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phoenixmakeswords · 3 years

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I’m pretty sure tumblr ate the original of this, so have a reupload of one of my favorite Eirnin-centric oneshots.

The incessant pounding on the flat door has begun to fray at my nerves. Will is off at market, leaving me to tend to household matters. I’m in the middle of mending a pair of breeches.

Whoever’s at the door has no intention of leaving anytime soon.

I fling the apartment door open in a fit of temper. Whoever the knocker is has begun to give me a headache; they’ve been at it for the better part of a half-hour.

“Aye? What d’you want?” I snap.

A page from the Seelie stands outside. He looks as irritated as I feel.

“I should think the heir would have better manners,” he replies. I have missed the sound of High Fae. The musicality of my native tongue.

“How was I to know you were from the Court? Do you bring news of home?” I haven’t been home for three years. I miss Faersia, though I am quite content with Will.

“Nay. The King and Queen require your presence.”

I have never received a summons from the Court. I don’t know what they want.

Fear freezes my veins. This cannot be good.

“Then take me home,” I say quietly.

I despise travel by faerie ring. I kneel next to the ring and vomit into the grass. The page glares at me impatiently.

We take the path cut through the forest of massive purple chichimock trees growing around the palace. I missed these woods. Aisling and I used to explore them as children. I miss the tea made from the needles.

I don’t feel any more at ease as my escort leads me through the large double doors of the palace. I have missed the grandeur of the Court. The white and gold walls. The violet flooring made of planks of chichimock.

He leads me through the foyer, past the massive ballroom, to the large double, gold-inlaid chichimock doors leading to the throne room. Elven archers in golden armor stand guard.

The Queen and King, my parents, sit upon silver thrones inlaid with precious jewels mined by the Dwarves. They look regal in their fine robes made of woven morchoth wool and dyed bright colors. Their serious expressions tell me this probably is not a friendly visit. They look as they did before scolding me as a child.

I kneel before the thrones respectfully. I want to stay in their favor.

The sound of running footsteps fills the throne room. I would know my twin’s light footsteps anywhere.

“What are you doing here, Aisling? This does not concern you,” Mother says sternly.

“They have the right to a witness, aye?” The familiar stubbornness in her voice should warm my heart. It fills me with dread.

“Aye. Do you know why you were brought here?”

“Nay, I do not,” I answer. This floor is uncomfortable on my knees. They should perhaps put a rug here.

“Word has reached us that you have a beau.”

They know about Will. They were never supposed to know about him, I realize. The fear and dread hold me in place.

“Aye, I do,” I mumble unwillingly.

“And that your beau is a human man.”

“Would you prefer my lover was a woman?” I don’t bother attempting to disguise the challenge in my voice. My people claim that loving the same gender or multiple genders, like I do, or no genders at all or not identifying with a gender, like I do, is acceptable. What I’m hearing does not agree with that statement.

“You would do well to mind your tongue in the Court.”

I don’t apologize.

“We would prefer if you chose a more…appropriate beau. Another Seelie. Or mayhaps an Unseelie. Word has reached us that the Crown Prince of the Unseelie Fae has come of age.”

“I love Will.” I had flings with Seelies. Courted a few. None of them made me feel the way Will does.

“You’re young. This is folly, child.”

“D’ama’tha k’ey’at. I mean no disrespect, but my heart knows what it wants.” There aren’t words for the term in the humans’ coarse English; the closest translation is ‘heart-holder; beloved one.’ It’s the highest form of love in my language. It’s sacred. Honored. Respected.

“You dare use our most sacred words for a measly human? You are not fit to rule. You are not fit to call yourself Fae. To call yourself Seelie. You’re not one of us. You’re not worthy to call yourself the eldest child of Queen Saoirse.” Mother has never spoken to me so angrily before.

“Aye, I do. Then I abdicate. Aisling can rule.”

Aisling stares at me with wide brown eyes. Her mouth pops open in surprise. I’m rather full of surprises today. Disrespecting the Queen. Abdicating the throne I didn’t even want.

“You’re banished.”

“You can’t do that,” Aisling pleads, speaking for the first time. She’s safe. Her lover is an Elf woman. Another Seelie. She’s the ideal child. And I? I’m the refuse. The castoff.

“Aisling, let it go,” I hiss, touching her wrist.

“I said I would help you.”

“There’s nothing you can do.” I have never felt like this. This mixture of disappointment and hurt. I don’t much care for it.

I stand carefully.

“I choose a different name. If I am dead to you, then let the name you gave me be dead as well,” I declare, turning on my heel.

I saunter out of the throne room. I have no more business here.

Aisling follows after me.

“I heard you were summoned, but I never imagined that would be why. I’m sorry. I’m on your side. Willow and I, we’ll move to your world. I ask one thing of you. What am I to call you?” she says outside, taking my arm lightly.

“I know you’re true. I wouldn’t ask that of you. Eirnin.” The name means ‘iron’ in Irish. The thing that could kill me can hurt me no worse than my mother’s rejection. Let it be my weapon. My armor.

“Eirnin. I like it. A bit ironic.” She grins playfully.

“Perhaps I’ve spent too long with Will. I must go.”

She pulls me into a hug, possibly our last one, before I take my leave.

I can never come back. The realization burns. The hurt sinks into my bones.

I take my time going through the woods. I want to relish every moment here.

It’s with a heavy heart that I survey the realm for the last time.

I can never go home.

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theartofbeinganeldar · 4 years

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The Art of Being an Eldar: Legolas x Reader Chapter 6

Summary: After discovering that you were stuck in Middle-Earth, Thranduil summoned a council of powerful Elves and wizards to see what should be done with you, expressing his wishes of wanting you out of his kingdom. The council decides to send you with Legolas on an orc-hunting mission, and if the Elves of the company that he deems trustworthy-- one of them being his own wife-- say that you've proven yourself worthy of staying among the Mirkwood Elves, then you can stay. The problem is actually managing to succeed...

Chapter No.: Chapter 6

Key: [Y/N]=Your Name [F/N]= Friend's Name [B/N]= Bro's Name [S/N]= Sis's Name [M/N]= Mom's Name [e/c]= eye color [h/c]= hair color [s/c]= skin color [lad/lass/y-o]= lad/laddie, lass/lassie, young one

Notes: So, I have finished the Silmarillion, and may I just say, wow. I have a whole new understanding of Middle-Earth. It's amazing and inspiring. I do miss Maedhros and Maglor already though... Now, I've finished Beren and Luthien and started The Children of Hurin next in my quest to read every book on Middle-Earth that there is, written, of course, by the Tolkiens.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, graphic depictions of gore and violence (Cuz of orc battles y'know?), more angst, slow burn, some light depression in the first few chapters, some amnesia about Middle-Earth because the Valar say you're not supposed to have foresight, hard-core language, feels, lots and lots of feels, mentions of NSFW content, maybe some eventual NSFW content, LGTBQ+ characters, Thranduil being a jackass at first because he's fabulous, Legolas being a hot edgy prince that nobody can handle, Kili being an innocent bean, Hobbits being smol innocent beans, except for Bilbo 'cause he's been through some tough shit, Bard being dad of the year, Thorin being one dumbass boi, awesome dragons, awesome Nazgul, awesome scenery, awesome stuff in general, Elrond isn't listened to by anybody, confused Aragorn is confused, Denethor's a bitch as always, brace yourself for creepy as fuck Cream of Wormtongue Grima Wormtongue, Boromir LIVES, au to where some of the Feanorians lived, Gandalf. (yes these are all legit warnings don't judge me.)

Pairings/Ships: Legolas x Reader, Legolas x you, Aragorn x Arwen, Faramir x Eowyn, Thranduil x Elvenqueen, Galadriel x Celery Celeborn, Boromir x OC, Maedhros x Fingon, Maglor x OC, Thorin x OC maybe Bilbo you won't know for awhile, Fili x OC, etc. general LoTR standard shippings plus some of my own cuz I can't stand my boys being lonely

Word Count: I try to keep my chapters short, under 2000 words.

Rating: Teen (14+) for now

Instead of Blue-Eyes meeting you by Starlight, it was Erestor, instead. Aside from the one time you'd spoken to him with Haldir, asking him about other continents (Which, it turned out, you'd misunderstood. Beleriand had sunk, and so had Numenor and Tol Eressea, and no one but the Eldar could reach Aman anymore.), you hadn't spoken to him.

He was an older Elf, kind of intimidating, with a bird-like demeanor and an expression that said Don't fuck with me.

So yeah, you were kinda surprised.

Still, you bowed in the Elvish fashion. "Len Suilon, Erestor. Ci maer?"

"Suilad. Ni maer, [Y/N]," He assured nonchalantly. "A gin?"

"Ni maer eithro." You looked around nervously, hoping Blue-Eyes would pop out of nowhere and save you from a further conversation in what would probably be your poor Sindarin with an age-old Elf. "So, her majesty chose me for this scouting mission, eh?"

"Indeed," Erestor inclined his head. "Your Elvish improves, if slowly. You do not hesitate in your greetings anymore."

"Thank you, sir."

"Come, and lead Starlight along," Said Erestor unfairly regally, and sailed majestically away. "Have you been practicing your swordplay diligently? You may need it."

You nodded as you followed him. "Yes sir. Legolas, Elros, and Lindir have made sure that they split my day into learning Sindarin, weaponry, and even the general Elvish way of being Elvish." You tried not to sound irritated about that. They literally never gave you any free time. Not that you'd brought any books to read, and not that you could read any Elvish, but that wasn't the point.

"Good," Erestor nodded. "What are your strong suits?"

Ah, shit. "Uhm... I can throw a dagger pretty hard? I can probably shoot somebody dead if I'm point blank, but other than that, my aim sucks. I'm somewhat okay with a sword, though, and I prefer two. Why?"

"Curious," Erestor replied all mysteriously, and that was all he said on the matter.

The Elves chosen for the scouting mission-- the Elvenqueen herself, with Blue-Eyes, Haldir, and Elros-- were gathered and speaking amongst themselves, while Thorin and Dwalin next to their very dignified ponies glowered at them. Balin was feeding his own pony an apple, muttering to it kindly. Compared to the Elves, who were naturally tall and lithe, the short and stocky dwarves looked outrageously tiny.

"Ah," The Elvenqueen's attention was on you faster than a supersonic jet's. "You have arrived."

You bowed deeply. "Your majesty." To Haldir, and even to Legolas just to be safe from potential Elvenqueen-wrath-2.0, you added, "My Lords." You turned to Erestor. "I'm sorry I didn't greet you with the title, I forgot what ‘my lord’ is in Elvish."

To your surprise, the Elves chuckled. Except for the Elvenqueen, of course. "You need not worry yourself, mellonenin," Elros assured you. "You are still learning."

The Elvenqueen inclined her head. "We leave at once, if all are ready."

There were positive responses throughout, and everyone present mounted up. You caught sight of Lindir coming out of his tent for the morning, and waved; he looked confused, but awkwardly repeated your gesture. "What on Arda are you doing?" Blue-Eyes asked under his breath, like you were embarrassing him.

You snickered. "It's like a 'hi' and 'bye' gesture for when you're out of earshot of someone you know. It's called ‘waving’. Everyone does it where I come from."

"This is not your world, [Y/N]," The Elvenqueen reprimanded firmly. You fought the urge to shrink in on yourself. "If you are going to be a part of it and learn our ways, then you must do so faithfully, leaving everything you know of your world behind you. Your land is nothing but a poison, and I do not want it infecting Middle-Earth. Am I understood?"

"Y-yes ma'am-- your majesty, yes your majesty."

"Good," Said the Elvenqueen, and then she continued giving orders in Elvish, while Thorin purposefully repeated them in dwarvish for Balin and Dwalin, though everyone present spoke fluent English-- Common. For you, Blue-Eyes translated what he could before he was called up to ride beside his mother, so then Elros and Haldir took turns explaining. The whole event left you feeling like a fish out of water.

***

It was around noon when the company halted, which Thorin and Dwalin had been leading on foot, while Balin kept their ponies tied to his own. At first, you assumed, lunch, finally, I'm starving, but instead, you'd stopped because Thorin had found a trail. "Orcs," He said.

Duh, you felt like saying, what else would it be? Bigfoot?

But after the Elvenqueen's earlier lecture, you kept that to yourself.

"Which way do they lead, master dwarf?" The Elvenqueen demanded.

Thorin huffed as he stood. "They go north, but they are heavy from travel. Wherever they came from, it is not from anywhere near the northern borders of Mirkwood or Erebor."

"Where else would they come from?" You blurted out before you could stop yourself. "Are there like orcish towns in the north or something? Maybe we could--”

"There is no such thing," The Elvenqueen snapped.

"The wargs that I had tracked were from Gundabad," Blue-Eyes said calmly, as if that hadn't ever been important information before. "The ones that attacked us on the river, however, were from Mordor."

You leaned over to Haldir as Blue-Eyes continued to speculate. "I'm confused. What's the difference?"

"Gundabad wargs are darker, lithe, and more agile," Haldir told you quietly. "They are more viscous, as well. A Mordor warg is more... Stout, I suppose you could say, and slightly lighter in color."

There was a flash of color before your eyes. Suddenly, you felt as if you were in a clearing of trees, surrounded by people in dark colors, while the sound of howls filled the air, unlike the ones you'd heard before.

These are Gundabad wargs! They will outrun you!

These are Rusteveld rabbits! I'd like to see them try.

You shook your head as you resituated yourself in the saddle. Well, that was sudden... It had been quite a few days since any of the strangely-familiar visions had come to you. You came back to your senses as Dwalin laughed uproarously. "Well, that settles it, then! To Gundabad!"

"Wait just a moment," The Elvenqueen said. "We are not all brash, Master Dwalin. We will go back and retrieve more forces before even thinking of going near Gundabad." With that, she turned her silver mare around and began trotting back, Haldir and Erestor on either side of her. Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin hung back, taking their time getting on their ponies and following after.

"Where's Gundabad?" You asked Legolas quietly; not that it did any good. Elves could hear grass growing on the other side of the continent if they wanted to. "And what is it?"

"It is northwest of here, in a cleft between the mountains," He answered. "It is an old fortress, from the time when the Dunedain first came to Middle-Earth from Numenor, if you remember." You nodded; he'd told you the entire story of the Silmarils and anything that went with it or after. "It was the gate that lead to the Witch-Kingdom of Angmar."

"Lead by the Witch-King..." You finished for him automatically. An eerie echo of a voice filled your mind: No man can kill me. At his impressed look, you scrunched up your face. "And what are you, French? How'd you make that 'h' sound in the middle of the damn word?!" You realized what you said only after you'd said it, and quickly looked to the Elvenqueen to see if she'd heard. If she had, she made no sign of it. "Sorry."

Blue-Eyes patted your back. "It is fine, Sairen, you can speak to me of your world, don't worry." With a cocky smile, he looked down at you smugly. "As for the pronunciation... You will learn to do it soon."

Back at camp, a group of Elves was already up and waiting to move out, and at the Elvenqueen's ringing voice, they followed after, and you all retraced your steps back to where Thorin, Dwalin, and Balin had found the orc tracks. You considered it pointless-- they could've just taken the host of a couple dozen Elves with them that way they didn't have to retrace their steps.

Partway there, you decided that goddamn song that'd been going through your head needed a damn good explanation. Unfortunately, Blue-Eyes was now up by his mother, leaving you between two totally random Elves. You'd never been good at starting up a conversation, but you decided to give it a try anyway. "...Hey, do either of you speak Common?"

Both Elves busted out laughing as if you'd made a hilarious joke about dwarves.

"Most Eldar can speak Common," The one on the right said, removing his helmet to look at you more clearly. Whoa. You practically fell off Starlight. He was beautiful. He had long, purely golden hair that fell down his back in unfairly glorious waves. He had soft blue eyes (Not as gorgeous as Blue-Eyes', but still.) and a fair face. "It would be considered quite odd, in our long lives, if one did not learn the tongues of others."

You just stared at him. "Dude. Are you like, made of gold?"

He laughed, which sounded a lot like something naturelike and unfairly beautiful. You'd never heard any of the Elves outright laugh, so this was a weird, new experience for you. "I have been asked many things, but that is new. No, I am just as flesh and bone as you are."

"Yeah, but yours are like, plated in gold, so, you're... Wow."

He laughed again. "What is your name, mellon?"

"[Y/N.]," You replied, in a daze, then leaned over quick to the Elf on your left, who tensed and tried to lead his horse away. "Do you even see this guy?!"

You turned back to Goldie. "A gin?"

As best as he could in the saddle, the Elf placed his right arm over his chest and bowed at the waist. "I am called Glorfindel. Gellon len covad!"

"Mae l'ovannen!" You said in response.

Glorfindel smiled at you. "What was your question, mellonenin?"

"Well thanks to you and your blinding gold-ness, I forgot. Give me a minute." You thought for a second, trying to ignore the literally glowing Elf beside you. "Ah! That's it. I asked if you could speak Common so you'd understand my question. You guys have songs, right?"

Glorfindel gave you a look like you'd just told him his hair looked like an orc's. "Of course we have songs! Many, many songs! They are as timeless as we are, and we, all of us, are taught these songs from a very young age. Did you wish to learn them?"

You shook your head. "Nah. I've never been good at singing." If I sang all you Elves would shatter like a glass in an opera-room. "When I got puffed here, a song started going through my head. I can never remember all of it. Just bits and pieces here and there. But it's really bugging me. So if I told you all I could remember, think you could remember one from your Elvish past?"

Glorfindel inclined his head. "I shall answer to the best of my ability."

"Okay," You wracked your brain for the lyrics. "Okay, uh... Something about leaving home, and fading... Lots of fading. The one sentence I can always clearly remember is 'all shall fade.'" You looked at him curiously. "That ringin’ any bells?"

Glorfindel thought hard. "If by that you mean if I can remember anything similar, I cannot. If it is a song of Arda, it is not one I know, and I can remember most Eldar songs."

That caused a lightbulb to appear above your head. You gasped, wide-eyed.

"Wait! You're Glorfindel?! As in, the Glorfindel?! The guy in Gondolin who tried to protect Turgon by fighting the Balrog?!"

"Ah, Turgon... He was a good friend."

"And when it fell it grabbed your hair?!"

Glorfindel flinched. "Can we not mention that...?"

"And then you came back to life to fight Sauron?!"

"Yes--"

"The guy who was in love with Ecthelion of the Fountain?!"

Glorfindel flushed, his face going a deep shade of un-Elvish red-- on him, though, it was more of a rose-gold... "Yes, I am that Glorfindel, and I would advise you hush before you draw the attention of the Elvenqueen."

Nervously, you glanced ahead, to where the Elvenqueen sat regally upon her horse. If she or Leggy had heard you, neither of them made any indication of it. With a giddy smile, you looked back to Glory. "This is so cool. Where I'm from, you rarely ever meet anybody so important. Now I've met some of the most important people of Middle-Earth! Ooh, am I also gonna get to meet the king of Gondor?!"

Glorfindel looked confused, but amused. "Gondor has no king, and has not for many, many years. Not since the death of Isildur. Now, the stewards of Gondor keep watch over the city and uphold its laws, and await for the heir to the Gondorian royalty to show himself."

"Or herself," You specified, fighting a wince as you heard a voice echo, Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. "Hardly ever is a mortal woman given any sort of royal duties alone. She would have to marry someone of high standing to be considered queen."

You scoffed. "Great. So the humans of Middle-Earth are assholes, too. Figured I'd escape from that."

"The race of Man is a fickle one," Glorfindel agreed. "More often than not, they are the cause of most grief in the world." He smiled. "But worry not! You are of the Eldar now, and are not subject to their torments."

You shrugged. "Good point..." You beamed excitedly at him. "Tell me about your adventures!"

He did, until the Elvenqueen gave the signal to dismount and to keep silent. You'd been so into Glorfindel's stories that you hadn't noticed that the trees had thinned out, giving way to loose, rusty-brown soil and rocky slopes. All of the Elves sailed silently over the rocks, while the dwarves trampled noisily.

For days (Which passed like extremely-long hours, and you weren't even hungry or thirsty or tired.), the procession trekked through the hills without any audible communication, until the huge hills rose up to your left and in the north into jagged mountains. You kept going, and going, and really wondered how any of the Elves that'd been left could possibly reach any of you for backup if needed in time.

On what was about noon of the week and a half mark, you came to an overlook that spread down beneath you into a huge, rocky valley, dry and desolate. There was no sign of life, and further still, about a couple days away by foot, was another tall, jagged outcropping overlooking a massive structure of bronze. Small black dots which you were going to assume were birds flitted about the top of it, and it stretched what looked like hundreds of feet into the air. You were astonished.

"We came all this way for rocky dirt and an old tower. I don't see any signs of life there." You kept your voice at a whisper, like some of the other Elves who'd began talking amongst themselves.

Blue-Eyes eyed the tower warily. "You're not supposed to."

You turned to watch him walk away. "Then what?" Blue-Eyes gave the Elves some order in Elvish, and you continued. "So we came all this way to see that it really doesn't look like there's orcs there but really, there are, so, what do we do? They've obviously got a shit ton of more orcs behind there. We're probably way outnumbered. So what do we do?"

"We," He replied, "Are going to do just what we came here to do. We're going to scout, by getting as close as we can and seeing what we can. Then we leave. It's as simple as that. If, however, we're ambushed, the rest of the procession has been following us slowly. They're only a couple of hours behind."

You frowned. You must not've gotten that memo because everybody felt the need to speak highly advanced Elvish when you only knew a couple ways to say "hi." "So what do we do if we see something we don't like? Attack?"

"If we can," Blue-Eyes told you, "But it most likely will not come to that. We simply came to see if they have larger numbers than those few who attacked us at the river."

You gave him an incredulous look with an eyebrow raised nearly to your hairline. "...Few?"

He scoffed, and walked off, giving orders in Sindarin that you only caught a word or two of. You were watching him with a glower, when you noticed Lindir sidling up on your right smugly. "...Do you not wish that you know what he is saying?"

You playfully rolled your eyes. "Ugh, Lindy, geez, can you read my goddamn mind?" You turned to mock-glare at him; he was preening. "Well? What was he saying?"

Lindir laughed and wagged a finger at you-- so Elvish. "No no no no no, mellon, I will not make it that easy for you. If you wish to know exactly what he said, then you will have to continue learning from your current point."

Your shoulders slumped. "Really? Damn. Fine, I guess, since it looks like we're camping here." And it did. Practically everyone was going around setting up bedrolls, but you seen no sign of a fire. "Glad it's warm-ish. What, we just supposed to freeze?"

Lindir gestured to Gundabad. "If we light a fire, they will see us, and our stealth will be for naught."

You gave him an odd look. "...What?"

Lindir blinked. "If they see us, our stealth will be for naught."

You stared at him blankly. "...Naught?"

Lindir suddenly looked panicked. "Do they not have that word on your world? It means the same as nothing, in this context."

You scoffed with a cocky smirk. "I know what it means. You Elves are just so damn fancy." You reached over and ruffled his strangely-perfect brown hair, to which he yelped and yanked away from you as if you'd tried to stab him. You left your hand in the air where his head had been, wide-eyed, as Lindir stared at you in shock. "Uhh... Got a sensitive spot on your head there?"

Lindir narrowed his eyes at you. "I should teach you Eldar custom as well. No Elf touches another's hair, for whatever reason, unless it is necessary, which is more than likely never to happen. Braiding and touching another's hair is considered something only for the wedded to do."

You yanked your hand away from where his head had been. "Sorry. I didn't know. Where I come from, that whole hair-ruffle thing is used between siblings or friends."

Lindir smiled softly, straightening his hair. "It is fine, [Y/N.]. You had no way of knowing. But, now I realize I must teach you language and customs-- or perhaps Elros can do that..."

You snickered to yourself, earning an odd look from the Elf. You shrugged. "Nothin', just, I've got specific Elvish teachers now. You're my language teacher, Elros is now customs, Legolas is history, and Glorfindel is music. I'm gonna be a true Elf before I know it."

"Maybe never a true Elf," Lindir laughed, "But close enough!"

You laughed with him, but on the inside, winced. You doubted if he meant it as an insult, but it hit you like one. No, you'd never been considered good enough to be a true anything, especially an Elf of all creatures, who were naturally shiny and glowy and perfect and shit. But still, for someone to confirm it, even in a joking manner, that you'd never be good enough to be a true Elf...

It really hurt.

You acted all casual on the outside throughout the rest of the evening, laughing and joking when needed, but internally, you were fighting a dull ache in your chest. You'd gotten it a few times before-- rarely, but still-- and you knew exactly what it was. The desire to fit in. You'd never had a chance on Earth. But here, you'd hoped to at least be considered a part of their realm.

Dammit, why am I so sensitive?! He didn't mean anything by it!

But what were you really doing here? Struggling to prove yourself to a race that would never accept you. To all Elves, you'd be considered an imposter, like Thorin had said. You knew for a fact you'd never be good around "the race of Man," as they put it, and even in this world, you knew you'd never fit in with them, either. At best, the Men would see you only as a rebel Elf trying to fit into the society of Man. Dwarves? Hell no. What about the Hobbit-folk? Maybe you'd at least be considered a friend to them? No, you were an Elf here. They'd be wary of you, maybe even fearful.

Maybe you should just settle for traveling like a vagabond, like Gandalf does. When everyone else was resting, you stayed by Starlight. You scratched underneath of his chin, and he rested his snout on your inner elbow, allowing you to rest your head on his, staring into his eyes and putting off a feeling of calm. "You accept me for who I am, right?"

Starlight's ears were pricked toward you, so at least he was listening. His only response was a blink. You sighed, closing your eyes. You didn't even have the security of him. One day, he'd grow old and pass away, while you lived on for eons. Carefully, so as not to spook him, you reached up and scratched behind his ears.

"Mellonenin?" Said a voice behind you. You turned to see Legolas, looking concerned. He glanced back over his shoulder, to where the rest of the Elves talked amongst themselves, even conversating a little with the dwarves. "What are you doing out here?"

You gave him a smug look. "What's this I hear, Blue-Eyes? Showing concern for me?"

He rolled his eyes playfully. "Hardly. Just curious."

You shrugged, going back to loving on Starlight. "Everybody seemed to be doing good without me. Lindir and Elros said my lessons on custom and language were done for the day, so I figured I'd spend some time with Star."

Blue-Eyes shook his head in exasperation. "I will never understand your shortening of names..." He fixed you with an expression that you couldn't quite read. "...Are you nervous about a potential battle, Sairen?"

You shrugged. "Hack'n'slash. Can't be that hard. I have played video games, y'know, and I did get here through a LARP event." You shot him a cocky grin. "I think I can handle myself. Always have."

Blue-Eyes smiled softly. "Well... I am certain you will surpass my father's standards. I have no doubt of it."

A warm feeling blossomed in your chest. Your cheeks flushed. "Thanks. That really... That really means a lot, for you to be sure of me."

Blue-Eyes hummed thoughtfully, smoothing down Starlight's pitch mane. "Your world did not appreciate you as it should have. You are a kind person, Sairen, and while at times you are eccentric, that only adds to your persona. I know that I can put my full trust in you anytime, and not be disappointed." He smiled at you. "I am glad to know you, mellon. I feel as if you were meant to be here."

For a minute, you both just stared at each other with smiles on your faces, while you felt all warm and fuzzy inside. Any upset feelings from earlier completely burned away. His pale gold hair looked white in the moonlight. Fuck, I will not cry. I will not. Not at all. Definitely not even having to try... You finally blushed and looked away, busying yourself with straightening Starlight's forelock, though the smile remained on your face.

"Damn, Blue-Eyes. You're making me blush." He laughed, and you added, "But... I'm really glad I know you too, Leggy. You've been nice to me, and actually believe in me..." You smirked at him. "That's rare for me. Thank you."

He looked almost appalled. "You do not need to thank me for taking a liking to you, Sairen. It is not as if it is a chore." Suddenly making up his mind about something, he drew his shoulders back. "Would you like to go for a ride together?"

You beamed at him. "Duh! It's a horse, of course I wanna go for a ride!"

Blue-Eyes laughed. "Come on, then, let's go. Stay close to me; we will be going in the opposite direction of Gundabad, but orcs could still roam these wilds."

You nodded as you mounted Starlight, grinning stupidly down at the stupidly perfect Elf who smiled at you. "Got it. Let's go!"

Your heart was pounding dangerously as the two of you trotted off away from camp, talking about the history of Middle-Earth, as you tried to keep from staring outright at Legolas. As your heart faltered, looking at him smiling at you as the moonlight hit his hair, you realized something...

Shit.

Tag List:

@hauntedsiriel @tesserphantom @taurlel @liviaolivia @brushwood-souls @dumbladores @littlefrenchfryesblog @hibernatingmadhatter @reclusive-chicken-nugget @naryamirie @legolasdeserveslove @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @sagabriar

If anyone wants to be added or if I missed anyone, please let me know!

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shadowthrone-ammanas · 4 years

Note

Can we get a sequel to Chat? If possible?

Thank you both for the request!

Something’s Off

Cooking was one of the things Hat Kid just wasn’t interested in. Food was great, she loved eating, but making it was a real pain and not fun at all. But it was Cooking Cat’s thing and she’d gotten Mu into too. So Hat Kid let the two of them to play around in her kitchen while she translated a recipe from her one and only cookbook for them.

Their enthusiasm made it the most fun cooking session Hat Kid had ever had. Not that that was saying much because cooking just wasn’t fun to her. But she was still grateful for the distraction when the sound of the kitchen door flopping open came from behind her.

She placed the cook book on the counter before snapping around to see who it was. … “Snatcher!” She hadn’t expected to see him here ever. Normally when he wanted to talk to her, he went to his spot in her room and waited. He’d had to shrink quite a bit to fit through the kitchen doors too, something she’d never seen him do before.

“Hey kiddo,” she said with his usual cocky grin though.

“You,” Mu said with a huff, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “You’re garbage.”

“Uh… Mu, maybe don’t insult the powerful specter,” Cooking Cat said with a grimace as she put a hand on Mu’s shoulder.

“I’ll do what I want. He’s a bastard and I hate him.”

“Eh, it’s whatever,” he said with a dismissive handwave. There was something off about it though? Like, the movement didn’t seem quite right. Though Hat Kid couldn’t pin down exactly why, maybe she was just imagining things. “Hate me if you wish, I can’t be bothered to care.”

“Please be nice Mu,” Hat Kid said. “He’s my BFF so you guys need to get along.”

“You’re insane, befriending him. But whatever, we all knew that already. Let’s get back to cooking.” Mu turned away to face the stove again.

“You want to help us cook Snatcher?” Hat Kid was pleased by the idea of spending time with multiple of her friends at once, it didn’t happen often.

“I’m a ghost kid, what makes you think I’d have any interest in cooking?” He moved his arms as he spoke, not too unusual but… still it still didn’t seem right.

A tad worried now, Hat Kid jogged over to him. She might be imagining things but more often than not when her instincts told her something was off, it was. “Are you okay?” she asked, leaning to whisper so Cooking Cat and Mu wouldn’t hear. “Is something wrong?”

Snatcher’s grin widened. “You really do care about me, huh? How sweet!”

“Um… yes of course I care about you, you’re my BFF. But you didn’t answer my question. You seem a bit off today so… what’s up with that?”

“Oh, lots of stuff really. I’ve been having a rather bad day, things just keep going wrong.” Okay, yeah, he wasn’t just a bit off, he was super off. He would never be open like that. “It’s about to get better though.”

He snapped forward, wrapping a hand around her throat before she could react. Squeezing, he lifted her, leaving her feet to dangle several feet off the ground as she pawed at his hand.

“Hey!” Mu shouted from the other side of the room followed a second later by the sound of magic blasting.

“Let’s not anger the powerful specter,” Snatcher said. “It’s not a smart idea, especially when I have a hostage.”

Mu growled in frustration, meaning she thankfully probably hadn’t been hit by the blast. Vision starting to grow fuzzy already, Hat Kid pulled out her umbrella and whacked Snatcher with it.

“Nope, can’t hurt me,” he said with a giggle. Not how he normally laughed at all.

He ducked back through the kitchen doors into the central area and tossed her. She hit the glass window with a thump before falling to the floor. Gasping for breath, she struggled to stand up and retrieve her umbrella from where it had fallen. She straightened in time to see Snatcher had jumped down from the balcony and Mu and Cooking Cat and run out of the kitchen to watch what was going on.

“It’s not him,” Hat Kid said. “It’s someone pretending to be him.” Another ghost probably, they could shapeshift after all and change their voices. So, she knew it wasn’t Snatcher.

“Nope, kiddo, I assure you, it’s me. Want some proof?” He shapeshifted to look an awful lot like the pictures she’d seen of the Prince in Vanessa’s mansion. “Let’s have some fun though.” He snapped, forming a magic barrier just in time to block Mu from jumping onto him with her teeth bared, it would’ve been funny under different circumstances.

More barriers popped up, boxing the two of them in. Hat Kid rushed him, smacking him with the umbrella. It did nothing of course, he was a ghost, without the blue potion she couldn’t hurt him. He giggled again as he summoned a pecking sword into his hand.

“You know,” he said with a grin as he lifted it, “I never actually learned how to use one of these. You’d think I would, being a prince and all, but nope, no one ever taught me. I learned to play the cello instead which honestly is more interesting anyway, more useful, less cliché. But that should make this interesting.” He swung at her.

She jumped back, avoiding it quite easily because it was slower that she would’ve thought. “You’re a bastard! Why are you doing this?”

“I’m bored and it’s fun.” He swung again, sloppy and slow, far too easy to dodge. He really didn’t know how to use a melee weapon. So why was he using one? Especially when he had magic.

He insisted on it though, slashing at her some more. If she didn’t know better, she’d said he was purposefully making it easy to dodge his attacks. He wasn’t even using magic other than for the barriers. She attacked back at every opportunity, smacking him with her umbrella, throwing her own exploding cocktails at him with the brewing hat which did nothing. But what else could she do? She was boxed in with him, she was going to fight.

“You know,” he eventually said with a sigh, “I was expecting you to call out to me during this battle. Appeal to the ‘real’ me and all that, normally when one’s loved one attacks them, that’s what they do. But you’re just wailing away at me like it’s no big deal if you hurt your BFF or not.”

“Huh? What are you talking about asshole? You’re not giving me any choice! Stop impersonating Snatcher and trying to hit me with your sword and I’ll stop attacking you.” She ducked in to whack him again, hard as she could in the midsection.

“I told you I’m not impersonating him, I’m the real Snatcher. I even proved it to you.”

“You didn’t prove shit! If I can find out about that, so can other people and ghosts. So stop impersonating him, it’s rude!”

He sighed again and stopped attacking. She came in for another whack but this time he caught the umbrella, dropping the sword to do so. He lifted it, bringing her up with it, kicking as she clung to the umbrella’s handle. “I could kill you but… I have a bit of a soft spot for kids. And you’re an alien, that makes you interesting. I suppose instead, I shall reveal the game, you’re lack of understanding makes it less fun. Though, I suppose I can’t blame you for that, one would not normally think a powerful ghost could be possessed or controlled by another being. It’s unprecedented for sure.”

Before she could ask what the heck that meant, the air above and a bit behind Snatcher shimmered. Another being faded into existence faded into that space. Gray and misshapen hands, face, and head, in dirty once regal clothing. There were red strings coming form his fingers, going into Snatcher’s back. He moved his fingers and Snatcher moved, letting go of the umbrella. Hat Kid somehow managed to land on her feet and not lose balance, barely though.

“I’m Moonjumper. I hail from the horizon.” He bowed slightly. Snatcher, still obviously in his control mimicked the move, a bit slower and stiffer. … That explained the odd slow movements, he was being controlled like a puppet.

“Let him go!” Hat Kid pointed her umbrella at Moonjumper, still ready to do battle. He may be floating too high for her to reach but she’d find a way if she had to.

He giggled, very similar to the way he’d made Snatcher giggle. “I suppose I can. I had my fun and he was vulnerable to your attacks so you gave him quite the beating so at least someone’s hurting. Maybe we’ll play this game some other time and have a real fight. I think I’d win. Bye!” He lifted a hand and waved, making Snatcher do this same.

“It was fun,” he made Snatcher say before vanishing in a puff of fog.

Free of the red strings, Snatcher slumped limply to ground with a groan. He mumbled something that was probably a curse word but Hat Kid wasn’t sure.

“Ha!” Mu shouted. The barriers were gone too, allowing her and Cooking Cat to see what was happening. “You won Hat Kid, good job! Take that you dumb noodle ghost! It’s what you get!”

“Like I told you, it wasn’t him,” Hat Kid said, glaring at her. “You didn’t see, but it wasn’t him. So be nice.” She crouched down beside him as he shifted into his normal shape. “You okay?”

“No,” he said with a groan. “You hit real hard kid. And as a whole, being puppeteered ain’t fun.”

“I thought you were immune to physical attacks most of the time.”

“Most of the time yeah, not all the time.”

“Oof.” Hat Kid grimaced. She’d hit him an awful lot, huh? “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.” He vanished, teleporting away like a jerk. He could’ve stayed and explained things more while he rested some. She’d have to track him down later for answers and to make sure he was okay.

“You okay hon?” Cooking Cat asked from across the room with Mu. “You maybe want to explain what just happened?”

With a sigh, Hat Kid stood up. “I’m fine. And uh… basically Snatcher was being controlled by a guy named Moonjumper. He was a real jerk and I hate him.” If he ever showed his face around here again, she’d smack it with an umbrella. He deserved no less.

For this request event.

#My Writing #ahit #A Hat In Time #snatcher & hat kid #Moonjumper #Background Mama Cooking Cat

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 3 years

Text

Episode 37 Review: The Message in the Sand

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 | 3 }

{ Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

Last episode, Jean Paul Desmond’s attempt to contact his late wife Erica via séance came to a crashing halt (literally) when the chandelier hanging directly over the glass-top table fell, knocking medium and Conjure Woman Vangie Abbott into a zombie-like catatonic state. Although the séance ended before anyone could establish contact with Erica, the prisoners on Maljardin did receive a message from the beyond in Quito’s writing box. Unfortunately, the only one among them fluent in the ancient language is Vangie herself, who is unable to communicate due to the spell cast over her by THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES. Raxl has some knowledge of the ancient language, but it is only enough to get the basic gist and not the whole message, which means that another mystery ferments the brew of darkness on the Island of Evil.

According to Raxl, the grains of rice warn of more accidents and spirits whom Jean Paul has angered, but that is not the entire message. Will she learn what the entire message says before Jacques causes even more disaster on Maljardin?

Jean Paul cannot believe, after all his playing God and tyrannical behavior on Maljardin, that the spirits could possibly be angry with him.

Don’t act so shocked, Jean Paul.

Like the last episode, this one picks up where the last left off--meaning, in this case, right after the cliffhanger ending with the writing box. This time, there is no mention of another impending accident, but instead of a much dire consequence of the next séance. “The ancient symbols, the ancient tongue of my people can be translated in many ways, but they all warn of death!” Raxl proclaims.

But Jean Paul doesn’t care. In front of almost the entire cast, he begins a soliloquy about he was so close to making contact with his dear, sweet Erica, and that matters to him far more than either Vangie’s life or his own. But then, along comes SCENE INTERRUPTING DAN, asking him again about the falling chandelier:

Colin Fox is way overacting in this scene, even by Strange Paradise standards. I don’t think I’ve ever seen even Cosette Lee or David Wells overact this hard.

He marches away to his bedroom and Raxl tells Quito that they need to keep the message intact so that Vangie can read it when she recovers from her trance. Once again, she has forgotten the name of the spirit who is meddling in the affairs on the island:

Jacques: *pouting* “Oh, Raxl, you forgot about me already? I thought for certain I was far more memorable than that.”

Meanwhile, Jean Paul clutches a bedpost in his fabulous bedroom and ponders who could have stopped him from making contact with Erica:

Really, Jean Paul? Dan says you have an IQ of 187. You should be able to figure this out.

While Dan recaps to Tim all about the chandelier and about all the suspicious things that happened on the island during the previous week and a half, the master of Maljardin enters his hidden monitor room through his bookcase and records a message to his dead wife:

Erica, you must be near tonight. For a fleeting moment, the séance seemed to have brought us together. When you are alive again and hear this, you will know that I have risked everything to bring you back from your long, lonely sleep. Oh, Erica, I knew the risk, but I must be stronger than that devil on Maljardin! I will win, because nothing must prevent you from joining me again in life! If I lose, I will join you in death, my Erica, and anyone who interferes with us being together again will die!

Yandere Jean Paul once again.

Just before this scene, we get a really good shot of the bookcase that disguises the entrance to Jean Paul’s monitor room. I have a weakness for both this bookcase and the ones in the drawing room at Desmond Hall, because the books on them look like the ones in the older sections of the stacks at the library where I work. How I wish I could read their spines and see what kinds of books he’s into!

This shot when he enters the hidden room makes him look tiny.

His recording to Erica is unusually long in this episode, probably to make up for the lack of tape recorder journal scenes in Week 7. While Tim (who seems to believe Dan’s theories) tells Holly that he believes that Jean Paul slashed Erica’s portrait, the recording continues:

No one will touch you, Erica, or the instruments of your preservation. No man living, no man dead. Oh, my Erica! I can say no more today; I’m tired, but no one must know this, only you because-

Taken out of context, the dialogue in this scene sounds rather rapey.

Usually, I think of Jacques’ attempts to take over Jean Paul’s body as fantasy metaphor murder. He wants to steal his body and his entire identity, becoming the new Jean Paul Desmond and leaving the old one’s soul either trapped in Hell or suspended in time as indicated in Episode 60. (That is, if we assume that they’re not different sides of the same man and Jacques isn’t just the evil side to his own personality.)

This time, however, all Jacques’ talk of wanting to “use” and “enter” Jean Paul’s body in that menacing yet smarmy tone make me think instead of fantasy metaphor rape. Vampirism may be the most popular fantasy metaphor for rape in fiction, but this scene with its sexual undertones presents demonic possession almost in the same light, at least in this scene. We already know that Jacques isn’t above sexual encounters with questionable consent and that he’s more than willing to seduce women while impersonating Jean Paul (which would equal rape by deception if it led to sex), so it really isn’t much of a stretch.

“Jacques Eloi des Mondes is coming aboard,” THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES announces, and he takes over once again:

HEADACHE FACE!

Jacques grabbing Jean Paul’s face seems to be the show’s new way of indicating his possession.

Jacques after he has taken control. His hair even looks a little messy, too, like Jacques’’ in the flashbacks.

He catches a glimpse of Raxl and Quito in the crypt and decides to spy on them. Conveniently, they happen to be discussing the message in the writing box, which we now learn contains symbols meaning “conjure doll” and “silver pin.” She tells Quito that she can’t read the rest of the message, which directly contradicts what she said about it telling of accidents and death last episode and at the beginning of this one. Assuming that this is just a continuity error, we know the following about the message so far:

Another accident is going to take place.

The spirits on Maljardin are mad at Jean Paul. We don’t know which spirits, but I would hazard to guess Dr. Menkin, the Conjure Man, and Erica.

DEATH!

Something involving the conjure doll and the silver pin.

Raxl reading the message. It looks like a complicated script to read, even compared to the Aztecs’ pictographic writing system and the Incas’ quipu.

“Now I know your secret,” Jacques smirks, “so I can turn you off, Raxl--perhaps someday soon for good.” I’m confused: what secret of hers did he just learn? He already knows that she’s a voodoo priestess and that she’s been searching for the missing conjure doll and silver pin ever since he hid them back in Episode 2. It can’t be the Temple of the Serpent, either, because they go back upstairs instead of entering it at the end of the scene. So, by process of elimination, the answer can only be that he just learned that she can read the ancient language of her people! And, if Jacques doesn’t also know how (and he most likely doesn’t), then the Conjure Man can still communicate with her from beyond the grave!

Back in the Great Hall, Tim and Holly are chatting and he suggests that there might be a hidden tunnel somewhere on the island where they could escape. Just then, Jacques interrupts their conversation and leads Holly away for a private discussion--which turns out to not be so private, because it’s in the dining room, but that’s probably why Quito is standing off to the side of the doorway.

Sorry, Tim!

While they’re together for their little semi-private meeting, Jacques decides to promote underage drinking:

Jacques pouring out some wine for himself and Holly like the cool stepdad who lets you drink at 20.

I love the epithet “prince of the sea” for both Jean Paul and Jacques. It fits both of them so perfectly with their elegance and outwardly regal demeanors.

Quito blocks Tim from entering, but then leaves to visit Raxl again--and yet Tim does nothing while he’s gone? Seriously? Has even Ian Martin gotten bored with Boring Artist Tim now? Or did he just forget about him during his hasty rewriting spree?

Meanwhile, Jacques pressures Holly to reveal the subject matter of her and Tim’s conversation, and she reluctantly agrees after he starts carrying on about secret tunnels:

More confirmation that Jacques did not build Maljardin. (Remember the Raxl line from Episode 32 where she mentioned that kings inhabited the château before him?)

“I heard Matt Dawson speaking about secret places in the crypt,” she says. “I don’t know where or what; he wouldn’t say! He said it was a secret, that he had given his word.” This is a major change from Martin’s original plans for this episode, which we can see in its Lost Episode summary.

The summary indicates that originally, instead of asking Jacques about secret passages, Holly would have told Jean Paul about the Temple of the Serpent. The version of the summary published in the Cleveland Plain Dealer (October 31, 1969) indicates that “she does not know it is a Temple,” but she probably wouldn’t tell him about the room if she didn’t sense that it was important in some way.

Yet another version--this one from the Fitchburg Sentinel (November 4, 1969)--states that the Temple “could be used to destroy Jacques Eloi des Mondes,” which is fascinating. I won’t analyze this bit, though; Curt has already done a brilliant analysis of this summary and how it connects to one of Jacques’ lines from Episode 2, and it’s better and more in-depth than my analysis would have been. I highly recommend it, but beware of spoilers through the end of Maljardin if you’re worried about those.

He calls himself “Jean Paul Desmond” three times during this scene, as though he’s desperate to prove to her that he’s not Jacques Eloi des Mondes, but Jean Paul Desmond. It’s hilarious.

But back to the broadcasted version of the episode. Jacques is intrigued by what Holly says and tells her to search for the passage with him in the crypt. Once again, she agrees, being as captivated by Jean Paul Desmond as she is.

On their way down to the crypt, Jacques tells Dan that he can leave the island when he wants to, and Dan responds by threatening again to tell the cryocapsule. Needless to say, Jean Paul is going to reverse this when he finds out what Jacques said, thereby making him look even more insane than before.

When they arrive in the crypt, Jacques asks Holly where she thinks the secret room is, but she doesn’t know. Somehow neither she nor he has ever found the glaringly obvious door on the crypt wall. I have a headcanon that centuries have gone by without anyone discovering the not-so-hidden door on their own, simply because Raxl and Quito haven’t pointed it out to them. Somehow no one notices the doorway, and it stretches my willing suspension of disbelief farther than anything else on Maljardin.

Jacques tampering with the Conjure Man’s message.

But he drops the subject of the secret room as soon as he finds the writing box. He crosses his hands on top of it, lifts them, and poof! The message is rearranged. And then, through the power of Headache Faces™, Jean Paul regains control over his body:

This is his ugliest headache face so far.

Here, have a photo of Jacques smiling from earlier in the episode to wash out your eyes.

Jean Paul chases Holly out of the crypt and tells Quito that he must stay in the crypt and guard the capsule. He pronounces it the British way (”cap-syuel”) instead of how he normally says it (”cap-suhl”). Since normally only Alison and Vangie pronounce “capsule” that way, it appears that their pronunciation of the word is rubbing off on him. (It’s already rubbed off on me. I’m not kidding. The more time I spend re-watching this show instead of socializing, the more I start to talk like these characters--and I don’t even mind.)

Raxl and Quito--who came running back to the crypt when Jean Paul shouted at Holly--go to retrieve the writing box and bring it into the temple, which they decided not to do earlier when they really should have done so. But then she opens it and discovers that most of the message is gone!

Raxl: “There is only one message now: death!”

Coming up next: Alison discovers more clues to the mystery of Erica’s death.

{<- Previous: Episode 36 || Next: Episode 38 ->}

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inkribbon796 · 4 years

Text

Where the Crossroads Meet Ch 3

Summary: As the dust settles, heroes and villains meeting don’t necessarily go as planned. Some first meetings are peaceful, others catch the town on fire.

<= FIRST

<= PREVIOUS

Chapter 3: Reformation

Silver never much liked fighting magic, too many ways for stuff to go wrong. So fighting a magician with a penchant for starting fires wasn’t how he wanted today to go.

Wade was battling the fires, but magical fire tended to act like an oil spill, so Wade was trying to smother the fires rather than blast them out of existence.

“Can’t you do something?” Wade spat.

“Only if I can hit the bastard!” Mark shouted back angrily.

“I am no such thing, you blasted cur!” The mage spat, his red and white outfit with a sparkling red cloak billowed out behind him despite their being no wind. His red and white opera mask was covered in gold glitter that caught the sun. He had an immaculate sword in his hands. “En Garde!”

Silver sighed, bringing his fists up, “Yeah, buddy, why not?”

He smiled, “A worthy adversary! At last!”

“Do you have one volume for everything?” Silver quipped.

“He does,” another unfamiliar voice, the city seemed to be full of them.

“Back off, Lo, this fight is mine,” the regal mage said.

Wade was standing at Silver’s back. “Hey, pal, we don’t need to fight.”

“Correct,” the unfamiliar voice agreed. “None of us should be fighting at all, The Prince is merely desperate for a fight after our failure at the bank.”

“Hey,” “the Prince” complained. “No I’m not.”

“Your friend, Iblis, sent us,” Logic continued.

Silver chanced a look at the fully masked person with a visor in front of his eyes. He was in a mostly dark blue outfit.

“Princey, I insist you stop your games and help the Captain and I look for the Duke, I am certain he is one of the causes for destruction, you being one of the others,” he was looking around. “I am also about to ask a question that I want the correct answer to: who started these fires?”

“Uhhhhh,” Princey drew out, looking nervous even past his mask, pointing to Silver. “Him?”

“No I didn’t!” Silver shouted back.

“Obviously,” he said, you could practically hear the eye roll in his voice. “I fail to see how two people with super athletics, and hydrokinesis can start fires at will.”

“Well, that’s judgmental of you, and you’re better than that,” Princey told him.

“Just do us all a favor and put the fires out,” he dismissed curtly. “We’re about to have enough problems.”

“How so?” Silver asked, walking. As a man who looked like he’d stepped out of an old black-and-white vaudeville cartoon and another person in a light blue outfit and puppy dog mask were helping to carrying an unconscious hero in a mask.

“Because me and other of our soon-to-be compatriots have upset two very angry and unstable super powered humanoids, and one of them wants me dead,” he explained. “In other important information, you can call me Logic. The personification of ludicrous fairy tales over there is Prince Charming, and our companion over there is Captain Morality.”

“Which one’s which?” Wade asked, which Mark was secretly happy about because he’d been thinking the same thing but now he didn’t have to take the fall for asking it.

“Neither of these are your compatriots, are they?” Logic turned to J.J. He shook his head and Logic groaned. “Well, our chances of meeting a violent demise have raised.”

“Why?” Silver asked.

“Lo upset some demons,” Patton smiled.

“I hardly believe there is a supernatural element at play with any of this,” Logan proposed.

“That’s absolutely impossible,” Roman reminded, chuckling a bit.

“Have you met Anx?” Patton agreed.

“I don’t believe in ghosts or wacky stuff like that, and even I have to admit my city is controlled by a fucking demon,” Mark commented.

“We’ll table this for later,” Logic ordered.

Roman walking up to the unconscious man. “Is he safe to hold up?”

The mute hero nodded and Roman picked him up in his arms. “What happened?”

He made a couple signs and Logan sighed, “He says it was demon possession.

“Silver!” Wilford called out and Silver screamed.

“No!” Silver flew over and slammed into Wilford, knocking him into the nearest wall and just pinning him there. “I’ve had enough bullshit today, and I don’t want more!”

Wil had a huge smile on his face. “I’m so glad I found you, I can’t find Abe or the police and something happened to the city.”

“What did you do? You insane asshat!” Silver knew that whatever happened, Wil was somehow involved.

“I did nothing,” Wilford balked, sounding insulted. “It was that chatterbox that did it.”

“Quit deflecting, you maniac, what did you do?” Silver demanded. He could hear another conversation going on behind him.

“What the hell happened, Jay?” A voice behind him asked.

Silver felt someone tapping on his shoulder. The mono-colored hero looked back to see the mustached silent hero holding up a chalkboard.

“Leave Wil, Dark is coming and we need to be gone,” his whiteboard ordered.

“Oooh,” Wil said in relief to J.J, suddenly appearing out of Silver’s grip to stand next to the mute hero. “And what a dapper gent too.”

J.J just stared at him.

Wilford snapped his fingers in disappointment, “Ahh, shame, maybe some other time then.”

“Hold up a second,” Silver interrupted, “if Dark’s coming, I’m not going anywhere.”

A series of explosions rocked the city a couple blocks down and Silver turned to the source.

“Oooooh~” Wilford cheered, “that looks like a big enough problem. Darky can’t possible ignored that.”

“Can you slow yer roll there fer five seconds, pal,” Jackie told him. “We’ll find him, but there are people dying.”

Wil made a scoffing laugh, “Oh, that’s a good one, this hasn’t been going long enough for games like that.”

“This isn’t a game!” The Irish hero shouted.

“Welcome to Egoton,” Silver greeted dryly to Jackieboy Man. “He’s literally insane.”

The explosions were getting closer.

“It’s too late already,” Logan groaned as a shrill ringing began to flood the area as color began to drain from the area.

A violent tear in reality opened up, a portal as dark as a black hole ripped and Dark stepped out. He looked around and stopped when he saw Wilford.

“There you are!” Dark spat in rage. “What did you do?”

Wilford was too happy to be angry and ran over to hug Dark. “Darky, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“No! No!” Dark shouted, using his aura to push Wil back and pin him in place. “You are going back to the Manor and staying there until I fix this.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Wil pouted.

“Then why is my city stapled to three other ones?” Dark shouted, gesturing to the city around him with one hand.

“I don’t know, the box didn’t tell me,” Wil snapped back.

Dark held up his hands, his aura was still around Wil to keep him in place, “I’m not dealing with this right now, you are going home and that is the end of that.”

Another explosion rag out, closer than the last.

“See?” Wil defended. “I’m not the one blowing up the town.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Dark groaned.

“Give it up, Dark, you’re in on this,” Silver spat.

Dark’s aura snapped out and stabbed Silver, who was too close to get away in time. “I didn’t ask you. I am dealing with enough today and I don’t need your childish antics.”

Dark glared at J.J, “And you, we will be having words after I deal with you.”

J.J signed something that made Wil giggle a bit. Dark glared at him. The sentence had actually been, “Over your dead body”. But due to a lack of anyone translating, Dark assumed it was more vulgar than it actually was.

“So am I in trouble?” Wil asked

Dark glared at him, “What do you think?”

“No?” Wil smiled as he wasn’t about to be shaken like a ragdoll.

“Try again,” Dark warned, tapping his arm angrily.

“Alright, I understand you’re angry but I found you something that might make you feel better,” Wilford bargained. “If you’ll give me one moment, I can show you.”

“No, I’ve had enough of your games,” Dark spat.

Silver, who had been too busy fighting the two to really stop to think about the villains’ personal lives, realized, “Wait are you two dating?”

J.J and Logan just stared at Silver.

“Isn’t he one of your rogues?” Logan asked.

“Yeah really,” Roman laughed, “these two are obviously as gay as the month of June.”

“As much as I like me some men, I’m actually pan—”

Dark shot out some of his aura towards Roman, J.J frantically pulling out his watch but Jackie was already pulling him to safety.

“Will no one leave me alone for five seconds? If I wanted my personal affairs invaded, I would have continued to keep talking to that insufferable power switch.” Dark snarled.

“Well if I knew how to solve that, I would,” Wil said.

“Wil, you are lucky you can’t die, or I would have painted the wall with your entrails YEARS ago!” Dark roared.

“I was just answering your question,” Wil pouted.

Dark’s eye twitched, but before he could say something Anti appeared next to Dark.

“Hey ‘coon eyes,” Anti smiled, ignoring Dark stabbing him through the heart with his aura. The Entity promptly let go of Wil to glare at Anti. “Yeh find Electro Nerd yet?”

Dark just looked a mix of tired and furious.

Silver looked around to notice that Logic was gone, wherever he was, J.J shook his head at Silver, tapping his finger to his mouth. The black and white colored hero nodded, watching Dark whose aura was churning angrily.

Anti stopped when the glitch demon saw Wilford, looking between him and Dark. He slowly started smiling.

“What?” Dark growled at Anti.

The standoff was momentarily distracted when Marvin was forcing Remus into the ground next to Jackie with inhuman speed and force. Fortunately neither of them were exactly human anymore so they still had usable bones. Both of them were cursing at each other, their clothing singed and burned.

Then Remus noticed Wil, winking and saying, “Hey hot stuff, having fun?”

“Are you kidding me?” Dark muttered angrily.

“Well, I’m a bit busy at the moment but maybe some other time,” Wil smiled encouragingly.

Dark rolled his eyes, opening up a portal and pushing Wil through it, closing it up as quickly as he could, “Stay in there until I get back.”

“Yeh know, yer supposed ta take yer boyfriend outta the closet,” Anti commented with a huge smile.

“You can’t just hijoke me like that,” Remus shouted at him, a giant snake quickly snapping and forcefully dragged Remus towards him, Virgil hiding behind Janus, the Deceitful Side was controlling a massive two headed albino python.

“There you are,” Janus spat. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Oh, Dee, you’ve been missing all the fun,” Remus smiled as the Virgil was starting to tie Remus quickly to the back of the large serpent with yards and yards of spider silk to make sure he couldn’t run off and cause more trouble.

“Come on rat boy, stop squirming,” Virgil spat.

“Only if you make me,” the Duke raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Ugh,” Virgil groaned and slapped a mass of spider silk over his mouth. “Shut up for five seconds, will you.”

Remus looked elated, mumbling something that Virgil couldn’t understand but still looked upset. Deceit quickly taking them away, throwing up barriers so that he could put as much distance between him and Marvin as possible.

Dark took the distraction as an opportunity to slip away, going back to his warehouses to check on them, Anti glaring after him before counting the amount of heroes and dissolving into green and black pixels.

Jackie had to calm Marvin down from chasing after the three Dark Sides with single-minded anger.

NEXT =>

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hueynomure · 4 years

Text

Dragon’s Blood

The Prince checked his sword and bow again, but did it covertly, to keep his men’s confidence. They were twenty, five self-proclaimed dragon-hunters and fifteen of his best warriors. Twenty-one men, and as many fine horses, braving the Burned Wastelands.

The King had been somber but proud when the Prince had told him of his chosen quest. The King had taught him that Princes ought to prove their mettle and their valor, and the young Prince had decided to rescue the Prisoner from the Dragon.

The Prisoner was said to be of astonishing beauty, and when the Dragon had laid eyes on her had recognized her as the most precious treasure of the world. Its hoard forgotten, the Dragon had turned that kingdom into the Burned Wastelands, sparing only the border villages that submitted to the Dragon and sent food for the Prisoner.

The Prince kept still like stone when he saw two titanic wings unfurl in the distance.

* * *

The Prince at last opened his hand, letting his sword rest in the Dragon’s stilled heart. The dragon-hunters, that had only lost one of their numbers, were laying their flensing equipment on the ground and harvesting the Dragon’s blood in twisted inscribed receptacles. The Prince let his warriors, of which only six were still standing, tend to the wounded and bury the dead, and strode to the tower’s entrance. Tired as he was, the Prince ended up running up the stairs. He slammed open the door at the end of the steps, and finally saw her.

The Prisoner’s beauty was stunning, as they said. Her hair flowed in regal auburn locks; her skin alabaster, her visage harmonious beyond an artist’s dream. She looked young, almost as young as the Prince himself. This troubled the Prince’s heart, as the story about the Dragon’s rampage was at least ten years old. Had the vile Dragon kidnapped a mere child?

The Prince’s doubts melted when the Prisoner turned her face to regard him. Her emerald eyes were still beautiful beyond belief, even with the signs of tears still in them; those gorgeous eyes met the Prince’s gaze, and his heart was hers.

* * *

Years later the Prince, now well in his adulthood, climbed another set of steps. The Prisoner – now a Lady – refused to sleep but on the top bedchamber of a tower, and the Prince could refuse nothing to her. He had gone to spoke to the King about it. The King had reminded him that there were many Princesses from other kingdoms that would happily marry a gallant man like him, but the Prince had refused. The King then reminded the Prince that whatever his Lady thought she was, he was the Prince, heir to a great kingdom, and his desires would someday be the law, and the Prince left him. He would only marry her, and would only do so with her joyous consent. This was not the first time the King his father had talked like that.

So the Prince opened the door at the end of the stairs, slowly not to disturb his Lady. She was sitting on the bed, her curves a beatific vision in silk. Her eyes were buried in a book, as she was an avid reader. The Prince took a moment to appreciate the beauty of his Lady’s blissful focus, before speaking up.

“Good morning, my sweet Lady.”

“Good morning, sweet Prince,” she replied, raising her head to meet his gaze with the sad longing she always wore in his presence. Silent as he could be, he had never managed to catch her by surprise. “Good morning, and good Name Day. I wish you a very merry day.”

“There’s no use wishing, my Lady,” the Prince replied. “Not when you have the means to make it so very merry with the smallest effort.”

“What do you mean?” The fond smile on her lips became hesitant.

“The only gift I want of you is what you always denied me, my dearest,” the Prince explained, “a simple answer. Why won’t you marry me?”

His Lady hung his head, her smile bitter. “When I say I cannot, my hopeful Prince, I am not lying.”

“Then tell me something that helps me understand.” The Prince walked to the high gold-framed mirror in the room, a mirror he had caught her staring at like it could share precious secrets. “Tell me a story that can mirror the truth.”

The Lady closed her book, but looked in the Prince’s reflected eyes with a glimmer of hope. “Once upon a time, there was a woman. The woman worn out her eyes looking at all the many valiant, gentle and handsome princes of this world, but only did that from afar. She couldn’t approach any of them, because it took only a quick gaze for them to hate her.”

The Prince gasped in disbelief. “How could someone hate you?”

“I… The woman looked very differently back then,” she replied sadly. “She worn out her eyes and her heart longing for those gilded princes. Until… until a man came.”

The Prince saw his Lady’s reflection holding the book on her thighs so hard her knuckles became white as a ghost, her nails sinking in the volume’s hard cover, and for a moment the Prince saw in her perfect eyes a bestial fury. But it was just a moment.

“The man promised he could make her beautiful, so beautiful every prince would fall in love with her as soon as...” She raised a hand to cover her mouth, anguished dread in her gorgeous visage, as she regarded the Prince’s reflection. “As soon as they met her gaze.”

Those words made the Prince take a pause, but he couldn’t let his Lady simmer in such pain. With few long strides he was at her side, holding her hands in his. “But my love goes beyond your looks, my precious Lady. I love your passion for books, the look in your eyes when you walk in the garden. I love your every gesture, your every mood. That wouldn’t change, regardless of how beautiful or ugly your visage might be.”

“Those are easy words when you have to regard beauty, and not death’s fiery glare,” his Lady commented, but the Prince felt her clinging to him not just with her fingers. “The woman accepted, blinded by hope, forgetting to ask about the price of such a boon.”

“It was the Dragon, wasn’t it? But it’s dead, my love, and I’ll slay any creature who dares come between us.”

His Lady cringed at those words, but when she tried to reply, only a chocked sound came out. “I… I can’t. I can’t tell my… the woman’s story,” she croaked, her hands to her straining throat.

The Prince frowned. “The curse went well beyond that Dragon, did it?”

His Lady nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

“You fear for me?”

His Lady nodded again.

“You should not, my sweet Lady,” the Prince reassured her, “Because I’ll live through any curse to stay with you.”

The Prince caught her cheeks between his hands and kissed her before she could react, and felt his heart burn and swell like a bonfire. The Lady stared in his eyes in disbelief and horror for a moment, then returned the kiss with desperate passion. They kissed forever, time incinerated by the inebriating pleasure. The Prince felt himself grow beyond the boy the King still saw in him.

He grew until he felt the wall behind him crumble outwards. He slipped backwards in the gaping hole, but his new wings caught him before he could fall to the courtyard below. He had never felt better. He felt immense, powerful, glorious, more regal than the King his father could dream to be. He couldn’t understand why his Lady was crying, kneeling and hiding her face behind her hands. She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her over the screams raising from below.

“Dragon! Dragon!”

* * *

Inspired by Sangue di Drago by Rancore. here's the link to the original song and my attempt at translating the lyrics.

#My writing #fairytale subversion #dragon's blood #sangue di drago

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officialleehadan · 6 years

Text

Red Ship

“Move.” Luka elbowed Tusca out of the way, a fierce, furious expression on his face. Before Tusca could say anything, the prince settled himself in Carlito’s empty seat. Electricity crackled across the console, and he wrenched open a cerebral socket that Tusca didn’t know he had.

“When-“ he started, and made for his chair, because he knew that look and he wanted to be strapped in for whatever came next. “You-“

“You gave Roja permission to teach me,” Luka said with a coldness to him that he must have learned before he ran away from home. “He taught me. When I hit my human limit, he gave me this, so I could be better.”

The ship groaned and the crew called their worries or curses as suited their natures. Luka ignored them as wires snapped free all over the bridge and wired themselves into his console. Soon it was a spiderweb of glittering wires, and Luka fitted a small plug onto the nearest coil and plugged himself straight into the ship’s control center.

Then he flipped on the comms.

“My name is Lucas Rayhan Goliat, Crown Prince of the Human Galactic Empire,” he snapped, imperial accent crisp as he bit the words off with a viciousness no one could miss. The pirates on the other end stared at him, and Tusca smoothed his face of any expression. If Luka thought he had a winning play, well, it wasn’t like Tusca had anything better to offer. “You are currently in violation of eighteen Galactic laws, guilty by your own admission of more than that, and are pissing me off. If you do not vacate this area immediately I will personally and with great pleasure, blast you out of the goddamn sky.”

He flipped the comms again, and Tusca could only stare at him as electricity crackled around them again and the web around Luka pulsed. The ship rumbled, and Luka smiled coldly.

The pirates, apparently, weren’t smart enough to take the hint. Weapons began to power up, and their own shields flickered on in time to block the first few salvos in a bright splash of silent light.

Then they were moving.

“Captain?” Do’ was white-knuckled in her chair as a coil of wires jacked into her console on their own.

“Luka’s in charge,” Tusca decided as his ship shot forward, dodging between blasts like Luka had grown up a fighter pilot. “He says to do something, you do it.”

“Yes captain,” Left replied for Do’, his hand tight on his twin’s shoulder. Right was focused on his console, but they all knew there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do.

Luka flipped the comms back on as the pirates tried to circle around them. “Galactic control,” he said shortly. “Alpha-Delta-Eta-eight-four-two, by the sign and Order of the Imperial Throne. I want an open channel to every goddamn Galactic ship in range.”

There was loud silence over the comms, and for a moment Tusca wondered what was going on.

Then; “Yes, your Imperial Highness,”

The comm tech sounded rattled. That was telling in and of itself. Comm techs were known for their complete control during transmissions. To shake one of them was a feat in and of itself.

Luka dropped the shields suddenly as one of the other ships got just a little to close.

Lightning blazed along their hull and leapt to the enemy ship in a long bolt that left an ionized trail behind it.

The other ship shuddered violently and Luka’s hands danced across the controls.

Tusca wondered how he could split his attention in so many directions at once. Flying, controlling the Power no one knew he had, and broadcasting all at once.

Speaking of the broadcast…

“This is Luka Rayhan Goliat, crown prince of the Human Galactic Empire,” Luka said crisply with the air of a perfect orator. “My ship is under attack by self-declared pirates. With this broadcast I am including my exact location, and the identifying information on those ships. Anyone who brings me proof of destruction will have my thanks, and all that goes with it.”

He flipped the comms off again. Tusca stared at him.

“Did you just put a bounty on them?” he asked incredulously. The ship Luka had zapped trembled furiously and tried to dart back into the pack that was after them. The moment it got close, lightning leapt from its’ hull, and those ships began to tremble too.

Moments later, the first ship went dark, completely dead in the water. The others followed quickly, infected by the small carrier ship.

“Yes I did. Rank has one or two good sides,” Luka said darkly, and yanked hard on the helm controls. They pitched planetward in such a steep dive that the hull began to warm. “Let’s see how many of them stick around to find out what happens next.”

“Boy, if you don’t stop the spinning I’m gonna puke on you,” Do’ yelled from her station. She was clinging to her chair and her dusky skin was decidedly green.

“If you gotta, you gotta,” Luka replied, and didn’t stop their tight, corkscrewing dive even as they hit atmo and the heat picked up. “I’ll deal with it if you do. Graat, you alive?”

“Yes,” Graat somehow rallied enough to speak. Tusca was proud of him. “What do you need?’

“The exact density of the atmo layer directly over those mountains.”

Why-“ Graat cut himself off and scrabbled for the nearest screen to pull up the information. Cannon blasts rained down around them, and if Tusca didn’t know better, he would think it was sheer luck that kept those blasts from touching their hull. “Scanning now.”

He might have thought that anyway, except that every time one got a little too close, more of that lightning crackled around them, and somehow they managed to be anywhere but in the line of fire.

Information glittered down a cable from Graat’s station to Luka’s, and up the wire to his brain. “Got it. Left, throw our altitude up on the screen. Graat, I want a countdown to that thicker air layer. I can’t afford to calculate it myself right now.”

Numbers flashed up on the screen, bright and counting down fast.

“Do’, how close on our asses are those guys?”

“Less than a thousand meters and closing!” she might be green, but neither Heaven nor Hell would keep Do’ from fighting for her family. “Hope you have a plan!”

“I’ve got better than a plan,” Luka said. Tusca caught a glimpse of his eyes and swore mentally while checking the straps on his chair. He knew that look, but the last time he saw it was in Roja’s eyes right before the Red Baron slingshotted a whole fleet around the outer edge of a black hole, nearly killed them all, and won a war. “I have science. Right, prime our inertial dampeners and fire up the anti-gravity we use for cargo transport.”

“You had better be sure about this,” Right muttered, and hurried to do as their prince asked. “Priming.”

“How long?”

“Fourteen seconds to full power.”

“Good. I got it from there.”

The mountains, and the invisible layer of air that surrounded them, plunged into view, black and ice-capped and looking like nothing so much as teeth.

What happened next was pretty spectacular from any angle, but honestly, the pirates got the best view.

The wires around Luka lit up like a thunderstorm and channeled across his hands as suddenly their engines twisted all the way around and emptied the full force of their fury against that heavy-air layer. So quickly after that, that it might as well have been the same time, Luka threw on their inertial dampeners and the anti-gravity field through the whole ship.

The effect was a shocking sense of weightlessness as all the force of their speed emptied into the dampeners, and the anti-gravity kept the crew from turning into chunky salsa on the view-screens.

The speed boost was, frankly, impossible, and Tusca fought to keep his monkey brain from loosing its’ shit as all the Gs that came with that kind of inertial change translated directly into more force for the engines to push against.

Without a technopath holding the ship together by sheer will, they would have ripped apart. Hell, they might have anyway, except, well…

Probability got a little weird with a Red Baron at the helm.

“Luka, we got a lot of company,” Do’ yelled even as they blasted straight through the swarm of pirates on their asses and into open space. Jump-Holes ripped themselves through the fabric of space in every direction and ships roared out. Tusca swore when one of the Galactic Empire’s feared space stations appeared with a smoothness that spoke of a whole lot of money in one place at one time. “Boy, that is an Imperial Carrier. What in the hell-“

“It’s not an Imperial Carrier, it’s the Imperial Carrier. Specifically, it’s the Pacifica.” Luka grinned wolfishly and reached for the comms one last time, lazy like he hadn’t just defied four or five laws of physics at once. The viewport flickered and revealed the face of a regal man with thick, greying hair. “Hello Father.”

The Emperor of the Human Galactic Empire looked at his son and heir, and then at the stunned crew who nonetheless rallied behind their youngest crew member.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face, amused, fond, incredulous, annoyance all apparent in his face.

“Do I want to know?” he said at last, and Luka grinned as explosions lit up around them, the result of a great many pirate ships losing the impossible fight against physics and an angry technopath.

“Probably not,” Luka told him, and looked over his shoulder at Tusca. “Captain, you mind if we dock? I’ve… kind of made a mess of the ship.”

“That’s fine,” Tusca said dryly, and wondered how in the hell this had become his life. “Might as well have them paint it red while we’re at it, huh?”

Luka laughed, and the rest of the crew began to relax by inches. “And here I thought I would be banned form the helm like Roja was.”

“You are” Do’ said before Tusca could reply. “You come near that goddamn helm ever again and I swear all hell will rain down on you!”

The Emperor didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or go beat his head against a wall somewhere. Tusca could sympathize.

“Hanger five is open to you,” he said at last, and nodded to someone they couldn’t see. “And Luka, I would say your captain is correct. Red is the right color for your ship.”

+++

HGE - Learn to Fly, Learn to Breathe

Red Sun

Red Baron

Red Prince

Red Sky

Red Heart

Red Ship

+++

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hexdream18243 · 7 years

Text

Fanfiction: Kisses and commode

Again, here is a small thing. Piece of work, you can name it fanfiction, because it is fanfiction. It has two parts but I don’t actually know when I’ll able to share with you a second chapter, because… translating.

I’m really grateful to @beholdagay for correcting it. Thank you very much, you’re awesome and I love you for that!

Paring: logicality

Word count: 2060

Summary: Boring afternoon in commons of mindscape. Logan is reading, Roman is narrating, Virgil is listening to music… Until it stops being so boring.

Part two.

AO3 link

Part one - logicality

Logan sat on the couch in the living room peacefully reading, Virgil sat on the commode next to closet and listened to music through his headphones, while Roman stood in the middle of the living room, narrating something in an elevated tone. He totally ignored that his listeners were not interested in his story, he was too focused on narrating.

After all, Logic was able to tell what Prince was saying but he preferred to concentrate on something else. Especially since he never knew whether the regal persona was saying something literally or whether he was only using fancy rhetoric figures. Logan began to assume in advance that everything Prince was saying was one big metaphor. In this way, he didn’t feel the need to wonder if, for example, the sentence: “She ripped his heart from his chest, trampled it and left him there with the deepest wound, to endless suffering” is either a picturesque description of rejection or the mentioned woman was strong and cruel enough to literally wrest the man’s heart from his chest. Sometimes it’s better to not know.

“Princey, stop it. Nobody listens to you” growled Anxiety.

“Ha! You paid attention to me, so it means that even with your headphones on, you can hear me. You’re listening to me.”

“Because I don’t have a choice! You’re talking loud enough to drown out the music in the headphones. Stop!”

“ Oh my dark vigilant shadow, it’s…”

At that moment, Logan stopped listening. Earlier he tried to practice divisibility of attention, but now he decided that he prefers not to listen to the next quarrel between Roman and Virgil. Each of them sounded similar, so he hadn’t had any reason to collect useless information about insults and teasing. But one statement caught his attention back.

“Go to the devil, Roman.”

“Virgil, that is technically impossible” - he interrupted, surprised by such an illogical statement. - “Even if we skip the issue of the dubious existence of the devil himself, he, according to all beliefs and legends, is living in hell. If you want to go to hell, you have to die, but you also have to be a bad person enough to be sentenced to eternal damnation. Roman would have to be dead and have more bad deeds than good deeds. Assuming that Roman managed to die to complete this request, even if I can completely agree with the fact that he is sometimes a very irritating and difficult person” - Prince snorted. - “He is undoubtedly not evil. There’s a reason we all call him ‘Prince’.”

“I don’t know if I should thank you or feel offended” Roman said.

Virgil just threw a resigned look at Logan and murmured something which sounded suspiciously like: “Why is it always me? Take Prince seriously for once.” Logic ignored him and went back to his book. He heard Prince breathing in and starting another sentence, probably to continue the argument but he had stopped in the middle of the word. Logan looked up from his novel.

He saw Patton standing next to Prince, grinning brightly. Roman’s expression was of complete surprise as he held his cheek.

“W-Why?” he asked.

“Oh, Roman! You seemed to be upset. And I’m always in a better mood when someone kisses or hugs me. You’re not?”

“Oh.”

Patton immediately started to worry.

“You’re not, oh my, I didn’t think that you’d mind, I thought…”

“No, no!” - Roman denied quickly. - “ I don’t mind! Of course not. Actually physical manifestations of attention is a daily routine for me and your actions were great, now I’m in a perfect mood!”

Roman smiled widely. Patton smiled back and turned to Anxiety who was sitting on the commode. Logic put down the book and watched.

“Virgil! Can I kiss you too, kiddo?” Morality asked.

Anxiety frowned, jumped from the commode, clearly uncomfortable and sighed when he encountered Patton’s hopeful look.

“Fine” he muttered finally.

Delighted Morality ran to him and pecked him on the cheek. Anxiety winced but when Patton turned his back to him, he smirked.

This time Morality turned to Logan. Logan knew, that since Patton kissed the remaining two, he probably also will be kissed. Logic just didn’t know if he is more happy or if he is more surprised by his own happiness. As he suspected, Morality came to him.

“Logan! Can you come with me for a moment?” he asked.

“Of course y-” Logic stopped. He didn’t expect that question. Fortunately, he reconsidered his answer quickly and continued in another way. “y… I can”.

He stood up and followed Patton, ignoring the other two, who exchanged glances. He tried to focus on ignoring the sudden disappointment he felt when he had heard Morality’s question.

They were in the hall, quite far from the closed door of the living room. So there were nothing more than an empty hall and a red carpet. Around the next corner were doors to their rooms. To enter the kitchen you have to go through the living room. Morality stopped next to the bend, he took a deep breath and turned to Logan.

“Logan, I have a question.”

“I understand. To whom is it directed? Do you need my advice?” Logic immediately rejected himself as a potential recipient. He didn’t understand why Patton would lead him out of the living room just to ask a question. He came to the conclusion that Morality needs help, because a question is imperfect and it needs to be improved in private.

“To you, silly! I don’t need advice, I just… “ Morality budged and shifted back and forth hesitantly. Logan waited patiently until Patton managed to gather his thoughts. It wasn’t the best idea, because Morality instead of continuing his sentence, stared at the carpet. Logan sighed. That drew Patton’s attention.

“Well maybe you would like some advice? Before you ask about anything, you should know, that asking questions is based on making a sentence characterising what you expect answered from someone. Unless you’re asking a rhetorical question, but I don’t think that’s the case this time. Anyway, the question form depends on what you ask and what kind of answers you expect. The questions that require a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer are different from these which give you more information. There exists a basic difference between “Did you have dinner?” and “What did you have for a dinner?”. How ,as you can notice…”

“Logan!” Patton interrupted him. “As much as I love listening to y… that, at this moment I don’t need information about it.”

“I understand. So what is going on?”

Patton breathed deeply.

“The thing is that… I… I want to ask you a question.”

“Yes, indeed, I’m aware of that, you made this statement earlier.”

“Exactly. And this question… I wanted to ask you something in connection with this question!” - Logan realized that Patton circulates around the subject, making the conversation longer. But he was curious anyway.

“About what?”

“Can you…” Patton made some decision and he stopped avoiding Logan’s gaze. “Ok. I just wanted to ask you to answer me honestly.”

“Patton, naturally, I see no problem in that. I don’t understand why I would answer you insincerely or ,what’s worse, wrong.

Morality again took a deep breath and smiled.

“If you say so. So… Can I kiss you?”

It confused Logan. He didn’t expect this question. Just a moment ago Patton asked Virgil about it. Why this discreteness? So he said the first thing that came to his mind, without thinking.

“It’s obvious that you can. Why not?”

“Really?” Patton almost jumped in place.

Logan didn’t quite understand why he was surprised. Shouldn’t Morality be more surprised by Anxiety’s agreement?

Yes” he couldn’t say anything else, because Patton immediately kissed him on the lips.

Logan froze, startled. He didn’t expect it. This behavior was completely inconsistent with Patton's earlier actions. Even if he could and he should suspect something like this from Morality, he still wasn’t prepared for such a drastic change of the operation. First of all, he was surprised at the location of the kiss, but not only. Beyond the location, the kiss was definitely longer and characterized by hesitancy which the short kiss on the cheek didn’t have. Although Logan didn’t like the unexpected and often inexplicably twists, which have no representation in reality, he had to admit that Morality’s move explained his hesitation and nervousness at least. Logan felt relief. He thought for a moment Morality’s strange behavior could have a serious, potentially dangerous source.

Patton finally moved away and looked at Logic’s surprised face with worry.

“Logan? Are you okay?”

“Y-yes” - Logan cleared his throat. - “I just didn’t expect that.”

“O-oh...” Patton averted his eyes with the face of a beaten puppy. That obliged Logan to continue his speech.

“But it still doesn’t change my answer. You know, kisses are very beneficial for the body. At first, this activity uses energy, so it is a potential exercise even though you do not need a lot of energy. As well, heart rate is increased from 80 to 120 heart beats per minute so blood flows faster in the veins, you’re breathing more deeply, so your brain is better oxygenated and this raises the level of happiness hormones. And also serotonin, adrenaline, oxytocin, dopamine…”

“ So kissing is healthy!” Patton interrupted Logan before he got completely into the lecture and he grabbed his hand on the occasion. Logic stopped talking, he smiled at Morality and nodded.

“Yes, I think you can say that.”

Suddenly they heard a loud crash from the living room. Logan and Patton looked at each other and ran there. They burst into the room. On the floor laid the commode on which Virgil previously sat. Virgil leaned against the wall pinned by Roman who was aiming at his chest with a katana. Behind Roman was hiding… a second Virgil? He was glaring at his doppelganger with hateful eyes.

“What is happening here?” Logan asked.

“You don’t want to know” answered the Anxiety standing next to the wall, looking quickly at him. He straight away looked back at the two in front of him. “You won this time Princey. But watch your words, guys. Otherwise I’ll be back soon.” He threatened and evaporated like smoke.

Everyone sighed with relief. Prince lowered his sword and relaxed tensed body. The remaining Anxiety turned to the arrivals and smirked.

“I knew it!” he cried, pointing at their still intertwined hands.

“Okay, you’re right, kiddo!” Patton said. “But who was that?”

“I refuse to answer that question.” Anxiety sank down, possibly to hide in his room. Roman was looking at him with small smile. Suddenly he opened his eyes wide as if someone had kicked him.

“Wait. What about… Virgil!” he cried. He wanted to pass Logan and Patton and run out of the living room, but Logic stood in his way.

“Roman, what did it want? Why did it threat you?”

Prince huffed impatiently.

“Listen, you two. It’s really nothing, but I have to talk to Virgil. We’ll explain everything later, I promise. So excuse me for now, but I have to catch him!” Roman said and ran out of the room. They were left alone with the overturned commode.

Patton looked at the door, at the commode, at Logan and again at the commode but this time he was smiling to himself. Logan was looking at the commode with a frown trying to understand the previous situation. It didn’t do him very well. There was an awkward silence until Morality broke it.

“So… Can I call you my boyfriend now?” he asked happily. Logan threw him a surprised look. Then he realized the other sides weren’t here so it’s best to set the doppelganger situation aside for later.

“Only if I can do it as well” he answered.

“Call yourself my boyfriend? Of course!”

“No, I mean-”

“I know Logan.” Morality chuckled. “I was kidding. You’re my good boy.”

“… I’m not a dog, Patton.”

This provoked another giggle from Morality. They lifted the commode together and gathered the papers from the floor. Eventually, later, when everything calms down, they’ll get what exactly had happened out of Roman and Anxiety. But for now they could wait and sit down in the living room, cuddling on the couch.

#Sanders Sides #fanfiction #my fanfiction #Logan Sanders #Logic Sanders #virgil sanders #Anxiety Sanders #Roman Sanders #Prince Sanders #Patton Sanders #Morality Sanders #logicality #kisses and commode #part one

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weneverlearn · 7 years

Video

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R.I.P. Grant Hart

When some kind of celebrity death occurs -- and that “celebrity” can be Prince or Paul Hamann -- there’s often a genuinely heartfelt and/or morbid need to reach out and tell someone. Add the internet into that instinct, and this human action takes on more strange, conflicted, even narcissistic layers.

I woke up yesterday to a text about Grant Hart having passed away. I told myself my girlfriend was awake, and gently tapped her on the shoulder to tell her. She has been working a lot lately, and it was probably best to let her sleep and talk about this later. Telling her, telling anyone wasn’t going to bring Grant Hart back. Basically I just confused her, though she sweetly said “Sorry,” and went back to sleep, somehow.

The emotions were flooding through me, and it was one of numerous deaths that have occurred in my sphere of late, so the usual sinking heart feeling sunk as low as it’s been in awhile (and that’s saying something in this Trump era). One song popped in my head, “Think It Over Now,” from Hart’s excellent 1999 solo album, Good News for Modern Man. In a sea of great Grant Hart songs, it’s Ronettes-meets-rainstorm ramble makes it one of my favorites of his, and it’s positive message helped instantly assuage some sadness. I posted it on Facebook for whatever fucking reason, and went to work, unable to think about much else the rest of the day, into today, and I don’t know, maybe from now on.

It feels awkward to make a celebrity death personal with some tossed-out Facebook post. But I am at that point now in my life where the passing of such monumental artistic figures starts to occur closer to you, more frequently, and it’s inevitable that it spurs you to seek comfort from just telling others why this death is monumental. I mean, in my early 20s, if I had heard the bassist in the Johnny Burnette Trio died, oh, that’s sad. But had that bassist been close to my age, had I seen that bassist play live, got to hang out with him a bit, cranked his records through headphones throughout my teens, well...

It was early summer, 1985, I was 17, about butt-deep into a growing pile of records, increasingly punk records, and my au currant desire was to “get into hardcore.” I mean it was all over college radio, Cleveland had a decent scene of it (although in that odd Ohio-y, weather-beaten way), and I just thought, well, that’s what a guy like me should be doing right now. So I went to my local rack jobber and asked him for a great new hardcore album, and he hands me New Day Rising.

I took it home and played it, but I was a bit nonplussed. This wasn’t the bald-head dude screaming in a circle pit shit I thought I was searching for. It was loud and fast for sure, but not the polka-beat, the government and your parents suck spiel. Instead, as I noticed while I self-surprisingly kept playing the record over and over for the next week, was an instantly recognizable melancholy, damp atmosphere, and intense energy I’d already loved from midwest acts. Husker Du just felt like me and lots of strangers I was starting to get to know at Cleveland punk shows -- already a bit beaten by long winters, mall jobs, and terrible sports teams we didn’t care about, but you live in Cleveland, so you’re going to hear about the fucking Browns whether you like it or not. My image was the three Huskers sitting in their dank basement, from about the first week of October until the first week of March, with a space heater sparking in the corner, complaining about fucking jocks, drinking the cheapest local beer, excited only about the tunes they were coming up with, grasping for hopes maybe winter will end early this year (the last week of February), but knowing for sure it’s just gonna come around again anyway, so whatever, let’s go through that new one again.

I already knew enough about the California-based SST Records to know a shlubby band from Minneapolis with cutoff shorts and an almost sobbing seriousness to their loud fast rules, featuring lyrics about folklore and summer ending, was not that label’s raison d’etre. No doubt most of their bands had shitty lives, crappy parents, drug problems, and whatever. But to me, nothing I’d heard on that label (save some Black Flag), had this depth of pathos and seething spirit. I mean come on, it’s California. You don’t spend your teens hanging out on beaches and seeing pretty girls all the time all year and think, “Damn, remember those good times we had? Fuck! Where’s my copy of Being and Nothingness?!” (Well, maybe the Minutemen did.)

Indeed, from what I understood through the grape, er, hops-vine of the time, many diehard SST fans didn’t dig Husker Du. (Someone did, because I think Husker Du was the best selling act on SST, but you record scholars can correct me on that.) To me they were a sudden, jarring connection between the jangle of ‘60s folk and garage rock -- meaning they were contemporaries more with R.E.M. than Saccharine Trust or what have you -- and a huge leap into some fuzzed-out new world of extreme emotional and sonic confessional. Even moreso than the, truth be told, kind of cute Replacements, Husker Du were the gnarled heart pumping to where punk could grasp towards, to survive not just the winters but encroaching adulthood abyss. Even their name, from an old board game (fun!) that translated to “Do You Remember?” (sad), was reflective. They were 20-year olds and already nostalgic, wistful. But their own apocalyptic Reagan-era shakes were vibrating them out of that basement. They toured like fucking crazy, rust belt work ethic and all; and with hooks that finally put a relevant nail in skinny tie power pop’s coffin.

New Day Rising has mostly remained my favorite Husker Du album since, the opening title tune being my favorite opener on any album (save maybe “I’m Stranded” by the Saints). But their whole catalog is worth churning through. And it wasn’t just Grant Hart’s massively manic drum pounds that hit you hard, but his and Bob Mould’s strained, splitting-at-the-edges voices. Like their Minneapolis contemporaries (Replacements, Soul Asylum, Magnolias), they sounded like they were incredibly pissed off and ready to fight, to the point of tears. Not to belabor the midwest/California dichotomy, but the Offspring never struck me as tearful guys.

Of course soon enough I gathered, via unexplainable gut impressions and gossipy fanzine articles, that there were gay men in Husker Du. And there’s no doubt that the usual animosity towards jocks for this punk band left larger scars.

The scar I personally got from their records was a band. When I first met New Bomb Turks’s guitarist Jim Weber at our college dorm, one of the earliest conversations centered on how Jim couldn’t get to the Warehouse tour stop in Cleveland, and hence never got to see Husker Du. I’d seen them twice, regaled Jim with some details, and made tapes of the Husker Du albums he didn’t have. You can ask him, but I think Bob Mould was his biggest early guitar inspiration. And further discussions involved the gender identity of the band, though being early-20s guys in the late ‘80s, we probably didn’t talk about “gender identity” as much as how/when we were called the ol’ “f”word in high school, and how the Huskers must have dealt with tons of awful shit from the more unseemly sides of the hardcore scene.

Husker Du was a favorite band, but also our introduction to really thinking about these issues that were still pretty swept under the turkey at the family Thanksgiving meal back then. We were both raised Catholic, so...

So, Grant Hart. After the Warehouse show at the Phantasy Theater in Cleveland in summer 1987 (they would break up soon after the end of that tour), I made my way to the adjacent upstairs bar, whose backroom was being used as a backstage. I saw Grant and said, “Great show!” He looked at me a little cockeyed, then turned around, asking, “Does anyone have any heroin around here?” So, that was that.

I loved his 2541 EP from 1988, the first post-Husker Du release. By then I was best friends with the first friend to ever come out to me; and that happening right around the release of that EP, well, one should always appreciate life’s teachable serendipity.

Then, the first time I ever went to New York City and first time I went to CBGB in 1989 with said out pal, the first band I saw there was Hart’s Nova Mob. (Well, technically Run Westy Run opened up.) They were pretty good, and I was glad to see Hart still going at it, but it seemed soon enough that he wasn’t. Didn’t hear much except sporadic solo stuff after Nova Mob split up, and given the usual rumors, figured he was done. But then my band was pretty busy those years, and I was soaking up tons of new bands, so who knows.

Then, in mid-summer 1999, I get a request from an editor at the Cleveland Free Times to write a preview for Grant Hart’s solo show in Cleveland, and found out he’d be playing Columbus a couple days before. So we hooked up a meeting, which is a whole other story for another post, or if I had the power, a movie. It was a strange couple of days, involving breaking into the trunk of the early ‘80s Cadillac he was touring in (”Got it from Rent-a-Wreck, seriously”), the club, Bernie’s, not paying him what they promised, Hart rightly taking a monitor as payment (probably not worth the $250 he was guaranteed), and me getting a call from him at 3 a.m. asking to be a character witness in court on Monday. Nice dinner with him in there too.

After relative (college) radio silence for a few years, I didn’t know what to expect of the show, and without going into details, let’s just say this seemed like a “rent tour.” Hart was fairly disheveled, but super nice. He’d recently become close with Patti Smith, and I guess she told him her parents last names were Grant and Hart, and that once she heard of him, she took that as a sign from the stars to work with him. Anyway, standing in Berne’s with like 10 other people watching him, I was utterly floored once again. His voice was just teeming with the weight of all those slushy winters. I just kept thinking, this is unbelievable how intense he is, and how good these songs are, and how no one even in my circle of music heps even knew this show was happening, in the middle of summer no less, when campus is pretty dead anyway. Unfortunately, a horrible flu had also floored me, a 102 temperature, and I could only stay about four songs of his set before heading home to sweat in bed. “Ah, I’ll see him again.” That was the last time I saw him play.

R.I.P. Grant Hart.

#grant hart #husker du #newbombturks #granthart

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what-even-is-thiss · 7 years

Text

Fic, You Don't Know Everything

@ts-sideblog requested a fic about Logic getting mad when the others know things that he doesn’t. Let’s see where this goes.

Forgive me for using google translate, by the way. English is the only language I’m native level in and I’m only at ILR level 1 with high German.

Tip Jar

Fic under the cut. 2,093 words. I can’t think of any warnings. Let me know if I should add some. I’m bad with warnings but really feel I should get better because I myself need them for certain things. Please let me know if I should add a warning.

Abstract: Being basically one dimensional aspects of a three dimensional personality, the sides tend to be slightly territorial. Especially Logan, who can’t seem to comprehend anyone stepping out of their assigned role, even though he does so at times.

Logic was checking through his flashcards.

“German? Der Prinz ist dumm. Yes,”

He flipped to the next one. “Arabic. Al'amir ghabi. Yes,”

“Hey Logan! What’re you up to?”

Logic did not look up from his cards. “Not now, Morality. It is none of your concern,”

Patton watched him go down the hall. Logic didn’t notice the stupid Prince approaching.

“Dutch. Die prins is dom,”

“That would be Afrikaans, actually. There is a difference,”

Logic looked up to see if it was who he thought it was. Unfortunately, it was.

“Oh. Hello Roman,”

The silence between them became thick enough to cut with a knife. Logic’s eyes looked everywhere but the regal figure that was blocking his way. Roman’s arms were crossed and he looked at Logic with a cold stare that could drill through rock. After a solid half minute of this uncomfortable arrangement, Logan cleared his throat.

“So, you speak Afrikaans as well?”

“I am the imagination, Logan. I can speak any language I want, even if Thomas does not speak it,”

Roman pushed Logic against the wall and walked past him. Suddenly Logic understood how Thomas had played so many villains in plays. He then willed a trash can into existence and dumped the flash cards into it.

Any language? He could not believe this. He decided to go to a library within the mind space. That was where all the facts and practical ideas were kept. That was his space.

He decided to take refuge in the fiction library. Perhaps he could revisit the plot of an old epic or mystery novel. When he got there however, he found he was not alone.

“Hey,” said Anxiety, hanging upside down off a table reading from a book of works by Edgar Allan Poe.

Logic was slightly taken aback. “Anxiety, why are you here? This is my space. And… I have no memory of having ever read that,”

“You and Princey aren’t the only ones around here that like poetry, pocket protector. Besides, I like this guy. There’s no hope in anything. Everything is creepy. He knows the truth,”

“We have read the works of Edgar Allan Poe?” Logic asked, still not believing it.

“You don’t have all the information, Logan.”

Logan started talking quickly. “Anxiety, that is complete and utter nonsense. I am the mind. I am where the information is stored. How could any of you possibly have any information that I do not?”

Anxiety turned himself around until he sat upright. and then swayed slightly as the blood rushed out of his head.

“Oh, wow. Okay,” he finally righted himself.

“How long were you hanging upside down?” Logan asked, slightly concerned.

“Too long. Here, you want answers? Read this page. Even a literal idiot like you can figure it out. I’ve got somewhere to be,”

Anxiety shoved the open book into Logic’s chest, waited for him to get a grip on on it, and then sunk out of the library.

Logic looked down at the page Anxiety had left open. It had parts of two long poems on it and one short one. Sonnet-To Science.

Roman was walking angrily through a forest he had imagined, hacking at bushes and trees angrily with his katana. Today had not been a good day. He was experiencing a horrid case of writer’s block, he was generally feeling distracted, and then he had heard wind of Logic’s little project from Thomas and it had turned out to be true. On an ordinary day he might not be so bothered by it, but right now he was fuming.

Prince was just about to attempt to cut off a branch with one hack, when Anxiety popped out in front of him.

“Hey, Princey,” Anxiety said, an evil smirk on his face.

Roman screamed a surprisingly high pitched scream and fell over. The forest blinked away and they were standing in his room. A clean bright space with a large double bed and rich decorations that could convince you that you were in pre revolutionary France.

“What in the name of Hades’ helmet are you doing? I nearly killed you!” Roman cried out, clutching at his heart.

“Ah, cut it with the dramatics, Hercules. I’m here because you’re pissed. I thrive under these conditions. So much inner turmoil,”

Roman stood up. “So you are here to make it worse. This is why I do not like you. Well, it is among many reasons why I do not like you,”

“Oh, really? Well if you can spend two minutes of your stupid, ‘happy ever after’ existence being serious, I’ve got an idea,”

Roman looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m bored, you’re pissed, let’s mess with Logan. If we can disguise it properly, I’ll bet we can get dad in on it too. He’s pretty gullible,”

Roman sheathed his sword.

“That would not be a noble thing to do,” He said simply.

Anxiety buttered his words with sweet venom. “C’mon, man. I know you fantasize about being the villain too. It can’t always be me. When Thomas plays the bad guy we’re both right up on stage with him. You know it’s true,”

Roman narrowed his eyes and gave Anxiety a side glance. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

Logic’s mind was racing. He jumped from one book to the next, picking up facts here and there. How could any of them know something he didn’t? It made no sense. Nothing around here made sense. If Thomas knew something, then Logan must know it too, right?

He thought back to when Morality had corrected him a few months before. Was he making mistakes like that all the time? Did he just say wrong words left and right? He decided to take a breather. It was almost dinner time anyways.

Anxiety smirked and sunk down away from the library and appeared back in Roman’s room.

“So?” Roman asked, “did you find anything?”

“Oh yeah. He’s worried that he’s using malapropisms. He’s also upset that we know things that he doesn’t. Now if we can…”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Huh?”

“That word. What was that word?”

Anxiety looked confused. “Malapropism?”

“Yes, that one,”

“Oh man. Maybe this was a bad idea. Yeah, this was a bad idea. A malapropism is the misuse of big complicated words, you dingus,”

The prince looked offended. “Did… Did you just make fun of the size of my vocabulary and then call me a dingus?”

“I’ve said before that creativity is not my department. Now are you ready to hit the books or what?”

The next day Logic found the prince sitting on an armchair reading a book of myths.

“Ah, Prince. I was just looking for you. We have… What is that book?”

“Oh, this? These are the Norse myths we have read. Fascinating tales. Ah, stories of death and blood and giants. True poetry,”

“I do not believe we have read that many,” Logic said

“That is where you are wrong. We have read all of them. Every surviving story we could get our hands on. Did you think I only read fairy tales, Logan?”

Logic had forgotten what he was going to ask the prince. He angrily walked away without a word.

Later, he found himself in the kitchen in search of a snack. Patton was there baking a cake.

“Hey there, Logan! What are you up to?” Patton asked, happily clapping his hands together to remove some of the flour.

Logic saw that some flour had gotten on his black shirt and began to hit it in an attempt to get it off. “Would you refrain from getting flour all over the kitchen? And why are you baking anyways? Wheat products are incredibly unhealthy,”

Morality smiled and started mixing the batter with a spoon. “Oh, I doubt it’ll kill ya teach. People have been using flour for over eight thousand years and we’re still all here, right?”

Logic took a double take. “Eight thousand years? Are you certain? I do not remember learning that,”

“Well sure. I’ve got some fun facts up my sleeve too ya know,”

He gave Logic a playful punch on the shoulder with his flour covered hand, leaving a white smear behind. Logic suddenly didn’t feel hungry anymore.

Later, Logic was writing down some of his ideas for the newest video when Anxiety popped up.

“You’re worried about something,” Anxiety said.

“And what, pray tell, am I so worried about?” Logic asked as he jotted down some more things on his notepad.

“Circumlocution and malapropisms,” Anxiety said before disappearing without any explaination.

Logic looked up just after Anxiety teleported away.

“What does that mean?” He said, a little too loudly.

Logan stormed into the reference library and opened a dictionary. Roman and Patton had been bringing up stories and facts he had never heard of all day, and now Anxiety had used two words that he did not know the definitions of.

“Circumlocution. The use of many words where fewer would do. When did we learn this?”

He flipped to another page. “Malaprop. The mistaken use of a word in place of a similar-sounding one. Well, I suppose Anxiety was right, but where did he learn those words?”

Roman was listening at a vent with a recording device he had imagined. Morality was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Anxiety was leaning against the wall, hood up, cleaning his nails.

Soon, morality couldn’t hold his excitement any longer. “What’s happening in there? Can you tell?”

Roman listened carefully. “He is ranting to himself. Anxiety, just how confused is he?”

Anxiety started peeling off a bit of nail that had gotten too long. “Imagine rehearsing for ten weeks thinking you’re going to be playing an Antipholus in the comedy of errors only to find you’ve actually been cast as Troy in a stage play of high school musical the day before final dress rehearsal,”

“Very confused would have done,” Said Roman. “How did we pull that off so fast?”

“Do you know what I am?” Asked Anxiety. “I am literally fear. Seriously, do I have to tell you how to add two plus three? I know what I’m doing, Princey,”

“And he is doing a great job!” Patton exclaimed.

“He is coming this way!” Roman announced.

They all vanished before Logan turned the corner.

“Something is happening. Think. Deductive reasoning. This is what you were made for,” Logic said to himself.

Anxiety heard a knock on his door. Yeah, he knew this was a bad idea. He decided to see what would happen if he just didn’t answer.

Logic threw open the door anyways and stepped inside where he immediately tripped and fell over a pile of black skinny jeans and t-shirts.

“Do you have any kind of organization system?” Logan said, angrily getting up.

“What? Not an emotionless robot today, Spock?” Anxiety asked.

Logan gritted his teeth. An angry teacher with messy hair and a look that deadly in his eyes would probably have at least slightly disturbed someone else. However, given how many problems Anxiety caused, he had seen almost every kind of reaction from the others so this did not surprise him one bit.

“Why are you all spitting information at me? That is my job!”

Anxiety leaned against his headboard and put his hands behind his head.

“It’s quite simple, Sherlock. You have been unbearable lately, and you refuse to accept that there are facts, words, and stories that don’t have to do with you. So, with a bit of reading, and a little help from me, Princey and dad gave you one of the most frustrating days of your life,”

Logic took a breath and straightened out his hair.

“I still think you are all trying to do my job. You are all inconsequential. You will see! I know more than all of you combined,”

Logic went off to one of the libraries. Anxiety smiled and murmured to himself after he left. “Never said you didn’t, Mr. Know-it-all,”

In case you were curious about that poem Anxiety shoved at Logic:

Sonnet-To Science, By Edgar Allan Poe

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car, And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

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phoenixmakeswords · 4 years

Text

A new oneshot. Also from Eirnin’s POV. I don’t think it needs any trigger warnings.

Outcast

The incessant pounding on the flat door has begun to fray at my nerves. Will is off at market, leaving me to tend to household matters. I’m in the middle of mending a pair of breeches.

Whoever’s at the door has no intention of leaving anytime soon.

I fling the apartment door open in a fit of temper. Whoever the knocker is has begun to give me a headache; they’ve been at it for the better part of a half-hour.

“Aye? What d’you want?” I snap.

A page from the Seelie stands outside. He looks as irritated as I feel.

“I should think the heir would have better manners,” he replies. I have missed the sound of High Fae. The musicality of my native tongue.

“How was I to know you were from the Court? Do you bring news of home?” I haven’t been home for three years. I miss Faersia, though I am quite content with Will.

“Nay. The King and Queen require your presence.”

I have never received a summons from the Court. I don’t know what they want.

Fear freezes my veins. This cannot be good.

“Then take me home,” I say quietly.

I despise travel by faerie ring. I kneel next to the ring and vomit into the grass. The page glares at me impatiently.

He leads me through the foyer, past the massive ballroom, to the large double gold-inlaid chichimock doors leading to the throne room. Elven archers in golden armor stand guard.

I kneel before the thrones respectfully. I want to stay in their favor.

The sound of running footsteps fills the throne room. I would know my twin’s light footsteps anywhere.

“What are you doing here, Aisling? This does not concern you,” Mother says sternly.

“They have the right to a witness, aye?” The familiar stubbornness in her voice should warm my heart. It fills me with dread.

“Aye. Do you know why you were brought here?”

“Nay, I do not,” I answer. This floor is uncomfortable on my knees. They should perhaps put a rug here.

“Word has reached us that you have a beau.”

They know about Will. They were never supposed to know about him, I realize. The fear and dread hold me in place.

“Aye, I do,” I mumble unwillingly.

“And that your beau is a human man.”

“You would do well to mind your tongue in the Court.”

I don’t apologize.

“We would prefer if you chose a more…appropriate beau. Another Seelie. Or mayhaps an Unseelie. Word has reached us that the Crown Prince of the Unseelie Fae has come of age.”

“I love Will.” I had flings with Seelies. Courted a few. None of them made me feel the way Will does.

“You’re young. This is folly, child.”

“Aye, I do. Then I abdicate. Aisling can rule.”

Aisling stares at me with wide brown eyes. Her mouth pops open in surprise. I’m rather full of surprises today. Disrespecting the Queen. Abdicating the throne I didn’t even want.

“You’re banished.”

“You can’t do that,” Aisling pleads, speaking for the first time. She’s safe. Her lover is an Elf woman. Another Seelie. She’s the ideal child. And I? I’m the refuse. The castoff.

“Aisling, let it go,” I hiss, touching her wrist.

“I said I would help you.”

“There’s nothing you can do.” I have never felt like this. This mixture of disappointment and hurt. I don’t much care for it.

I stand carefully.

“I choose a different name. If I am dead to you, then let the name you gave me be dead as well,” I declare, turning on my heel.

I saunter out of the throne room. I have no more business here.

Aisling follows after me.

“Eirnin. I like it. A bit ironic.” She grins playfully.

“Perhaps I’ve spent too long with Will. I must go.”

She pulls me into a hug, possibly our last one, before I take my leave.

I can never come back. The realization burns. The hurt sinks into my bones.

I take my time going through the woods. I want to relish every moment here.

It’s with a heavy heart that I survey the realm for the last time.

I can never go home.

#my writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #oneshot #hiraeth #backstory

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long-live-loki · 6 years

Text

Ástvinur Ch. 2

Word count: 1,798 Pairing: Loki x Reader Multi-chapter fic that can also be found on my Ao3 account: longliveloki Ástvinur translates to “love friend” (beloved/darling)

You awaken to the sound of your mother screeching your name like a harpy. “(Y/N)! What in the Gods names are you doing?! You should be nearly dressed and ready to go!” You sit up and glance out your bedroom window, panicking when you realize it’s almost dark out. “Mother, I’m sorry! I simply wanted a small nap.” Your mother sighs and drags you out of bed. “Well come on, we need to rush to get you ready. Let’s figure out what to do with your hair.” You put on a robe and sit down in front of your vanity. Your mother starts by brushing out all of your tangles, and since you recently slept, your hair looks like a bird’s nest. You always swore your mother must be a sorceress, because she can untangle your hair in the blink of an eye without so much as a wince from you. Not that you’re complaining, of course. After your hair is looking more like actual hair, your mother pours some oil onto her hands and runs it through your strands, making them feel nice and hydrated. She begins by pulling your hair up into a tight ponytail, separating about a half an inch of the ponytail and making it into a braid. After she uses the rest of the ponytail to make a pristine bun, she uses the braid to wrap around the bun and pins the braid to make sure it doesn’t uncoil from the bun. When all is done, you can’t believe the transformation your hair just went through. You looked - dare you say it - regal. “Mother, thank you so much, my hair looks amazing!” Your mother just smiles at you and motions towards your dress. You hurry over and pull it over your head, careful not to mess up your hair.

When you’re done putting on your dress and smoothing it out, you take a look in the mirror and barely recognize yourself. Your mother finishes the look with a necklace of diamonds with matching earrings your father gave her for their wedding. You looked magnificent, a word you never thought you would ever associate with yourself. After ogling yourself for a good while, your mother clears her throat. “Dear, I think we had better go. I have some nice shoes downstairs that you can wear.” You, not being accustomed to wearing such a large dress, awkwardly make your way down the stairs, nearly tripping a few times. You pop on the small heels and head out back to kiss your father goodbye while you wait for your mother to dress. Thankfully, she’s always been fast at such seeing as she’s so used to going to the balls. She and your father hug and kiss, and off you two go, deciding to walk the whole way to the castle since the weather is glorious.

Your house is only about a twenty minute walk, but with heels on your feet, the entire walk feels like Hel. “Mother, why do women wear such horrid things on their feet? It feels as if my feet are being squished.” Your mother chuckles. “Darling, you are aware that your heel is barely an inch, right? Don’t worry, you’ll forget all about it once you find a handsome man to dance the night away with,” she teases, winking at you. You can’t help but blush. You’ve always been more of an independent kind of girl, just being yourself, not worrying about what society thinks. But now that you’ve been invited to a royal ball of all places, you can feel the stress of having to be prim and proper. Not that you mind, though. Being pampered feels quite nice, and you’re sure when you get there that you’ll immediately want to be invited back. Who wouldn’t want to go to a royal ball?

The closer you both get to the castle, the more nervous you become, however. The castle is enormous, towering high in the sky, looking as if the entire outside was made of gold. It makes for an impressive looking castle, but it’s almost too royal looking. When you and your mother arrive at the entrance, you nearly gasped as you ascended the stairs. The doors at the entrance alone were made of marble so white it almost blinded you. It had veins of gold running through it, and the handles seemed to be made of gemstones. It was overwhelming, and you haven’t even entered yet! You make your way up the stairs, the guards stationed at the front greeting you with a curt, “My Lady,” which made your heart skip a beat. You both are ushered inside and shown the way to the ballroom. You bump into one of the guards, so lost in the amounts of gold, bronze, and marble that adorns the entirety of the castle’s inside. Your mother links arms with you and pulls you to the ballroom, which, if you had to guess, was more than likely ten times the size of your house, and since your family is quite well off, your house is quite large. The ballroom had the same marble, gold, and bronze theme, but the ceilings were adorned with maroon tapestry and beautiful, glistening chandeliers. You were in complete and utter awe.

After the stupor wore off, courtesy of your mother pinching you rather harshly, you look around at all of the guests of the ball. You (rather smugly) notice that most of the women aren’t in as lavish a gown as you are. While that works to feed your ego, it also makes you quite nervous as you can see some of the women giving you nasty looks. You suck in a large breath and put on a small smile, trying not to let the looks get you down. You turn to your mother, or rather, where your mother was supposed to be standing, but she’s nowhere to be found. You walk around searching for her for a few minutes with no luck. When you hear a very deep, authoritative voice carry throughout the ballroom, you stop and look at the source. King Odin stood on a balcony overlooking the ballroom, looking as Kingly as ever. His armor seemed to be made of pure gold, his eyepatch as well. “Welcome everyone, I would like to announce the start of this year’s ball with a performance by the talented, Sigrid. Tonight is a night for celebration, so please, enjoy yourselves!” Everyone cheers as your mother gets up on a small stage situated on a balcony, much like the one Odin stood on but larger. So that’s where your mother went, what a sneaky woman. Clearly she wanted to try and push you to socialize, which unfortunately isn’t something you’re the best at. You walk towards one of the sides of the ballroom, trying to make yourself as invisible as possible for now. You wanted to assess the situation, the dancing, and what men you could clearly tell are looking for dancing partners.

After dreamily watching the women dance for quite a while, their dresses swishing in time with the music, you’re startled when someone puts a hand on your left shoulder. You turn to see who it is, thinking maybe it would be your mother, as she was not singing for this particular song, but to your dismay it was a rather short and stout man. He must have been about your height, partially balding, what hair he had looked unkempt and greasy. His image certainly did not match the rather expensive looking clothes he wore. He held a rather dirty looking hand out to you. “My my, what is such a .. delectable looking woman such as yourself doing all alone?” He moved closer to you, so close you could tell he was most definitely not wearing cologne. You suppress a shiver, not wanting to offend someone who looks like he was a walking nightmare, and manage to squeak out a weak, “Not one for dancing, sir.” He threw his head back and laughed like a horse, grabbing your hands in his and dragging you rather harshly into the dancing crowd. “Nonsense,” he exclaimed over the music, “I’ll show you how a real man dances.”

The creepy man places his hand very low on your waist, his other hand holding your left hand tightly. He motions for you to put your right hand on his shoulder. You begrudgingly do as he requests. The man proves to be a rather sloppy dancer, stepping on your feet often. He also proves to be a rather perverted man, pulling you into him as if on accident so he can sniff your hair. You hold on for as long as possible, going through nearly three songs with him before you’ve had enough. “Sir, I’m quite sorry, but I’m rather tired and I feel slightly dizzy. I’m afraid I will need to sit down after this song is over.” He gives you a nasty, hair raising grin. “Oh no, my dear, you’re going to dance the entire night with me. I doubt I could find a more physically pleasing lady elsewhere,” he says, his hand on your waist going to rest on your rear as he pulls you impossibly close to his body. You attempt to protest again but he willingly ignored you.

The horror and disgust on your face must have been very evident, as not even a few seconds go by before you hear a smooth, but angry voice behind you. “I’m sorry, Lord Olav, but we do not tolerate men throwing themselves like beasts at women who are clearly unwilling.” The man is ripped away from you by two guards, growling and cursing. “I’m quite sorry, my Lady. Had we known that he would assault anyone like that, we would never have invited him.” You turn around to thank the man who had saved you, only to be face to face with none other than Prince Loki. All at once, the air in your lungs is promptly squeezed out. You wrack your brain for a proper way to thank a Prince, choosing to just wing it. “My Prince, I am forever indebted to you. How can I repay such kindness? You truly saved me,” you say softly, dipping into a deep curtsy. You may have never met royalty, but you were taught proper manners. Prince Loki chuckles, “My Lady, please stand up. How about you join me for a dance? I believe a dance would be proper repayment.” He holds out a hand to you, waiting for your answer. You choose simply to put your hand in his and smile, not trusting yourself to say something eloquent enough.

And with that, you’re whisked away to dance with a Prince.

#loki #loki laufeyson #fanfiction #multi-chapter #slow burn #romance #marvel #marvel cinematic universe

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