The Poignant

Wenzelslaus Carl Bähr

[poignant-wcb]

Wenzelslaus  Bähr  || Poignant

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Born in Germany at the turn of the 20th Century, Wenzelslaus lived a charmed life. His talent at the violin was not great enough to sustain him, so he became a banker, and a successful one at that. When Black Thursday came, he saw his gilded life crumble before his eyes, and in his panic he ended up in Meridium. He has lived on South Beach since, but he was never the most productive or helpful member; he feels cheated from a life where his skills meant something. In the chaos of the Beast's initial siege on South Beach, Wenzel killed one of William's adopted sons, Hector. He evaded the Beast in the tunnels, and has recently returned to South Beach to find it full of strangers.

Written by Grey (she/her) GMT + 13

[le-immorte]

Credit ▪ Photographed by Pierre Debusschere for Vman #32 fall/winter 2014

[newalphonsus]

@poignant-wcb

[poignant-wcb]

Location: The Media Library @manojoaquin​

Wenzel had to admit that the influx of new blood to the beach had brought some perks. Such as the house he had been gifted by Emre, the expanded farm (even if that came with the loss of the tobacco field), and, of course, the media library. The world had changed rapidly while Wenzel had been a part of it, and after he had come to the island, the world hadn't ceased expanding, growing more awe-some and hideous and beautiful. And all Wenzel had to experience it was the small collection of books in the library.

Apparently libraries were redundant. Who needed a library when telephones (that people carried around (?) in their pockets (?)) had an invention called the internet on it, which was a sort of encyclopaedia. It was a ridiculous notion, Wenzel still couldn't figure it out. His best bet was that the Internet was the name for some Kummerkastentante who they called on their tiny telephones that apparently did not need wires. It all sounded like a type of mass hallucination to Wenzelslaus.  

Give him books any day. Wenzel lost himself in the pleasure of looking over the small shelf of books, steering clear of the electronics on the opposite wall. Yes, he was curious, but his curiosity was the sort where he wanted to break apart the tiny electronic things and see how they fitted the wires inside, which would inevitably lead him to being unable to realign the wires inside. His fingers traced the well-worn spines of the Lord of the Rings series, no, he could not reread his beloved series for the thousandth time. His finger stopped at the spine of an unfamiliar book. Wenzel pulled out the book, Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, just as someone else entered the library.

"Ah, potzbiltz," Wenzel gasped, bringing a hand to his chest. "My apologies, you startled me." Wenzel offered the other man a wan smile, unsure whether they now had to endure the niceties of small chatter that he so loathed.

[poignant-wcb]

redriverdawn​:

The clue preceded the mystery. “You must have arrived some time ago. Before 1945?” New gravity creased her brow, a step away from sympathy. Sae-byeok took the closest seat and wiped the knot with praying hands, sick of being haunted by the future. He returned to his journal with her suggested wording. “Does your writing have an audience then? Since you’re not writing in German?”

There was no one here to perform, said the self-identifying musician. “Don’t worry. The island will get the show it wants.” The acoustics really were incredible. Sae-byeok clapped her hands a few times, a basic audio quality test from her broadcasting days. Echoes nicely powered up the chamber, and she answered, “What else would this platform be if not a stage. Or at least a place to watch something happen. Hn.” A funny thought. Ritual sacrifice.

Sae-byeok abruptly stood. The dizziness felt better than nothing. “The paper mill is back under construction, but I can personally supply you with paper for advertisements.” Of course, he hadn’t mentioned anything like an intention to organize. “Let’s see what happens when we gather, yeh? An evening with… Your name?”

@redriverdawn​

"I arrived in 1929," Wenzel told her, surprised at her accurate guess. Perhaps he came across as old-fashioned, it could have been his glasses. Wenzel pushed them up his nose out of habit. "My writing is certainly not ready for an audience," Wenzel informed Sae-byeok, not ready for anyone to hear his clunky sentences and metaphors. It was a way to waste away the time, after all. Wasn't that all he did on this island?

Sae-byeok believed that this place was a stage for the island's own amusement. Now that was an interesting thought. "I have often wondered if the island itself has a form of sentience," he commented, appreciating the neat echo of Sae-byeok's claps. "What does it mean that this stage is only recently revealed?" Certainly it wasn't done so for Wenzel to speak his mediocre poetry on a stage with excellent acoustics.

To his horror, Sae-byeok believed that he wanted to advertise his poetry. Wenzel grimaced, shaking his head side to side. "Advertisements? No, I don't..." Wenzel breathed in a lungful of air. His skin itched, it felt too tight against his bones. "I don't wish to... to host an evening." It sounded absolutely mortifying. If it went poorly he would never be able to show his face again. "I do not think that many people would come to an evening show hosted by Wenzel," he sadly told Sae-byeok.

[poignant-wcb]

redriverdawn​:

The man molded into shape as she approached. The effort brought to mind past studio interns, names and faces less memorable than the preemptively apologetic way they thought they had to behave. Sae-byeok didn’t smile back, but an observant person might catch a lip pouted in thought, eyes opened a bit wider for the meticulous view so rarely applied to herself. 

A slow nod confirmed what he heard. His answer stamped across her personal understanding of fear, a satisfying string of gentle clicks, and her attention followed the line of etched triangles that came after his eyes before returning like a bell had rung. “The logical conclusion,” she said, adding for the self-satisfaction of nitpicked accuracy, “borne out of historical necessity upon proper examination.” 

She welcomed his turn with a focused tilt of her head, his trail of thought laid clear like the illuminated path to the Obelisk. “I don’t feel anything, but I’m familiar with the use of such metaphors.” He considered the right word, and her eyes dipped to his journal, more like peeping through someone’s window than looking at a mirror despite the matching book in her hand. “I considered learning the language when I was young, but the German texts I wanted to read were easier to find in English. As I see, it’s not too late.” 

Her tongue pressed into her cheek, licking at the tickle of a smile. They stood in cold-heavy air, and she liked it. “I think the stage invokes a more inviting quality. Does the word ‘engrossing’ suit your purpose?” 

@redriverdawn​

Sae-byeok called his conclusion logical, and of course it was. Wenzel's shoulders settled back as he took in the compliment, pleased that someone saw that his actions had some logical basis. He gave her a small smile, ducked his head in polite thanks. "There is no reason not to think that this place is less safe than any of the other deadly locations on this island," Wenzel muttered, aware as always of the thrum of the ocean located neatly outside the ampitheatre's walls.

It was another long-shot to have a companion in German, but Wenzel was always eager to hope. "Ah, if I had known English was to be so popular, I would have learnt it myself," he solemnly mused, rubbing the slight stubble of his chin. "I knew none when I came here."

She did not feel the feminine energy. Wenzel hummed in thought, wondering if perhaps his analogy was too cliche, pushed together uncomfortably. The masculine obelisk and the feminine ampitheatre, united in uncomfortable matrimony, forced together by the views of others and tradition, not unlike he and his ex-wife. Perhaps that was something to write upon as well.

"Inviting, yes I like that," Wenzel said, nodding as she spoke, pulling his note book from his chest and crossing out his last line with a heavy stroke. "It welcomes us," he said slowly as he rewrote the line. 'Dark, damp, down the steps, the stage willkomm-s us all.'

"And yet there is no one here to perform," Wenzel sighed, doing his best to hold his book close to his chest. He was no poet, not really, but he was perhaps a little bit good in English. He would be better in German. "I play the violin too, ah the acoustics are quite good here, yes?" Wenzel mumbled. Play being an operative word. He'd meant to go look for his violin, see if it had been found but... But what if he was not good anymore? What if his memory of talent betrayed him? It was better to dabble in poetry. He hadn't tried poetry before the island. "Why do you think there is a stage here?" he asked, hoping to turn some of the attention away from himself.

[fatheranthony]

with @poignant-wcb​ at the amphitheater 

The sun was somewhere behind the highest row of seats where the ocean stopped short of spilling over. Sae-byeok paused on each long step down to take notes about the place. Better now than later so her thoughts could move on. But what was motion without a defined concept of time? What mattered now when parts of her existed from a false past and future? She wrote those things down, too, and sighed at the foot of the stage, an admittedly impressive spot on this awful island where they were stuck forever. 

Someone else was here. Sae-byeok slowly approached for an opinion, hugging her notebook to her chest. “Excuse me,” she said, meeting the man’s eyes after the non-introduction. “Do you feel safe here? Relative to, say, the Obelisk?” 

[poignant-wcb]

@redriverdawn​

The ampitheatre made Wenzel feel small, but he quite liked feeling small. It put everything into perspective, how tiny and inconsequential he was in the grand scheme of things. He would quite like to be an ant, quite below the notice of whatever it was that was causing the beach to riot. Yes, Wenzel was quite reassured by the grandiosity of the ampitheatre.

He watched as a woman slowly descended the stairs, ensconced in the shadowy side of the ampitheatre. Not out of any malice, simply because he preferred the cool of the stone. He stayed quiet only because he hoped that she might not notice him. It was rather embarrassing, being caught writing prose by the woman who ran the paper mill.

She noticed him. Wenzel gave an anemic smile, straightening his shoulders and sitting up right. The question she asked was simply absurd. "Safe? Do I feel safe here?" he repeated, his voice high and ironic. He looked around at the ampitheatre which hadn't existed a month ago, at the strange symbols that crossed the floor, at the sound of the ocean held back from crashing in and drowning the two of them rather stupendously. Did he feel safe? Wenzel shrugged, squeezing his notebook in his hands. "Why would I not feel safe here? I have not yet been threatened for my life in this place." Which was a rarity, among the South Beach. In a way it was quite refreshing. The anticipation of waiting for the ampitheatre to crush them was something new.

"Do you feel a feminine energy about this place?" Wenzel asked the woman, Sae-byeok, her name was, wasn't it? The link between this place and the obelisk, that monolith of masculinity... well the comparison was easy to make. "I've been trying to find a way to describe it... Enclosing?” he prompted, hoping that by bouncing the words off of someone he could find what he was looking for. “You don’t speak German, do you?” he asked hopefully. It would be all so much easier if he could say it all in German.

[poignant-wcb]

akbartheolder​:

Emre leaned his head back, throat bobbing in amusement.  “Bruv, them Englishmen don’t know their ears from their arse,” he replied with casual immigrant cheekiness.  He looked sidelong at Wenzel, gave him an insider wink.  The look that said ‘yeah, you’re alright’.

Much more scandalous. Emre was intrigued, believing Wenzel and badly wanting to envision what the geezer tutted about. But Emre’s scope of history limited him.  What was Germany like at the turn of the 20th century?  He didn’t know.  Maybe school had taught him but that was ages ago. Lessons blanked out by Emre’s later trauma and survival.

“What d’you mean, then? Scandalous how?” Emre asked.  He wanted to know, but he didn’t know what Wenzel would tell him.  Maybe, in a way, that was the fun of it.  Anticipation of a pleasant, harmless unknown, wrapped in a small pale man with a tremulous voice.

“Is true? Since when  - since you landed?  Bruv, if the violin didn’t end up in the line-up of items from the drought, there’s still a chance is near the Bridge.”  Emre sucked his bottom lip, figuring Wenzel wouldn’t understand his words.  He’d only re-emerged recently like a myopic cavefish, after all.  Another little roadtrip might be needed; but by now Emre knew he was pressing his luck.  He still had tree-painting to do - how did Wenzel distract him so well? - and Emre was already feeling exhaustion crawling over him.

At least he could give Wenzel a good little giggle.  Maybe Wenzel was even laughing at Emre, but that hardly mattered.  It took a lot more to embarrass Emre, than being a numpty about minor things.  Funny that this all confirmed Wenzel’s ‘leanings’, now rendered unimportant under laughter. “Right - well. Never know if I don’t ask, would I!” 

It sounded like Wenzel was being demure, but Emre didn’t press.  He’d already bothered Wenzel with enough historical questions about old scandals and girls named Carl.   Somehow the pair of them had formed a rapport, and Emre wasn’t even sure why.  

(But that’s how you work, innit bruv?  You manipulate people to like you.  And then you hurt them. Betray them. Devour them.  More devastating that way, innit. More fun   Prepare a little Wenzel first.  Then eat him.)  Emre exhaled sharply, and rubbed his brow.  It didn’t make the waswasah fade, but as Wenzel wandered the cool dark interior of Emre’s old house, he took a quiet moment to just…close his eyes. Centre himself.

Once they were outside again, at the back of the hut where the outdoor shower stood, Emre felt like he could breathe again.  He looked over at Wenzel just in time to catch Wenzel looking away.  Expressing polite German confusion - why should Wenzel get Emre’s house?  Why was Emre giving it away?  

Emre wanted to scream.  The urge to destroy all of it surged up again - if Iyaz couldn’t live in it, no one else should!!! No one else should, this was a home once.  This was fixed up and upgraded with love.  A new open kitchen, a new bathroom, new fixtures and furniture harvested and lovingly reassembled.  Forced into the shape of love, all for Iyaz.  A sad, miserable boy who trotted daily from home to doctor’s hut, performed duties, returned just as sad and miserable.  The home wasn’t love.  It was a cage for a very beautiful, large bird. A sad, rare bird, who loved someone else.

Emre faced a choice: reply calmly to Wenzel, or claw at his chest, bloody and raw, peel and dig into his flesh until Emre could hook his fingers into his own ribs and howl.

Instead, Emre touched Wenzel’s face. His fingers cool on Wenzel’s jaw, their tremour only slight. “If you don’t want it, then don’t take it. But I’m a good judge of character innit. I think you deserve it, bruv.   ” A pause and then Emre added,  “You and as many Carls as you can find.”

[poignant-wcb]

nednewcastle​:

“Too busy watching the taxi dancers to think about the cabs, love.” Ned was enjoying the game, really he was, but – the voice in his head was starting to weary him. It wasn’t a simple matter dealing with multiple conversations on multiple fronts, and he was frustrated. Wenzel was here offering himself up like one of the boys who gave themselves airs but wanted more than anything to end their nights bare-arsed up on a toilet floor, put in their place by a bit of rough, and Ned had to contend with–

~shove him over the cliff! if you break his bones then he won’t be able to prevent you from doing whatever you want, you know that’s what he’s dreaming of, having the choice taken away from him~

–the constant, insistent buzzing. That was what drove him to turn when he heard somebody approaching, to break off contact but demand that Wenzel follow him. To his doom, destruction, dishabille and depravity. Did Wenzel know? It was impossible to think that he didn’t, with all the wet-eyed mooning and the eagerness written over his pale face, his soft mouth eager to spill scattered bits of foil confetti and remembered deutsche marks. The faded symbols of the creature he used to be, wine-sodden and gilded and desired; Ned could tell how much Wenzel wanted to recapture it. 

He didn’t begrudge Wenzel that. Who wouldn’t like to recall and wallow in the moments when they felt most powerful and beautiful, knowing that they could throw that power to the wind if they so felt like it, and give themselves over to the controlling hands of another? 

Ned waited until he heard Wenzel start to follow him up to the crest of the hill, the Upper Farm proper, before he answered. “No,” he said, “I haven’t the slightest idea where your glasses are, Wenzel. But you can come with me and see yourself however you’d like.” He stopped, turning his head slightly. Not enough to look at Wenzel, but enough for the other man to see the profile of his craggy face. “Or you can choose to keep yourself safe and I’ll go on alone.”

END.

[poignant-wcb]

a wenzelslaus bähr moodboard 🎻

[poignant-wcb]

akbartheolder​:

Wasn’t there a song about that?  ‘What will happen, will happen.’  Something like that, but Emre didn’t ask because he was used to the disparity of ages and eras on Meridium by now.  Instead, he teased,  “Is all Germans as wise as you, bruv?”

Wenzel’s joke made Emre give a burst of a laugh, and he leaned back as if squinting to imagine Wenzel in tiny, lacy blue underclothes.  “Bruv, you don’t know modern audiences.  You play a violin totted up in girl’s knickers, and people will call it art.  Honestly - even on the island!  Everyone’s so…bloody open here.  Right - but first we’ve got to find you a violin, though.  Haven’t seen any around, soz.  Seems instruments is harder to come by than most.  Most people didn’t drown with their flutes and like, I’d wager.  Pity that.  I’m learning all sorts of people got that talent innit.”

Wenzel’s mother wanted to call him ‘Carl’.  But it was the context in which Wenzel said it -considering they were talking about Nick and Mik Nick.  If Wenzel was named Carl, then the joke was that…he would’ve been with other men named Carl.  Given Emre’s massive ignorance on the subject (despite Iyaz patiently trying to educate his brother; Iyaz had a lot to cover and Emre wasn’t a kind or comfortable student), it was strange to think people from older eras could live gay lives, once upon a time.  Still, Emre was trying to be understanding now. Of course he was, all things considered.  So he tentatively asked,  “Is Carl a girl’s name too, in Germany?”

He snorted about his own name.  “No.  But loads of English girls is named ‘Emma’ innit.  Shortened to ‘Em’ or ‘Emmy’. And people back home called me the same.  Had fun with it with one Emmy, until she got all weird and racist about it,”  Emre said this, but he was amused at the recollection.  “Learned that night I didn’t have a kink in that certain manner.”  He didn’t know why he enjoyed chatting (mildly) racy stories with Wenzel.  Maybe it was the reputation of Germans, at least in Emre’s time.  Maybe because it was a fun, relaxing game to find ways to tease and scandalize timid little Wenzel. Maybe it was just nice to belay his exhaustion, just for a little while longer whilst he escorted Wenzel about. 

He smirked then.  “I reckon you’ve got stories of your own innit.  Wild One Wenzel?”

Once they were outside, people about, Emre casually released Wenzel’s hand.  He sauntered slowly, figuring Wenzel needed to take in all the sights he’d lost for the past couple-odd years.  “Farm’s more built up than you probably remember innit,”  Emre commented, watching Wenzel’s reaction.  Hoping to see something good.

“Dunno who lived in the house before, you’d probably remember.  But we -  I took it, and made some improvements innit.  Proper luxury now - suited to a big-time banker.”  Emre paused them at the end of the cresent of houses on the edge of the farm.  He pointed at the small hut.  “Don’t look impressive now, but.  Come along.  That’s the doctor’s hut, by the way,”  Emre pointed to his left, a few paces away.  The ‘doctor’s office’ that Emre had created for Iyaz originally.  Now Nesh and Hazel inhabited it mostly, as well as Tomas. 

“Some porch chairs for sitting out.” Emre hopped up the short flight of stairs, taking Wenzel into the house. His eyes momentarily blurred.  The temptation to scream and thrash, destroy everything he’d abandoned.  It clawed up his throat, and Emre forcibly swallowed it down.  He didn’t want to be here.  He hated it here. He hated the reminder of how stupid he was, in so many ways, in this little hut.  Delusion and false complacency stained the walls.

“Bed with mosquito net in the privacy area, and down to the left you’ve got the semi-outside kitchen, fully equipped with a coldbox and chulha - a stove - and everything.  Shelves and good shutters on the windows.  Table, chairs.  Loads of space on the inside, right.  Right, come along -”  Emre paraded to the back, latching onto Wenzel’s wrist now to pull him to the back of the house, outside.

Emre’s pride and joy.  “Outdoor shower, uses collected rainwater. No bathtub, soz.  And at the back, the water closet.  Proper loo, though it does need regular maintenance to, well.” Emre gave Wenzel a hearty slap on the back.  “Maintain it and that, know what I mean. I can show you how.”

Suddenly Emre worried that for some reason Wenzel might not care for any of this.  Maybe Emre was selling it too hard, and he guessed Wenzel was the polite sort who wouldn’t say ‘no’ in the face of someone else’s enthusiasm.  He searched the little man’s face.  “You can take it, or you can leave it.  I’m honestly not bothered either way, mate. Whatevs.”

Were all Germans as wise as Wenzelslaus? "For a German I am unwise," he said humbly bowing his head towards Emre. "But compare me to an Englishman..." he countered, a jab he was dizzy at himself for landing now, and not two days later when his mind inevitably drifted over this conversation once more.

Emre kindly informed Wenzel that modern audiences would call his performance in a woman's underclothes art. Back home, that would have been a rather tame Tuesday night at a drag burlesque. Not that Wenzel ever performed there. "Ah, these modern audiences," Wenzel mused, tutting sardonically. "So easily swayed by lace and ribbons. They would not last a minute in my time. They would have to be much more scandalous." Wenzel sighed, filled with a sudden longing to skive off of work stupidly late, skipping dinner and filing directly into a salacious night bar on the wrong side of town.

"I had my violin with me," Wenzel revealed to Emre, before he had a chance to think over the repercussions of bringing up that day might have. Wenzel grimaced at his fumbling, chided himself for wanting so desperately to continue the pace of conversation with Emre, and continued, "But I have not seen it since." Emre was his lucky charm. He had found him glasses, he was to find him a home, perhaps he could help him find his violin?

Wenzel had taken a gamble in joking about calling others his own name if he had been called Carl. But as a rule, the majority of people from the modern times, as Emre called it, were more open about homosexuality. Wenzel could see the cogs turning in Emre's head, an extended pause as he considered the words. It was nowhere near as scandalous as shouting at women for want of their hole. What he had not expected, or braced himself for, was the absurdity of Emre's question. Wenzel burst out laughing, a high giggle that mutated into a deep, aching belly laugh, self-perpetuating as with every breath he remembered Emre's question over again. "Is Carl-" Wenzel could not get the question out, titillated by the thought of bringing home one of the Carls he had bedded to his family, insisting that Carl was a woman's name now. "No... It is not a girl's name," he finally was able to tell Emre, not without having to wipe the tears from his eyes.

Emre had his own adventures with sharing names with lovers. Wenzel, having been pushed over the edge of laughter, tittered in delight with Emre's explanation of his time with an Emmy. He did not have a kink... He did not have a pain in the neck? Wenzel held himself from asking Emre further about that word, sure that Emre would only use his ignorance as an opportunity to tease Wenzel further. And Emre needed no invitation to tease Wenzel at all. He wanted to fish for Wenzel's wild stories. Wenzel politely, demurely smiled at Emre. "My stories would bore your modern tastes."

It was astounding, how much work had been poured into the farm. All to keep up with the flux of new arrivals here. Everything was crystal clear and sharp in its clarity, including just how many unfamiliar faces were busying themselves around the farm, collecting fruit in baskets, weeding between the lines of vegetables. Wenzel took it all in with slack-jawed wonder.

It was too much information, a pulsating, rushing kaleidoscope of shapes and colours and faces, all etched in painful detail. Wenzel hardly knew what to look at, his bewildered state continuing as Emre took him to a house (Emre's house? Wenzel's house-to-be?). It was a proper building, one of William's early makes, that Wenzel could see by the overall shape of it, but as Emre said, he'd made changes. Had it been Mrs Maja's house? He couldn't say for certain.

He focused on the grain of the wooden walls a split second before Emre took him in further. It was dark inside, and Wenzel found the dark comforting, the comfort of being blinded, of the details of the room being obscured to him as he waited for his eyes to adjust. Emre described the layout of the hut, a bed and kitchen, furniture, and then, to top it all off, a shower. Wenzel let himself be dragged along to stare at the height of civilisation. Emre must have been confused, Wenzel must have misspoken, he did not wish to see Emre's house, and Emre could not possibly be willingly giving up his home for Wenzel. They had only met early that day. But Emre, taking his confused stupefaction as distaste, politely gave him a way to refuse the offer.

"Emre, I am... confused," Wenzel admitted, turning his sharp focus onto the other man. He could see the hairs of Emre's hair, his beard, his eyebrows, even the dainty lashes of his eyes. He could see the triangle of pink at the inner edge of Emre's eyes, the pores of his skin. It was too much, far too much to take in, to take. "I... I do not expect you to give up your house for me," Wenzel said plainly, incredulous at the very idea. That Emre would do such a thing was unthinkable. "I would not deserve it, why would you give it to me?"

@akbartheolder​

[poignant-wcb]

jovigeorge​:

Jovi makes something of a sympathetic noise when Wenzel mentions hiding out in a cave. “Did you have decent food and water resources, at least? Sounds like the others were in the mountain.” He chucks his chin in the direction of the large ridge that apparently separates South from North. “I’d like to see their cave myself, if I’m being honest, but it doesn’t sound like it was the most pleasant place to live. I’m sorry you were alone that whole time, man. It’s not easy.” That’s the closest he’ll get to mentioning having a tough time in the Labyrinth on his own. He’s out now! That’s all that matters.

They fall into stride and Jovi tilts his head when Wenzel asks what he’d learned. “Well, there were times when it seemed like the Labyrinth went through patterns, yeah? Like, similar movements or behaviors at the same time of day each day. Er… near the same time of day, anyway. Didn’t exactly have a watch,” he chuckles. It’s all so funny! Definitely not a troubling stretch of time. “Taught myself how to use the creeks and rivers to have some idea of where I was, though that wasn’t so easy in there. Oh, yeah, and speaking of sources…”

He nods at the next questions. “Yeah, yeah, exactly: searching for the source. There was a bit of a… situation lately, yeah? With… well, it doesn’t matter now. But it left the sand glowing and some… other things. Ripple effects and all. I’m trying to see if the answer’s in the sand.” That sounds perfectly sane, to him. “I’m sure I’ll hit an answer if I just keep digging.” Sure, there are miles and miles of beach to get through, but… who’s counting?

@jovigeorge

The practicalities of living in the cave were dreadful, simply dreadful. "When I was in a cove that let out from the caves... That was much easier to get food and water from, the caves themselves..." Wenzel trailed off, shuddering emphatically, before gesturing to himself. He was as thin as a rake, and if he had been pale before his skin was white like a sheet. He understood how Gollum's transformation had taken place, in the darkness of the caves. His eyes grown huge and watery, his skin pale like alabaster. Wenzel did not like to think of himself as transmuting into Gollum, especially when he saw in himself the character of Frodo.

"The caves were difficult. Ah, well, water was no difficulty..." Food however, had been a scrabbling, horrid affair, of Wenzel hunting any fish that dared to eke out an existence in a cave pond, of madly chasing down the skitterish noise of a cave cricket, driven to extremes by the pitiful ache of his stomach. "I am pleased to be back," he said in response to Jovi's assurances. He never had any desire to return to the caves again.

Jovi spoke of a regularity to the Labyrinth's movements, an idea that delighted Wenzel's organised mind, but as a thought it was simply terrifying. As if the Labyrinth was running to a timetable to inflict its horrors onto them all. "How fascinating..." Wenzel remarked, with all the intellectual interest of one who was quite happy to philosophise and question from a safe distance without ever getting his hands dirty. "In the caves my body had its own rhythms, time where I was awake, times where I wanted to sleep... Perhaps the jungle has its own internal rhythm."

Jovi was unlike Wenzel, he was perhaps knee deep in personally searching for the source of his philosophical interest. "Do you mean the Dopplegänger?" Wenzel asked Jovi, who linked the glowing sand (which yes, was an unsettling development) to the Dopplegänger he had heard others discuss. "They made the sand glow? What other ripple effects?" Wenzel asked Jovi, his desire to return to the safety of the beach community momentarily overturned by his confusion at Jovi's connections.

"And your answer is to dig?" Wenzel asked, a little disparaging in his accompanying scoff. "Your plan then is to dig the entire beach up? Would there not be someone who can control the earth who would be better able to find what it is you are looking for?" Wenzel pointed out. "There was something to do with the Dopplegänger and the trees? Would that not be a better place to search for the source?"​

[poignant-wcb]

nickalphonsus​:

Location: The big wide ocean (NO sharks) @poignant-wcb

There was one place that without fault felt like coming home on the island. In the absence, of course, of a home for him and Mik proper. The ocean. Nick liked to swim off of the sea stairs because it was quieter down there but now with Mik around he tended to stick closer. Hugging around the shoreline that was closest to camp so Mik could find him if necessary. It avoided awkward hangovers with his man, which was preferential right now. Nick floated, as if hoping that the salt water was going to beseech him of all worries and he’d be born anew. Not quite. Nick curled his knees up which instantly buoyed him with the waves, practically pulling him to shore. Which wasn’t so bad.

Nick had of course spotted him, even floating carelessly on his back because who wouldn’t want to nosy on the surroundings? Sometimes people carelessly spilled gossip, sometimes it was just entertaining to people watch, and this was all why Nick grunted about not being blessed with air. No less he swam to the shallow waters were Wenzel was stood roughly about ankle deep like a fair maiden. Nick smirked. “Going for a swim love?” He asked, with a slight twinkle that seemed misplaced on a man recently engaged. “Probably would want to lose a few layers if you’re considering going in.” Nick canted his head, surveying Wenzel. They hadn’t spoken much the first time around. “You found somewhere to live now, yeah?”

With his glasses newly instated, Wenzel could finally appreciate the familiar sight of the ocean once more. It had been his steady companion for all these years, after all. The crash of the waves onto the sand was the island's heartbeat, the crisp sea spray that blew through his curls its life-breath. It wasn't his true homeland, but in many ways having returned to the beach felt like returning home. 

Wenzel waded his feet into the surf, content to stand there and enjoy the sight. He was vaguely aware of someone swimming through the water, but Wenzel had politely ignored them thinking that they would do the same, that they could be two strangers enjoying solitude simultaneously. Unfortunately, the swimmer came closer, and closer still, until Wenzel was forced to tear his eyes from the blissful sight of the clouds drifting through the sky, to the man floating, low in the shallow water in front of him. He didn't look familiar, but at his voice Wenzel startled with a realisation with where he had heard his voice before. Nick of 'Nick and Nick', thw two who had found his hut and claimed it for their own, even though it was now a wreck and a tent. 

Wenzel pursed his lips together, crossing his arms over his chest. "I was not going to swim," he informed Nick, unsure about how easily Nick called him 'love'. "I have found a new home, yes," Wenzel delighted in informing him. “It is a very well-made home too.  Have you rebuilt the hut yet, or are you still living in a tent with your Nick?"

[poignant-wcb]

@aureliemarchand​

“Ah, the… aero…tram? The…” Aurélie tries to think of how to translate airplane and, in the end, holds out her arms flat, reaching out at either side of her like a plane’s wings, and moves back and forth like she’s flying through the sky. “Through the sky. Yes?” She gives a considering hum at Wenzel’s next point. “It does seem, in a way, as if we were deprived of one another. But that is not what you mean, I assume. We should be more familiar with each other’s customs? Is that what others are trying to imply?” She asks, lifting a brow, assuming. “I will say that those from the North Beach have been through… a great deal of tumult, as of late. Though I suppose that your people have as well, have they not?” Unfathomable loss, torn asunder by the so-called Beast.

Like this man is torn apart. It’s clear once they get to the carcass in the water that this is not a rescue mission. No one can be saved from this. Aurélie watches the fish swim out and away with bile rising in her throat but she’s quick to swallow it back, forcing herself to keep moving, keep kicking, keep swimming.

That is until Wenzel begins laughing. Aurélie stops, still kicking her legs in the water but looking at him, bewildered. This scene of gore between them and he’s… laughing? Perhaps he’s stunned. “Quoi? Was? What?” She asks in three languages, rapid-fire. “Is something the matter?” As if there isn’t a mangled body between them.

Luckily, though, Wenzel is back to business. Aurélie respects that much; she nods and moves to shift the body… except. “Wait,” she commands from around the crash of the sea, squinting in the water. They’d only been able to see the mangled man’s top half. She’d thought it to be a strange turn of physics, but no: he’s being dragged down. He’s wrapped in something.

“A shroud,” Aurélie realizes aloud. Sailcloth, it seems. “Merde,” she hisses. This was no victim. “It was a burial at sea.” She’d been striving to save a man who was dead before he even hit the water. “We should leave him, yes?” Her decision is already made, feet paddling her back now, hands shifting the water and employing her attunement. “He wanted to be here, after all.” And that’s when the sea stops their attempt at choosing: slammed by a wave, they’re knocked head over heels, tumbled through a suddenly rough turn in the tide in a stunning spin of water and bubbles.

Aurelie's substituted words of aero-tram were enough for Wenzel to realise what she was referring to. "Ah, in German it is Flugzeug," he explained to her. So the majority of the population from the North beach had arrived on an airplane.

But his gripe wasn't with having to know the other beach's customs. "No, it was the... assumption that we should have known that there was another beach, another group," Wenzel explained. He did not think this disagreement came from the trauma those from North beach had been through. "Yes, I suppose those from the North beach have been through the tumult, as you say. But there are so many of them still here," he pointed out. The comparison he left silent: that in comparison there were so very, very few of the people from the South beach who were with them.

Even this body was a stranger's body. It was so welcome, so distressing, what was there to do but to give into the hysteria and giggle at it. Aurelie asked if there was something the matter with him. "Yes," he grinned with all of the enthusiasm of someone writhing with tetannus. "There is a dead person," he explained to Aurelie, another fretful giggle escaping his mouth. "And I do not know him."

They had set out to bring the person with them to shore, but now Aurelie pointed out that this body was destined for the sea. Did that make them grave robbers? Wenzel pressed his lips closed and tried not to giggle. It was the worst sort of situations, when laughing was entirely inappropriate and thus the only thing he craved to do. But he was eager to not bring the decaying corpse back to the beach, eager to be away from it, the sensation of salt water slushing into his empty chest cavity. Wenzel began following Aurelie's return to shore, she was just ahead of them, the undercurrent pulling the body back to the ocean when a wave slammed into them.

Wenzel was lost in a storm of bubbles and light and limbs. Up was down and down was up, bubbles fizzling against his skin, waves above them roaring maliciously. Wenzel tried to pull himself away from Aurelie, but there was something wrapped around his legs, making his movements stilted and ungainly. With sudden clarity Wenzel realised it was not Aurelie he was entwined with, but the body, trapped in its funeral shroud and destined to sink to the depths with it. Wenzel screamed in panic, pushing the other figure violently away, first with his hands and then his powers. He thrashed and thrashed and his legs were free to move, to propel him to the light of the surface and air, blessed air that he could gulp into his lungs.

"Aurelie!" he called out, reaching down to pull the remnants of the shroud free from his legs. Except... it was not fabric his hands met, but kelp. Had it been the body he had been tangled with, or Aurelie as he first thought? "Aurelie!" he shouted again, trying to feel out for where she had gotten to and swimming that way, pathetically eager to help her in any way he might be needed to.

[lousolversons]

Aneurin Barnard as Daniel Solace in 1899

[poignant-wcb]

nednewcastle​:

“Once you’ve got the violin in your hands,” Ned said, “you’ll remember the music. You never quite forget what it’s like to coax and command the sounds you want from a beautiful instrument.” 

Ned wasn’t being particularly subtle. But subtlety was something to incrementally let go of, the further down the garden path he managed to walk Wenzel ~going willingly to the chopping block, more like! sailing into the iron maiden! skipping to the gallows!~ and the more Wenzel offered his own tender wrists and throat, myopic, presenting himself as prey. Ned could imagine what he’d been like in those furtive halcyon nights in Berlin, oh yes. He’d had his share of those toothsome lads eager to throw off the burdens of responsibility and respectable marriage. 

And here was the lamb offering the sanctitude of Eldorado, some sweet little naughty imagining of them being on the Spree at the same time. Watching the cross dressers mach schau while they got blitzed on schnapps and fondled each other clumsily in a threadbare booth, in turn under the hungry eyes of the rich Zechenmacher. “Wenzel,” Ned said, “what makes you think I didn’t want those terrible things?” 

It perhaps wasn’t a surprise when the subject of whether Ned actually sprechen-sie deutsch came up, and he murmured in honest confession, “No. Not really. Enough to get around, I reckon. Enough to get what I want.” He smiled, thumb pushing hard against the cord at the side of Wenzel’s neck. “Langsamer, bitte. Härter, bitte.” 

They were so close now, on the side of the hill; Wenzel might not know it but it would take only three or four more minutes of walking to reach the Upper Farm, the library, Ned’s cave of residence. A danger existed of them being seen, by anybody leaving the farm itself or heading up to it, but Ned brought up none of these things. Let Wenzel incriminate himself first. A delicate thing, although surprisingly, Wenzel’s next question was delivered with a world of promise behind it. Or surrender, perhaps? A prisoner but a willing one.

Ned considered the question, considered where they were, that bold finger slid past his waistband. ~ruin him. do it do it he won’t stop you. leave him raddled and ravaged and on the brink of madness~ “I see the Eldorado.”

He took hold of Wenzel’s wrist again, and this time Ned wrenched it back, slow but punishing. “Are you a terrible thing that I would enjoy?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question. He didn’t expect or want an answer. He heard movement higher along the path above them, and Ned hissed, “I’ll deal with you later–” before cupping Wenzel’s face with his other hand, roughly smearing his thumb along the man’s bottom lip, distorting it before he let go of Wenzel entirely and loping on ahead.

“Come along, Wenzel. All you need do now is follow me.”

Ned was talking about playing the violin, but also most definitely not talking about playing the violin. Was that what Wenzel was to him, a beautiful instrument? Would Ned take care to apply the right sort of varnish, rub it carefully along the grain with a velvet smooth chamois, taking care to curve along the waist? Would he pull gut strings taut across the bridge and carefully turn each peg until they were in tune? He wanted to hear the sorts of sounds Ned could elicit from his sort of beautiful instrument. Wenzel swallowed hard, his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, as he nodded in agreement.

Wenzel felt foolish around Ned, a step behind in the game he was playing, being dragged along by a leash (willingly?). The terrible things that had happened to Ned he had wanted, craved. Wenzel could understand, the pain of Ned's thumb digging into his neck, the heady mixture of a twinge of pain and the thrill of pleasure of being touched in such a vulnerable, erogenous place. "Ah, what sort of taxicabs were you taking in Berlin, Ned?" Wenzel said in a wondering, curious voice, his bid to stay relevant to Ned, to prove that he could keep up with him. In his glory days, Wenzel had been able to play the game better than most. It was just that, well, walking into the Spree, washing up onto an island and in the process having lost everything had severely dented his ego.

Ned's grip on Wenzel's wrist, pulling him away from his naval almost threatened to shatter Wenzel's confidence. He looked at him and saw Eldorado. Did he truly see him as he had been then? In his smart, trim suit, starched collar and gleaming golden collar studs, buying rounds of drinks to win friends and lovers, playing Zechenmacher because he liked the adoration, catching a suggestive look from a man as he went to the bathroom. It didn't necessarily need answering, neither did Ned's following question. Wenzel wanted to be a beautiful instrument, not a terrible thing. Though he acknowledged that to make the right kind of sounds you would have to push the violin, snap delicate horsehair from the force of your downstrokes, the rough, pin-prick harmonics, the usurpation of natural order that came playing con legno battuto.

Ned dragged his thumb roughly over Wenzel's bottom lip, after practically barking at someone who nearly dared to interrupt them. Again came that flash of danger, a warning from Wenzel's instincts, but he liked the wince of pain from his teeth nearly cutting his soft inner lip. Hopeless in the wake of Ned leaving him, merely calling for him to follow. He didn't have to follow.

"Ned?" Wenzel called for him, the out-of focus shape easily climbing up the crest of the hill. "You don't have my glasses, do you?" he asked, a moment's hesitation before he begun to follow in Ned's footsteps.

[poignant-wcb]

.. 19th century character trope generator    

Mysterious Suitor who is Prone to Fainting 

Genteel Aristocrat who has fallen upon Hard Times

Genteel Romantic Recently Returned from Abroad

Foreign Protagonist with a Dark Secret  

[poignant-wcb]

akbartheolder​:

“And they might come back,”  Emre conceded grimly about the hornet-wasps, big or small.  Either way.  When it came to safety (or security?) Emre’s mind strayed to the farm again.  Emre loooked outside the window, at all the work below.  “What’ll the island do next to ruin all this graft.”  He wondered it out loud, with an edge of brittle exhaustion in his tone.  Drought, flood.  Back on North Beach, snow.  Now the workers themselves were poisoned by the trees.  “We keep trying to plan but innt nothing to plan for innit.  Contingencies can’t be made for things we can’t even bloody dream of.”

Yet Tomas tried and tried. Over and over.  It wasn’t an act of insanity, because each disaster was different.  Right?  That was how the logic went?  It was only insane if you kept repeating the same thing, not compensating for acts of bloody Meridium jinn.  “Living in a bloody war zone it feels like, sometimes.”  

For some reason, because Wenzel had lived decades on South Beach, Emre figured he’d grasp this. The bigger picture, which honestly Emre never really was good at.  He lived in the present, and only planned ahead for Iyaz, not for the world.

Wenzel’s story about the violin was comforting.  “I had a neighbour my age who had to learn violin.  Bloody hell, that thing screeched for months.  But she finally made it sound beautiful, innit.  I’d listen at my window when she practiced.  One day she played at her window…just in her little bra.”  Emre grinned.  “Girl knew how to appreciate her audience innit.  Blue lace.  Little bows at the straps. Mm.”

Wenzels house in shambles, and the land occupied by… “Nick and Nick, yeah,”  Emre confirmed blandly, entertaining himself.  “Imagine shagging someone with your same name.  No chance of being accused of vanity when you’re shouting ‘Nick’, brap!”  Best part was, Emre imagined Nick did shout his own name when Mik shagged him. 

The red glasses were cast aside, more options tried.  Indulgently Emre waited for the ‘ah!’ of perfect eyesight, as he idly straightened up Tomas’ office.  He paused though, hearing Wenzel’s whimsical offer.  Touring each other’s hometowns, an excited guest and swanning host.  And…it could’ve come off like a chat-up line?  Emre turned slightly, frowning, inspecting the back of Wenzel’s dark hair as the little man fussed with glasses.  Wenzel didn’t seem like he had the first clue how to flirt, even if he wanted to.  But…Emre couldn’t help his own sudden, new way of thinking, popping up like spring flowers. Emre didn’t know whether to crush those thoughts underfoot, or pluck them.

‘Juhu’ apparently, the German equivalent to ‘ah’.  Triumph, as Emre sailed closer to inspect Wenzel in new - old - glasses.  “You what.  These are yours.  Like actually yours?  You’re joking, you literally found them?  Bloody hell mate!”  Emre laughed when Wenzel actually snatched up his hands, wobbling them in an enthused shake.  Emre didn’t like handshakes normally; but this one, he’d take.  Wenzel’s hands surprisingly soft.  Nearly a century on the island and it felt like he hadn’t done a day of work.  Strange, but just in a curious way.

Emre wanted to ride the high of their simple but so fucking important success.  In fact, Emre chose to take it a step further.

“Right - you looking for a house then?  Let me show you a proper house.”  Emre beamed, and…maybe kept a hold of Wenzel’s hand for just a tad longer.  Just to lead him out of the office.  Nothing untoward.  

“Bruv, trust. Meeting me is like winning the bloody lottery.”

They might come back. That was always the promise of this place, an ongoing threat. Any horror that was dished out could one day return. There was no contingencies, no way to plan. There was no equation Wenzel could reference to fit to the previous data an extrapolate a forecast. But Wenzel had grown up in a land characterised by uncertainty, so despite the horror it evoked, the island's unpredictability was not too distressing.

"What happens will happen," Wenzel idly commented, nodding as he agreed with Emre's points. Braver, more practical people had done much of the planning and preparation on South Beach during Wenzel's time. Wenzel had merely had the good fortune of surviving, of siphoning dividends from their hard work. Other, better people, had failed to survive. Wasn't that the irony of this place?

Emre could appreciate the beauty of the violin, especially when it was played by a woman in her underclothes. Wenzel paused, opening his mouth and then closing it again, before saying, "I do not think if I were to dress like that my audience would be as pleased." He gave Emre a timid, joking smile.

Emre seemed to know of the Nick and Nick that he had encountered. He laughed along as Emre joked about sharing a name with a lover. "I never had that problem," Wenzelslaus said with an easy shrug to his shoulders. "But if my mother had been successful in calling me Carl..." Every second man he had kissed in Berlin had been either Hans or Carl. He looked over Emre, the enthusiastic way he had mentioned his pursuits of women. "I do not think... this is something you have had to worry about?" he prompted, a kind, appeasing smile in case Emre worried that Wenzel had been flirting with him. Had Wenzel been flirting with him? The newness of the newcomers on the beach was enticing in itself, let alone Emre who had given up his chores for the day to focus on Wenzel, restoring his sight.

Wenzel had his glasses once more, the world thrown into sharp beauty once more. That included Emre, who was quite handsome, especially when he laughed. Wenzel could feel the muscles around his eyes sigh and relax from the strain they'd been under. "Yes, they are mine," he confirmed, beaming as he vigorously shook Emre's hands in his.

"A house?" Wenzel asked, letting Emre pull him out from the building, his heart flipping in his chest as Emre kept holding his hand. Perhaps a carry over from when Wenzel was fumbling around near blind. As they crossed the threshold Wenzel celebrated at being able to simply look down to see the step, rather than having to pause and feel for the distance. "You know a house I can take?" Wenzel asked, blushing at the kindness Emre was extending to him. "I..." Wenzel laughed, giddy at the thought. It most certainly was a feeling similar to making an impressive return on a high risk investment. "I am very lucky."