Eddie’s Words

[Edema Rue she/her]

8 hours ago, Mini Eddie said:

You were in American Wars class. At 10:55 PM? I don't believe you. Also very well written! I enjoyed it! Reminded me of my history class with a particular friend who also had a fascination with cannabalism! That was a fun unit! 

Right now in a bigger sense  

6 hours ago, Just a Silvereye said:

Really good! Disgusting but really good

And yeah, Poppy War is great. Read it everyone if you have the courage to go through that.

Thanks! Yeah...yeah. I loved it, but it's so dark.

[Wittles he/him]

9 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

Okay! (yes I'm double posting, sue me)

So I'm in an American Wars class right now, and for whatever reason, I can always visualize wars and characters so well. So, after a day about the revolutionary war, I have a journal entry. And I'll probably keep writing similar things as the class keeps going, it's so interesting (and sick) what humans can do to each other. The best fictional example I've found is the Poppy War (which um look at trigger warnings before reading) and it's just...stars, it's crazy. But I liked writing about it!

2/4/1769: Boston, Massachusetts 

  Reveal hidden contents

I can still smell it. 

I’ve been able to smell it for days. 

Even at home, where I’ve started burning candles to cover it. It’s expensive, I know, but the smell is so strong. I hear their screams, too. Late at night, when I’m trying to sleep, I hear people screaming, and so I put my pillow over my head and try to block out the noise. I try to pretend that it isn’t people I know. That my friends aren’t pouring burning tar on my neighbors. That my whole world isn’t crashing down because of a petty king who begs us to pay his petty taxes.

I was walking to the market yesterday. Not far, just barely into town. The streets were filled with people, only it wasn’t just people. They were all screaming together, like a strange and dangerous beast with too many limbs. I felt myself pulled in, errands forgotten.

And then I saw him. Half naked, tied up and desperate. Hands, hands of people I know, were tearing at his face, his skin, and then…and then the wind turned. And I smelled it. Tar. Bubbling, boiling tar. I wanted to leave, oh Lord, I swear I did, but the crowd was packed so tight, and I couldn’t even look away. They poured it over him. Just because he worked for the king. It’s sick. I’ve never been happy to be ruled by England, I’ll admit that, but they take it so far. That tax collector, that man, has lived here his whole life. He has a wife, and kids. And they hurt him so easily.

I could smell his flesh burning. Did I mention that? And it smelled…it smelled like pork. And my stomach rumbled. No one heard it, it was far too loud for that, but I felt it. I am sickened to live in this body of mine. I haven’t been able to eat meat since, and yet our city seems only to crave more suffering. There are walls stained with blood, bullets in the streets, and there is so much noise. The yelling of furious patriots, and the screaming of desperate loyalists, and all of it aches of despair. I go to my meetings every Sunday, and I pray. Oh, Lord, I pray for these colonies. I pray for peace. But I cannot bring myself to believe that those who fight are entirely wrong; how can I? The soldiers have started moving into our homes, and… 

We’ve been safe so far, as our little farm is outside the city, but not everyone has. My dear friend Diana…I pray for her, Lord. I pray for her. There are six soldiers that have taken to eating and sleeping at her house. They barely have enough for their own family, and now they’re expected to feed six hungry British soldiers. Their youngest, their Thomas, has always been sickly, and I heard last Sabbath that one of the soldiers stole a piece of bread from off his plate and beat him when he cried. We cannot live this way. We cannot.

And their oldest. Their only daughter. Their Rebecca…Diana told me herself. “The soldiers miss their women,” she said. “They claim we must provide them with entertainment as well as food and a place to stay.” She says she will fight for the revolution. She will give anything to keep her family safe. And she is right.

But I can still smell the burning flesh, still imagine the feel of boiling tar running down his back, leaving a trail of blisters across his pale skin, and…and I wonder. The bible speaks of peace. But it also speaks of freedom. And I want to be free, Lord. If the British come to my home, I will surely find myself echoing the cries of the revolution.

But…but I am afraid. And in my mind, I can hear the weeping of widows in England. Comfort them, Lord. Comfort them. And let us find our peace before blood runs like rivers through the streets of my beautiful Boston.

 

This kinda reminded me of a magnus archives statement but not supernatural, good job!

Also, it's morbidly fascinating to learn about that kind of stuff. 

[Edema Rue she/her]

LIZ!!!

Reunion:

Spoiler

Siylna greeted Liz with a smile. A genuine smile. A smile that meant more than Liz could know. “Old friend,” she said, spreading her arms. Liz accepted the offer, leaning in for a tight hug. 

“You’ve changed,” Liz whispered into Siylna’s ear.

“I’ve missed you,” she replied with a laugh and a shake of her head. “I’m not the only one who’s changed, though…” she looked into her friend’s eyes, seeking answers. Liz nodded. 

“Come inside,” she invited. “We’ll talk there.”

So Siylna followed her, through the beautiful palace that her friend now called home. She frowned, irritated. But she held her tongue. Liz had changed, but surely not so much as to have forgotten…there were bloodstains on a thick rug. Tiny drops of blood, splattered on the wall and floor. Liz followed her gaze.

“A slave misbehaved, most likely. I’ll need to replace the carpet.” Then she turned and kept walking. After a moment, Siylna followed hesitantly, her frown deepening. This opulence, this callousness. It was completely unlike the friend she’d once had. They arrived at a small sitting room, with a set of couches and a small wooden table covered in a strange pattern. Liz shut the door behind them. There was a moment of silence, and then Liz said, “I’m sorry.”

Siylna blinked. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I have become everything we used to hate. And I don’t regret it.”

How curious…Siylna nodded. “You keep slaves,” she said quietly, knowing that her anger was plain as day to Liz. She always had been good at reading people.

“Yes,” Liz said quietly.

Siylna shook her head, unsure if she was disappointed or proud. Liz had said she’d make herself a villain, and…she had. Spirits, but she had. “How far you’ve come,” she murmured. “But…surely this isn’t all for Ien? Are you still so infatuated with him that he’s become all that you are?”

Liz laughed. “Ien is only a piece of my plans, my friend. An important one, to be sure, but by no means is he the reason for all that I do.”

Siylna felt herself smile. This was the girl she knew, so full of dreams, so clever and nearly always right. But… “Why hurt so many people?” She asked. Liz had gone far to try to win this bet. And she’d done the same, but…had Liz gone too far? Had she forgotten herself in this game?

Liz leaned forward, picking up a small velvet bag from the table between them. She reached in, pulling out a polished black stone. Siylna raised an eyebrow, suddenly recognizing the pattern on the table. It was a game board. Liz carefully placed the stone. “Do you remember when we talked about changing the world?”

“Which time?”

“Just before I left.” 

Siylna nodded. “And now you’ve gone and changed it in all the wrong ways. You’re a tyrant, Liz.”

To her surprise, Liz nodded. “I am. And I’m going to get worse.” She placed another stone.

“Why?” Siylna asked again. 

Liz smiled, setting down three of the stones in quick succession. “You know that I’ve always enjoyed betting…by the Spirits, I know that you do too. Where we are today is proof enough of that.”

Siylna shook her head. “Lizzy, I don’t care that you’ve become a politician since we last talked. Just say it.”

“No one’s called me Lizzy in a long time…” Liz murmured, a twinkle in her eye.

“Lizzy!”

She laughed, and Siylna laughed with her, and for just a moment it felt easy. Simple. The way it had back at the Academy. The way it hadn’t felt since Liz left. Then, still smiling, Liz stacked several more stones. “It’s a gamble, Si.”

Siylna’s smile twisted slyly, and she laughed again. “Oh, Lizzy…you haven’t changed at all.”

Then Liz's smile dropped and she looked at her, really looked at her. Her gaze was cool and heartless. For the first time, Siylna noticed a pale scar that twisted up her cheek. A fuzz of black smoke began to coil around her feet. “Haven’t I?”

Ignoring the chill in her stomach, Siylna bowed her head. “I stand corrected. Which god do you serve?”

The smoke began to recede. Liz looked at her for a long moment, then added a stone to her growing pattern and said, “Death.”

“That’s impossible,” Siylna blurted before she could stop herself. She flushed slightly. “Well…improbable. Nothing is impossible when you’re around.”

Liz nodded. “Who’s yours?”

Siylna blinked. “How did you-?” Liz rolled a stone through her fingers, raising an eyebrow. Siylna sighed. “Love.” Liz blinked, looking surprised for the first time. She put the stone on a far corner of the table. 

“I would have thought you’d choose Vengeance…” Siylna grimaced, and Liz raised an eyebrow curiously.

“I…did,” she explained. “But Vengeance didn’t choose me. Love did, claiming that the desire for revenge is a form of love.” There was quiet for a moment, and then Siylna cleared her throat. “So…a gamble?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “And I’m betting on Ien. I’m betting on my hero.”

“And what if he doesn’t become one?” Siylna looked at her friend, trying to decide if she was insane or very, very clever.

Liz smiled gently. “Si, he already is. We’ve all changed since the Academy, but he most of all. And for all that we wanted to change the world, we both know that he can help them much more than either of us ever could. He’s been taught to lead since he was a child. All I’ve done is help him along a path of mercy rather than cruelty. Ien is a hero. And the harder I push now, the harder he’ll have to push back. The people are suffering now, yes, but when Ien is king, it will be even better for them than it was back when we were at the Academy.”

Siylna nodded. It was twisted logic, monstrous logic, but…she’d always had a bit of a monster inside her, even if it was buried a little deeper than Liz’s. “So…what happens to you when Ien becomes king? If he kills you, you lose.”

Liz snorted. “You think I’ll let him kill me? He’ll only “escape” my dungeons because of my assistance. Killing me isn't part of my plan, and so he won't do it.” She picked up a single white stone, and slid it across the board, towards her carefully arranged black stones. Siylna knew the rules of the game, and had to stifle a gasp when she realized what Liz had done. Her stones were placed perfectly, precisely…so that the white stone could eliminate them all in a single move. “I am a step ahead, Si. Ien is just a puppet who will change the world…and win this bet for me.”

Siylna took a breath and laughed. “Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy…just don’t burn down this world too soon. I’m not done with it yet.”

Spoiler

BFFS!! 

...Anyone have other Liz scenes you want to see, or prompts that aren't related to her?

 

[Just a Silvereye he/him]

Once again you nailed it.

[RoyalBeeMage he/him]

1 hour ago, Edema Rue said:

Anyone have other Liz scenes you want to see, or prompts that aren't related to her?

Any thing with Liz. Would love to see how she gained all her power 

[Weaver of Lies he/him]

7 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

LIZ!!!

Reunion:

  Hide contents

Siylna greeted Liz with a smile. A genuine smile. A smile that meant more than Liz could know. “Old friend,” she said, spreading her arms. Liz accepted the offer, leaning in for a tight hug. 

“You’ve changed,” Liz whispered into Siylna’s ear.

“I’ve missed you,” she replied with a laugh and a shake of her head. “I’m not the only one who’s changed, though…” she looked into her friend’s eyes, seeking answers. Liz nodded. 

“Come inside,” she invited. “We’ll talk there.”

So Siylna followed her, through the beautiful palace that her friend now called home. She frowned, irritated. But she held her tongue. Liz had changed, but surely not so much as to have forgotten…there were bloodstains on a thick rug. Tiny drops of blood, splattered on the wall and floor. Liz followed her gaze.

“A slave misbehaved, most likely. I’ll need to replace the carpet.” Then she turned and kept walking. After a moment, Siylna followed hesitantly, her frown deepening. This opulence, this callousness. It was completely unlike the friend she’d once had. They arrived at a small sitting room, with a set of couches and a small wooden table covered in a strange pattern. Liz shut the door behind them. There was a moment of silence, and then Liz said, “I’m sorry.”

Siylna blinked. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I have become everything we used to hate. And I don’t regret it.”

How curious…Siylna nodded. “You keep slaves,” she said quietly, knowing that her anger was plain as day to Liz. She always had been good at reading people.

“Yes,” Liz said quietly.

Siylna shook her head, unsure if she was disappointed or proud. Liz had said she’d make herself a villain, and…she had. Spirits, but she had. “How far you’ve come,” she murmured. “But…surely this isn’t all for Ien? Are you still so infatuated with him that he’s become all that you are?”

Liz laughed. “Ien is only a piece of my plans, my friend. An important one, to be sure, but by no means is he the reason for all that I do.”

Siylna felt herself smile. This was the girl she knew, so full of dreams, so clever and nearly always right. But… “Why hurt so many people?” She asked. Liz had gone far to try to win this bet. And she’d done the same, but…had Liz gone too far? Had she forgotten herself in this game?

Liz leaned forward, picking up a small velvet bag from the table between them. She reached in, pulling out a polished black stone. Siylna raised an eyebrow, suddenly recognizing the pattern on the table. It was a game board. Liz carefully placed the stone. “Do you remember when we talked about changing the world?”

“Which time?”

“Just before I left.” 

Siylna nodded. “And now you’ve gone and changed it in all the wrong ways. You’re a tyrant, Liz.”

To her surprise, Liz nodded. “I am. And I’m going to get worse.” She placed another stone.

“Why?” Siylna asked again. 

Liz smiled, setting down three of the stones in quick succession. “You know that I’ve always enjoyed betting…by the Spirits, I know that you do too. Where we are today is proof enough of that.”

Siylna shook her head. “Lizzy, I don’t care that you’ve become a politician since we last talked. Just say it.”

“No one’s called me Lizzy in a long time…” Liz murmured, a twinkle in her eye.

“Lizzy!”

She laughed, and Siylna laughed with her, and for just a moment it felt easy. Simple. The way it had back at the Academy. The way it hadn’t felt since Liz left. Then, still smiling, Liz stacked several more stones. “It’s a gamble, Si.”

Siylna’s smile twisted slyly, and she laughed again. “Oh, Lizzy…you haven’t changed at all.”

Then Liz's smile dropped and she looked at her, really looked at her. Her gaze was cool and heartless. For the first time, Siylna noticed a pale scar that twisted up her cheek. A fuzz of black smoke began to coil around her feet. “Haven’t I?”

Ignoring the chill in her stomach, Siylna bowed her head. “I stand corrected. Which god do you serve?”

The smoke began to recede. Liz looked at her for a long moment, then added a stone to her growing pattern and said, “Death.”

“That’s impossible,” Siylna blurted before she could stop herself. She flushed slightly. “Well…improbable. Nothing is impossible when you’re around.”

Liz nodded. “Who’s yours?”

Siylna blinked. “How did you-?” Liz rolled a stone through her fingers, raising an eyebrow. Siylna sighed. “Love.” Liz blinked, looking surprised for the first time. She put the stone on a far corner of the table. 

“I would have thought you’d choose Vengeance…” Siylna grimaced, and Liz raised an eyebrow curiously.

“I…did,” she explained. “But Vengeance didn’t choose me. Love did, claiming that the desire for revenge is a form of love.” There was quiet for a moment, and then Siylna cleared her throat. “So…a gamble?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “And I’m betting on Ien. I’m betting on my hero.”

“And what if he doesn’t become one?” Siylna looked at her friend, trying to decide if she was insane or very, very clever.

Liz smiled gently. “Si, he already is. We’ve all changed since the Academy, but he most of all. And for all that we wanted to change the world, we both know that he can help them much more than either of us ever could. He’s been taught to lead since he was a child. All I’ve done is help him along a path of mercy rather than cruelty. Ien is a hero. And the harder I push now, the harder he’ll have to push back. The people are suffering now, yes, but when Ien is king, it will be even better for them than it was back when we were at the Academy.”

Siylna nodded. It was twisted logic, monstrous logic, but…she’d always had a bit of a monster inside her, even if it was buried a little deeper than Liz’s. “So…what happens to you when Ien becomes king? If he kills you, you lose.”

Liz snorted. “You think I’ll let him kill me? He’ll only “escape” my dungeons because of my assistance. Killing me isn't part of my plan, and so he won't do it.” She picked up a single white stone, and slid it across the board, towards her carefully arranged black stones. Siylna knew the rules of the game, and had to stifle a gasp when she realized what Liz had done. Her stones were placed perfectly, precisely…so that the white stone could eliminate them all in a single move. “I am a step ahead, Si. Ien is just a puppet who will change the world…and win this bet for me.”

Siylna took a breath and laughed. “Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy…just don’t burn down this world too soon. I’m not done with it yet.”

  Hide contents

BFFS!! 

...Anyone have other Liz scenes you want to see, or prompts that aren't related to her?

 

Hehe, I love it! A scene between Liz and Mari when Ien is in prison could be interesting (unless you’ve already done it and my brain is failing me)

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

10 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

LIZ!!!

Reunion:

  Hide contents

Siylna greeted Liz with a smile. A genuine smile. A smile that meant more than Liz could know. “Old friend,” she said, spreading her arms. Liz accepted the offer, leaning in for a tight hug. 

“You’ve changed,” Liz whispered into Siylna’s ear.

“I’ve missed you,” she replied with a laugh and a shake of her head. “I’m not the only one who’s changed, though…” she looked into her friend’s eyes, seeking answers. Liz nodded. 

“Come inside,” she invited. “We’ll talk there.”

So Siylna followed her, through the beautiful palace that her friend now called home. She frowned, irritated. But she held her tongue. Liz had changed, but surely not so much as to have forgotten…there were bloodstains on a thick rug. Tiny drops of blood, splattered on the wall and floor. Liz followed her gaze.

“A slave misbehaved, most likely. I’ll need to replace the carpet.” Then she turned and kept walking. After a moment, Siylna followed hesitantly, her frown deepening. This opulence, this callousness. It was completely unlike the friend she’d once had. They arrived at a small sitting room, with a set of couches and a small wooden table covered in a strange pattern. Liz shut the door behind them. There was a moment of silence, and then Liz said, “I’m sorry.”

Siylna blinked. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I have become everything we used to hate. And I don’t regret it.”

How curious…Siylna nodded. “You keep slaves,” she said quietly, knowing that her anger was plain as day to Liz. She always had been good at reading people.

“Yes,” Liz said quietly.

Siylna shook her head, unsure if she was disappointed or proud. Liz had said she’d make herself a villain, and…she had. Spirits, but she had. “How far you’ve come,” she murmured. “But…surely this isn’t all for Ien? Are you still so infatuated with him that he’s become all that you are?”

Liz laughed. “Ien is only a piece of my plans, my friend. An important one, to be sure, but by no means is he the reason for all that I do.”

Siylna felt herself smile. This was the girl she knew, so full of dreams, so clever and nearly always right. But… “Why hurt so many people?” She asked. Liz had gone far to try to win this bet. And she’d done the same, but…had Liz gone too far? Had she forgotten herself in this game?

Liz leaned forward, picking up a small velvet bag from the table between them. She reached in, pulling out a polished black stone. Siylna raised an eyebrow, suddenly recognizing the pattern on the table. It was a game board. Liz carefully placed the stone. “Do you remember when we talked about changing the world?”

“Which time?”

“Just before I left.” 

Siylna nodded. “And now you’ve gone and changed it in all the wrong ways. You’re a tyrant, Liz.”

To her surprise, Liz nodded. “I am. And I’m going to get worse.” She placed another stone.

“Why?” Siylna asked again. 

Liz smiled, setting down three of the stones in quick succession. “You know that I’ve always enjoyed betting…by the Spirits, I know that you do too. Where we are today is proof enough of that.”

Siylna shook her head. “Lizzy, I don’t care that you’ve become a politician since we last talked. Just say it.”

“No one’s called me Lizzy in a long time…” Liz murmured, a twinkle in her eye.

“Lizzy!”

She laughed, and Siylna laughed with her, and for just a moment it felt easy. Simple. The way it had back at the Academy. The way it hadn’t felt since Liz left. Then, still smiling, Liz stacked several more stones. “It’s a gamble, Si.”

Siylna’s smile twisted slyly, and she laughed again. “Oh, Lizzy…you haven’t changed at all.”

Then Liz's smile dropped and she looked at her, really looked at her. Her gaze was cool and heartless. For the first time, Siylna noticed a pale scar that twisted up her cheek. A fuzz of black smoke began to coil around her feet. “Haven’t I?”

Ignoring the chill in her stomach, Siylna bowed her head. “I stand corrected. Which god do you serve?”

The smoke began to recede. Liz looked at her for a long moment, then added a stone to her growing pattern and said, “Death.”

“That’s impossible,” Siylna blurted before she could stop herself. She flushed slightly. “Well…improbable. Nothing is impossible when you’re around.”

Liz nodded. “Who’s yours?”

Siylna blinked. “How did you-?” Liz rolled a stone through her fingers, raising an eyebrow. Siylna sighed. “Love.” Liz blinked, looking surprised for the first time. She put the stone on a far corner of the table. 

“I would have thought you’d choose Vengeance…” Siylna grimaced, and Liz raised an eyebrow curiously.

“I…did,” she explained. “But Vengeance didn’t choose me. Love did, claiming that the desire for revenge is a form of love.” There was quiet for a moment, and then Siylna cleared her throat. “So…a gamble?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “And I’m betting on Ien. I’m betting on my hero.”

“And what if he doesn’t become one?” Siylna looked at her friend, trying to decide if she was insane or very, very clever.

Liz smiled gently. “Si, he already is. We’ve all changed since the Academy, but he most of all. And for all that we wanted to change the world, we both know that he can help them much more than either of us ever could. He’s been taught to lead since he was a child. All I’ve done is help him along a path of mercy rather than cruelty. Ien is a hero. And the harder I push now, the harder he’ll have to push back. The people are suffering now, yes, but when Ien is king, it will be even better for them than it was back when we were at the Academy.”

Siylna nodded. It was twisted logic, monstrous logic, but…she’d always had a bit of a monster inside her, even if it was buried a little deeper than Liz’s. “So…what happens to you when Ien becomes king? If he kills you, you lose.”

Liz snorted. “You think I’ll let him kill me? He’ll only “escape” my dungeons because of my assistance. Killing me isn't part of my plan, and so he won't do it.” She picked up a single white stone, and slid it across the board, towards her carefully arranged black stones. Siylna knew the rules of the game, and had to stifle a gasp when she realized what Liz had done. Her stones were placed perfectly, precisely…so that the white stone could eliminate them all in a single move. “I am a step ahead, Si. Ien is just a puppet who will change the world…and win this bet for me.”

Siylna took a breath and laughed. “Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy…just don’t burn down this world too soon. I’m not done with it yet.”

  Hide contents

BFFS!! 

...Anyone have other Liz scenes you want to see, or prompts that aren't related to her?

 

*giggles uncontrollablly*

Also do the scene where they make their bet!! :3

Edited February 7 by The Wandering Wizard

[Edema Rue she/her]

11 hours ago, Just a Silvereye said:

Once again you nailed it.

Thanks!!

11 hours ago, RoyalBeeMage said:

Any thing with Liz. Would love to see how she gained all her power 

Heehee thank you, like political power or magical power?

4 hours ago, Weaver of Lights said:

Hehe, I love it! A scene between Liz and Mari when Ien is in prison could be interesting (unless you’ve already done it and my brain is failing me)

Thank you! Oo...I did one when Liz was in prison, but I haven't done that yet...oo wait I have an idea... >:3

2 hours ago, The Wandering Wizard said:

*giggles uncontrollablly*

Also do the scene where they make their bet!! :3

xD thanks Wizzle, that one's...coming. It's another scene that I'll probably do a lot of drafts of, and as soon as I figure out what exactly the bet even is (no, I don't know yet) I'll write it  

[RoyalBeeMage he/him]

3 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

Heehee thank you, like political power or magical power?

magical power. maby a quick explenation on the whole gods thing. and how they gain power from them

[Edema Rue she/her]

Remember that PoW scene I promised you? I might also put this one in an SU.

In the Ship:

Spoiler

I am surrounded by death; I breathe it in; it is smeared on my face and my arms. It is in my food, in my drink. It is in the smell that never leaves. It is in the darkness of a place that has never seen the sun, and never will. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever see the sun again. I don’t think I will. I remember, when I was younger, my brother got smallpox. My mama all but kicked me out of the house, trying to keep me from catching it. It worked. I wonder what she’d think to see me here, now, covered in the oozing blisters. 

There are so many ways to pop a blister. You never really notice it, when you only have one or two. But when there are dozens of them…you can press your nail against it, neatly slicing the skin on top and allowing the pus to trickle out in a smooth  line. Or you can pinch the edges, putting pressure onto it until all at once it bursts, the yellow fluid splattering out over your hand. Or you can rip the skin from the top, leaving a small puddle of goo with nothing to hold it there. It’s nice, the ability to pop my own blisters. They used to keep us in shackles. Then there were too many of us, and they decided it was too much work to take them off the corpses. I wanted to fight when they took mine off. I started to stand and fell, right on my face. It was a long time before I had the energy to sit up again…

There is a rat gnawing on my toe. I didn’t realize it was my toe, at first. There are so many corpses, I sometimes forget I’m not one of them. Sometimes have trouble telling the different feet apart. I’m…I’m not one of them. Mama once told me that all soldier boys go to Heaven, on account of their going through Hell every day they were alive. And this boat, this is Hell. So if I were dead, I wouldn’t be here anymore. The rat is still gnawing on my toe. There’s a lot more blood, now. Scritch, scratch. Little rodent teeth grinding against my bone. I think that it should hurt. Doesn’t it hurt? I don’t think it hurts. When I was a boy, I stubbed my toe. Nearly cried, too. Now I don’t have any more toe to stub, but I don’t think I can cry. Scritch, scratch. The rat is looking at me now. Its eyes are so black. Nothing should have black eyes. Eyes are how you can tell something’s alive, only not with rats. Rats are dead, even while they still walk around.

But then, I guess us soldiers are the same way. So maybe we should be the ones with black eyes. We walk around long after we're dead. And then we remember, and our hearts stop beating. I remember the first corpse I ever saw. It was only a year ago. Was it really only a year ago? There have been so many, now. It didn’t have black eyes. It was a boy, barely 15 and about as stupid as I was. Both of us. We joined up the same day, thinking we were saving our families. All it took was one bullet. One bullet to his head, and he dropped. His eyes were brown, I think. I didn’t realize he was dead until I saw his eyes. Eyes are where the life is. Mama used to say that she fell in love with Papa the first time she saw his eyes. I almost wish I had a mirror. I wonder if my eyes are still alive, or if I’m only a corpse with a beating heart. Scritch, scratch. The rat is leaving. It must not be hungry anymore. I’m not hungry, either. The bread they threw in last night is next to me, in a puddle of excrement. Mine, or another corpse’s? I don’t know. I can’t tell. 

Maybe that’s how we’re fighting back. We’re stinking up their ships. The wood down here is all stained a deep red, nearly black. Some of it is completely warped out of shape. They’ll never be able to use this boat for anything but prisoners. Or corpses. Which are we? I can’t quite remember.

It doesn’t smell anymore. I don’t know why. It used to smell so bad, my eyes would water every breath I took. When the guards come, with water or looking for corpses, they still cover their faces. One of them vomited when he came down. They never cleaned it up. It’s still on the floor. Some of it splattered on my leg. But it’s their fault it smells so bad; they can’t tell which of us are dead, and which ones aren’t. I’m not dead. But the men next to me are. One of them died three days ago. They still throw him bread. Bread isn’t going to help him. A rat ate his eye, though, so maybe they aren’t sure. It’s hard to tell, without his eye. I watched the whole thing, though, so I know. I saw that his eyes were dead. Then I saw the rat climb up his shoulder. It wasn’t my rat; this one was smaller. A lot smaller. It was just the right size that, once it finished with his eye, it could crawl into the socket and sleep, tail hanging down the man’s bloody cheek.

I wonder if my rat will do that when I am dead. Or maybe before. I don’t have many toes left for it, you see. Poor thing. I wouldn’t want it going hungry. Maybe the guards should throw bread to the rats; Lord knows they’ll live longer than we will.

Lord…Lord knows…I hope the Lord will not be angry with me for missing church on the Sabbath. He will understand, won’t He? Mama always said He understood all things. But I don’t think the Lord ever went to Hell. I don’t think He’s ever been to this ship. I’m glad He hasn’t. In all those paintings, He looked like such a sweet little baby. This is not a place God should see. 

My rat is back. It’s on my stomach now. It’s a good thing I don’t have a shirt. Fabric doesn’t taste as good as meat, see, and I wouldn’t want the rat going hungry.

I would like to see the sun before I go. Mostly, though, I’d like to see my Mama. I think I mostly joined to see her proud smile.

I’d like to see that smile again.

 

[RoyalBeeMage he/him]

3 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

Remember that PoW scene I promised you? I might also put this one in an SU.

In the Ship:

  Hide contents

I am surrounded by death; I breathe it in; it is smeared on my face and my arms. It is in my food, in my drink. It is in the smell that never leaves. It is in the darkness of a place that has never seen the sun, and never will. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever see the sun again. I don’t think I will. I remember, when I was younger, my brother got smallpox. My mama all but kicked me out of the house, trying to keep me from catching it. It worked. I wonder what she’d think to see me here, now, covered in the oozing blisters. 

There are so many ways to pop a blister. You never really notice it, when you only have one or two. But when there are dozens of them…you can press your nail against it, neatly slicing the skin on top and allowing the pus to trickle out in a smooth  line. Or you can pinch the edges, putting pressure onto it until all at once it bursts, the yellow fluid splattering out over your hand. Or you can rip the skin from the top, leaving a small puddle of goo with nothing to hold it there. It’s nice, the ability to pop my own blisters. They used to keep us in shackles. Then there were too many of us, and they decided it was too much work to take them off the corpses. I wanted to fight when they took mine off. I started to stand and fell, right on my face. It was a long time before I had the energy to sit up again…

There is a rat gnawing on my toe. I didn’t realize it was my toe, at first. There are so many corpses, I sometimes forget I’m not one of them. Sometimes have trouble telling the different feet apart. I’m…I’m not one of them. Mama once told me that all soldier boys go to Heaven, on account of their going through Hell every day they were alive. And this boat, this is Hell. So if I were dead, I wouldn’t be here anymore. The rat is still gnawing on my toe. There’s a lot more blood, now. Scritch, scratch. Little rodent teeth grinding against my bone. I think that it should hurt. Doesn’t it hurt? I don’t think it hurts. When I was a boy, I stubbed my toe. Nearly cried, too. Now I don’t have any more toe to stub, but I don’t think I can cry. Scritch, scratch. The rat is looking at me now. Its eyes are so black. Nothing should have black eyes. Eyes are how you can tell something’s alive, only not with rats. Rats are dead, even while they still walk around.

But then, I guess us soldiers are the same way. So maybe we should be the ones with black eyes. We walk around long after we're dead. And then we remember, and our hearts stop beating. I remember the first corpse I ever saw. It was only a year ago. Was it really only a year ago? There have been so many, now. It didn’t have black eyes. It was a boy, barely 15 and about as stupid as I was. Both of us. We joined up the same day, thinking we were saving our families. All it took was one bullet. One bullet to his head, and he dropped. His eyes were brown, I think. I didn’t realize he was dead until I saw his eyes. Eyes are where the life is. Mama used to say that she fell in love with Papa the first time she saw his eyes. I almost wish I had a mirror. I wonder if my eyes are still alive, or if I’m only a corpse with a beating heart. Scritch, scratch. The rat is leaving. It must not be hungry anymore. I’m not hungry, either. The bread they threw in last night is next to me, in a puddle of excrement. Mine, or another corpse’s? I don’t know. I can’t tell. 

Maybe that’s how we’re fighting back. We’re stinking up their ships. The wood down here is all stained a deep red, nearly black. Some of it is completely warped out of shape. They’ll never be able to use this boat for anything but prisoners. Or corpses. Which are we? I can’t quite remember.

It doesn’t smell anymore. I don’t know why. It used to smell so bad, my eyes would water every breath I took. When the guards come, with water or looking for corpses, they still cover their faces. One of them vomited when he came down. They never cleaned it up. It’s still on the floor. Some of it splattered on my leg. But it’s their fault it smells so bad; they can’t tell which of us are dead, and which ones aren’t. I’m not dead. But the men next to me are. One of them died three days ago. They still throw him bread. Bread isn’t going to help him. A rat ate his eye, though, so maybe they aren’t sure. It’s hard to tell, without his eye. I watched the whole thing, though, so I know. I saw that his eyes were dead. Then I saw the rat climb up his shoulder. It wasn’t my rat; this one was smaller. A lot smaller. It was just the right size that, once it finished with his eye, it could crawl into the socket and sleep, tail hanging down the man’s bloody cheek.

I wonder if my rat will do that when I am dead. Or maybe before. I don’t have many toes left for it, you see. Poor thing. I wouldn’t want it going hungry. Maybe the guards should throw bread to the rats; Lord knows they’ll live longer than we will.

Lord…Lord knows…I hope the Lord will not be angry with me for missing church on the Sabbath. He will understand, won’t He? Mama always said He understood all things. But I don’t think the Lord ever went to Hell. I don’t think He’s ever been to this ship. I’m glad He hasn’t. In all those paintings, He looked like such a sweet little baby. This is not a place God should see. 

My rat is back. It’s on my stomach now. It’s a good thing I don’t have a shirt. Fabric doesn’t taste as good as meat, see, and I wouldn’t want the rat going hungry.

I would like to see the sun before I go. Mostly, though, I’d like to see my Mama. I think I mostly joined to see her proud smile.

I’d like to see that smile again.

 

Oh wow. That’s… don’t know how to describe it.

[Weaver of Lies he/him]

7 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

Remember that PoW scene I promised you? I might also put this one in an SU.

In the Ship:

  Hide contents

I am surrounded by death; I breathe it in; it is smeared on my face and my arms. It is in my food, in my drink. It is in the smell that never leaves. It is in the darkness of a place that has never seen the sun, and never will. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever see the sun again. I don’t think I will. I remember, when I was younger, my brother got smallpox. My mama all but kicked me out of the house, trying to keep me from catching it. It worked. I wonder what she’d think to see me here, now, covered in the oozing blisters. 

There are so many ways to pop a blister. You never really notice it, when you only have one or two. But when there are dozens of them…you can press your nail against it, neatly slicing the skin on top and allowing the pus to trickle out in a smooth  line. Or you can pinch the edges, putting pressure onto it until all at once it bursts, the yellow fluid splattering out over your hand. Or you can rip the skin from the top, leaving a small puddle of goo with nothing to hold it there. It’s nice, the ability to pop my own blisters. They used to keep us in shackles. Then there were too many of us, and they decided it was too much work to take them off the corpses. I wanted to fight when they took mine off. I started to stand and fell, right on my face. It was a long time before I had the energy to sit up again…

There is a rat gnawing on my toe. I didn’t realize it was my toe, at first. There are so many corpses, I sometimes forget I’m not one of them. Sometimes have trouble telling the different feet apart. I’m…I’m not one of them. Mama once told me that all soldier boys go to Heaven, on account of their going through Hell every day they were alive. And this boat, this is Hell. So if I were dead, I wouldn’t be here anymore. The rat is still gnawing on my toe. There’s a lot more blood, now. Scritch, scratch. Little rodent teeth grinding against my bone. I think that it should hurt. Doesn’t it hurt? I don’t think it hurts. When I was a boy, I stubbed my toe. Nearly cried, too. Now I don’t have any more toe to stub, but I don’t think I can cry. Scritch, scratch. The rat is looking at me now. Its eyes are so black. Nothing should have black eyes. Eyes are how you can tell something’s alive, only not with rats. Rats are dead, even while they still walk around.

But then, I guess us soldiers are the same way. So maybe we should be the ones with black eyes. We walk around long after we're dead. And then we remember, and our hearts stop beating. I remember the first corpse I ever saw. It was only a year ago. Was it really only a year ago? There have been so many, now. It didn’t have black eyes. It was a boy, barely 15 and about as stupid as I was. Both of us. We joined up the same day, thinking we were saving our families. All it took was one bullet. One bullet to his head, and he dropped. His eyes were brown, I think. I didn’t realize he was dead until I saw his eyes. Eyes are where the life is. Mama used to say that she fell in love with Papa the first time she saw his eyes. I almost wish I had a mirror. I wonder if my eyes are still alive, or if I’m only a corpse with a beating heart. Scritch, scratch. The rat is leaving. It must not be hungry anymore. I’m not hungry, either. The bread they threw in last night is next to me, in a puddle of excrement. Mine, or another corpse’s? I don’t know. I can’t tell. 

Maybe that’s how we’re fighting back. We’re stinking up their ships. The wood down here is all stained a deep red, nearly black. Some of it is completely warped out of shape. They’ll never be able to use this boat for anything but prisoners. Or corpses. Which are we? I can’t quite remember.

It doesn’t smell anymore. I don’t know why. It used to smell so bad, my eyes would water every breath I took. When the guards come, with water or looking for corpses, they still cover their faces. One of them vomited when he came down. They never cleaned it up. It’s still on the floor. Some of it splattered on my leg. But it’s their fault it smells so bad; they can’t tell which of us are dead, and which ones aren’t. I’m not dead. But the men next to me are. One of them died three days ago. They still throw him bread. Bread isn’t going to help him. A rat ate his eye, though, so maybe they aren’t sure. It’s hard to tell, without his eye. I watched the whole thing, though, so I know. I saw that his eyes were dead. Then I saw the rat climb up his shoulder. It wasn’t my rat; this one was smaller. A lot smaller. It was just the right size that, once it finished with his eye, it could crawl into the socket and sleep, tail hanging down the man’s bloody cheek.

I wonder if my rat will do that when I am dead. Or maybe before. I don’t have many toes left for it, you see. Poor thing. I wouldn’t want it going hungry. Maybe the guards should throw bread to the rats; Lord knows they’ll live longer than we will.

Lord…Lord knows…I hope the Lord will not be angry with me for missing church on the Sabbath. He will understand, won’t He? Mama always said He understood all things. But I don’t think the Lord ever went to Hell. I don’t think He’s ever been to this ship. I’m glad He hasn’t. In all those paintings, He looked like such a sweet little baby. This is not a place God should see. 

My rat is back. It’s on my stomach now. It’s a good thing I don’t have a shirt. Fabric doesn’t taste as good as meat, see, and I wouldn’t want the rat going hungry.

I would like to see the sun before I go. Mostly, though, I’d like to see my Mama. I think I mostly joined to see her proud smile.

I’d like to see that smile again.

 

Freaky, which is what I assume you are going for.

[Edema Rue she/her]

6 minutes ago, RoyalBeeMage said:

Oh wow. That’s… don’t know how to describe it.

War is an ugly thing.

2 minutes ago, Weaver of Lights said:

Freaky, which is what I assume you are going for.

Freaky, disconcerting, unnerving... *shrugs* that's what I felt from it, though I'm genuinely not sure what I was going for.

[Edema Rue she/her]

Hellllllpppp I need tragic/romantic/gory writing prompts (@The Wandering Wizard @CalanoCorvus c'mere bros I need you)

[Medium he/they]

blubbering person who’s losing blood swiftly and is in shock, from either a deep cut or lost limb, and another character is struggling to comfort them, stabilize them, and simultaneously hold back tears.

[RoyalBeeMage he/him]

If I may give a suggestion 

Spoiler

Someone who has to physically sacrifice themselves to allow someone else to survive a near fatal accident 

 

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

1 hour ago, Edema Rue said:

Hellllllpppp I need tragic/romantic/gory writing prompts (@The Wandering Wizard @CalanoCorvus c'mere bros I need you)

The only thing I could probably give is romantic

[Weaver of Lies he/him]

1 hour ago, Edema Rue said:

Hellllllpppp I need tragic/romantic/gory writing prompts (@The Wandering Wizard @CalanoCorvus c'mere bros I need you)

A person  must ether sacrifice their significant other or lose their fourth and last living child to a terrible disease.

[Edema Rue she/her]

3 hours ago, CalanoCorvus said:

blubbering person who’s losing blood swiftly and is in shock, from either a deep cut or lost limb, and another character is struggling to comfort them, stabilize them, and simultaneously hold back tears.

 

3 hours ago, RoyalBeeMage said:

If I may give a suggestion 

  Reveal hidden contents

Someone who has to physically sacrifice themselves to allow someone else to survive a near fatal accident 

 

 

1 hour ago, The Wandering Wizard said:

The only thing I could probably give is romantic

Romantic is lovely :))

1 hour ago, Weaver of Lights said:

A person  must ether sacrifice their significant other or lose their fourth and last living child to a terrible disease.

OoooOOOoo thanks guys I'll probably do these at some point  

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

1 hour ago, Edema Rue said:

Romantic is lovely :))

2 hours ago, Weaver of Lights said:

A lover incorporating a item that means a lot to them both into a item for a proposal.

[Edema Rue she/her]

(Rah-EE)

Song:

Spoiler

“No.”

Daven glared. “Just listen to me, just once, all right?”

“No.” I turned away, rubbing ink-stained fingers on a cloth.

“Please?”

I turned back. “I’m not going to give you a song. You know that.”

He ran a hand through his hair, managing to glare and sneer and sigh all at once. “You do it for anyone who comes to you. Anyone. What do you have against me?” I didn’t answer. He’d been with me nearly every day for three years. He knew I wouldn’t respond. After a moment, he let out a huff of breath. “And what are you writing today?”

“Dissonant harmony; belonging.” He let out a soft whistle, and I snorted, picking up my quill. “Some clients are more poetic than others.”

He nodded. “And you just…hear a song?”

I gave him a sharp look. “Curious today, aren’t we?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, not sounding sorry at all. “I just…you don’t see it, in here. You write your songs, and never see anything more than that. But…but I play them. And their faces, Raii, their faces. The first time I played one of your songs, I’d never seen such joy-” I tried to interrupt, but he kept right on talking. “But then I saw it again, and again. In their faces. Your songs gave them that. And you keep it from me, even though I see it every day.”

“Daven, I don’t-” I stopped, took a breath. “I’m not going to write you a song. If that’s the only reason you’re staying, you can leave now.” I gestured at the door at the back of the wagon, carefully keeping my breathing steady.

He shook his head, running his hand through his hair again. “I’m not going to leave.” A corner of his mouth twitched up, though his eyes remained sad. “We do good work, Raii.”

I nodded, relieved. “We do.” For a long time, the only sounds were the scratching of my quill and the occasional creaking of the wagon. My lamp flickered, and I felt myself falling into a familiar rhythm. We were always traveling, and so this wagon…this was home. And then it was done. I never know how the song is going to end when I start writing it. This one had a resolution, though the song itself was full of…well…dissonance. 

At the top of the page, I wrote ‘Dissonant Harmony; Belonging’. “Daven?” He looked up from where he was polishing one of his many instruments. 

“It’s done, then?” 

“Yeah.” 

He took the music from me, then blinked. “You haven’t written anything for flute in a long time.”

“I trust that won’t be a problem?” I winced, realizing only after I’d spoken how cold it sounded.

But Daven just laughed. “Not at all. Just surprised.”

I smiled, but it felt tight. “Enjoy,” I murmured, and he nodded, picking up a small case and stepping out, a bounce in his step. The wagon was small, but with Daven gone it suddenly felt cavernous. I blew out my lamp and collapsed into the bed. 

***

Daven stepped out into the sunlight. There were a few people scattered about, villagers who looked up from tedious chores with tired eyes that brightened when they saw him. He smiled, then went down the road to the home of Raii’s latest customer. He knocked on the door, and footsteps immediately pounded down the hallway. A young boy opened the door, blinking at him curiously. 

“Is your sister here?” He asked kindly. The boy just blinked. A moment later, the girl who’d come to them earlier stepped around the corner, looking surprised.

“It’s done? Already?”

Daven nodded. “The Lady works quickly.” Raii was no lady…but the commoners preferred to think of her that way. 

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t faking?”

“No,” Daven said, gently but firmly. “Would you please follow me?”

The girl gave him a flat look. “I’m not going to go anywhere alone with you.”

Daven hesitated, then nodded. “I was only asking as a courtesy,” he said. “Many people would rather hear their songs with no audience, but I understand your hesitation.” 

The girl nodded sharply. “We can…do it outside, then.” A group of villagers had subtly moved themselves into and around nearby buildings, under the pretense of working. Daven raised an eyebrow, but nodded, following her out. She sat down on the step up to her house, and Daven on a tree stump. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it would do. He set down Raii’s music and pulled out his flute, then began to play. The girl wept.

***

They moved on. Another week, another new town. Daven watched as Raii met with villagers. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear her, but he knew what she was saying. Three words. Give me three words, and I’ll give you a song. They didn’t need to be told the rules. They’d heard the rumors. 

Raii smiled warmly, and thanked them, and Daven gritted his jaw. She gave them songs. Anyone could request a song, and she’d write one so beautiful that it could break or heal a person. Except him. She’d never given him a song. He let out a small breath, and started walking back to the wagon. 

Several minutes later, Raii walked in. She pulled out a paper, and began to write. He didn’t say anything, didn’t beg for what he knew she would never give. 

***

Years passed. Daven played for kings and beggars, for knights and criminals, and most of all for peasants. Each song was unique, beautiful, heartbreaking. Each song could only be played once.  Then, on the simplest of days, in their same old wagon, Raii handed him a sheet of music. Only one page. He frowned. It was old, the ink faded but still in Raii’s elegant script. 

At the top were three words, as with every song she wrote.

I love you.

“I…” She coughed. “I wrote it. The day I met you. But I didn’t want to give it to you until I knew it was true.” Then she turned and left the wagon. Daven’s hand shook as he looked at it. He’d stopped asking for her to give him a song nearly two years ago. He’d stopped hoping. 

After a moment, he pulled out his lute, and began to play. 

He wept, and laughed, and felt it fill his soul with the joy he’d seen in others nearly every day.

And then he went outside, and found Raii, and they embraced.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, love.”

Spoiler

No, I don't know what that is.

 

[Weaver of Lies he/him]

1 hour ago, Edema Rue said:

(Rah-EE)

Song:

  Hide contents

“No.”

Daven glared. “Just listen to me, just once, all right?”

“No.” I turned away, rubbing ink-stained fingers on a cloth.

“Please?”

I turned back. “I’m not going to give you a song. You know that.”

He ran a hand through his hair, managing to glare and sneer and sigh all at once. “You do it for anyone who comes to you. Anyone. What do you have against me?” I didn’t answer. He’d been with me nearly every day for three years. He knew I wouldn’t respond. After a moment, he let out a huff of breath. “And what are you writing today?”

“Dissonant harmony; belonging.” He let out a soft whistle, and I snorted, picking up my quill. “Some clients are more poetic than others.”

He nodded. “And you just…hear a song?”

I gave him a sharp look. “Curious today, aren’t we?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, not sounding sorry at all. “I just…you don’t see it, in here. You write your songs, and never see anything more than that. But…but I play them. And their faces, Raii, their faces. The first time I played one of your songs, I’d never seen such joy-” I tried to interrupt, but he kept right on talking. “But then I saw it again, and again. In their faces. Your songs gave them that. And you keep it from me, even though I see it every day.”

“Daven, I don’t-” I stopped, took a breath. “I’m not going to write you a song. If that’s the only reason you’re staying, you can leave now.” I gestured at the door at the back of the wagon, carefully keeping my breathing steady.

He shook his head, running his hand through his hair again. “I’m not going to leave.” A corner of his mouth twitched up, though his eyes remained sad. “We do good work, Raii.”

I nodded, relieved. “We do.” For a long time, the only sounds were the scratching of my quill and the occasional creaking of the wagon. My lamp flickered, and I felt myself falling into a familiar rhythm. We were always traveling, and so this wagon…this was home. And then it was done. I never know how the song is going to end when I start writing it. This one had a resolution, though the song itself was full of…well…dissonance. 

At the top of the page, I wrote ‘Dissonant Harmony; Belonging’. “Daven?” He looked up from where he was polishing one of his many instruments. 

“It’s done, then?” 

“Yeah.” 

He took the music from me, then blinked. “You haven’t written anything for flute in a long time.”

“I trust that won’t be a problem?” I winced, realizing only after I’d spoken how cold it sounded.

But Daven just laughed. “Not at all. Just surprised.”

I smiled, but it felt tight. “Enjoy,” I murmured, and he nodded, picking up a small case and stepping out, a bounce in his step. The wagon was small, but with Daven gone it suddenly felt cavernous. I blew out my lamp and collapsed into the bed. 

***

Daven stepped out into the sunlight. There were a few people scattered about, villagers who looked up from tedious chores with tired eyes that brightened when they saw him. He smiled, then went down the road to the home of Raii’s latest customer. He knocked on the door, and footsteps immediately pounded down the hallway. A young boy opened the door, blinking at him curiously. 

“Is your sister here?” He asked kindly. The boy just blinked. A moment later, the girl who’d come to them earlier stepped around the corner, looking surprised.

“It’s done? Already?”

Daven nodded. “The Lady works quickly.” Raii was no lady…but the commoners preferred to think of her that way. 

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t faking?”

“No,” Daven said, gently but firmly. “Would you please follow me?”

The girl gave him a flat look. “I’m not going to go anywhere alone with you.”

Daven hesitated, then nodded. “I was only asking as a courtesy,” he said. “Many people would rather hear their songs with no audience, but I understand your hesitation.” 

The girl nodded sharply. “We can…do it outside, then.” A group of villagers had subtly moved themselves into and around nearby buildings, under the pretense of working. Daven raised an eyebrow, but nodded, following her out. She sat down on the step up to her house, and Daven on a tree stump. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it would do. He set down Raii’s music and pulled out his flute, then began to play. The girl wept.

***

They moved on. Another week, another new town. Daven watched as Raii met with villagers. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear her, but he knew what she was saying. Three words. Give me three words, and I’ll give you a song. They didn’t need to be told the rules. They’d heard the rumors. 

Raii smiled warmly, and thanked them, and Daven gritted his jaw. She gave them songs. Anyone could request a song, and she’d write one so beautiful that it could break or heal a person. Except him. She’d never given him a song. He let out a small breath, and started walking back to the wagon. 

Several minutes later, Raii walked in. She pulled out a paper, and began to write. He didn’t say anything, didn’t beg for what he knew she would never give. 

***

Years passed. Daven played for kings and beggars, for knights and criminals, and most of all for peasants. Each song was unique, beautiful, heartbreaking. Each song could only be played once.  Then, on the simplest of days, in their same old wagon, Raii handed him a sheet of music. Only one page. He frowned. It was old, the ink faded but still in Raii’s elegant script. 

At the top were three words, as with every song she wrote.

I love you.

“I…” She coughed. “I wrote it. The day I met you. But I didn’t want to give it to you until I knew it was true.” Then she turned and left the wagon. Daven’s hand shook as he looked at it. He’d stopped asking for her to give him a song nearly two years ago. He’d stopped hoping. 

After a moment, he pulled out his lute, and began to play. 

He wept, and laughed, and felt it fill his soul with the joy he’d seen in others nearly every day.

And then he went outside, and found Raii, and they embraced.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, love.”

  Hide contents

No, I don't know what that is.

 

I liked it! It had a simple, but not simplistic, sweetness that I really enjoyed!

[RoyalBeeMage he/him]

5 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

(Rah-EE)

Song:

  Hide contents

“No.”

Daven glared. “Just listen to me, just once, all right?”

“No.” I turned away, rubbing ink-stained fingers on a cloth.

“Please?”

I turned back. “I’m not going to give you a song. You know that.”

He ran a hand through his hair, managing to glare and sneer and sigh all at once. “You do it for anyone who comes to you. Anyone. What do you have against me?” I didn’t answer. He’d been with me nearly every day for three years. He knew I wouldn’t respond. After a moment, he let out a huff of breath. “And what are you writing today?”

“Dissonant harmony; belonging.” He let out a soft whistle, and I snorted, picking up my quill. “Some clients are more poetic than others.”

He nodded. “And you just…hear a song?”

I gave him a sharp look. “Curious today, aren’t we?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, not sounding sorry at all. “I just…you don’t see it, in here. You write your songs, and never see anything more than that. But…but I play them. And their faces, Raii, their faces. The first time I played one of your songs, I’d never seen such joy-” I tried to interrupt, but he kept right on talking. “But then I saw it again, and again. In their faces. Your songs gave them that. And you keep it from me, even though I see it every day.”

“Daven, I don’t-” I stopped, took a breath. “I’m not going to write you a song. If that’s the only reason you’re staying, you can leave now.” I gestured at the door at the back of the wagon, carefully keeping my breathing steady.

He shook his head, running his hand through his hair again. “I’m not going to leave.” A corner of his mouth twitched up, though his eyes remained sad. “We do good work, Raii.”

I nodded, relieved. “We do.” For a long time, the only sounds were the scratching of my quill and the occasional creaking of the wagon. My lamp flickered, and I felt myself falling into a familiar rhythm. We were always traveling, and so this wagon…this was home. And then it was done. I never know how the song is going to end when I start writing it. This one had a resolution, though the song itself was full of…well…dissonance. 

At the top of the page, I wrote ‘Dissonant Harmony; Belonging’. “Daven?” He looked up from where he was polishing one of his many instruments. 

“It’s done, then?” 

“Yeah.” 

He took the music from me, then blinked. “You haven’t written anything for flute in a long time.”

“I trust that won’t be a problem?” I winced, realizing only after I’d spoken how cold it sounded.

But Daven just laughed. “Not at all. Just surprised.”

I smiled, but it felt tight. “Enjoy,” I murmured, and he nodded, picking up a small case and stepping out, a bounce in his step. The wagon was small, but with Daven gone it suddenly felt cavernous. I blew out my lamp and collapsed into the bed. 

***

Daven stepped out into the sunlight. There were a few people scattered about, villagers who looked up from tedious chores with tired eyes that brightened when they saw him. He smiled, then went down the road to the home of Raii’s latest customer. He knocked on the door, and footsteps immediately pounded down the hallway. A young boy opened the door, blinking at him curiously. 

“Is your sister here?” He asked kindly. The boy just blinked. A moment later, the girl who’d come to them earlier stepped around the corner, looking surprised.

“It’s done? Already?”

Daven nodded. “The Lady works quickly.” Raii was no lady…but the commoners preferred to think of her that way. 

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t faking?”

“No,” Daven said, gently but firmly. “Would you please follow me?”

The girl gave him a flat look. “I’m not going to go anywhere alone with you.”

Daven hesitated, then nodded. “I was only asking as a courtesy,” he said. “Many people would rather hear their songs with no audience, but I understand your hesitation.” 

The girl nodded sharply. “We can…do it outside, then.” A group of villagers had subtly moved themselves into and around nearby buildings, under the pretense of working. Daven raised an eyebrow, but nodded, following her out. She sat down on the step up to her house, and Daven on a tree stump. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it would do. He set down Raii’s music and pulled out his flute, then began to play. The girl wept.

***

They moved on. Another week, another new town. Daven watched as Raii met with villagers. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear her, but he knew what she was saying. Three words. Give me three words, and I’ll give you a song. They didn’t need to be told the rules. They’d heard the rumors. 

Raii smiled warmly, and thanked them, and Daven gritted his jaw. She gave them songs. Anyone could request a song, and she’d write one so beautiful that it could break or heal a person. Except him. She’d never given him a song. He let out a small breath, and started walking back to the wagon. 

Several minutes later, Raii walked in. She pulled out a paper, and began to write. He didn’t say anything, didn’t beg for what he knew she would never give. 

***

Years passed. Daven played for kings and beggars, for knights and criminals, and most of all for peasants. Each song was unique, beautiful, heartbreaking. Each song could only be played once.  Then, on the simplest of days, in their same old wagon, Raii handed him a sheet of music. Only one page. He frowned. It was old, the ink faded but still in Raii’s elegant script. 

At the top were three words, as with every song she wrote.

I love you.

“I…” She coughed. “I wrote it. The day I met you. But I didn’t want to give it to you until I knew it was true.” Then she turned and left the wagon. Daven’s hand shook as he looked at it. He’d stopped asking for her to give him a song nearly two years ago. He’d stopped hoping. 

After a moment, he pulled out his lute, and began to play. 

He wept, and laughed, and felt it fill his soul with the joy he’d seen in others nearly every day.

And then he went outside, and found Raii, and they embraced.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, love.”

  Hide contents

No, I don't know what that is.

 

it was nice!

[Edema Rue she/her]

Hmm I really need a name for this...something other than Liz, because this is Ien and Mari, not her. But same story. HmmMMmm... *shrugs* well, this scene scudding hurt to write for reasons none of you understand (or probably ever will lol) but enjoy your Liz-less Liz stuff!

Firsts:

Spoiler

He was on the ground, the first time she saw him. Collapsed in a puddle of blood. For a moment, Mari thought he was dead. She wouldn’t be surprised, in this dungeon…and then he looked up. He didn’t notice her or the guards holding her; he only had eyes for the woman at the front of their strange procession. 

“Liz,” he growled, pushing himself up so that he was sitting against the stone wall at the back of the cell.

The Lady of Darkness winked at him as one of the guards unlocked the cell next to him and threw Mari in. “Good to see you too, love.”

“I’m not–” He cut off, gagging and grabbing at his throat.

Liz smiled. “We can talk another time, darling.” Somehow, the word sounded like a threat. The boy heard it too, shivering. “Today, I’ve brought you a present.” Mari flushed, though out of anger or shame she wasn’t sure.

He glanced toward Mari for the first time, and his lip curled. “I thought you cared about slaves,” he said tauntingly, then broke down coughing. 

Liz tutted softly, like a mother to a petulant toddler. Mari, however, noted a strange hope in her eyes. Behind the calculation, the coldness…she cared about this prisoner. But it was gone in an instant. “She’s a healer,” Liz said coldly, spinning on her heel, the guards following. Mari watched them leave, saw them turn the corner and heard doors slam above. Finally, she turned to find the boy staring at her. “I-” she cut off, unsure what to say.

“Are you really a healer?” He asked, sounding weary. “Or are you just one more of her games?”

Mari blinked. “I…I’m a healer?”

“You don’t sound sure.” He’d closed his eyes. 

“I am,” Mari said. “And…you look like you need it.” He started to chuckle, then cut off into coughing again. Slowly, he pulled himself to the bars that separated their cells. “Right,” Mari said timidly, studying him. There was a ragged slash on his forehead. The blood had formed a thin crust in some places, but most of the cut still oozed. Head wounds could be dangerous…she reached into her pouch, pulling out a bundle of leaves. “Chew these.” He didn’t move to take them. She sighed. “Look, I don’t…I swear I’m not here to hurt you. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but it looks like there’s going to be a whole lot of stitching to do, and by the spirits, if you scream or cry, I’ll scream or cry. And you don’t want that.” She stopped, realizing how much she was talking. “So. Um. Eat them?”

He watched her for a moment, then took the leaves. Mari relaxed, pulling out a rag and reaching through the bars to wipe off his face. “Why does she hate you?” She asked softly. He jerked away, wincing.

“I…”

“Sorry, sorry,” Mari said. “I didn’t mean…sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, smiling tightly. “Just…a difficult question.” He didn’t say anything else, and they fell into an uncomfortable silence as she cleaned his wound.

Then Mari pulled out her needle and gut. He winced. “I’m Mari,” she said hesitantly. It wasn’t a very subtle distraction, but it was still a distraction.

“Ien,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re here, Mari.”

She blinked, carefully beginning to stitch the cut. Ien winced. “It looks like you’ve had it much worse than me. Blame the Lady of Darkness, not yourself.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Did she give a reason for imprisoning you?” Ien asked.

Mari hesitated, thinking of what the Lady had told her… “No,” she said firmly. “Doesn’t matter to me, though. At least in here, I won’t starve.”

Ien’s head jerked up sharply, and Mari nearly poked his eye out. She gave him an annoyed look, but he didn’t notice. “What do you mean, starve?”

Mari blinked. “How…how long have you been here?”

“A few months? Maybe…maybe five?”

“Oh…” Mari snipped the thread, the cut closed neatly. “Where else are you hurt? There’s a lot of blood in there.”

He shook his head, leaning back from the bars. “No, none of that. Mari, what’s happening out there? What did Liz do?” Mari was silent, and Ien grabbed the bars between them. “Don’t just sit there, girl, what’s happening?” He shouted. Mari startled, stumbling back. Ien closed his eyes, took a long breath. “Sorry,” he said. “I…shouldn’t yell.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered, forcing a smile. He smiled back, though his eyes remained sad. It wasn’t okay, the same way her question hadn’t been okay, but…but that was all right. The silence had just begun to stretch when she abruptly opened her mouth and said, “She’s going to destroy the world.”

“What?” 

Mari flushed. “Not…well…not literally. But the people. She lives extravagantly, increases taxes, kills as she pleases. No one can fight her. The people are starving, but…but there’s nothing anyone can do.”

Ien squeezed his eyes shut, drawing in a ragged breath. He didn’t speak. Eventually, he turned and pulled off his shirt, revealing dozens of cuts along his back. Lashes. Silently, Mari sewed them up, put this boy back together. When she finished, Ien leaned against the wall. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“I’m a healer,” she said, almost reflexively. “It’s what I do.”

 

[Weaver of Lies he/him]

5 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

Hmm I really need a name for this...something other than Liz, because this is Ien and Mari, not her. But same story. HmmMMmm... *shrugs* well, this scene scudding hurt to write for reasons none of you understand (or probably ever will lol) but enjoy your Liz-less Liz stuff!

Firsts:

  Reveal hidden contents

He was on the ground, the first time she saw him. Collapsed in a puddle of blood. For a moment, Mari thought he was dead. She wouldn’t be surprised, in this dungeon…and then he looked up. He didn’t notice her or the guards holding her; he only had eyes for the woman at the front of their strange procession. 

“Liz,” he growled, pushing himself up so that he was sitting against the stone wall at the back of the cell.

The Lady of Darkness winked at him as one of the guards unlocked the cell next to him and threw Mari in. “Good to see you too, love.”

“I’m not–” He cut off, gagging and grabbing at his throat.

Liz smiled. “We can talk another time, darling.” Somehow, the word sounded like a threat. The boy heard it too, shivering. “Today, I’ve brought you a present.” Mari flushed, though out of anger or shame she wasn’t sure.

He glanced toward Mari for the first time, and his lip curled. “I thought you cared about slaves,” he said tauntingly, then broke down coughing. 

Liz tutted softly, like a mother to a petulant toddler. Mari, however, noted a strange hope in her eyes. Behind the calculation, the coldness…she cared about this prisoner. But it was gone in an instant. “She’s a healer,” Liz said coldly, spinning on her heel, the guards following. Mari watched them leave, saw them turn the corner and heard doors slam above. Finally, she turned to find the boy staring at her. “I-” she cut off, unsure what to say.

“Are you really a healer?” He asked, sounding weary. “Or are you just one more of her games?”

Mari blinked. “I…I’m a healer?”

“You don’t sound sure.” He’d closed his eyes. 

“I am,” Mari said. “And…you look like you need it.” He started to chuckle, then cut off into coughing again. Slowly, he pulled himself to the bars that separated their cells. “Right,” Mari said timidly, studying him. There was a ragged slash on his forehead. The blood had formed a thin crust in some places, but most of the cut still oozed. Head wounds could be dangerous…she reached into her pouch, pulling out a bundle of leaves. “Chew these.” He didn’t move to take them. She sighed. “Look, I don’t…I swear I’m not here to hurt you. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but it looks like there’s going to be a whole lot of stitching to do, and by the spirits, if you scream or cry, I’ll scream or cry. And you don’t want that.” She stopped, realizing how much she was talking. “So. Um. Eat them?”

He watched her for a moment, then took the leaves. Mari relaxed, pulling out a rag and reaching through the bars to wipe off his face. “Why does she hate you?” She asked softly. He jerked away, wincing.

“I…”

“Sorry, sorry,” Mari said. “I didn’t mean…sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, smiling tightly. “Just…a difficult question.” He didn’t say anything else, and they fell into an uncomfortable silence as she cleaned his wound.

Then Mari pulled out her needle and gut. He winced. “I’m Mari,” she said hesitantly. It wasn’t a very subtle distraction, but it was still a distraction.

“Ien,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re here, Mari.”

She blinked, carefully beginning to stitch the cut. Ien winced. “It looks like you’ve had it much worse than me. Blame the Lady of Darkness, not yourself.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Did she give a reason for imprisoning you?” Ien asked.

Mari hesitated, thinking of what the Lady had told her… “No,” she said firmly. “Doesn’t matter to me, though. At least in here, I won’t starve.”

Ien’s head jerked up sharply, and Mari nearly poked his eye out. She gave him an annoyed look, but he didn’t notice. “What do you mean, starve?”

Mari blinked. “How…how long have you been here?”

“A few months? Maybe…maybe five?”

“Oh…” Mari snipped the thread, the cut closed neatly. “Where else are you hurt? There’s a lot of blood in there.”

He shook his head, leaning back from the bars. “No, none of that. Mari, what’s happening out there? What did Liz do?” Mari was silent, and Ien grabbed the bars between them. “Don’t just sit there, girl, what’s happening?” He shouted. Mari startled, stumbling back. Ien closed his eyes, took a long breath. “Sorry,” he said. “I…shouldn’t yell.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered, forcing a smile. He smiled back, though his eyes remained sad. It wasn’t okay, the same way her question hadn’t been okay, but…but that was all right. The silence had just begun to stretch when she abruptly opened her mouth and said, “She’s going to destroy the world.”

“What?” 

Mari flushed. “Not…well…not literally. But the people. She lives extravagantly, increases taxes, kills as she pleases. No one can fight her. The people are starving, but…but there’s nothing anyone can do.”

Ien squeezed his eyes shut, drawing in a ragged breath. He didn’t speak. Eventually, he turned and pulled off his shirt, revealing dozens of cuts along his back. Lashes. Silently, Mari sewed them up, put this boy back together. When she finished, Ien leaned against the wall. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“I’m a healer,” she said, almost reflexively. “It’s what I do.”

 

*hugs*
It’s definitely not how I expected them to meet, well done!