Fanmix Day 7 - For a Male Character

Pylades Dreams from heyitsalyssa on 8tracks Radio.

Fanmix Day 5 - For a TV Show

Never Shall We Die from heyitsalyssa on 8tracks Radio.

On the Riverbank

I wrote a short Athelstan/Gyda story, here's quick snippet.

The plague came quickly and unexpectedly. And it was almost certain to be fatal. A fever on the first day led to a painful sickness so severe one was bedridden. At that point it was only a matter of time before death took them.

Lagertha Lothbrok was worried but thanked the gods that Ragnar, Bjorn and even Gyda were gone on a raid and so were safe. Her only company was Athelstan. Thyri had just passed and Siggy fell ill not long after. Lagertha and Athelstan spent most of their time taking care of the sick and the dying. So when Athelstan fell ill as well, it was a tragedy but not exactly a surprising one. She prayed over him as often as she could. The man had become like a son to her. She sent word to her family about Athelstan’s condition and his probable fate. Ragnar and Bjorn decided to stay. But Gyda, little Gyda, rushed home. She only hoped she would not be too late.

Gyda stayed at Athelstan’s bedside constantly, only conceding to leave when her mother gently forced her to eat something or sleep in her own bed. She fetched him water and food on the rare occasions he was awake and hungry. In the nights when she couldn’t fall asleep she would talk, sometimes to him, sometimes the gods (hers and his), sometimes simply the universe.

“Oh, please don’t make Athelstan die,” she asked no one in particular in an inarticulate prayer. “He can’t die. Please make him better. He can’t die. I love him.” At those three little words that she’d had no plan of saying, her mouth dropped open, then she snapped it shut again. She’d been speaking quietly but in the silence it felt like a shout and she glanced around to see if there was anyone around that could have heard. But no one was there. She looked back down at Athelstan and brushed his dark hair off of his pale, sweaty brow, when she noticed his eyelids flutter open. He said her name weakly.

“Hi Athelstan,” she said timidly, hoping he hadn’t heard what she’d said. I love him. She hadn’t meant to say it, had never even thought it to herself. She thought he was good-looking, she admitted to herself. And he was sweet and listened to her as other people did not. She loved their talks late at night, the moonlight turning the world to shades of black and white and grays, when she’d teach him about their gods and their stories and songs. And he’d do the same, telling of all the places he’d traveled to and the people he’d met. But she hadn’t known she loved him—as anything other than a friend or a brother—until she’d said it aloud and now she knew it to be true.

“Um, I have some water. Here.” She handed him a cup and he drank.

“I’m going to die,” he said, his voice betraying no fear, but a certain sadness.

“No you’re not!” she said desperately, with a ferocity that made him think that already she had something of the shieldmaiden in her. “You’re not,” she said again, quietly, but he’d fallen asleep. And she hadn’t noticed immediately but he had managed to slip his hand around hers. She yawned and fell asleep resting on his chest.

A few nights passed this way, though Gyda did more silent praying from then on, when it seemed as though Athelstan was getting better. He ate a proper meal for the first time in over a week, and then he had only a bit of a headache. Soon he was back to normal. He never brought up what she said so she assumed he hadn’t heard her. Her embarrassment dissipated, things went back to normal and time passed. Ragnar returned with a very pregnant Aslaug who gave birth to two boys. Bjorn got married at 16 to a bastard daughter of King Horrik. When he was 17, the girl gave birth to a daughter. Gyda turned 15—the age of womanhood.

You can read the rest here.

A Snippet From a Story With No Title

Here's a very short little bit from an Enjolras/Grantaire fic I'm working on.

“Is that what you most desire? Ah! I don’t believe it so but alas! I shall go anyway. Until next time,” he said, bending in a bow with a surprisingly graceful flourish, the whole time holding his bottle and spilling not a drop. Then, turning away from Enjolras and to the room at large, “Oh! Pity me fellow mortals! Our fearless leader has kicked me to the street, in the cold—” “Get out of here, Grantaire.” Enjolras gritted his teeth but a few of the others were smiling. Grantaire walked out of the back room of the Musain (though “strutted” would be a more accurate term—the alcohol in his system showing no trace in his balance), planting a sloppy kiss on Louison’s cheek before he disappeared. Louison, who was used to his behavior, went on about her business, smiling good-naturedly. Grantaire, for his part, could hear Enjolras immediately delve back into whatever he had been saying, as if the whole incident had not happened. Though he would never admit it, it hurt a little that Enjolras could just skip over his existence so easily. But then, he supposed that was how gods were. For he felt certain that Enjolras must be some ancient god who deigned to walk among mere mortals. A god of truth and light and all that was righteous and good. Of course this only made Grantaire want to challenge him. Logically, it made no sense, he knew, but he was not a logical man and he simply could not help himself. He didn’t know why. He simply wanted to ruin that perfection. To be fair to Grantaire, as to Enjolras earlier, he did not feel romantically for Enjolras, not in any way that he understood. He wanted to kiss bruises into that marble neck, drag his nails across achingly perfect collarbones and hipbones. he wanted to tug on golden hair and whisper prayers against those damnably pink lips. Each man worships differently. But as it is that gods do not acknowledge those who worship them so it was with Grantaire and his Apollo. Perhaps, he thought wryly, that was why he argued with him so; angry words were better than none at all to the man whose thoughts are much too loud in the silence. And it was much too quiet tonight in the streets of Paris.