tanis_serpentia

At the potluck, the warm boy asks me in a nervous whisper, "What should I eat?"

I smile and shrug. Instead of making his own choices, he waits for me to make my selections before taking a little bit of everything I do. It is only at the end that his hand hovers over a bubbling pot of rich Mexican chocolate, darting sharp glances to me. I watch him, careful to neither encourage or discourage him. After a desperate look around the room, he finally ladles some of the spicy chocolate into a cup, holding it carefully to his chest.

I bask in the sun on the hottest day of the year while he drowses in the shade of the rotting gazebo. A book of military history is propped open on his slim chest, rising and falling with each breath. I contemplate the patterns the sun makes through the broken latticework on his silvery skin and the half dead garden. Suddenly, I have a vision of what could be; a garden full of life and laughter no matter the season and hold the thought tightly. When he wakes, I tell him of my plan and watch a slow smile spread.

My kitchen smells of gunpowder and oil, weak tea and strong coffee. My white haired boy, who was never once a boy, sits at the kitchen table fastidiously cleaning his guns even as dust covers almost every other surface. He smiles his thanks when I put a cup down next to him, a grim twist of lips as our hands brush.

"Do you know what's happening?" He asks it like the others do, as if they aren't certain how much I understand.

I shrug and busy myself in the spare and empty kitchen, dreaming of breakfast. "Probably better than most."

The clockwork girl never asks me, "Do you remember?" I never do.

But sometimes, when the wind is crisp and chill, and my tree positively drips apples, I can recall things. I know that we have sat in the gazebo together, a pot of tea between us. I know that I have been inside her dreams and she in mine. I know that we have bent our heads together over freshly baked scones in the mornings and in the evenings we have walked down the lane, arm in arm, watching the sunset while we whisper each others secrets and laugh sadly.

He stands in the doorway, arms crossed until I look up from my journal. I wave him inside, but he shakes his head. "I need to go, Tanis."

I nod, wondering how long he has been here and whether I've been keeping him from doing something important. "All right."

He steps into the room fully, stops just inside the door. "No, I need to go away."

Suddenly, I am sad and unsure, so I nod again. "As you wish."

Turning on his heel he leaves and it's only later that I understand that I was supposed to ask him, "Why?"

I see patterns now where before I did not. I see the way that the warm boy (why can't I keep their names?) flinches when I touch him and he doesn't expect it, or how he tenses for it even when he does. Even the most casual touches (fingers across his shoulders as I pass him on the walk, brushing some stray ash from his shirt) cause his back to stiffen, and his shoulders to climb to his ears. Only the careful application of words and tasks will put him at ease until the pattern is repeated over and again.

The air around the shark tastes like the sea during a storm and blood in the water. It rolls off him like ocean fog when he smiles rapaciously, showing row upon row of sharp teeth. I stick my nose in my tea cup, but even the strongest tea can't mask the scent of a predator. He may not hunt blood (doesn't he?) but his need for the regard and the jealousy of others hangs over him like a cloak. Not for the first time, I wonder why he has come here and if he thinks that I will envy him.

Vega's Side.

Christmas in the garden is full of the scent of pine boughs, cinnamon, and baking things. Tea, wassail and cider permeate every inch of the house. Carefully wrapped gifts in brown paper or newspaper, or occasionally gift wrap are piled under the Christmas tree in a careless cascade.

The man with mirrored skin sits down beside Tanis, his slight frame barely making an indentation in the cushions. She looks up and smiles when he shyly puts a small box in her hands, biting his lower lip nervously when she opens it to reveal a serpent pendant with tiny jeweled eyes.

I'm not sure why I haven't done a chart for Tanis yet. But here it is. The usual rules apply. Pick a prompt or three and tell me what they are. I will write a drabble with your character and mine, featuring that prompt. ( Chart Behind the Cut )

"Stand up straight," I chide him gently.

He looks for a moment like he's been struck, then ducks his head and makes the effort, taking a deep breath. I can hear his vertebrae crack from the effort. He is handsome when he stands up, allows himself to be seen instead of hiding behind the skirts of whoever gives him an order. However, when that order has been given, when he has a clear purpose, he is magnificent. He moves gracefully, purposefully, as if there is nothing in the world that could stop him.

If only he would stand up straight.

His name is Silver.

He greets her by name and she is about to do the same, pleased at the memory and then has a moment of indecision before naming him. She leans in to taste him and remembers his odd, glassy scent, the warmth of summer grass that accompanies Summer Courtiers. There is a flash of being wrapped around him, arms and legs entangled in his and the taste of his mirrored skin on her forked tongue. But then, she shakes her head, smiles and welcomes him, but never quite gives him name, afraid that it will be wrong.

My dreams are warm and full of the scent of woodsmoke, but when I wake, there's something else in the air. I fumble for the light and blink sleepily for a moment while the scents resolve themselves and my eyes make sense of what I see. The boy is in my bed and this is right and comfortable, but rather than sleeping beside me, he is curled up at the foot, arms wrapped around his knees and his chin tucked firmly against his chest. This is not right and I worry. ( Worrying is, sometimes, the only right answer. )

My bed tastes like the boy when I wake, but he’s not there. For a moment, I’m confused when a dozen other scents swirl through my memory (Nine fingers, a whiff of iron, warm rain, gardenias) – others I have known, perhaps. I lay in bed until the memories pass me by, leaving me only with the scent of heat and a faint wisp of wood smoke.

I rise when I get too cold to stay in bed, go about my morning as the house wakes. My stone-boy makes oatmeal and it smells awful. I decide to escape outside to check the garden. Cold mornings mean frost. Some of the plants don’t care for it, need to be coddled and tended.

I’m outside. It’s cold and I burrow deeply into my winter coat that I don’t remember putting on. The garden needs me, so I follow the paths, the arrows laid into the stone. I pluck a weed here, breathe fresh life into a shrub there. In the winter, little truly needs to be done.

The thick thule fog covers the ground, shrouds the hills. The grass is damp and chill; I can feel it through my boots and I shiver again in the gray light filtering through the clouds.

My warm-boy is out today, doing some sort of complicated dance – but not. It’s not a dance I’ve ever seen before (Isn’t it?), and has no proper rhythm to it. Something tugs at the edge of my memory, but it dances out of reach when I try to grab it. His coat is off, laid across a bench and he wears no shoes. The fog steams off of him, never quite touches him, though it clings to his eyelashes and hair. ( Early Morning )

It is cold.

I shiver under my blankets, unable to get warm. I think about things that are warm. Tea. Sunshine. It’s dark outside, so only one of these can be accomplished tonight. I step from my bed onto the cold floor.

Outside my door, it is still cold, but I feel heat emanating from another room. I creep to the door and peek in… the boy, whose name I’m not sure I’ve ever even known, sleeps. I flick my tongue out and taste warm, fresh rain in the air around him, faintly of yarrow and blood. I cross the room, sit beside him. He is warm, smells good. I brush his brow with my fingertips and sigh.

When I crawl into the bed beside him, he doesn’t wake, only shifts a little and slips his arm around my waist. Something good flashes through my thoughts, memories of a time long ago. ( A cold night and a warm morning. )

I wander up and down the rows of the Downtown Market until it has closed and the vendors are packing up. I look down at my list; all of the lines are crossed off but two. I think the store I need is on this block, but I’m not sure. The air is growing chilly and I shiver.

I stand outside of a storefront, wondering why it is closed when a man nearly runs into me. He comes to an abrupt stop in front of me, eyes wide. “Whoops! Sorry lady!” He pivots around me and someone else comes running up in jeans and cowboy boots. He’s angry, shouting at the first man. He pulls a large knife and the first man picks me up and sets me out of the way, yelling, “Shit!” I watch as the knife slices into his back over his shoulder blade. He whirls on his attacker, spares a glance to me. “Fuck, fuck... Lady, get the hell out of here!” ( Jonah and Tanis )

Autumn is almost upon us. I can feel it even as the breezes are warm; they carry the scent of harvest. Apples and grapes, and cooler gusts from the ocean bring salt and rotting kelp to my tongue.

My warm boy joins me in the garden, quiet and still, even though he spooks when a car’s engine backfires or the house doors slam. He sits near me and I bask in his warmth, always working side by side.

I catch a taste of something else in the air, something familiar: death and decay, sickness and the tang of latex. ( Questions and Answers )

When we arrive, I am immediately met by people whose faces I recognize, whose scents are familiar. A very large man introduces himself and I promptly forget his name. He tells me that someone I know is looking for me. The doctor. Oh, right. Boy.

We wander until we find him, and my barnacled boy. The one with the fluffy white hair, who has been living with me, but whose name I can’t keep in my head. They tell me a disjointed story of the Old Man’s death. All that’s left- some coins, a robe, a necklace. We pass the coins around, try to identify the necklace. Goblin-made, someone says. I nod, try to remember the old man. Someone thinks to look for a journal, and it is given to me. Perhaps they know that I keep journals, too.

My warm boy stays by my side. He is scared and I don’t blame him. He looks to me with shadowed, haunted eyes, shudders. I smile, put a hand on his shoulder, squeeze his fingertips in mine. He steadies a little.

Someone else reports that hobgoblins are outside across the street, guarding a porta-potty. The image is so ridiculous that I laugh; I can’t help it. No one else seems to understand the joke, so I try to curtail my laughter. I ask if anyone has tried talking to the hobgoblins, which no one, evidently, has. I make a decision, then, and my boys follow me.

By the time we reach the porta-potty, half the court has followed me. The hobgoblins will only let four people in – the number of coins the Old Man left. I tell the Doctor-Boy to go, send my wizened old man in with him, the fairest who thinks so damned much of himself. They will do well, I think. We were told by the Old Man not to let his death ruin the party. Someone finds music and we laugh and sing and dance a bit. My boys return soon with a bag full of tiles, that look a bit like the ones for that game. My warm boy and the barnacled boy rearrange the tiles, trying to make sense of them. The Brother, the thing that killed our Old Man, is afraid of what is in there. Letters swirl around us as we try different combinations. We settle on Katrina, a name.

People come and go. I talk to some, remember so little. Screams and gunshots and fear… oh, we are afraid.

And finally, in the end, we are called by something. A man lays on the ground, begging for his death. We debate it, we talk about it. He begs and he pleads and tries to kill himself if we do not do it. We stop him, I fall on his arms and hold him down. Tears stream down his face. I do the only thing I can, I comfort him. I hum a melody that I recall from years ago, from a lifetime ago, from a time before Arcadia. I can’t remember the words, so I follow the tune, and watch as he relaxes. The crowns leave to make a decision as to what to do with him. When my doctor-boy returns, it is with a death sentence.

It goes so fast. The poor man on the ground, whose faith has been with the Fae, tries to escape, to kill himself, and oh, his gun jams. My doctor-boy steps in and kills him in one swift motion as shadows rise around us and another changeling dispels it with sunlight. I want to bathe in the light, in the warmth, but then it is gone. Men shout and argue until I can’t stand it any more. My doctor-boy is yelling at the pretty one, the pretty one shouts at the doctor-boy. Someone has kicked the corpse over. It goes so fast.

Someone takes the corpse away after I order it. I tell the doctor-boy and the pretty one to stop their arguments. This is not the time for it. I don’t know when would be, but this is most certainly not the time for it. My warm one helps me to stand – I’ve been sitting on the cold ground for too long and the cold has seeped into my bones. I ask my barnacled boy if anyone has sought out a will. He goes to find it.

And so I am left with the doctor-boy, my poor, sweet boy who doesn’t know why what he did is wrong. He knows so much and is yet so stupid. I’d weep for him if I could – but right now isn’t a time for comfort. My doctor-boy is the Spring Crown. He ought to know better, he ought to, but he doesn’t. For a moment, I wonder if this is my fault.

My barnacled boy brings me the note and I read it while I talk to him. The Old Man left his estate to the Spring Crown, the poor stupid boy in front of me. He shakes his head, sorrowful, confused. I understand a little, I do, probably more than he does. I say my peace and leave, pressing the note into his hand. I feel his eyes on my back as I go, arms linked with each of my boys, my barnacled boy on my left, my warm boy on my right.

It is dark and late when the new boy crawls into bed with me. He is warm and scared and I don’t mind in the slightest when he does. I wrap my arms around him and hold him until he falls asleep, cursing my memory that I can’t remember his name. How he came here escapes me, but my boys accept him. It is enough.

At dawn he wakes and he goes rigid in my arms, staring out the east facing window. I wrap around him tighter, whisper nothings into his hair, and rock him a little against me. He doesn’t relax again until the sun has broken the horizon line entirely, and then he falls back into a fitful sleep, full of dreams. I kiss his forehead, tempted to go delving in after him, but decide against it. Eventually, I will. Not now.

I leave him be in the bed, start my day. I go downstairs and speak with Melody who has already been awake for awhile. She pours a cup of tea and sits with me in the garden, listens to me ramble until the new boy follows me down. His hair is mussed and he looks at me with haunted eyes. What did he call himself?

“Go get some toast, boy. We should talk about vegetables.” I send him off and Melody takes that as her cue to leave as well. I remain in the garden, enjoying the warmth of the sun until he returns. For a moment, I’ve lost what I was going to tell him. I sit with him, saying nothing at all, hoping that it will return. He sits down on the ground next to my chair and I my fingers absently through his hair while he eats. He leans into my leg a little.

“Vegetables!” I am glad that my thoughts have returned to me; sometimes they do not. “The thing about vegetables,” I say, “is that the best ones are the hardiest. They grow with only moderate tending and are not susceptible to drought or heat or flood or cold. The best ones grow in spite of what happens to them.”

My boy’s eyes narrow as he tries to understand my meaning. For a moment I want to laugh and tell him what it is that I really mean, but it’s a lesson that is best learned on his own. I can only nudge him in the right direction. I stand, wave my hand for him to follow, and he does, a little behind me. I slow my pace and take him by the arm, so we walk side by side, arm in arm. I guide him to one of the vegetable plots, kneel down next to some cucumbers.

“Here.” I point to the base of the plant, where it had been cut nearly in half. “See this?”

He crouches next to me, peers. I take his hand and place it on the stalk’s scar. “This plant will still produce cucumbers, big beautiful juicy ones. It survives, will continue to survive.” I gaze at him and smile. He returns it cautiously, more a grimace than a true smile. Ah, well. We are getting closer.

“This is yours if you would like it.” I point to the plot between the two paths. It’s a vegetable garden, but shady herbs grow closest to the wedge by the apple tree. He tries to speak, but the words don’t quite come. I kiss his forehead one last time before moving off, leaving him to his garden.

OOC: I wrote this as an introduction to one of the character tie stories I'm writing. I liked it enough that I wanted to repost it, but couldn't figure out where to shove it in either the Tanis or Mild Garden wikis.

Sonoma County is known for three things: its rocky coastline, its wine, and Charles Schultz.

The coast is jagged, tall rocks reaching from the water, giant's fingers thrusting into the sky. These are not the gentle beaches of the south coast, but craggy, uncomfortable things, full of broken shells and rocks, difficult to traverse. The waters are cold, murky and imminently dangerous.

Moving in from the coast, the rocks and crags give way to gentler hills; cattle graze where it's impossible to plant and everywhere there are a few acres with which to plant a few shallowly rooting vines, grapes have been tied to poles and trellises, squat, woody little zinfandel vines vying against the more delicate pinot... and usually winning.

For years, in this idyllic setting, Charles Schultz penned Peanuts, going to the Redwood Ice Rink in Santa Rosa every day until his death. The ice rink still stands, popular as ever, and the entire city pays discrete homage to the legacy he left in hundreds of little ways.

Half way between Bodega (the little hamlet on the coast, home to fishermen, retirees and tourists) and Santa Rosa (the only city really worth noting) is Sebastopol, home to hippies, vegetarians, and a host of all natural, completely organic markets.

And along Highway 12, running east to west across the county, half-way between Sebastopol and Santa Rosa, is a service road. On this service road is a sprawling farm house, complete with gambrel roof and wide, full garden. A cobbled lane leads from the service road to the porch where a hanging sign can be seen: The Mild Garden

-=-=-=-

Most people see a woman sitting in her front garden, warm sun beating down on her shoulders while she replants a row of seedlings. She is beautiful more than she is pretty, classically so rather than conventionally. Thick copper hair is caught in a bun, hastily secured with a ballpoint pen, while her features seem to have more in common with a statue than living flesh.

Different sorts of people see a different sort of woman. The fingers digging into the rich soil, her bare arms, rather than tanned under the sun, are scaled, rich green, copper and bronze. The scales reach across her back, up her neck, fade into her jaw. She moves with economy, graceful and sinuous, and should one watch her for a long time, she sways hypnotically, oblivious to the world outside of the task set before her.