She could either be very good or very bad but would never, ever be both because her body had room for only one.
important psas. character development challenge.
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She knew he was a traveller. Tall with sun-kissed locks and weathering in his face like he’d spent too many years scowling. Far too human to be picked from anything of these trees, he was new and it was his one saving grace she happened upon him rather than snarling Unseelie.
Be’er me than a monster.
(The monsters would have told you the exact opposite.)
She happened upon him the way a crow happened upon a grasshopper, leg snapped and lame in the tall spring grass; craftily, more malicious than malcontent. Hidden from the treetops with dirty feet scraping along the mossy bark to shadow his every step.
“Who dares tae enter in this forest wood?” came the growl from the leaves and Freydis felt a stir of adrenaline run through her veins. “This b’ Gods’ territory an’ none ae us are fer humanity.”
Everything is close to fire today, we will never be here again
(that is a nice thought for the humans)
sleep is a mild cousin of death,
and even when you’re alive, you court
you turn your body into art,
when you end up loving and it destroys you.
turn your body inside out
paint your organs whatever color
the landscape is —
(i happen tae like the yellows and greens)
you’re going to die anyway, according to
I think of your body unhinging,
wrapping around a stone hearth
I think of burning your bones,
carrying you all as
He told himself he shouldn’t answer but the truth started with a ‘C’ and ended in the same fashion.
She bit and he cursed and if he’d had had a name he’d have put it to memory so he could do so again with a better mind and meaner tongue in private.
It was dark now and time had slipped from him like butter left out overnight in a chapter that unsettled him. As if the forest were dejecting them. Him. Her. Life found a way. It always had and it always would. But it left broken things behind. It let them rot and dissolve and become milk for moss.
And it wasn’t fair, he settled on. Leaving her to die a dog’s death. Not even. A pauper’s. An evil man’s end. Hounds took themselves off to waste away alone and with a semblance of pride. Her lady bugs were someplace underfoot and in pieces and they might as well have been a horse’s legs. She was alone with the rest of her and he’d seen men after war holding their own cleaved hands and arms with the same face as if there were a chance in seven devils the dead things could be reattached.
She would live, he’d make sure. Work for her. Without wings but with feet.
“I left m’ lov’ in th’ Faerie Glen
Home o’ th’ wee faerie men
I met her there oan ae July nigh’
When ae Summer moon was beamin’ brigh’”
So he sang while he walked home, because he could not think of one thing to say to have her stop crying.
He was a saint — a child — because of his care. Sang like a fool and cupped the dead in his hands the way she had cupped the daisies that were trampled underneath careless horse hoof. His heart was bleeding in the calloused middle of his large palm, flesh stretched over ridges and fortune lines and they hummed a chorus of dead wings.
She could feel his veins pumping blood underneath the small shell of her ear and something twisted — snapped even — inside her stomach. Melted bones for scabbard and faerie teeth for an accessory was the flawed design of Freydis Asleif. Her exact weight in her teeth, her virtue paid by blood.
“Idiot,” because she couldn’t say much anything else in shattered honor. She wore shame like an apocalyptic pinfeather nagging her skin right between the ribs. An annoying little pissant pain not enough to warrant a visit to the healer but enough to make its presence known at the slightest provocation.
“M’goin’ tae die.”
Grimly, sagely, munching on corpses. An army of eaten pixies nibbling at the purple of her toes, maggots wriggling on her tongue. Death, startling vivid in architecture blooms in her body as a sinister epiphany. So clear, there was a hitch in her breath.
“This is whit ‘s like tae b’ doomed. Funny.” And it was, but it was humor that was festering under the surface of happiness. Acrid and pungent and sweet — faerie humour, one that would haunt well after they’d left the forest.
“Certainly hope ‘t was worth it, I’ve certainly been fooked guid an’ hard.”
Mortals are instruments. Some drums. Some flutes and harps. And others pretty or heavy things that make too much noise and have old spit in old corners not worth their silver.
He is the lyre in his hand. New. A few dents near the middle. You pressed louder and you got louder. Most notes were nice next to one another even if they were out of tune. He was always looking for someone to play him though. Because an instrument is a lonely thing and only as good as the hand upon it.
She knows Greensleeves by heart now.
Dustfinger held back a coy grin when she reassured him that he was correct. However… he couldn’t help himself. “You’re not the only fairy I’ve seen.” He replied casually, as if remarking on something quite uninteresting, just to see her reaction. “I’ve seen another, though she was brought from her own world too. She’s quite pretty as well.” Though he didn’t add that she was a selfish little annoyance who had expected him to do whatever she wanted of him even after he’d saved her life. That part, he so purposefully excluded. And her obnoxious angry tinkling when he’d told her to find someone else.
“You know, where I come from, fairies are blue. And they have four sets of wings.” He murmured to her, as he sat down beside her saucer to see her better, closer to her level. “They don’t really look like pretty little ladies. And they’re definitely not so fair haired.” His fingertip dipped into the milk, as if idly stirring it.
Really, he was just thinking about his scars for a moment. Not a happy place. “Is that what they do?” He asked, his tone empty then. They really just served to remind him of life’s miseries, of a man who he hated more than anything, and woman he may never see again. “You mean in this world?” He asked, eagerly seizing on the new topic. “Human beings are awfully fickle in this world in general. They don’t really believe in anything that matters.” He turned his gaze back to her, before he offered her his hand, if she wanted to hop on. “Yes, I’ll have to be very careful.” He teased.
“Do you really dream about falling in love with men?” He asked, more seriously.
“Four sets o’ wings …” she murmured in a soft, distracted tone (far too interested in sugar and sweets than the actual conversation), hair bobbing as she worked her fingers to break off a larger chunk of tart. “Now ‘m sure yer intentions are tae make me jealous.” Fair haired and yet some would say she had been as black and as scummy as the bottom of the lochs littered around her fair home. Good for as long as she wanted to be until one of her curls flipped the other way and rubbed her wildly.
Pretty and soft and ladylike, not like his faeries at home. (Oh, but there was a will as strong as her fear of iron to be like those wicked wights).
He’d spoken the language of ugliness and in the darkness, she found him the most beautiful human she’d ever seen. Crudely stuffing the crumbling tart into her mouth, the wee thing looked somber and sated with the emptiness he’d shown her. More human than a human and yet almost as outsider as she; poor bastirt, was the only thought meant chiefly for him.
They don’t really believe in anything that matters, he’d said and she found him as clever as a bard with this wisdom. A smirk came onto her face and not far after, a laugh as gay as a loon’s cry. “Aye—!” Freydis agreed, staring at the milk. “Tae smart fer their own damned design — overthinkin’ their purpose an’ believin’ this world purely belongs tae them.”
“A bunch ae doomed bastirts an’ wee children, even when they’re auld — nae like ye, m’wee faerie freer.” Her dirty feet stepped onto the palm of his hand and she sat with a crumb settled up neatly between her legs. And — then, with a sigh more exaggerated than it was worth, the faerie stared up at him with an unwavering expression.
“O’ course I dae. Men’re … well, yer .. innocent. Out o’ everythin’, there’s innocence. Whit’s nae tae love ‘bout tha’?”
there’s always a surge of excitement whenever i see you posting. i’ve admired you from day one and i’ve loved you probably longer than that. you’ve been with me from go to woe and back again and if there has ever been such a profoundly intimate writing style to influence me, it’s always yours.
i credit you with one hundred percent of what i am today, mel. from prose to headcanon, you’ve been an inspiration and joy that i can’t exactly articulate into words and i kinda love that. i love being inarticulate and free and flowing with no purpose and knowing that you understand me and accept me for who i am — i am honestly so spoiled by you. i love macintosh and how he is this breathing work of art and humanity — trials, tribulations and needs — and you’ve captured his masculinity and indecision so goddamned wonderfully.
(by the way, you’re always cool and tough to me. you’re mysterious and lovely and i could spend a good portion of my life devoted to writing prose about you.)
like che, you’re ominously terrific, sinisterly enjoyable and it’s because i can’t figure you out. you are henry miller, you are f. scott fitzgerald, you are homer and ares and brian froud with a dash of margaret atwood and daul kim. you are everything i aspire to be and i kinda want you to know that.
if there’s one thing i would ever, ever want anyone to know, it’s that you’ll be my forever senpai and that mel has the ability to reveal so much about her character in a few well thought sentences. i never know what to say when explaining her other than a hum of a breath and a stinging in my eyes and a,
“hello, have you seen da vinci and kahlo with a type of sadness speckling the top of otherworldliness like ten million roman foot soldiers? if not, please let me show you mel.”
but it all stops short on the tip of my tongue and my heart bursts with admiration. oh, i’ve had heroes who have saved my life and you are one — my only one, tbh.
idk, ah. i love you a lot and i’m glad i get to talk to you and i hope we never stop talking.
(why aren’t you following mel already though.)
in a lot of ways, i am frightened of you.
please please please don’t take this as a sign of worry, though! it is the most wild, glorious, cruel feeling i have ever had the honor of experiencing. i brag and say i’ve seen similarities in humans and it links us all together but the truth is i have never in my life (this one or past) met anyone like you. your mind is a thing of beauty, your honesty is raw — quirky, entirely yours. you fascinate me and boggle my mind and it terrifies me to know that you seem to have life down to a science.
you seem so grounded even in the middle of chaos and it both wholly frightens and excites me. thank you is the first thing i’ve always wanted to say to you.
thank you for being who you are and for actually having the thoughts you do and the perspective that you have. the stars and threads of time have never been more clear to me than they are now and it’s because of you!
(i owe you far more than cheap words — i owe you gratitude and compassion and love with every fiber of my being.)
as for una, wow do i find myself in love with her. i love hamlet, i love her articulation and meticulous appearance and her entire story. your writing style (as i’ve said before) marries her characterization perfectly and i have never been more enamored by the character-narrative relationship as i am with yours.
all in all, you are wildly talented and beautiful in every single way and i feel an entire spectrum of emotion (envy, wide-eyed wonder, childlike joy) when i talk with you and i credit that with being an impressive human being.
i highly recommend che to anyone reading and honestly, you won’t regret it if you’re in search of interesting people/ocs.