the boy and the fey —「charlie x freyr」
Jun 13, 2022 15:59:00 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jun 13, 2022 15:59:00 GMT -5
"burning hair flesh, & bones
within the south wind blowing
over flowers & mossy stones."
within the south wind blowing
over flowers & mossy stones."
A farmer’s choice of grass depends on hardiness and price.
Perennial ones like alfalfa and ryegrass—too expensive—but the wild kinds such as tallgrass and forestgrass—too tough, too quick to become hay—so they settle on cheap fescues and make subpar pastures. Whereas the fancy farms near the heart of the district spend dimes and dozens on fancy grass, it’s a victory as long as the cattle eats in my part of town.
In the Capitol they feed us the finest grasses to ever grow in the world. Arugula, mint, salads that look preserved in an eternal state of emerald green, others would call all of these niceties but I regard them plainly for what they are: rearing food.
I haven’t stopped having nightmares of the meat chute for days. I know what my grandmother would say if she is here—“An omen, my child, that is an omen,”—but she isn’t, she’s back home on the front porch, looking for a grandson who may not come home. And I feel wild, calamitous, more of an omen than a boy as invisible crows roost from their unseen eaves. I feel like a dream about the ending of the world. Of my world.
But there’s some respite in the forest stimulation part of the training arena. The trees cast long real-enough shadows and the grass that tickles my ankles is tangible enough, green fingers grasping at calloused skin. I fiddle with a strand of dried root, braid it together to a rope. I yank on it as it is tied around a piece of bark: sturdy enough. I have always been someone who liked to be just enough. Just average, a hometown dweller, a commonfolk than anything else. People boost up heroes too much, I think, because I find that it is better to a sturdy length of rope that holds pieces together than a wicked edge of sword that cuts things asunder. That doesn’t mean I don’t know use to both, though. Doesn’t mean I am not both the rope and the sword.
I catch on something then. A low current of sound, drifting out from where the trees cluster more tightly, enchanting in the way it rises and falls. But there’s no one around. It’s night, almost twelve, a time I’ve been waiting for due to the fact that the center remains mostly abandoned then but maybe I thought wrong.
I wrap the rope around my knuckles like it’s a weapon. A part of me knows that I’m safe here, safer than anything in the world, but there’s the part of me that hasn’t stopped being cautious, hasn’t stopped being at unease. “Hello?” I call out, take a step closer. The forest seems to eat me completely, denser and thicker under the dim lights, and when I find the sound’s place of origin, I feel like I’ve wandered too far to backtrack.
There’s a boy and he looks as if he’s caught in a trance.
He looks—ethereal, a part of this world and another, like he’s also both rope and sword but also knife, also flowers. There’s both violence and beauty in the craving of him.
And I’m simply a mortal.
“Sorry to, uh,” I look away, cheeks flushing, “intrude. Thought I was alone but,” an apologetic smile ripples across my lips, “some company’s fine.” I look at him and cannot gauge his intents. So my second nature takes over and I extend a hand out towards him to shake. “Charleston,” I greet. “Charleston uh,” a chuckle, a years-old joke, “Charleston of the Gallows, but most people just call me Charlie.”
Perennial ones like alfalfa and ryegrass—too expensive—but the wild kinds such as tallgrass and forestgrass—too tough, too quick to become hay—so they settle on cheap fescues and make subpar pastures. Whereas the fancy farms near the heart of the district spend dimes and dozens on fancy grass, it’s a victory as long as the cattle eats in my part of town.
In the Capitol they feed us the finest grasses to ever grow in the world. Arugula, mint, salads that look preserved in an eternal state of emerald green, others would call all of these niceties but I regard them plainly for what they are: rearing food.
I haven’t stopped having nightmares of the meat chute for days. I know what my grandmother would say if she is here—“An omen, my child, that is an omen,”—but she isn’t, she’s back home on the front porch, looking for a grandson who may not come home. And I feel wild, calamitous, more of an omen than a boy as invisible crows roost from their unseen eaves. I feel like a dream about the ending of the world. Of my world.
But there’s some respite in the forest stimulation part of the training arena. The trees cast long real-enough shadows and the grass that tickles my ankles is tangible enough, green fingers grasping at calloused skin. I fiddle with a strand of dried root, braid it together to a rope. I yank on it as it is tied around a piece of bark: sturdy enough. I have always been someone who liked to be just enough. Just average, a hometown dweller, a commonfolk than anything else. People boost up heroes too much, I think, because I find that it is better to a sturdy length of rope that holds pieces together than a wicked edge of sword that cuts things asunder. That doesn’t mean I don’t know use to both, though. Doesn’t mean I am not both the rope and the sword.
I catch on something then. A low current of sound, drifting out from where the trees cluster more tightly, enchanting in the way it rises and falls. But there’s no one around. It’s night, almost twelve, a time I’ve been waiting for due to the fact that the center remains mostly abandoned then but maybe I thought wrong.
I wrap the rope around my knuckles like it’s a weapon. A part of me knows that I’m safe here, safer than anything in the world, but there’s the part of me that hasn’t stopped being cautious, hasn’t stopped being at unease. “Hello?” I call out, take a step closer. The forest seems to eat me completely, denser and thicker under the dim lights, and when I find the sound’s place of origin, I feel like I’ve wandered too far to backtrack.
There’s a boy and he looks as if he’s caught in a trance.
He looks—ethereal, a part of this world and another, like he’s also both rope and sword but also knife, also flowers. There’s both violence and beauty in the craving of him.
And I’m simply a mortal.
“Sorry to, uh,” I look away, cheeks flushing, “intrude. Thought I was alone but,” an apologetic smile ripples across my lips, “some company’s fine.” I look at him and cannot gauge his intents. So my second nature takes over and I extend a hand out towards him to shake. “Charleston,” I greet. “Charleston uh,” a chuckle, a years-old joke, “Charleston of the Gallows, but most people just call me Charlie.”
