Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2010-02-01 07:04 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2010-02-01 07:04 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: Castle Down, chapter 6
Title: Castle Down (6/6)
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Jon/c!Stephen, Larry/John-O, John Hodgman, Mrs. Jonatha Strangedirt
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. (Alas.)
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
And you thought I was kidding about the mole-men.
The mole-manic woman in this chapter is #373 in the list from More Information Than You Require. (Mole-man language is described as "a melange of hisses, grunts, coughs, screeches, and French.") The rooster is...well.
Decorative capitals, as ever, come from Daily Drop Cap. List of chapters here.
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
lear out! Give them some space!"
Jon made a note to be forever grateful to Wilmore as the wizard shooed away a gaggle of onlookers, well-wishers, and other assorted hangers-on, leaving him alone in the tent with Stephen, Hodgman, and a mole-man. (Or rather, a mole-manic woman, not that he could have told the difference. Also, apparently, a witch.)
"And you, Captain, should go see the unicorns," added Wilmore, at which Jon mentally rescinded his forever-gratefulness. "You need some healing action on that concussion."
Though it made the world swim disconcertingly around him, Jon shook his head emphatically, clutching Stephen's limp hand all the tighter. "Not leaving him."
"Laissez-moi," interrupted the witch, who had been introduced to Jon as Mrs. Jonatha Strangedirt. She put a claw to his forehead, and, though there wasn't a jewel to be seen, his headache began to clear.
"Do you mind, Mrs. Strangedirt?" groused Wilmore. "I need your attention on this man's heart, not Captain Stewart's head."
The witch replied with a series of grunts which, judging by Wilmore's reaction, were a mole-manic rebuke.
When she launched into a much longer speech, filled with hisses, coughs, and more than a few screeches, Hodgman leaned over to Jon's side and murmured a running translation. "We know more about souls than any of your people, but we don't know everything. His soul has returned to his body; that much I can do. But it's still in pieces, and I don't know how to knit them together."
"But it's got to be possible," protested Wilmore. "Come on, what do we need to do? Go on a quest? Slay a dragon? I'm sure Jon could find it in him to slay a couple of dragons if Stephen needed it."
All of a sudden Mrs. Strangedirt was leaning over Jon, peering at him with small, liquid eyes. In a passable, if raspy, version of his own language, she hissed, "You love him?"
Jon went very red.
"I, I, uh, well," he stammered. "How am I supposed to answer that? I've only spent a couple of weeks with him, and we barely communicated, and then it turned out it was all under false pretenses anyway. Maybe when things are different, when he isn't under the impression that he's supposed to do everything I say, maybe it'll turn out I hate his guts. I don't know, okay? I don't know."
Pressing a claw against his forehead again, and another against Stephen's pallid, staring face, the witch shrugged her furry shoulders. "Close enough."
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
alaxies of light and color wheeled around Jon, whole constellations of radiant ruby points spinning in and out of his vision against a depthless span of black. No, not points — not quite. Fragments.
Stephen's soul had broken into a starfield.
Or maybe Jon, needing some understandable metaphor with which to compress the idea, was only perceiving it as a starfield. You never could tell with these things.
Either way, he thought, listening to the notes and chords and scraps of melody that seemed to be ringing from each glowing shard, this is amazing.
A whirling trail of fragments shied away from him like a spooked colt.
Jon stretched out a hand towards them (they're so small), and felt rather than heard the resulting clamor: let me go / let me stay / could have died, and he / happiest time of my life was / forgive me / want to please him / have to please him.
"Do you...remember me?" he hazarded.
A flurry of emotions too fast and sharp for words came at him from all sides: fear, hurt, thankfulness, anger, confusion, that piercing sense of longing, a veritable wave of betrayal.
"I'm sorry," he began, halting and shaky. "I didn't realize you thought you were supposed to be my, uh, my pet. I thought you were happy. I thought I could...." He took a deep breath, or at least its metaphorical-soul-space equivalent, and tried to unearth the memories of his blissful ignorance from the heaps of guilt and regret he had piled over them. "I didn't know."
Refusal to listen from some quarters, outright disbelief from others — but a few, a few were suddenly terrified that he had gotten it all wrong, that Jon had been nothing but kind, and how had he repaid it...?
"I'm not here to punish you!" exclaimed Jon. "You thought I was keeping you captive; it was a reasonable way to react. Besides, it would have made more sense for you to kill me, but you didn't, and that's not something I take lightly."
Why are you here / it's a trick / please help me / what do you want from me?
"I'm just here to bring you back together, okay? You can go wherever you want afterwards; I won't ask anything else from you. Just let me pull you back."
Instead of relief, he was hit with a burst of fresh panic. Will Papa Bear be there?
Jon didn't have to answer in words. His memory of the crumbling fortress was enough.
The grief was echoed in all corners, multiplied, fed back, until it became a chorus: not so much for O'Reilly himself as for the idea of him, the security he had represented, the love and respect that phantom had inspired.
And all the while there was another process running. Bits of Stephen were reaching out for Jon, disentangling the images of his kindness (what Jon had thought of as basic decency, but still) from their associations with Papa Bear, until they flowed into a series of despairing pleas: Don't abandon me / let me be your pet / I'll do anything / tell me what to do.
"I can't do that," Jon protested. "I won't abandon you, but I'm not going to order you around. But, come on, isn't it better that way? You won't be anyone's 'pet'. Nobody can make you lie back and let them hurt you anymore. Don't you want that?"
Slivers of hope, and that longing again: twigs in the path of the flood of Stephen's distress. Don't know what I want / don't know who I am without him / without you / without someone.
"But I'm not like that!" he shouted into the endless sky. "I don't want to own you!"
In the cacophony that resulted he caught strings of confusion, wrapped around snippets of memory. You gave me glasses / had me protected / "My Stephen."
"I just wanted to love you," pleaded Jon.
Then he gathered up everything he meant by that, every feeling and thought and wish, and flung it out into the stars as far as it would go.
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
efore Jon realized that he was back in the real world, Stephen launched himself from the blanket, grabbed Jon's tunic, and yanked him into a fervent kiss.
"He's up!" exclaimed Hodgman, jumping to his feet. "Well, it looks as though our work here is done. Wouldn't you say, Mrs. Strangedirt?"
Mrs. Strangedirt made a skritchy sound that might have been a laugh, then grunted and screeched at Wilmore. "Aaaayup, she says we're clear," he translated, in a drawl faintly tinged with amusement. "You two want a little privacy there?"
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
s the tent flap fell closed behind the departing visitors, Stephen nuzzled against Jon's warm chest while Jon pressed kisses to his forehead.
It felt almost like when he had first put on glasses, only more so. The world was suddenly much bigger, full of possibilities that were not only open to him but encouraged; and this vast field of choice wasn't scary at all, because in the middle of it all was an image of himself and Jon standing side by side, caretaking but not owning, as equals...
...except that the image was fanding, like frost in sunlight. The idea that for a fleeting moment had seemed self-evident now felt as foreign and unimaginable as ever.
"It wasn't real," said Jon, lowering Stephen gently back onto the blanket. Either his Vulpin had suddenly gotten very good, or their souls were still linked enough that language was immaterial. "It was just an idea you got out of my head. But we can make it real. We can build that life. Together."
Stephen's struggle to cling to the idea was thwarted by a rush of calculations. He had kissed Jon, he had made the first move, so now Jon would expect...yes, he could feel Jon's desire over their link along with everything else, the hope that he would push things further...but there was no telling exactly what Jon wanted, whether he would be satisfied for something quick and energetic, or whether Stephen would be wiser to save his strength for the long haul, or...
...or, in a moment of what had to be total insanity, he could look straight into the other man's eyes and say, "Jon? I'm very tired."
"Oh!" Jon fairly jumped away. "Sorry! Of course you're tired, after what you've been through — should I leave you alone to sleep, or—?"
Stephen hesitated only a moment before touching the blanket beside him. "Would you stay...here?"
A small but tender smile lit up Jon's face. "I'd love to."
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
etter not go in there," cautioned Wilmore, as Oliver approached the tent. "Stephen's back in one piece. He and Jon are just working out, uh, personal stuff now."
"He's back?" repeated Oliver. "Healing up nicely, then?"
"Oh, sure. They're going to be fine."
"Ah." Oliver looked at the rooster in his arms. "I suppose they won't be needing this, then."
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
eaning into Jon's embrace, Stephen listened until his breath became slow and even.
"My Jon," he whispered experimentally.
Before today, he could hardly have imagined the words. They still felt unsteady on his tongue. Like an audacity he wasn't even allowed to speculate about, much less claim.
But Jon smiled in his sleep, and a warm glow spread through Stephen's chest, and he resolved to say the words again after they woke up.
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Jon/c!Stephen, Larry/John-O, John Hodgman, Mrs. Jonatha Strangedirt
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. (Alas.)
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
And you thought I was kidding about the mole-men.
The mole-manic woman in this chapter is #373 in the list from More Information Than You Require. (Mole-man language is described as "a melange of hisses, grunts, coughs, screeches, and French.") The rooster is...well.
Decorative capitals, as ever, come from Daily Drop Cap. List of chapters here.
lear out! Give them some space!"Jon made a note to be forever grateful to Wilmore as the wizard shooed away a gaggle of onlookers, well-wishers, and other assorted hangers-on, leaving him alone in the tent with Stephen, Hodgman, and a mole-man. (Or rather, a mole-manic woman, not that he could have told the difference. Also, apparently, a witch.)
"And you, Captain, should go see the unicorns," added Wilmore, at which Jon mentally rescinded his forever-gratefulness. "You need some healing action on that concussion."
Though it made the world swim disconcertingly around him, Jon shook his head emphatically, clutching Stephen's limp hand all the tighter. "Not leaving him."
"Laissez-moi," interrupted the witch, who had been introduced to Jon as Mrs. Jonatha Strangedirt. She put a claw to his forehead, and, though there wasn't a jewel to be seen, his headache began to clear.
"Do you mind, Mrs. Strangedirt?" groused Wilmore. "I need your attention on this man's heart, not Captain Stewart's head."
The witch replied with a series of grunts which, judging by Wilmore's reaction, were a mole-manic rebuke.
When she launched into a much longer speech, filled with hisses, coughs, and more than a few screeches, Hodgman leaned over to Jon's side and murmured a running translation. "We know more about souls than any of your people, but we don't know everything. His soul has returned to his body; that much I can do. But it's still in pieces, and I don't know how to knit them together."
"But it's got to be possible," protested Wilmore. "Come on, what do we need to do? Go on a quest? Slay a dragon? I'm sure Jon could find it in him to slay a couple of dragons if Stephen needed it."
All of a sudden Mrs. Strangedirt was leaning over Jon, peering at him with small, liquid eyes. In a passable, if raspy, version of his own language, she hissed, "You love him?"
Jon went very red.
"I, I, uh, well," he stammered. "How am I supposed to answer that? I've only spent a couple of weeks with him, and we barely communicated, and then it turned out it was all under false pretenses anyway. Maybe when things are different, when he isn't under the impression that he's supposed to do everything I say, maybe it'll turn out I hate his guts. I don't know, okay? I don't know."
Pressing a claw against his forehead again, and another against Stephen's pallid, staring face, the witch shrugged her furry shoulders. "Close enough."
alaxies of light and color wheeled around Jon, whole constellations of radiant ruby points spinning in and out of his vision against a depthless span of black. No, not points — not quite. Fragments.Stephen's soul had broken into a starfield.
Or maybe Jon, needing some understandable metaphor with which to compress the idea, was only perceiving it as a starfield. You never could tell with these things.
Either way, he thought, listening to the notes and chords and scraps of melody that seemed to be ringing from each glowing shard, this is amazing.
A whirling trail of fragments shied away from him like a spooked colt.
Jon stretched out a hand towards them (they're so small), and felt rather than heard the resulting clamor: let me go / let me stay / could have died, and he / happiest time of my life was / forgive me / want to please him / have to please him.
"Do you...remember me?" he hazarded.
A flurry of emotions too fast and sharp for words came at him from all sides: fear, hurt, thankfulness, anger, confusion, that piercing sense of longing, a veritable wave of betrayal.
"I'm sorry," he began, halting and shaky. "I didn't realize you thought you were supposed to be my, uh, my pet. I thought you were happy. I thought I could...." He took a deep breath, or at least its metaphorical-soul-space equivalent, and tried to unearth the memories of his blissful ignorance from the heaps of guilt and regret he had piled over them. "I didn't know."
Refusal to listen from some quarters, outright disbelief from others — but a few, a few were suddenly terrified that he had gotten it all wrong, that Jon had been nothing but kind, and how had he repaid it...?
"I'm not here to punish you!" exclaimed Jon. "You thought I was keeping you captive; it was a reasonable way to react. Besides, it would have made more sense for you to kill me, but you didn't, and that's not something I take lightly."
Why are you here / it's a trick / please help me / what do you want from me?
"I'm just here to bring you back together, okay? You can go wherever you want afterwards; I won't ask anything else from you. Just let me pull you back."
Instead of relief, he was hit with a burst of fresh panic. Will Papa Bear be there?
Jon didn't have to answer in words. His memory of the crumbling fortress was enough.
The grief was echoed in all corners, multiplied, fed back, until it became a chorus: not so much for O'Reilly himself as for the idea of him, the security he had represented, the love and respect that phantom had inspired.
And all the while there was another process running. Bits of Stephen were reaching out for Jon, disentangling the images of his kindness (what Jon had thought of as basic decency, but still) from their associations with Papa Bear, until they flowed into a series of despairing pleas: Don't abandon me / let me be your pet / I'll do anything / tell me what to do.
"I can't do that," Jon protested. "I won't abandon you, but I'm not going to order you around. But, come on, isn't it better that way? You won't be anyone's 'pet'. Nobody can make you lie back and let them hurt you anymore. Don't you want that?"
Slivers of hope, and that longing again: twigs in the path of the flood of Stephen's distress. Don't know what I want / don't know who I am without him / without you / without someone.
"But I'm not like that!" he shouted into the endless sky. "I don't want to own you!"
In the cacophony that resulted he caught strings of confusion, wrapped around snippets of memory. You gave me glasses / had me protected / "My Stephen."
"I just wanted to love you," pleaded Jon.
Then he gathered up everything he meant by that, every feeling and thought and wish, and flung it out into the stars as far as it would go.
efore Jon realized that he was back in the real world, Stephen launched himself from the blanket, grabbed Jon's tunic, and yanked him into a fervent kiss."He's up!" exclaimed Hodgman, jumping to his feet. "Well, it looks as though our work here is done. Wouldn't you say, Mrs. Strangedirt?"
Mrs. Strangedirt made a skritchy sound that might have been a laugh, then grunted and screeched at Wilmore. "Aaaayup, she says we're clear," he translated, in a drawl faintly tinged with amusement. "You two want a little privacy there?"
s the tent flap fell closed behind the departing visitors, Stephen nuzzled against Jon's warm chest while Jon pressed kisses to his forehead.It felt almost like when he had first put on glasses, only more so. The world was suddenly much bigger, full of possibilities that were not only open to him but encouraged; and this vast field of choice wasn't scary at all, because in the middle of it all was an image of himself and Jon standing side by side, caretaking but not owning, as equals...
...except that the image was fanding, like frost in sunlight. The idea that for a fleeting moment had seemed self-evident now felt as foreign and unimaginable as ever.
"It wasn't real," said Jon, lowering Stephen gently back onto the blanket. Either his Vulpin had suddenly gotten very good, or their souls were still linked enough that language was immaterial. "It was just an idea you got out of my head. But we can make it real. We can build that life. Together."
Stephen's struggle to cling to the idea was thwarted by a rush of calculations. He had kissed Jon, he had made the first move, so now Jon would expect...yes, he could feel Jon's desire over their link along with everything else, the hope that he would push things further...but there was no telling exactly what Jon wanted, whether he would be satisfied for something quick and energetic, or whether Stephen would be wiser to save his strength for the long haul, or...
...or, in a moment of what had to be total insanity, he could look straight into the other man's eyes and say, "Jon? I'm very tired."
"Oh!" Jon fairly jumped away. "Sorry! Of course you're tired, after what you've been through — should I leave you alone to sleep, or—?"
Stephen hesitated only a moment before touching the blanket beside him. "Would you stay...here?"
A small but tender smile lit up Jon's face. "I'd love to."
etter not go in there," cautioned Wilmore, as Oliver approached the tent. "Stephen's back in one piece. He and Jon are just working out, uh, personal stuff now.""He's back?" repeated Oliver. "Healing up nicely, then?"
"Oh, sure. They're going to be fine."
"Ah." Oliver looked at the rooster in his arms. "I suppose they won't be needing this, then."
eaning into Jon's embrace, Stephen listened until his breath became slow and even."My Jon," he whispered experimentally.
Before today, he could hardly have imagined the words. They still felt unsteady on his tongue. Like an audacity he wasn't even allowed to speculate about, much less claim.
But Jon smiled in his sleep, and a warm glow spread through Stephen's chest, and he resolved to say the words again after they woke up.
no subject
The pictures of Jon are delicious :D mussed hair! Sleeping!Jon, YUM!
Such a wonderful story, sorry to see it end so quickly, but I loved visiting this world!
no subject
The ruby-fragments imagery is straight out of Princess Tutu. (Just to drive home the point that there is nothing original in this story :P) (Speaking of that chapter, I just hit that point in the revisions last week!)
The world needs more mole-manic fic, I say. And more mussed-hair-Jon. (But we knew that already.)
And here I was all proud of myself for actually finishing and posting a whole story in a timely fashion XD Seriously, though, glad you enjoyed!
no subject
Glad to see that Oliver and Wilmore ended their brilliant string of fourth wall prodding and subversion by capturing the biggest cliché of all! I just hope Oliver didn't have to go through too much trouble to obtain his all-purpose healing volatile... I assume they must be like the most common magical creatures ever, but I'm admittedly not an expert.
no subject
I figure everyday roosters are a dime a dozen, but the magical healing kind are rarer. You have to raise them with a certain touch. If You Know What I Mean :P
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
:')
no subject
♥
no subject
And hahahaha the rooster.
their souls were still linked enough that language was immaterial.
Loved loved loved that line. And the whole scene with Stephen's soul. And also, in the first picture Jon's eyes are particularly gorgeous. To sum up, YAY! <3
no subject
And thank you!
no subject
Yay, excellent story, and I love the artwork!
no subject
♥!
no subject
!!!!!!
<3333333333333333333
Now I'm all teary-eyed...
no subject
no subject
Ooh, and I don't know if you got it, but I asked for a DW code on andthatstheword on LJ? OpenID is great, but I'd just like to make it official-like
no subject
Sorry about the delay - it's been sent!
no subject
Well, look what we have here :D Thanks!
no subject
I... I just got back on lj after a month or so hiatus, and...
WOOWWWWW I LOVE YOU. I JUST WENT AND READ EVERY BIT OF THIS THROUGH AT ONCE AND IT IS MAGNIFICENT!
Stephen-as-a-beaten-up-puppy-dog it just hits home with me like you have no idea, and, and, Jon on a unicorn and jewels and swords and Larry and John, could they be any more adorable?!.
I may or may not spend the next few minutes running around yelling "the mole men are coming!"
ILU.
no subject
Ahhh, you just summarized all my favorite parts XD
And everything can use more mole-men, I think.
♥
no subject
What a lovely, happy, fuzzy-feeling-inducing end. I'm all gleeful now. And that last picture is especially awesome.
<3
no subject
:D
no subject
no subject
no subject
All that said, I think the Wilmore-and-Oliver scenes and exposition didn't capture me as much as the rest of the story did. Still, I can tell I'll come back to this and reread it -- thank you for sharing it.
no subject
Glad you liked the result, and thank you for reading!
no subject
I love how Jon isn't sure if he loves/will continue to feel so fond of Stephen before he goes in to see Stephen's fragmented soul, and they have to figure everyting out. Actually, the piece of artwork involved with the prettiness of the fragmented and Stephen-esque-red stars of soul and Jon imploring them has got to be my new favorite piece of artwork by you, so I must really be biased, because you've done some really, really creative things before.
I think I'm a sucker for believable happiness, and this is the fic where there's no chance for Stephen to run (becaue he's been fragmented) and hardly any chance for Jon to be misunderstood with a ink lke that, so he can covey exactly what he means to this crazyily loyal, lost, and snuggable man:
"But I'm not like that!" he shouted into the endless sky. "I don't want to own you!"
In the cacophony that resulted he caught strings of confusion, wrapped around snippets of memory. You gave me glasses / had me protected / "My Stephen."
"I just wanted to love you," pleaded Jon.
Then he gathered up everything he meant by that, every feeling and thought and wish, and flung it out into the stars as far as it would go.
It's just so sweet, and I don't know how to put this, but Jon/"Stephen" can be a bitch, as far as fluff goes. I'm not saying things will be perfect, but I feel like in this fantasy the two characters really got to communicate and unerstand one another through that moment and the exchange leading up to it, and it's a nice beginning.
And, hey, maybe I'm reading waaaaay too much into a nice fantasy fic with a fluffy ending, but I believe it, and I think it's adorable for Jon and "Stephen" to have that peace at the end - especially when Stephen can feel both loved and protected in Jon's arms, yet sure enough of himself to make assertations like Jon is his too.
Chapter 6 for a well-wanted Jon/"Stephen" fluff with plot moment and just ftw in general. I had fun. ;)
no subject
One of the major (if not the major) hurdles of slavefic is that, if you want to write romance, you have to find some way of protecting the conditioned-to-be-a-slave partner from being take advantage of. For that matter, a similar issue can crop up in "Stephen" fic in general, because he starts off as needy, easily manipulated, and with complexes about authority. But since I did want this to be a fluffy fantasy romance and not an ethically dubious morass (at least, at the end), well, that's what A Wizard Did It is for. (Or, in this case, A Mole-Manic Witch Did It.)
I, er, may possibly also have a thing for soulbonding in general, so that worked out nicely =P
So glad you liked it! And, yes, Stephen will be un-lost andd well-snugged from now on :D
no subject