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rainbowfic2018-12-18 09:32 pm
dray) wrote in rainbowfic2018-12-18 09:32 pm
Entry tags:
Iceberg #14, Silver #4, True Blue #18
Name: Dray
Story:everwood
Colors: Iceberg 14) Hibernation, True Blue 18) "Ain't Never Had a Friend Like Me", Silver 4) Flatware
Supplies and Styles: Frame, Brush (Dec. 18th, "Millefleur")
Word Count: 1,386
Rating: E Everybody
Warnings: None
Boyce woke with a start, his heart hitching in his chest as the sound of squabbling crows outside forced him out of a deep slumber. It took until his hammock had stilled for him to get a handle on himself. He consciously regained feeling from his toes to his nose, settling into breathing with lungs that felt gummy with disuse. Every heartbeat felt like pushing molasses, and his eyes and nose and mouth were rimed. The inside of Trellis was comfortably dark, but he suddenly didn't feel so comfortable in the muffled silence of his den.
He carefully worked himself free of the vines that made up his hammock, one hand moving along the rough interior of Trellis' walls. The little cabin was alive in a way that defied common forest wildlife. It was alive because of him, and he felt a connection with it that might explain why he felt so groggy. Trellis had been hibernating for most of the winter, and as the nights had drawn longer Boyce had felt a tug to do the same.
Even standing up felt strange and a little painful. He'd gone from feeling conscious of his toes to feeling nothing but pins and needles in them. It was difficult not to mince. "When is it?" he muttered, his throat cracking, sore and dry.
Something bumped his shoulder, but it was a familiar gesture like a pet nudging for attention. Boyce reached a hand out and felt the melded grip of smooth bark and cold metal, glass... Trellis was holding out a lantern (at some hazard to both him and his companion), offering it to be lit.
A spark, then a light taking hold... Boyce shielded his face as he closed the glass door and then watched from the corner of his eye as tendrils gingerly lifted the lantern up towards the blackened corner of the roof where a hardened exhaust flume had grown. The rest of Trellis' vines that coiled around the ceiling instinctively pulled back from the light, and Boyce shifted uncomfortably at the thought of a live flame, whether open or not... but that was an internal sensation. Outwardly, he blinked the residual spark from his eyes to look over the inside of his home.
Everything where he left it... only... it felt green. Warmer, more alive, maybe.
He scrubbed his beard and came away with sticky fingers. "Hnngh--" Sap and bits of green told him all he needed to know about how he looked. He'd been sleeping, and growing little tendrils and buds waiting for spring light. He could feel more on a second, cautious swipe, now that he was aware of them. Everything felt off and he had a better idea of why.
"You could've warned me," he said, out loud, to the walls. Nobody responded, nor did he seem to expect it. Instead he held up a hand and found a mirror deposited into it, as though he'd reached for it all along. His worst fears were confirmed: his face was a nightmare of leafy buds and weathered skin and coal-dark, unkempt hair. He shuffled across the cabin to the drawers under the shuttered window. Finding a set of tweezers, he ignored the way those shutters trembled in excitement, and got about extracting green buds from his beard, his face, behind his ears, in his hair... At this rate he would wake half-merged from the vines that made up his hammock. Better not to think too hard about it.
The way the light was getting through the shutters it was late morning, and Boyce looked up in time for the cabin to flush its shutters open enthusiastically. A cool rush of fresh air replaced what he realized must have been a fetid stillness more appropriate to a bear's den, and Boyce lowered both tweezers and mirror to stare out into the haze of green, of a spring he thought was still months off.
He set his tools down and placed his big hands on the counter to lean out the window, mouth slightly open. Processing the sheer amount of time he'd been asleep was enough to keep him occupied for a while... but it was not long before he noted the half-familiar pack mule swatting its rump at the far side of the clearing. A waft of smoke meandered towards him from where he'd last left the outdoor oven, and on it was the rich scent of breakfast food. His stomach cramped, one part devastating hunger and another devastating social anxiety. Someone had come to visit, and he wasn't at his best.
Despite himself, he picked up his mirror again and straightened his hair out, hoping that rubbing his eyes hard enough would remove the bags from under them and give them the semblance of normalcy. He dug out a worn old toque, covering over cowlicks that had taken over during his hibernation. A quick self-inspection revealed that while his clothing was rumpled beyond quick repair, at least he wasn't sporting any holes. He could use a wash, dearly... but that could not be helped. His coat slid over from the peg near the door and he accepted it from Trellis without a thought of a thank you; he was too embarrassed by his state to notice the help.
Pushing open the door to the live-wood porch beyond, he found a man in mud-spattered traveling gear crouching in front of the copper camp stove in his yard. "Happy new year," the man greeted him, standing up in full to a somewhat diminutive height. "You look like you've had your beauty sleep." If he was shocked or horrified by Boyce's appearance, he hid it well. The keen examination that the man gave him now was the same that he gave every time they met, and though Boyce's skin prickled, it was a familiar enough exchange that he didn't slam the door shut to hide.
Instead he gave a grunt, though he held perfectly still as the newcomer closed the distance between them. He allowed the man to take his rough hand in his finely gloved one, and the firm pump he reciprocated shook him a little more awake. If he crushed that hand a little in response, it was only an absent-minded habit. "Mr. Goodlace," he growled, feeling rather like the bear he imagined he smelled like.
"Mr. Boyce." The man grinned, unaffected, gesturing to the stove. "I had this feeling you might be looking for trade, now that the trails are thawed out enough to bring interesting things. Things like breakfast?"
"Your timing is... good."
Goodlace tugged his coat down a little, straightening it as he gave a rueful chuckle. "Oh, well, no, but I came by earlier, and your, um," he gestured to Trellis, "your home didn't seem open."
"How long?" Boyce asked, pulling down a stool before the stove. He felt faint enough that standing would be a difficult front to pass in company that he knew was so perceptive. Goodlace continued to grin. "Days? ...Weeks?" He paused, waiting. "Months?"
"Well." Goodlace shrugged. "Time is a funny concept, after all."
Boyce mustered a dark-eyed glare. "Years?" He recalled his old dryad friend talking about her hundred-year slumber and he was ready to spin in his newly created grave. He wasn't ready to deal with such a shock in company, especially not this man's.
He got a surprised laugh, thankfully--thankful if only because it relieved him of his worst fears--as his visitor pulled up another stool to sit with him. "I came by last late after the solstice, so... by my reckoning that's two months and seventeen days. You've been hibernating for that long?"
There were camp supplies laid out on a mat near the stove, and Boyce turned towards them while he processed the new information. Months, then. He'd been sleeping for months. He passed a bowl to the man and covered his fear and uncertainty with a growl. "Don't grill a man on an empty stomach."
"I mean, it wasn't as though I set this up in hopes of luring you out," Goodlace replied, grinning brightly in a way that made Boyce doubt the truth of that claim. "But if a man can be grilled on a full stomach, that's exactly the kind of trade I'm willing to take."
Story:
everwoodColors: Iceberg 14) Hibernation, True Blue 18) "Ain't Never Had a Friend Like Me", Silver 4) Flatware
Supplies and Styles: Frame, Brush (Dec. 18th, "Millefleur")
Word Count: 1,386
Rating: E Everybody
Warnings: None
Boyce woke with a start, his heart hitching in his chest as the sound of squabbling crows outside forced him out of a deep slumber. It took until his hammock had stilled for him to get a handle on himself. He consciously regained feeling from his toes to his nose, settling into breathing with lungs that felt gummy with disuse. Every heartbeat felt like pushing molasses, and his eyes and nose and mouth were rimed. The inside of Trellis was comfortably dark, but he suddenly didn't feel so comfortable in the muffled silence of his den.
He carefully worked himself free of the vines that made up his hammock, one hand moving along the rough interior of Trellis' walls. The little cabin was alive in a way that defied common forest wildlife. It was alive because of him, and he felt a connection with it that might explain why he felt so groggy. Trellis had been hibernating for most of the winter, and as the nights had drawn longer Boyce had felt a tug to do the same.
Even standing up felt strange and a little painful. He'd gone from feeling conscious of his toes to feeling nothing but pins and needles in them. It was difficult not to mince. "When is it?" he muttered, his throat cracking, sore and dry.
Something bumped his shoulder, but it was a familiar gesture like a pet nudging for attention. Boyce reached a hand out and felt the melded grip of smooth bark and cold metal, glass... Trellis was holding out a lantern (at some hazard to both him and his companion), offering it to be lit.
A spark, then a light taking hold... Boyce shielded his face as he closed the glass door and then watched from the corner of his eye as tendrils gingerly lifted the lantern up towards the blackened corner of the roof where a hardened exhaust flume had grown. The rest of Trellis' vines that coiled around the ceiling instinctively pulled back from the light, and Boyce shifted uncomfortably at the thought of a live flame, whether open or not... but that was an internal sensation. Outwardly, he blinked the residual spark from his eyes to look over the inside of his home.
Everything where he left it... only... it felt green. Warmer, more alive, maybe.
He scrubbed his beard and came away with sticky fingers. "Hnngh--" Sap and bits of green told him all he needed to know about how he looked. He'd been sleeping, and growing little tendrils and buds waiting for spring light. He could feel more on a second, cautious swipe, now that he was aware of them. Everything felt off and he had a better idea of why.
"You could've warned me," he said, out loud, to the walls. Nobody responded, nor did he seem to expect it. Instead he held up a hand and found a mirror deposited into it, as though he'd reached for it all along. His worst fears were confirmed: his face was a nightmare of leafy buds and weathered skin and coal-dark, unkempt hair. He shuffled across the cabin to the drawers under the shuttered window. Finding a set of tweezers, he ignored the way those shutters trembled in excitement, and got about extracting green buds from his beard, his face, behind his ears, in his hair... At this rate he would wake half-merged from the vines that made up his hammock. Better not to think too hard about it.
The way the light was getting through the shutters it was late morning, and Boyce looked up in time for the cabin to flush its shutters open enthusiastically. A cool rush of fresh air replaced what he realized must have been a fetid stillness more appropriate to a bear's den, and Boyce lowered both tweezers and mirror to stare out into the haze of green, of a spring he thought was still months off.
He set his tools down and placed his big hands on the counter to lean out the window, mouth slightly open. Processing the sheer amount of time he'd been asleep was enough to keep him occupied for a while... but it was not long before he noted the half-familiar pack mule swatting its rump at the far side of the clearing. A waft of smoke meandered towards him from where he'd last left the outdoor oven, and on it was the rich scent of breakfast food. His stomach cramped, one part devastating hunger and another devastating social anxiety. Someone had come to visit, and he wasn't at his best.
Despite himself, he picked up his mirror again and straightened his hair out, hoping that rubbing his eyes hard enough would remove the bags from under them and give them the semblance of normalcy. He dug out a worn old toque, covering over cowlicks that had taken over during his hibernation. A quick self-inspection revealed that while his clothing was rumpled beyond quick repair, at least he wasn't sporting any holes. He could use a wash, dearly... but that could not be helped. His coat slid over from the peg near the door and he accepted it from Trellis without a thought of a thank you; he was too embarrassed by his state to notice the help.
Pushing open the door to the live-wood porch beyond, he found a man in mud-spattered traveling gear crouching in front of the copper camp stove in his yard. "Happy new year," the man greeted him, standing up in full to a somewhat diminutive height. "You look like you've had your beauty sleep." If he was shocked or horrified by Boyce's appearance, he hid it well. The keen examination that the man gave him now was the same that he gave every time they met, and though Boyce's skin prickled, it was a familiar enough exchange that he didn't slam the door shut to hide.
Instead he gave a grunt, though he held perfectly still as the newcomer closed the distance between them. He allowed the man to take his rough hand in his finely gloved one, and the firm pump he reciprocated shook him a little more awake. If he crushed that hand a little in response, it was only an absent-minded habit. "Mr. Goodlace," he growled, feeling rather like the bear he imagined he smelled like.
"Mr. Boyce." The man grinned, unaffected, gesturing to the stove. "I had this feeling you might be looking for trade, now that the trails are thawed out enough to bring interesting things. Things like breakfast?"
"Your timing is... good."
Goodlace tugged his coat down a little, straightening it as he gave a rueful chuckle. "Oh, well, no, but I came by earlier, and your, um," he gestured to Trellis, "your home didn't seem open."
"How long?" Boyce asked, pulling down a stool before the stove. He felt faint enough that standing would be a difficult front to pass in company that he knew was so perceptive. Goodlace continued to grin. "Days? ...Weeks?" He paused, waiting. "Months?"
"Well." Goodlace shrugged. "Time is a funny concept, after all."
Boyce mustered a dark-eyed glare. "Years?" He recalled his old dryad friend talking about her hundred-year slumber and he was ready to spin in his newly created grave. He wasn't ready to deal with such a shock in company, especially not this man's.
He got a surprised laugh, thankfully--thankful if only because it relieved him of his worst fears--as his visitor pulled up another stool to sit with him. "I came by last late after the solstice, so... by my reckoning that's two months and seventeen days. You've been hibernating for that long?"
There were camp supplies laid out on a mat near the stove, and Boyce turned towards them while he processed the new information. Months, then. He'd been sleeping for months. He passed a bowl to the man and covered his fear and uncertainty with a growl. "Don't grill a man on an empty stomach."
"I mean, it wasn't as though I set this up in hopes of luring you out," Goodlace replied, grinning brightly in a way that made Boyce doubt the truth of that claim. "But if a man can be grilled on a full stomach, that's exactly the kind of trade I'm willing to take."