Unless First a Dream
Title: Unless First a Dream
Story Continuity: Battle For the Sun
Rating: PG-13 for Cyprian's mouth and brain
Wordcount: 1547
Summary: Cliff and Kristen go running off ahead in a fit of unbearable sugary cuteness, and some trees are just too tempting not to sleep under, even at the risk of irking said tree's fairy colony when you telepathically connect with Tall, Pale, and Bishounen while you slumber. Wait, what?
Notes: Title taken from the Carl Sandburg quote, "Nothing happens unless first a dream." You didn't need to know that, but I feel all spiffy for using Google to find a story title.
It shall be said, by people with no sense for drama, that I hate running. This was partly true. Actually, I loathe running with the passion of a newly ignited supernova. Details. So naturally, what happened halfway to the next town away from Dalduin? After Cliff discovered that Kristen knew some truly admirable phrases, the two got into a friendly cuss fight, and through some freak telepathic link I wanted to know nothing of, they clasped hands and ran. I ran after them for a while, pacing myself because I imagined I had the least amount of physical endurance in the group, and I was not let down. I eventually just gave up chase, because, fuck it, I was too old for this shit. Never mind I was 25, I was too old - or too unfit. I kept healthy, but not healthy enough that I could match pace with a bunch of toned kids who worked out like clockwork.
I loathed and loathe running, the aches and the rushing about and the breathlessness. If my people were meant to run, we wouldn't have invented teleportation - and by “my people,” I mean mystics, not botanists. Spend enough time listening to the cons and uber-cons of botany (essentially, it's unmanly and let's not forget unmanly) in your mother's post-mortem harpy screech, and you start to feel a kinship for all the others who had to go through the same in life. They're my people, too. So I just walked, content in the knowledge that I had the map and the others didn't, and that they would have to find me to figure which road led to Amlaine which led to other places that weren't so much.
The road to Amlaine is called the Orange Tree Road, and someone, probably a landscaper who was gleefully rolling in it, had taken the time to make the place beautiful. The orange trees were nice, but most of them were too cheerful, too eager, and it was like being stuck on a long stretch of land populated by puppies that couldn't but desperately wanted to wag their tails. And then I met the antithesis of the orange tree: the young rebel tree that wanted to be a cherry blossom. Cherry blossoms are tricksy things, and while they aren't sadistic as such, they like to cause trouble in such a way that they will never be implicated - that is, if you can understand them. After all, a cherry blossom's life is long and boring, and anyway, who would believe that a cherry blossom, a beautiful tree, could be the cause of any sort of trouble? Besides anyone who's ever talked with one, of course.
“You seem a little peaked,” the orange tree said. I made a noise that might have been taken for acquiescence by a generous tree.
“Rest under my boughs,” the tree said, “and I'll protect you.”
The tree looked inviting, and I'd spent too much time among plants that told me straight up when they were going to fuck me up, and I'm ashamed to say I did sit beneath the tree, and I slept well and dreamed.
I seldom dreamed normally. I didn't dream my own dreams, which was good, as far as I was concerned, because I'd had some twisted dreams of my own that I never want to dream again. I dreamed the dreams of other mystics, of which there were few. There was an old woman with an ax and an admiral's badge once, but at that point in time, I hadn't seen anything from her in months, and I assumed she was dead. Once, there was an old man, but he was so long gone I could barely remember the dreams he had of his wife and her sister. All the better, you ask me.
And then there was the young man.
He was older than me, and had the appearance of a young god, with silver hair and sharp edges and green eyes, tall and lean and handsome, and I dreamed of him that afternoon. He was wearing a funeral shroud, and it was sunny in my dreamland, and greener than any summer valley I'd had the pleasure of seeing. There were ruins in white marble and cobalt, but things grew here, and I knew with the sureness of dream knowledge that this place was real and out there...somewhere. The man - I didn't know any of my head-mates' names - smiled. I realized he had a sewing kit on him.
“You...sew?” I said, not really sure if I was seeing things or dreaming one of my messed up dreams, and he just smiled, as if he just knew I considered dating a snapdragon in my mid-teens. He probably did. Point was, don't knock it, and that point was received.
And then his hand fell off, a series of blue and red veins running from its wrist.
That was new. And fairly disgusting. I'd seen worse, though - and from him, no less.
The hand shot into the sky and covered the sun, and the man grabbed the veins and pulled, gently, until the hand was in his other hand. He sewed the appendage back on, but before it could be sewn on completely, his hand opened, and there was the sun. He offered it to me.
“Not interested,” I said. Partly because it was unwise to accept objects over ten times your body temperature, and partly because I'd been in, had seen this man's dreams. It wouldn't work out. I liked plants, talking to dead people, and sleeping, and he liked killing shit, invading countries, and apparently ripping body parts off and sewing them back on. That shit did not fly with me. My blood may have run in a certain southbound direction for him, but it did that for any man or woman who looked like someone had gone nuts with the pretty stick on them. He flexed his newly-reattached hand and grasped one of my hands with his left hand and dropped something pleasantly warm into the hand with his right hand, then closed my hand with his left into a fist. When I opened it again, there was a golden marble. I looked at him as he caressed my knuckles, eyes calculating yet warm, but I woke up before I could pull away. I would have punched him, but you just don't punch crazy, because crazy has a bad habit of biting and fighting like a motherfucker on acid.
And something was prodding my head. I looked in the direction of the prodding, and discovered a fairy.
“Is it the hair?” I said. “It's the hair, isn't it?”
“What?” The tiny thing said, clearly ready to bust my head open if I so much as smiled.
“Knock that shit off,” I said, referring to the prodding. The thing said, “Why? You're sitting under our tree, interfering with our magical barrier.”
“Our,” I said, and looked up. A fairy colony stared back. One little jerk threw an orange at me. “Funny,” I muttered, and said more loudly, “Your tree offered. Sorry...uh...”
“Lord Grendy,” the fairy said, which was the first I'd heard of fairies having a feudal system. I said, “Right, Lord Grendy. I'm...not familiar with fairy customs,” I said, but there was a man in Demonia who knew different and I had to stop being so racist or Lord Grendy would magick me into a literal jackass. I'd heard stories of those who were rude to fairies, and none of them ended favorably for the offender. “So I'll just be going with that apology. If it's true you like milk, I'll pay someone to send a saucer of the stuff to this tree?” It was, thankfully, a distinctive tree - someone had burned some of the bark off recently.
“You have good manners. We prefer cheesecake,” Lord Grendy said, and nodded, and of course they'd like something that costs an arm and a leg and another arm besides in a town like Amlaine, and I got up and left.
Like I thought, Cliff and Kristen waited for me at the crossroads.
“What kept you?” Kristen asked, surprisingly cross. I said, “I felt the need to grab a pocketful of sunshine.”
“What?” Kristen said.
“A song my mother used to sing,” I murmured. “A pocketful of sunshine to ward off a world of infernal design.”
I felt something warm press into my side from inside my pockets, small and round, and I knew I had skipped the middleman and had myself a pocketful of sun. I looked up. Cloudy skies.
“Well, that's very cheerful,” Kristen said, “but which way is Amlaine?”
“Straight down the middle,” I said, having traveled this path on business enough to know the way, and we walked, Kristen acting unusual - for her - the entire way. I didn't pay that much attention to it; I was too wrapped up in questions. Why give me a piece of the sun? Did the man know my mother's song, too? Why so silent? And why, for the love of Christ, was Kristen acting like one of us poisoned her puppy?
Oh, fuck. Why does any woman have violent mood swings? I did not sign up for this.
Story Continuity: Battle For the Sun
Rating: PG-13 for Cyprian's mouth and brain
Wordcount: 1547
Summary: Cliff and Kristen go running off ahead in a fit of unbearable sugary cuteness, and some trees are just too tempting not to sleep under, even at the risk of irking said tree's fairy colony when you telepathically connect with Tall, Pale, and Bishounen while you slumber. Wait, what?
Notes: Title taken from the Carl Sandburg quote, "Nothing happens unless first a dream." You didn't need to know that, but I feel all spiffy for using Google to find a story title.
It shall be said, by people with no sense for drama, that I hate running. This was partly true. Actually, I loathe running with the passion of a newly ignited supernova. Details. So naturally, what happened halfway to the next town away from Dalduin? After Cliff discovered that Kristen knew some truly admirable phrases, the two got into a friendly cuss fight, and through some freak telepathic link I wanted to know nothing of, they clasped hands and ran. I ran after them for a while, pacing myself because I imagined I had the least amount of physical endurance in the group, and I was not let down. I eventually just gave up chase, because, fuck it, I was too old for this shit. Never mind I was 25, I was too old - or too unfit. I kept healthy, but not healthy enough that I could match pace with a bunch of toned kids who worked out like clockwork.
I loathed and loathe running, the aches and the rushing about and the breathlessness. If my people were meant to run, we wouldn't have invented teleportation - and by “my people,” I mean mystics, not botanists. Spend enough time listening to the cons and uber-cons of botany (essentially, it's unmanly and let's not forget unmanly) in your mother's post-mortem harpy screech, and you start to feel a kinship for all the others who had to go through the same in life. They're my people, too. So I just walked, content in the knowledge that I had the map and the others didn't, and that they would have to find me to figure which road led to Amlaine which led to other places that weren't so much.
The road to Amlaine is called the Orange Tree Road, and someone, probably a landscaper who was gleefully rolling in it, had taken the time to make the place beautiful. The orange trees were nice, but most of them were too cheerful, too eager, and it was like being stuck on a long stretch of land populated by puppies that couldn't but desperately wanted to wag their tails. And then I met the antithesis of the orange tree: the young rebel tree that wanted to be a cherry blossom. Cherry blossoms are tricksy things, and while they aren't sadistic as such, they like to cause trouble in such a way that they will never be implicated - that is, if you can understand them. After all, a cherry blossom's life is long and boring, and anyway, who would believe that a cherry blossom, a beautiful tree, could be the cause of any sort of trouble? Besides anyone who's ever talked with one, of course.
“You seem a little peaked,” the orange tree said. I made a noise that might have been taken for acquiescence by a generous tree.
“Rest under my boughs,” the tree said, “and I'll protect you.”
The tree looked inviting, and I'd spent too much time among plants that told me straight up when they were going to fuck me up, and I'm ashamed to say I did sit beneath the tree, and I slept well and dreamed.
I seldom dreamed normally. I didn't dream my own dreams, which was good, as far as I was concerned, because I'd had some twisted dreams of my own that I never want to dream again. I dreamed the dreams of other mystics, of which there were few. There was an old woman with an ax and an admiral's badge once, but at that point in time, I hadn't seen anything from her in months, and I assumed she was dead. Once, there was an old man, but he was so long gone I could barely remember the dreams he had of his wife and her sister. All the better, you ask me.
And then there was the young man.
He was older than me, and had the appearance of a young god, with silver hair and sharp edges and green eyes, tall and lean and handsome, and I dreamed of him that afternoon. He was wearing a funeral shroud, and it was sunny in my dreamland, and greener than any summer valley I'd had the pleasure of seeing. There were ruins in white marble and cobalt, but things grew here, and I knew with the sureness of dream knowledge that this place was real and out there...somewhere. The man - I didn't know any of my head-mates' names - smiled. I realized he had a sewing kit on him.
“You...sew?” I said, not really sure if I was seeing things or dreaming one of my messed up dreams, and he just smiled, as if he just knew I considered dating a snapdragon in my mid-teens. He probably did. Point was, don't knock it, and that point was received.
And then his hand fell off, a series of blue and red veins running from its wrist.
That was new. And fairly disgusting. I'd seen worse, though - and from him, no less.
The hand shot into the sky and covered the sun, and the man grabbed the veins and pulled, gently, until the hand was in his other hand. He sewed the appendage back on, but before it could be sewn on completely, his hand opened, and there was the sun. He offered it to me.
“Not interested,” I said. Partly because it was unwise to accept objects over ten times your body temperature, and partly because I'd been in, had seen this man's dreams. It wouldn't work out. I liked plants, talking to dead people, and sleeping, and he liked killing shit, invading countries, and apparently ripping body parts off and sewing them back on. That shit did not fly with me. My blood may have run in a certain southbound direction for him, but it did that for any man or woman who looked like someone had gone nuts with the pretty stick on them. He flexed his newly-reattached hand and grasped one of my hands with his left hand and dropped something pleasantly warm into the hand with his right hand, then closed my hand with his left into a fist. When I opened it again, there was a golden marble. I looked at him as he caressed my knuckles, eyes calculating yet warm, but I woke up before I could pull away. I would have punched him, but you just don't punch crazy, because crazy has a bad habit of biting and fighting like a motherfucker on acid.
And something was prodding my head. I looked in the direction of the prodding, and discovered a fairy.
“Is it the hair?” I said. “It's the hair, isn't it?”
“What?” The tiny thing said, clearly ready to bust my head open if I so much as smiled.
“Knock that shit off,” I said, referring to the prodding. The thing said, “Why? You're sitting under our tree, interfering with our magical barrier.”
“Our,” I said, and looked up. A fairy colony stared back. One little jerk threw an orange at me. “Funny,” I muttered, and said more loudly, “Your tree offered. Sorry...uh...”
“Lord Grendy,” the fairy said, which was the first I'd heard of fairies having a feudal system. I said, “Right, Lord Grendy. I'm...not familiar with fairy customs,” I said, but there was a man in Demonia who knew different and I had to stop being so racist or Lord Grendy would magick me into a literal jackass. I'd heard stories of those who were rude to fairies, and none of them ended favorably for the offender. “So I'll just be going with that apology. If it's true you like milk, I'll pay someone to send a saucer of the stuff to this tree?” It was, thankfully, a distinctive tree - someone had burned some of the bark off recently.
“You have good manners. We prefer cheesecake,” Lord Grendy said, and nodded, and of course they'd like something that costs an arm and a leg and another arm besides in a town like Amlaine, and I got up and left.
Like I thought, Cliff and Kristen waited for me at the crossroads.
“What kept you?” Kristen asked, surprisingly cross. I said, “I felt the need to grab a pocketful of sunshine.”
“What?” Kristen said.
“A song my mother used to sing,” I murmured. “A pocketful of sunshine to ward off a world of infernal design.”
I felt something warm press into my side from inside my pockets, small and round, and I knew I had skipped the middleman and had myself a pocketful of sun. I looked up. Cloudy skies.
“Well, that's very cheerful,” Kristen said, “but which way is Amlaine?”
“Straight down the middle,” I said, having traveled this path on business enough to know the way, and we walked, Kristen acting unusual - for her - the entire way. I didn't pay that much attention to it; I was too wrapped up in questions. Why give me a piece of the sun? Did the man know my mother's song, too? Why so silent? And why, for the love of Christ, was Kristen acting like one of us poisoned her puppy?
Oh, fuck. Why does any woman have violent mood swings? I did not sign up for this.