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afairmaiden · 2 years

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The Others (Part 1)

This is part 1 of my entry for the 2022 Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge). I don’t know if it’s going to be finished by the deadline, but I wanted to get something up at least.

“And this is the condemnation, that the light has come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. For everyone practicing evil hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his deeds should be exposed. But he who does the truth comes to the light, that his deeds may be clearly seen, that they have been done in God.” John 3:19-21

I remember thinking the woods were beautiful.

I remember everything, even the things I was supposed to forget.

In fifth grade we took a field trip to the preserve just north of the city. There were twenty-six of us, plus the teacher and teacher’s aide, and for once they let us choose who we would be paired up with for the day. I waited quietly, watching the others make their choices, until the only other person left was a girl named Jess. I was secretly glad, because I’d always thought she was cool, even if no one else did. Her hair was too long and her clothes were strange-looking, and it was no secret that she and her brother didn’t get enough to eat because her parents could barely support one kid, let alone two. Still, she was always nice, and I was excited to have a chance to hang out with her.

It was a warm day at the very end of April. No one was saying much on the bus. We just watched as the scene outside changed from close gray skyscrapers and pavement to fields of windmills and sparkling solar panels under the open blue sky. Finally, we came to the entrance of the preserve, where a uniformed guard waved down at us from his post high up in the watchtower and opened the gate for us.

We parked by an open grassy area bordered by flowers and trees. There was a large welcome sign and a stand with a physical guestbook where we spent a good ten minutes struggling to write our names with the old-fashioned ballpoint pen that was attached to it. The teacher was annoyed, but I noticed her name didn’t look much neater than ours. I remember it was bright, almost too bright, and far too open and exposed for my liking. It was quiet as well, which seemed strange after the constant humming, buzzing, rattling, whirring sounds of the city, not a sound to be heard except the occasional breeze rustling the leaves. A couple kids nervously asked if there were any animals, but the park ranger who was leading the tour assured us there was nothing to worry about; the animals were in another part of the preserve, and there were cameras everywhere. It was perfectly safe to go exploring.

After a brief tour, we were allowed to wander around on our own, so Jess and I split from the group and went down a trail where some flowers were growing. We read the signs – there were roses and lilies, violets, baby’s breath, white chrysanthemums, pink carnations, monkshood, rhododendrons, tuberose, sunflowers, and snapdragons. We went further down the path, where the bushes grew taller, talking a little as we went, but mostly admiring the scenery. The path went up and up, then turned a little until we suddenly came to a tall chain-link fence. We could see beyond it that everything was wilder, and here we heard other sounds. I thought I heard running water below, and Jess gasped and pointed at something that might have been a bird.

We stood there for a few minutes just looking when I thought I heard something else that I couldn’t quite name. It slowly grew louder, and with it, the light seemed to grow brighter until it was nearly blinding and I had to shut my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed before the noise stopped and I heard my name being called. I looked up to find the teacher’s aide, Marcy, coming toward me. For a second I froze, because she was usually in a bad mood, but she seemed unusually cheerful and started talking as though we were good friends.

“Found you! Well that was fun, wasn’t it? I love it out here, don’t you? But it’s time to be heading back now.”

I looked around to see where Jess had gone but couldn’t see her anywhere. I began to panic and opened my mouth, but found myself unable to speak as Marcy drew nearer, looking entirely oblivious to what had just occurred.

“Come on,” she continued brightly, taking my hand. “Remember what the ranger said? This is public land that’s open to everyone, so you can come back anytime you want.”

I finally found my voice, but all I could say was, “But…Jess—where—”

“What’s that?” Marcy asked. She looked confused. Just then there was the sound of a horn honking. “You’ll have to tell me on the bus. We don’t want to be late.”

We arrived at the bus just as everyone else was getting on. I continued to look around, but Jess remained nowhere to be seen, a fact that seemed entirely lost on both the teacher and the park ranger as they called roll from the guestbook and told the driver that everyone was accounted for. Marcy sat next to me on the bus and made small talk the whole ride back.

When I got home, I used my mother’s computer to try to look up Jess’s family in the building directory, to see if she had gotten home another way, but they weren’t there. Their names, numbers, everything was gone. It was like they’d never even existed.

***

I knew when the lights started flickering that it was only a matter of time. It was hardly a surprise; the factory had been short on people since long before I started working three years ago, we’d been losing people every year, and there was no one to replace them. Over eight hundred apartments in the building, and now less than fifty were occupied, all the other businesses were long gone, services had been cut to the absolute essentials, the elevators were down every other week, and the food seemed even more tasteless than usual. I tried to tell myself it would be alright, that buildings closed all the time, and we’d just be reassigned to an identical one a few streets over, where we’d probably be doing the exact same jobs even. All the same, when the notice finally came from management, my heart started racing and I started having trouble breathing normally.

For half a minute, I actually considered making an appointment with the building therapist. Even if it was an obvious trap, I almost thought it would be worth the risk of being red-flagged for instability if I could actually talk to someone. Fortunately, the moment of insanity passed, and after we were dismissed, I made my way down to the wellness lounge instead, to release the negative emotions in a safe, positive way.

Gina, our resident Lightbringer, was already there, looking perfectly serene and shining as brightly as ever. She greeted me with a warm smile and a slight bow, which I returned, relieved that even if she guessed my true feelings, she wouldn’t mention it. Acknowledging the darkness might dim her own light, and she couldn’t risk that, especially when she appeared to be preparing for a display.

“So, a change is coming,” she said in her usual dreamy tone, closing her eyes and sighing deeply. “What a wonderful opportunity for growth.”

My smile felt somewhat strained as I nodded mutely.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, suddenly fixing her eyes on me intently. “How would you like a change of pace? You’ve certainly distinguished yourself as a model employee during your time here, but I’m afraid that even in a larger factory, your opportunities for advancement will be quite limited. You’re very bright, you know—” She smiled as I stared back in shock. “Far too bright for a place like this. You may not see it, but I do. You have a gift, and I’d hate to see you sell yourself short. Now, the ranger service is looking for qualified applicants, and I think it would be just the job for you.”

I wasn’t about to argue, but I hardly know what to say. I’d ended up here precisely because I’d never been particularly gifted at anything. Decent, yes, solidly average, sure, but gifted? She seemed to sense my hesitation because she smiled encouragingly and put a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m going to put in a recommendation for you, and I expect to hear something soon.”

***

A week later, I boarded the subway with everything I owned packed in one backpack and one standard issue rolling suitcase. I had assumed I would be moving close to the preserve, so I was surprised when I put in my number and discovered that the training center was at the heart of the Inner Circle. Apparently this was news to my fellow passengers as well, as a number of excited whispers suddenly broke out. Though everything outside the windows was flying by in a blur, we knew we were getting close as the light seemed to change, and when we came to our stop fifteen minutes later, we found the station looking bright and clean, the people professional and put-together, and the technology state-of-the-art as interactive holographic displays offered travelers assistance at every turn.

We were met by a man in a tan uniform who scanned our cards and ushered us into an elevator marked ICTC – Authorized Personnel Only, which brought us to a spacious meeting room on the twentieth floor, which looked much like the wellness lounge in my old building, except the walls and furniture were a rich dark red rather than plain white, and instead of harsh white LEDs overhead, the room was faintly illuminated by a soft blue glow coming from the edges of the carpet. In the center of the room, a table of food had been laid out, and a pleasant-looking woman invited us to help ourselves and have a seat while a number of other uniformed individuals took our belongings to our rooms. There were about twenty of us in total, and we all sat a little awkwardly as we waited for the orientation to begin.

It began slowly. After we finished eating, the next hour was spent signing the usual liability paperwork before receiving a series of inoculations we would need to work around actual wildlife – rabies, Lyme disease, a number of diseases I assumed had been eradicated centuries ago and others I had never heard of. Then while we were all feeling a bit sore and slightly sick, the woman who had greeted us took her place at a podium in front of the room and began began to speak.

“I hope you all understand what a great honor it is to be chosen for this program,” she said. “We’re doing very important work here, work that keeps not just the preserve, but the whole city safe.”

She began her presentation on local wildlife, making use of a holographic projector like the ones we had seen below.

“This is a chipmunk. This is a squirrel. This is the sound of a mountain lion screaming.”

This continued for a couple hours before it was time for lunch. More food was brought in, and after a while, we began to relax and even started talking a bit. When it was time to start again, the lights dimmed, and the instructor once more took her place at the podium, this time making use of a large screen on the wall. Her expression, which had seemed pleasant at first, now appeared somewhat forced as she smiled down at us.

“You should know,” she said quietly, “that we’re not alone here.”

She waited a moment for the sentence to sink in before pressing a button, and a map of the city, outlined in blue, appeared on the screen.

“Here, you see, is the city. This—”

She hit the button a second time, and the map zoomed out slightly, revealing a larger area outlined in yellow.

“This is the border of the old city. And this—”

She hit the button once more, and the map zoomed out until the city was a fraction of its size, a spot of gray in a sea of green. She pointed to an area about a hundred miles southeast.

“This is where we believe they’re located.”

“There are people out there?”

The question came from a girl near the back, who immediately turned red and clapped her hands over her mouth. Everyone stared at her, then looked to the instructor awaiting her response. Finally, she spoke.

“No,” she said slowly. “We don’t think they’re people.”

The rest of the meeting was kind of a blur. The instructor explained that they were known simply as the Others. We had first made contact with them about two hundred years prior, and considered them not exactly friends, but allies. They had helped us develop certain technologies that had allowed our city to survive the Long Winter. Even so, they had never sought to interfere with our governance, but seemed content to keep an eye on things from a distance. But lately, she said, there had been some...concerning developments.

“Wildlife behaving strangely. Unusual weather patterns. You may have noticed that the wireless network has been a bit unreliable at times. And the issues with the electric grid haven’t been limited to older buildings.”

As if on cue, the lights flickered once...then twice.

She continued, “Meanwhile, they’ve been increasingly unresponsive to our communications.”

She turned back to the map.

“We call it the Dead Zone. All technology fails there. Signals get scrambled. Video feeds freeze up. Satellites can’t get a clear picture. Large crafts are too conspicuous. Small crafts get knocked down or blown off course by strong winds. Even our...alternative methods have proved ineffective. We don’t know why, but we don’t think it’s a coincidence. If we want answers, we’re going to have to go down there ourselves. Or I should say, you are going to go.”

She paused again before continuing, “It may be dangerous. In the early days, we agreed to certain boundaries, and there’s a possibility that crossing into their territory will be considered an act of war. That is why it is absolutely imperative that we all demonstrate our unwavering commitment to walking in light.”

Her smile never faltered, but I imagined there was a flash of warning in her eyes.

“Now, you are here because we have faith in you. And in order to prepare you further, we have invited Lightbringer Gina Avery to assist in your training, beginning with a special display after dinner.”

***

The display that evening was even more spectacular than usual. As always, we filed into the room in silence and took our places on the floor, careful not to bump into each other as the door shut, leaving us in utter darkness. We remained in silent meditation for a few minutes before we heard the sound of low, distant rumbling start, and began to see the faintest glow of red rising from the floor, revealing the dark silhouette of the city skyline with clouds flying low overhead. Then came the sound of a bell, and Gina began to speak.

“We have gathered together this evening to remember. To look into the shadows of the past, the dark times of blindness and ignorance and despair, and to recognize how far we have come.”

The rumbling grew louder, and the moment she finished speaking, there came a sharp crack, and for the briefest moment, the room was illuminated by a flash of red as if lighting had struck in our midst. Several people screamed. I remembered watching displays with my mother as a small child and how I would instinctively reach out for her at these times, and how on those rare occasions she would pull me in and hold me close, stroking my hair until it was over.

Gina continued, “We remember the times of inequality and suffering, when greed and selfish ambition dominated, when prejudice and superstition made people afraid.”

As she spoke, the lightning continued, illuminating larger silhouettes like monsters rising above the city, bent on destroying it. Greed was a tall, thin man with glowing green eyes counting out bills. Ambition was an ancient barbarian with a sword, cutting down everyone around him until he was the last one standing. Superstition was a group of people bowing before strange symbols, then turning to attack one another. These images lasted only moments before the lightning ceased, leaving the city illuminated by dancing waves of red and orange, like fire.

“But now...” The flames froze. “We know better.” They faded. “We suffered great losses...” Utter darkness once more. “But we have survived and advanced as a civilization.” A hint of white on the horizon. “We have learned to live in harmony...” The city suddenly illuminated by millions of points of yellow light from every window. “To embrace diversity, equity, and inclusion in all realms of society...” The sky turned a brilliant pink. “To care for the earth and all its creatures above our own convenience...” Purple. “To sacrifice our own desires for the good of others...” Blue. “As we meditate on these things, we shine with the light of the universe...” The ceiling above now filled with millions and billions of stars and swirling galaxies. “We give no place to the darkness. We banish from our minds all fear, all anger, all selfishness, all lies of the past that would drag us back into the shadows of disharmony. We will not allow our lights to be dimmed.”

[part 2]

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #imagery: light #story: incomplete

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violettesiren · 2 months

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Owl-night, moon-gone, my wherewithal is yellow pine. Is trillium and unfurled frond.

Clouds,—a cantilever of the trees, vapor- plied architecture of the ephemeral—teach me

the apparition-life, what tunes the branches’ nocturne off-key: how do bodies turn into

song? Glow of dust and sandstone light, stars dropped like pebbles, like crumbs, heretofore

a fairy tale trail. Barn owl, secretive and out- spoken, you spout two minds, a hiding place

and a traffic sign. What’s this absence you speak of? Nonsense-yakking lost soul,

lost soul, the self-question that grows— Who what?—odd and old.

Build me up into the fog, into brevity made beautiful, the wet-dressed disaster

that’s rain, that’s the storm-threat of forest fire. I want to be ornate and ornery. More than

a vapor-child, a night’s ward like the white monkshood tucking under its bud, too shameful

to flower. I am hearing it: spring’s first wild melt, each drop trickling into the next, a minor

chord. So snow’s gone, so how can I be ice dissolving in water?

Cloud me, sparrowing and bark-loose, each season’s dark ambition: a patient pattern

gone. O, I am hearing it: this say-nothing noise, how the world’s clamor-born and

sorrowful, tricked for loss, the silent purpling of crocuses mouthing back at the owl:

I will not, and soon—

Conversation with Owl and Clouds by Jennifer Chang

#jennifer chang

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sandpumpkin · 4 years

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Omg a spooky event! I’m so hype! Could I please ask for church with Robin and Treat? Thank you so much darling 🧡🧡🧡

It is done!!! Hope it’s okay!!! Churches are spoopy

Night of Terror

Robin/Church/Treat

Pushing her sunglasses up off her face, resting atop her long ebony hair. Robin looked up at the dilapidated church before her. From the outside she could tell what era it was from and had a good mental image of how grand and majestic the church would have been in its glory days. It was unclear why it had been abandoned but such is the fate of churches. The white cobbled path, unwalked for so many years, had fallen into disrepair and nature had set to claiming it as its own, weeds and the purple hoods of wolfbane lined the path leading up to the church doors.

“Monkshood..how ominous..” Robin mused, remembering the meaning behind wolfbanes: caution and death, but it also meant misanthropy. Robin humed as she headed up the flower lined path “I wonder if I should meet any spirits..” setting her hand on the warped wooden door and slowly pushed it open enough for her to slip in.

Robin instantly shuddered from the drop in temperature as she stepped into the church’s hallowed halls. Taking in the eerily serene sereny in the main hall, the sun's warm rays slipped in through the chipped stain glass windows, casting an unfelt warm glow on Robin as she walked down the abandoned aisle, her heels echoing through the stone hall. Stopping at the altar, Robin inspected the strangely dust free gold sculptures of angels that lined the tall stone pillars behind the altar. “How peculiar.” she frowned, tracing her fingers across the marble altar which left trails in the dust that had settled there.

A demon in our hallowed halls?

How unsavory.

Demon child.

Robin whirled around her heart beating a little faster in her chest, the hall was still empty but she was certain she heard voices. Noone had followed her in, only her footprints remained upon the floor.

Demon.

cleanse the demon..

Robin froze in her spot as a foreboding dread loomed over her. Slowly turning back round she witnessed the angels on the wall twisting away from it, leaving gold trails in their wake, they twisted together forming one giant angel who’s blank emotionless eyes stared down at Robin.

Retribution.

Robin took a step backwards and turned on her heels quickly running down the aisle towards the door which was now shut. With every step Robin took, she made no progress at all. The door seemed so far away and with every panicked stride, the hall seemed to grow every longer.

Gold tendrils wrapped around Robin’s ankles pulling her feet from beneath her sending Robin crashing to the cold stone floor with a painful thud. The gold angel dragged Robin back towards the altar, where a wave of gold spikes awaited her. Trying to use her devil fruit powers proved in vain.

Your devil powers have no hold here.

Robin tried to grab a nearby pew but the force of the angels only dragged it with her.

The door was rudely kicked off its hinges letting the sun cast the shadows back into the darkness. “Oi Robin!” Franky’s voice bellowed through the church, his lumbering form hurried towards her casting the pew as if it were light as a feather. Carefully he lifted her up onto her feet.

“Franky..” Robin looked back at the altar, the angels back in their original form watching with unfeeling eyes. “I tripped.” she smiled picking her bag up off the floor “I found nothing of use..we should head back.”

Franky nodded “Super good idea. This place is creepy.” he added, guiding Robin out of the cold and curious church back into the warm sun where her friends were waiting for her.

“Robin!”

Robin made a mental note to avoid exploring abandoned churches alone in future. She did encounter spirits...and they were indeed not of the friendly sort. As the wind danced across the weeds and flowers, a voice could be heard on the winds.

You cannot escape us demon child..

#pumpkin writes #night of terror #one piece #Nico Robin #horror #spoops

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cloudbattrolls · 3 years

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The Tithe

TW: bugs, worms, mild body horror (nothing heavily described).

Wasps buzzed along the winding rock path.

A solitary figure trudged along it, surrounded on both sides by thick clouds of yellow and black. The insects darted among the yarrow and monkshood, the bluebells and sego lilies, antennae and eyes alert as a stranger to their land passed by.

Nestled in a valley between two peaks, the path led to a town so old it was almost part of the land itself. All its signs were weathered and worn with sun and rain, replaced only when they began to crumble.

The traveler paid the fluttering wasps no mind. They didn’t see the few white ones hidden among the yellow, black, and gold. The white ones saw them instead, faceted gazes following them without pause. These few creatures waited, buzzing among the flowers that braved the growing alpine chill.

The traveler looked over the town before they walked down into it - even the buildings were shaped like wasp nests, roundish wooden structures with hexagonal windows.

Someone certainly had picked a theme and run with it. Maybe the place belonged to some wacky entomologist.

People in the town spoke with accents the traveler hadn’t ever heard, and they had traveled quite a while. The townsfolk said it was because few of them ever left. They never felt the need; they were well taken care of, anything they could want brought to them.

By who? The traveler asked.

The people only smiled. Stay, and you’ll meet her, they assured them.

Golden wasps adorned the doors, gleaming under the light of old-fashioned street lamps. The traveler didn’t ask, hoping to figure it out themself. It was more fun that way. Perhaps this caretaker kept the living ones to defend the place from the rest of the world.

Everyone in town always seemed to have as much food and comforts as they wanted, lacking for very little. Everyone seemed to have someone for company, and as much as they needed without excess. No trash blew in the wind, no houses were abandoned.

Everyone wouldn’t answer any further questions about their caretaker. It was waved away with a smile, with an indifferent shrug. She’d come eventually. End of the month at the latest. No rush.

The traveler was pretty sure something really weird was going on by this point, because they weren’t a complete idiot.

They also felt bad after discreetly drinking blood from a lot of these people (it wasn’t like there was anyone else for miles, and they preferred that to going feral from hunger, thanks). It would be nice to maybe see if there was anything they could do in return for using them as snacks (assuming they weren’t all in some kind of evil bug cult).

If everyone turned out to be too cuckoo to bother with, well, they could always leave.

So, what do you folks most enjoy?

They’d asked one night, feet up on the table. They leaned back in their chair, arms bent and hands cupped behind their head.

Getting piss drunk, one man had said. Another person elbowed him, and a few people laughed. Then a young woman piped up, fingers running over a beautiful amber necklace she wore.

It’s always nice after the tithe. We celebrate, and she brings us presents. It’s a little festival.

A few older townsfolk sighed at that.

It’s not about presents! One scolded. Yes, she’s very kind about it, but it’s our most important duty.

Yeah, yeah, grumbled the young woman good-naturedly. You see how righteous you are when she brings your new stuff.

Their ears pricked, the traveler said nothing, hoping to hear more about the tithe. But no one spoke of it further, the conversation turning to other things.

Well, that didn’t bode well, yet they were morbidly curious to see how this would all play out.

There was a big fountain in the center of town (guess what lived there? More wasps) that they liked to sit on the benches near and work on repairing or designing clothing at. They’d mended some things for the people who kindly let them stay, baffling in of itself that they were so trusting. How did they survive, honestly.

When a fleet recruiter came to town trying to drum up soldiers and did not even get to open his mouth a second time before wasps ate him alive, shedding a bit of light on that particular question.

The bones were picked clean so white there wasn’t a scrap of meat left, collected by townspeople who acted as if they were merely picking up some trash blown in the wind. Townspeople who merely shrugged and rolled their eyes as if it was all quite routine.

Which left the traveler with a fairly obvious question: why hadn’t they been attacked?

Not that they could bleed, of course, their skin and outer appearance a facade for their parasitic insides. Did the predatory wasps recognize something they couldn’t eat, and thus let them pass? Were they intelligent enough to be security guards? They certainly didn’t seem to harm the locals.

Though they certainly followed them everywhere. No one walked without a wasp or two trailing them, and they’d seen them crawling in the buildings. No one ever commented on this. Flowers grew in abundance, treated reverently, and people polished their little door wasps as reverently as if they were being paid to do it.

Okay, so the town was there to serve the wasps, probably. But why? Who put them here, what were they protecting? Was there something worse than them around, demanding some sort of tribute for their services in the form of this ‘tithe’? That’d be depressing. On the upside, the ensuing fight would be fun and guilt-free.

It was a cool, brisk night with the starlight sparkling off the fountain stone when the whole town gathered around it.

Only the stone. The water had been drained.

The traveler was really not looking forward to what that meant or why everyone was holding a small knife engraved with a wasp in their hands, looking eager.

Hey, so, what happens for the tithe? They said, trying to sound casual and like they didn’t have a loaded gun, smoke bombs, and explosives hidden in case they needed them.

You’ll see. It’s such a small thing, really, our way to give back to her.

Her. Doesn’t she have a name?

She’ll introduce herself when she comes. She’s very nice.

The traveler was placing their bets on just who and what she was when people started slitting their arms and bleeding into the fountain, blithely lining up and walking away when done, chattering about nothing in the meantime.

One by one by one.

Even as a parasitic blood drinker, the traveler was alarmed as the fountain filled with drops from obediently slit veins, bandaged up afterward by those who had already gone, or were waiting.

Why did they do this willingly? What could possibly make this worth it?

It had to be another vampire; they hissed in anger at the thought. Definitely worth fighting, at least. If they could kill them, even better - one less was better for everyone, and this one was clearly far worse than they were.

This tempting smell was almost overwhelming despite their own feeds -

Oh god. Had they weakened their victims too much to bear the cost of the tithe? Out to lunch as these people might be, the traveler didn’t want them dead. They’d probably been brainwashed their whole lives.

One fell over and was caught by their fellows. Another fell as well. A third.

The traveler felt a tug of guilt at their writhing insides, no matter how useless and contradictory that feeling was. There was no changing what they were, and they’d had no idea this was coming.

The blood in the fountain steadily rose, lapping and staining the fountain’s edges, and a hot wind cut through the cold air.

A low buzzing surrounded the gathering as the last local made their cut.

Everyone fell silent, and every person that could turned and bowed.

The traveler crossed their arms, annoyed.

A woman stepped up to the edge of the crowd, who parted for her like water, moving back from the stranger in their midst so that they stood alone. She wore an old scuffed hat in the style of a cowherd. Her long legs were half-covered by boots with silver spurs, a poncho over her shoulders and dust on her worn jeans.

Her eyes were covered by a faded tan bandanna, but she seemed to stare straight at them as she put her hands on her hips.

“I see you’ve been swipin’ at my supply, sugar cube. That’s just plum rude. How would you feel if I did that to you?”

They threw a smoke bomb at her and went for her throat. If they could just -

Wasps covered them mid-leap, stingers poised around every inch of their body, a great buzzing prison surrounding everything but their face.

The woman waved her hand, and more wasps came to fan the smoke away with their wings.

“I don’t need to see you, honey. I can feel you. I’ve felt you since you rolled in here, and I know something ain’t right. Something’s different about you, even for your kind.”

The traveler snarled, as they'd about had it with all this idiocy.

“Face me like an adult and stop hiding behind your pets.”

The smoke fully cleared, and the woman stood with hands on her hips, smiling.

She opened her mouth and white wasps poured out.

The traveler stared.

“No.” They whispered. “No. It can’t be.”

All throughout the shell of their body, their own white worms shuddered. They had always thought - always hoped - they were the only one of their particular type of blood drinker. The only thing of such wretchedness in the entire world.

Bugger to that, apparently.

They watched, immobilized, as the woman’s swarm flew to the blood-filled fountain, drinking much of it, but not all. After they went back into the woman, townspeople came and collected the rest, reverently placing it in refrigerated coolers.

The traveler looked at their fellow monster.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Rhyssa. Now who are you?”

“Tuuya.”

“Well, Tuuya, how’re you gonna pay me back for that blood you nabbed? Don’t be a pill, we can still settle this proper like gentlefolk. Hell, I’ll even let you stay for the festival! It don’t gotta be like this.”

The vampire stared, still suspended by the buzzing swarm.

“How are you going to pay these people back for deceiving them into being your willing smoothies for their entire lives? I don’t owe you anything.”

Her face twisted into a scowl.

“Y’don’t get it. I take care of them. They’re my people, I protect them, Protect them from the likes of you.”

They rolled their eyes.

“Oh, how absolutely genial of you to - ”

All their limbs were ripped from their body at once and they screamed, worms flailing as they were exposed to the air without warning and stung by the pitiless insects. The squirming white invertebrates died by the dozens, helpless against the scourge.

Then it stopped.

Nearly blind from pain, they looked up blearily to see Rhyssa putting her hands over her mouth, rigid in what they could only assume was shock.

“I’m - I’m so sorry - no, no, how can this - no, you’ve gotta be a fake - ”

Tuuya wasn’t in a state to do much more than groan.

The wasp drinker pulled on her long hair in agitation, walking up to them and kneeling down on the grass.

She whispered a word, a name they barely heard as their worms struggled to repair themselves from the onslaught. Hlayos. Who or what was that? It probably didn’t matter. They were going to die here, to some obnoxious wasp woman who didn’t have the right.

Then...they felt themself healing. The wasps crawled over their body, somehow mending the worms they’d stung, helping them regrow or fuse back together.

They saw more wasps healing those townsfolk who’d fallen from blood loss and injured themselves, but that didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be. They had to be hallucinating from pain. Parasites couldn’t mend. Theirs couldn’t.

The townsfolk retreated, taking the coolers of blood with them. The yellow and black wasps departed as well, none left buzzing around the fountain.

Its water began to flow again, washing away the stains. In the deep quiet broken only by the trickle of liquid, it was as if nothing had happened at all.

The worm drinker couldn’t see the woman’s eyes behind the bandanna, but her shoulders shook as she held herself, rocking gently.

“It’s you. It’s really you...except...no. You died.”

Her words were empty nonsense. Tuuya waited until they healed further, their limbs re-attached as worms knitted together, and they pushed themself up.

They couldn’t fight her. They knew they had been spared for some reason beyond their comprehension, and didn’t feel like pushing it. Something about being ripped apart and stung repeatedly made a person a little tender.

Rhyssa’s head tilted, seeming to look up at the other vampire.

“Don’t go.”

A quiet, desperate plea. Tuuya turned, ignoring it, walking away quickly before breaking into a run.

“Don’t go!”

A desperate cry, followed by a word they fled from, a word that spurred their strides into leaps, scrambling away in such desperation they nearly fell on the rocky path leading out of town and back down, as far away as they could get.

A single, terrifying word that couldn’t be true, but settled in their head and wouldn’t leave. It sunk into their every thought, dragging them down, tearing apart the truth of their life.

A word that must have been what saved them, yet damned them in the same breath.

Sibling.

#cloud writes #etuuya vannyn #rhyssa #and so we kick off #the children of ozyrel

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childrenoflight-darkness-nothing · 4 years

Text

When Castor Met Aislin...

——

Castor waited patiently for the guards to come. He didn’t pace anxiously around the cell. Nor did he struggle against the iron cuffs keeping him chains against the wall. He did nothing but sit, perfectly at ease, with his back resting against the wall on the bed of hay; ignoring the painful burning caused by the iron around his wrists... his ankles.

Anyone would say he was perfectly compliant. That he had subjected himself to his fate (whatever his fate might be). And maybe perhaps he was. Maybe in the three days spent down in the castle dungeons he had made peace with whatever was to come.

He had tried at first, to find some spark of guilt for the things he had done. The crimes he had committed. But no such spark existed. Truly, in his heart, he knew that what he had done was right and no part of himself could be found to regret his actions.

Saving that girl—that very human, very powerless girl—had been the right thing to do. Even if he had had to attack three of his own cousins to do so. Even if he could still feel their blood against his hands as he’d protected her. Had fought for her. Someone had to. Someone in this world had to stand up against the wrongs committed by those who used their power, their position, to hurt those weaker than them.

Treason.

He’d committed treason. The weight of the word was not lost on him. And maybe he should regret it. Maybe saving one girl was not worth everything he could lose. Everything he had worked for. All the pain and the late nights and the swallowing of his own tongue when it was his own skin that took on the injustices of the world. Everything he had hoped to change...

Gone.

But no. What he had done was right. Castor was sure of it. Nothing was worth letting an innocent suffer the hands of his cousins.

A commotion sounded on the other end of the dungeon, capturing Castor’s attention. He turned an emotionless gaze towards the far corner of his cell trying to catch sight of what was happening. He heard shouting. And he caught sight of a guard as they came to open his cell door—one he didn’t recognize though only four days ago he knew the faces and names of every guard stationed at the capital. For a brief moment he wonders if maybe it’s time for his trial, but no that couldn’t be right. And it wouldn’t explain the commotion, would it? They weren’t likely to come for him, while whatever chaos had started at the other ends of the dungeon was going on. It wouldn’t be smart. Too many distractions.

The sounds moved closer, and it was then that Castor realized they were struggling with a prisoner. The noises coming from the end of the room sounded almost feral, and if they hadn’t sounded so strangely feminine he would’ve assumed they were struggling with a wild animal.

Castor rose to his feet as another guard let out a loud curse, before calling for a vial of monkshood. It was a poison they often used for the more unruly prisoners. Though the main ingredient of the mixture was in fact monkshood, Castor knee it was also mixed with something else. A rare berry that would fasten the effects of the flower, causing the prisoners to drop almost instantly. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what the other ingredient was. Only that the mixture itself burned as it entered your system, like fire in your veins as it worked it’s way throughout your body. Castor learned the exact effects himself after they’d used it on him just three days ago. It was an experience he didn’t wish on anyone.

He could still feel the memory of it. How he’d clawed at his skin trying to get the burning to stop. A fire inside him that had been eating him from the inside out. It was a pain like nothing he’d felt before, and he’d writhed on the cell floor a pathetic whimpering mess convinced that he would die slowly and alone until his old second had slipped him the antidote.

A scream echoed through the stone walls, only for everything to fall silent a moment later. The fight gone completely from the other prisoner. Castor heard a grunt as the guards heaved the prisoner from the floor. Not a minute later his own cell door was being pulled open, and a young girl thrown inside. Her body crumpled to the floor and Castor struggled to his feet.

The guard tossed a vial in his direction, uncaring as to whether Castor caught it or it crashed and broke on the cobblestone. “Give that to her, or let her die,” he said as Castor caught they vial between his cuffed hands. “I really don’t care which.”

Castor uncorked the vial before he even spared the girl a glance. With a sniff of the contents his suspicions were confirmed. The antidote to the pain she’d just been subjected to. Without it, she would die, and judging by the state of her she wouldn’t last long.

He took in the state of her as he pulled her head into his lap, his touch gentle. Her brown skin was covered in more blood and grime than anything else. And her clothing was in tatters, barely covering her. She whimpered as he moved her, a broken barely there sound.

“There you go,” he said as he tilted the contents slowly into her mouth. There wasn’t much in the vial... He hoped it would be enough. “Not long now.”

Castor placed a hand on her forehead unsticking the curls that had found a home there, dried and held in place by a good deal of sweat and the blood that was still seeping from a wound along her hair line. His hand burned against her fevered skin.

“Make it stop,” she said, her voice weak and dry as she found a small moment of clarity. Her eyes fluttered open for a second, only to fall back closed as she shuddered. Her throat released a strangled sound as she writhed. “Please.”

“Just a few more minutes,” he assured. Though he wasn’t sure how long the antidote would take to work. The only thing he could remember from when Jacelyn had given it to him was their hand in his hair as they’d say with him through the pain. In his state the time it took hadn’t even registered to him. Only that it seemed to slowly fade away until nothing was left but a stinging in his veins. “That’s the worst of it now.”

When the worst of her shuddering had stopped Castor gently slid her back on to the floor, he didn’t notice the white of his shirt now stained with her blood as he examined her. He realized she couldn’t be less a few years younger the he was. Seventeen or eighteen summers at the most with as small and frail as she was. Her skin was little more than a loose sack around her bones, ribs and joints protruding.

Castor frowned as he took in her injuries, he quickly came to realize that the gash on her forehead and the monkshood poison were minor compared to the rest of the damage her body had taken. Bruising covered nearly every inch of her, and she had several broken ribs. Where there was no bruising she had multiple cuts and lacerations and where her skin wasn’t broken she was littered with dozens of scars. Wounds he quickly recognized from similar ones that had marred his own skin. This girl hadn’t gotten hurt in defense from the guards... No. She’d been tortured. Whipped and cut open.

The girl whimpered as he moved her to examine each wound. And hating himself because there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t even clean them.

“Goddesses above,” he exclaimed as he took in her back. Swallowing hard as he pulled the stripped remains of her shirt away from her skin so he could see better. Jagged lines of still bleeding skin crossed nearly every inch of her back from where she’d been beaten. “What did they do to you?”

Castor shook his head, biting back on his rage as he schooled his expression. No one deserves this. And he couldn’t help himself from thinking that maybe it would have been merciful to let the monkshood take her, at least that would have been quicker.

The girl didn’t stir again for the rest of the night, not when he set her broken bones or did his best to clean her cuts with what little water he’d been given. Her fever only worsened as the night progressed, and Castor sent a silent prayer that the Goddesses might spare her any more torment. A quick death, or a miracle.

——

“I can help her.”

Castor glanced behind him, towards the bars of a neighboring cell, when he heard the raspy voice. He’d barely even heard it, quiet as it was. His eyes met the eyes of a woman, old and wrinkled. Her brown skin deathly pale in the early morning light.

He hadn’t slept, not for the entire night. Keeping a silent watch over the girl and her worsening condition.

The woman’s hand shook as she reached through the bars. “I can help her,” she repeated. “I’m gifted.”

He shook his head, taking a glance back at the girl before him before looking to the woman again. “You’re in no condition. The strain...” He bit back the words before he could say them, it could kill you.

“I’ll die anyways,” her words were covered by a violent cough as she pulled her hand back to cover her mouth. “Let me do this. I’d rather save her than have my life wasted with execution or sickness.”

Castor’s chains rattled as he moved the girl to other side of the cell. She was light in his arms, too light. The woman reached her hands through the bars, her fingertips stained with her own fresh blood as she placed a hand on the girls stomach.

“Oh Aislin,” she sighed, her voice taking on a mournful tone.

Castor’s believe he might have seen a tear trail it’s way down the woman’s cheek, but he isn’t sure. “You know her?” he finally asks.

She merely nods while she pulls the rest of Aislin’s shirt away, wincing as the fabric sticks to the wounds. But Aislin doesn’t stir, mercifully obvious to any pain. She lays a hand over the worst of the angry flesh on the girl’s back, and a faint light pulses from her palms. The woman murmurs in a language Castor only recognizes from his trip to Mirrior forest, the faeries tongue. Even knowing it was forbidden. Using it, and the power behind it could get them both killed.

Though he supposed they wasn’t much sense in being worried about that now. He was likely facing death for his own crimes.

It doesn’t take long for Aislin’s wounds to knit themselves together, her skin glowing like the sun wherever the woman focused her magic. Castor let out a breath as Aislin side, the first sound of life the girl had made since being thrown into his cell that wasn’t filled with pain and suffering. He thought about stopping the woman as her hands began to shake. As sweat dripped from her brow and she painted with the effort. She would burn herself out if she kept on much longer. But she pressed on, not stopping until even the worst of Aislin’s wounds were nothing more than scars. Nothing but memories left behind.

“You should rest,” he told the woman as she pulled her hands away. She had a ghostly look about her now. Like death herself had swapped places with the woman in her cell.

——

“Time to leave this hell-hole forever,” Jacelyn called from the cell door. Keys rattled as they pulled it open. “King’s finally decided what to do with both of you.”

Aislin didn’t look up from her spot against the opposite wall of the cell she only pulled herself into a tighter ball as the cell door creaked open.

Jacelyn cast Castor a grim smile as they came inside the small room. And he knew whatever news they brought wouldn’t be pleasant. He said nothing as they sat down in front of the newly closed door, perfectly at ease with the criminals inside. If he was going to escape now would be the perfect time, but Jacelyn knew as well as Castor did he would never even make the attempt. He would face whatever news Jacelyn brought with them.

“How bad is it, Jace?” He looked over to his former second. Their expression betrayed the cheery tone they’d entered the cell with, and their shoulders were tense beneath their tunic.

They shrugged, forcing nonchalantness as they faced their captain. Castor might have lost his position as captain of the guard, but Jacelyn would always recognize them with the title. If anyone had brought honour to the position it had been Castor, always leading his people with respect and compassion.

Many called him a stone cold bastard, and perhaps he deserved the title. But he took his position seriously, and he was just and patient with his people. Something Jacelyn would always respect him for.

“Execution for you, you know the usual.” They forced a grin before nodding over to Aislin. “Your friend here gets a choice.”

“What choice?” Aislin demanded, finally looking up. Her voice was barely anything more than a whisper though, her body healed but her strength was not. It would take more than magic to get her healthy.

“Well,” Jace sighed, biting their lip, “you can submit to banishment and everything that entails. Or you can go to one of the chapels, further your education, devote yourself to the Gods. You can die alongside him, or go back to your.... master.” Jace’s features twisted with the word, like it tasted foul in her mouth.

Castor’s brow furrowed in confusion as Jacelyn spoke. If Aislin was a criminal like he’d assumed there was no way they’d let her anywhere near the chapels. Master? A runaway then... Perhaps a serving girl... but that wouldn’t explain the obvious signs of torture...

“I’m not going back,” she said, her voice taking on a stronger more forceful tone. “I’m never going back.”

“Good choice.” Jace nodded. “So, the meadows or one of the chapels?”

“The meadows, I have no desire to be a slave.”

“You wouldn’t be a slave, the chapels are for learning. Following the ways of the Gods, not for slave labor,” Castor cut in.

Aislin shook her head lightly, meeting Castor’s eye for the first time since she’d woken up. Which had been right before they had taken the other woman from her cell. “If you say so, your highness.”

“I’m not a prince, not anymore.” He ground out the words, his hand nearly reaching for the line now burned through his chest. It had been one of the first things they’d stripped of him burning the royal crest from his skin, right before they’d burned through the marks that signifies his place as captain of the royal guard.

“None of that matters.” Jace sighed again. “Your former title, what the chapels are for... None of it. You chose banishment.” They glanced towards Aislin. “So I have one prisoner I have to get ready for the Meadows, and another I have to prepare for death. They’ve refused you last rights, Castor I’m sorry...”

Castor said nothing in response, as Jacelyn moved to crouch in front of Aislin. “I hate to do this, and I’m sorry but I’m going to have to cuff you,” they said pulling the girls wrists away from around her knees. “Wait... what even is your name?”

“It doesn’t matter, Melody is the only one who will bother to remember it.” Aislin’s tone was bitter as she looked to the empty cell beside them. Where the woman who had healed her had been. “What’s going to happen to her anyways?” she questioned. She lifted her arms, wincing as the cuffs snapped around her wrists. Jacelyn had left them lose, but the feeling of them was something Aislin never wanted to experience again.

“I’m not at liberty to say, unfortunately.”

——

“How did someone so... human ever be appointed as captain of the royal guard?” Aislin questioned as Jacelyn led her prisoners through the dungeon.

The captain had linked them both together, a chain weighing down their wrists as they walked side beside.

Jacelyn tilted their head and turned around. They continued to walk backwards as they spoke. “Easy,” they grinned. “Be second-in-command when your superior goes and commits treason. I never thanked you for that, by the way. Your office is so much nicer than my old one.” They nodded in Castor’s direction.

Castor cracked half a smile at them, and Aislin looked at him, realization dawned in her eyes.

“So you’re that prince,” she mused. “Castor Fane Adonis, future ruler of Oclia and the highly esteemed Captain of the Royal Guard. Betrothed to the Bloodstone Heir... though you’re no one now. What did you do anyways?”

“He can tell you his story later,” Jace said. “We’re here.”

——

“Not this one,” a voice cut in as the three of them entered the room. Castor recognized one of his cousins instantly. He still had a smattering of bruises on his face from his fight with the former captain. He grinned as he took Aislin’s face into his hands. “This one goes back.”

She shrinked away from him, but the prince’s grip was firm. Jacelyn shook their head stepping between them both and forcing the prince back. “No, my orders were clear. This one gets to go.”

“Change of orders.” He tossed his shoulders, ignoring his cousin completely. A group of four other guards, all bearing the mark of a neighboring kingdom enter the room behind them. “This one goes back.”

“Just let her go,” Castor growled. “She’s of no use to you.”

“Afraid I can’t do that cousin. Now back off or your precious second dies with you.”

They carted Aislin back to the dungeons, the girl kicking and screaming as she was pulled away from the first bit of freedom she ever had a chance at getting. Castor powerless to do anything. If he’d been a free man, he could have taken them all. Gotten Jacelyn and Aislin at least out of the castle with their lives. But as it was, he knew he only had a chance at protecting one of them. And as much as it pained him he chose his former second. He didn’t know the girl. But he did know Jacelyn. He knew Jacelyn could do what he was unable to do with the guard, Castor weighed down by his title and responsibilities to the crown. But Jacelyn could make a difference.

Though only if she was alive.

He had to believe Aislin would be given another chance. Though it wasn’t likely at the hands of his cousin, or the guards behind him.

He ground his teeth as Jacelyn prepared him for the execution. He pretended he could still hear Aislin’s screams echoing down the hallway outside, though they’d long since faded.

Jacelyn stepped behind him, muttering apologies as she did so. Castor was just about to ask what for when she brought a syringe to his neck, a moment later his vision fell black and he collapsed to the floor. “Sorry, Cas, but you’re getting out of here. I never was too good at following orders.” Their words were the last thing he heard before the world was lost to him.

#a little whump #a little comfort #tw blood #tw injuries #tw drugs #tw poison #tw violence #tw torture #castor adonis #aislin o’conner #child of light #child of light excerpts

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jim-protection-squad · 6 years

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L'appel du Vide

Ever since the encounter with Ichor, Danika had been more than a little on edge. Vivian remained blissfully unaware of what happened–according to her, she found Danika unconscious on the floor–and Ichor’s presence began to fade, leaving only the Vivian that she knew and loved. However, it was clear to her that Ichor still remained. Vivian’s shadow would gain a red and black eye behind her back, the scent of metal and gunpowder would overtake the flowers and dirt surrounding her, her voice would begin to split, despite her inability to notice. For a fraction of a second, the black and white figure stained gold took Vivian’s place, a finger to the lips of their mask and features contorted to a smirk.

Despite it, Vivian seemed cheerful as ever. Though her smile was strained, eyes red and puffy with familiar dark circles under them, she spent more time with Danika. She’d sent their daughter, Ronnie, to stay with her uncle, despite the fact that she’d always been suspicious of them together due to their… less than law-abiding natures. Bringing a daily bouquet from her garden, the flower seemed to change each time. Foxglove, purple hyacinth, anemones, and, most recently, rhododendrons. It became a pastime to weave them in with Danika’s hair, a crown of purple flowers. However. The mirror remained broken, and she always checked over her shoulder at the slightest sound. A loud noise and she’d jump back, clutching her chest and staggering backwards with fear in her eyes. She refused to look anyone in the eye, as if afraid she might see something not meant for her. Multiple times, Danika came across scraps of paper, canvas that had been thrown out, claw marks on the walls, all forming a specific symbol. The eye, rose protruding from it as always, messily scrawled in pen, in muted color, scratched into wood, brick, anything. Ichor had appeared to her in dreams. Hushed conversation, where Danika would ask questions and receive the answers- though whether they were true or not, she didn’t know. She would wake with peonies, zinnias, yellow roses wrapped around her neck, thorns leaving wounds where they had been. This morning, an aconite bloomed from a gash in her throat. The question she’d asked? “How did you die?” …They hadn’t taken kindly to the inquiry, but answered, reluctance clear in their voice. “I was murdered. My–her–brother. But it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t himself. He was possessed.” They spoke in two voices- one feminine, one masculine, both with equal emotion. One seemingly on the verge of tears, though it sounded like tears born of anger, and the other like a bowl of honey left out for five minutes that rotted into vinegar. The world around her glitched and warped, there was screaming in her ears. It wasn’t her own. It wasn’t even the voices of anyone she knew, though she recognized them from Ichor’s initial appearance, but it sent chills down her spine regardless. Gold trailed from the wound in their chest, their own form splitting into two distinct images: a bloodstained–no, that wasn’t blood. Was that… ink?–woman surrounded in a jade aura, holding a torn photograph like a lifeline, and… this figure didn’t even look human. Horns sprouted from his head, and blood of all different colors coated his body, a smirk on his face and a trident in front of him, fuchsia energy radiating from him. ‘Ichor’ had dissipated, ceased existing, and Danika could vaguely recognize the pair in front of her. That was… oh god. Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh- A shrill scream, layered in the two voices, resonated through the empty air, and Ichor reappeared, with ink, as well as gold and pink blood smeared across their frame. Danika screamed with them, watching the two previous apparitions fade into nothingness. “…You know too much.” Standing, Ichor wiped the blood off their mask before removing it entirely. A bloodstained bouquet sprouted from one eye- cypress, monkshood, deadly nightshade, snapdragon, oleander, statice. Lightning crackled and flashed in the other, a storm formed of hatred and revenge. Their teeth had been sharpened down to points, a growl beginning to escape from their throat. “If you are lucky, she will tell you about me. She will finally acknowledge me, and this charade will end. I will do what I must, to protect you, to protect your darling daughter, your niece, your brother-in-law… all those who do not deserve the punishment he will bring to them. If you are not… Even I cannot save you. Beware, Danika.” Placing the mask back over their face, they snapped their fingers- and Danika awoke, the sickening scent of iron mixed with flowers and dirt assaulting her.

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funeral-clown · 7 years

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@heckyeahharrisco for harriscofest

prompt: red riding hood au

bc i’m a sucker for werewolves, ok

There was a boy in the woods.

That in and of itself wasn’t that uncommon. The wolf knew his woods were lovely, cool and lush and inviting. The perfect place for prey of all kinds.

Especially rabbits.

Boys came here often, to play at war games or hunting. To find a place hidden away to play other games when they were older, with each other or the girls they brought along with them. Girls came too, to pick flowers and sing songs and beat up the boys with sticks. Children loved the wolf’s forest.

Most of the time the wolf avoided them, and let them be. The laughter and cheerful banter of the children, the teasing hesitation and surly rebellion of the teenagers, it all reminded him of someone else, of something he wanted to bury deep under his instincts until nothing but teeth and fur remained. Let the young ones play their games. Better they than hunters, and as long as they stayed near the trails, the wolf had no need to go near them.

This boy was different. He was older, certainly old enough to be a hunter, but he didn’t smell of monkshood and rowan, didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons at all. He wandered the trails like old couples sometimes did, without a particular purpose, seemingly lost in thought.

He smelled like candy and cinnamon and engine grease, like old coffee and burnt wire, like stale sweat and sugar. It was familiar, in a way, bringing back painful images of a lab, of hands instead of paws, of a kind of satisfactory bone deep exhaustion. It makes his teeth itch.

This boy makes his teeth itch, and the logical part of his brain knows he should be avoiding humans, staying away, but the deeper part of him is angry. Who is this person, and how dare he drag the past in behind him on the air. How dare he invade his territory like this.

The wolf watches and pretends that the human part of him, the buried, Harrison part of him, isn’t sharply curious.

Harrison watches, too.

He learns that the boy’s name is Cisco, that he’s an engineer. He learns that Cisco gets anxious, and he takes walks to calm himself. He learns that the people he drags with him sometimes are his friends, his co-workers.

His pack, thinks the wolf, and doesn’t look too deeply at the small part of him that is pleased that this Cisco doesn’t have to walk alone all the time.

Harrison doesn’t mind being a loner, but the wolf does. It gets harder to distinguish the two every day. A part of him wonders if he would have already slipped seamlessly into one if this frustratingly confusing boy hadn’t started ambling his way through his woods.

His ears perk up when they talk about him. Not him, of course, but who he used to be.

“You know the explosion a few years ago?” It was the scrawny one who never stopped moving.

“What, at STAR Labs? The one that nearly leveled a city block? The one that killed seven people? That explosion?”

Harrison bit back a whine at the thought of it.

The scrawny one (Barry, his mind supplied) simply rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, that explosion.”

“What about it?” Cisco kicked at a rock as they walked down the trail.

“That girl, the Wells girl. She woke up from her coma today.”

Harrison froze. Jesse. Jesse was alive. His daughter was alive.

“Who, Jesse?”

“Yeah. Apparently, she’s gonna be ok.”

“That’s good news, man. Kinda sucks that her dad went missing and all that, though. You think we should send flowers or something? I almost worked there, before everything went to shit for them.”

“That’d be nice, man. Kinda creepy, though, considering we’re two dudes she’s never met.”

“Fair enough,” Cisco laughs, and kicks the rock into the bushes that border the trail. It rolls through and comes to a halt at Harrison’s paws, but he doesn’t notice it. He doesn’t notice anything.

My daughter is alive.

For the first time in three years he tries desperately to take his human form.

It takes hours, every bone in his body twists and snaps into place, grinding painfully into a new shape as he howls and howls, but when it’s done, Harrison sits crouched panting in the small cave he called home.

First he needs to find clothes. Then he needs to find Jesse. The wolf in him whines at the order of his list, but Harrison is in charge of himself again. He needs clothes or he won’t be able to see his daughter, and it’s that simple.

Luckily, it’s night time, and it’s simple enough to snatch some jeans and a hoodie off a clothesline. Serves them right for trying to dry their clothes in the dark, anyway.

He slips into her hospital room, quiet as anything past their laughable security and overworked nurses, and his breath catches in his throat.

She’s asleep, pale and still, and the hospital gown she’s wearing makes her look washed out, but it’s her. It’s Jesse.

Harrison walks slowly to the bed, afraid even now that she’ll disappear, that this will be a dream. He reaches his hand out tentatively, softly stroking his fingers down her face.

Jesse.

Her eyes open slowly, blearily, and a small fond grin fights it’s way onto his face. How often had he woken her up for school, just to be greeted with this same expression?

“Dad?”

“Hey, Quick.”

His voice is hoarse from years of disuse and emotion, but neither of them care. She throws herself into a sitting position and squeezes his ribs so hard he can’t breathe. He’s never felt happier in his life.

Of course, it’s not as simple as that. Harrison has been missing for 3 years. He has to fabricate excuses, catch up on paperwork, do a press conference, make explanation after explanation but...

But...

Jesse is alive. It’s worth it. He isn’t fighting with his wolf anymore, isn’t eating rabbits and chipmunks. He lives in a house. He’s distressingly close to normal.

It makes him antsy, after the first month or so. Jesse’s home, he has his company back, but he’s bored. He got used to indulging his animal side completely, and being human, as always, took effort.

So when Jesse mentions jogging as part of her physical therapy, he doesn’t hesitate to offer to come with her. He wants to show her his woods, his life for the past three years. He wants to run over his former territory with his daughter, let her see the streams he used to drink from and the cave he slept in. He wants her to know.

Hell, part of him even wanted to catch a rabbit. Old habits die hard.

They start at the beginning of the trail, stretching lazily in the morning sun, before beginning an easy gentle lope through the trees. Nothing too hard just yet, pacing themselves.

An easy laugh rings out through the woods from ahead. He recognizes the voice.

“Cisco,” he mutters. Of course he would be here.

“What?” Jesse asks, looking at him confused.

“Cisco. An engineer who walks here sometimes. When I got bored I would watch him.” He shrugs and jogs on, content to let it go.

“So like. Wolf you got bored and started stalking some dude?”

“It wasn’t stalking. It was watching. He smelled familiar, I was curious.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “That sounds like you. ‘Hmm, this boy smells like science, better check him out!’ You’re ridiculous, Dad.”

He shrugs again, letting the teasing banter roll over him. The laughter is getting closer. They turn a corner in the trail, and there he is. Jogging with the woman who smells like antiseptic and coffee. Harrison can’t remember her name, and he finds he doesn’t have the will power to try.

Because Cisco is wearing the shortest, brightest red shorts he has ever seen in his life. ‘Are you nasty?’ is posted across the back in big white letters.

“Ok,” Jesse whispers, “I get why you were watching him now.”

“Jesse!” he hisses, eyes shooting back to his daughter.

“What? It’s not like I can look away either!”

Harrison suppresses his growl.

“It wasn’t like that. We wolves don’t notice clothes much, you know that.”

“Trust me, Dad. I’ve seen what you wear. I know.” She smirks at him, teasing out a sigh.

“Can we just jog in peace, please?”

She tilts her head thoughtfully.

“Hmmmmmmmmnope!”

She puts on a burst of speed and runs to catch up to the other two, ignoring her father’s panicked whisper shouting.

“Hi,” he hears her say, “I’m Jesse!”

“I know who you are,” comes the familiar voice, tinged by awe. “I’m Cisco, it’s. It’s nice to meet you.”

She shakes his hand, grinning.

“Nice to meet you too. Fan of my dad’s?” Don’t look at her, Harrison, it’s what she wants. For the love of god don’t look at him either.

“I mean, yeah, you could say that. Harrison Wells was my hero! Until. You know. The accident.”

“Yeah,” Jesse agrees quietly.

“I was glad to hear you woke up okay, by the way. I was gonna send flowers, but my friend pointed out that it might come off as kinda creepy.”

Her smile changes, slides just a touch more to genuine.

“That’s sweet. Thank you. Speaking of my dad, he should be catching up soon...”

He’s glad his daughter lived, because he’s going to kill her. Sighing, he runs up to join her.

“Hello.”

If Cisco looked at his daughter with awe, the gaze he meets is nigh unto worship. The wolf reminds him that there is a perfectly good cave not far from here, warm and dry and very clothing optional. Harrison tells it to shut up.

“Hi. You’re Harrison Wells.”

“Yes,” he agrees.

“You solved Einstein’s Riddle when you were a kid.”

“Did I?” He keeps his tone light and teasing. Not a threat, he tries to convey with his eyes and his smile and his hands, definitely don’t have claws or fangs, didn’t think of dragging you into the woods to slam you against a tree five seconds ago.

It seems to work. Cisco smiles at him, a faint blush high on his cheeks.

“Sorry, hi. I’m Cisco.”

“Cisco. Its very nice to meet you.”

A wave of giddy joy rushes off the boy, tinged with admiration and just a touch of lust.

Well then.

“I like your shorts.”

The blush gets deeper, and Jesse snickers before going back to talking to whatever her name was.

Cisco still smells like candy and engine grease, and when he laughs Harrison feels his fingers twitch.

Cave, the wolf reminds him desperately, with rabbits!

Harrison ignores it.

“Would you, uh. Would you guys wanna jog with us?”

“Sure!” he says, maybe a touch too fast.

“Cool!” Cisco beams. “Cool.”

They pick up their jogging again, all keeping a steady pace. Harrison watches him run ahead, ridiculous shorts and long soft hair.

His teeth itch.

#harrisco #for harriscofest #this took way longer than anticipated but two stories kinda glued themselves together here #maybe not in perfect keeping with the prompt but eh

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mm-mendell · 7 years

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Wes hummed lightly, watching with fascination as forget-me-nots sprung up underneath his fingertips. Even though it had been years since he discovered this ability, it still took his breath away every time.

"Heya, Wes! Whatcha doing?"

Wes turned around, smiling serenely at his young neighbor. "Hello, Edison. I'm just working on my garden."

The boy peered over the fence, trying to catch a glimpse. He wasn't quite tall enough, and Wes wasn't quick enough in hiding his laughter when Edison nearly fell over the fence in his impatience.

Edison sent him a dirty look, an embarrassed pout forming on his face.

"Y'know, you can actually come in if you want to," Wes said amusedly, lifting a delicate hand to hide his grin.

Edison's scoff made it clear that he had noticed, but he still unlatched the lock and walked into the garden.

"Careful," Wes advised, though he wasn't really worried. He went back to his own task, listening to the sound of Edison's light footsteps as he drew nearer.

"Which ones are these?" he asked once he had fallen into place next to Wes, his eyes blinking inquisitively.

Wes smiled, more than happy to explain. "They're Myosotis scorpioides, commonly known as forget-me-nots."

"Do they have any uses?" Edison cocked his head to the side, studying the light blue pedals. "I think I heard scorpion in there. Are they poisonous?"

Wes shook his head, but then thought better of it. "Well, not to you or me. Fae aren't fond of these flowers, but it's not because of any poison. The Fae don't like any kind of sentimentality in general, after all..." he trailed off, realizing that Edison had stopped paying attention.

The boy's gaze was downcast, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Is something wrong?" Wes inquired gently, taking off his gloves so that he could take one on Edison's hands in his own.

Edison shrugged, giving him a sideline glance that was almost wary. "...People are talking."

Wes stiffened, though a smile remained frozen on his face. "Oh? About what?"

"You know," Edison said accusingly, nodding down at the vibrant flowerbeds by their feet. "You weren't going to get away with it forever."

"Edison," Wes said seriously, gripping the boy's shoulders. He looked him right in the eye, trying to impress the importance of this information on him. "What exactly are they saying?"

"Nothing about you, really," he admitted, turning away from the penetrating gaze. "Just, in general. The deaths couldn't have gone unnoticed for long."

Wes relaxed. Well, as long as it was nothing specific, it hardly mattered. He had backup plans, just in case.

"And the other children?" Wes asked, curious despite himself. "What are their opinions?"

Edison let out a heavy sigh, and dropped to sit on the grass. The child leaned into his side, and Wes softened against his will. He combed his hand through Edison's hair, letting him take the time that he needed to find an answer.

"...It's a bit divided," he said finally, eyes closed as he basked in the care Wes was bestowing on him. "The younger ones aren't really sure what to think. They're not hostile, if that's what you're afraid of. But the older ones... I think most of them have figured it out."

"Oh?" Wes barely resisted a chuckle, his amusement rising back up. He had expected this to happen. Children at the Happy Forest Orphanage never stayed ignorant for long.

He would know.

"This is serious!" Edison protested, sitting up and scowling at him with his arms crossed indignantly.

Wes suppressed the urge to coo at the cute image, but only just.

"Hey, are you even listening to me?" Edison complained, having clearly caught Wes's lapse in attention.

"Of course, of course," Wes soothed, reaching out to pat him on the head. "Well, if what you say is true, there's not much I can do, is there? Do you have any suggestions for me?"

"You could try not being so obvious about the scene of the crime," Edison said dryly, not impressed with the man's attempts at placating him.

Wes became cold at that. For a moment, the whole garden seemed to shrivel inwards, plants curling in on themselves. The blue blossoms by his feet all strained away from him, trying to escape.

"You know I can't do that," he said softly, though his eyes had lost all of his previous warmth. "This is to send a message, after all."

Edison looked at him for a long moment. Under the intense scrutiny, Wes couldn't help himself— white heathers erupted into bloom around his clenched fists, and a single gladiolus weaved itself through his dark hair.

"I love you," Edison said, even more quiet than Wes had. "We all do. That's why we worry. You know that, right?"

Wes blinked, a bit surprised, but then a tender smile spread across his face. "Thank you, Edison. That means a lot to me."

Edison huffed and looked away, though he seemed a bit pleased. "Yeah, yeah. I know."

Wes hummed a light note, and the garden breathed a sigh of relief. The flowers inched forwards once more, and he reached out, plucking a few from the flowerbeds.

"Here," he said, handing the bouquet over. "Give this to the matron, will you? You can tell her that it was from me."

Edison studied the mixture of flowers. Petunias, Marigolds, and Monkshoods.

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled," he said flatly. Nevertheless, he took the dismissal for what it was, leaving the garden to head back into the forest just beyond its gates.

"Be careful! Don't stray from the path!" Wes called out, and then because he just couldn't resist, he teasingly added; "You never know what kind of monsters might lurk in the forest!"

Wes could practically feel the eyeroll from here.

"Remember what I said!" Edison called out, disregarding his last comment.

Wes chuckled, but didn't reply. He wasn't worried. After all, his garden had become so beautiful in these past few years. And if none of the other villagers had discovered him yet, he doubted they ever would.

It wasn't really that much of a surprise. They were all quite practiced at the art of ignoring inconvenient things.

Wes shook his head, pulling himself out of those memories. Instead, he opened his mouth to sing.

"Wandering child of the earth..."

His haunting melody rang through the area, traveling into the forest and through the trees. Not far away, a man with an bloody ax shivered in fear of something he couldn't quite grasp, and the earth moved in time with Wes's song.

—notes:

Wow! I love this one, I'll definitely be continuing it. I have so many plans already... (you can't see me, but I'm doing an evil cackle). Another Caffeine Challenge! These are seriously the best thing, I churn out awesome work when I have a strict deadline like this. Cheers!! And hey, if anybody's interested, I was listening to this song, by Adriana Figueroa

#caffeine challenge #mendell writes

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vandaliatraveler · 6 years

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One of the rarest and most unusual wildflowers of Appalachia, trailing white monkshood (Aconitum reclinatum) occurs in a relatively small number of disjunct populations scattered throughout the Appalachian chain, from Southwestern Pennsylvania south to North Carolina and Tennessee. Adapted to live in shady ravines and along stream banks and other wetlands prone to constant seepage, this tall perennial herb produces deeply divided, coarsely toothed foliage (including both cauline and basal leaves) and hooded, white to greenish-yellow flowers that droop from a long, erect to inclined stem. The flowers are a bit strange-looking at first glance, reminding me somewhat of the elongated, hinged-jaw head of the xenomorph from the Alien franchise. They attract bumblebees, which are the plant’s main pollinators. The plant’s leaves are palmately lobed with five to seven, deeply dissected segments and are vaguely reminiscent of those of wild geranium. As with other members of the Aconite genus, white monkshood hides a dark secret within its lovely foliage and flowers; all parts of the plant are highly toxic if ingested. Indeed, the plant’s European cousins claim a long, storied history of death and destruction and have played an integral role in the region’s macabre folklore, serving as both a vampire deflector and a werewolf detector. Aconitum is highly sensitive to wetlands disturbance and is critically endangered in many parts of it range.

#appalachia #vandalia #west virginia #spring #perennial #herb #wildflowers #aconite #aconitum #trailing white monkshood

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sensitivefern · 7 years

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An Excellent Cosmetic.

Pimpernel Water is so sovereign a beautifier of the complexion, that it ought always to have a place on a Lady's toilet.

To remove Freckles.

Take Houseleek, and Celandine, of each an equal quantity; distil in a sand heat, and wash with the distilled Water.

A Water for Pimples in the Face.

Boil together a handful of the herbs Patience, and Pimpernel in Water; and wash yourself every day with the decoction.

[The Toilet of Flora]

===

The most dangerous man, to any government, is the man who is able to think things out for himself, without regard to the prevailing superstitions and taboos. Almost inevitably he comes to the conclusion that the government he lives under is dishonest, insane and intolerable, and so, if he is romantic, he tries to change it. And even if he is not romantic personally he is very apt to spread discontent among those who are. Ludwig van Beethoven was certainly no politician. Nor was he a patriot. Nor had he any democratic illusions in him: he held the Viennese in even more contempt than he held the Hapsburgs. Nevertheless, I am convinced that the sharp criticism of the Hapsburg government that he used to loose in the cafés of Vienna had its effects – that some of his ideas of 1818, after a century of germination, got themselves translated into acts in 1918. Beethoven, like all other first-rate men, greatly disliked the government he lived under. I add the names of Goethe, Heine, Wagner and Nietzsche, to keep among Germans. That of Bismarck might follow: he admired the Hohenzollern idea, as Carlyle did, not the German people or the German administration. In his "Errinerungen," whenever he discusses the government that he was a part of, he has difficulty keeping his contempt within the bounds of decorum.

[H. L. Mencken, Book of Prejudices, Third Series]

===

By spring 1917... [it] was obvious that the Democratic party at that time was composed of three widely divergent elements: First, an ultraconservative Southern group whose actions were often dominated by the black specter of the Reconstruction period...; second, a set of plundering political machines in many of the large cities; third, in the North generally the party embraced the whole lunatic fringe of greenback, ‘free silver’ agrarian fanatics and near-Socialists. These latter elements had grown into a large voice in the party through Bryanesque demagoguery. In order to maintain ‘white ascendancy’ and political office, the Southern Democrats were prepared to cater to these Northern groups.

[Herbert Hoover]

===

Mrs. Boss, the practical nurse... always calls me ‘dear’... I am getting myself to say ‘O.K.’ and ‘There we are!’

Second printing of Upstate. The New Yorker has sent back Bomarzo and Teenage Caveman. Other articles have kept for about a year. I think that I am petering out with them. [...] At the Boston hospital, too, they ended every statement with ‘O.K?’ This got on my nerves, and they wouldn’t know how to take it when I said, ‘No, it’s not O.K.’ or ‘I don’t know whether it’s O.K. or not’.

They wanted me to have a ‘pacemaker’ for my heart, gave me a regular concerted sales campaign on the subject invoking Justice Douglas, who is supposed to be climbing mountains on the strength of it; but I resolutely refused. I don’t want electrodes attached to my heart, and I suspect that this is simply the latest medical fad. As usual, I got out as quickly as I could.

[Edmund Wilson]

===

Despite the fact that humans have no need for the milk of a cow, and would be far healthier if we were to eliminate cow’s milk from our diets completely, huge quantities of resources are consumed to enable cows to produce the milk demanded by Americans.

The average dairy cow today must consume approximately eighty pounds of food a day to keep producing so much milk. This includes grass, sorghum, hay, grain, corn, and more. To grow the sheer tonnage to meet the needs of these cows requires huge expanses of agricultural land – land that could be growing truly healthful food for the world’s population.

All this food for cows soaks up water, to the tune of 45 gallons a day per cow... The estimated one million dairy cows in California alone, a state that often faces serious droughts, use up 45 million gallons of water every single day of the year. The California Farm Bureau Federation reported that when all dairy farming and milk processing water needs are taken into consideration, 48.3 gallons of water are used to produce one eight-ounce glass of milk.

[Whitewash]

===

monkshood, wolfsbane | Aconitum Deadly poisonous... native North American aconitums are not available at your local garden centre, or at almost no other garden centre... all aconitums arise from tubers – the most poisonous part of the plant... trailing wolfsbane (Aconitum reclinatum) ‘needs to be grown through other plants in the garden. it looks great in the spring as the basal leaves emerge, but it can get a little wild as it loops its way here and there. In late spring or early summer, elongated white to cream-colored flowers are formed’... to propagate, cold-stratify seeds in moist sand or perlite for 3 months; germinate at 70°; terminal cuttings in late spring; small tubers can be dug up and planted elsewhere...

[Armitage’s Native Plants]

===

Red mulberries have ‘never achieved wide popularity in the American diet, mainly because they are easily damaged during shipment (though they freeze well)’... the unripe fruit, bark, and raw shoots should never be eaten on account of their tendency to give people ‘hallucinations’ and ‘nervous agitation’... the leafless shoots, on the other hand, make a tasty morsel when boiled... various parts of the tree were used by Native Americans to loosen up their backed-up bowels and cure their ringworm...

[Book of Forest and Thicket]

===

❚Community Mourns Death Of Beloved Drunk Driver

Harry Shearer Retweeted Kim Masters I don't see why he doesn't choose to be alive. ...BREAKING: Joseph Nicolosi, the modern father of the torture known as ex-gay therapy, has died.

In a move that would be almost unfathomable today, SNL let avant-jazz legend Sun Ra and his Arkestra close out Season Three; dressed like space-traveling pharaohs, they delivered a free-form mind warp.

Funky 4 + 1: February 14th, 1981 In a truly historic moment, Saturday Night Live presented the first performance of rap music in the history of national network television.

Prince: February 21st, 1981 A 22-year-old Prince exploded onto SNL with a high-octane performance of "Partyup," bouncing, spinning, sliding, playing a wild guitar solo and then slamming down the mic and storming offstage. "I was blown away," said producer Jean Doumanian. "He was just the most original act I had seen in a long time." Unfortunately, Prince would be overshadowed by cast member Charles Rocket, who uttered his infamous on-air "fuck" during this very episode.

The Replacements: January 18th, 1986 The Minneapolis punk misfits manufactured a legendary feat of career suicide. After boozing it up backstage with host Harry Dean Stanton, they stumbled through "Bastards of Young," then switched clothes before coming out to attempt "Kiss Me on the Bus," during which frontman Paul Westerberg yelled "Come on, fucker" at guitarist Bob Stinson, who obliged by mooning the audience. The chaos led to the band receiving a lifetime ban from Lorne Michaels. "We were trying to do whatever possible to make sure that was a memorable evening," Westerberg said.

David Bowie: December 15th, 1979 Bowie was in his Berlin phase when he made this iconically weird SNL appearance, blending pop, punk, fashion and gender roles. He took the stage alongside unknown performance artists Joey Arias and Klaus Nomi, sang "TVC15" while wearing a dress and heels and walking a stuffed pink poodle, then put on a freaky headless marionette get-up for a rendition of "Boys Keep Swinging."

Sinead O'Connor: October 3rd, 1992 "I was stunned," said Lorne Michaels of the single most controversial moment in SNL history, "but not as much as the guy from the audience who was trying to charge her." In a performance that garnered more than 4,000 phone calls to NBC, O'Connor delivered a chilling a cappella rendition of Bob Marley's "War," changing the line "fight racial injustice" to "fight sexual abuse," and then tore up a picture of Pope John Paul II.

Robert Blake To Give Marriage Another Shot

Robert James Waller, Author of ‘The Bridges of Madison County,’ Dies at 77

Two people have been hospitalised in San Francisco after drinking tea from the same Chinatown herbalist. The city’s public health department said on Friday that the tea leaves bought at Sun Wing Wo Trading Company contained the plant-based toxin aconite.

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