Deadline

The Shadow of the Serpent - Celtic-Medieval role-play. (Interest Check)

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Nathair spent the rest of the morning in a state of performance. While his friends boasted and laughed, he managed only to scrape by with mild jests and witless comments. His gaze was that of a stray dog, constantly drawn to the stalls where his uncle and brother slept.

A movement to his left made him realise he was not alone in this, either. Aoife was caught by the same dark mood. He watched her studying the hides of the roofing, her eyes narrow as if waiting for the very moment his brother would pull himself out of bed and make himself known. The morning passed by with grueling slowness as a result; like blood being sieved through a pitcher of honey. Nathair wished for nothing more than to lick the taint off his fingers, spit it into the fire and be done with it. It was no small mercy when Cullan finally announced himself and the hall truly came alive.

The village maidens—red-headed, freckled, and much the talk of the room thanks to Rían and Tadhg—giggled as they slathered Cullan's hair with lime, making it wiry and stiff. Cullan sat among them jesting, calling his own kin to share the wine, but rarely did his hospitality extend to Nathair and his friends. While Nathair, Rían, and Tadhg sat there toasting the man and sharing in the merriment, it felt like something was missing. This should've been a joyous occasion, but it felt like their presence was not wanted. The smoke from the village clung to the roof, thick and dense, burning their lungs and making it increasingly hard to enjoy the gathering. At one point, one of the red-headed maidens went to sit with Tadhg, but Cullan's men dragged her back and scolded her. And that was that. Tadhg and Rían would have no more part of it, lest they ended up making a scene before the aonach had even begun.

They all decided to leave in the end, and did so with begrudging smiles on their faces. As they went, Nathair could still feel Aoife watching his brother from afar. It was true that Cullan had watched them go with some small measure of relief, and frankly—Nathair could make no sense of it. It felt like just yesterday they had been friends.

"Don't you worry, Nathair," Rían said, shaking his head as they stepped out of the hall and into the cool air. "Your brother's just getting ready to be an ass. Takes an ass to make a Chieftain; everyone knows that."

"Not much company, is he, my nephew?" came a familiar voice. Nathair looked over his shoulder to find his uncle had fallen in with them. Nathair took a moment to study him. After all, it had been some months since he'd seen him last.

Maguire was a jovial sort. He was short in stature, moustachioed, and dark of hair. Though he seemed unassuming enough, Nathair knew for a fact he had killed at least three rivals in schemes that had kept the gossips wagging their tongues. He ruled over a holdfast just across the border. As the village made last minute preparations for the aonach, his uncle sat down with them by the fire and leaned back on his elbows in the grass. He then set his mind towards Aoife's clothes.

"And what is this? Aoife, the most formidable huntress in the glen has come to the celebrations dressed as if she's been wrestling a ballybog all morning! Surely a girl of your standing could not summon up something more festive...?"

"The only bog sprite I see here is busy sitting in the mud and running his mouth, dear uncle," she countered with her teeth around a spoonful of oats and porridge. She sent him a wicked glare that was just short of being friendly. "I see they've taught the monsters of the glen to sit upright. Tell me, do you also intend to stay sober enough to last throughout the entire aonach, or is it in fact your plan to retire sometime in the afternoon, old man?"

Tadhg and Rían laughed aloud, and Nathair could not help but smile as Maguire clicked his tongue and responded with a scoff. He then pulled his dagger and pointed it at her liberally, and she lifted her hands up innocently enough.

"I'm no uncle of yours, maiden," Maguire replied. "And I dare you to remember it in case any of my sons need a wife," Maguire shook the blade at the rest of them. "And here's hoping they don't! You'll soon as like turn them into punching bags or eunuchs than provide them with a babe!"

Aoife laughed along with the others. The sounds of their merriment carried across the timber walls of the log house. But her eyes soon drifted back to Nathair. He was sat stiff, his gaze tracking the movements of some of his brother's men; his ale forgotten in his hand. She pulled a small face before replying to Maguire.

"Careful now, old man," she said, leaning across the stones until the firelight made her braids shine gold. "Even if I do birth a pair of punching bags, they'll at least know how to hold their own. Better a warrior's wife than a sweet lady who faints at the sight of her own husband's horn!"

They burst into fresh laughter, and Aoife reclined in satisfaction and studied Nathair out of the corner of her eye. She then looked over her shoulder and caught sight of Cullan in the courtyard. She leaned in and muttered.

"He certainly looks the part, doesn't he?" She said. Cullan stood there bleached in limestone and two feet taller for it. His hair all pointed and his braided iron torc glinting in the sun. Nathair couldn't deny he looked every bit a Chieftain and leader of men. It filled his heart with promise and dread. "Remember Nathair," Aoife whispered to his shoulder, keeping her voice low as not to alert Tahdg or Rían. "A man's fine stature during the day tells you nothing about the long shadow he casts at night."

"Stop adding omens to dreams," he growled into her ear. He then gave her a rough bite on the lobe to teach her a lesson.

Aoife let out a broad yelp, torn between a squeal and a shout. She swatted at his arm ferociously and blushed until she wore a corset made up of freckles and soft red skin. "You brute," she cursed him, rubbing at her ear. "Is that how a warrior treats a woman? If you go on acting like this, the village will think you've been spending too much time wrestling mountain cats like a common soldier."

"I am no common soldier," he reminded her, and she stared up at him with her nose wrinkled and eyes challenging the notion. He felt for her the same competitiveness he felt towards his brother in that moment. He almost bared his teeth.

"Fine. No more omens for now," she patted him on the cheek softly, turning from him and ending the challenge. She recognised the seriousness of his nature. "But do not blame me if the Gods speak to you in a language you cannot ignore."

He could feel Aoife's spirit tied to his, and he knew she meant well, but he could no longer sit with her and share her mood; for it too keenly mirrored his own. He stood up and went to take a piss in the ferns.

"Nathair," a voice said from behind him a moment later. He turned and looked and saw it was his father. He was waiting for him outside the long hall. "When you're done there, I'd like you to come and have a word, lad."

Nathair finished what he was doing and met him halfway. He knew it would be about preparations for the aonach.

"This celebration is no place for boasting about old kills," his father said. "You and your friends will have to mind their own business today, you understand? Be strong, but don't let your flute do the talking. That goes for your clansmen as well."

"Pay me no mind, father. I'm proud of Cullan. I've no intention of challenging his claim," Nathair said.

"That makes me proud. Listen, there'll be plenty of flatha about town soon enough. They'll be looking to Cullan to see if he can handle himself. You keep your brother steady, aye? Watch the men. Watch the visitors. Be the warrior the clan needs. Honour your brother and good things will come lad. You have my word."

Nathair thanked his father and went on his way, but despite what had been said, he followed through with the rest of the preparations like a man wading through deep water. Aoife's haunting whispers followed him throughout the market square. It was only his father's stern commands that kept his mind from lurching around in the tumult. Every time he saw Cullan speaking with the village elders a cold knot formed in his stomach. He tried to press it down, but the memory of the javelin in his dream felt as real as the saex upon his hip. He was glad when the rest of the guests showed up so that he could stop pretending to be busy.

In time the sun settled high in the sky and long, sharp shadows crowded the village square. The aonach had begun, and the air grew thick with restless chatter, smoked meats and the promise of ale. It was the lyres and drums though that signalled the real start of the festivities though. Aoife found him just as the crowd began to swell. Likely spurred by Maguire, she'd changed into a sage green tunic with red accents that made her braids pop like the last embers on a dying hearth. She asked to dance with him and took him by the hands, though he could sense her cunning bleeding through with every step. She was keeping up with the other girls, but he did not notice her movements. It was only her voice that he heard.

"So it is time," she said. "The clan's eyes are upon you, Nathair. Even though it is your brother's day, make sure to stand tall. Let them see your strength and not the shadow he casts upon you."

Nathair swallowed and danced with her, forming a tight smile. But he was not truly there. He felt like a ghost at a wedding. Women looked into his eyes and men raised their glasses to him and if they saw anything hollow about his gestures they gave no sign, but he could not take his eyes off the stand; even as Aoife performed whirls beneath his arm and sent her hair tumbling across his chest; even as bubbly laughter formed in her throat and she squealed with excitement whenever he tossed her. He felt not a bit of her warmth. His brother was getting ready to make a speech, and as Cullan took to the stage, the music suddenly died as if its throat had been cut.

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The Shadow of the Serpent - Celtic-Medieval role-play. (Interest Check)

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"What is the matter now, Aoife? It is cold out here," Nathair said as they stepped outside.

Aoife studied him at length. She was a woman grown, eighteen years of age, with thick-braided ginger hair that ran down her shoulders in a warrior's knot. Her shoulders were well-rounded and soft; arms toned beneath a crimson brat. Her cloak was fastened with a bronze pin in the shape of a fox’s paw, and she wore a beige tunic with leather boots bound to her knees. She had eyes like rain, soft and blue, sharp as they fell and bound to chill the bones when they had a reason to linger. Her breasts had grown fuller over the winter as well, a fact Nathair was vaguely aware of as they stood beneath the door of his father's hall, even now.

Damn her, he thought. Why did she have to be so arresting? If it was not her moods, it was her eyes. If it was not her eyes, now she had the figure to charm men as well. Why could she not have remained the unassuming girl of their youth?

"The cold is honest, Nathair," Aoife said. She came towards him and studied him eye-to-eye. He almost flinched. "It tells you where you stand. Unlike the men in that hall..." Her fingers snared his arm, as if to prevent him from slithering away.

"Aoife—" he argued, keeping his tone to a low register. But her eyes drenched his, scouring his soul for an answer. In that silence, the dream rushed uncomfortably back to him, as if summoned by her intuition.

"Do not hide behind feigned smiles and vague tilts of your head, Nathair!" She said. "I know you too well not to know when you are upset. The smoke coming from the village was unnatural; there was more than peat in the air. I sense the heaviness, the same as you." She gestured him up and down, indicating his shortness of breath and the fallen look in his eyes. "You stalk around like a man in mourning. Tell me the truth. What was this dream? Did the mountains whisper to you as well?"

He glared at her for half a moment, then frowned. "You are far too observant and far too wise for a woman your age; I say it to your good father all the time," he chided her cautiously. He batted her hand away, as he often did when they were younglings, though it did not deter her. If anything, it made her more persistent. She stepped closer and invaded his personal space. The playful girl he had grown up with was gone, he was starting to realise. Now Aoife was a woman whose intuition bordered on the unsettling. He reluctantly thought back to her question as he fidgeted with the cold bronze torc around his neck.

He did not know how much to tell her. Sharing dreams led to omens, and omens were bad news. Some dreams were better off left as such: faded memories that could not harm nor influence a man's life. "You know as well as I the mountains can be treacherous. Listening to their ward-tales can be as grave as ignoring them. I don't know what to believe. All I know is I had a dream of my brother, and in it he wielded a javelin and buried it between my shoulders when I was not looking. But I have been worried, Aoife!" He told her when she widened her eyes and tried to interrupt. "I had already been fretting over the aonach! May as well the stress led to such dreams and they are not prophecies as our ancestors would have us believe but a conjuring of my own ill-imagination!"

She did not believe him and he knew it. The color had drained from her freckled cheeks. She pointed at him with an accusatory finger as they stood in the lingering dawn. In the distance, the foothills were a ghostly pearl blue; the greenery was colorless. It was as if the sun were waiting for them to finish their conversation before it would rise. Aoife’s mouth, however, remained a stubborn, bright red. "A javelin between the shoulders," she argued. "To be struck from behind by the very person you call blood. That is an ill omen, Nathair!"

He turned from her again, but this time she grabbed him. "You call it your imagination," she said as she kept yanking on his tunic, forcing him to stay put, though he was eager to return to his father's hall and take ale with Tahdg and Rían and leave these thoughts behind. "But the spirits do not care for a fool's ignorance. They speak from the gut and the marrow!" She then retreated an inch, though her eyes remained locked onto his. She seemed to know he wasn't being foolish, merely human. But in their world, being merely human often meant the difference between forging a legacy and winding up dead.

Tired of him not listening, Aoife reached out and tried to punch him in the gut, but he quickly wrestled with her and pinned her to the wall. She scoffed when he got a handle on her, though she gave it everything she had. Her feet kicked in those pinched leather boots, and her well-fed body thumped against his as she glared into his eyes. The honourable look did not leave her face, even when he pinned her down.

"If it is only stress, then let the aonach pass," she whispered. Her voice remained conspiratorial. She was too proud to be deterred. "But if the mountains are telling the truth... and your brother's heart has turned to stone... then you cannot remain a fool, Nathair. You must address this issue. Your pride will make you the martyr of our clan."

"You speak of things that have not yet come to pass," he warned her. This time he stepped into her and chided her for her presumptions. "I'll be wary, but I won't betray my own brother or ready arms against him over a vision, especially one born of my own restless nature! So I am worried? What of it. I am only worried for myself. A dream isn't enough to condemn him, Aoife!"

She let out a soft, frustrated huff. Then she glanced at him and grew stubborn once again. There was still an innocence to the shape of her lips, but her eyes spoke only truth. If they were not kin, he would've cursed her for how quickly she could turn a mood. But her stubbornness was her defining trait and he was cursed to love her for it. "That is your greatest strength," she commended him. "But it is also your biggest flaw. You would wait until the blade is already buried in your back to believe the wound is real."

"Damn you for being so bloody wise," he spoke to her face. His breath coalesced on her skin, and when she looked at him warily--with a hint of tenderness--he leaned in and nudged his nose against hers. She repeated the gesture immediately. Soft and guiding, a thing that spoke of trust. They could both do it with their eyes closed and had shared it since they were children. He slowed as he went to shove himself away from her, confessing: "I won't believe Cullan intends to betray me. He has no reason to. I am his younger brother and would act as his general if asked, all in the name of the clan. I'd marry whom he wanted me to marry and I'd advise him if he put me on his council. He has no reason to fear me, Aoife. I have no mind to challenge him to the title of Chieftain."

When he let her go, she hurried after him as he walked through the short grass and sand that pitched the hill outside the long hall. She was like a fox, snapping at his heels.

"You speak of loyalty as if it were a shield, Nathair. But a shield is useless if the man you face intends to strike from behind!"

She could see the indecision and the conflict warring within him. It was all over his face as he placed his hands against the door of the long hall. He believed in the sanctity of blood. That had always been their father's lesson. Family, blood, lineage. But he was also a warrior. A part of him screamed to recognise Aoife's claims. But without proof and only shadows in the smoke, what reason did he have to rise against his brother, especially on the day of the aonach?

"Your brother has no reason to fear you," she said to him from over his shoulder. She placed her palm tentatively on his back. "But he may one day fear your shadow, Nathair. Is it not often the case that great generals who have won the love of the people are hailed to the crown?"

He could feel his spirit keening. His mind was split, as it had been since the early morning, only now it was drenched in smoke and fog. "Enough Aoife," murmured, his guard finally slipping. "You've made your point."

She blinked, softening as well. "Let us go then," she spoke, her hand turning sweeter upon his hip. She knew he was at his limit. It was in his eyes; a snake badgered by a fox was likely to strike at any moment. "To warmth and ale?"

"To warmth and ale," he agreed. Then without hesitation he reached for her arm, pulling her closer. He would not be without her. Not now. Not when he was so grateful for her care.

She huddled herself against him, letting out a sound of pure, unburdened joy when he pressed her close. "Always so impatient," she chided. The sound of her voice cut through the morning mist and banished it from the door well. The wall of indecision was still there, but he no longer had to face it alone. Aoife had anchored herself to him, tying herself to his strength, and as they entered the hall, their friends called out to them warmly, asking them to share the fire and the promise of ale.

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The Shadow of the Serpent - Celtic-Medieval role-play. (Interest Check)

<Snipped quote by Deadline>

It's the best feeling when a story you're working on manages to write itself! Having it flow really easily and that freedom to tap into more supernatural and thematic elements to reach outcomes must be really satisfying. Will you delve into the lore behind the spirits and what drives them to consistently help Nathair in this pattern? (even if some attempt to misguide him) It's a pretty nice blend of realistic fiction and fantasy; I'd love to know more.

@chokesonphlegm

(I cut this down for brevity's sake.)

TL;DR: Yeah, that's a great point. All my spirits appear in rivers/large bodies of water or in deep forest/where mist coalesces. They're the spirits of Nathair's ancestors and the mountains. Nathair summons them throughout the story in search of answers. I'll likely never name them specifically, as I believe naming the paranormal/supernatural takes away from its power. But perhaps during the second or third arc I'll address why he's so connected to the Gaelic spirits of his people.

That reminds me, there is a beautiful episode in Vikings where the characters go on pilgrimage to a shrine (Uppsala) and the show-writers address many of the themes represented throughout the series. I'll likely do something similar because I also find it really fucking cool to delve deeper into these topics!

The Shadow of the Serpent - Celtic-Medieval role-play. (Interest Check)

This is definitely something I would read about! The premise so far is really interesting. Unfortunately, I've never attempted to write on the foundation of a politically complex plot, let alone a historically accurate one, for a nation I'm not familiar with. I'd love to spectate, though. Best of luck!

@chokesonphlegm

OOC:

Really appreciate this. I'm glad you like the vibe. I've been plotting it all day in an external document. (I usually do that to see if the plot actually holds up and creates something worthwhile... or if it just fizzles out and amounts to nothing. ) So far it actually writes itself. It has a certain formula going for it:

Nathair doubts himself > He consults the spirits > The spirits give him a reply based on duality (good/evil) > He is reassured by Aoife that he will always make the right choice in the end; or "might makes right" --> ACTION.

"∞" (And on and on until the arc closes and a new one begins.)

Nerding out, but:

It's also a lot of fun to see how this plot doesn't need many "logical" outcomes. A lot of Nathair's decisive moments revolve around him speaking to spirits/making sacrifices/or being reassured by his clan (mainly Aoife). So every time I get "stuck," I just have him re-engage in the theme of the story (Druidism/Spirits/Clan) and the whole thing reorients itself right back to where it needs to go. Feels like a very reliable genre to write in.

Honestly, if I keep having this much fun with it I may just make it into a series.

Microfiction & Poetry contest #14 - new beginnings

Would it be possible to see a sample of a contest entry so we can see the format?

The Shadow of the Serpent - Celtic-Medieval role-play. (Interest Check)

OOC:

[So I'd like to write this Celtic-Medieval story about Nathair and Aoife, two warriors of a Celtic-Irish clan who're about to undergo a radical change in their lives. I will be playing Nathair and you would play Aoife (and you're welcome to change her name/or represent her however you'd like! My prompt is only there to set the stage).

As you can likely tell from the story so far, Nathair's brother is planning to oust Nathair from the clan. It's likely the story will lead into a political-military struggle where Nathair goes to live with his Uncle following his banishment (in which Aoife will join him). From there, the plot remains fairly open. The end goal would be for Nathair to get revenge on his brother/retake control of the clan, but the struggle will be whether or not Nathair can come to terms with fighting one of his own family members for the prize.

tl;dr: "Us against the world/ride or die" plot set in a medieval/realistic landscape with hints of Celtic lore, magic, and light fantasy elements (dreams, prophecies, seers, animal spirits, ghosts, etc). Bravery/honour/clan are the core themes. Aoife serves as Nathair's rock.

You could represent Aoife as a huntress, warrior, or sorceress, I don't really mind provided she cares for MC and treats him like a good friend from the very beginning!

This' a very strong, grounded, worldly plot. I would really like to include a lot of Celtic elements: whether it is druidism/folklore/or rituals, etc. I see Nathair as being hesitant to step into his role as leader of the clan and Aoife being his catalyst. She would perform rituals around him to invoke his ancestor's spirits and together they'd become a power-couple. So I see it as a bit of a Saga. Like History Channel's "Vikings" or something. Our characters would be represented in different stages of their lives, starting from when they're quite young. e.g. Nathair could be 18 here and Aoife might only be a little older. Keeping in mind that people came of age a lot sooner in these times, so they've already been classified as adults for a few years. This would really be their transformative period where they find themselves or die trying.

Thanks! Leave a comment or message if you're interested!]

The Shadow of the Serpent - Celtic-Medieval role-play. (Interest Check)

The kindred mountains speak in whispered tongues about the man called "Nathair," born of the snake in the Celtic language. Since birth, he has stood out among his three brothers for his bravery and cunning. At ten, called to war, he led a charge on a neighbouring village when seasoned warriors would not take the risk. He claimed three ears that day and has since become a man. Now he stands on his father's council, addressing the matter of his brother's initiation into Chieftaincy. But even as the mountains still whisper of betrayal, his friends begin to arrive to take part in the aonach. One of them, a young woman and good friend of Nathair's since childhood, sees the warning signs in the bitter smoke and intends to alert Nathair of the coming storm...

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"Alas, perhaps I am cursed. After all, there is little honor in striking down your own brother..." — Nathair to Aoife.

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Nathair awoke from a bad dream. He was abed in his family's long hall. He turned over restlessly and heard his uncle and brothers snoring in the adjacent stalls. It must have still been early morning, for the cracks in the walls were dark. He reached up and wiped the sweat from his face, then thought back to the vision that had disturbed his sleep.

He and his brother had been talking in the barley fields. They had been but children. Nathair had mentioned to him how his dream had always been to cross the isles and see the lands of the English and Scottish and perhaps marry a Scot bride and inherit a castle. Perhaps then he could retire a great warrior and be spoken of in the ballads, like Cú Chulainn. His brother had listened whilst playing with the head of a javelin they'd found down by the brook. They carried it as a token of their friendship. The gae was made of bronze and shone half-green in the sunlight. His brother had frowned whilst he told him about his hopes and dreams. Then once his back was turned, he'd felt a sudden pain in his left shoulder, and he'd turned about to see his brother standing there--a grown man, looking down at him with the illest contempt. He thought he heard the words: "We can't both be the heroes of our clan, Nathair." Though he wasn't sure. He had awoken to a stiff banging on the doors of the hall, and the dream had become muddy in the way that dreams often did when they were too frightening and unsavoury to remember....

Bundling himself into his léine and brat, Nathair dragged himself out of bed and made his way over to the doors and keeled them open. A low song greeted him--drunk and gay--and he saw his three friends standing there. Rían, Tahdg and Aoife; each none-too-sober and all of them mud-speckled from travel. They grinned when they saw him and came inside, embracing him around the shoulders.

"Ready for the aonach are you?" Rían said, whispering so as not to wake the hall.

"As ready as I can be under the circumstances. It's not often your brother becomes Chieftain," Nathair replied sheepishly. He then laughed as Tahdg passed him a horn of ale and bundled himself around the fire. Nathair stoked the flames for them all, and they got settled around the hearth where bulbs of garlic and dried perch hung from the shelves.

"Bah! It should've been you, Nathair. The bloody line of succession is a beggar's prize. You might as well challenge him to a game of steel and take the title for yourself," Rían said as he tossed his wool cloak over an empty hook. He then rubbed his hands together and came and joined them.

Nathair smiled grimly and tried not to think of the dream. He could've sworn Aoife was watching him carefully. She'd had a sort of restless energy about her since entering the hall. Her eyes often sought his, and she hadn't yet removed her warm things. He avoided her gaze deftly and tried to focus upon his cups. When she saw this, her hand came and settled upon his knee. "Is something the matter, Nathair?" she said, as if she could yet see the dream playing out in his mind.

"Strange dreams," was all he said, giving her a reassuring glance and a feigned smile. That did not reassure her any and he could tell as much. In fact, it only seemed to unsettle her further. She looked longly into his eyes, as if she could sense his apprehension and darkening mood, and even with Rían and Tadhg making arses of themselves, her eyes never left his.

"We should talk," she said eventually, and he sighed wearily as she stood up. He knew she would pester him all morning if he did not come along. And with a glance across the room, Aoife hinted him to come with her and leave the fire behind....

My space.

///

My space.

Raymond lay there kissing Reni on the fingertips. She giggled. She giggled each time he did it, looking right up into his eyes from down on her back with her hair tied into twin pigtails in a quasi-ironic bid at the fact she was his "baby." She was not his "baby." She was twenty five years old. Yet sometimes they liked to play at this. He would slump around the house in a too-large t-shirt and baggy jeans and no socks and cook her food and she would hug at his leg and ask him to feed her and he would shove strawberry toast into her mouth. She would gulp and say muffled words around it, something to the tune of "thank you," but it would usually sound more like "sausage."

Now and then they'd drift around the garden, always with her holding his hand. If she was not holding his hand she would say: "Raymond, why aren't you holding my hand?" And it would sort of go on like that for several minutes until he did, in fact, hold her hand. She was apparently a sucker for hand-holding.

Now and then she'd stand by the gnome. Upon standing by the gnome, Raymond would groan. He'd say, "Please, Reni, not again--" and yet she'd look him dead in the eye and shout: "I'm a gnome!" And then she would refuse to leave that spot.

"Gnomes don't walk!"

"Gnomes don't talk!"

"Gnomes don't leave the place you put them!"

Until eventually he'd scream (of course): "You're not a gnome!?"

And it would sort of go on like that with the two of them refusing to believe one another. She would say in an exacerbated tone how she could've been a gnome in a past life, and Raymond would groan. He would swipe his hand across his face and sort of look at Reni like she was completely mad. Then she'd simply smile at him prettily and he'd forget all about how annoyed he'd been at her and they'd go on walking through the garden.

Sometimes they'd go down to the stream, and in a rare show of very real intimacy they would sit down on the bank and hold one another. She would lay her head against his chest and sigh about how tired she was from work, and how Mr. Peddler was bothering her again. And her small hands would spread across his chest, taking kitten-licks at his hair. And something would bumble from her lips to the tune of: "I love you..." And he would simply roll his chin against her hair. She would then say: "Say I love you..." to which he'd quickly utter: "Love--" and she would cut him off with: "Not as much as I do."

Sometimes it would rain, and Reni would cry for hours.

These short inescapably lonely moments were the upheaval of his heart. Reni would stand in the garden watching as the rain washed away the end of the garden for perhaps the third time that month. All the plots she'd worked so hard to cultivate would once again slide into the stream. He had tried to build rocks to make a more sturdy landscape, but in all honesty the garden just wasn't meant for it. The hill was simply too steep and the river too wide and--well, Reni wouldn't accept it. She had grown plants at the top of the garden and she longed for a square hedgerow of little apple trees and nice little hedges. But all she had was a sloping, muddy view of a stream; and she would lie against his chest sobbing and sniffling and watching as all her hard work was washed away. In his pity and genuine defeat he would hold her close and tell her everything would be okay. They would try again, even though it was the third time that month.

Sometimes they would make love. Hotly, mostly in the middle of the night. In the night they were adults. He would wake up to her on the couch and feel across her socks and she would stir, murmuring simple words to his voice as he breathed hard into her mouth. He was relentless; a soft stroke of her nipple or a gentle touch of her womanhood and she would open up to him. And soft and wet, he would put himself inside her; and then her eyes would half-open and she'd stare up at him heavy-lidded as he made love to her. Always the same. With his hands about her cheeks and his lips claiming her mouth. They always came. Both.

You see there is a love so elegant and pure out there in the world that sometimes all you have to do is be truly honest with the one you love and there is a hope that if they are the one they will accept you. That no matter the topic or the complicatedness of your spirit if you truly belong together then they will understand. That was Reni and Raymond. He was lazy and unkempt and passionate and creative. She was strict and worried and sweet and well-organized. They fit each other like a glove yet seemed like complete and total opposites. Sometimes when they were out people thought they were best friends until they kissed; and it was not odd or unusual, it was simply love. They were comfortable enough to be around each other with or without romance but they were always better for it. Their house was a little orange house at the end of the lane and they lived in it for many years and Raymond painted all the time in the basement. Remi went to work at the local shop and was by all accounts a florist. He painted landscapes and she worked weddings. They were unmarried, but very much in love, and their friends were musicians and artists; sometimes photographers and sometimes students. More often university professors or teachers from the local schools. In quiet moments, Raymond often checked himself and wondered how he could be so lucky, and thought he perhaps didn't deserve someone as sweet and loving as Reni. Reni mainly worried. Worried for Raymond, worried for herself, worried for the garden; but she never thought that she belonged with anyone else other than him. To her, Raymond was a certainty. A part of her life that she never questioned nor doubted. She loved him in an inescapably pure way that was to her, over and done with. She was simply waiting for him to propose and realise it himself. In all likelihood, she would be the one to propose. She would do it on a hot summer's day, perhaps during a picnic, and present the topic as something airy and ill-thought of.

"Raymond. What do you think about us getting married?"

"Well I think it a lot of fuss?"

"Yes but don't you think we should, for our parents?"

"What? For them and not for us?"

"Well we could do it for us."

"Now that's a thought...."

And then he would slowly smile; and she would slowly smile. And then she would sit there with her feet out in front of her, curling her toes whilst licking at her icecream, quite unable to take her eyes off've him. He would then grin in that cocksure way he often did and lean back on his elbow like the Buddha; and in her madness and elatement she would suddenly leap at him, throwing away her icecream as she landed upon his lap.

"Truly!?" She'd beg.

"Truly."

"You wouldn't joke about it would you...? Oh! That would be so cruel!"

"I wouldn't joke you. Not about this. Not ever."

She would press her kitten lips to his like the final notes of a piano score. She would stare into his eyes longingly; her pupils like small black pebbles waiting to be rescued from a shallow pond. She would breathe and her lungs would seize and she'd wait for him to give her one last breath; and then they would be married.

Reni collected herself and sighed. She was arranging flowers in Mr. Peddler's shop. She put a stop to her imagination and ceased to let it run wild.

Those were her hopes. Her girlish hopes for the future; that she might one day marry Raymond, that they might one day be husband and wife. That they might go to honeymoon in Spain and she would see the bullfights and festivals and have sangrias like Hemingway out on the Mediterranean. She wished to transform. To no longer be a girl but a woman. To have a ring on her finger and answer only to him, her peers and definitely not her parents. She arranged the flower basket still. It seemed to need a lot of arranging. Then suddenly she heard Mr. Peddler calling and she let out a hurried sigh. "Coming...!"

If only Raymond would notice...

1x1. MxF. Action. Cyberpunk. Dark Victorian. Taboo. Historical-Fantasy.

Bump.