willysilver (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
willysilver) wrote2024-10-11 06:35 pm
willysilver) wrote2024-10-11 06:35 pm
Alcuin
Willy had found a shitty bar with a stage and had gotten himself a Firday night gig. It was just him, a mic, a stool, and a bottle of water. No lighting, no show. Just a giant with a guitar.
Nyx had convinced him he could find his own music. He'd taken that to heart and had begun to write. He may not have Nyx's music, but he found the nymph was still his muse as every song was about him. Love, pain, sorrow, violence, he had an entire setlist.
"Believe it or not, this is a love song," he told the few people in the bar, most not paying attention, though they couldn't help but feel the music seeping into their blood.
Her eyes and words are so icy
Oh but she burns
Like rum on a fire
Hot and fast and angry
As she can be
I walk my days on a wire
It looks ugly, but it's clean
Oh mamma, don't fuss over me
The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist would be fine
The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
Calls of guilty thrown at me
All while she stains
The sheets of some other
Thrown at me so powerfully
Just like she throws with the arm of her brother
But I want it, it's a crime
That she's not around most of the time
Way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist would be fine
The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
Her fight and fury is fiery
Oh but she loves
Like sleep to the freezing
Sweet and right and merciful
I'm all but washed
In the tide of her breathing
And it's worth it, it's divine
I have this some of the time
Way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist would be fine
The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
One person clapped. Three were weeping.
Willy smiled and took a sip of water before finishing his set and stepping off the stage to get an actual drink.
Nyx had convinced him he could find his own music. He'd taken that to heart and had begun to write. He may not have Nyx's music, but he found the nymph was still his muse as every song was about him. Love, pain, sorrow, violence, he had an entire setlist.
"Believe it or not, this is a love song," he told the few people in the bar, most not paying attention, though they couldn't help but feel the music seeping into their blood.
Her eyes and words are so icy
Oh but she burns
Like rum on a fire
Hot and fast and angry
As she can be
I walk my days on a wire
It looks ugly, but it's clean
Oh mamma, don't fuss over me
The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist would be fine
The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
Calls of guilty thrown at me
All while she stains
The sheets of some other
Thrown at me so powerfully
Just like she throws with the arm of her brother
But I want it, it's a crime
That she's not around most of the time
Way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist would be fine
The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
Her fight and fury is fiery
Oh but she loves
Like sleep to the freezing
Sweet and right and merciful
I'm all but washed
In the tide of her breathing
And it's worth it, it's divine
I have this some of the time
Way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist would be fine
The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
One person clapped. Three were weeping.
Willy smiled and took a sip of water before finishing his set and stepping off the stage to get an actual drink.
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Your own song
Nyx could be a curse.
Willy studied him.
"I don't even know what you have to offer. I will always refuse children. Keep them," he said with a note of disgust.
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"I honestly don't know what one offers in a fae deal," he said. "Bake you a pie? Write you a poem? Give you head?"
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Willy's eyes widened as an idea struck.
"Write me poem," he said with a nod. "And give me the rights to produce."
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The truth was, Alcuin did write poetry sometimes. But he was convinced it wasn't very good.
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"Yes," he nodded sharply.
"I'll tell you what truth I can in exchange for poetry, and the rights, to do with as I please," he said. "And I can tell you before, or after, the poem. Whichever you prefer."
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"I can introduce you around," he agreed.
"Is that the Deal? Your history and an introduction for a poem and the rights?"
He felt it fair.
Willy offered his hand.
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He shook his hand. "Deal."
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Willy took hold of his hand to shake and seal the deal, then caught it with the other and held on. Warmth moved through Alcuin's blood, then withdrew rapidly.
"Dilute. A grandfather, probably, was fae. Probably a nymph. The most beautiful mortals have nymph blood. You'll likely never know, though. Your memory was stolen with magic. Powerful magic," he said, his voice ominously dark and quiet.
He let go abruptly.
"Bitter magic."
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"My memory was taken from me?" He'd never even considered this possibility. But it... made sense.
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"Yes," he nodded sympathetically. "With almost surgical precision. Most memory spells leave tattered edges. Your past is simply gone."
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