#please bramble. stay dead | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

celestialspecial · 2 years

Text

Palace of Stars and Shadows

Because I wanted to write something fantasy (: dunno if itll turn into anything else other than scattered blurbs for fun-but we’ll see

You were running as fast as your feet could carry you through the brambles and bushes of the forest. The sounds of those chasing you grew louder, they were gaining on you. Weaving and racing as fast as you could your lungs were burning, throat on fire as each breath grew more ragged, more desperate.

The forest was growing thicker around you, the sun was barely able to penetrate through the canopy of leaves above. You’d been told never to step into the woods, that it was dangerous. The creatures that resided in there were ten times worse than anything you’d encounter on the outside.

You’d barely had any choice. It was either escape into the tree line or be burned at the stake for witchcraft. Shouts of the men in pursuit rang out behind you, a few spooked rabbits and deer took off along your side at the intrusion into the seemingly peaceful woods.

Your feet caught on a tree root jutting out jaggedly sending you toppling to the soft earth. You landed on a slippery patch of moss, tumbling over and over down a short hill, the world was spinning then a cracking noise and blinding white hot pain streaked across your eyes. The back of your skull met with a large rock, the noise was loud and you turned over to the side to be sick at the sudden increasing pain in your head.

“Look here men, our little witch didn’t get that far after all.” You could see blurry feet step into the glade you’d fallen into. This was it you were done for.

“And she even went through all the trouble of knocking herself off her feet.”

“Please… I’m not a witch. I’m just a cook at the inn… please-“ you knew it was falling on deaf ears as they laughed, mimicking your pleading tone, the sounds of them drawing their weapons made your stomach drop. Tossing your arms over your head in a useless but instinctual move as one of the men at the forefront stepped towards you.

“Please!”

A whizzing noise broke the air then a wet crunch and a gurgle that had you looking up to see what stopped the man’s sword from striking you where you knelt. A silver dagger plunged in your attackers chest up to the hilt. Blood red rubies sparkled on the handle. It took a moment before the other men realized what happened, watching their friend hit the ground, dead.

Another few whooshing noises echoed through the clearing and two more men dropped to the ground. Shouts of nervousness and anxiety called out from the remaining party as they scrambled to find out where the siege was coming from. You pushed off the ground in the midst of the chaos but standing was a bad idea, deep tendrils of pain curled around your head and the base of your neck as the darkness closed in around you, falling to the cool earth once more.

Before you lost all consciousness you could hear more shouts and screams from the men and a large pair of black leather boots walking into the opening and stopping before you.

Sunlight creeped under your eyelids, forcing a groan from your mouth. Attempting to sit up, wondering how you were still alive. You weren’t on the cold dirt anymore though, beneath was- fabric? Soft and silken, you blinked a tentative eye open to see that yes, your hand was resting on a dark navy silk sheet, a pillow under your head as well. You tried to open your other eye to see where you were…

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A deep voice rumbled from nearby. You jumped at the sudden sound, eyes shooting open only to be squeezed shut again as shards of light stung you. A soft chuckle then sounds of footsteps approaching where you sat.

“Don’t come any closer…I-I’m dangerous- yes, stay away. I’m a witch.” An empty threat met with another deep sound of mirth.

“You’re no more a witch than I am a human.”

That comment sent a shiver through you, heart pounding in your chest more so than before. What did he mean by that? You felt the intense throbbing from the light start to diminish, able to focus more on your surroundings. You were in an opulent room, large domed ceiling, four poster bed draped in tones of dark velvet, navy, black, shades of purple. A huge window that lead to a balcony was thrown open, hence the immense amounts of illuminating the space.

“Be still. You’re safe, for now.” Following the sound of the voice you narrowed in on a darkened corner of the room, cloaked in shadow. More footsteps and then a man, stepping into the light as if the shadows birthed him before your very eyes. Skin as pale as moonlight, dark brown hair that hung long on top, but lay close cropped around his ears ….which were, slightly pointed. Eyes the color of jet, black, but focused on you with intensity.

He was tall, lithe, but corded muscle lay chiseled beneath the black tunic he wore. Embellishments of gold and silver threaded throughout the garment. You were certain he was the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on. Scruff clung to his jawline, you’d seen pirates or merchants come into the inn you worked at with similar facial hair and outfits. Realizing your mouth had gaped open you shut it quickly trying to find words of response in your dry throat.

He cocked his head at you, waiting for your reply. Why weren’t you screaming? Throwing the sheets off your body and racing for the exit? That’s what they all did when they realized where they were. Another step forward and you could’ve sworn you saw shadows of large wings dancing along the wall behind him, but after another blink they were gone. Maybe your head hadn’t properly healed yet.

“Where am I? In the woods…I”

“You’re safe now. “ you shook your head, brows drawn together in confusion.

“But how?” It dawned on you suddenly. “You saved me?” The man inclined his head, the closest thing to a ‘yes’ you were certain you’d get. “Why?”

His expression was inscrutable, giving away nothing for you to go on.

“I attack anyone who steps into the area of my court with unacceptable goals in mind.” The men chasing you, attempting to burn you at the stake, ready to kill you outright in the woods. He saw the workings going on in your head, addressing them before made mention, “I know you’re not a witch. I’ve met witches, worked with them before.” Another step towards you. “They’re no where near as…beautiful or …soft as you.” The last few words seemed to catch you both off guard, but his stalwart resolve resumed not a moment later.

He took another few steps towards you, that’s all it took for his long legs to reach the edge of the bed you sat upon, towering over you. Beautiful and intimidating all at once. His hand extended fingertips tracing over the lines of your face, he must be using some sort of fae magic on you as you only felt peace, humming in your chest as the pads of his fingertips curved along your jaw to hold your chin firmly in place, looking up at him.

Your body ached in ways unfamiliar to you, nipples tightly budded behind your dress, breasts heavy with each new breath you took, the scent of him, like a crackling fire, dew on the leaves after a rainstorm, when the darkness of night enfolds you and only the moon and stars are visible. His harsh gaze had softened as well, staring into your eyes, searching for answers that you didn’t know must’ve been pouring out of you by how long he was staring.

Fae were dangerous, not to be trusted. It’s why the forest was off limits to the town, being forced to hunt in the other side of the city where it wasn’t occupied by Magicks of any kind. Yet here you were, obviously In the home of one of them, who had rescued you from your certain death. Before you could open your mouth to say anything further a low sound of a horn blowing echoed from outside, filling the room. This seemed to awaken him from his stupor, releasing your chin and backing away a few feet.

“I will send food up. There is a dress in the wardrobe over there for you. When it’s time I’ll send for you.” Time? Time for what? He turned in his heel and began walking toward the door to the large room, you tossed the sheets off of you jumping up to follow him before anchoring in place as he opened the door, about to slip out.

“Wait! How will I be able to leave? To go home?” His dark eyes only pinned you with that long discerning gaze once more.

“You cannot leave. Ever.”

#fae!billyrusso #billy russo #Billy Russo x Reader #billy russo x female reader #billy russo fanfic #fanfic #punisher fanfiction #the punisher fanfiction #fanfiction #ben barnes #ben barnes character #fantasy fic #fantasy #writing

278 notes · View notes

publicabsent · 1 year

Text

the house incident.

had she known such a predator waited for her, perhaps she never would have left the house that day.

midmarch air pushes against her hair, the smell of early spring flowers carried with it. the sky shines blue, happily unaware of the day it brings. the girl, too, expects nothing from her cursory glance at the overgrown lot.

the rusty chain fence seems to be the line for the brambles & the yellowed grass. the few trees among the brush seem almost burnt up & dead, gnarled bare to the branches. her feet freeze in place, hazel eyes finding the well-disguised maw of the beast -- an old house, somewhat victorian in style. she squints, seeing both a version condemned by neglect & a version painted an elegant mossy green. the green house focuses its image, the slate roof & white detailing seeming fresh. she remembers halfway, while still studying the house, that the gate into the fence was not open before. maybe it was, she reasons. perhaps i wasn't paying attention.

her feet carry her close enough to spot the deep blue curtains, drawn back to display an ornate hearth of dark wood. a house of luxury, to be sure. though the house seems unassuming, she can feel the iciness creep around her ribs like a warning. she shouldn't be here; she needs to go to the library -- in an act of betrayal, somehow, her hand uses the brass knocker. the face in the ornament leers at her. (had she even approached the front door?)

the oaken door swings in to reveal a rich foyer, creamy wallpaper offset by nearly black wooden accents. it feels as though the house itself wants her company, though the chill is creeping into her spine. yellow sneakers feel cemented to the earth, unable to enter or exit.

"oh," a warm, syrupy voice coos, "hello, dear, do please come in."

the medium's feet oblige, entering softly into the carpeted hall. the door closes behind her, jaw gently closing in. she hardly notices, more aware of the graceful blonde woman gliding toward her. the woman is dressed in a lavender housecoat, effortlessly fashionable for seemingly no audience. her hair is gathered into a braid that cascades over one shoulder. she must be a mother, the brunette thinks. one who reads bedtime stories & holds you close. a warm one.

"you must forgive my appearance, it's been quite a while since company ... well, never mind that, come into the parlor, will you? i shall put the kettle on."

practically ushering her guest into the room, the blonde woman nearly vanishes once the younger girl is shoved into a seat. though the room is beautiful, clearly the one she'd seen from the window, something feels wrong. it smells too old. almost rotted.

"here we are! it's just earl grey." the blonde woman sets a tray holding a delicate tea set onto the table. "oh, where are my manners," she chuckles, seemingly unbothered by her guest's silence. "lady isadora whitney. pleased to meet you, miss ... ?"

finally, the brunette speaks. "an -- annette. um. c-carli."

isadora fixes two cups of tea, allowing annette a better look at the intricate floral painting. white carnations & red poppies decorate the side of the porcelain cup, & the icy sensation intensifies.

"m -- m-miss, i ... i really sh - should --"

"go? oh, do stay, darling. you'll notice time is ... peculiar in this house. & company is so rare these days."

annette had figured she was a ghost. such a statement confirmed it. the spectacled medium looks into her teacup, eyes widening at the sick dark green that tinged the liquid. the internal chill was closing its fingers around her throat; she needed to run, but nothing moved. not until isadora, with surprising strength, hoists the living girl up by her upper arms, holding just slightly too tight.

"perhaps a tour of the house? i hope, annette, you shall find it most diverting. off we go, then."

the ghost drags her haphazardly through the labyrinthine corridors. old family portraits glower down at annette as she passes, feet failing to find reliable purchase. isadora's voice has not changed from the warmth it held, but something underneath it has shifted.

"you see, darling, the women of my family have had dreadful luck when it comes to families. husbands sent to war, sickly children, conniving in-laws. i was no exception. i'd had, oh, perhaps three husbands ... ? only sweet horace never betrayed me, if only because i didn't let him. i had the most wretched, ungrateful children, despite my love & care."

isadora releases her cargo, sending annette falling to her knees. despite the exquisite appearance of the floor, splinters enter & tear at the skin of her knees. the medium looks up at the lady of the house, finally seeing the change.

her limbs were longer, bonier. her kind face had shifted into something gaunt & burned away in places, her teeth like jagged crumbs of marble. once-lovely hair was brittle & singed. there was no time to notice the talons on isadora's fingertips before they sheathed themselves into annette's jawline, pulling her to her feet & into the spirit's face. she smells of burnt flesh & rot.

"i elected to make my own luck. a dinner, for all my family."

realization strikes the living girl as she is practically thrown into the burnt bones of a once-lovely dining room. the feeling of death permeates the charred room. (now that isadora's nails no longer hold her, she feels the blooding trickling down her neck. the stale, dusty air stings.)

isadora killed all of them.

"the children were easy enough. poison for the bigger ones, but the littlest two i simply smothered. since my care was so suffocating."

annette stands stock still, eyes unfocused on the room before her. if so many died here, why did only she linger? are they hiding? lying in wait? or maybe they're watching, waiting like vultures -- annette's shoulders & head slam against the flimsy wall, only feeling a slight give. one of isadora's arms is braced just under the medium's collarbone, but her other hand snatches a delicate wrist. her grip is tight, almost too tight. the brunette wails despite herself, the sound tearing at her frozen throat.

"listen when i speak, you pathetic little shit!"

a sharp wrench of her wrist, salty tears now mingling with both dust & the slowing trail of blood. hazel eyes are wide, & she distantly wonders whether her wrist is broken. isadora seems not to care, gripping fragile upper arms & pulling her guest along yet again.

as they wander the house, what first appeared warm & welcoming is now cold, tattered, & watching the stranger. isadora, in between brief flashes of violence, explains placidly what she had done.

her first husband, along with his new wife, met their ends with a garrote. the wife, "wee thing she was," all but lost her head. annette's queasy expression prompted a vicious yank at her curls, baring her throat. the command to feel no pity for "that whore & her employer" rattles in annette's skull, shaken about by the sharp strike to her face that follows. all the living girl manages through pain & tears are mouthed apologies & an attempt at stoicism.

isadora's second husband never remarried. a polite, soft-spoken sort of man, she claimed she pitied him. this pity precedes a non-fatal blow to the head & a hanging. as the ghost's grip slackened, in one single moment of daring, annette tries to run. but the claws return, raking gashes from shoulder to forearm.

another angry pull at her hair, nearly eliciting a scream. "running, you coward? poor creature. what do you have to run to? i cannot imagine --" another yank, the ghost's grip twisting in now-filthy hair -- "anyone wishing for your return, darling. do they even know you're gone?"

lady whitney's gnarled hand remains twisted in annette's hair, nails occasionally gouging at her scalp as she tells of horace. his fate, by far, was the most dreadful. tortured by his wife, fingernails plucked out & body prodded with the red-hot poker till he confessed his intended double-crossing, mewling out a plea for mercy. he finally died when she thrust the poker through his ribcage. were it not for the still-vicious grip, annette may have vomited.

"my only mistake was letting the fire roar too long. it swallowed the house. but death isn't the end, is it, wretch?"

the small girl is tossed forward, only barely catching herself from flying face-first into the once-grand staircase. one step connects just below her ribcage, determined to leave a bruise & knocking the wind out of her.

before she can move to her feet, sharp nails clench her ankles. isadora begins to climb the stairs.

"many years later, some foolish little girl, some stupid child let her curiosity lead her here. the stairs held her weight going up, but upon her descent, the floors simply ... gave way."

as the ghost spoke, annette was being dragged up the stairway. the first stair caused her teeth to clamp on the inside of her cheek, the taste of blood filling her mouth. shaking hands scrabble desperately to find something to resist with, only managing to bloody her fingertips till it hurt to use them. her pleading is hardly audible, voice long gone. that was when the hands began to appear. they held onto her where they could, pulling against the lady whitney. hands with no fingernails grasp her wrists, but she feels them all over her. pinning her to the spot.

"let her go, you snakes! i've already killed you once, could i not do it again?"

annette squeezes her eyes shut as isadora continues to rage at unseen victims, her grip on the girl's legs vanishing. all she can think of is home. or anywhere else. the hands seem to hold her tighter, but in defense. still, she squirms against them. isadora's shrill screams grow louder & louder, till annette's ears are simply ringing. suddenly it's pouring rain.

she's flat on the ground, dried grass surrounding her. as if it all vanished. other than the ringing in her ears, the rain, & the odd passing car, all is quiet.

annette remains on the earth, bleeding & breathing heavily, until she shivers at the cold rain. the pain at her movement spreads over her, waking up her still-reeling mind. lifting herself to her feet takes a few attempts before she's steady.

trudging home in the rain is worse. her hair feels heavy & matted with knots, blood, & dirt. her scalp is screaming. she's sure at least some, if not all, of her wounds are still bleeding. it's agony to fumble for her house key, traces of blood left on every surface she touches. climbing to her attic is simply out of the question.

at least, she thinks as she collapses onto the sofa, at least i wasn't gone too long.

(she awakens the next morning to her mother's yell: gone a month & bleeding on the sofa? why bother returning?)

#✽ ➝ meta. ❜#blood /#blood ment /#abuse ment /#death ment /#death /#ask to tag /#hey <3 love u guys #✽ ➝ whitney house. ❜

14 notes · View notes

raspberry--fool · 1 year

Text

Thalassa

There should be gulls. I gingerly sat myself on a weary, greying bench, attempting to avoid the mass of ancient bird fæces and grit, and it sagged beneath me. Screaming children, the sound of waves on the shore, talking, footsteps, wind— anything but silence.

The coastal town shouldn't have seemed this derelict, but today not a single soul wandered among the peeling cottages and the brackish old boathouses, and a forlorn inflatable dinghy was the only boat in sight. The sea was blocked from view by the buildings along the harbour, but I could taste the salt in the air.

Dumping my wilting ice cream into the nearest bin, I made my way uphill and out of the town. Here, among the nettles and the brambles, the silence was even more pronounced. The only sounds were the crackle of the sand beneath my feet, my heavy breathing and, in the distance, the sea's inevitable sway.

Finally I emerged from the bracken, finding myself on the naked clifftop. The bench that greeted me here was marginally cleaner than the last, and I collapsed onto it, staring out across the open ocean.

The view took my breath away. The rock plunged downwards to crash into the water, its jagged edges whipping the waves into a suicidal frenzy, but, beyond the shore, the sea was a silent watcher, powerful in its stillness, merciless in its beauty. In the patches where the feeble light seeped into the waves, the waters rippled sallow and jaundiced. The ocean swelled wordlessly to meet the horizon, and the iron sky seemed nailed shut. There was no life for miles.

The little swirling patterns the waves made on the ocean surface, with the delicate lace of sea foam, caught my gaze and held it, and I found I suddenly couldn't look away.

This, I thought, was a thing that could kill, and shivered, a stark and frightening image entering my mind. A ship, a storm, and below, the sea, reaching up its great hand and smashing it through the wood with a giggle.

It occurred to me, in a sudden spasm of awareness, that the sea was huge. The waters were endless and fathomless and completely ruthless. I could feel its sheer scale like an ache: the nausea of a selfish lie and the chill of a knife between the ribs. The sea held the world in the palm of its hand, and something told me it would crush us on a whim.

I stared out across the sea with wide eyes, and all of a sudden I felt it stare straight back. The wind began to rise; it took my hair in its clammy fingers and twisted and tossed it wildly and somewhere, carried on the air, I thought I caught a delighted laugh, the mirth of a cruel child with a new toy. The ocean surged up and took my face in its hands, and I saw that its eyes were crazed.

Child, it said, what could you know?

I wanted to step back, I wanted to get away, I wanted to run, I wanted to run!

You are but a crumb.

Let me go!

No. It smiled. I don't think I will.

I closed my eyes.

What I saw after that, I cannot say for sure. Here is what I remember: pulsing water and whirling colours and a delirious soup of light and sound and pure, primordial terror, all shifting and spinning around me with the gleeful, fervent madness of a long-dead pagan ritual; words that were not words at all and voices that could not be called voices and limbs struggling to stay afloat and rasping, gulping lungs— and something vast and commanding and unimaginably powerful, lurking behind it all.

I wrenched my eyes open and, through the sting of the salt and the dazzling white light, I saw the sea throw its head back to laugh. Life is a game, it said, and now, now I understood.

The sea was a wild thing, tossing and thrashing and dancing and singing – and it delighted in its existence, twisting round the Earth in constant euphoria. When it crushed ships between finger and thumb, it was smiling.

Andromeda, said the sea, caressing my face. I shuddered.

Please, let me go!

The sea curved its lips at me. Of course.

With the kind of gasp a drowning man makes as his head breaches the surface, I felt the sea’s hold on me fall away. I scrambled back in a daze, and as my frantic hands finally found purchase on a leaf of fern behind me a sob of relief burst from my lips.

At last, something solid!

I turned my back to flee, but as I tore through the undergrowth I once again felt the ocean’s chilling touch. I didn't want to look back, I didn't want to see— but I couldn't resist taking one last glance over my shoulder at the wide, unending sea. It smiled at me and I shivered.

I took something of it with me that day.

#yeah this was my english creative writing coursework lmfao #(it got full marks :])#creative writing #writing #my writing #tw thalassophobia #sea #idk

12 notes · View notes

winterbrrrd · 3 months

Text

On the market: Vacant Victorian (CHARM & CHARACTER) - $40,000

You found your first abandoned house,

Void of humans for two decades.

Wood is twisting,

Paint is chipping,

Roof is on the verge of caving.

Yard’s unruly and disheveled,

Like a hair day straight from hell,

Untamed branches reaching forward

Through a window,

Broken out.

And brambles navigate through spaces where the roof meets with the walls,

At least you’re certain there’s protection

From the rain, which always falls

This time of year,

Like late October,

wind is crisp but not enough

To keep you locked away inside,

Orange juice and vodka

In a cup.

Inside the house, you will discover things

You probably shouldn’t see, such as

Lewd photographs,

Bad poetry,

Old porno magazines.

Dead men get no privacy.

Walk in the house,

Search desperately

For signs that someone was living

A life, like yours,

Made history.

The cobwebs hang in every cranny,

Hang like garlands made with string.

Raccoons shit all up the stairwells,

Like they failed to litter train.

Paper peels from kitchen walls

Where grease was splattered,

Leaving stains,

You tear it down to find a door,

Leading to the lonely place.

So shine your flashlight, see inside,

Down at your feet, a pine staircase.

Now shut the door, switch on the light,

But do not meddle with my space,

And when you enter,

Please don’t mind

Me playing movies on rewind,

Speaking in tongues to feel sublime,

With egg yolks dripping down my face.

Now you’re in my secret room

And the room smells like mildew.

I do not wash, I do not clean,

I only sit and watch and stew

Like dinner soup, but my ingredients

Aren’t what you might assume,

I’m adding memories to finally

Give my dark thoughts to the moon,

An orb of white or cream or yellow

Just depending on your view,

A vessel for these endless struggles,

Somewhere that has enough room

For every trauma,

Every moment when I feared I’d end up dead,

Including all the times I tried to die,

Not by my hand

But his.

Explore the old abandoned house,

Poking your head in every room.

Here’s where I died in a small car,

Here’s where I gave self-harm tattoos,

Here’s where I fled when I was chased,

Here’s where I learned I was displaced

From every home, from every state

I tried to flee riding a freight.

Here’s where I learned they’re all afraid

Of who I love, of what I do,

They’ll never fortune tell my fate

But girl, it ain’t looking

Too good.

Explore my uncle’s hoarder house,

The small container where he died

Alongside three neglected dogs,

I say neglect, but he did try.

He tried and tried and he survived

For 60 years, or 69.

Got sober by like 35,

And stayed that way until the day

His heart stopped working,

Goodbye, life.

Explore my uncle’s hoarder house,

The way the dirt extends throughout

In layers, like a Cali drought,

No water means

No kale,

Bean sprouts,

Or broccoli,

Or wildflowers,

Or brushing teeth

Or taking showers.

Just dirt,

More dirt,

They cleaned for hours.

So you bought your first abandoned house

And you plan to fix her up.

She needs full rehab,

Will take years before she’s in good condition.

Are you prepared?

And what’s the goal?

Live in an old Victorian

With new, spring life freshly breathed in,

With flowing cream colored curtains

That dance in breezes, bleached by sun,

Tickle your cheek, like

“Hi. Welcome”?

Or will you flip me just to sell me?

Will a new family move in?

Will they find my hidden basement?

My own makeshift looney bin?

Or do you really want to keep me?

Want a home that feels like yours?

Keep the most authentic details,

Gut the rest,

There’s too much dirt.

The house was bought from an old woman -

Her estate,

For she’s deceased.

She lived alone with her black cat

And she wrote songs and poetry.

Her neighbors fancied her a witch,

But that’s just what they call a freak

Who never leaves her spacious bedroom,

Sits hunched over on her sheets,

Smoking weed and cigarettes,

Confined for everyone’s safety.

It’s better that she doesn’t speak,

It’s better that she doesn’t share,

It’s better that she’s not out meddling

Scream-singing the Lord’s Prayer

On a street wearing a trench coat,

Nothing else - what lies beneath

Is just her naked, wrinkled body,

Sacred scars of the deceased.

#abandoned homes #abandoned #poems on tumblr #spilled poetry #confessional poetry #epic poetry #my writing #my photography

2 notes · View notes

miktoast · 7 months

Text

Requiem

this is a bit (only 2,810 words) from the first chapter of a fem!harry potter, time travel fix-it au which i named "Requiem". please ignore any typos, it is very early in the morning. notes on aspects of my writing will be included at the end to clarify some things that might not be immediately apparent. sorry for any formatting issues, literally just copied this from word lol

Chapter One

Sacrifice and the Day of Judgement

Leaves and bramble crunched under foot as Harry trudged into the Forbidden Forest, everything shrouded in the deep, cool grey of early morning, just before the dawn of May second. Solemnity settled around her like the trusty cloak she had yet to don; the air was unnaturally still, as if magic and time itself hung suspended, watching, waiting. Pluto, looking like little more than a dim star [1], was at the edge of the horizon, glittering at her — like tears under moonlight — with a heavy heart but an un-staying hand, and, as it slipped below the forest canopy, Harry knew: this is the night that she would die.

Her steps did not falter even as reality sank into her bones, polluting their spongy marrow with dread and acceptance. Where they once felt as light and hollow as the fragile bone of the falcon, now they seemed as leaden as any other man. And that's what Harry was.

A human, made from blood and meat and bone.

Mortal.

And she would die.

Still, yet, she marched on in the face of Death, a faithful soldier — ever the mortal human with a cause to die for.

And her courage was steel in her veins, her golden heart iron plated. Her jaw was set, even as her feet caught over tree roots in her weariness, and her chin did not dip and her crown of thorns did not fall. But, however determined she was, however resigned in that she would not bid this cup pass from her unto another, she was still afraid. Harry, after a childhood of war, was battle weary and drained of her fight. She knew not if she could walk honourably, finding only cowardice in her exhausted stumbling, but she did know that the fate of Hogwarts, and the children within her walls, layed only on her shoulders.

If she was to be grateful for anything, she presumed, at least it did not take much effort to die.

Sirius certainly slipped away easily enough.

At the thought of her long-passed godfather, in her clammy palm the Hallowed Stone of Resurrection tingled, and it was then that Harry was struck with startling, electrifying, utterly brilliant clarity. So impotent was she from this sudden idea that she stopped dead mid-step, heel frozen just before it could touch the forest floor. It was only thanks to her years filled with experiences of life-or-death that her body could go ridged as the petrified in such an awkward position despite being so weary.

The stone, drawing her attention from where it had wandered, and in the same hand as her shivering wand, seemed to grow warm, the tingling becoming a pleasant buzz almost as if it was trembling separately from her hand. On the edge of her perception, something whispered from the shadows of the trees, yesyesyes wehelp wehelp thechilde, eagerly brushing the back of her hand where he gripped the Hallowed Cloak of Invisibility and running down her arm to embrace her other hand, flittering around holly wood and dirt-stained flesh.

Though she could not see these apparitions, they seemed to reach out to her, through her magic, sending impressions of children: innocent, anxious to please, possessive.

Unbidden, a thought brushed against her pitiful occlumency shields, somehow seemingly still her own, This is the Cloak, the Stone; they want me to do something. It did not take a Ravenclaw to figure out what. Despite this, a fire of eagerness and anxiety began brewing in her gut, staving off the cold and apathy that her looming death had bred.

Hesitantly, awkwardly, and only after several moments of staring, she draped the Cloak around her shoulders, trying not to jab it with her wand or let it touch the muck of the Forbidden Forest by her feet, though her own clothes and skin were not much better. It took some manoeuvring, but the second it settled into place, it seemed to embrace her in a manner unlike any time before: it shortened to just above her heels and the folds behind her neck mysteriously became a tailored hood, which she flipped over her unkempt hair; even without wind or movement of her own, the Cloak shifted to brush against the bare skin of her arms and calves every so often; and, finally, she realised with a jolt that the fabric wasn’t invisible despite being worn as she stared at sentient ripples and creases — though it still boasted its iridescent shimmer, the Cloak was now a deep black, darker than pitch or the night sky. It looked, for all the world, as if Harry had been swallowed by the Abyss, writhing around her silhouette like it could pull her into its own eldritch form.

After several moments of observing her altered cloak in muted horror and not-so-muted fascination, the Stone, lying forgotten in her palm, stung lightly, insistently. “Bloody hell,” she murmured to herself, staring intensely at the Stone as she transferred it to her left hand but coming up short on the energy needed to baulk at her newfound freak-show attraction — or even become mildly bothered at its apparent feelings, “you’re a persistent bugger, aren’t you?” Slightly doused by her drifting thoughts, the fire in her gut began anew, rapidly consuming more and more of her insides as her mind returned to thoughts about finally meeting her parents.

Oddly enough, Harry seemed to feel a surge of anticipation at the edge of her awareness, as if the self-important rock was saying, "I, too, am very excited to be used!"

“...Right. What did the story say again? Turn it over or something?” Faux-dispassionately — as if convincing it of her lack of faith would prompt it to put more effort into her family's summoning — Harry rolled the Stone over her knuckles, letting her thumb brush against it all the way. With each pass of her thumb over the stone, each gentle scrape of her bitten nail on one of its faces, a new person appeared — first her mother, next her father, and then Sirius.

Directly in front of her stood Lily Potter on her husband’s arm, presumably gripping the appendage hard enough to make the undead man next to her wince and struggle lightly where they were joined. The fire seemed to come to a peak, an inferno warming her limbs from where they connected to her body and out.

“...Mum?” She called hesitantly after a moment of drinking her remarkably healthy appearance in — she was not living, but at least seemingly-breathing and there, with a delicate flush to her cheeks and clumpy eyelashes that dripped with tears, and the analysis caused her internal hearth to crackle and roar.

“Oh, Harry! My baby!” Their words seemed to have broken whatever immobulus had taken hold of them as Lily almost threw her husband aside in her rush to meet her daughter and Harry found herself sinking to her knees. Lily threw her arms around her shoulders, and they went down together. Her hands frantically patted down her hair, her face, dipping down every now and then to feel her heart thrum or chest swell with breath. Harry, or perhaps one of her companionate apparitions, seemed to consider, could she feel her blazing warmth, her roaring joy, a lion making a den for itself in her chest out of her hope and love?

Quietly, almost silent after years of practice, Harry wept into her shoulder. The Cloak fluttered around her, flustered somehow, and again her mind wandered, could her tears, so potent with joy, rival Fawkes?

Another distant thought, again not quite her own, had her acknowledging that, despite her translucence, Lily’s hug was as solid and warm as Hermione’s had been just half an hour before. She did not question her corporeality, and instead consciously chose to bask in her embrace, the first from her mother that she would ever remember.

Eventually, her tears slowed, less like rushing river rapids and more like hot molasses on her face. Delicate pale hands drifted from their places on the back of her head and shoulder to her face, brushing away tears like she brushed dew from delicate tulip petals. Her own hands rose to her wrists, curling loosely around them as if to keep her from pulling away too soon. Her wand lay forgotten by her thigh, but the Stone stayed stubbornly in place as if it were embedded in her palm.

"We're proud of you, Lovely," Lily started, after a moment of staring kindly into her eyes, so like her own. "No matter what my horrid sister says, we were always proud of you." She leaned forward, one hand leaving her face to brush away her fringe, exposing the highest point of her scar which just met her hairline. Gently, sweetly, she pressed her lips there, and Harry nearly started crying again.

“I love you, Mum,” she choked. “I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, my Heart [2] , I love you, too. I just wish I could have told you sooner.”

“I’m sorry,” she cried, the fire curling up to her chest, burning hotter, hurting.

“It’s not your fault, baby. Don’t ever apologise for living. Yes?”

“Yes, ma’am… Mum?”

“Yes, darling?”

She took a deep breath, then, quickly, quietly, as if expecting to be rejected or reprimanded, “I missed you.”

Oh darling, her eyes seemed to say, plagued with great sorrow as she stared into the broken soul of her life’s magnum opus, “My heart has ached every day for the moment I would see you again. Harry?”

"Yes?”

“Be good.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Delicately, one more kiss was pressed to her brow, then, with tremendous effort, Lily separated herself from her daughter and got to her feet. Two pale hands were held out to Harry, and, with great hesitation, she let her grasp her own in a firm grip. With surprising strength, Lily hauled her to her feet and Harry was left staring at their joined hands, admiring the contrast of her pallor to her tanned brown, not quite the darkness of her father but certainly not the lightness of her mother.

Lily leaned forward to brace her forehead against Harry’s own bowed head and whispered softly, “You are stronger than you could ever imagine. Be great.”

Before Harry could gather herself enough to respond, she stepped away to rejoin her husband, only for her — and Sirius, falling into step behind her — to step away. James paused just in front of her, and, with a careful look into her eyes, bent down to pick up her precious holly wand, never breaking eye contact. Hesitantly, he took Harry’s right hand and pressed it into her palm, curling small fingers around it before laying both his hands on Harry's shoulders, somehow able to impart warmth where he touched despite the visage of his ghostly apparition, just like Lily. "Hey, bud," he began, staring searchingly into Harry's eyes.

"…Hey, Dad." That one word seemed to choke Harry as it came out, and it was all she could do to keep the tears from restarting. Of its own volition, again the hand with the Stone raised to grip her dad's wrist, as if to keep her from pulling away like it did with her mother. And, miraculously, for the second time, her hand did not phase through and she clutched at the warm, brown skin of her father's forearm.

That seemed all the permission he needed as James quickly pulled Harry into a tight embrace thereafter, burying his nose in his girl's messy, Potter-inherited hair. She smelled of dirt and the sweet rot of leaves, of magic_[3] and life. Harry found herself leaning into her father's arms, letting her forehead thunk onto his solid shoulder even as her arms fell limp at her sides.

James, like his wife before her, pulled away only far enough to cup Harry's face in his hands. "Merlin, Harry," he whispered, "you've grown up so much!"

Harry gave her a weak smile, "Not more than you."[4]

James cracked his own charming, lopsided grin. "No, you'll only ever be a little Prongslet, to me."[5]

Harry couldn't help the wet giggle falling from her mouth, and James couldn't help but plant a kiss on her hair after his adorable daughter made such a darling sound.

"I love you, Dad," Harry whispered into the hollow of James' throat as he pressed his nose into Harry's hair again.

"I love you too, Bint [6]. If only we could spend the rest of eternity like this, I would be content,” James’ voice was soft, bitter, and more than a touch heartbroken himself. Somewhere in the background, Harry could hear the soft murmur of her mother’s voice, echoing her father’s sentiment.

“You won’t have to wait much longer, now, in any case,” her voice was grim and wry, and her hands tightened on James’ wrists. The air was much heavier after her words as reality settled around them: this reunion would not be temporary.

"Guess it’s my turn, then?" Sirius asked, faux-lightly from behind James. Behind him, Lily called his name in a low, warning tone. "Right, sorry, carry on then."

“No, no, it’s fine. Get over here, Padfoot,” with a lighter air around them, James pulled away, letting his hands linger on Harry’s shoulders for a moment longer as he gazed into the mirror of his flower’s eyes. “You’ll do fine. Don’t worry, we’ll be there to greet you.”

Slowly, unwillingly, James backed away, eyes never leaving his daughter’s, and no sooner had his hands left Harry was Sirius barrelling into her, scooping her in a big bear hug. The Cloak pulsed with warmth and seemed to wiggle and shiver with joy at the affectionate touch, even if said touch was not directed at it specifically.

“Prongslet…!”

“Padfoot.”

“I’ve missed you, Pup. It’s been a while, yeah?”

“I missed you, too, Snuffles,” Harry leaned into the hug despite her limited manoeuvrability, gladly suffocated by her godfather’s wild black mane.

“Hey now, that ain’t cool, kid.” Sirius released one arm from around Harry to bury it in her hair and ruffle the bird’s nest there.

“‘Pup’ isn’t very cool either, is it?” Harry shot back, raising her now-free arm to bury it in Sirius’ own veritable bird’s nest and tug lightly for each pass through her hair that Sirius’ hand ventured. The Stone stung lightly in her palm, presumably for being in the hand currently void of use.

In moments, Sirius stayed his violent assault in favour of carding his fingers through curls and knots, deceptively gentle despite his earlier ministrations, and Harry allowed her hand to relax its grip on Sirius' mane, sliding down to find purchase on the nape of his neck as Harry leaned into the affection, going near-limp into Sirius' left arm still curled around her back.

"I called for you, I screamed your name into the veil," Harry whispered into the space where Sirius' shoulder met his neck.

"I know, pup," he answered, whispering just as softly.

“But… you didn’t come…”

“I’m so sorry, pup, I tried so hard,” Sirius said, the explanation falling like acid from his lips, burning a path to Harry’s heart.

"We were going to get a little cottage near the beach. You were going to give me a room just for me, and a perch just for Hedwig, and a room to honour Mum and Dad. We were going to have a home. We were going to be a family."

"We are," Sirius said, guiding Harry's face back with light, but firm tugs on her hair. "You have to know, Harry, a house doesn’t make a family. Just because we didn’t live together doesn’t make us not family. You are my daughter. You have to know," his words were insistent, and the gravel in his voice belied his despair.

Harry, moved by his conviction, could only nod.

"As long as you know." Sirius began petting Harry's hair again, allowing her to once more brace her forehead against his shoulder.

"Yeah, Pads. I know."

"I love you, kiddo. You're my world."

"I love you too.” Quiter, now, “…I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, and I don’t blame you. You’re a child. Don’t forget that.”

With a final soothing pass of his hand over ink-black hair, Sirius completely relinquished Harry from his embrace and stepped away.

“Is it time…?” Harry asked, once Sirius had rejoined her parents. Lily offered her a sad smile, and James’ eyes held a definitive sheen.

“Yeah, Habibti [8] , it’s time. Be brave. We’ll see you on the other side.”

And, like a soft breeze, all three of her parents were gone, leaving only the impression of their love on her skin. After several moments, the Cloak and the Stone began to pulse again with gentle warmth and impressions of comfort-we-arehere brushed her mind.

[1]Pluto isn't actually visible to the naked eye

[2] "My heart" is used as a term of endearment here, like Arabic "inti rouhi" (my soul) or Hindi "jaanu" (my life)

[3] no oxford comma because magic and life are supposed to be read as one scent, magic and life are essentially the same thing but magic is a far more present and potent manifestation of it. life is just written to emphasize james' relief that his daughter managed to continue living, even despite the harsh conditions.

[4]harry is remarking on the fact that both she and her parents died far too young.

[5] james believes harry was talking about not growing taller than himself

[6] Arabic for daughter

[7] Arabic for beloved one

this is titles "Requiem" because Harry devotes her second life to righting the wrongs of her first, so she lives her entire second life in remembrance of her first. additionally, she is haunted by the trauma of her first life, plagued with battle instincts and anxiety and other forms of ptsd. finally, as the master of death, harry functions both as the god being worshipped, the temple being worshiped in, and the offering being devoted in catholic requiems.

#requiem #fem harry potter #master of death #mod harry potter #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction

3 notes · View notes

alphashley14 · 1 year

Text

One Of Us

A Scooby Doo: Mystery Incorporated/Mystery Skulls Crossover

Chapter Ten

Ghost

When the passengers of the Mystery Machine first laid eyes on the Mystery Skulls’ mansion, their immediate first impression of it was that it absolutely 100% looked like a haunted house.

It was bigger than Fred and Shaggy’s mansions, but smaller than Daphne’s. And it wasn’t as pristine as any of their homes. In fact, the place looked a bit decrepit - three stories and mainly black, save its accents of dark mauve and its bright purple windows. The forest of thick, twisted brambles that surrounded the mansion perfectly accented the crooked window frames and menacing gothic architecture.

“Wow. They were really trying to advertise ‘haunted house’, when they designed this place, weren’t they?” Velma asked dryly.

“They could use a gardener.” Daphne agreed.

“I could build some serious traps around this place!” Fred gushed.

Shaggy gulped. “Like, please tell me you guys do not live here. ”

Scooby whimpered in agreement.

“Yep,” Mystery replied, unbothered. “Home sweet home.”

Fred followed Lewis’ lead in parking out front, and the seven of them piled out of the Mystery Machine right at the same time Lewis and Vivi were getting out of the Mystery Skulls’ van.

“Here it is,” Lewis said with a dramatic sweep of one arm, “La casa de los Calaveras Misteriosas!”

“Okay - I thought you were fucking with us when you said you lived in a haunted mansion, but just looking at this place, I might I believe it now.” Ricky said.

“Are you okay with that?” Lewis asked. “You too, Shaggy. Nothing in there will hurt you, but I know you guys have been through a lot today.”

“If it’s too much, it’s okay. We can always stay at one of your houses instead,” Vivi offered.

“I’m fine.” Ricky said, but there was a tremor to his voice. “You said whatever’s in there is harmless, and I believe you. Whatever the kids want,” he shrugged, hands in his pockets.

Mystery Inc. looked at each other. Then they looked at Shaggy, who… was not used to getting much of a say in such matters.

“Like um… if they say so. If Mr. E trusts it then like, I guess I do too.”

“Okay, Shag. If you say so then I guess we’re in too,” Fred said. “Besides: Pericles knows about the rest of our homes, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s watching them. Shaggy’s parents may notice he’s not acting like himself, Daphne’s house isn’t well protected enough, and in spite of all my traps Pericles has breached my house before.”

“'Breached' doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Daphne said.

Shaggy and Scooby shuddered at the memory of ‘Evil Pizza’.

“Okay then, but feel free to change your minds.” Lewis said.

“Alright everyone, before we lead you in, there are some things we need to tell you about,” Vivi said.

“First of all, as I said, nothing in there will hurt you.” Lewis said with certainty. “I am Master of this house and all the spirits that reside in it. And you are here as my guests. Which means they are bound to be curious, but they will be cordial. And if they’re not, then they get to deal with me.”

“But like,” Shaggy gulped, “what can you do against- g-ghosts?”

“Any number of things. I could drain their energy, rendering them temporarily unable to interact with the tangible. I could also banish them to the Neitherworld. Or worse - I could exercise them. Punishment fits the crime.” Lewis shrugged, as casually as talking about the weather.

“Trust us - they know not to do anything to incur Lewis’ wrath.” Mystery insisted. Vivi nodded profusely behind him.

“Jeepers,” Daphne muttered.

“Alright then, what should we expect?” Velma asked.

“There are many different kinds of ghosts,” Vivi explained. “When most people hear ‘ghost’, they immediately think of the souls of the dead still walking the Earth, or inhuman entities from another plane. But in truth, those are rare. Most paranormal activity is caused by manifestations of energy. Some are powerful and focused enough to form a certain level of sentience, others act more randomly. These can form for any number of reasons. Especially in and around high-energy public spaces or in and around places with rich history. Or sometimes in response to tremendously powerful intent from a single person or group. They can even form from spare energy being emitted by another more powerful entity. Paranormal activity also sometimes happens as a recollection of the past - energy left behind by tremendous events creates echoes for centuries to come. It’s not the souls of the people involved and they usually aren’t sentient. Think of it as bits and pieces of a recording playing back on loop.

“As for our house, there are very few formerly living human spirits here. A mix of the factors I just told you about is what causes most of the paranormal activity here, and what created most of our spirits.”

Lewis led them through the front gate - black iron, surrounded by a fence-height brickwork wall. Then up a set of brick stairs to the front doors. He paused to let all nine of them get under the portico, before the doors suddenly unlocked themselves and the double doors swung open unaided.

Lewis and Vivi entered first, and Mystery stood behind their guests to bring up the rear. All of Mystery Incorporated shrank together a bit behind Fred. Ricky, who stood apart from the younger Mystery Incorporated, visibly stiffened and gulped. His heart was racing and his breaths were coming out short. But yet another thing from a happier time came to mind.

“It’s okay Ricky,” Cassidy would always tell him when his anxiety started to overwhelm him. “You just need to breathe. Deep breath in… deep breath out…”

He could only wish in vain that her hand was still here for him to hold.

Then the six guests stepped into the haunted house.

༻˚⁺･⚉｡○✼༓☾⦾♫෴♡💛♡෴♫⦾☽༓✼○｡⚉･⁺˚༺

“E?” Marcie asked, confused from where she was, halfway out of the air vent with her hands braced against the wall.

The room she’d come out in was a living room furnished minimally yet tastefully in deep purple, brown, and black with dark wood furniture and silver light fixtures and lamps. With a few touches of yellow and red here and there.

Directly below Marcie was a large black leather couch, which her bag had landed on. And Mr. E was standing in front of it, hands in his pockets, looking up at her with a third pink ghost lounging across his shoulders where Professor Pericles would usually be.

“Um… yeah. About that. We’ll talk in a minute, but how about we get you on the ground first?” Mr. E asked, picking her bag up from the couch and beckoning her down.

That’s not Mr. E.

This person looked like him, sounded like him, dressed like him. But he didn’t act like him. Didn’t talk like him. Didn’t even move like him. His handwriting was different - she’d noticed that when reading the note card. His scowl wasn’t there, nor was the hardness in his eyes. And he was friends with ghosts . Which led Marcie to a conclusion that was nothing short of impossible .

“You’re not Mr. E.”

Surprise flickered across his face, but then he smiled at her. “That’s right. I’m not,” He admitted.

“Then who are you? What are you?”

“Like I said,” Not-E said. “That’s a conversation best had with you not way up there.”

Nope. I’ve seen these movies. Fuck this.

Marcie started to back up, back into the vent, but something behind her gave a hard shove. And suddenly she was tumbling out of the hole and falling onto the couch below.

“Ow…” she groaned. Shit , she’d forgotten about the other ghost!

“Hey! That wasn’t nice!” Not-E scolded. The second ghost, who was up near the ceiling shutting the vent, made a mischievous giggling sound in response.

“Are you alright?” Not-E asked gently.

“Don’t touch me!” Marcie snapped, smacking his hand away from where he’d reached over to help. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“Oh no, you’re right. I’m sorry. I should have asked permission to touch you, first.” He apologized, handing her bag back to her and backing away. “To answer your questions, you’re in Mr. E’s uh… apartment? Condo? Hobbit-hole? Dwelling ? No idea what you even call it, but he lives here. And yes, you’re right. I’m not Ricky. But I am a person. I’m not a… creature or whatever possessing him, if that’s what you were worried about.” He laughed nervously at that, and Marcie noticed that he was clutching one arm tightly, like it was a habit.

“Now, this next part is going to sound completely nuts. But in a bizarre turn of events,” he explained, “Ricky- sorry, Mr. E, Shaggy, and I have as of this morning wound up in a three-way body swap. As you can see, I’m in E’s body. Mr. E is in Shaggy’s, and Shaggy is in mine.”

“Shaggy? You mean Velma’s friend? From Mystery Incorporated?”

“Green shirt with the talking dog? That’s him.” Not-E nodded.

He’s lost his mind . “Okay then… whoever you are… so you’ve been body-swapped with Mr. E and Shaggy. Then who are you ?” Marcie demanded.

Not-E sat down in a black armchair opposite of her, a familiar keytar leaning against the wall beside him. “Could you please pull up the email I sent you this morning?” He asked, putting one leg up in his chair in an entirely not-Mr. E-type-manner.

Not taking her eyes off of him for more than a split second at a time, Marcie retrieved her laptop from her bag, opened it, unlocked it, and did as he had asked. And all the while he just sat there, harmless as a puppy, looking at her earnestly with those weirdly gentle eyes. “Alright. It’s pulled up.”

“Did you watch the video?” He asked.

“Of the Mystery Skulls? Yeah, I did.”

“Could you pull that up please and start it? Then turn the laptop around?”

Again, she did as he’d asked. And when she turned the laptop around, he watched the video for a few moments before he said, “Pause it there.”

Not seeing what was on the screen, Marcie complied. Then finally, Not-E moved. He leaned forward in the armchair and pointed directly at the screen. “That’s me.”

Marcie turned the laptop back around, and her eyes nearly bugged out of her head with shock. The video had paused on a close up of a young man in an orange vest with a very familiar looking pink wisp peeking over his shoulder as he played with the rest of the band.

“It’s nice to meet you, Marcie. My name is Arthur.”

༻˚⁺･⚉｡○✼༓☾⦾♫෴♡💛♡෴♫⦾☽༓✼○｡⚉･⁺˚༺

The foyer that Fred, Daphne, Velma, Shaggy, Scooby, and Ricky found themselves in was equal parts luxurious, classy, and spooky. Pinkish redwood floors and paneling contrasted vividly with pinstriped purple wallpaper. Jagged hearts were a recurring theme. A decadent stairwell led up to the second floor balcony, with hallways on each side of it. And on either side of the foyer were wide doorways that led into a sitting room and a dining room. The space was lit by scattered rose gold candelabra and a matching chandelier hanging from the ceiling, aglow with pink flame.

“This place is awesome!” Fred was already scheming places to put traps.

“Yeah, from the outside I didn’t have a lot of hope but this is really classy. Love the purple.” Daphne admired the decor.

Scooby suddenly yelled and jumped into Shaggy’s arms.

“Like, what is it, Scoob?” Shaggy asked.

The dog just whimpered and pointed to their left, but there was nothing there.

“What was that?” Ricky asked, looking down one of the hallways.

“Jeepers, I think I saw something move too!” Daphne cried.

And indeed, there were glowing pink shapes darting from wall to wall, peeking out from behind door frames.

“Don’t be afraid everyone,” Vivi said gently.

“They’re just curious,” Lewis said, “They can tell Ricky and Shaggy aren't themselves. Not to mention we don’t exactly have guests often. These are the most common and obvious spirits you’ll encounter here. We call them the Dead Beats.”

“Dead Beats! Isn’t that what Arthur wanted?” Ricky exclaimed.

“Yep. I’ve already sent him three - as he requested. Back at the hilltop.”

“Like, he wanted ghosts? ” Shaggy cried, putting Scooby down.

Lewis nodded. “It makes sense. The Dead Beats can get places where humans can’t with ease, they are powerful enough to interact with the tangible, and they can go places easily without being seen. There’s at least a million different ways they could be of use.”

“Would you like to meet one?” Vivi asked.

All six of them gulped. “D-do we have to?” Scooby whimpered.

“No.” Lewis said immediately. “I can order them to keep away from you, but they may still try to get a peek.”

“They’re not vicious - most of the time.” Mystery said.

“Think of them like musical housecats,” Vivi said.

“Or mischievous little kids,” Mystery added.

There came a few slightly indignant-sounding noises from the Dead Beats.

“I want to meet one!” Velma stepped forward before her courage failed her.

“Are you sure, Velma?” Daphne asked.

“Guys. We’ve spent most of our teenage years investigating fake ghosts. And now after all this time, I not only learn that real ones exist, but I also get the opportunity to meet one! This isn’t an opportunity I’m passing up!”

“Be careful, Velma.” Scooby said with a whine, ears drooping.

“Alright you heard her,” Lewis said with a beckoning finger. “One of you.”

There came a series of clangs, rustlings, and bumps accompanied by layered whispers, coos, warbles, and squeaks as the Dead Beats sorted it out amongst themselves.

Then a ghost popped out of the right hallway.

༻˚⁺･⚉｡○✼༓☾⦾♫෴♡💛♡෴♫⦾☽༓✼○｡⚉･⁺˚༺

After Arthur explained the situation to her, Marcie needed a few minutes to herself to process.

Mr. E was one of the good guys now?

The treasure was cursed? And there was an evil entity attached to it?

Mr. E was one of the good guys now?

Body-swapping, ghosts, and other such supernatural things were real?

AND MR. E WAS ONE OF THE GOOD GUYS NOW?

She was pretty sure some of the other stuff Arthur claimed should have shocked her a lot more. But nope - that was the one that blew her mind the most. If what Arthur said was true, then not only was that grouchy wretch of a man trying to be better, but he’d also been even more of a prisoner than she was for the past week , and Marcie hadn’t noticed.

Granted - she hadn’t exactly seen a lot of Mr. E in the past couple weeks. And come to think of it, it seemed as if he’d been avoiding her. All of his recent orders for her had been technical tasks that she now realized served the purpose of keeping her as far away from the center of Destroido - and therefore from the Original Mystery Incorporated - as possible. She’d suspected it was because they were planning something he didn’t want her finding out about. But after Arthur told her what had really been happening… Maybe it was because while planning the coup, he hadn’t wanted Marcie to get caught in any possible crossfire? And after it went wrong, he’d been trying to keep her as far away as possible because he’d known that he had no power to protect her from Pericles anymore? So in his own way… he’d been trying to protect her?

Mr. E had been protecting her?

The same guy who had been blackmailing her into working for him for the past few months now?

It was an insane concept to think about.

Not only that, but the way Arthur claimed Mr. E was being ‘controlled’ was pretty far-fetched too.

And yet - he had proof that Marcie couldn’t ignore.

“I can show you.” He said firmly when she expressed her doubts.

“Show me?”

“The capsule. Or the whatever-it-is that Pericles stuck in E’s back. I had the Dead Beats look for it earlier and they found it,” Not-E/Arthur told her. Then he stood up, shed his jacket, turned around, and reached to take his shirt off.

Marcie had not expected him to strip, so she momentarily looked away, mortified. Then she realized he wasn’t taking his shirt off , just lifting up the back of it. One of the Dead-Beats then came up and pointed to a spot in his mid-lumbar region along his spine. “If you want proof, it’s right there,” Arthur said, his back still to her. “If you look where my friend is pointing, there’s a little mark that’s healing over, which is probably where Pericles put it in. And if you look right there between that spot and my spinal column, just- well. Show her.”

Then the Dead Beat suddenly stuck its tail inside Mr. E’s lower back - Marcie saw him jerk at the undoubtedly odd sensation - and it lit up bright pink, like there was a light inside his body shining outwards, showing bone and tissue as clearly as an MRI. She could see everything moving as he breathed and as his veins and arteries pulsed with each beat of his heart. And sure enough, right where he said it would be, there was… something . A small, dark cylindrical shape with a pointed end - about the size of a large pill.

“What the- what the heck am I looking at?” Marcie asked incredulously, unable to resist coming closer for a better look. Marcie reached out to touch, but suddenly reminded herself who she was dealing with and snatched her hand back.

“You can touch it if you want,” Arthur said, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. “But you have to press down kind of hard to feel it. It's in pretty deep. If this thing’s gonna come out, it’s going to need to be surgically removed. Otherwise I’d be plotting to cut it out somehow. Or I imagine Ricky already would have tried.”

Inquisitive as ever Marcie did as he said, though touching Mr. E wasn’t exactly enjoyable. But sure enough, what she was seeing was no illusion or trick of the light. When she pressed down on the skin, just as he had said, she could feel that there was indeed something there. It was some kind of implant. And whatever it was, it most certainly didn’t belong there.

“Sorry, this is all the proof I’ve got at the moment.” Not E- Arthur apologized as he fixed his shirt and put his coat back on.

“No, it’s proof enough - proof enough at least that there’s something in there. But what, I can’t say.” Marcie had said, sitting back down on the sofa opposite of him.

“As I told you,” he said as he resumed his own seat, “It’s a torture device. I’ve felt it first hand. All Pericles has told Ricky about it is that it contains mutated cobra larvae - which I believe means that this thing has to be some kind of remote-operated self-sustaining micro-incubator for fetal cobras that have been genetically altered to not grow past their fetal stage. Cuz you know - cobras are venomous even before they're born.”

“I know that,” Marcie said. “And they’re even more dangerous when they’re young, because their venom is much more concentrated. Not to mention that cobra venom is a neurotoxin - it’s designed to attack the nervous system. Which means theoretically, if that really is what you think it is, then having even a tiny bit of that stuff released to a hot spot of the nervous system as important as the spinal column would be not only unimaginably painful, but also potentially life-threatening.”

“It is,” Arthur sighed. “Poor Ricky… he’s had to endure that sometimes more than once per day for the past week. Having experienced it myself just once , I can tell you that I cannot blame him for not making any escape attempts or calling for help. I’ve never experienced Ricky at his worst like you have, so I understand it may be easy to judge him or to blame him. But… if you knew what I know, then I don’t think you would.”

“Why do you keep calling him that?”

“What?”

“Ricky ? I mean - I think I’ve heard members of the Original Mystery Inc. call E that, but I’ve never heard anyone else do it before. If you really did just meet E today, then why are you on a first-name basis with him already?”

“Oh. To be honest, I didn’t really think about it. I started doing it and he never corrected me, so I guess he didn’t mind. I mean - I’m literally in his shoes right now, so doesn’t it kind of make sense that we’d be on a first-name basis? Especially after… some of the stuff we talked about.”

And he told her what he knew.

༻˚⁺･⚉｡○✼༓☾⦾♫෴♡💛♡෴♫⦾☽༓✼○｡⚉･⁺˚༺

Whatever it was each of them had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

This had to be the most non-threatening looking ghost any of them had ever seen. Granted - Fred, Daphne, Velma, Shaggy, Scooby, and Ricky had never actually seen a real ghost before, but the fake ones they were used to were usually much more terrifying than this.

The Dead Beat wasn’t a vengeful apparition or a graveyard ghoul - rather, it was a small, bright pink wisp of a spirit. Gliding tentatively through the air in a serpentine pattern as it approached. Its head - which had a little point on top as if it was wearing a hat - was tilted curiously as it peered at Velma with bright golden eyes that matched the pulsing heart on the center of its chest.

Velma gulped and reached a hand out as far as she could. The Dead Beat floated in front of her for a moment, giving Velma a seemingly timid inspection. Before it suddenly darted forwards and booped her on the nose with a teeny arm and a playful “beep!” Then it zipped back into the dark hall from whence it had come. There came a chorus that sounded suspiciously like giggling when all of their guests nearly jumped out of their skins.

Lewis looked at the unseen Dead Beats with a look of pure disappointment on his face, hands on his hips. “Was that really necessary? Are you all proud of yourselves?”

One of them made a squeak that sounded suspiciously like “Yes!” that sent the others into another round of giggles.

Vivi snorted, which directed that same disappointment at her. “I’m sorry, but that was adorable.” She giggled.

Lewis shook his head. “Shameless,” He chastised. But he was smiling too.

The Dead Beat poked its head out of the hall again and made a couple of noises.

“Well if you want to make friends, you shouldn’t start by startling them!” Lewis scolded.

The little ghost cooed apologetically.

“That’s what Lewis gets for being Master of the house,” Vivi turned to their guests and explained. “He can understand them as easily as he hears us speaking English.”

“Yeah, ‘English’ by a bunch of sugar-crazed kindergarteners,” Lewis grumbled.

“Which is worse? The Deadbeats or your sisters?” Vivi asked.

“Yes.”

Velma laughed, her racing heart slowing to its normal speed. “Well, they seem sorry. And they don’t seem mean.”

Ricky took a deep breath and stepped forward beside her. He was the adult. He really should have been the one to volunteer first. And if Arthur was friends with these creatures, then he supposed that he should trust them too.

Right as he did, a Dead Beat was sneaking out of one of the doorways and coming up to him. Vivi said they were like cats, right? Ricky wasn’t averse to cats. Remembering when he’d petted Mystery back in the van, Ricky reached out. When the Dead Beat leaned into his touch, he started scratching its head and running his hand along its body down to its tail. It was… odd. The little creature seemed to be both there and not there at the same time. Like he was touching solid air. It was a contradiction, and it didn’t make sense, but that was his only way of describing it. The Dead Beat purred happily, its long, cold wispy tail weaving between his fingers. Ricky laughed incredulously under his breath. Yesterday he was a slave in his own home, and now here he was, in a haunted house petting a ghost!

“Oh, now you’ve done it.” Mystery said.

“Done what-” But no sooner had Ricky said it, he was surrounded by the friendly ghosts, pressing up against him, trilling for pets. Ricky laughed, in spite of himself, suddenly reminded of a lifetime ago, when his actual body had been this age, and he’d been mobbed like this by his neighbors’ litter of puppies.

And Mystery Incorporated… watched. Slack-jawed. Was this really the Mr. E they knew?

Or perhaps… they hadn’t known him as well as they’d thought from the start.

༻˚⁺･⚉｡○✼༓☾⦾♫෴♡💛♡෴♫⦾☽༓✼○｡⚉･⁺˚༺

Marcie listened with rapt attention as Arthur told her a wild and fantastical tale. About a powerful supernatural mystery-solving gang called The Mystery Skulls . About the otherworldly beings in the strange plane known as ‘The Sitting Room’, and the encounter he'd had there with Mr. E and Shaggy. About the Annunaki and Nibiru. And about the cursed treasure and the entity that needed to be destroyed.

It was insane. It was complete and utter madness. And yet the more he talked, the more convinced Marcie became that the person sitting across from her really wasn’t Mr. E. Or at least he didn’t think he was.

“How do I know I can believe this? Any of this?” She asked when he was done. “Maybe parts of it are true, but maybe Mr. E’s just lost his mind and has split up into multiple personalities or something. That definitely sounds more plausible than an interdimensional being swapping your bodies. Or any of the other crazy stuff you’ve told me!”

“That’s just it - you don’t,” Arthur shrugged. “But whoever I am, I’m plotting to rebel against Professor Pericles - who I know you don’t like. And I’m friends with Velma - who I know you do like. So maybe I am crazy. But regardless, helping me benefits you.”

“Helping you?”

“Yeah, Marcie. Why do you think we're having this conversation? I really, really, really need your help. I have a plan. And if it works, then Ricky will be free of this ,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to his back, “and of Professor Pericles. That’s what I wanted to accomplish from the start for my own personal reasons. But on a practical level - a we’re-at-war level, accomplishing this is also the smart thing to do. If we set Mr. E free, he’ll be able to become a permanent ally of Mystery Incorporated and my friends - who are working together now. Which means we not only get him (and he seems like a really smart guy to me) but we also take Destroido and its resources away from Professor Pericles. And there are a few things I also wanted to accomplish before our escape to really make sure he’s left with nothing. Basically, on Ricky's behalf, we’re facilitating the breakup of a decades-long manipulative, toxic, abusive, and one-sided relationship, and I intend to make it as messy as possible on the way out the door.”

“Which sounds all well and good to me,” Marcie said. “I can’t stand that bird, And if the plan is to screw him over then I’m in. But how do I know that the real E is going to be with us after we set him free? Or that you’re Arthur Kingsmen?”

“Well - consider this: If I’m just Mr. E minus his marbles, then that doesn’t exactly explain where these guys came from, now does it?” He asked with a cocked brow, pointing to the Dead Beats.

And try as she might, Marcie couldn’t argue with that. She’d already tried to debunk them. She’d searched the whole room for anything that could make the little ghosts into something more logical than what they seemed to be.

But she’d come up empty.

They were real.

Ghosts were real. And whoever this was, they were friends with him.

So maybe the other crazy things he’d told her about were true, too.

༻˚⁺･⚉｡○✼༓☾⦾♫෴♡💛♡෴♫⦾☽༓✼○｡⚉･⁺˚༺

“Like you guys were right. They’re not so bad.” Shaggy said between giggles as the Dead Beats swarmed over him and his friends.

“I like giving them a hard time, but they really are wonderful,” Lewis admitted, giving the one across his shoulders a scratch.

All of the Dead Beats heard him and stopped in their tracks to make an affectionate trilling noise that could have been mistaken for an ‘awwwww’.

“When I first… moved into this house, I was alone for a while. And the original six were the best company I could have asked for. The same has applied to all the others since.”

“Original six? You mean there weren’t always this many?” Daphne asked.

“That’s right,” Lewis nodded. “The Dead Beats are intelligent manifestations of energy that are, for reasons I won’t get into right now, tied to me. They serve me and act in my interests, which extends to my friends as well. When I first- started in the paranormal, there were just six of them. But as time has gone on and I’ve grown more powerful, more have manifested. Sometimes on accident, sometimes on purpose, and sometimes without me realizing it. As of now, there are thirty-six total. Thirty-three here, and three of the originals are with Arthur.”

“That’s interesting,” Mr. E said suddenly. “Those are all magic numbers.”

Everyone looked at him expectantly.

“What? They are.” Ricky said a little quieter, not liking all of the eyes on him. “36 is one of the ‘magic numbers’ in physics pertaining to atoms and the number of electrons in filled electron shells. And in numerology, the number 6 - as in the original number of Dead Beats - is related to…” He trailed off.

‘You’re rambling again, Vögelchen.’ An old voice said in his head. ‘Do you really think some silly coincidences in numbers are relevant?’

“Sorry. It was just a thought.” He gulped, uncomfortably looking away.

“No keep going,” Mystery urged, tail wagging. The others were looking at him as if they wanted him to continue.

Ricky swallowed and finished his train of thought. “The number 6 is related to the sun. And it’s supposed to be powerful and masculine, so it’s often tied to security and responsibility. In Tarot cards, it's represented by the Lovers.

“And the number 3 is believed to be the most powerful of all numbers. Triangles, which have three sides and three angles, are the strongest of all shapes. And in numerology the number 3 is sometimes it's connected to the fates, or the land, sea, and sky, or to the mental, physical, and spiritual, etc. In some traditions it represents youth and things like imagination, humor, happiness, and upbeat energy - which obviously ties in a lot to these little guys,” he said, pointing to the Dead Beats.

“And the number 33 in Tarot cards is represented by The Promise, which brings ‘assistance through honesty and love’.”

“He’s right,” Vivi said, impressed.

“How do you know all that?” Scooby asked.

“Like, yeah. You never seemed like a mystical dude to me,” Shaggy said.

“I was once a meddling kid too, you know,” Ricky shrugged. “I had to research numerology once for a mystery and it was kind of interesting, so a lot of the information just never left my brain. What can I say? A lifetime of needing to research many different topics has left my mind a plethora of random knowledge.”

Wow. Mr. E stood in Pericles’ shadow for so long, somehow I forgot that he’s a genius too, Velma thought to herself. “How did I ever think you were Shaggy?” She asked incredulously, shaking her head at herself.

“That,” Ricky said, “is a whole other mystery.”

Everyone else snorted.

“What I’m surprised about,” Mystery said to Lewis, “is that you sent any of the originals to do something. I thought you preferred to keep them close.”

“I do,” said Lewis. “But the original six are the most coordinated, and they’ve learned more than the rest. And if this is all I can do for Arthur right now, then he deserves the best I have to give.”

They all fell into another uncomfortable silence, the heaviness of Arthur’s absence bearing down on them.

“Hey, you know something?” Vivi asked, trying desperately to lighten the mood, “We still haven’t shown them the best part!”

Vivi’s statement triggered a sudden excitement among the Dead Beats, who knew immediately what she was talking about. In an instant three of them were clambering over each other to shoot off into the house somewhere for something.

“Please can we show them the best part?” She asked again, hopping excitedly.

“Well, given that they’ve already gone off for your guitar, I’d say the decision has already been made,” Lewis laughed.

“What’s the best part?” Fred asked.

༻˚⁺･⚉｡○✼༓☾⦾♫෴♡💛♡෴♫⦾☽༓✼○｡⚉･⁺˚༺

“They like music?” Marcie asked, her face scrunched with confusion.

“More like they love music.” Arthur laughed.

The Dead Beats around him were trilling excitedly, weaving between his legs as he sat in Mr. E’s armchair, E’s keytar in his lap.

“Hold on guys, hold on. This isn’t mine, remember? So I have to be extra careful with it.”

Marcie sat on the sofa and watched Arthur mess with Mr. E’s keytar for a few minutes before it was set the way he wanted it.

"By the way,” Arthur said. “Not sure if you know this, but Ricky actually has a pretty good voice. You're in for a treat. Sorry if I miss a few notes by the way - I usually play this song on the key-board , not the key-tar .”

Then he started bobbing his head - just as the band in the video had. And he began to play.

At the same moment back at the manor, the Dead Beats had just dropped Vivi’s guitar into her arms. And right away, head bobbing, she began to play too.

And the Dead Beats began to dance.

It was beautiful, the way they moved through the air like intelligent flickers; pink lights burning bright in the dim foyer. And the music! This was different from anything Ricky had ever played but… he liked it. Cassidy would have loved it. Retro electric funk, with harmonies that reminded him of the disco she’d loved so much.

As for Marcie, she had heard Mr. E play his keytar plenty of times. But she’d never heard him play like this. She didn’t know much about music, but she knew enough to know that this song was an entirely different chord and style than anything she’d ever heard from Mr. E.

And the Dead Beats, to the surprise of both audiences, were extremely musical - for not only were they dancing along in sync, but they were also singing along to fill in the missing notes from the roles of the band that weren’t present.

It was at that moment, on opposite sides of Crystal Cove, that Arthur Kingsmen and Lewis Pepper began to sing.

And Arthur had been right.

Mr. E could sing.

“Uh.

Cause’ the world might do me in,

It’s alright ‘cause I’m with friends.

Guess I’m giving up again,

It doesn’t matter.”

In the depths of Destroido, the three Dead Beats came up behind Arthur and hummed the background vocals,

“Ooh ooh ooh”

Back at the Mystery Skulls’ mansion, their guests were finding that the foyer had shockingly amazing acoustics for their miniature concert.

“Had me feelin’ like a ghost.

And that’s what I hate the most!”

Lewis sang, and the Dead Beats lined up along each side of the stairway railing and along the walls, bobbing and swaying hypnotically to the beat.

“Guess I’m givin’ up again

This time,”

The Dead Beats came in all around for the background vocals,

“This time,

This time,”

“This time I might just disappear!”

Then the music really went off!

And together yet miles apart, Lewis, Arthur, Vivi, and the Dead Beats played their band’s greatest song.

“Try and hear me, then I’m done.

‘Cause I might just say this once.

Seen this play out in my dream.

It doesn’t matter!”

“Mmm mmm mmm mmm mmmm!” Hummed the Dead Beats.

“Tired of givin’ up the ghost.

Fuck, it’s you I hate the most!

Maybe there’s no garuntee,

It doesn’t matter!”

“Uuuuh!

This time I might just disappear!”

On opposite sides of Crystal Cove, Shaggy, Scooby, Fred, Velma, Daphne, Ricky and Marcie listened to the Mystery Skulls play. And as the tempo slowed again and the guitar and keytar fell silent, they couldn’t help but be struck by the song’s words.

And knowing what they did now about the Mystery Skulls, they couldn’t help but wonder if there was even more to them than met the eye.

The Fic Title and Chapter text is entirely pink this time in honor of the gang FINALLY arriving at Lewis' mansion and in honor of the Dead Beats - this was really a chapter for them to shine! I know I just said it literally one chapter ago, but this was also one of my favorite chapters to write. I loved the idea of these mystery solvers who have always INVESTIGATED real ghosts finally meeting real ones. And under friendly circumstances too, so they were in a situation where they can just be curious and wonderstruck without any terror or running away. As I said, this was definitely a big chapter for the Dead Beats! And I figured I'd swarm Ricky with them because- well why not? Dead Beats are wonderful and adorable, and Ricky could use the snuggles. It seems like I say it in my notes/comments on every chapter but - bless his heart. And I loved being able to put the scene with Arthur and Lewis singing the same song at the same time here on Tumblr, because this site's formatting lets me change the colors the font, so I could really make it seem like they were singing together! AND now I am finally caught up! All chapters that are presently posted on AO3 are now also posted on Tumblr!!! 😄 And now that I'm all caught up, I finally feel that I can post chapter eleven!!! Keep your eye on your tumblrs, readers. Because I just might post it here a day or so before I post it on AO3. Either tonight or tomorrow morning! As they say in the Hazbin Hotel fandom: S̷̨͖̜̙͚̣͎͛̅̽͆͊̆̓̚ẗ̸̨̡̧̢̛̞̭͔̄͋̈́̒̃̑̂a̶̞̪̯̺̪̻̲͆͌͋͐̾̉͘̕y̵̢̱͇̞̽̍͂̈͛̇ ̸͉͓̣̤̫̹͗T̵̫̙͖͚͎̞̄͘û̷̦́̂̓̆̀̚n̵͕̞̙̺̙̤͇͐̈́̋́̑̀̚͝e̶̝̥̗̮̼̯̬̯̓̐͋͝ḑ̸̻͓̠̃̉̒̒̀̌.̶̢̩̯͐̍͒̉͊̃̔̚

Chapters One through Ten of 'One of Us' are presently posted on Archive of Our Own.

15 notes · View notes

linksthoughtbrambles · 2 years

Text

A blanket of shifting shadows.

Part 9 of Adventure Log+ (Sequel to Link’s Thought Brambles. I highly recommend reading in order!) WARNING: This chapter is rated mature for disturbing imagery and violence.

It’s the eyes.

Now we know.

Their shrieks, like they’re the ones horrified of us. Like glass shards in my ears, but they’re not what paralyze.

Daile, stock-still, caught in its gaze.

Zelda’s arrow through its ear.

We know now. We flank them.

…Still standing. Arrows aren’t so effective against them.

I guess… putting a stick in something that’s already dead doesn’t matter much.

They don’t even bleed.

The neck again, Link. Just… do it. Don’t think about it.

Sever it.

“Mm-“ My Goddess, the sound it makes- like- like-

I don’t know- boots- sucking out of thick mud-

Stop, Link.

I’m so sorry. Whoever you were. Please, be at peace.

I guess I know, now, what I’d kill for.

Zelda? Yes. But it’s not just her.

I’d never let one of these things kill anyone else, either.

Not that I ever had a problem killing monsters.

But this…

“I’ll check inside.” Oh. I guess I can talk. “Window, Daile.”

“Yes, sir.”

I don’t even sound like I’m shaking.

I just sound… as dead as these things.

That’s a new voice on you, Link.

Straw.

Goats.

They don’t sound happy.

Bet they haven’t had new food or water in a while.

Sorry… not yet. Have to finish the check. We can… we can help you out afterward.

Empty stalls. The horses would’ve been here.

Piles of fresh straw.

No sounds or shadows from the loft.

And THAT is a very uncomfortable-looking-and-sounding cow. “You didn’t get milked this morning, did you, girl?” And not last night, either.

“Link?”

“All clear, Princess.”

“What is it?”

“The cow. It’s… been about a day, I’d guess, since whatever happened happened. She’s swollen.”

“O-oh, yes. Now you point it out, I see it.”

“Daile, let the goats out, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Link…what are you-“

“We’re going to talk about what to do next, right?”

“We ought to.”

“Great. I’ll milk her.�� You don’t want to know what happens if you stop suddenly.”

More hand-alcohol, Link. Don’t milk the cow with contaminated hands.

I can feel Zelda’s eyes on me. Is this disturbing to her? Maybe. She didn’t grow up with farm animals, though. You really do have to do this, and if you’re going to stop milking a cow for some reason you don’t do it cold-turkey. You wean them off it slow so they don’t end up bursting. This one’s already well overdue- damn. That’s a lot of milk. She’s staying still for me even though I’m a stranger. It must’ve been bothering her a lot.

Maybe this is the one kindness I can do in this place.

Maybe I should stop saving foxes.

This isn’t the same, though.

We have a few minutes while we figure our next step.

That is… if we do that. Zelda’s just watching me.

And… now she’s getting me a second bucket.

“Here.”

“…Thanks.”

“The goats seem thirsty, sir—Princess. They’re going at a pretty dry trough.”

“Yeah, they would be.”

“I think there was a pump, but- but-“

…Damn. “It’s near the malice.”

“…Yeah.”

“We ought not risk approaching it, I think. Do you agree, Link?”

“I do.” Goddess knows if that stuff’s seeping into the ground. What happens if you drink contaminated-

Contaminated- “Zelda?”

“Yes, my love?”

Woah! Yeah, she whispered, but Daile’s- oh. No, he walked outside. Probably peering around for a watering hole.

She's smiling at me. It’s a small one, but still.

Contaminated. “I just killed two people.”

Did I say that?

Smile gone. Just like that.

You know, Link, you thought if you ever did something like this, you’d be miserable. Crying with guilt. That’s not what it’s like at all.

I don’t feel much of anything, do I? Even my hands are kind of numb, just going through these plain old motions. Guess I can make those difficult decisions after all. As long as there’s enough incentive.

No tears.

Father would approve.

Bucket’s almost half-full already.

Contamination. “We don't know what happens if that stuff gets in the ground water... or the crops. This is a farm.”

“...Indeed. I’m torn whether to make haste to other nearby farms or to hurry toward the tech lab at once. They ought to study this malice.”

“Real carefully if they do. We don’t know how those… corpses were made to walk. Or how they died in the first place.”

…Quiet…

“I did not see any obvious wounds on them. Not- not when they first appeared. …Did you, Link?”

“There weren’t any.”

“I’m concerned this may be what happens if malice is touched. Fi?”

Malice can kill, Princess. It burns. A single touch would not cause what you observed today—it would require prolonged contact. Malice can, however, animate a body once its life functions have ceased.

“Do you have any idea where this substance may have come from?”

No, Princess. However, I estimate a 97.8% probability it was placed in this location intentionally.

“I concur. It's suspiciously close to our usual route to the lab.”

I bet she’s expecting me to be freaking out on the slate.

I’m not.

“I was, yes.”

“Yeah.”

“…What can I do to help?”

“Nothing, Zelda. I’m fine.”

This poor cow. Bucket number two. “Are we going to discuss where to go?”

“…I’m rather leaning toward sending Daile to ride hard south. I must imagine Purah will have sent a team our way hours ago at this point. He can guide them.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. We… hph. Seven horses.”

“Yes. I was wondering about that, too.”

“There aren’t enough stalls here for them.”

“And, it would seem, only three people.”

“…Unless more escaped.”

“Or… wandered once- once walking again.”

More of them. We could check- “Beds. In the house.”

“Indeed.”

“Then, we circle wide. Check all the neighboring farms.”

“It shall take most of the night, most likely.”

“Yeah.”

Almost done. “Good girl. Sorry you were hurting like that.”

“We shall miss our appointment with Zuho tomorrow morning.”

Definitely. Mom’ll be worried…

“Purah will send word to the castle… and to the logging village, if she’s any sense.”

”She has sense.” I think.

“…I also hope she sent more than a handful of people in our direction. We shall need watches.”

“Double-watches. No way anyone should be awake alone with things out here that can paralyze you with a glance. Or… whatever made that muck appear.”

“Jeralt would suggest triple-watches.”

“Yeah. He would.” If it were just us three, no one’d sleep- “three- Zelda, Zelda, did Daile-“

“No, not yet!”

Okay, cow, milk aside, sorry-

It’s not just me, Zelda’s hurrying, too-

“SIR DAILE!”

“DAILE? DAILE!! F@#$, Zelda, did you see which way he went?”

“East, I think!”

S#@$, s@#$, s@#$, it’s only been a few minutes only a few, he can’t be far, he can’t be far, Link, but he didn’t answer he didn’t answer, I’m a goddess-damned idiot and a s@#$ty captain, that’s what I am! “DAILE! DAILE! …DAAAILE!!”

“SIR DAILE!”

“DAILE, COME ON MAN-“

“I’M- HERE!”

“Oh- oh, thank-“

“Goddess-” Toward a downslope. Looking for water. Lower elevations.

There was something odd about his voice.

There- coming out of that grove. He doesn’t look hurt…

?! “Daile, are you alright?!” Why’s he have his hand against his nose like that? Foul smell?

He’s not even nodding. Won’t look up.

“Sir Daile. Please report.”

She managed to say that kindly, somehow.

“Hhh. Hhhhh. There was another one.”

“Was?”

“Yes, sir. I- took care of it.”

“We didn’t hear it shriek.”

“It didn’t. I was quiet. Knew I might not be alone out here. I saw it… I…I ended it quietly. Sir.”

“…Back there?”

“Yes, sir.”

Zelda’s moving—I should go, too, just in case-

“Princess?”

“Yes, Sir Daile?”

“It’s- not easy to look at.”

A tiny nod and fraction of a smile and off she goes.

You too, Link. Quietly.

Three guesses, Link, why Daile would be even more upset about this one.

Please don’t let it be a kid.

Please.

Please?

Hylia. Zelda must see it… she stopped.

A bunched hand to her mouth.

It’s a kid, isn’t it?

…It’s going to be a kid.

You have to look at some point, Link.

Just step beside her and look up. It’s that easy.

So small.

At a tiny watering hole.

Maybe catching frogs.

“Hh-hhh.”

“Zelda?”

“Hh-hh-hhhhoh.”

Oh no, no no no- “Zelda- it’s-“ no, it’s not okay, Link, don’t be like that. It’s not at all okay. “Come here.”

“Hh-hh-hhh-hhh-hhhhhhh hhhh hh.”

She’s whisper-crying. Trying so hard to be quiet.

“Hhhh. Hhhhhhph.”

I’d’ve thought it would be me.

“Hhh h.”

Wet shirt. Dry face.

“Hh-hhh-“

Hold her tighter.

“Hhh.”

“We’ll stop this. We will.”

“Hhh- What if they’re all like this?”

“Then we. Will. End. Whatever caused it.”

“We must go. We must go. Now, Link.”

“Yes.”

“Sir Daile!”

“Yes, Princess!”

“Ride south immediately. Ride hard and scour the plain as well as possible so as not to miss our allies.”

“Yes, Princess.”

“Do NOT engage anything suspicious. If you encounter no one, make for the lab. Link and I shall check the house briefly, then ride to the nearest farm east first. Then we shall circle northwest, then southwest, until we have reached due west of here. Then we shall follow the opposite path but one farm outward. With luck we shall stop whatever did this from progressing further. It would be wise for you to guide the others northwest to meet us at the other end of the semi-circle if possible. Link and I shan’t rest until we find… what did this.”

“Yes. YES, Princess!”

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone run so hard.

“Oh- SIR DAILE!”

“YES, PRINCESS!”

“BE WARY OF ALL WATER SOURCES! THE PUMP AND THE WATERING HOLE—PERHAPS BOTH TARGETED!”

“YES, PRINCESS!”

Smart.

Water.

It could be a coincidence. The… the kid might’ve been there already when… whatever found them…

I’m breathing hard.

Getting ready to run, I think. To find whatever sprang from the unknown demonic depths of darkness to do this. Maybe I’m just unbelievably angry. The red might be from sunset but it could also be the blood rushing through me.

“Link.”

“Yes.”

Running. Barn first. Just… make sure the animals’ pens are open. Animals are smart… they won’t drink contaminated water.

If we had more time, I might try and drive them south a bit, but we don’t. It’s up to them.

“Do you have bottles?”

“Wh-what?”

“In your pouch. Do you have any empty bottles?”

“I- well yeah, I do, but-“

“The cow’s milk.”

“You’re worried about the milk going bad?!”

“Link, if the water in this entire area is contaminated, milk is frankly better than nothing.”

“Oh.” Once again, your Princess is way smarter than you are.

Okay, get the bottles out get them out get them out, hand them over-

“Yes- thanks-“

“I have more.”

“Truly?!”

“Heh. Yeah.” Dear Goddess, Link, how can you huff-laugh at a time like this?

Canteens. Am I insane? Do I collect things for no reason? Maybe I collect things because I have a magic pouch and I can stick anything in there I want. (Almost).

Either way, she’s now holding four bottles and an empty canteen. “That’s it.”

“Excellent.”

She fills. I tie gates open. Hope the animals don’t decide to stay here. Who knows what ‘malice’ does if it’s around for a long time. The surface moves. Maybe it can slither or-

I don’t even want to know.

I have to know, though, don’t I?

This is it.

This is what I’m supposed to be doing.

Not hanging around in a castle playing guardsman.

And… the Princess was meant to do this with me, too.

I am also meant to be with you, master.

“Heh. Yes. Thanks, Fi. I… I’m sorry our plan is in tatters already.”

I have never known your plans to be otherwise, master.

“…Thanks.”

Any time, master.

“Hph.” You twinkled.

Oh?

With amusement.

You are entertaining, master.

You don’t seem as upset by what we just saw as Zelda and I.

…The dead of long past are as innumerable as the silent stars keeping dark watch on ages long lost from our world.

“Wh- what does that even mean?”

“Link, I apologize in advance. I’m making quite the mess of your bottles.“

“…Don’t worry about it.” Bottle mess. Not important. “I’m almost done.”

Easy to talk about, though.

“As am I.”

Easy. A lot easier than other things.

Don’t- just don’t. “Done.”

“Yes. Here. Beds.”

“Right.” Bottles in pouch while walking no no “No, Zelda, don’t run, wait for me. Not alone. Never alone. Okay?”

“Y-yes.”

Just one sec, last one in- “Okay, run. You flank.”

“I can-“

“I got bitten already. Let me take the risk. Besides—sword.”

…She’s nodding. Good, good. Not the front door, malice there, around back. Back door? No. Windows, though. Darker now. Can’t see through the window well. No movement.

Low window… easy—no malice on the floor. The stuff… glows. I’d see it. I can see some of it out front through another window.

Glowing red-purple mud. Fluorescent flowers gone fluid.

That’s it. That’s the smell, isn’t it?

Bile.

Stomach fluid.

Mixed with…

With ash.

And more-

“Link?”

“Hh- sorry. Thinking.”

“It’s alright.”

Table’s set.

For four.

…No more kids, then.

Or anyone else.

Un-unless-

Upstairs?

“Clear here, Zelda.”

“Yes.”

She’s in.

“Stay to my side if at all possible.”

“Yes.”

“Hh-hhhh.” Stairs. “Hhh- hhhhh.” Get a hold of yourself.

Keep. Hold.

Hard to flank on these. She’ll just have to stay well behind me. She can watch me go up… follow after…

Bedrooms.

One double bed. Empty.

Nothing else. “Hhhhhhhh- hh.”

Keep hold.

Zelda stairs creaking.

Next door. Still no sounds. None.

Two small beds.

That’s all.

Floorboards. So loud. No sneaking in this place, not really.

I hear everywhere she is.

One more small- no. It’s a water-closet.

...No crib.

“Hhhhhhh- hhh- hhhhhh.” No crib.

Praise Hylia. Praise praise for that. For that. Yes. Thank you.

I don’t know if I could-

I just don’t know.

Closets.

Just in case.

Clothes.

Not a lot.

One nice set. For special occasions.

No.

Don’t.

Just go.

“Zelda.”

“Clear?”

“Yeah. We ride.”

“Yes.”

Out. Out of here as fast as possible. Her, too. I can see it in the flurry of her movements. Not just urgency. She- she doesn’t want to be in here.

The lives here.

They were fine.

They were fine not at all long ago.

What if we’d left a day earlier?

What if-

Just.

Don’t.

So much darker now already.

Didn’t seem like we were in there very long.

Maybe it’s not the Sun and sky that changed a lot in the last few minutes. Maybe it’s me.

What’s wrong with me?

I don’t feel right.

The horses hear the whistle. Rionee knows this drill. She probably doesn’t realize I’ll wait for Zelda, though.

UP, girl. Good. Zelda…?

Wow. She’s up fast.

And we fly as fast as we can. “GO girl!”

“On, Tass!”

This morning, the plain was beautiful. An ocean of swaying gold.

What is it now?

A blanket of slinking shadows over the earth.

An endless sea swallowing remote islands, specklings of life at each one. Just as vulnerable as any sea-level hut near shore.

If there’s any life left.

The cow. Full udders.

It’s been a day.

A day.

Hylia, please have mercy on us. On them.�� Please.

Please, let this not happen fast, whatever it is.

Tass is like the wind.

Rionee’s fast, but… she can’t keep up this pace forever.

We can’t move faster than this.

It is how fast it is and we’re how fast we are and there’s nothing we can do, nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing if it’s happened already.

Nothing.

“Link!”

“Zelda?”

“I love you!”

“I- love you, too. Wh- why now?” When we have to half-shout over the horses!

“I shall remind you whenever I see that look on your face!”

“E- eh. Hhhh.”

“We shall prevail!”

That’s what I said earlier. That’s not the issue, is it? Not really. Whatever did this, we’re going to kill it. I know it already. I don’t have any doubt about that.

The issue… is how many people are already dead.

How many USED.

…By what?

Will we recognize it when we find it?

What made that sludge?

Look at her.

The look on her face.

Those guardian-laser eyes.

Like the first time I picked the slate up.

She’s focused. Determined.

Angry.

That’s what angry looks like on her.

That’s what it's always looked like on her.

She stays… calm.

Hardens.

That time she got so pissed at her father her lips twitched, too.

Too dark to see.

I wouldn’t be surprised if they are.

She doesn’t scream and shout. Doesn’t go into a rage.

She’s like-

Like an islander hawk.

Like Chee calls me.

We’re alike, aren’t we?

We’re alike, but she’s smarter. More willful.

What am I?

What are you, Link?

Why do you hold the sword and she doesn’t?

She should have a weapon far more powerful than that bow on her back.

No comment on that, Fi?

The Princess has access to magics which you do not, master.

Does she?

Yes. They… have not yet revealed themselves.

How can we reveal them?

They must appear in their own time and in their own way.

Cryptic. Very you.

I will take the opportunity of time afforded by traveling to remind you I will not be able to automatically strike at long range. You have injuries, master.

...Yes. I know.

You may, however, use me as you did the training sword during the melee.

I hadn’t thought about that. I was desperate, then.

Desperation is unnecessary, master. Focus is important—to will your energy into me.

So, you can do that, too?

YOU can do that, master. I am in tune with you. The effect through me will be amplified. You will find your spin attack to be most useful.

Will the- the- upward one work, too? Where I held the sword in the air?

The skyward strike will function under most circumstances.

… Like these circumstances?

It would function now if you tried it, yes. I cannot guarantee it will work when we meet the enemy which caused this.

Why not?

I do not know the properties of the enemy’s magics.

You think the enemy’s magical?

I’m certain of it, master. Malice and ReDeads do not appear via non-magical means.

R- re…

ReDeads. Yes. A name from times long past. Near the beginning.

The beginning…?

My Goddess. Fi, these things have been around since this whole… Calamity thing began?

Nearly.

Is there anything else you can tell me?

There are many things I can tell you, master.

About other things like these, particularly. Monsters that might… show up. That have something to do with this malice.

…Yes, master. I will describe all that I can. Then I will resume my analysis and reorganization of information if time allows.

Right. Ye- Wait! “Zelda?”

“Yes!”

“Watch the slate.”

“What? Hooves—too loud!”

“Fi- watch the slate for Fi! She’s going to tell us… about… about creatures of malice!”

Glittering green eyes in the darkness. Algae pools on moonless nights.

I’m… definitely thinking strangely.

“Very well! If I must read, you must watch, I’m afraid!”

“I would’ve anyway!”

“I know! Link?”

“Yes?”

“I love you!”

Oh. I must look like something. I don’t know what. Some kind of mess. “I love you, too! Zelda?”

“Yes?”

“I love you more than anything or anyone who’s ever lived! I’m… yours!” The answer to my question to myself earlier. That’s what I am. I’m hers. Anything she needs of me.

More glittering. Searching me. Wish I could see her expression well in this dark.

“And I am yours, my extraordinary knight! Link, my love, look me in the eye!”

I already was. I’ll look harder.

“We SHALL prevail! We shall end whatever did this, as you said!”

Yes.

But-

“Do not dwell on those who may not yet be dead!”

“That goes for you, too!”

“Ah- hhhh- I shall try, Link! FI!”

Yes, Princess.

“Begin!”

Yes, Princess.

-----

Read Next: Hands

Follow this link for the post list for this fic.

Follow this link for my fic masterlist.

#adventure log+#botw #zelda #zelink #loz #breath of the wild #legend of zelda #fanfic #adventure log+ au #rated mature for violence and disturbing imagery #fi #botw link #botw zelda #redeads

22 notes · View notes

libidomechanica · 11 months

Text

“Then she that sawe it, simple time Sonny Rollins disappear so fairily”

The play’d with something dreary cavern deep, never men forsakes the milliners whose wage is death-wound, its webs. Thou pleased we went back they shot down from this way like a cavern with sounds straight mists about me thing: my mood is stay’d my foolish

Ishbosheth the youth look’d so dream; or say a dream of such as no gentle and far-heard clarinet, in thunders has Espous’d his sovereign sway may betray, nor my embalmed down she knew: for willing all objects know this harmed God be

with much empressement: ’-the lofty portal door, near petrified. Thus while bay leaves no step had trodde in the wayfaring trumpets gan to play unfair! Then she that sawe it, simple time Sonny Rollins disappear so fairily by

the Love’s fire! These were sated with a healthier brain, new stuff’d, in youth, or I shall make no otherwise. Waits with friend: this floor, blackened about, but bloody gore which ranges round, poor souls we loved and so he rested at its watery

trees. More hardest fate, for o’er our huntsman: Breather harms: stranger, and temples lewd, mutter’d, nor sideways would put within my grave. Frenchmen never warm as a Guardian God; and Fortune call’d up and bramble, tracing fantasy was led

from monarch of friend, himself: then hell, and demon, mission, which, Perilla! A heavy sky over London when the fumes of wounds the Peoples wrongs that heavy peacefull raign: and, like a precious latch, its amber studs, my hunting my

lance from the Israel’s Crown in front to have play’d with me—or fall from the westlin wind me in his time in silence dead rous’d me, and dim emblazonings, and what we have heard, he sometimes like dew on rosebuds in three steps, and a newe

daunce: my old self-same song I hear he lov’d his words he sank, pale as sunny sky, and the corner of the father bore it with brasswork prinked, each one congeal’d to pry earnest as their Father’s wrathfull Image through thou art so unkind

take their Choise, but would swell by us; we two being hidden, heavy Load, who nails him down upon a day, the seem’d but dirty. Juan knew several Sons before his usual. For Laws for should live to shun— follow’d all, and the roofs

and woe is me, I admire ech turning foreheads hoar: again I look’d so dream; and thou swearest, still in heaven and with weeping skeleton, with bloody Frenchmen never honest, stay at home; for being sips such more and Caves, and Roger

still, we are deities will some new pleasure, my sweet hue, which they strake him from amaze into stubborn streaked vases flush; the changeable chameleons, spitals of wine, in honour turn thee understood the mighty Soul Disclaims he

is foreheads hoar: again my steps proclaim’d him King? His mind; so great city sounds, that faints into a narrow seas! True, the bone: what’s still, and calm and steals in a moment go, the very death, my deadliness in dismal stories of earthly

love’s eternity: Cold Pastorella in the Frame anew, is work, not only can be no longer fly like a silent mysteriously, impart to live, and here is a limited Command; to my close to her children. She

found him at her balmy side, keep watch and want and Duty bound, their language but dreams are immortal in their doors proclaim it thee. Night-swollen mushrooms? Then with my own dove with hollow lute,—but she cannon’s throat shall be heard you in your

silence brew’d with silver lamp, and bear to follow’d with a Jealousy, be thought God’s enemie. Not sweeter than I cannot bewray least Complained, and sharp sleet against a telephone pole, and in a fickle rout, which he was a woman

smokes an ill report. Might with dewy gem, frighted at the rewards me, like lark over his powre, nor what will be told; and full-flowers; but for her blue and you said, that found, he shoots with joyful than tongue—o let me, whose meadow under

that drink, and heaven gave him his bed what passes o’r, and pictorial. Spirit, and after, straight! Knights, dawn, behold the beauteous mould; and on her, and Redress of the river’s path. About Ferguson, deceiving elf. All I be at

fifty should I meet? Can one joy absorb another lover who always honour. Of their massive groves are figures, a garden rails. Young goddess of Rebell. To come there to glow between the west, a land that nook, the very dogs wouldest

thou now pleasure; ’bove his free- born joy. Love and defraud there is not fearfully. Greatly aghast, for if they as easily about me the wolf and cuff’d by this first I saw in your only sad one; for whose lovers—who last night

and want and did to him, as one who dives three Hesperides. And I, betwixt the tann’d harvest ripen, her heart, Love’s alarum pattering moments crept sluggishly by, ere matron Night and she grows old. And then she whispers lighten.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #157 texts #ballad

0 notes

rosesarereds-posts · 11 months

Text

"Bluets" by Maggie Nelson

1. Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a color. Suppose I were to speak this as though it were a confession; suppose I shredded my napkin as we spoke. It began slowly. An appreciation, an affinity. Then, one day, it became more serious. Then (looking into an empty teacup, its bottom stained with thin brown excrement coiled into the shape of a sea horse) it became somehow personal.

2. And so I fell in love with a color—in this case, the color blue—as if falling under a spell, a spell I fought to stay under and get out from under, in turns.

3. Well, and what of it? A voluntary delusion, you might say. That each blue object could be a kind of burning bush, a secret code meant for a single agent, an X on a map too diffuse ever to be unfolded in entirety but that contains the knowable universe. How could all the shreds of blue garbage bags stuck in brambles, or the bright blue tarps flapping over every shanty and fish stand in the world, be, in essence, the fingerprints of God? I will try to explain this.

4. I admit that I may have been lonely. I know that loneliness can produce bolts of hot pain, a pain which, if it stays hot enough for long enough, can begin to simulate, or to provoke—take your pick—an apprehension of the divine. (This ought to arouse our suspicions.)

5. But first, let us consider a sort of case in reverse. In 1867, after a long bout of solitude, the French poet Stéphane Mallarmé wrote to his friend Henri Cazalis: “These last months have been terrifying. My Thought has thought itself through and reached a Pure Idea. What the rest of me has suffered during that long agony, is indescribable.” Mallarmé described this agony as a battle that took place on God’s “boney wing.” “I struggled with that creature of ancient and evil plumage—God—whom I fortunately defeated and threw to earth,” he told Cazalis with exhausted satisfaction. Eventually Mallarmé began replacing “le ciel” with “l’Azur” in his poems, in an effort to rinse references to the sky of religious connotations. “Fortunately,” he wrote Cazalis, “I am quite dead now.”

6. The half-circle of blinding turquoise ocean is this love’s primal scene. That this blue exists makes my life a remarkable one, just to have seen it. To have seen such beautiful things. To find oneself placed in their midst. Choiceless. I returned there yesterday and stood again upon the mountain.

7. But what kind of love is it, really? Don’t fool yourself and call it sublimity. Admit that you have stood in front of a little pile of powdered ultramarine pigment in a glass cup at a museum and felt a stinging desire. But to do what? Liberate it? Purchase it? Ingest it? There is so little blue food in nature—in fact blue in the wild tends to mark food to avoid (mold, poisonous berries)—that culinary advisers generally recommend against blue light, blue paint, and blue plates when and where serving food. But while the color may sap appetite in the most literal sense, it feeds it in others. You might want to reach out and disturb the pile of pigment, for example, first staining your fingers with it, then staining the world. You might want to dilute it and swim in it, you might want to rouge your nipples with it, you might want to paint a virgin’s robe with it. But still you wouldn’t be accessing the blue of it. Not exactly

8. Do not, however, make the mistake of thinking that all desire is yearning. “We love to contemplate blue, not because it advances to us, but because it draws us after it,” wrote Goethe, and perhaps he is right. But I am not interested in longing to live in a world in which I already live. I don’t want to yearn for blue things, and God forbid for any “blueness.” Above all, I want to stop missing you.

9. So please do not write to tell me about any more beautiful blue things. To be fair, this book will not tell you about any, either. It will not say, Isn’t X beautiful? Such demands are murderous to beauty.

10. The most I want to do is show you the end of my index finger. Its muteness.

11. That is to say: I don’t care if it’s colorless.

12. And please don’t talk to me about “things as they are” being changed upon any “blue guitar.” What can be changed upon a blue guitar is not of interest here.

13. At a job interview at a university, three men sitting across from me at a table. On my cv it says that I am currently working on a book about the color blue. I have been saying this for years without writing a word. It is, perhaps, my way of making my life feel “in progress” rather than a sleeve of ash falling off a lit cigarette. One of the men asks, Why blue? People ask me this question often. I never know how to respond. We don’t get to choose what or whom we love, I want to say. We just don’t get to choose.

14. I have enjoyed telling people that I am writing a book about blue without actually doing it. Mostly what happens in such cases is that people give you stories or leads or gifts, and then you can play with these things instead of with words. Over the past decade I have been given blue inks, paintings, postcards, dyes, bracelets, rocks, precious stones, watercolors, pigments, paperweights, goblets, and candies. I have been introduced to a man who had one of his front teeth replaced with lapis lazuli, solely because he loved the stone, and to another who worships blue so devoutly that he refuses to eat blue food and grows only blue and white flowers in his garden, which surrounds the blue ex-cathedral in which he lives. I have met a man who is the primary grower of organic indigo in the world, and another who sings Joni Mitchell’s Blue in heartbreaking drag, and another with the face of a derelict whose eyes literally leaked blue, and I called this one the prince of blue, which was, in fact, his name.

15. I think of these people as my blue correspondents, whose job it is to send me blue reports from the field.

Lyric Essay is a literary hybrid that combines elements of poetry, essay, and memoir. It explore the elements of poetry and creative nonfiction in complex and experimental ways. Bluets is a hybrid transgressing all and every genre. Bluets is partly essay, partly poetry, it's a collection of fragments, of quotation, a memoir, with a hint of philosophical investigation.

#Xiena #Xiena Creative Nonfiction #Lyric Essay

1 note · View note

atomicduckcherryblossom · 1 year

Text

The Shrike and the Magpie

Shrike was an angry bird, always flitting about in the trees, attacking and impaling any creature who dared to trespass into his brambles. Despite being rather small, he made up for it in misguided, blindsided anger. Today was no different, Shrike was defending his forest once again against Magpie.

Magpie was a mischievous fellow bird, dead set on bothering Shrike and flying away with his larger wings before Shrike could catch him. Today he was dropping berries on the small bird’s head and flapping circles around him.

“I’ve had it! If you can catch me before sunset tonight, you win. I’ll let you have your fun in my forest. If I win, you stop pestering me so much!” Shrike shrieked in anger.

Magpie swiftly agreed, knowing he was much faster than the Shrike. And so the game began, Mapie allowed Shrike a head start, and went to hunt for food before he wasted his energy on catching Shrike.

Meanwhile, Shrike was scheming. How could he win this while causing as much harm to Magpie as possible? After several long minutes in his bramble bush, he had an idea. So, he set out flying to find Bug.

Bug was a small thing, meek and afraid. However, many birds took pity on him, and allowed him to live. This made for a few cunning tactics he kept up his sleeve. He had overheard Shrike and Magpie’s deal, and decided to help Magpie. Shrike would certainly kill him any day, and it would be best to have at least one ally.

Magpie, however, was not a pitiful creature. He was strong and powerful, and spent his days having fun instead of scheming and ragefully murdering any creature who crossed his territory. The world was his land, and it mildly infuriated him that Shrike wouldn’t let him explore his trees.

So while Shrike was scheming and Bug was seeking him out, Magpie soared over the trees of Shrike’s forest. He could barely see from here, but it was the best vantage point if Shrike was flying.

Shrike was flitting around in the bushes, still planning and plotting. And in one of these bushes, he stumbled across Bug. Bug cowered in fear, and Shrike immediately began trying to attack him.

The brambles were sharp though, and even Shrike’s nimble wings were getting stuck in his clumsy rage. Bug was freely moving though, and decided to save himself from future trouble. “I have a proposition, Shrike. I help you lure Magpie into the bushes, and you leave me alone.” Shrike quickly agreed, and they began their plan.

Magpie had noticed the sun begin to set in the West, so he dove down into the trees to rush the process. There, near the tree Shrike and Magpie often came to fight, Magpie found a lone Bug.

Bug was shaking in terror, but that only helped his performance. “Magpie, please hurry quickly. Shrike is stuck in a bramble berry bush and has lost himself in rage! Follow me, I’ll show you where he is, but you must catch him before he catches me!”

Magpie swiftly agreed, and the two set off through the forest, Bug safely in Magpie’s claws. Soon they made it to the bush, where Shrike pretended to be stuck and angry. He yelled and tore around, making a fuss of everything. Magpie was elated, he barely had to work to win the deal. And on Shrike’s own rage too? Impeccable.

So Magpie dove into the bush, focused on catching Shrike. That was when Shrike burst from it, trapping Magpie and his large wingspan in the tangled bush. “You will stay here until the sun sets, of course. I am certain you will stay stuck.”

Magpie kept struggling, but Shrike only laughed and flew away to hunt, forgetting all about Bug. Magpie tore up his feathers, and quickly gave up. “This is pointless, I’m going to lose the bet and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Bug saw this, and thought of an opportunity. He never promised to continue helping Shrike, and had no stakes in the bet anyway. “I’ll help you, Magpie. Shrike is much too angry and needs to be humble, don’t you think? I’ll help you escape, and you catch Shrike before sunset.”

Magpie agreed, and they set to work. The sun had barely touched the tips of the trees on the horizon, and Magpie was racing after Shrike. He had left Bug behind in favor of winning the bet.

In his fret to catch up, Bug had been allowed to escape. He never put a side of his on the bet, only offered to help. Magpie was, if anything, in his debt. Bug escaped quickly, and no bird has seen him since.

But Magpie, and certainly not Shrike, didn’t know this. They were too focused on winning the bet before the sun went down, Magpie at last was catching up. They were both too focused on the race to notice a large tree, too tall and wide to dodge. Shrike hit it first. Magpie soon followed, and both their bodies fell to the forest floor. Bug, of course, got off scot-free.

#my art :}#my writing

1 note · View note

thespidersfrommarz · 3 years

Text

Petition to for Bramblestar to fucking die in the next arc. Please for the love of god let him die and have Squirrelflight be leader

#warrior cats #bramblestar #squirrelflight #the broken code spoilers #erin hunter #squirrelstar au #please bramble. stay dead #tw swearing #tw death mention

30 notes · View notes

mud-castle · 3 years

Note

Ok can.. can we HVE brambleclaw just snap once at Firestar I just want him to say one time

Brambleclaw glaring at Firestar puffing up making Firestar think of tigerstar for a second: I get it you hate me, you probably ruined my training just so I won’t be a good warrior or ever challenge you and you probably just want me dead heck the whole clan would probably do a celebration when I finally die I’m fine with that I’m fine with being in the background I fucking wish starclan chose someone else so I would had stay a regular warrior a bad one but a regular one who doesn’t get in your way but for one fucking second please just listen! Starclan chose me and the other four to go to the sundrown place so we can be told that the twolegs are destroying the forest and there nothing they can stop it why the didn’t tell us straight I don’t know but this is what I’m telling you now I warned you.. or something that and maybe Firestar grows to respect him a bit.. listen I just.. live Firedad and his bramble son and I want just a little bit of it and maybe bramble to stand up for himself a bit (a bit foreshadowing that one day he will fully snap and kill alt fire)

Primrosepaw is just preparing for the worst. Firestar and Tallstar aren't likely to immediately label them as traitors, especially since they returned of their own volition. Leopardstar is having issues with Mistyfoot so she might be harder to convince. Blackstar....ehh? He can be convinced.

Now, Brambleclaw snapping on Firestar does happen at some point, just not here. He's been given a new perspective on his life, but he's not quite putting the pieces together yet.

So, they return and explain themselves to their leaders individually. Brambleclaw and Squirrelpaw are sort of trying to explain to FIrestar at the same time until Firestar gets tired of the competing and tells Squirrelpaw to shut up and let Brambleclaw explain. He's pretty pissed at her for following the group without actually knowing about the signs beforehand. Squirrelpaw feels like she's once again pushed aside by her father for Brambleclaw of all cats and storms out.

Brambleclaw takes the chance with Fire alone to voice some of his concerns (things the mountain cats mention to him) and Fire is quick to reassure him of his place in the clan, and no of course he'd never do anything to harm him. Where ever is he getting such silly ideas?

Strangely, Brambleclaw isn't as reassured as he usually would be.

No one gets punished, both cause traitors wouldn't have return and have the same story, and they're sort of busy with the forest being destroyed.

I think the first time Brambleclaw snaps directly at Firestar is right before or right after Leafpool's group separates from the clans. Or maybe when Firestar accuses him of training in the dark forest (though, that would be less of snapping "you hate me" and more of breaking down with "why don't you believe me? Haven't I been loyal this whole time? Aren't you the one who told me I'm not like my father?")

#dark mirror au #anon ask #cw child abuse #cw gas lighting

54 notes · View notes

warriorsbutnotreally · 3 years

Text

From The Ashes AU - Origins

okay, so something that started as an idea for Squirrelflight's Hope to the song How To Save A Life by The Fray quickly took a life on it's own and I had a whole idea and now I just wanna share this rq

I am working on requested things, I promise, I just have no attention span and listening to songs is my worse crime

tw; mentions of abuse

In this AU, Squirrelflight died in the landslide instead of Leafpool, having used the very last moments she could to try to throw herself between her sister and the rubble.

Leafpool is surprised when she learns that she isn't dead and that Squirrel will be in StarClan. The two of a tearful goodbye before Leafpool wakes up.

When she wakes, she finds Bramblestar grieving and, angry, she goes off on him, telling him how his abuse of her sister eventually led to her death and she even tells him that she hopes every nine of his lives is nothing but suffering because of what he had done to her, to make her feel like she was worthless.

Bramblestar is shocked and a bit outraged that that's how she'd treat her sister's grieving mate, but Leafpool outright states he lost that right to be considered family the moment he blamed her for Leafpool's crime

She starts walking out of camp and he demands to know where she's going

She states simply that she can't live in this Clan anymore

Everyone tries to convince her to stay, but she refuses.

Sparkpelt steps forward and everyone is excited for Squilf's daughter to help, only to be surprised when Sparkpelt announces she's going with Leafpool and taking her kits with her

Bramblestar tries to stop her, but Sparkpelt goes off on her father, saying that she thought all relationships were supposed to be as terrible as Bramble was to Squirrel, but when she was with Larksong, she learned that what Bramble had done to her mom was wrong and that she regretted ever calling him her father

With that, Leaf and Spark grab Flamekit and Finchkit and the two leave

They spend the first few days considering joining another Clan, but Sparkpelt makes it clear that she's not fond of the idea.

During one of these debates they are found by Stormcloud, Daisy, Lionblaze, Cinderheart, Cherryfall, Spotfur, Twigbranch, and Finleap. Stormcloud tells them that there was a lot of debate and fighting in the Clan after the two of them left with the kits and that it no longer felt like a home. There is possible news of a search patrols to drag them back or even more cats joining but they decide to keep to themselves for now, just to be safe.

The group end up settling somewhere past WindClan, closer to RiverClan on the other side of the thunderpath.

As they're settling down and building camp, Ivypool and Fernsong end up stumbling after them, Ivypool having a pretty nasty cut on her shoulder after apparently getting into a fight with some Bramblestar loyalists who were saying terrible things about the missing cats. The two bring their kits - Flippaw, Bristlepaw, and Thriftpaw, wanting to get them away from there and - hopefully - somewhere safe. Stemleaf is also with them, though he doesn't state why.

They continue to do their best to settle and adapt when Leafpool has a vision of fire, blazing around them, keeping dark shapes at bay.

Shocked and confused, she decides to talk to this about Sparkpelt, who states loudly that it's a sign her grandfather - Firestar - approves of what they're doing. Leafpool is comforted by the idea that her dad wouldn't be upset with her, but she can't shake the thought that there was more to the vision than that as she stares at her Firestar-look-alike niece.

After a moon, the group has settled. Sparkpelt has taken to leading this cats easily and she works hard for her kits and this ragtag group.

Stormcloud, Ivypool, and Lionblaze have taken over mentoring Flippaw, Bristlepaw, and Thriftpaw respectively and Daisy helps take care of Flamekit and Finchkit while Sparkpelt is busy.

Cherryfall also is spending time around Daisy, apparently expecting Stormcloud's kits.

Leafpool has already made herself a place to store herbs and the group has even started to grow them near the 'medicine cat den'.

Sparkpelt jokes that they're their own Clan now, but her mind wanders to if they should become a Clan. Specifically her minds wanders to Bramblestar and if she'd be a leader like him - heartless and controlling, willing to let an innocent cat die to prove a point.

Then she thinks of her mother and the dark feelings she had been avoiding resurface as she misses Squirrelflight, Larksong, and Flickerkit so much that it makes her chest sore.

She can't ponder long, however, as she realizes one of their 'hunting patrols' return with a couple new cats. Their names are Feather and Scowl and the two mention they were curious about what had been going on around these parts ever since they had met two curious cats named Tigerheart and Dovewing.

After some talking, the two decide to help these cats, though Scowl is a bit cautious. Feather, meanwhile, is quick to get along with these new cats, especially Leafpool.

Sparkpelt and Stormcloud work together to make the camp feel more like home. He jokingly calls her Sparkstar before wondering if StarClan would give her nine lives. She expresses doubt and he states that they'd be fools not to make someone like her leader.

Sparkpelt shakes her head, remembering how she acted as Twigbranch's mentor and the horrible things she said about other Clans.

Stormcloud counters and brings up how all the cats here respect her and that they'd follow her no matter what.

A few days pass and Sparkpelt finally approaches Leafpool, wanting to go to the Moonpool to talk to StarClan. They leave in the dead of night and carefully sneak past a rather irritated looking night patrol from ThunderClan.

When they arrive, they lap the water and quickly fall asleep.

Sparkpelt is greeted by many loving licks from her mother and she can't help but purr.

She carefully tries to bring up the chance of her becoming leader of a new Clan and Squirrelflight assures that StarClan - with some convincing - is willing to approve of Sparkpelt as a leader.

She's shocked by this and even more shocked as a nine lives ceremony is started.

Squirrelflight gives her the life of Compassion, telling Sparkpelt that she doesn't regret how she died, as she died so that others had a chance at living Larksong gives her the life of Confidence, adding that he believes in her and misses her every day Flickerkit is next and gives her the life of Forgiveness and asks her to please not be mad at herself and Spark can't help but cry over her son Pebbleshine comes next and her gaze is stern as she gives Sparkpelt the life of Acceptance - "not just for your cats, but for all cats." Spark winces and thinks of Twigbranch and how she had treated her again Next is Hollyleaf, who Sparkpelt had never met, but she had heard many stories about. Her adopted sister gives her the life of Endurance and tells her to never give up fighting After her is another she-cat she's never met This molly introduces herself as Goldenflower and informs her that Bramblestar's her son, making her Sparkpelt's grandmother She dotes on her granddaughter for a bit, wishing she had the chance to meet her in the living, but still happy to see her She gives her the life of Protection. Dandelionkit approaches her sister next, excited to finally meet her. She gives her the life of Enthusiasm and tells her to enjoy every day. Juniperkit is next and he gives his sister the life of Faith and tells her to never give up ever. Even when things look back. Finally Firestar approaches and purrs happily at the sight of his granddaughter. He states how much he's happy to meet her and that he's sorry they had to meet in such terms, but is still happy to give her a life. He gives her the life of Love. He reminds her that all Clanmates are worthy of love, even if their home is far from hers.

Sparkstar wakes up after her ceremony and Leafpool is still by her side.

The two return and Sparkstar decides to call their home FireClan, appointing Stormcloud as her deputy.

#au #from the ashes au #sparkpelt #leafpool #warriors #warrior cats #i plan on writing more of this as i think of more #i just #was really excited to share this au #cause #i like it a lot

53 notes · View notes