(rp/collab starter for @red-dead-muses!!!! let the chaos ensue!!)
Saint Denis. Early morning.
Nine crows landed on the roof of the general store as Mag walked in.
The bell rang as the shopkeeper waved tiredly from the counter. Mag returned an absentminded wave of his own.
It had been a week since he’d left the camp and headed east, with no way of knowing if the others were okay. The Van Der Linde gang was getting bottlenecked by the government, with increasingly more distrust among the ranks. Arthur was sick. Shad had been turned into a vampire. And Dylan was under attack from Satan himself. The sooner Mag cleaned up his business, the better. He needed to go back west.
He picked up more whiskey and decided to actually buy some food while he was at it, grabbing a loaf of bread. Once money had been exchanged, he walked back onto the humid roads of Saint Denis, watching as the nightmarish industrial city hissed and steamed and smoked its way to life.
Floriangrad was north of here; Mag had about a three-day journey up the river. Once he was there? The one thing he’d been wanting to do the most since leaving. As well as the one thing he was most terrified of.
He walked into a restaurant, hoping to get some coffee. The bar was empty— thank God, he didn’t want to talk to strangers. Mag perched at the far end. The waiter got him his coffee, which he took his time drinking. He didn’t need to rush. No-one was up at this hour. Surely.
arospec awareness week | day five | aromantic aredhel
She was younger in the years of the Eldar than her brothers; and when she was grown to full stature and beauty she was tall and strong, and loved much to ride and hunt in the forests. There she was often in the company of the sons of Fëanor, her kin; but to none was her heart’s love given.
—The Silmarillion, “Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalië”
picrew | heart | for @fiammagalathon, @nelyoslegalteam, @mag-lore, and @silmarienthequeen
(aka the mod messing around with ideas, rp blogs feel free to join!)
Valentine was surprisingly calm today.
Mag walked through the streets, making his was to the general store. He needed more whiskey; his leg and back had been flaring up so bad he’d nearly emptied his flask. He walked through the door, grinning as he waved to the clerk.
His cane clanked against the floor as he picked a bottle off the shelf and put it on the counter. He pulled out his wallet and slid the money onto the table.
“Ain’t you a little young to be… drinkin’ that?” The clerk asked, glancing at the cane and back to Mag. “You know, there’s a doctor around here.”
Mag smiled politely. “I’ll be alright. Thanks.” He picked up the bottle and walked out, heading for the road by the post office.
There was a young man outside, looking around anxiously. Mag tried not to make eye contact, but the boy saw him anyway and ran up. “Excuse me sir, so sorry, do you happen to know a— “he pulled out an envelope and read the lettering on the front— “Magda? Hej… Hejda?”
He hadn’t heard that name since… no. “I know her, yes. Why do you ask?”
“Could you bring this to her?” The boy held the envelope out to him. “I was told to give this to her.”
Mag nodded, accepting the envelope. The boy thanked him graciously, seeming much too eager to get out of here. Mag looked at the writing on the front. Magda Hejda. That name… at least they got the last name right. Mag put the letter in his pocket and continued along the road to camp.
——————
The sun had set by the time Mag had reached the gang’s camp. His leg ached, his back ached, his head ached— he opened the new bottle and took a sip before pouring the rest into his flask. He needed a horse.
Back at his tent, he sat down. Somewhere, guitar music and the clang of the dinner pot could be heard. He lit a lamp, took a breath, and opened the note.
He was greeted with a neatly creased note, written in Cyrillic.
She grabbed her shawl and ran downstairs, joined by her sister and brothers. Together, they found their mother, trembling on the front porch as their beloved church burned.
Their church, the center of their town, where generations had pieced together a web of memories and relationships, burned.
Magda watched as her father joined the other men with a bucket to put out the blaze. She moved forward to grab a bucket herself, but her sister held her back, shaking her head. This was a man’s job.
Other families ran to neighbor’s porches and watched in horror as three centerpiece of their community went from a tangle of flames, to disappearing in smoke, to a charred skeleton drenched in water. A baby nearby started crying.
——————
Irina found Magda as the town gravitated towards the crowd of men by the front doors of the church. What used to be the front doors, anyway. “What are they talking about?” She whispered, clutching Magda’s arm. Magda shrugged, straining to listen at the words being thrown about in the shouting match in front of them.
“How did—?!”
“It wasn’t me, I put the candles out! What about—“
“Martin was the last one to—“
“But I saw him at—“
“Quiet!!” Mr. Medvedev made his way to the center of the gathering, swinging his cane. “Bickering will not solve the mystery.” He sighed, putting the cane down and leaning on it. “Who was in charge of closing the church this evening?”
Martin, one of the young men, stepped forward with wide eyes. “I- I did sir. But I put out all the candles, I swear—“
“Hush!” Mr. Medvedev turned to the others. “And who was in charge of patrols?”
Magda’s father stepped forward. “I was. I noticed the fires.” Magda pulled Irina around to another angle to listen better.
“And where were you when the fire started?” Mr. Medvedev raised an eyebrow.
“About a block away from the church. I was stationed at this part of town for the night and I smelled smoke,” her father explained. He made eye contact with Magda from the other side of the crowd; she looked down.
“Magda!” Her father called out. Magda froze. “Come here.”
She stepped toward the crowd of men, Irina still clinging to her. “Sir?”
“What time did you get home last night?” Her father raised an eyebrow.
Mag’s eyes widened. “Father—“
One of her father’s friends turned to him. “What are you implying, Kutuzov? Surely she was asleep, it was the middle of the night—”
“No.” Her father shook his head. “She walks out late at night. Lately, she hasn’t had any… incidents—” Magda winced— “but I hadn’t seen her when I left after dinner. Magda,” he turned back to her, “answer me.”
“After mama was asleep. The sun had set,” Magda confessed, “but I was asleep when the fire was set, I swear! I came out of the house with the others!”
Mr. Medvedev glanced at her before turning to her father. “Mr. Kutuzov, are you accusing your daughter of… setting fire to the church? She’s had issues in the past, but surely…”
Irina stepped in front of Magda. “No!!! She would never!! How dare you—“
“Irina!” Mr. Demidova pulled his daughter back. Magda was exposed, facing her father, the mayor, and a great many more.
“Magda,” Mr. Medvedev called, looking at her sternly. “Did you set our church on fire?”
Magda swallowed. “No sir.”
One of the other young men stepped forward— Sergei. He had been one of her favourite boxing partners. “She could have set the fire and gotten to her house in time to come back with the rest.”
“How do we prove that?” Martin asked. “I mean, when I left, there was nothing.” The crowd devolved into further discussion. Magda’s mind spun. She felt she would be sick. She had been asleep. She would never set fire to her church. It was one of the few places she was safe. Where was the priest—?
Father Vasily walked out from behind the church, holding up a small punk tassel. “I… found this on the ground in the back.” He held it up, looking at Magda with a heartbroken expression. The tassel matched her shawl. Her stomach dropped.
“It was you!” Her father grabbed her arm, shaking her. “Why did you lie?!” Magda wept, shaking.
“Arrest her, then! It’s settled!” Sergei cried.
“Wait!” Father Vasily held his hands up. “She’s troubled. Put her somewhere she can improve. She’s not—“
The crowd erupted once again, yelling. They had their convict. Magda sobbed into her shawl, the one somehow missing a tassel. It wasn’t her. She would never. She loved the church. The quiet. The music. The icons. God, the icons—
“Quiet!” Mr. Medvedev slammed down his cane. “I agree with Father. She’s young. She’s unwell. Maybe the asylum’s the best place for her.” Magda’s mother was brought to the crowd as he finished his sentence. “Ah, Mrs. Kutuzova.” Mr. Medvedev frowned sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
Magda looked to her mother, silently pleading. Please, no, don’t believe them. I love you. Please, mama, you know me. Her mother looked to her, then back to the mayor. “She burned down the church, didn’t she? God…” Her mother put her hand over her mouth as her father wrapped his arm around her.
“They want to send her to the asylum,” her father relayed. “It was Father’s suggestion.” Her mother nodded, crying silently. Mag stared, trembling.
“In the morning?” Her father asked.
“Yes, that would be best,” the mayor responded.
“No!” Magda yelled. “No, you can’t— it wasn’t me—!”
“Quiet, Magda. It’s for the best.” Her father glared at her. Her mother nodded in agreement. Magda was picked up under the arms— by someone, her head spun too much to know who— and dragged back to her house. Her mother guided her up the stairs and to her room, weeping. The door closed.
——————
Magda stared out the window. At the lights lining the street. They should be off right now. Everyone should be asleep. The church should be blocking the now-rising sun. She should—
She should run away. She can’t stay here. They’re sending her away. They don’t trust her. They blame her. They’re getting rid of her.
Magda tiptoes downstairs, stealing trousers and a shirt from one of her brothers and tucking it in her bag. She puts a loaf of bread and some dried meat in a sack. She walks past her sister’s room. Sneaks in. Kisses her sleeping sister on the forehead, tears falling in her hair. Walks out the back door.
The woods are quiet, except for the birds. Her mother— no. She always said Magda was named after a bird. Hopefully, that means she can fly. Far away from here.
The sun rises, no church standing tall to block it. The clouds turn orange. The wind ruffles Magda’s hair. She takes flight.
