn’t care, the taste was fine, the taste was mud and water and worms and life. Under the earth the air was cool and dark. Above was nothing but blood and roaring red and choking smoke and the screams of dying horses. She moved her belt around so Needle would not be in her way, and began to crawl. A dozen feet down the tunnel she heard the sound, like the roar of some monstrous beast, and a cloud of hot smoke and black dust came billowing up behind her, smelling of hell. Arya held her breath and kissed the mud on the floor of the tunnel and cried. For whom, she could not say. (ACOK, Arya)

This is a barn on fire. One barn.

There has been fire in King’s Landing before:

“Fire!” a voice screamed down from atop the barbican. “My lords, there’s smoke in the city. Flea Bottom’s afire.” Tyrion was inutterably weary, but there was no time for despair. “Bronn, take as many men as you need and see that the water wagons are not molested.” Gods be good, the wildfire, if any blaze should reach that . . . “We can lose all of Flea Bottom if we must, but on no account must the fire reach the Guildhall of the Alchemists, is that understood? (…)

Yet by evenfall the city was still in turmoil, though Bronn reported that the fires were quenched and most of the roving mobs dispersed. Much as Tyrion yearned for the comfort of Shae’s arms, he realized he would go nowhere that night. (ACOK, Tyrion)

They do have a functioning fire fighting system! But not one that will work in the middle of battle with dragonfire and wildfire involved.

Apart from the Flames, smoke and ashes will kill the people:

The southern sky was black with smoke. It rose swirling off a hundred distant fires, ist sooty fingers smudging out the stars. Across the Blackwater Rush, a line of flame burned nightly from horizon to horizon, while on this side the Imp had fired the whole riverfront: docks and warehouses, homes and brothels, everything outside the city walls. Even in the Red Keep, the air tasted of ashes. When Sansa found Ser Dontos in the quiet of the godswood, he asked if she’d been crying. “It’s only from the smoke,” she lied. “It looks as though half the kingswood is burning.” “Lord Stannis wants to smoke out the Imp’s savages.” (ACOK, Sansa)

Sansa describes the view from above:

The smoke blotted out the stars and the thin crescent of moon, so the roof was dark and thick with shadows. Yet from here she could see everything: the Red Keep’s tall towers and great cornerforts, the maze of city Streets beyond, to south and west the river running black, the bay to the east, the columns of smoke and cinders, and fires, fires everywhere. Soldiers crawled over the city walls like ants with torches, and crowded the hoardings that had sprouted from the ramparts. (ACOK, Sansa)

Imagine running through a maze in the middle of a searing blaze, the air so thick with smoke it is impossible to see, impossible to breathe. Crowds of panicking people running alongside. Trapped trapped by walls, trapped by the river.

Beyond the Mud Gate and the desolation that had once been the fishmarket and wharves, the river itself seemed to have taken fire. Half of Stannis’s fleet was ablaze, along with most of Joffrey’s. The kiss of wildfire turned proud ships into funeral pyres and men into Living torches. The air was full of smoke and arrows and screams. Downstream, commoners and highborn captains alike could see the hot green death swirling toward their rafts and carracks and ferries, borne on the current of the Blackwater. The long white oars of the Myrish galleys flashed like the legs of maddened centipedes as they fought to come about, but it was no good. The centipedes had no place to run. A dozen great fires raged under the city walls, where casks of burning pitch had exploded, but the wildfire reduced them to no more than candles in a burning house, their orange and scarlet pennons fluttering insignificantly against the jade holocaust. The low clouds caught the color of the burning river and roofed the sky in shades of shifting green, eerily beautiful. A terrible beauty. Like dragonfire. Tyrion wondered if Aegon the Conqueror had felt like this as he flew above his Field of Fire. (ACOK, Tyrion)

Enough said.

The level of inferno when Dany sets King's Landing on fire will be apocalyptic. Survival will depend on luck, if there is access to underground tunnels leading away from the destruction and the smoke, open gates allowing escape from a city under siege, non-flammable shelter not directly under attack.

This will be so very ugly.

#asoiaf #king's landing #fire #dragonfire #my posts

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empressofmankind · 4 years

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The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 04. Tywin I

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire Major Character/s: Kevan Lannister Sr, Tywin Lannister, Loren Lannister (mentioned), Cersei Lannister (mentioned) Minor Somebodies: Miana Hill, Brynmor Royan (mentioned) Location/s: Casterly Rock Premises: ...but what if I made you feel for Tywin? Mood: There were probably emotionally healthier ways to deal with things but then Tywin wouldn't be Tywin Warnings: N/A NOTE: Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert Baratheon, Queen Cersei Lannister and their family set out for Winterfell. It therefore takes place a little bit before the start of the first book, ‘A Game of Thrones’. The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I // 03. Jaime //

Lord Tywin strode out onto Casterly Rock's twilit inner bailey and into the pouring rain. Down the narrow way between the beacon and the western wall, he went, ignoring the late summer storm. The watchman sat huddled leeward of the twelve feet stack of soaked firewood. No flame but wildfire would light it now. The wind seized Tywin's thick crimson cloak as he came around the beacon, throwing the heavy damask about like a living thing. He ignored it like he ignored the rain pelting his face, seeping into his golden side-whiskers and drenching his quilted burgundy doublet. He held a square of fabric in his fist, water running in rivulets between his knuckles to soak into the faded embroidery. He went up the stone steps, worn concave down their middle from centuries of sentries doing the same. The western wall was the tallest of Casterly Rock's myriad defences, the drop down to sea-level sheer safe for a small ledge.

Tywin stood upon the western battlements and surveyed his storm-torn domain. Far below, the lighthouse of Lannisport cast its fire across the raging black sea, guiding its fishermen home. The storms were ever wild at the tail-end of summer. It would be wet, and then it would be cold. His gaze turned north, to the Iron Isles. The beacon at Faircastle was dark, even the Ironborn had deemed to stay ashore. But summer was drawing to a close, the lean months of winter approaching. They will come before long.

Lannisport huddled amid the rugged hills, shrouded in a curtain of grey. A dismal port along a desolate stretch of limestone cliffs and shingle beach, its shoulders in brooding old-growth and its toes in dark tidal waters. But Tywin knew how it could be, when the wretched weather rolled back and all glistened in the morning light. White shores, before a colourful port. And beyond, a green cloak of broadleaf forest. The limestone crest of the Rock pearlescent under a swift sunrise, setting fire to its gleaming battlements. The Westerlands were his home, and always would be.

“My Lord.”

Tywin ignored the call as his gaze wandered inland, to the mountains and the Golden Tooth, just visible behind the old quatrefoil keep. Beyond them, the deltas of the Riverlands, the forested Crownlands and the supposed jewel in Westeros' benighted crown: King's Landing. A presumptuous name for a hive of intrigue and petty crime. Yet Tywin's gaze lingered, even though he much preferred viewing Lannisport at dawn. Kevan would be a squire, soon. A boy of ten and a child not for much longer. He could remember the day he'd held his son as a mere babe as if it were yesterday. Small and blond and freckled, like his mother. Tywin smiled. He'd make a fine Lord, one day.

“Tywin.”

The rains were becoming more frequent. Tywin could smell it, the vague scent of damp never entirely leaving these days. It lingered in the wood and draperies, rotted rushes within the day. They marked the change in the season. Winter would be upon them before long. Not a cold snap, like the frost spell out of nowhere six years ago, which the smallfolk called ‘little winter’. But a real winter, one that would last years rather than nine moons. Tywin pursed his thin lips. Kevan would be fine, he was a vigorous child. Like himself, Kevan had been born towards the close of winter, braving its tail-end as a babe. Tywin clenched his fist, squeezing water from the strip of cloth he held. They'd had to bury Kevan’s baby brother together with the uncle the babe had been named for. Tywin did not miss his brother Tygett.

“Brother.”

‘Brother!’ Tywin could hear Gerion’s flippant call and laughter as if he’d never left. His gaze returned to the choppy sea and the shrouded lands beyond the horizon. Gerion was out there, somewhere. He ought to have been born a Lannisporter. ‘Look to the sea’ their words were. Tywin clenched his jaw. Gerion would return one day, laughing and swinging Brightroar in jest, mocking their concern as he swaggered down the docks. Laughing, always laughing. Tywin’s gaze lingered. Make haste, little brother. Winter will soon get into the sea.

Tywin had never thought he must steer their House through another winter. He’d always believed Jaime would, considered even that Tyrion might. Jaime... Tywin’s gaze found the pass across the Golden Tooth, the first rays of a watery dawn lighting the jagged peak to honour its name. In a few days, Kevan would be a squire. One more winter and Kevan will be old enough to do it in my stead, Tywin thought. He could do one more. His grip on the cloth tightened. He must. It would be his sixth winter. It would be his last.

Ser Kevan reached for his older brother’s face with both hands and turned it towards himself. “Is there any particular reason you are out here in the rain, trying to catch consumption?”

Tywin glanced at the beacon. The watchman was gone.

Kevan Lannister was a large man of modest stature with broad shoulders and a thick waist. In that, he took after their father. “He was just doing his job, Tywin.”

Tywin pursed his lips. Perhaps, not only in that. “His job is watching the beacon at Faircastle.”

Kevan sighed. “Come inside, take a hot bath. Lady Loren will have both our heads adorning these battlements if she returns home to find you bed-ridden.”

At the mention of his wife, Tywin’s gaze returned to the Golden Tooth. Kevan’s squiring was eight days hence. The ride down the gold road would take six days, even at haste. Loren wouldn’t rest beside him for another fortnight.

“Come on.” Kevan put a hand against his brother and Lord’s back, urging him towards the keep.

Tywin let him.

The venerable keep of Casterly Rock was old and known precisely so, as the ‘Old Keep’. Its correct name, if ever it had one, was lost to time. It squat on the westernmost tip of the limestone promontory, the summit forming a natural motte. Erected from pale, quarry-faced ashlar, delved right beneath its ancient feet, and crowned with smooth red shingles, the keep sat quiet and dignified in the storm. The Casterly’s had built it in the Dawn Age, but its four-leaf clover shape suited the person that had winkled it from them: Lann the Clever, not for no reason, also named Lann the Lucky. Some considered him a son of Floris the Fox, daughter of Garth Greenhand, but Tywin was not a man who put stock by tales that banked on fancy for veracity alone. For that matter, he doubted their eponymous golden-haired ancestor had existed at all.

“Why have you not left for King’s Landing?” Reproach edged Kevan’s tone.

Tywin put his hand to the pale stone as they entered, the seaward face of the Old Keep worn smooth by the unrelenting gales. It was cold and slick from the rain. “No one wants me there.”

Men-at-arms in the red cloaks of their household guard stood inside, sheltering from the dreadful weather. Tywin ran their faces past his recollection, putting names to each as he glared at them in turn. Ser Harren. Donyllo. Briella. Ser Marreo. Selvin. Young Selvin glanced away as Tywin caught her gaze, her sallow cheeks tinging red. So, you were on watch.

“I dare say your wife would like you to be there.” Kevan pulled the hood of his mantle down and ran a hand through his short, blonde hair. Water dripped from his close-cropped beard.

“Loren knows better than to wish for foolish things.” Tywin made no effort to prevent the trail of water he tracked onto the flagstones. The household guards closed the crimson doors behind them with a boom, and he dismissed them with a flick of his hand. Ser Marreo and Briella took up posts by the door while the others retreated to the guardrooms beyond.

“Don’t tell me you honestly believe she’s safer without you nearby?” Kevan pressed. He put a hand to the limestone column as they ascended the spiral stairs.

“Loren can handle herself.” Tywin scowled. She couldn’t uncover what they needed to know with him around. The tourney of his grandson Joffrey’s name day had shown the sorry truth of that.

“I’m not suggesting she can’t.”

Tywin paused. “Then what are you suggesting?”

Kevan squared his shoulders, filling out the narrow stairwell. “Ride for King’s Landing. You can still make it.”

Tywin started back up the stairs. “Loren can handle herself.”

“What about my little nephew? Your son? What about Kevan? You don’t think he wants you to be there on the most important day of his young life?”

Tywin’s jaw moved, but he didn’t speak. When he had left King’s Landing a fortnight past, his young son had asked if he’d make it back in time for his squiring. He’d given the boy a non-answer. His mother needed as much time as he could carve out for her.

“You can still make it,” Kevan insisted. “Ride out now. Ride fast. Send a raven ahead.”

They emerged into what had once been the Casterly’s great hall, long since turned into a solar. It was dominated by four paired limestone fireplaces, protruding proudly from the walls on either far end of the hall. The seaward side comprised seven tall archways with leonine capstones, the middle one twice the size of any of the others. They were shuttered with bloodwood from the Summer Isles now, but on fairer days they provided a view of the sunset sea like no other. Across, a semicircle dais marked where the high table had once been. The earliest Kings of the Rock had carved out the Grand Assembly, and they had moved their court there. Comfortable couches, upholstered chairs and even a claw-footed divan from far Qarth now occupied the place of honour. Among them, distinctly down-sized but equally well-made furniture. An assortment of wooden toys laid spread between them, including a gnarled, flaking dragon whose wings would flap when tugged along on its wheels. It had been a gift from King Aerys Targaryen, many years ago. The dais was flanked by a pride of true-to-life limestone lions. The roaring one had a crimson table runner thrown across its back, like a make-shift saddle.

Overlooking the solar from that fair vantage point hung the life-size portrait of a noble lady resplendent in crimson and gold. Regal and arresting, she sat frozen in time upon a divan just like the one standing before her likeness. Her dress was of luxurious, red damask and edged with ermine, the fine needlework and delicate fur beautifully rendered in paint. A golden pendant, shaped into a stalking lioness with ruby eyes, graced the curve of her pale collar bones. And many rings, crowned with pearl and ruby and a crest of two lions entwined, sat around her long, slender fingers. Her gentle, oval face was framed by hair as burnished gold that fell well past her waist in tender waves. It seemed in paint as silken as it had been in life. Her emerald eyes smiled at him.

Joanna. Tywin paused in front of it, as he always did. Loren had hung it here, during the Little Winter. ‘It saddens me to think that she can only ever hear our little cubs from her dark bed below,’ she had explained. ‘Now she can see them.’

“Brother?” Kevan’s hand rested on his shoulder. There was a question in his sea-green eyes, but he did not ask it.

Tywin shrugged his touch and turned abruptly from the portrait. It was paint on panel and merely shaped into the likeness of his late wife. It couldn’t see or feel any more than the old tree in the Stone Garden could. He shook his head. A streak of bear-blood ran through the Lannisport cadet branch of his House and, some times, he could feel the breath of the Old Gods roll off Loren like a half-recalled memory of the Long Night. Such as when she spoke of portraits keeping watch over their offspring. He pursed his lips and shook his head. Hrm. No.

“Kevan is the first boy to squire at nine since Aegon the Unlikely,” Tywin said, not without pride. He’d been right to decide his son page with his brother, for his namesake had taught him well. He ought to have insisted on the same for Joffrey.

“He is eager to become a knight of great renown and live up to his Lord Father’s fame,” Kevan said as they climbed one of the twin stairs flanking the portrait.

Good, Tywin thought. His son would be Hand to a worthy King, one day. He would make it so. The tourney had been the perfect opportunity for Cersei to showcase Joffrey’s qualities to his future realm, but she hadn’t. A frown creased his brow. It wasn’t like her not to preen.

“He reminds me of you, you know, when we were younger,” Kevan added, stirring Tywin from his thoughts.

Tywin’s eyebrows rose, amused. “Does he, now?”

“Mhm. The intensity with which he sets to mastering something new.”

Tywin glanced at his brother from across his shoulder as they ascended the stairs. You don’t exactly lack in tenacity yourself, Kevan, he thought. Kevan had hounded him about King’s Landing for four days now. Genna, too. He wondered when his siblings would resolve to gang up on him.

“You remember that?” It had been a goodly while ago. He’d been twelve, or so. Maester Hrothan was no longer with them. He regretted it now, for Creylen was not nearly as competent. They ought to demand a substitute from the Citadel. Or, perhaps, Loren could winkle Maester Ainsley from Lannisport.

“You hammered the quintain through the dead of night for a fortnight,” Kevan said as they stepped into a smaller solar, though not less sumptuously furnished than the hall below. A fireplace, its limestone arch fashioned into twin lions, protruded from the oak panelling and dominated the secluded chamber. The dawn crept in through the diamond-paned bay window, filling the room with warm, filtered light that set sparkles to the gold-thread in the red samite hangings. “I dare say we all remember.”

Tywin had met Ainsley on occasion, a diligent man and an expert on the histories of the Westerlands. Tion sorely needed a proper tutor and currently wanted nothing more than to learn the origin and purpose of every pebble and peasant in their fief.

“I am glad it healed well, in the end,” Kevan added.

Tywin crossed the solar and strode into his study, a private office where he might retire and work in peace, undisturbed by courtiers or claimants. He flexed his right arm. “I am still not as proficient dexter as I should like.”

Kevan lingered at the door, his hands behind his back and his gaze on an elegant painting he had beheld a hundred times before. It depicted Lord Tywin, standing stately complacent holding his then 2-year-old son Kevan. Lady Loren stood beside him, a delicate hand in the crook of his elbow. The finely rendered sparkle of amused satisfaction in her soft gaze betrayed that whoever had supervised the painting of her, knew her well. The same could not be said for Casterly Rock. The picturesque landscape behind them evidently meant to depict their family seat but had clearly been rendered by someone who had never seen it.

Tywin made for the cluttered, dark wooden desk dominating his study. He produced a small, bronze key from the pouch concealed at his hip, opened a drawer and took from it a bijou coffer of elegantly carved ivory. Lions danced along its finely worked panels. Before opening it, he glanced up and found his brother diligently studying the painting King Robert Baratheon had gifted him for his 50th name day. Then he pressed the concealed indents on the small strongbox. It opened with a soft click to reveal a lining of faded crimson velvet within. Tywin folded the cloth he had been holding, still damp with rain, and laid it on the velvet pillow. It was threadbare from age and handling, the neatly embroidered heraldic lions having long since lost their gold-thread lustre. The shadow of a smile flitted across his face. Their attitudes had been arranged to make it look as if they mated. After a moment, he snapped the box shut, put it back and locked the drawer.

“A fine gift, this painting,” Kevan said, as ever.

Tywin straightened and pocketed the key. “I am fond of it.”

Only after Tywin had spoken did Kevan turn to him. “Our King is generous.”

Tywin pursed his lips. With my coin.

A girl with thick curly black hair, no older than eight, in the ruby livery of their House, entered with a pitcher of wine. She made a curtsy, holding the pitcher perfectly straight, her pinky lifting free off the handle as she did so. The dainty obeisance made Tywin think of Helaina mimicking her older sister and Queen. “Milords Lannister.”

“Only water,” Tywin said.

Kevan smiled at her. “We would break our fast with warm toast and egg, boiled well, Miana.”

Tywin paused. Joanna liked runny eggs. ‘I want it to bleed when I stick it with my knife,’ she’d joke. Gerion would invariably make a rejoinder unsuited to the dinner table, as to why she preferred her egg so.

“Straight away, milords.” Miana left as swiftly as the full pitcher allowed her, to arrange the command.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Joy’s friend, isn’t she?” Kevan said, ignoring his comment. Tywin suspected his wife had instructed Kevan to hound him over it if need be.

Tywin frowned. Joy was a pale, sallow-faced girl whose light hair was akin to straw more than spun gold. She was his little brother Gerion’s natural daughter. Loren had all but adopted the girl, diligently heeling her into the lady she might have been had his brother bothered to wed first. Tywin had seen the two girls play on occasion. They would go to the stables and braid the manes of every horse in sight, and of every young man that didn’t flee fast enough. “I’ve seen them at play, yes.”

“I wasn’t aware Ser Brynmor had wed,” Kevan said. Miana’s resemblance was more than passing and not purely because of her warm brown skin which seemed to hold the sunshine of the Summer Isles. She had the same, soft, round features. Her small, broad nose and high cheekbones framing bright, intelligent eyes the stormy grey of her father’s.

Tywin’s frown creased with disapproval. “He hasn’t.”

Kevan’s expression fell. “Oh, I see.”

A few years ago, Lord Gawen Westerling had sold the deed to the hamlet of Westerbridge title-and-all to the Royans, in an attempt to bind one of his last remaining banners to him. Like so many things Lord Gawen undertook, it had fallen sorely flat. Lord Lloyd Royan, the newly minted petty Lord of Westerbridge, had sent his sibling to Casterly Rock faster than a dead-whipped runner boy. He’d charged Ser Brynmor with swearing fealty directly to Lord Tywin himself instead of Lord Gawen. Tywin had accepted and formalised the penny-sized fief. Ser Brynmor had chosen to stay as part of their Household guard.

Tywin entered his bedchambers to find a bath had already been drawn. He had no doubt the temperature of the water would be as he preferred it. The corner of his lips twitched as he entertained the notion of his wife drawing up precise instructions for his siblings and their staff alike before they left.

“Loren noticed when she saw her as a toddler,” Tywin said as he undressed. His wife was prudent in her caution towards strangers. Ser Brynmor had still been a new face among their guard at the time. She had kept the girl at hand, should anything unfortunate occur. Though these days, Miana’s uncle was a fixture among their vassals and her father had been commended by the assiduous Ser Gnaeus.

“You don’t approve of her friendship to Joy?”

Tywin pursed his lips. Even trueborn daughters of their respective Houses would not be friends for much longer. “Not all bastards are begotten equal.”

Tywin reached for the golden bowl and rinsed himself shoulders to toes. The plink of water drops falling from his limbs carried Tywin’s thoughts to the balnea, where bronze pipes brought water up to patter down from the ceiling like salty summer rain. They plinked just so on the warm ceramic tiles of the bathing hall. It was a feat in engineering. Tywin’s grandfather had built it for his Lady Alysanne, who had been of delicate health. It was well-loved by all the women of his family, and plenty of the men besides. After Joanna had… After she had gone, he had not used it in near two decades. Until he’d wed Loren. She loved it there, too.

“They grow fast,” Tywin said as he rinsed himself. Though the water was a pleasant temperature, it failed to soothe the cold that had seeped into his thoughts. “Before long, Kevan will be a knight and a man grown.”

“Aye, time used to seem so slow, didn’t it?” Kevan agreed. “It feels like yester morn that I held my Lancel as a swaddled babe. I remember it so well.”

Tywin did, too. When the twins had been born, Maester Hrothan had given him his little girl. So small and quiet, she’d been. Unmoving as she laid in his arms. Until she took in a breath and came alive, opening her emerald eyes for the very first time to see him. The maesters said life resided fully formed in the seed, but he didn't think so. He had seen life come into his firstborn when he held her. Joanna had said the same about Cersei’s twin. Two children in one, they’d never dared hope. But then his thoughts clouded, and he frowned. Thrice-ten-and-two this year. A knight and a Queen they had become. Yet Cersei hadn’t been herself when they arrived for Joffrey’s name day.

“Kevan will need a suitable match soon.”

Kevan’s voice broke through Tywin’s pensive mood. He focused his gaze on his brother, who held out scrub and cloth. He took them, belatedly. “We have spent some thought on it.”

“Banners?” Kevan said as Tywin had known he would. Tywin had never meant to remarry. He knew there were, and no doubt are, those among his banners who were peeved he wed the daughter of a second cousin, rather than one of theirs.

“Perhaps a Kenning of Kayce, or a Farman of Faircastle,” Kevan suggested. “It can never hurt to strengthen those ties.” His brother was shrewd, for these matches would please Loren too. The two fortresses stood vigilant between the Iron Isles and Lannisport. They formed the first line of defence against the Ironborn.

“A Marbrand,” Tywin said as he cleansed himself. The Marbrands of Ashemark were an ancient and powerful family, and their allegiance went back centuries before Aegon’s conquest. Lady Jeyne, their own Lady Mother, had been a Marbrand. As was Darlessa, the wife of his late brother. “Its been long enough that they’ve suffered our brother as their last tie to us.”

Kevan frowned at his words. “Longer for the Farmans. And Lady Alysanne is great mother to none of us.”

Tywin pursed his lips. They were not shy for choice. “Has Loren said anything to you on the matter?”

“No, she has not.” Kevan shook his head. “And even if she had, neither of us is served with her feeling she cannot tell me something, you will not hear of too.”

Tywin frowned. He didn’t like the notion of either of them withholding information.

Kevan handed him a heated cloth. “What do you think she would want for your boy?”

“What does every woman want?” Tywin said as he climbed out of the bath and took it. “He’s her firstborn. She’s ambitious. She’ll want a dynastic marriage.”

Kevan stared at him for a long moment. Amusement flitted across Tywin’s face as he dried himself.

“That’s why you came home.”

There were various reasons he’d come home. Tywin frowned and reached for clean garments: a long, black tunic of finely tanned leather with a subtle pattern of lions embossed across the shoulders, and dark braies and chausses to match. Loren needed more time. Cersei hadn’t been herself. Her poise had been fragile, her willingness to demonstrate Joffrey’s capabilities hesitant, and that was nothing like her.

Kevan squinted, though amusement crept onto his round face. “You didn’t accompany Loren so she might mingle at court. True, enquiries such as these are more becoming for women to make.”

“I came home because Tion is too young to stay at court.” Tywin pursed his lips. Too young and too troublesome, for now. It was offensive enough Tyrion had insisted on staying.

Kevan’s expression turned thoughtful. “The Tyrells, the Starks… even the Martells, they all have girls in the right age range. Stannis Baratheon, too.”

“Shireen? Cersei is wed to Robert.” Tywin said as he dressed. He doubted Loren would double up ties. He knew her well enough to know she’d want to forge her own path, iron out a new alliance. To show that she could.

“The Martells? That’ll turn the court on its head.” Kevan’s smile turned wry. “Though not unthinkable.”

No son of mine will be a hostage to Dorne. Tywin fixed his brother a look. “I’d sooner perish.”

Kevan chuckled, though there was no genuine mirth in it. “Oberyn will be happy to oblige, I imagine.”

“The red viper is mad, and welcome to try,” Tywin said. The comment made Kevan frown, but he said nothing about it.

“What about the Starks?” Kevan said instead, shifting the topic away from Dorne. “There’s precedent.”

“Arsa Stark?” Tywin frowned. She’d been sister to Lord Beron Stark and had wed their grandfather, after their grandmother had disappeared. No children had come of it.

“Yes. And Lord Tion was betrothed to one of her brother’s daughters.” Kevan’s expression darkened, for their uncle had broken the betrothal. “Though that ended poorly.”

Tywin shrugged on his tunic. “Poorer for the Reynes.”

“It would be good to re-acquaint those ties,” Kevan said. “The North is a powerful ally in trade, politics and defence against the Ironborn.”

Tywin’s frown deepened. He’d heard that argument before and, at the time, it had made him consider agreeing to wedding Jaime to Lysa Tully or Lyanna Stark. “The Starks never come to court.”

“Which is a shame. Last they came south, they had two fine girls,” Kevan said. “One of them is around Kevan’s age if I am not mistaken. The other is only a little older, though she may already be betrothed.”

Tywin straightened his tunic before fastening his sword belt. “That leaves the Tyrells, and they’re kin through her brother’s wife. Aliyah is sister to Lord Paxter.” Brokken and Aliyah’s eldest daughter, Lynara, had become one of Loren’s ladies-in-waiting the previous year. “Margaery? How old is she now, five-and-ten?”

“I believe so. You think Loren will sue for an older maid?”

Tywin crooked an eyebrow as he finished dressing. “Maybe. Lady Rowenna was twice-ten when she wed Lord Gerald. Loren herself three-and-twenty when she was betrothed to the Greyjoy boy by them.”

“Unhappy unions, both,” Kevan reminded him as he followed Tywin from his bedchamber.

“Indeed.” Tywin crossed his study, back to the small solar. Perhaps not Margaery, then.

“A banner marriage would be wise,” Kevan said as they descended the stairs once more. The sweet scents of toast and sugar drifted up to them.

Tywin’s hand trailed the limestone column, absently counting the terminal rondels as they went. He wondered who Loren would set her sights on. No doubt, he’d hear before long. A smile tugged at his thin lips. They’d argue about it, but he didn’t mind. He hadn’t wed her for her placable nature.

“Unless she can convince you otherwise,” Kevan added as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the grand solar once more. He turned to Tywin and gave him a searching look. “Can she?”

Tywin pursed his lips, but it could not hide his amusement. “Maybe.”

Warm morning light flooded the erstwhile great hall, revealing flecks of gold in the pride of limestone lions. The one in repose had a crimson table runner thrown across its back like a make-shift saddle. Tywin crooked an eyebrow. It was the roaring lion that was the children's favourite to play knight-of-mine with. It's concave back and scuffed flanks were a testament to its suffering. When Cersei had been little, she would perch sideways on it, brushing her long golden hair and waving daintily at imaginary crowds. Tywin remembered how she had sat sideways on Robert’s warhorse at their wedding, waving just so at the gathered smallfolk, and he almost smiled.

The round, oaken table near the furthest of the archways, and pleasantly close to one set of fireplaces, had been laid. The shutter beside it had been opened, a isinglass pane replacing the red wood. It allowed the soft, orange light of dawn to filter through but kept the rain at bay. The petulant patter against the mica the only sound on this quiet morning. Fresh rushes had been spread, here and their, the last scents of summer trying to chase the damp reek away. Tywin eyed the flaking wooden dragon toy sitting among horses and knights. The mark of a friendship he had thought would last his entire life. Every time he saw it, the urge to throw it out the nearest archway was real. Tion would be inconsolable.

“Have you decided for Lancel?” Tywin took the place he always sat when breaking his fast, his back to the wall and the sea to his right. His nephew would come of age soon.

“No, wish that I had," Kevan admitted as he seated himself on Loren's place, nearest the lions and toys.

“What did Lord Emmerick say?” Tywin studied his brother as Miana poured each of them a glass of water. Had the seat been an idle choice?

“He was civil but ultimately declined.” Lord Emmerick Prester was the widowed Lord of Feastfires, his only child and heir his daughter Alynne. “Dorna was disappointed. The Presters are kin to her through her nephew Jared.”

The Presters are kin, to us, too, Tywin thought. Through Joanna’s mother. Kevan never spoke of her. And so, neither did he.

"Boiled well, milord," Miana said as she moved to serve Kevan.

"No, no," Kevan said and placed his hand across his platter, before indicating Tywin.

The girl flinched but recovered admirably. She swiftly moved around the table towards him. "Apologies, milord."

Tywin inclined his head a fraction. After serving him, she returned to Kevan.

“Lord Emmerick has only one match. No doubt he means to make the most of it,” Tywin said. Whomever wed Alynne would be the next Lord of Feastfires. Tion was only three, but he committed the footnote to memory, regardless.

“Lord Gawen approached me, regarding Jeyne, his eldest daughter.”

Tywin cut his toast in precise squares, revealing the hard-boiled egg inside. It stayed where it’d been put, as it well should. "Reject him."

Kevan looked up. “Gawen is a good man and the Westerlings have always been loyal to us.”

"And he had a good wife in Rona of Lannisport." Tywin pointed at Kevan with his knife, a square of toast pricked on it. "But no children came of that."

“Lady Sybell was very courteous." Kevan spread his runny egg across his toast. Tywin glanced away from it. ‘I want it to bleed when I stick it!’

"Of course she was courteous," Tywin said as he caught his brother’s gaze. "If she isn't even that, she has nothing at all." House Westerling was not what it had once been, and it had been a poor match for Loren's aunt, even then.

"I said I would give it thought."

“Don’t." Tywin said. "Sybell Spicer is the daughter of a commoner. And any betrothal to those baseborn children of theirs is an insult to the name Lannister." Tywin held his brother's gaze. He wouldn't allow his young children's prospects to be tarnished by a poorly wed cousin.

Kevan glanced away. "I will write them."

"Gawen should never have married her." Tywin pursed his lips. "The Westerlings always did have more honour than sense."

Kevan gave a dejected nod.

Tywin poured Kevan and himself another glass of water. It had been some time since one of them wed a Crakehall. A maternal grandfather of Loren, if memory served him. “Lizl Crakehall, daughter of Ser Tybolt. She’d be a good match for Lancel."

Kevan looked up and smiled. “I shall write them, too.”

Maester Creylen appeared with young Tion at his side. The three-year-old boy never failed to conjure up memories of Tywin’s father, Lord Tytos: short, soft, round, with a head of golden curls and those ever-smiling eyes. Tywin pursed his lips. The boy wore a red samite tunic that reached near his ankles. It was trimmed with soft squirrel because fabric edges bothered him. A fine little belt that matched his small boots gathered it around his waist. His hair was tied into thin helmet braids like his favourite knight, ever willing to let him ride his high shoulders or yeet him into the nearest hay bale, much to Tion's delight.

"Lord Tywin, Ser Kevan," Maester Creylen said with a bow. Creylen was a gaunt young man, a peer to Loren and the twins. A stark contrast with ancient Maester Hrothan.

"Lord Papa, Ser Uncle." Though only three, Tion's speech was clear and precise. And not remotely like the terrifying mess his brother had made of talking until he was nearly five.

"Good morning, Tion," Tywin said as he put his knife down. "How was your lesson?"

"Boring."

Tywin looked at Maester Creylen. "Is that so?"

"He is a smart boy. A very smart boy, my Lord." Maester Creylen clasped his hands and dodged his gaze.

Tywin made a dismissive gesture with two fingers and a flick of his hand. He would speak with Loren regarding Ainsley. "Leave us."

"As you wish, my Lord."

Tion climbed onto the dais and plopped down amid his toys. He picked up the flaking dragon and made it fly around him.

“I am told the Spicers are wealthy but the Crag remains a ruin,” Tywin said, picking up their conversation.

“Deeds to the eastern copper mines have been written while you were away.” Kevan picked up the glass and drank from it. “Envoys are en-route to pledge fealty.”

“Who were they sold to?” Tywin said as he resumed eating his breakfast. The copper mines were some of House Westerling's oldest and most profitable holdings.

“Ser Teron Worting,” Kevan said. “And Dame Miriam Hill, now of House Worting of Silverbrook.”

"Daughter of Ser Gerrit Closter, is she not?" Tywin shook his head. The old tourney knight had too many children and none of them by his wife.

“Aye, one of the elder ones, I think.”

“The northern shores are splintering among a dozen petty Lords while the Crag lays a ruin.” Tywin scowled. Something had to be done. And soon. “They’ll squabble before long, and the moment they do the ironborn will stir. Those sea rats smell weakness like a shark does blood in a pond.”

“One of them will prevail over the others,” Kevan said. “And if not, a cadet branch could marshal them.”

Tywin frowned. Little Tygett would have been the right age in a few short years. “It’ll be two-and-ten long years before Tion is old enough.”

“You have another son.”

Tywin's scowl deepened. And none did ever let him forget it for very long.

“Why not give this task to Tyrion? Let him stand on his own two feet.”

Tywin looked up to find his brother studying him. There was tension in his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” Tyrion was cunning enough, Tywin didn’t doubt that. He frowned as he observed his brother. Loren had suggested something rather similar, not too long ago.

“If little Kevan is to be the one to follow in your footsteps, you will need his older brother settled before long.” Kevan choose his words carefully. “He may be younger than the twins but not by that much, and not for very long. He’s five-and-twenty, its not too belated to wed yet.”

“It’s past time.” Tywin rubbed his fingers past his lips, considering it. But to who? Perhaps Loren had an idea. It was as his brother had said: enquiries such as these were easier for women to make. Kevan shifted in his seat, drawing Tywin’s attention. What are you two up to?

"Lord Papa?" Tion stood beside him, that benighted dragon under his arm.

"Yes, Tion?" Tywin said.

Tion reached out his small arms to him, dragon-and-all. Tywin shifted his chair back and picked the boy up, sitting him on his lap. "Are you hungry?"

Tion eyed his father's near finished breakfast. There were still some choice bits left.

"Do you want the yolk?"

Tion turned away from the table, his nose against his father's tunic. His eyes never left the plate, though.

"Here," Tywin said as he picked up his knife and pricked a bit of the hardboiled yolk to it and held it near his boy's lips.

Tion took the bite, smacking a little and snuggling closer against him. Tywin shifted, removing the dragon’s wooden wing from between his ribs. Tion’s grip on it tightened as soon as he touched it and Tywin ground his teeth as the thing was squeezed against his side once more.

"Studying is hungry work," Kevan said.

“Indeed.” Tywin pricked another morsel on his knife and fed it to Tion.

Kevan smiled as he watched the boy, then turned to Tywin. “Castamere could be rebuild and used as a cadet seat, it’s stood empty—”

“And so it will remain,” Tywin interrupted. Castamere served a purpose and it would remain as it was: a shell of the proud fortress it had been.

“The woodlands surrounding it could provide the boost in charcoal we need,” Kevan pointed out. “And the silver mines may not be depleted even if the gold mines are.”

“They are, they loaned heavily from our Father.”

“Debts he always cleared. They lend because they could, we don’t know that they needed to.”

Tywin’s frown creased deeper.

“Tailyn wishes to lead a prospecting expedition to the old mines.” Kevan laced his fingers. “She is confident that if there’s still silver there, she can find it.”

“Out of the question.” Castamere had stood crumbling for soon twice-twenty years. For all they knew what was left of it would collapse as soon as it was disturbed.

"Can I see the mines?" Tion sat up, putting his dragon on his own lap. He was a curious boy, and an intelligent one too. He already knew his letters.

"Absolutely not."

Tion looked up at his father, his bottom lip trembling.

Tywin crooked an eyebrow.

Tion scowled. "Down."

Tywin obliged and put his son back down on the ground. Having finished their breakfast, Kevan and he rose as well and moved to the dais.

“She’s very adamant that there might be silver yet,” Kevan said.

“Loren's sister is adamant about everything.” Tywin sat down on the divan beneath Joanna's portrait. Tailyn was as stubborn as she was skilled. He frowned. She’d been skipping dinner of late, taking her food with to the forges. So, that was what she was up to.

“She seemed certain, Tywin.” Kevan sat in a chair at his side and leaned forward as he spoke.

“You’re fond of her.” Tywin followed Tion from the corner of his eyes as the boy moved around the solar. He knew Kevan was wont to humour Tailyn's outlandish ideas. It made him suspect his brother missed having a daughter to dote on.

“As are you of Loren. Does that cloud your ability to gauge the merit of her words?”

Tywin’s scowl returned. Think carefully before you go there, brother.

Kevan sighed in response.

They sat in silence, for a while, watching the boy play.

“I go outside,” Tion announced.

“No, you will not,” Tywin said.

Tion turned, regarding his father. He took a step towards the shuttered archways.

Tywin’s eyes widened in warning.

Little Tion pouted, a crease wrinkling his button nose and his small chin jutting forward as he squinted at his father in defiance.

“No.”

Tion's bottom lip trembled but this time, it was real. Tywin could tell. "The weather is poor, you'll be swept off the balcony."

The fascinated look the boy gave the shutters was precisely the opposite of Tywin's intent. "Come here, " he said, beckoning him.

Tion picked up his dragon, and a lion for good measure, before going to his father. "For you, " he said as he held out the lion.

"Thank you, Tion." Tywin accepted the lion, which had once been a stair baluster top. Its gilding had long since flaked and it's garnet eyes had been removed for safety.

“Up?” Tion stretched out his arms.

“You’re a big boy, come climb on here yourself,” Tywin said. The divan was low enough. Tion scowled, his little nose wrinkling. Then threw the toy-shaped block of wood into his father's lap.

“Tion.” Tywin scowled as the dragon struck him square in the stomach.

“King Dragon is bad at flying,” Tion said before clambering onto the couch.

Tywin could scarcely wait for the day Tion would bore of the toy. He’d have it fly right out the window.

Tion snuggled against him, the dragon lodged between them. Tywin picked up the lion. It had less pointy parts. He shifted, intending to swap it with the dragon. However, as soon as he placed it between them, Tion latched onto it. The boy wrapped his arms around the wooden toys and curled closer, now nestling both hard objects into his father's ribs. Tywin sighed. It wasn't worth the tantrum. He was still so small, even though he sounded wise. He had risen very early for his lesson about the night sky and it had disappointed him, which angered Tywin. His bright little boy deserved the best tutor they could find.

"You can still make it in time, " Kevan said.

Tywin glanced up.

"To King's Landing, " Kevan added.

"Yes."

Tywin’s thoughts drifted back to the tourney. His daughter was scheming, he could tell. He’d always been able to tell. What are you up to, Cersei, he thought, for the first time in a long while.

Kevan smiled and nodded. “Good. I am glad.”

The rain pattered against the isinglass as the morning light crept across the solar. Tion's eyelids fluttered. He tethered on the edge of sleep, his thumb in his mouth and faint suckling noises escaping him. Can you see them? Tywin's gaze found Joanna's face, her emerald eyes smiling at him. He is as clever as his mother. Only three and he already knows his letters. Tywin stroke Tion’s curls, golden as the sun in the filtered morning light. Loren is proud of him. I am, too. He gathered the dozing boy closer and hummed the dulcet tones of a song he’d once danced to. Its words came to him despite himself, and he sang them softly to his sleeping son: “I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunshine in her hair.”

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#tywin lannister #joanna lannister #gotfic #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #a saga of bears & lions #imperial fiction #tywin hasn't dealt with joanna's death in twenty years and he isnt about to start now #why deal when you can marry someone pretty similar and pretend you're fine?#I swear Ser Kevan is the only functional adult in this entire fanfic #yes you needed Tywin with ickle wickle kids in your life #dont fucking lie to me

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clovertrails · 4 years

Text

Finding a new trail

Leaving my front door, I turned left, walking south. After a few intersections, I hit Mosholu Avenue, a commercial street whose name derives from the Algonquin word for “smooth stones” or “small stones.” Oddly, the river that does run through Riverdale, which likely created the “smooth stones” which the word mosholu describes, is named Tibbetts Creek, after a European settler. It’s kind of odd to name a commercial avenue after a geographic feature of a river, no? But perhaps that could be read in a hopeful manner—to think of the urban commercial avenue as a river incarnate, a life-giving force through the town.

At Mosholu, I turned right (west, toward the river), following the avenue as it rounded corner, passing the local Tudor-style NYPL branch. Past the Riverdale Neighborhood House, a quaint colonial building with a pool and playground that looks vaguely hospitable for a certain kind of respectable citizen. Past the weedy baseball field, past the playground, mostly empty during the pandemic, but sometimes with a gaggle of teenage guys, chilling.

I usually crossed the street at this point and walked up a sidewalk to a curious little park that exists as an island amidst a crisscrossing web of highways. I walked up the street mostly because I didn’t feel like crossing the six-lane avenue just yet. Wanted secluded lanes that would allow me to keep to myself.

The park consists of a hilltop, a green island that just peeps over a loop-de-loop of highways, another one of Robert Moses’ concrete graffiti scrawls over the landscape of the Bronx. There’s a dog park in the middle that’s sort of falling apart; I’ve never seen anyone using it, dog or human. Mostly there are a lot of benches, facing outward and inward.

I kept walking, down garden-style, five-story, red brick apartments. Turned onto a quiet residential road with suburban single-family houses. No sidewalks, just gravelly weedy transitional spaces between grass and pavement.

I remember the gates first. I didn’t yet know it was a school; all I saw was a gate and behind it, trimmed lawns rolling up to a genteel brick building. A gated compound, vast flat fields, lacrosse fields, parking lots – of course, a private school. I followed the road as it sloped downward, hugging the edge of the prep school. There is something so sinister about a totally manicured lawn. How much labor, how much capital, do you need, to sustain this ugly face of control? Walking alongside the compound, I thought of all the iterations of this sort of gated, fenced-in, land – estates, kingdoms, plantations.

At the end of the hill, the road spilled into nondescript dirt space. From a handful of cars, I gathered that it was a parking lot. The air changed, becoming cooler, denser. Ahead, the gravel met a chain-link fence tagged with the NYC Parks logo, a green maple leaf. This was a park? An old traffic cone and squashed cardboard boxes lay fallen against the fence. If you were walking quickly, or even driving, you would miss it entirely. My mind flashed to other Hudson parks I knew – Riverside Park, Riverbank State Park, Fort Tryon, Inwood. But this one was new, never previously encountered on a map or in person.

It seemed out of nowhere, a glen of hickory and oak, between mansions and railroads. No surprise, my mind flashed back to the gated private school that I had just passed. It was not lost on me that the serendipity of slipping into this trail occurred next to a private school with a 50K tuition in one of the richest neighborhoods in this zip code. Technically, this is a public park, but it is geographically located for the wealthy elite.

Not knowing what was inside this park, or how far it extended, I entered. Dusty paths, tall hickory and oak, flush with undergrowth. I followed a dirt trail and saw the glimmers of sunlight through the kaleidoscopic canopy of trees. I soon found the chain-link fence that formed the eastern perimeter of this park, and glimpsed the water beyond, drinking in its murmuring waves. Wandering more, I came across a dried-up gully, with a fallen tree trunk spanning its width. The top of the trunk had eroded into a temptingly flat surface. Certainly passable, if one had the guts to try. I walked five steps forward, paused, and retreated. Too old.

One thing to know is that the trees there were very tall. They do not rival the California redwoods, but the distance between the bushy undergrowth and the swaying canopy overhead felt vast. The treetops were so tall that they caught all the river wind, swirling it amongst their branches, so that I, a small ant standing below, heard the roar of the wind more so than felt its touch on my skin.

In the immediate vicinity of my body, there was the peace and quiet of overgrown trails and mossy trunks, but several leagues upward (what does a league measure? I do not know, but it feels like the right word), the treetops were in a great upheaval—maple, oak, hickory, all mingling—caught up in the wind, swaying and fluttering in one uplift.

The trail itself is fairly narrow, walk about 15 meters one way and you will see the faint outlines of a chain-link fences. On the riverside, you’ll catch sight of the railroads ahead, and on the roadside, the outlines of secluded houses, lights of vehicles driving by.

But this place, it felt like a little gem, one that, momentarily, was all my own. I knew that if I pulled up Google Maps, I would find this trail on the maps, and that if I searched it online, I would find the NYC Parks page for this trail, explaining in byte-form. The zoning, the planning committee, the pushback, et cetera. But it would say nothing about how it felt, walking through desolate suburban streets and posh gated lawns to then discover, without notice, relief. A windy green corridor, tucked by the river, rushing, still, roaring, quiet—all at once.

I returned to the trail the next day, and the day after that. I found my legs craving, turning toward the park. One day during dinner, my mom inquired after where I went walking that day, and I mentioned that I went to Riverdale Park, by the river. They were puzzled – where?

Is it by the train station, my mom asked. By the train station, I sometimes see a little trail there and wonder what it is, she said, referring to the Riverdale Metro North station that services the Hudson Line, connecting Grand Central in midtown to Poughkeepsie up north in the valley.

No, I shake my head, no, thinking that she was referring to the pathetic concrete strip accessible to pedestrians by the train station. It’s basically a 15 meter long sidewalk with a single bench and overflowing trash cans where you might sit down and look over the Hudson. It’s certainly something, at least, but one cannot feel antsy, gazing upon the vast sweep of the Hudson while hemmed in by these arbitrary fences for “viewing.”

Mine was a place that I had resisted placing on a map; it was this little gem of a shady glen pocketed into the outskirts of a suburb. It’s further south of here, next to Wave Hill, I said. You walked there? My dad asked, incredulous. Yes, I walked, I said, hiding my pride in my nonchalance. It’s only like twenty minutes.

Of course, my parents did not understand. They keep to their established routes – to the train station, to the field, to the grocery store. Whatever trail that my mom was referring to was not it. Besides, the trail was quite far from the train station – at least half a mile or so south of it.

I showed them the trail on Google Maps, pointing out the green rectangular patch. Ah, we have never been there, they mused. A week or so later, Saturday afternoon, instead of taking the car to the beach on Long Island, as is our tradition, we drove over to the trail. They were astonished when they arrived at the dirt entrance of the park. A secret! They exclaimed. They’ve been keeping this a secret! Five years and we had no idea this place existed. Who would have known? So out of the way. Who was keeping this secret??

I chuckled at their astonishment, their indignation, that they had only now discovered this place. Part of my reaction is a weariness of knowing my parents calcified habits. They have lived in New York City for almost a decade now but still – my dad especially – are still suburban in their bones. Their favorite store remains Costco, where they shop at least once a week, despite having been empty nesters for more than a few years now. During the weekends, they drive up north to the suburbs to go hiking more often than they drive south to Manhattan for entertainment. The most urban that they venture is to the local Asian neighborhoods – Chinatown, Flushing, Elmhurst, for shopping and eating.

But their indignant exclamation, they’ve been keeping this secret! lingers with me and evinces, I think, a kernel of truth. If you zoom out from where I’m standing, in this little park in Riverdale, and run your eyes down the western length of New York City, you will see green hugging most of the coastline, corresponding to the richest zip codes in Manhattan. I think about the other, far larger and more famous park, Van Cortlandt Park, that sits next to the 242nd street subway station and attracts more populous crowds of Black, Latinx, Asian, and white residents, picnicking, playing baseball, soccer, flying kites, working out. Of course, Van Cortlandt has far more acreage and resources to avail itself to such recreation, but the park is well-trodden and busy, evidenced not only by the multitude of bodies but also the glass shards that depressingly litter its trails. Most of all, I guess, Van Cortlandt is unmissable, obvious, in plain sight.

On the other hand, the trail running through Riverdale Park is sequestered away, on the margins with a nondescript entrance and overgrown signage. This trail offers the illusory feeling of having discovered it by yourself, a feeling of privacy within a public space. And within this privacy, unexpected and lively things emerge. But how might relishing the serendipitous joys of stumbling into one’s own world of green manifest not the sublimity of nature (or the self, touched by nature), but rather the hoarding of wealth, in its material and immaterial forms, across private and public lines? How might we deem both of these to be true and think of them together? Things to keep thinking about…

#walk #publicspace #Riverdale Park Trail

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pazithi-gallifreya · 4 years

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The Hourglass Garden (An Unus Annus-inspired short story)

*Author’s note: Firstly, this is NOT a fan-fiction, nor does it contain Mark or Ethan in any way, so apologies to anyone looking for that type of content. Rather, it’s a story centered around some of the motifs that crop up throughout the Unus Annus channel as a whole - an homage, if you will. These two guys got me to write again for the first time in years, especially when it comes to writing for myself. I’m just happy I was able to create something for the guys, and I’m so thankful to them for getting those wheels turning in my head again, even if they’re a bit slow. As much of a meme it may be on the channel at this point, I think the overall theme of running out of time is super important, and one I think too many of us dismiss a majority of the time, myself included.I even kept putting the writing of this story off, but I finally came up with enough of a concrete plot to put it together. Mark is always talking about how if you want to do something, you gotta grab the bull by the horns and just do it, so this is me doing that. We need to remember that we often don’t have as much time as we think we do, and the clock is constantly ticking. It only stops for us when we die, but us dying has no effect on time for everyone else. It moves forward without us. That’s not to say we have to rush to get everything done all the time. We still need to stop and appreciate the things and people around us. We just need to find a healthy balance, find what we enjoy, and also work hard, not only for others, but also ourselves. All of that is what this story is about.

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

“Shit!” Aria gasped as the freezing wind nearly yanked the front door right out of her gloved hands. She reigned it back in, locked it, and pulled her beanie lower over her ears as she headed down the stairs towards her complex’s parking lot. She cranked the heat to max, sitting in her red 2007 Honda, cupping her still gloved hands and blowing into them before adjusting her rearview mirror. The crystals formed on the back windshield looked like little ice people. She smiled.

It had been far too long since she had done something like this for herself. Her boss had recently quit at her editing company, making her schedule a living nightmare over the past month. The added pressure and stress hadn’t gone unnoticed by her best friend Beth, who, after much pushback on Aria’s part, finally convinced her to take a day off. “There’s this beautiful woodland garden about 40 miles out of town. There’s not as much to look at in the winter, so it’s not as pretty, but it’s still open. There’s also less people because of it, so if you’re looking for some solitude, as well as some fresh air, it’s the perfect place.”

“In 30 miles, turn right on Hourglass Road,” chimed the robotic voice from her phone as she turned onto the highway. Any other day, she’d be blasting music and singing her lungs out, but not today. Today was a quiet day. She kept occasional watch over the crystal people slowly being sliced in half by the defroster, reminding her of her own temporary state as they dripped down the back window.

Half an hour later, she turned onto Hourglass – a narrow gravel road that opened into a gravel parking lot surrounded by a short log fence, with an ornate sign that read Hourglass Gardens. She pulled in next to the only other car in the lot and pulled her coat tightly around her as she took in her surroundings. The fence opened onto a dirt path that forked in two directions. One led to the large old house that served as a local historical museum. The other traveled down to the woodland gardens. Aria turned off her phone so as to not be tempted, shoved her hands in her pockets, and sauntered down the longer path.

A short way into the woods was a circular wooden bench surrounding a large, stone fountain that was currently turned off, probably due to the season. The centerpiece was a huge hourglass surrounded by a stone circle with the phrase “Unus Annus” written repeatedly around the outside. The hourglass was filled with pure white sand, which had all sunk to the bottom. Tippy-toed, she reach up to turn it, but couldn’t get it to budge. She sighed as she took a seat and stared up into the bare branches that surrounded her overhead, silently thanking the powers that be for the seclusion. Beth was right, she thought. Not much to look at, but it’s pretty well-maintained... She stared into murky film at the bottom of the fountain. Mostly. At least it’s quiet.

After several moments of taking in the stillness, she decided to move deeper into the barren woods. Every so often, she would run into little plastic markers with blurbs about the plants and wildlife people often encounter there. About 2 miles in, about every 20 steps or so, she began to notice little wooden markers close to the ground, almost hidden. They seemed to have arrows carved into them. They started along the path, then slowly got farther into the woods, away from the path. With time to kill, she figured she might as well go with it. There were no barriers, and having read many fantasy novels, she was always amused by the cheesiness of the “forbidden path” trope. Besides, she did come here to get away, after all, and what could be more detached from reality than following mysterious arrows in the woods into who knows where, even if the mystery was pretend. It was still the most excitement she had felt about anything in a while.

She walked over another mile, and at one point resisted the brief temptation to turn back to the trail. She cleared through one final patch of dead shrubbery next to another arrow before stumbling into a clearing rivaling even the ones in her books – it’s like all the colorful butterflies and animals had congregated in this one spot, encompassed by rainbow assortments of flowers and dense foliage in full bloom, despite the fact it was January. In front of it all was a babbling brook, with an assortment of brightly-colored fish, complete with a little bridge nestled neatly over it. Funny, I didn’t even hear any running water before now. She knelt down to touch it, but something prevented her hand from penetrating the water; some invisible barrier.

“I see you’ve made it.”

Aria jumped at the sudden break in the silence. The voice was calm, yet loud somehow. A man in a white, hooded cloak stood on the opposite side of the brook, but still sounded as if he were standing right next to her. A strange mist spiraled around him.

“What do you mean? Did you know I was coming? What is this place?” Aria asked, reaching her hand out in front of her, only to be forced back once again.

The man pulled down his hood. “This is the end.”

“The end of what? Who are you?”

“I am the inevitable. This is where all of time resides. Everything begins here, and everything ends here.”

“Are you saying you’re God, or something? Or Death? In the middle of a man-made sanctuary?”

“I am neither. I am the in between. I am Time Itself. I do not reside on this plane, but I am wherever you need me at any given moment.”

“So you’re saying you’re not really here?”

“I am, and I am not.”

“Am I the only one that can see or hear you?” Aria looked back to where she had entered. It was as brown and desolate as before.

“Yes.”

“Why? Why are you here? Why am I here?”

“This is your turning point – the point where you decide whether to take back control of your own destiny or succumb to the darkness, the point where you decide to live a prosperous life or a waking death.”

“How do I do that?”

“Make the decision. Only you know which path you will walk down. When you truly have your answer and have confirmed it to yourself, return here before time runs out. You have one year. I will be waiting. Memento mori.” The man turned, slowly walking away as the mist swelled around him until in encompassed the entire meadow. A frog made a loud plop into the brook, and with that, it was gone.

In front of Aria stood the looming hourglass fountain, now gushing with water. She pinched herself to make sure she hadn’t fallen asleep on the bench. What just happened, and why was she willing to believe and accept it so easily? She walked closer to examine the intricate stonework. The hourglass had been turned over. A few grains of sand had already trickled their way to the bottom. She read the phrase again. “Unus Annus.” She turned her phone back on and typed the words into the search bar. “One year,” she said softly to herself. “Okay,” she affirmed. “Looks like I’ve got a decision to make.”

She walked determinedly back to her car, feeling refreshed and invigorated, despite the mind trip she had just been on. As she turned the key in the ignition, she remembered something. “What was the other thing that guy said?” she mumbled to herself. “Memento mori?” She pulled her phone back out and searched the phrase. The translation read, “Remember you must die.”

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

Thank you to anyone who read this. Thank you to Mark, Ethan, and Amy for being such a positive and encouraging force in my life for so many years and all the experiences I’ve had because of you. Thank you for giving me some inspiration to start creating again. There have been a lot of hard times going on with my family that I haven’t been able to properly focus on myself, and I’m still working on a lot of things, but this is another small step to help me towards my goals, and I’m glad to have you both be a part of it (even if it ended up sounding like a cheap YA novel). Being a perfectionist, I may not particularly like the final product myself, and think it's weak in every aspect, but that wasn't what this was about for me. I just wanted to show some appreciation for some amazing people. It’s been hard for me to keep up with you guys’ videos as of late, but this channel has been a way for me to stay up-to-date with both of you in a small way, and it’s such a cool concept. I can’t wait to see what’s in store for the channel.

(Unus Annus is right on the verge of 2 million right now! Let’s get them there! They deserve it so much!)

- Anne

#unus annus #unusannus #unusannus2million #markiplier #crankgameplays #peebles #mine #not sure if the 2 million subs contest is still a thing #but either way this was good for me and i hope it entertains someone #i just enjoyed doing something for the guys

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storiesgiveyouwings · 4 years

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Project Silver - Chapter 1

The road stretched on before him seemingly without end, twisting and turning through dark swathes of skeletal trees until it vanished into the night. A moment of disorientation, as his mind struggled to make sense of what his eyes saw.

The steering wheel of the car he had been driving, slick with dark red blood that dripped, still, from a head wound somewhere above his eyes. He blinked and wiped at his face, the sleeve of his coat coming away warm and wet. Through the ruined windshield, which was concave in the middle with long, jagged cracks rippling from the point of impact, he saw a single fractured beam of yellow headlight spilling onto the broken pavement, where a motionless, angular heap of bones half-covered in tawny fur lay in the middle of the road.

Caribou. The word rose, slow and sluggish, to his lips, which felt raw and parched like desert sand. He shook his head, trying to clear it, dazed and almost giddy from the overwhelming metallic stench of blood and death. A newfound heaviness weighed down his body, as though lead infused his bones. His movements felt halting and awkward as he extricated himself from the wreckage of the car.

Immediately, a gust of wind flecked with snow chilled him to the core. His nose twitched at the faint yet unmistakably crisp scent of pine. He instinctively wrapped his coat tighter around his body. Only two buttons remained, and those but hung by a thread.

He struggled to make sense of the chaos that reigned his mind. A sense of urgency, but of what? And a burning desire to travel north, but the final destination eluded him.

Wiping the blood once more from his eyes, he gazed into the nightscape that surrounded him. The narrow two-lane road, pockmarked and cracked from years of disrepair, wound through dense forest. The barren branches of frozen trees reached into the night sky like writhing fingers silhouetted against a waxing moon. Its light shone feebly through the ever-present gray haze that blanketed the sky all across the world. Perhaps if he followed the road ahead, some sign or post might identify for him the unfamiliar terrain.

A nearby shuffling sound drew his attention. From the corner of his eye, to the left, he saw a shadow move from behind the corpse of the caribou. As he squinted in the darkness, a wolf moved silently into view. It was a massive, hulking creature even with its head hanging low, easily six feet in length. Piercing yellow eyes fixed him in their gaze, rooting him in place like a force of gravity.

For a split second he stood frozen. Time slowed to a standstill. The world vanished into the depths of those golden orbs, and he forgot everything. All that existed was now between them - a deep, primal hunger that rose from the depths of his bowels, a cold, calculating bloodlust, and an exquisite sorrow, borne of unbearable loneliness. Whether they belonged to the creature, or to himself, he could no longer discern.

And yet, some familiarity stirred at the edge of his memory, in the way the creature’s lips writhed in a blood-caked muzzle to expose ivory fangs, the low snarl that rumbled in its chest like distant thunder, its effortless loping gait despite the ribs visible beneath its shaggy pelt, the coiled muscles that rippled just underneath, like a sea of silver in the faint moonlight.

Silver. How could he forget, for even a moment, the only name worth remembering?

The sharp snap of a falling tree branch shattered the silence. The creature’s head whipped about at the sound, breaking eye contact, and the spell broke. His hands moved with a will of their own, releasing the handgun from its holster at his hip and aiming it at the heart the animal in a single, fluid motion faster than the blink of an eye. The wolf glanced back at him, down the barrel of the gun. With its tongue lolling out of its mouth, its head tilted just so, and great fan of a tail lowered, its manner reminded him of a pet dog he once owned, a very long time ago.

Four bullets remaining, and the creature had no more fight left in it than he. Ever so slightly he lowered the weapon to gauge a reaction from the shadowy creature. After one long, lingering look, it seemed to make up its mind, padded across to the far side of the road, and disappeared soundlessly into the trees.

He exhaled slowly, just realizing that his breath was held, unable to tear his gaze away from the spot where the wolf stood mere moments ago. The snow began to fall in earnest, in wet, sticky clumps that appeared almost white in the moonlight. Yet he knew it to be tainted, stinging where it landed on his bare skin. Daybreak will reveal the sickly hue of the yellow sleet, pouring acid from a toxic cloud, like ammonia from the belly of a jaundiced corpse.

With some reluctance he slipped the handgun back into his holster; he took comfort from its weight in his hands. From the trunk of the ruined car he took a threadbare backpack in no better condition than his coat. Its meager contents included an empty water canister, a flashlight, a half-empty pack of matches, a length of double braided rope, and a thick sheaf of yellowed papers tied together with twine.

The rope he used to tie around the carcass of the caribou. The wolf may have picked the meat clean off the bones, but the marrow could feed a family for half the winter, the skin made into clothing, shoes, leather; the bones and antlers for any number of tools. He hoped it would be enough to buy him food, shelter, perhaps even passage.

He slung the other end of the rope over his shoulder, and with an enormous heave, set off down the road with the caribou in tow, his feet marching northward as if compelled. Some hours later, with the moon halfway across the sky, he came across a faded sign several feet off the roadside, almost buried in the undergrowth. Redstone. 10 miles.

Before he pressed onward, a haunting melody echoed through the night, emanating from the mountain range in the distant northwest. He paused to listen to the mournful note, and as he did, two more voices rose in answer, farther to the west, joining their companion in a symphony of howls, of melancholy, of loss and longing.

————

Dawn in the quiet town of Redstone heralded the arrival of a pale sun crawling over the treetops of the eastern forest, and a tall blond man, his face covered in blood, hauling the remains of a caribou behind him like a conquering viking with the spoils of war.

The night guard, a lanky dark-haired youth in his late teens, rubbed his bleary eyes and stumbled to attention before the dilapidated chain link fence that marked the town perimeter. It bore a shallow dent from where he had leaned against it, asleep, for most of the night. With shaking hands he leveled his rifle at the stranger and prayed he would not have to use it.

“What business have you in Redstone?” he asked in heavily accented English, hoping that the man understood.

The stranger came to a stop, far enough away to make a difficult shot, yet close enough for him to see light grey of his sunken eyes and the handgun at his hip. Following his line of sight, the man raised both hands in a gesture of peace. When he spoke, a shudder trickled down the younger man’s spine. The deep baritone of his voice invoked images in his mind of the impenetrable ice that entombed deep-forest lakes in midwinter.

“I’m looking for someone.” He gestured toward the dead caribou. “Perhaps a bed for the evening. And I mean to pay for my passage here.”

The eyes of the youth flickered to the carcass. He swallowed audibly, salivating at the first sight of game in over two months. A part of him screamed to radio for backup, protocol for any dangerous persons that approached the town perimeter.

Something about this man made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Despite his placid words and manner, an air of foreboding lingered in his wake. And his eyes, the color of the eternally overcast sky, were the eyes of a man who stared into the darkness of an abyss before taking the leap.

Perhaps he ought to shoot the stranger on sight. He perished the thought as quickly as it appeared, and in its place grew shame. Shame at his own paranoia, along with dread at the idea of taking a life. The stranger, despite his bloodied appearance, gave no reason to distrust him and offered fair trade. Besides, the townsfolk grew weary of root vegetables and nuts. An angry gurgle from the young man’s empty stomach settled his internal debate.

He lowered the rifle in his hands and nodded for the man to pass. The man paused just beyond the fence and gestured to the weapon.

“How many rounds do you have there?”

“N-none,” replied the youth, too taken aback by the question to lie. “Some old nails and broken glass.” Perhaps not enough to kill, but certainly enough to maim or injure.

The man nodded and resumed walking. “I would keep it close.”

“Why?”

“Did you not hear?” he said without looking back. “There are wolves in these woods.”

The blood rushed from the night guard’s face. His gaze turned involuntarily toward the forest, the frozen trees appearing even more twisted, more desolate, in the cold light of day. What monsters lurked in those deep shadows untouched by the sun… His heart leapt to his throat with a sudden movement nearby. With a flapping of wings, a raven took off into the sky. It flew due west, away from the dawn, like a black missile, an omen.

The guard shook his head, clearing it of such silly superstition. Surely this man was mad. Wolves were hunted to extinction over a hundred years ago. When he turned back, the man was approaching a turn in the path, soon to be out of sight.

“Wait!” called the guard, “What is your name? For our records.”

“My name is Linus.”

#writing #fiction #fantasy #magical realism #adventure #post-apocalypse #wolf #forest

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shepherds-stories-blog · 5 years

Text

The Bookshop

A boy sat next to me. We were trapped in the middle row of the peculiarly clean van. Apparently the university had decided that it would be mortifying for them to have six freshmen sit in a dirty van, despite the fact that each of these six freshmen had already paid their first college bill, and could care less about the cleanliness of a vehicle. Regardless of the van’s state, the boy, who will be called David, and I sat in silence. David and I found ourselves on a desolate island, unable to join in with conversations with companions that sat in the front and back seats. The curse of the middle row loomed over me, yet David appeared to be complicit with the current predicament. He simply stared out of the tinted window, scanning the pointed blades of grass and the pale houses with mahogany eyes. Wires connected David from his phone to his ears, and I became an unintentional audience to the muffled cadences of heavy metal and guitar ballads. I shifted in the gray, velvety seat, glancing at my companions in front of me. In the front row sat the guardians of the door. The first ones in, the first ones to escape the confines of the van. Two blonde girls chittered over Instagram blogs on their phones. They squeaked with delight at the news of rebooted TV shows, and laughter erupted when they read the words of an unfortunate and outspoken political analyst.

“What’s so funny back there?” Our driver piped up, amused by the girls’ jeers. She was a senior at the university, yet she constantly confessed her disappointment in how she looked like a twelve year old. Which, in my mind, was a reasonable complaint. She wasn’t tall, about 5′3″. She had a plain complexion, but many people had commented that her beauty was found within her wide smile. A round, dimpled face glanced through the mirror to take a look at the jittering girls. Her blue eyes faced the road with complete concentration, even though the road was as straight as a line and as smooth as marble.

“They’re just laughing about boys,” The driver’s companion explained, pushing her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, “Maybe they’re laughing at David’s Instagram”. The front seat companion turned to look at the girls, and glanced at David. Flick was what we called her. An old childhood nickname, Flick had told us.

“I had big, buggy eyes as a kid,” She had added, opening her eyes wide to exaggerate the size. “Everyone called me ‘Flick’ because I looked like that ant from ‘Bug’s Life’”.

The front section of the van chatted and laughed as they exchanged stories. Due to our status of “middle section”, David and I had been excluded from the conversation. Again, David was unconcerned with the lack of attention. I sat there, listening to the stories the front section told. In a way, I yearned to offer some input, yet, my nature as an observer led me to silence. Whispers from the back of the van caught my attention. A plump, brown haired girl leaned over to her tall, tan friend. She spoke mainly in whispers, while her friend spoke loudly and clearly. The yin and yang of the backseat. The plump girl was whispering earnestly about our destination.

“I wonder what kind of books they’ll have!” She whispered excitedly, “I hope they’ll have some really good romance novels!” Her friend roared in laughter. It was not a vicious roar, but a friendly, amicable laugh. “I’m sure they will,” She spoke loudly, “Most people give away romance books. Are you looking for the ones that have the stereotypical chiseled, long-haired man on the cover?” The plump girl blushed and nodded. The friends erupted into laughter.

I feel that this is an appropriate time to focus on the boisterous friend in the backseat. The tall, tan friend of the romance-inclined freshman. The girl’s name was Caroline. And Caroline was a witch.

“Hello, my name is Caroline!” Hand extended, golden eyes staring at me. I took the hand. “Nice to meet-” I started, grinning at the prospect of a new friend “I’m a practicing witch!”

Caroline intrigued all of us. She consistently talked about things she did, witchy things specifically. A bag full of tarot cards, stones, and astrology books only fueled our curiosity of her, yet she told us the bare minimum. Witches must keep their secrets.

The van swerved with a jolt. “Sorry sorry sorry” The driver apologized to us quickly, grimacing as she almost missed the cracked driveway. We had pulled out of the marble smooth streets into a pothole-filled, cement parking lot. I glanced out of the window. The sky had gone gray; a storm was brewing. The bookstore had cardboard signs in the windows that read, “Donate Books Here!”. Yellow paint chipped away from the side of the building. It was a dismal sight. I tended to have high and illogical expectations for certain places. Personally, I had expected a small, brick bookshop that had an old, withering, kind man to recommend books that we did not necessarily want, but needed. Clearly, I had been mislead by my wistfulness. Despite the exterior, warm lights emitted from the store’s windows, enticing our group to enter.

“We’re here!” Flick exclaimed, unbuckling her seatbelt. Quickly, she jumped out of the van, leaving the driver to grab their shared purse full of university money. Flick flung open the van’s double doors, a wide grin plastered onto her face. The two blonde girls in the first row scrambled out, still giggling about blogs. Next, David departed our isolated middle island. I followed him, stepping down onto the ripped up pavement. Thunder rung out in the distance. Flick and the driver looked expectantly at us. “Well, come on!” They began to rush inside, despite the fact that the romantic freshman and the witch were still exiting the van. We all exchanged confused glances, with the exception of David, who was still listening to his guitar ballads.

“Come on guys!” We hurried after them, dodging the raindrops that had begun to fall.

The bookstore was a quaint place. Our group of college students barreled through the glass doors, granting us cross looks from the teenager at the counter. Her hair was pulled tightly into a bun, her tight lips pursed in irritation. I flashed an apologetic smile at her as we tracked water and grime onto the cream tile floor. The driver waddled in front of us, wiping her hands on the front of her hoodie.

“Alright,” She began as we lined ourselves up in front of her, like privateers facing their captain. “I’d say we have about an hour here before we move on to our next stop. So, start looking for books you might want, and don’t worry about the price. The university’s going to pay for it”. I rolled my eyes. Of course the one time the university was going to help pay for any books would be when they didn’t need to help pay at all. I shrugged it off. A free book was a free book. The group dispersed. David walked quickly to the back of the shop, passing rows and rows of a variety of books. It seemed he had a plan, but, of course, it was none of my business as to what he was looking for. The two blonde haired girls sauntered towards the fiction section, making side comments on the covers of books they passed. The romantic brunette shyly made her way towards the romantic fiction row. She stopped occasionally at different sections to fake an interest. I walked down the rows, studying the labels written in marker. The witch followed me, but not too closely. She glanced at the labels as well, narrowing her agate eyes. We passed labels that read, “Shakespeare, Poems, Old Literature” and “Horror, Fantasy, Sci-Fi”. I stopped, looking at the science fiction section. Caroline stopped too, scanning up and down the rows. “Looking for something?” I asked her awkwardly. We hadn’t talked much at all. She smiled, and looked back at the labels, pushing hair behind her ears. “Just some astrology books,” The witch answered, “But, I honestly doubt they have a section for that”. A label appeared in my mind. It had been small, written in green marker, sitting at the very top of a past row. I glanced back at her. “I think I saw some,” I told her, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep them from fidgeting, “it was back at the front. It might’ve been the astrology section. I, um, I could be wrong though”. Caroline raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down. She grinned and uttered a simple “thanks”. The witch turned on her heel, and walked back towards the front of the store. Quickly, she disappeared into an aisle of books.

I turned back to face the aisle in front of me. Browsing the variety of books, I found that there seemed to be no organization method. Terry Pratchett was mixed in with Star Trek novellas, while Neil Gaiman was spread out within the likes of Dean Koontz and Stephen King. I took a step back, trying to focus on individual titles in a sea of monsters, spaceships, and dragons. Finally, I took hold of a Neil Gaiman, but to my disappointment, found the words “Sequel” written in bright yellow print. Sighing, I returned the novel to the shelf. I left the aisle, deciding that I wasn’t in the mood to walk through haunted houses, or to slay dragons.

Silently, I glided to the next row of misplaced books. A label, written in bright red marker, read “Sexuality and Gender”. Quickly, I looked around me, a slight blush coming to my face, and entered the aisle of books. I was met with instruction manuals on explicit sexual positions, gender studies done by professionals, and a pitiful LGBTQ+ section. I stared at the minuscule section. Five dusty books sat on a shelf that had barely been touched. I almost felt compelled to grab one of them, to let it see the light of day, or at least feel the touch of a hand. I decided against it. I had only known the people in the van for about two days at this point. “Nobody needs to know that about me,” I thought to myself. A witch suddenly crossed my mind, flashing a toothy grin. “Well, not yet, at least”

I left the section, heading towards the broadly labeled “Fiction” section. Most of the books I had seen had already been fictional, so I wondered why there was a need to label anything at all. At least this section was organized by author, so all of the Adams and Agards stayed together, while all of the Koontzs and Kingsolvers mingled by themselves. I moved up and down the rows, scanning for titles that caught my eyes. A’s passed. B’s passed. C’s, D’s, and E’s passed by too. Nothing seemed interesting. A pit formed in my stomach. I had always loved reading. It was one of my favorite things to do. Yet, I couldn’t find anything that sparked an interest. Fueled with panic, I snatched a book at random. The worn, burgundy book was creased and stained. White cursive lettering adorned the front of the novel. I flipped through the book. The musty aroma of the yellowing pages wafted through the air. I glanced at the description. An appraiser stumbles upon a manuscript dating back centuries. The manuscript holds secrets and dangers within it. Can the heroine stop whatever is coming? Can she trust the man who offers to help her? What will happen? I shrugged, tucking the book into the crook of my arm. “I’ll take you out of here,” I mumbled to the book. “Even if I don’t read you, my shelf’s a lot cleaner than this one”. The book crinkled in gratitude. I continued my search. If the university was going to pay for the books, I’d be damned if I didn’t get more than one. I found the front row blonde girls. They each had a copy of the same book gripped in their hands. One of them held a phone up to both of the books, and took a photo. “I’m gonna tag you in this” One of them remarked happily. The other girl grinned, and gave her friend a username. I slipped behind them, and continued to search for another novel.

It wasn’t long before I became acquainted with an old friend. The Poisonwood Bible glimmered in a mix of books. I smiled, remembering the summer I had spent scouring the pages of the Kingsolver novel. The traversal of the Congo with the Price family had been one of the best journeys I had had in recent memory, even if I had only gone on it because of required summer reading. This time was different, however. I could pick out whatever I wanted, without worrying about a report or project to do. It was decided immediately, then, that I would delve back into Kingsolver’s novels. A sand-colored novel whispered to me from the shelf. The Lacuna was a five hundred and seven page novel about a writer from Mexico. I tucked the novel on top of the burgundy book. Satisfaction wafted over me. Two should be enough, for now at least. I had plenty of other books waiting at home, but I was sure that none of them would mind some additional company.

The two blonde girls arrived at the counter first, each of them clutching their one book. Flick proceeded to get out her wallet. David bounded up behind them, gripping three books close to his chest. He still had his earbuds in, an eternal audience to guitars. The romantic brunette found us gathered near the register. Blushing, she cleared her throat, and plopped her purchases face down on the counter. I placed my books down next, unnecessarily keeping a wary eye on them.

“Has anyone seen Caroline?” The driver asked, looking around at the group. Everyone shrugged and mumbled a collective “no”.

“Wait!” Caroline’s voice boomed from across the store. “I’m coming!” Suddenly, she bounded up to the counter, holding six large astrology books in her arms. The books slammed onto the counter. The cashier, with her tight bun, narrowed her eyes at the witch, who returned with a smile.

“Sorry I took so long,” She sheepishly apologized to us. “It was hard to narrow down what I wanted”

“It’s alright,” Flick said, “We weren’t waiting too long” The beeps of the register silenced them. “That’ll be sixty eight dollars and forty five cents” The cashier informed us in a monotoned voice. Our driver, almost reluctantly, handed the cashier the money, and instructed us to take our books. A frenzy of hands appeared on the counter, followed by muffled “sorry”, “excuse me”, and “That’s mine!”.

Rain poured down on the van. Our group huddled together under the entrance of the bookstore.

“Okay, let’s just go,” The driver sighed at the rain. “It’s unlocked, so as soon as you get there, just-”

We all tucked our books inside our coats, with the exception of Caroline, who bolted frantically towards the van in an effort to keep her books dry. The rest of us followed. David and I slid into the middle row of the van, isolated once again. The van was full of cold and wet college students, each of them clutching a book in their arms. The driver looked back at us, remarked on how happy she was to see so many books, and turned the key in the ignition. The van sputtered to life, and began to roll out of the parking lot. I glanced back at the bookstore. The yellow paint still peeled from the walls, and the lights flickered from the inside, yet, it was missing a few books. I glanced down at the crinkled and ragged books I had saved, and looked back at the decrepit shop. “Well,” I thought, “It’s probably for the best”

-Morgan Shepherd

#short story #writing #storytelling #story #reading #bookshop #writblr

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