Note: It's been over a week since I met Annette, but here's the interview I started that day.
I met an amazing person on the bus today. She's an activist of sorts. Well, I'm not sure exactly how to describe her job title, but she works at educating people about the ugly effects of bullying. Bully Prevention.
We had an amazing conversation (I mean, she listened to my crazing rantings all the way into Seattle... *innocent look*)! I asked her to come and be interviewed on my blog, so here we are.
Her business card says she's with the I-Force Program, Self-Awareness Guidance & Education (SAGE). That's a very cool group to be with, by the name. She was also sweetly religious, which stands out as unusual to me. Being in her presence was more like being near a rainbow than feeling the flickers of hellfire seeking out one's toes.
Did I mention she's joining us today? Bullying is something that can tarnish adult lives, not just kids' lives. Even very cool writers and artists can find themselves at either end of the bully spectrum. That's one of those things like you can die from obesity or anorexia, neither of them are fun or recommended.
So Annette!
Please introduce yourself and tell us a little bit about yourself and what you do?
Annette:
Hi Nix. It was a pleasure chatting with you on the ride to Seattle. Thank you for this opportunity to share a bit about who I am and what I do.
Since 1994 I've worked in the field of non-violence. Peace, abundant joy and Self-actualization is my quest - no room for cruelty and violence on this journey. For years I've advocated for victims of domestic violence and educated abusers as to their knowledge, attitudes, beliefs and behaviors. My goal was to help them unlearn false beliefs, heal past hurts, and learn new ways of being. For many, there were positive breakthroughs, growth and empowerment. Others remained trapped in the illusion of being entitled to enforcing power and control over others.
For the past seven year's I've focused my attention on our youth and the adults who make up their community - parents, teachers, administrators and youth serving organizations. In a two-day training, I meet with 40 highly influential students from diverse cliques, gangs, and groups and build community with them. They become agents of change as Safe School Ambassadors. Starting with themselves, they learn to stand up and speak out against cruelty and violence. They are empowered to use new skills and character to influence their friends and peers to be friendly and respectful. The adults are trained to collaborate with the students, being supportive of their needs (emotionally and academically) and coaching them to strengthen various skills learned in the two-day training.
I, as a mother and grandmother revel in the reality that our youth are more influential in each others life's than adults, often times. Having young ambassadors keeping the peace greatly eases my mind. There is hope.
Nix: Young ambassadors. I think for those individuals who learn skills to give them self esteem and equilibrium that keeps them out off the bully/victim scale - that they'd take those skills throughout life to be more successful. As writers, what kind of characters would you like to see in young adult or children's books?
Annette:
I would like to see the type of "stand-up" characters that aren't afraid to speak up and do it respectfully so as not to be confrontational. You know, sort of like communication ninjas. They come out of nowhere and gracefully keep moving on. They just say what they mean without pulling punches. We need communication heroes. The ones who can stop and/or prevent wrongdoers from feeling like they have permission to do and/or say unacceptable things and hurtful things.
Nix: I think books might be a good way for readers to pick up skills that will help them. For someone contemplating writing young adult or children's literature, what kind of skills would you like to see seeded for a reader to pick up?
Annette: Books that illustrate how each individual is special in their own right and examples that show how our unique qualities complement each other; while, also mapping out the importance of our commonalities and how both create the momentum that drives human progress, individually, socially and spiritually.
Nix: I think it's very important for us to take responsibility for our own feelings and actions. In writing romance, I find a lot of the fantasy is in being rescued. Now in the course of our lives, we all need other people. We all need help from time to time. I worry that investing a lot of emotional energy into the moment of rescue, moment of loving commitment between persons who attracted to each other, well, that... well, maybe we become like an actor who prepares endlessly for one scene, but neglects the rest of the play. If, as romance writers, what are some of the ways that a character could display empowerment?
Annette: Show how the link in relating expands who we are, even if our experiences are bad or painful. We become our own heros in acknowledging this process in our life. We have the power to choose how we react or respond to our experiences. We can choose our own follow-through.
Nix: How important is being empowered and comfortable with one's self to one's long term health?
Annette: Very. In short, awareness of self means we are free from the judgement and expectations of others. Being true to self and conscious of the benefits of self-care frees us up to experience more joy more often. Joy and love are major ingredients of longevity and good health.
Nix: What's your favorite movie, book, or music artist? How are you inspired by it?
Annette: Books - the Holy Bible. For its guidance and comfort. Music Artist - Michael Jackson. For his love, joy, artistry and spiritual innocence Movie - Avatar for now. For it's beauty and message.
Nix: Tell us about a world where everyone is educated about bullying and empowerment? How is that world good for everyone?
Annette: Everyone stands in the light of their own strengths, not needing to bring another down to feel important. People will not be threatened by each other's strengths as they know their own. We would celebrate lifting each other as we know we all gain as we all grow.
Nix: I totally loved Avatar! I think that would be a fantastic way for our species to evolve. There seemed to be a lot of respect between species and individuals within the Navi group. That's not to say that they always agreed or were in perfect harmony, but they respected some healthy boundaries within their friction, I think.
So to close, I think bullying is like porn. everyone thinks they know it when they see it. And maybe also like porn, maybe there's a tendency to say something we don't like is offensive or poor behavior, when it might just be we don't like it. Fine line there, but still. Can you give us a description of bullying? How do we know when we see it, are the target of it, or even... displaying bullying behaviors?
Then any closing comments?
Annette: Bullying looks like being left outbid invites - being disregarded, being berated or belittled - sometimes disguised as joking around, gossip and spreading of rumors, made fun of for looks, dress, race, heritage, religion or lack there of, all for the purpose of causing divisiveness, emotional, positional or physical threats, physical pushing around or touched in an uncomfortable way... If you practice these things - you are an aggressor - one who does hurting of others or self. Should this be happening to you - you are a target.
Bullying can be deadly. People kill while hurting, for revenge and/or commit suicide as they feel worthless and that no
one cares. Many people practice self destructive behaviors and self mutilate in an attempt to express a desperate cry for help or relief. Where is the peace? Where is the respect for differences and boundaries, even in the face of conflict and disagreements? Can we make a change? I say YES!! What do you say?
Nix: I think we'll have to start one at a time... with ourselves, and just keep moving forward! I'm grateful to you for the work you do making the world better, helping people have better lives, better relationships!
If someone is having problems being a bullied, or even acting out in bullying behaviors, where should they reach out for help?
Annette:
They can start with the Community-matters website@ community-matters.org. There are many anti-bullying advocates and companies in every community. It is important to get support from someone you can trust. My number is available for those needing support and guidance.
Annette Schyadre
Bully Prevention Specialist
415-246-6040
Thank you so much for joining us!
Link:
http://www.community-matters.org/
Friday, May 7, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
A couple of pictures
So I'm feeling a bit better. Still lots of panic. Panic sucks. Makes my hands tingle and my breath scarce.
I've done a bit of art in the last couple days though. The first pic is Fai and Kurogane from Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles, which I adore. Fai and Kurogane are delicious!!
The second pic of London, from the manga form of Snowman. This is before he meets Jonathan.
I've done a bit of art in the last couple days though. The first pic is Fai and Kurogane from Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles, which I adore. Fai and Kurogane are delicious!!
The second pic of London, from the manga form of Snowman. This is before he meets Jonathan.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
One more last bit of story
This is a bit of fan fic that I did in 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
 | Youji's Shadow by Nix Winter Disclaimer: I do not own Weiss Kruez, which is the story where Youji Kudou originated My website: www.nixwinter.com Youji ran a finger slowly around the rim of the shot glass. It wasn't a club this time, wasn't a place he'd normally go to play. This was a bar. His drink wasn't sweet, just watered down rum. He looked his part in black slacks, a white shirt with rolled up sleeves with a blue tie, and a pistol holstered at the small of his back. Bleach blond fringes hung down by his cheeks with the rest of his hair in a pony tail at the back of his neck. Of all the things he might be, for the last month, he'd been a gangster on loan from another city, infiltrating the local hoods. It wasn't as if Weiss were interested in the local workings of Yakuza. Weiss cared about predators that couldn't be stopped by normal means. Weiss cared about a killer that targeted Yakuza and their families, leaving some of them drained of blood, some of them walking zombies. If Youji could have defeated death all together, he would have, but baring that, he really didn't want the dead walking around panhandling and spreading disease. He missed Aya though. Aya's red hair across a pale hotel pillow, those violet eyes opening up just a little to watch back at Youji. When they'd become lovers, that's when things had changed for Weiss. The change wasn't so terribly drastic at first, but over time, the team had taken few and fewer low survival missions, more information gathering, more mystery solving. Omi was in law school. Ken was furiously growing 'herbs' in the back of the shop, and a few more in the briefing room. Youji didn't know what they were, but Ken had more money than he'd had before. Hobbies could be good for a person. Youji's hobby was being near Aya. He liked solving mysteries though too. He liked catching killers. Killers were good at catching killers. His cell phone vibrated and he pulled it from his pocket. Opening the new text message, a sense of confusion washed over him. It seemed do desperate. "Where are you? Mission scrubbed. Get out of the bar!" The time stamp on the message was nine pm. The clock over the bar said it was only 8pm. The phone said it was 11pm. Youji licked his lips, finding them suddenly dry. Aya. It was as if he could hear Aya screaming at him. He knew Aya was banging on the door of the bar, though he was the only one hearing him, seeing his shadow on the glass. The bar door opened, letting in a laughing woman and man, that crossed right through Aya's shadow. Youji slipped off the barstool, finding his legs shaking and unstable. He wasn't drunk. He was too careful for that. The bar tender smiled. Youji didn't remember him being one of those freaks that file their teeth down, and do it so well. Youji took a step back from the bar, ran into a waitress who gave him a slight shove back towards the bar. The bartender grabbed another bottle and shot glass. The rum was thick, swirling dark as blood, thicker than rum should ever be. "You didn't think you'd be leaving now, did you? Mr. Hunter man?" |
another old story
Song of Wood
by Nix Winter
"With hands of song, I'll tune your heart, to me you belong, this voice will passion impart," Michael said, voice sweet and rich, if slurred just slightly. Blond hair, soft beside his face, was clean and a little flighty, dancing around his slender face. Blue eyes wickedly inviting, watched his prey with genuine longing and desire, freed from it's cage by the wine from the previous night, a night that had stretched right into the unflattering daylight. "Jean, I didn't know you were coming home."
He wore a blue velvet vest, laced up the front with a golden chain, uneven as his balance. Blue breeches of a matching blue were clean, cut to fit him neatly, painting the shape of strong legs right down to the golden chains at his knees, with small little locks there, to keep them where they belonged. Pale blue stockings, unmarked by any of the revelry suggested an innocence that had long since fled the blond minstrel. "Your soul still burns so beautifully in your eyes, as if all of nature could linger there, condemning me for all that I am."
He reached towards Jean's face, the dark brown stubble, a bit of bruising under. "Who has been condemning you, my love?"
Jean Bellamont was the younger son of a duke. Legitimate, but unfavored by his brother who was the current duke, he had found better fortunes serving His Majesty's affairs abroad. In grays and serviceable brown leathers, he smelled of horse, of the road, perhaps even a little gunpowder, and there was little patience in his dark eyes. He caught Michael by the arms, steadying him. "The whole world, it seems. Are you drunk?"
"Very likely," Michael admitted. "If I were not, I should not be dreaming of you, now would I? I long for the road, Jean. I can not stay here much longer. I hate this life. I hate his touch."
"Is that so," Jean asked, sweeping the slighter violinist up into his arms with a grace that betrayed a strength and power unlikely in a glittering court life. "Well, my sweet little English, how about we to the new world together? What would you think of savages and penitents?"
With all the care he'd have if he were really in a dream, Michael lay his head against Jean's shoulder, a hand brushing over Jean's face. "Can birds with wings clipped to the bone again take the sky? What there was to pay, I have paid already."
"Hush," Jean said, opening up the door to a room traditionally set aside as his own. Scent, thick and cloying, almost covered the stench of recent mating. In his bed lay a courtier he'd never thought enough of to speak to, with no less than three women. They tangled over each other and the bed. Jean's hissed curse reflected a bend towards military service and the proclivities of the profane. "Where is your violin?"
"Jean? Are you really here? Mary's tits!"
"Michael," Jean said smiling genuinely. "I see the willful spirits have returned you to me." He backed out of his old room silently, not waking the tarnished lace in his bed.
"What are you doing here? Philippe will kill you. He wants you dead any way!"
"Shhhhh," Jean said, holding Michael in his arms still, his own boots much quieter as they moved through the rooms of the passed out household. "You tell me nothing I do not already know. Your feelings for me though are plain and I will have no more lies from you. I have no time for it."
He set Michael down, still keeping him close, just inside the shadow of the deep door frame of his mother's room. From within a gilt cupid, Jean found a small key that let them into the room. "What has happened?"
"Come," Jean said, holding the door for him. A moment later, he closed the door, locked it again. "Three days ago, I killed the brother of the king's current favorite courtesan."
"Why?" Michael pressed his fingers to a headache fast approaching. "I'm sorry, about," Michael paused, sinking to the floor, head in his hands, "It was just, I feared he would kill you. I… I needed you to live."
Jean sank down to a squat in front of Michael. "Do you think I have not figured this out? At first, I was so angry. I thought you preferred Philipe for his money and title, that you craved power and that was why you moved from my bed to his. Collette writes me often telling me of the house and of you. When I realized the truth, I had commitments to His Majesty and I told myself that you should be safer here. What is this?" Jean touched the golden chains around Michael's knees.
"When he realized I came to his bed unwillingly," Michael said, face pale, but eyes meeting Jean's directly, "He was not pleased. He suspects I might not be the most faithful of lovers. He has Dermont, in his room. I am allowed to play only after I have pleased him."
"Will you leave without him?"
Blue eyes held back rain. With tight lips, he nodded slowly. "Do you think we will really be able to … escape?"
Jean's grin was bright, as wide and daring as the first day Michael had met him. Light, long dim, flared back up within Michael. "Was that not what we first said we would do? Take to the road? You said you'd die if kept to the rule of one man or one roof. I understand now. I just want nothing more than to be in your song, to see you smile."
"I can get another violin," Michael said, rising up on his knees. "You are more important to me."
The lock turned, iron doom in the fall of those tumblers.
There should have been time, time to run, time to flee, time to react, but the door opened and neither of them had moved more than just to turn and look.
Philipe filled the door, broad cuffs ornate with rubies and embroidered dragons. Dark hair like his brother, his face was fuller with the thin lips of his mother. "How tender," he growled, "My traitorous lover and my usurping brother. Brother, I understand you're lost whatever favor you might once have had with His Majesty. I knew you were coming though."
"Philipe," Jean said, rising slowly to his feet. "I want only the minstrel and his violin."
"You would take my dear little bird? Don't you know what kind of pleasure he gives me? You don't care, do you?"
"I have no time for games. You cannot stop us from leaving. I will not be bullied."
The sword drew, hissing metal death through silk and air. Jean matched him though, blocking with his own blade. Reflected morning sunlight, crashing steel, the will of a man held extended out like desire hardened deathly firm. Jean had ridden through the night. Philippe's debauch had hardly left him in better form.
Mouth dry, Michael watched the slick silver disappear into Philippe. The song of two brother's ended there, dark eyes watching the light in the other's eyes. "Murderer," Philippe cursed. "You will rot in hell. The bird will betray you too."
"Not more than I have him," Jean said, guilt over having left Michael to his brother. Still close, Jean went to one knee with his brother. "I shall fetch a doctor for you. I doubt I've hit anything fatal. Philippe, just let us go."
"Never!" Philippe spat.
Jean jerked, falling back, a small dagger in his thigh. "It burns," he hissed as he pulled the dagger out, splashing red blood on the white of his mother's bed cover. "What have you done?"
"Killed you, of course," Philippe said smugly. "You have always been better with the sword than me. Birds are owned by those that can keep them in the cage."
"The antidote," Jean demanded, grabbing his brother by the lapels, "Where is the antidote! You'd never carry a poison on your person if you didn't have the antidote!"
"I'll let you leave now," Philippe offered, a hand holding his blood soaked waistcoat. "Take the bird, the violin, go. Before you make the coast, you'll die screaming."
Michael dropped to his knees, hands catching hold of Philippe's coat hem. "What do you want? Anything. Please, please don't let him die!"
"Isn't that an old song, my bird? You begged for his life last time, promising to love me my whole life. A song turned lie is nothing but tin and piss."
"Please," Michael pressed his forehead to Philippe's knee. "Please don't let him die."
"What will you give me now, my bird? What do you have more important than your sweet body?"
"What would you have of me? I have given you everything. I have nothing left."
"Oh, but you do. You have your heart, which you have given to him and your song which you would never give to anyone. That is what I want. I want your song. I will free you, my traitorous bird. I'll even let you take my brother and your violin, but you must leave me your right hand."
"No!" Jean growled, a wounded wolf, he fell faster than he rose, blood black against the leather of his pants. "That's insane."
"Soon, Michael, or he be past when the antidote will work," Philippe said. "Give me something you can't take back, then I will let you both leave alive."
"How," Michael stammered, years of songs flowing through his head, the feel of music flowing from him so sweet and vital, as he tried to hold onto that feeling, that knowledge, so that he won't think of never touching that beauty again.
"Put your hand out, on the floor," Philippe instructed, the pride and satisfaction of a bully blooming in his voice.
Shaking, Michael pulled his sleeve up, set his arm out. In their years, Philippe had done many things, many ugly things, but he'd never lied.
"Philippe! Don't do it," Jean begged, reaching out with a shaking hand. "Don't! You'll kill him!"
"Good," the duke said. With a great jerk he pulled the sword from his side and pulled his arm back. The lighting of angry soul split the air and bone, tendon, a lifetime of music and freedom, pride and hopeful searching, all split and severed. Michael's fingers flexed, claw like, as if there was a bow held there still. Blood sprayed. In the pain, which felt so like far away gauze, Michael wondered if music was really in the blood, if it could spill out of him to leave nothing except a ruinous stain.
He missed the old violin maker. He wondered how the old man would remake a ruined violinist. Perhaps he could take the good parts and make something new. The bridge and the scrollwork, because the box was completely ruined now. He'd hated the cage though, missed the road more than he could have said.
It wasn't jean that lifted him out though, holding him, cradling him in such strong arms. The face was young, sad, but so familiar. "Dermont?"
"Hello, Michael." A deep and gentle voice greeted him. "Music and love, they're not so different."
"Am I dead? Jean?"
"I'm here," Jean's voice answered, close to his ear. "We are safe."
"Where are we," Michael asked, sitting up a little. Dermont was on his lap, between himself and the wall, which was a dark unfinished wood. Jean had been the one holding him, in the rocking world where they sat.
"We're on the Hart's Run." Jean brushed blond hair from Michael's face, caressing. "We're free. The king's men caught up with me, within the hour of you losing your hand. We never would have out run them. Philippe made it possible for us to escape. We are on our way to the Carolinas."
"The New World." Michael said, laying back down, exhausted. "How long?"
"Ten days. You've been sleeping," Jean said gently. "The doctor said it might take sometime for you to regain your strength. You were exhausted before. The loss of your hand nearly killed you."
"Is Dermont," Michael asked, trying to sit up again.
"The violin is fine. He's as tough as the old man that made him," Jean said, shifting a little to turn up the oil lamp. "I have a gift for you."
With his whole arm he reached around Jean's waist pulling the man close, hugging him, drinking in the sweet scent of a living human. "You are a gift. We are together. We will never be apart."
"Never. I'll never leave you again, but you're my little bird. I'll follow you along whatever roads you find."
"I can't play now," Michael whispered, hiding his face in Jean's belly.
"Stop whining," Jean said gently. "Music is a man's soul, not his hand. I'm going to help you up."
Michael let himself be turned around, feeling weak as a newborn. As Jean moved off the bed, Michael let himself explore the stump of his hand. Philippe had kept it, he guessed, his hand. That hand had been very helpful for many things. Since that first real beating when he'd lost his first violin, he'd learned a lot about the nature of humanity. He'd wanted to trade places with his violin then. Some part of him still missed that first violin, even if part of it lived on in Dermont.
This time, he lived, Dermont lived, but the music had been taken from him. When it hurt less, he'd cry.
Jean touched his shoulder to announce his return, then shifted them both so that Jean was behind him. "I expect your hand is too sore still, but I don't want you sleeping away your songs."
"What are you talking about?" Michael said, resenting this painful dance with hope. "My songs are gone. I have no voice and music takes two hands."
"Stubborn Michael," Jean chided, "Too much drink and lazing around has softened your wits. I can't make music and I have two hands. Close your eyes and trust me."
Jean's voice comforted him, even if there were years of separation between them, too much sacrifice on both their sides. "What is it? A hook? I can't play violin with a hook for a hand."
"That's true. Give me another minute," Jean said, pulling a slender strap all the way around Michael's elbow. "It might be a little tight because of the swelling, so you can't wear it very long."
"What? Oh, oh my," Michael asked, impatient eyes opening. There around his stump, bandages showing like rumpled lace at the open end, was a wooden chalice, the stem end carved into the end of a bow, a full length bow. "Will it work?"
Jean kissed his cheek, then his ear. "Let's try."
Dermont came out of his box. Clumsy, Jean helped Michael get the violin into position. Years of living between bow and string gave Michael an understanding of pressure and tension, but the first pull across the strings had more in common with a dying cat than song. Michael cringed. Jean held him, "Breath. Try again."
Michael closed his eyes. Music. Love. Spirit. With his eyes closed, it was as if the old violin maker held up his arm, giving him strength. The man who'd stayed with him in his dreams, was with him now in the music, young and strong, the immortal spirit of the violin. Music, a slow reel, joyful and triumphant filled the room he shared with Jean. He didn't know he cried, but held in Jean's arms, supported by his friend's spirit, the violinist was free and on the open road again.
by Nix Winter
"With hands of song, I'll tune your heart, to me you belong, this voice will passion impart," Michael said, voice sweet and rich, if slurred just slightly. Blond hair, soft beside his face, was clean and a little flighty, dancing around his slender face. Blue eyes wickedly inviting, watched his prey with genuine longing and desire, freed from it's cage by the wine from the previous night, a night that had stretched right into the unflattering daylight. "Jean, I didn't know you were coming home."
He wore a blue velvet vest, laced up the front with a golden chain, uneven as his balance. Blue breeches of a matching blue were clean, cut to fit him neatly, painting the shape of strong legs right down to the golden chains at his knees, with small little locks there, to keep them where they belonged. Pale blue stockings, unmarked by any of the revelry suggested an innocence that had long since fled the blond minstrel. "Your soul still burns so beautifully in your eyes, as if all of nature could linger there, condemning me for all that I am."
He reached towards Jean's face, the dark brown stubble, a bit of bruising under. "Who has been condemning you, my love?"
Jean Bellamont was the younger son of a duke. Legitimate, but unfavored by his brother who was the current duke, he had found better fortunes serving His Majesty's affairs abroad. In grays and serviceable brown leathers, he smelled of horse, of the road, perhaps even a little gunpowder, and there was little patience in his dark eyes. He caught Michael by the arms, steadying him. "The whole world, it seems. Are you drunk?"
"Very likely," Michael admitted. "If I were not, I should not be dreaming of you, now would I? I long for the road, Jean. I can not stay here much longer. I hate this life. I hate his touch."
"Is that so," Jean asked, sweeping the slighter violinist up into his arms with a grace that betrayed a strength and power unlikely in a glittering court life. "Well, my sweet little English, how about we to the new world together? What would you think of savages and penitents?"
With all the care he'd have if he were really in a dream, Michael lay his head against Jean's shoulder, a hand brushing over Jean's face. "Can birds with wings clipped to the bone again take the sky? What there was to pay, I have paid already."
"Hush," Jean said, opening up the door to a room traditionally set aside as his own. Scent, thick and cloying, almost covered the stench of recent mating. In his bed lay a courtier he'd never thought enough of to speak to, with no less than three women. They tangled over each other and the bed. Jean's hissed curse reflected a bend towards military service and the proclivities of the profane. "Where is your violin?"
"Jean? Are you really here? Mary's tits!"
"Michael," Jean said smiling genuinely. "I see the willful spirits have returned you to me." He backed out of his old room silently, not waking the tarnished lace in his bed.
"What are you doing here? Philippe will kill you. He wants you dead any way!"
"Shhhhh," Jean said, holding Michael in his arms still, his own boots much quieter as they moved through the rooms of the passed out household. "You tell me nothing I do not already know. Your feelings for me though are plain and I will have no more lies from you. I have no time for it."
He set Michael down, still keeping him close, just inside the shadow of the deep door frame of his mother's room. From within a gilt cupid, Jean found a small key that let them into the room. "What has happened?"
"Come," Jean said, holding the door for him. A moment later, he closed the door, locked it again. "Three days ago, I killed the brother of the king's current favorite courtesan."
"Why?" Michael pressed his fingers to a headache fast approaching. "I'm sorry, about," Michael paused, sinking to the floor, head in his hands, "It was just, I feared he would kill you. I… I needed you to live."
Jean sank down to a squat in front of Michael. "Do you think I have not figured this out? At first, I was so angry. I thought you preferred Philipe for his money and title, that you craved power and that was why you moved from my bed to his. Collette writes me often telling me of the house and of you. When I realized the truth, I had commitments to His Majesty and I told myself that you should be safer here. What is this?" Jean touched the golden chains around Michael's knees.
"When he realized I came to his bed unwillingly," Michael said, face pale, but eyes meeting Jean's directly, "He was not pleased. He suspects I might not be the most faithful of lovers. He has Dermont, in his room. I am allowed to play only after I have pleased him."
"Will you leave without him?"
Blue eyes held back rain. With tight lips, he nodded slowly. "Do you think we will really be able to … escape?"
Jean's grin was bright, as wide and daring as the first day Michael had met him. Light, long dim, flared back up within Michael. "Was that not what we first said we would do? Take to the road? You said you'd die if kept to the rule of one man or one roof. I understand now. I just want nothing more than to be in your song, to see you smile."
"I can get another violin," Michael said, rising up on his knees. "You are more important to me."
The lock turned, iron doom in the fall of those tumblers.
There should have been time, time to run, time to flee, time to react, but the door opened and neither of them had moved more than just to turn and look.
Philipe filled the door, broad cuffs ornate with rubies and embroidered dragons. Dark hair like his brother, his face was fuller with the thin lips of his mother. "How tender," he growled, "My traitorous lover and my usurping brother. Brother, I understand you're lost whatever favor you might once have had with His Majesty. I knew you were coming though."
"Philipe," Jean said, rising slowly to his feet. "I want only the minstrel and his violin."
"You would take my dear little bird? Don't you know what kind of pleasure he gives me? You don't care, do you?"
"I have no time for games. You cannot stop us from leaving. I will not be bullied."
The sword drew, hissing metal death through silk and air. Jean matched him though, blocking with his own blade. Reflected morning sunlight, crashing steel, the will of a man held extended out like desire hardened deathly firm. Jean had ridden through the night. Philippe's debauch had hardly left him in better form.
Mouth dry, Michael watched the slick silver disappear into Philippe. The song of two brother's ended there, dark eyes watching the light in the other's eyes. "Murderer," Philippe cursed. "You will rot in hell. The bird will betray you too."
"Not more than I have him," Jean said, guilt over having left Michael to his brother. Still close, Jean went to one knee with his brother. "I shall fetch a doctor for you. I doubt I've hit anything fatal. Philippe, just let us go."
"Never!" Philippe spat.
Jean jerked, falling back, a small dagger in his thigh. "It burns," he hissed as he pulled the dagger out, splashing red blood on the white of his mother's bed cover. "What have you done?"
"Killed you, of course," Philippe said smugly. "You have always been better with the sword than me. Birds are owned by those that can keep them in the cage."
"The antidote," Jean demanded, grabbing his brother by the lapels, "Where is the antidote! You'd never carry a poison on your person if you didn't have the antidote!"
"I'll let you leave now," Philippe offered, a hand holding his blood soaked waistcoat. "Take the bird, the violin, go. Before you make the coast, you'll die screaming."
Michael dropped to his knees, hands catching hold of Philippe's coat hem. "What do you want? Anything. Please, please don't let him die!"
"Isn't that an old song, my bird? You begged for his life last time, promising to love me my whole life. A song turned lie is nothing but tin and piss."
"Please," Michael pressed his forehead to Philippe's knee. "Please don't let him die."
"What will you give me now, my bird? What do you have more important than your sweet body?"
"What would you have of me? I have given you everything. I have nothing left."
"Oh, but you do. You have your heart, which you have given to him and your song which you would never give to anyone. That is what I want. I want your song. I will free you, my traitorous bird. I'll even let you take my brother and your violin, but you must leave me your right hand."
"No!" Jean growled, a wounded wolf, he fell faster than he rose, blood black against the leather of his pants. "That's insane."
"Soon, Michael, or he be past when the antidote will work," Philippe said. "Give me something you can't take back, then I will let you both leave alive."
"How," Michael stammered, years of songs flowing through his head, the feel of music flowing from him so sweet and vital, as he tried to hold onto that feeling, that knowledge, so that he won't think of never touching that beauty again.
"Put your hand out, on the floor," Philippe instructed, the pride and satisfaction of a bully blooming in his voice.
Shaking, Michael pulled his sleeve up, set his arm out. In their years, Philippe had done many things, many ugly things, but he'd never lied.
"Philippe! Don't do it," Jean begged, reaching out with a shaking hand. "Don't! You'll kill him!"
"Good," the duke said. With a great jerk he pulled the sword from his side and pulled his arm back. The lighting of angry soul split the air and bone, tendon, a lifetime of music and freedom, pride and hopeful searching, all split and severed. Michael's fingers flexed, claw like, as if there was a bow held there still. Blood sprayed. In the pain, which felt so like far away gauze, Michael wondered if music was really in the blood, if it could spill out of him to leave nothing except a ruinous stain.
He missed the old violin maker. He wondered how the old man would remake a ruined violinist. Perhaps he could take the good parts and make something new. The bridge and the scrollwork, because the box was completely ruined now. He'd hated the cage though, missed the road more than he could have said.
It wasn't jean that lifted him out though, holding him, cradling him in such strong arms. The face was young, sad, but so familiar. "Dermont?"
"Hello, Michael." A deep and gentle voice greeted him. "Music and love, they're not so different."
"Am I dead? Jean?"
"I'm here," Jean's voice answered, close to his ear. "We are safe."
"Where are we," Michael asked, sitting up a little. Dermont was on his lap, between himself and the wall, which was a dark unfinished wood. Jean had been the one holding him, in the rocking world where they sat.
"We're on the Hart's Run." Jean brushed blond hair from Michael's face, caressing. "We're free. The king's men caught up with me, within the hour of you losing your hand. We never would have out run them. Philippe made it possible for us to escape. We are on our way to the Carolinas."
"The New World." Michael said, laying back down, exhausted. "How long?"
"Ten days. You've been sleeping," Jean said gently. "The doctor said it might take sometime for you to regain your strength. You were exhausted before. The loss of your hand nearly killed you."
"Is Dermont," Michael asked, trying to sit up again.
"The violin is fine. He's as tough as the old man that made him," Jean said, shifting a little to turn up the oil lamp. "I have a gift for you."
With his whole arm he reached around Jean's waist pulling the man close, hugging him, drinking in the sweet scent of a living human. "You are a gift. We are together. We will never be apart."
"Never. I'll never leave you again, but you're my little bird. I'll follow you along whatever roads you find."
"I can't play now," Michael whispered, hiding his face in Jean's belly.
"Stop whining," Jean said gently. "Music is a man's soul, not his hand. I'm going to help you up."
Michael let himself be turned around, feeling weak as a newborn. As Jean moved off the bed, Michael let himself explore the stump of his hand. Philippe had kept it, he guessed, his hand. That hand had been very helpful for many things. Since that first real beating when he'd lost his first violin, he'd learned a lot about the nature of humanity. He'd wanted to trade places with his violin then. Some part of him still missed that first violin, even if part of it lived on in Dermont.
This time, he lived, Dermont lived, but the music had been taken from him. When it hurt less, he'd cry.
Jean touched his shoulder to announce his return, then shifted them both so that Jean was behind him. "I expect your hand is too sore still, but I don't want you sleeping away your songs."
"What are you talking about?" Michael said, resenting this painful dance with hope. "My songs are gone. I have no voice and music takes two hands."
"Stubborn Michael," Jean chided, "Too much drink and lazing around has softened your wits. I can't make music and I have two hands. Close your eyes and trust me."
Jean's voice comforted him, even if there were years of separation between them, too much sacrifice on both their sides. "What is it? A hook? I can't play violin with a hook for a hand."
"That's true. Give me another minute," Jean said, pulling a slender strap all the way around Michael's elbow. "It might be a little tight because of the swelling, so you can't wear it very long."
"What? Oh, oh my," Michael asked, impatient eyes opening. There around his stump, bandages showing like rumpled lace at the open end, was a wooden chalice, the stem end carved into the end of a bow, a full length bow. "Will it work?"
Jean kissed his cheek, then his ear. "Let's try."
Dermont came out of his box. Clumsy, Jean helped Michael get the violin into position. Years of living between bow and string gave Michael an understanding of pressure and tension, but the first pull across the strings had more in common with a dying cat than song. Michael cringed. Jean held him, "Breath. Try again."
Michael closed his eyes. Music. Love. Spirit. With his eyes closed, it was as if the old violin maker held up his arm, giving him strength. The man who'd stayed with him in his dreams, was with him now in the music, young and strong, the immortal spirit of the violin. Music, a slow reel, joyful and triumphant filled the room he shared with Jean. He didn't know he cried, but held in Jean's arms, supported by his friend's spirit, the violinist was free and on the open road again.
old bit of gw story
Current mood:
accomplished Category: Writing and Poetry
The Shadow of Will
by Nix Winter
Disclaimer: Duo Maxwell and Chang Wufei are so not my characters. The universe is a little generic, but GW-ish. In the US GW is owned by Bandai. I need to look up the original writers. They don't get enough recognition.
Story Note: Set during the war. It's a 1+2, leading to more, depending on how long this thread goes.
Personal Note: I'm sitting in the SF Airport waiting for a friend so we can take the shuttle over to Yaoi con. Anyone going to be at the GW meet and greet?
Blue water stretched out, lazy and forgiving. The ferry rippled it a little as the ferry pressed on towards Kerry Island, where the new safe house was. It was more a school than a house, but Duo rather liked the idea of a 'safe house'. It made him think that they were a family, that they'd all be back together by Christmas. Leaning over the railing, he wanted to imagine that he could reach all the way down, trail his fingers over the clean blue water and it would be like touching Heero's eyes.
Heero's eyes were the great untouchable. The warm sun laying on Duo's face could have been Heero's smile. It was like Heero's sheer existence had uncovered a arched garden door, behind which Duo just knew there was the most fantastic garden ever. Too fantastic for Earth even. Like all great mysteries, Heero didn't seem inclined to notice at all.
"What are you doing," Chang asked, standing proper as some eternally tragic servant in a great Chinese castle somewhere. Probably a castle in the clouds, and he was sentenced there after his wife died.
Duo pursed his lips, look up slowly, not wanting to leave the warm sun on his face, which he was happily fantasizing was one of Heero's smiles. "Wu. I'm leaning on the railing, watching the water, killing time."
Dark disapproving eyes looked over the railing at the water without any head movement at all. "I have completed the homework."
That was not so fancy code phrase or having memorized a ton of crap about their target. "That's great," Duo said, smiling brightly.
"Have you completed the homework," Chang asked pointedly, fingers playing with the edge of his sleeve cuff.
Both of them were already in the dark blue uniforms of their new school. The school just happened to be near a research lab that was rumored to like human test subjects. Their mistake to have taken a sweeper girl who had been on Earth. She was going to be an expensive penny for them. Got to be careful what you pick up from the dirty sidewalk. Never know when it was going to be fucking important to someone.
Duo looked back up, not sure just how long he'd been watching the water again. He flashed his grin again, knowing it wasn't going to do more than irritate Chang. "Don't worry about it."
The small sound, kinda like teeth grinding together, but not quite getting there, was Chang just not appreciating the real plan.
"Hello boys," a gentle voice said. The teacher responsible for bringing the new students across from the main land to Kerry Island had to be eighty if he was a day. L2 just didn't have old people like this. Either people just didn't get all like crumpled up drawings of themselves or they didn't get that old. Duo didn't know which, didn't know which he liked better either. The man was a good ten cm shorter than either of them, hands behind his back, white hair neat around his face as if snow drifted into just the right places. His dark eyes were warm though, in a way that Chang's never were, even if they were both dark as a power failure. "What homework might that be? Are you still attending another school?"
"Grandfather," Chang said, bowing politely. "We refer to private tasks between ourselves. Blue and I like to challenge ourselves."
"I see. You both seem to have excellent sight."
Duo bit his lip, eyes narrowing nervously for a moment. "I'm David Blue. This overachieving buddy of mine is Leon Wu. We're new."
"Blue and Wu," the old man said, a white eyebrow arching. "How old are you boys?"
"Sixteen," Duo said, hands now shoved in his pockets, braid swaying slightly.
"My name is Professor Sung. You missed lunch."
"I'm sorry, Professor Sung," Duo said.
"Come with me."
When he walked away, they had little real choice other than to walk with him. The raised lines on the deck hadn't been much of an issue before, but Duo noted them now. The dining room was dimly lit, surprisingly so.
A waiter met them, bowing so quickly that it just left Duo with an uneasy feeling. "Professor Sung, who are your guests?"
There it was. The waiter's eyes were milky. Goosebumps ran up Duo's arms. The sweepers woulda fixed that up for him. The solution mighta been a bit less than perfectly pretty, but it would have worked. Earth was a very strange place. A fairytale place and maybe the man had traded his eyes for the life of a loved one. Maybe there was a story somewhere, where he couldn't get medical treatment to fix them up.
"New students," Professor Sung said. "The one with the light quick step is David Blue. The one with the hard soled shoes is Leon Wu. They are a little older than most of our new students. Boys, this is Mr. Smith. He works part time for the ferry and he works for the school as well."
"It'll be good for them," Smith said nodding. "You boys have to trust Professor Sung. He did good by me. Kerry Institute is a good place. Don't be rebellious. No matter how hard things have been before, and I know it must be hard to lose your sight as teenagers, but they can help you there."
Chang ground his teeth in a very nearly soundless half choke.
""I'm David. I got my moments," Duo said, sounding truly repentant. "I'll do my best not to cause'em any trouble."
"I don't place your accent," Mr. Smith said.
"Sweeper," Duo said. "I grew up with the Sweepers."
"On a spaceship? Aren't those people like… Gypsies?"
"Now," Professor Sung said reproachfully, "There's nothing wrong with Gypsies or Sweepers. The boys were late to lunch. Can we have some sandwiches?"
"We were making burgers for dinner," Mr. Smith said. "I can have a couple of those for you."
"David? Leon?"
"Man, that'd be great," Duo said, his stomach growling not nearly as quietly as Chang's teeth grinding. "Can I have two? Please?"
"Sure," Mr. Smith said, smirking a bit. "Growing boys need to eat. Leon?"
"Anything will be fine," Chang said, body stiff as a chopstick.
"Okay, you're not from the Sweepers" Mr. Smith said, one hand on a hip. "Somewhere on Earth, yeah?"
"I am from San Francisco," Chang lied. His accent was much finer, slightly Chinese edged and educated though.
"So what happened? Can I ask?" Mr. Smith tilted his head, eyes falling closed for a long blink.
"I would prefer not to speak of it," Chang said.
The blush on his face must have burned, Duo thought. Must have been a red hot poker through his eye that cause him his sight.
"There was a plague, when I was a kid," Duo said, "I just couldn't get here till now. Sweepers got other ways. I was just a special case, always getting myself in trouble."
Mr. Smith laughed. "Well, no more of that then! Do what you're told and you'll learn a lot. Maybe you'll get rich some day and get some implants. But you were pretty young when you lost your sight, yeah?"
"I was really young when the plague happened," Duo said honestly. "So? I can really have two burgers? Do you make fries?"
"I don't. I'm not getting anywhere near boiling oil. I bet Betty can do some fries for you. Professor how about you all take table three?"
"That would be wonderful. I think these boys can have some pop too, if you have some."
"We do, strawberry and cola."
"I would prefer tea, please," Chang said, face still red.
"Cola, please."
"Let me get that for you then," Mr. Smith said. "The rest of them, they're already down in the story room."
"Thank you so much," Professor Sung said, reaching to catch the waiter's hand, holding it between both hands. "Your trust in me has always been most appreciated. I wish the new boys to be a quiet fact."
"Oh," Mr. Smith said, now holding the old Professor's in his. "Of course, Professor, anything that works for you. Table three, okay?"
They stood there for another moment as Mr. Smith walked away. "It's a little narrow, boys," Professor Sung said, reaching to guide Chang's hand to Duo's arm. He took Duo's hand and laid it over his arm, so that he could lead his new students to table three.
Chang was doing that silent tooth grinding, but he'd turned his hand in to a crab claw intent on killing it's prey too. Duo's eye twitched, but he didn't say a word. If Crab Wu left marks on his arm, he was gonna be sure to give them back though.
They sat down. Students on one side, teach on the other. Professor Sung took at least three minutes positioning his napkin. He took a deep breath and asked, "Why are you here?"
Extra note: I stopped here because I'm at the hotel now and have net only in the living room.. and because Duo and Wufei need time to think up an answer ☺
by Nix Winter
Disclaimer: Duo Maxwell and Chang Wufei are so not my characters. The universe is a little generic, but GW-ish. In the US GW is owned by Bandai. I need to look up the original writers. They don't get enough recognition.
Story Note: Set during the war. It's a 1+2, leading to more, depending on how long this thread goes.
Personal Note: I'm sitting in the SF Airport waiting for a friend so we can take the shuttle over to Yaoi con. Anyone going to be at the GW meet and greet?
Blue water stretched out, lazy and forgiving. The ferry rippled it a little as the ferry pressed on towards Kerry Island, where the new safe house was. It was more a school than a house, but Duo rather liked the idea of a 'safe house'. It made him think that they were a family, that they'd all be back together by Christmas. Leaning over the railing, he wanted to imagine that he could reach all the way down, trail his fingers over the clean blue water and it would be like touching Heero's eyes.
Heero's eyes were the great untouchable. The warm sun laying on Duo's face could have been Heero's smile. It was like Heero's sheer existence had uncovered a arched garden door, behind which Duo just knew there was the most fantastic garden ever. Too fantastic for Earth even. Like all great mysteries, Heero didn't seem inclined to notice at all.
"What are you doing," Chang asked, standing proper as some eternally tragic servant in a great Chinese castle somewhere. Probably a castle in the clouds, and he was sentenced there after his wife died.
Duo pursed his lips, look up slowly, not wanting to leave the warm sun on his face, which he was happily fantasizing was one of Heero's smiles. "Wu. I'm leaning on the railing, watching the water, killing time."
Dark disapproving eyes looked over the railing at the water without any head movement at all. "I have completed the homework."
That was not so fancy code phrase or having memorized a ton of crap about their target. "That's great," Duo said, smiling brightly.
"Have you completed the homework," Chang asked pointedly, fingers playing with the edge of his sleeve cuff.
Both of them were already in the dark blue uniforms of their new school. The school just happened to be near a research lab that was rumored to like human test subjects. Their mistake to have taken a sweeper girl who had been on Earth. She was going to be an expensive penny for them. Got to be careful what you pick up from the dirty sidewalk. Never know when it was going to be fucking important to someone.
Duo looked back up, not sure just how long he'd been watching the water again. He flashed his grin again, knowing it wasn't going to do more than irritate Chang. "Don't worry about it."
The small sound, kinda like teeth grinding together, but not quite getting there, was Chang just not appreciating the real plan.
"Hello boys," a gentle voice said. The teacher responsible for bringing the new students across from the main land to Kerry Island had to be eighty if he was a day. L2 just didn't have old people like this. Either people just didn't get all like crumpled up drawings of themselves or they didn't get that old. Duo didn't know which, didn't know which he liked better either. The man was a good ten cm shorter than either of them, hands behind his back, white hair neat around his face as if snow drifted into just the right places. His dark eyes were warm though, in a way that Chang's never were, even if they were both dark as a power failure. "What homework might that be? Are you still attending another school?"
"Grandfather," Chang said, bowing politely. "We refer to private tasks between ourselves. Blue and I like to challenge ourselves."
"I see. You both seem to have excellent sight."
Duo bit his lip, eyes narrowing nervously for a moment. "I'm David Blue. This overachieving buddy of mine is Leon Wu. We're new."
"Blue and Wu," the old man said, a white eyebrow arching. "How old are you boys?"
"Sixteen," Duo said, hands now shoved in his pockets, braid swaying slightly.
"My name is Professor Sung. You missed lunch."
"I'm sorry, Professor Sung," Duo said.
"Come with me."
When he walked away, they had little real choice other than to walk with him. The raised lines on the deck hadn't been much of an issue before, but Duo noted them now. The dining room was dimly lit, surprisingly so.
A waiter met them, bowing so quickly that it just left Duo with an uneasy feeling. "Professor Sung, who are your guests?"
There it was. The waiter's eyes were milky. Goosebumps ran up Duo's arms. The sweepers woulda fixed that up for him. The solution mighta been a bit less than perfectly pretty, but it would have worked. Earth was a very strange place. A fairytale place and maybe the man had traded his eyes for the life of a loved one. Maybe there was a story somewhere, where he couldn't get medical treatment to fix them up.
"New students," Professor Sung said. "The one with the light quick step is David Blue. The one with the hard soled shoes is Leon Wu. They are a little older than most of our new students. Boys, this is Mr. Smith. He works part time for the ferry and he works for the school as well."
"It'll be good for them," Smith said nodding. "You boys have to trust Professor Sung. He did good by me. Kerry Institute is a good place. Don't be rebellious. No matter how hard things have been before, and I know it must be hard to lose your sight as teenagers, but they can help you there."
Chang ground his teeth in a very nearly soundless half choke.
""I'm David. I got my moments," Duo said, sounding truly repentant. "I'll do my best not to cause'em any trouble."
"I don't place your accent," Mr. Smith said.
"Sweeper," Duo said. "I grew up with the Sweepers."
"On a spaceship? Aren't those people like… Gypsies?"
"Now," Professor Sung said reproachfully, "There's nothing wrong with Gypsies or Sweepers. The boys were late to lunch. Can we have some sandwiches?"
"We were making burgers for dinner," Mr. Smith said. "I can have a couple of those for you."
"David? Leon?"
"Man, that'd be great," Duo said, his stomach growling not nearly as quietly as Chang's teeth grinding. "Can I have two? Please?"
"Sure," Mr. Smith said, smirking a bit. "Growing boys need to eat. Leon?"
"Anything will be fine," Chang said, body stiff as a chopstick.
"Okay, you're not from the Sweepers" Mr. Smith said, one hand on a hip. "Somewhere on Earth, yeah?"
"I am from San Francisco," Chang lied. His accent was much finer, slightly Chinese edged and educated though.
"So what happened? Can I ask?" Mr. Smith tilted his head, eyes falling closed for a long blink.
"I would prefer not to speak of it," Chang said.
The blush on his face must have burned, Duo thought. Must have been a red hot poker through his eye that cause him his sight.
"There was a plague, when I was a kid," Duo said, "I just couldn't get here till now. Sweepers got other ways. I was just a special case, always getting myself in trouble."
Mr. Smith laughed. "Well, no more of that then! Do what you're told and you'll learn a lot. Maybe you'll get rich some day and get some implants. But you were pretty young when you lost your sight, yeah?"
"I was really young when the plague happened," Duo said honestly. "So? I can really have two burgers? Do you make fries?"
"I don't. I'm not getting anywhere near boiling oil. I bet Betty can do some fries for you. Professor how about you all take table three?"
"That would be wonderful. I think these boys can have some pop too, if you have some."
"We do, strawberry and cola."
"I would prefer tea, please," Chang said, face still red.
"Cola, please."
"Let me get that for you then," Mr. Smith said. "The rest of them, they're already down in the story room."
"Thank you so much," Professor Sung said, reaching to catch the waiter's hand, holding it between both hands. "Your trust in me has always been most appreciated. I wish the new boys to be a quiet fact."
"Oh," Mr. Smith said, now holding the old Professor's in his. "Of course, Professor, anything that works for you. Table three, okay?"
They stood there for another moment as Mr. Smith walked away. "It's a little narrow, boys," Professor Sung said, reaching to guide Chang's hand to Duo's arm. He took Duo's hand and laid it over his arm, so that he could lead his new students to table three.
Chang was doing that silent tooth grinding, but he'd turned his hand in to a crab claw intent on killing it's prey too. Duo's eye twitched, but he didn't say a word. If Crab Wu left marks on his arm, he was gonna be sure to give them back though.
They sat down. Students on one side, teach on the other. Professor Sung took at least three minutes positioning his napkin. He took a deep breath and asked, "Why are you here?"
Extra note: I stopped here because I'm at the hotel now and have net only in the living room.. and because Duo and Wufei need time to think up an answer ☺
an old bit of story
Again with the Dark
By Nix Winter
copyright 2008
All rights reserved
The bar was nearly empty. Christmas Eve in Detroit and Santa ain't driving an Amercian iron horse, not this year. The jukebox played country twang, low enough that it could pull sad out of the air and not budge the dust settling around the world at all. A girl, not more than twenty hunched over a table, a half empty shot tumbler of fluid too dark to be tears, but probably related, in her hand. Her red velvet Christmas dress, wrapped in a way that made her look like a second hand gift, a white elephant just waiting for new hands. Short hair, a bit too stiff with hair product, didn't move with her breathing, and at first glance, she could have been little more than an off duty manikin.
Against the bar leaned a lanky man, long slender fingers wrapped around his own tumbler. Wavy blond hair hid most of his face. He didn't look quite as dusty as the girl, but he hardly seemed like a first time Christmas package either. The bartender kept her distance at the far end of the bar.
"You could let her go," Michael said, reaching into the bowl of peanuts and crunching them loudly. Or maybe just the simple human act felt loud in the cloud of magical possibility of the bar.
"Fae," the man accused, picking up his drink, even though he hadn't actually drank any of it. "Should I find some salt?"
"What was it? The red hair? I'm just a man, with a touch of the vision, not fae. What's your name?"
"Raphael." The blond reached up and tucked blond hair behind his ear. "What do you want with this, mortal man? She is nothing to you. There are no ties between you."
"Yeah, well," Michael hedged, "It's nearly Christmas. You don't really want to kill her or she'd be dead already."
"That stupidity works in the movies, little boy." Raphael's eyes narrowed. Such a dark green to be nearly black, the whole eye, not just the iris. "I will kill tonight."
"Maybe." With deliberate grace, Michael drew the Japanese symbol for light just in front of himself. The summoning touched a plane of being that few people would be able to sense, let alone see. The expression on the blond's face told Michael that his new 'friend' did indeed see the change. The arched white wings unfurled, sending a powerful blast of air past the blond shinigami, knocking the bowl of peanuts back against the mirror behind the bar.
"She's going to kill herself anyway," the blond growled as he tossed the contents of his tumbler at the man and his invoked angelic nature. "Can't you feel the despair? Can't you feel how lonely she is?"
"She might feel better tomorrow." Michael moved, spreading his wings, ivory white and full of hope, to block the view between the mortal girl and the darkly hungry shinigami. "You can't know."
Chin tucking towards his chest, a snarl on his lips, darkness unfurled behind him, slick and onyx, dark demonic wings with sharp claws. "Don't get in my way, angel boy. I don't need to hurt you."
"You don't need to hurt anyone." Static and the rush of hungry psycic energy roared past him, ruffling ruby and gold hair. "I'll prove it to you."
"If I kill you both," Raphael snarled, "Maybe I'll sleep for a couple of years." The lanky body bent a little, one shoulder seemingly dislocating, fingers elongating into pale bone claws.
"If you kill, you sleep," Michael asked. He drew another symbol in the air, his finger leaving a trail of iridescent energy.
"Love? You think you can fight me with hope and love," Raphael asked, offended. "I'm going to tear you apart and leave you in this plane forever."
"Big words."
Raphael jumped, backwards a bit to land in a crouch on the bar. Blond hair fragile around his face, brittle as winter tree branches or death's caress. "Everyone dies. There's no shame in death. The shame is in lingering when there's no place for you."
"Have to remind yourself of that," Michael asked, a silver sword manifesting in either hand.
The bar held still, breathless and timeless in the plane below where they fought.
"I'd think you'd be the one reminding, with your cloying hope and soupy love." Boney talons moved, weaving silver spider web, gleaming sharp. Those green eyes watched with cold apathy. "Santa Claus isn't real, little boy."
Michael struck, trusting with the right sword, blocking falling acidic spider web with the other. "Love is real enough."
Blade through the cat's cradle of web, a bright shiny light through the web of decay and self hate, Michael pressed forward, violet eyes taking all of the shinigami in, knowing him as if the other man's life were painted over a psychic canvas. "Your death was a mistake. You weren't alone."
The hiss echoed around them, even pushing the bar around them, making the girl knock over her glass, the bartender reach back to hair raised on the back of her neck. Slowly the Raphael moved forward, impaling himself on the length of bright sword. Acid blood dripped. Black bled like tears, until he was close enough to breath cold words over Michael's face. "What do you know of rejection? Of lonely? You who summon angels and wear pure white wings as if they were your own? Death swallows you today."
"Maybe." White wings slowly enfolded the impaled demon, "But I'm not the one impaled and encircled."
Green eyes blinked, such a human expression on a completely demonic face. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"
"I'm afraid," Michael admitted, a slightly shaking hand reaching to caress gray and degrading skin. "Just not the way you thought I would be."
"I'm a demon," Raphael pointed out, trying to push himself back now. His fingers morphed back towards being a man's, his hair softening back towards golden waves. "I'm death!"
"No." Michael let go of his swords. Fingers brushed into Raphael's hair. "You're a man, who made a mistake, a man who hurt very deeply, and now you're a spirit wandering the plane of the living."
"I don't wander. I sleep. I have death." Panic heightened and the spider fought against bonds that already pinned him.
"You are more than that," Michael promised, pinning Raphael's face between his hands. "I know your soul, Raphael Tortino. I'm older than I look. Think back. Think hard. Don't you remember me?"
Blinking, the whites returned to Raphael's eyes, leaving brilliant green eyes watching the red head. "Mickey? Mickey Samuel? But you died in the war!"
"I didn't die," Michael said gently. "You were gone when I got back. I've been looking for you for nearly a hundred years, Raph."
"Why?"
"Because I love you," Michael said. He pressed forward, kissing a mouth gone demonic, twisted and gray. In the kiss, Raphael's mouth softened, warmed, opened to the kiss. Wings brushed at each other, sensitive and curious, dark against light, floating above the bar, beyond time. The bells of Christmas rang outside, announcing the change of day, the new day, a new Christmas day, brilliant and pure. Raphael sagged in Michael's arms, the only remaining proof of his demonic path were the large black wings, folded and held tight. Michael's arms wrapped around him, holding him close, protectively.
"I failed."
"No," Michael comforted, "This time you didn't. She lives. You will live again. I know how to make that happen and I have a place for you. You won't be alone."
"But the things I've done…."
"And now you'll do them differently. Merry Christmas, Raphael. We finally have our Christmas together."
By Nix Winter
copyright 2008
All rights reserved
The bar was nearly empty. Christmas Eve in Detroit and Santa ain't driving an Amercian iron horse, not this year. The jukebox played country twang, low enough that it could pull sad out of the air and not budge the dust settling around the world at all. A girl, not more than twenty hunched over a table, a half empty shot tumbler of fluid too dark to be tears, but probably related, in her hand. Her red velvet Christmas dress, wrapped in a way that made her look like a second hand gift, a white elephant just waiting for new hands. Short hair, a bit too stiff with hair product, didn't move with her breathing, and at first glance, she could have been little more than an off duty manikin.
Against the bar leaned a lanky man, long slender fingers wrapped around his own tumbler. Wavy blond hair hid most of his face. He didn't look quite as dusty as the girl, but he hardly seemed like a first time Christmas package either. The bartender kept her distance at the far end of the bar.
"You could let her go," Michael said, reaching into the bowl of peanuts and crunching them loudly. Or maybe just the simple human act felt loud in the cloud of magical possibility of the bar.
"Fae," the man accused, picking up his drink, even though he hadn't actually drank any of it. "Should I find some salt?"
"What was it? The red hair? I'm just a man, with a touch of the vision, not fae. What's your name?"
"Raphael." The blond reached up and tucked blond hair behind his ear. "What do you want with this, mortal man? She is nothing to you. There are no ties between you."
"Yeah, well," Michael hedged, "It's nearly Christmas. You don't really want to kill her or she'd be dead already."
"That stupidity works in the movies, little boy." Raphael's eyes narrowed. Such a dark green to be nearly black, the whole eye, not just the iris. "I will kill tonight."
"Maybe." With deliberate grace, Michael drew the Japanese symbol for light just in front of himself. The summoning touched a plane of being that few people would be able to sense, let alone see. The expression on the blond's face told Michael that his new 'friend' did indeed see the change. The arched white wings unfurled, sending a powerful blast of air past the blond shinigami, knocking the bowl of peanuts back against the mirror behind the bar.
"She's going to kill herself anyway," the blond growled as he tossed the contents of his tumbler at the man and his invoked angelic nature. "Can't you feel the despair? Can't you feel how lonely she is?"
"She might feel better tomorrow." Michael moved, spreading his wings, ivory white and full of hope, to block the view between the mortal girl and the darkly hungry shinigami. "You can't know."
Chin tucking towards his chest, a snarl on his lips, darkness unfurled behind him, slick and onyx, dark demonic wings with sharp claws. "Don't get in my way, angel boy. I don't need to hurt you."
"You don't need to hurt anyone." Static and the rush of hungry psycic energy roared past him, ruffling ruby and gold hair. "I'll prove it to you."
"If I kill you both," Raphael snarled, "Maybe I'll sleep for a couple of years." The lanky body bent a little, one shoulder seemingly dislocating, fingers elongating into pale bone claws.
"If you kill, you sleep," Michael asked. He drew another symbol in the air, his finger leaving a trail of iridescent energy.
"Love? You think you can fight me with hope and love," Raphael asked, offended. "I'm going to tear you apart and leave you in this plane forever."
"Big words."
Raphael jumped, backwards a bit to land in a crouch on the bar. Blond hair fragile around his face, brittle as winter tree branches or death's caress. "Everyone dies. There's no shame in death. The shame is in lingering when there's no place for you."
"Have to remind yourself of that," Michael asked, a silver sword manifesting in either hand.
The bar held still, breathless and timeless in the plane below where they fought.
"I'd think you'd be the one reminding, with your cloying hope and soupy love." Boney talons moved, weaving silver spider web, gleaming sharp. Those green eyes watched with cold apathy. "Santa Claus isn't real, little boy."
Michael struck, trusting with the right sword, blocking falling acidic spider web with the other. "Love is real enough."
Blade through the cat's cradle of web, a bright shiny light through the web of decay and self hate, Michael pressed forward, violet eyes taking all of the shinigami in, knowing him as if the other man's life were painted over a psychic canvas. "Your death was a mistake. You weren't alone."
The hiss echoed around them, even pushing the bar around them, making the girl knock over her glass, the bartender reach back to hair raised on the back of her neck. Slowly the Raphael moved forward, impaling himself on the length of bright sword. Acid blood dripped. Black bled like tears, until he was close enough to breath cold words over Michael's face. "What do you know of rejection? Of lonely? You who summon angels and wear pure white wings as if they were your own? Death swallows you today."
"Maybe." White wings slowly enfolded the impaled demon, "But I'm not the one impaled and encircled."
Green eyes blinked, such a human expression on a completely demonic face. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"
"I'm afraid," Michael admitted, a slightly shaking hand reaching to caress gray and degrading skin. "Just not the way you thought I would be."
"I'm a demon," Raphael pointed out, trying to push himself back now. His fingers morphed back towards being a man's, his hair softening back towards golden waves. "I'm death!"
"No." Michael let go of his swords. Fingers brushed into Raphael's hair. "You're a man, who made a mistake, a man who hurt very deeply, and now you're a spirit wandering the plane of the living."
"I don't wander. I sleep. I have death." Panic heightened and the spider fought against bonds that already pinned him.
"You are more than that," Michael promised, pinning Raphael's face between his hands. "I know your soul, Raphael Tortino. I'm older than I look. Think back. Think hard. Don't you remember me?"
Blinking, the whites returned to Raphael's eyes, leaving brilliant green eyes watching the red head. "Mickey? Mickey Samuel? But you died in the war!"
"I didn't die," Michael said gently. "You were gone when I got back. I've been looking for you for nearly a hundred years, Raph."
"Why?"
"Because I love you," Michael said. He pressed forward, kissing a mouth gone demonic, twisted and gray. In the kiss, Raphael's mouth softened, warmed, opened to the kiss. Wings brushed at each other, sensitive and curious, dark against light, floating above the bar, beyond time. The bells of Christmas rang outside, announcing the change of day, the new day, a new Christmas day, brilliant and pure. Raphael sagged in Michael's arms, the only remaining proof of his demonic path were the large black wings, folded and held tight. Michael's arms wrapped around him, holding him close, protectively.
"I failed."
"No," Michael comforted, "This time you didn't. She lives. You will live again. I know how to make that happen and I have a place for you. You won't be alone."
"But the things I've done…."
"And now you'll do them differently. Merry Christmas, Raphael. We finally have our Christmas together."
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