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As toasts were made, foam flicked off the edges of mugs and fell to the floor to be kicked up again by dancing, swerving shoes. The band in the corner was nearly drowned out by the shouting and singing of the public.
Jacob found himself congratulated on all sides. Every way he turned—and some ways he didn’t—was a pat on the shoulder, a smiling face, a laugh and a ‘thank you.’ “Thank you so much, Mister Grimm. Thank you so much.”
“No problem,” he managed to mumble out at every other expression of praise. At some point a mug had been shoved in his hand, he couldn’t remember when or who had done it, but every now and then someone would remind him it was there and encourage him to drink—in not quite so elegant terms.
He caught a glimpse of Will, who was sitting in the corner with the mayor, who seemed to be so by virtue of being the most educated man in town—which wasn’t saying much. He was grinning and shaking Will’s hand over and over again. He bobbled a young girl on his knee. From the glances he kept stealing, Will was clearly more interested in the girl than the mayor. From the redness in his cheeks, the mayor clearly was drunk enough not to mind.
“God bless you, Mister Grimm.”
“Of—of course.” He managed to force a smile that time. ‘Keep up the con,’ he thought, more in Will’s voice than his own. ‘Don’t let them see there’s you’re uncomfortable, or it’s over.’
It occurred to him then there was a way he could craft a comfortable feeling. With resolve, Jake finally put the mug to his lips and tipped it back. The surrounding people cheered the long draught. He wiped the foam off his lips as someone caught his shoulder and invited him to dance. It was easier to smile already.Mood:  blank |
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I suppose that would depend on how you define “friend.” I’m certainly not bad at conversation, and I enjoy getting to know people—ordinary people—in most settings.
But “friend,” at least to me, seems to connote something a little deeper, something that goes beyond shared stories in a tavern or… well, think of it this way: the Latin for friend, amicus, comes from the root amo, to love. A true friend isn’t just someone you enjoy talking to. It’s someone who you trust and love, who you can rely on under any circumstances.
Given that criteria, my best friend in the world is my brother Will. ( And he was the toughest friend to make by far. )Mood:  thoughtful |
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The Sacrifice of Reason
Outside the air is a hazy grey, halfway between light and dark. The halfway color calls to young Jacob Grimm through the window, but the look his hard-nosed boss is giving reminds him that he needs to finish first.
Jacob holds the thick folio under his arm as he works to get the papers in order. He’s working hurriedly now: the already hushed conversation of the stately intellectuals who frequent the library is fading as they filter off to supper. The faster he works now, the longer his grace period will be. There’s just this last folio to be organized and put away.
The tall rows of books seem to loom higher with every moment the light fades, transforming into towers of knowledge, winding fortresses where the unwary wanderer could easily get lost forever. But Jacob knows these halls, he’s walked them a hundred times fetching books for the old men and putting them away again, earning his share to survive. He is master of the maze.
The empty spot is found, and the folio quickly—but carefully—restored to its residency. Jacob waits just a moment to make sure nothing is amiss, then hurries down the row, back toward the front of the library.
The old man nods at him from behind the desk to signal that that is indeed all for now. Jacob sits down at the small table by his window. It is ajar tonight, letting in a slight, cool breeze.
Jacob takes the paper from his pocket. It is thin, dirty, and oil-stained, but it is empty, and that’s enough.
Even now he can feel the old man watching him to make sure he doesn’t break the quill or spill the ink, but he holds too much respect for them to do so. He lights a candle, watches the flame flicker in the cool draught from the window. Then, with a practiced ceremony, he dips quill in ink, and begins to write.
Reason, I sacrifice you to the evening breeze. - Aime CesaireMood:  creative |
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Even though I was never really into that whole fighting “witches” and killing “monsters” and robbing decent folk of their money…thing…there were a couple things about it that I liked. One of them was that crossbow.
There was no question Will always wanted to be the real “hero” in our little duo, in fact he never even had to say it. When he got off on one of his bullshitting sessions, he was twice as fond of pretending as he’d ever accused me of being. That, by default, gave him the sword. The up-close-and-personal, rushing-in-and-hacking-away-at-things weapon. I, as second-in-command, got as my main offense the ranged weapons: slings, and the crossbow.
I liked it from the first time I practiced, the first shot I fired. Even while I doubted the motives behind learning the skill, I had to admire the mechanics of the object, the precision of it. I quite fancied the idea of honing my abilities such that I could miss deliberately, or hit a specific point on-target. So I did. When Will and I weren’t working, and I wasn’t writing, I was out in the nearest field practicing: on trees, mostly. I’d try to find really skinny ones and hit them dead-center in the trunk.
During the adventure in Marbaden I couldn’t help thinking for half a second that all this was some kind of crazy arboreal revenge for their fallen brethren.
But, yes. That would have to be the weapon I’d choose, if I had to choose one. Even if for no other reason than it’s rather a neat little piece of machinery.Mood:  amused |
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One of my earliest memories of childhood—back when there was still wood for the fire, and money to buy bread and meat and medicine—is being cradled in my mother’s arms by a smouldering fireplace, sniffling at the pain in my leg. I’d fallen while running outside, scraped my knee and hurt my ankle.
I can’t quite remember where Will was at the time, but I remember Mother whispering. Whether it was to keep him from hearing or just to lend a sense of privacy, I’ll never know.
“You know, when you were a baby,” she said, “You were much stronger than Wilhelm had been.”
“I was?” I asked.
I remember her stroking my hair. She said: “You didn’t cry as much, and you made through winter very easily. You were always a brave little boy.”
My mother, bless her heart. I’d always hoped she was telling the truth about that.
I tried to use it as leverage against Will once. Sibling rivalry, eh? Ours was always worse than most, and after Lotte, we… well, I think we just about bypassed rivalry into hatred. I don’t remember what it was about that specific time that got me so riled, but I remember shouting at him: “Mum said I was always stronger than you!”
“Mum lied,” I remember him snapping back.
He was still much taller than me then. I reached up and shoved at his shoulders, and down he went into the dirt. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so powerful.
Of course, that was until he tackled me and nearly broke my glasses. Luckily they fell off in the ensuing fight.
But that memory was my comfort then, the one chance it seemed I’d ever have at getting the best of Will. These days, it’s the whole memory of my mother, in all she was, that keeps me strong. She was gentle and loving and kind. And forgiving. That one, as it turned out, was the most important.
It would be nice if she’d lived to see me today. I think she’d be proud of me. I think she’d call me her brave boy, and stroke my hair. In fact, I know she would, and this time I would believe her for sure.Mood: thoughtful |
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The sun was setting now, and the village of Marbaden was still consumed in a joyous party. From within the tavern the laughs got ever more raucous, while outside the musicians played on, the dancers danced, and the sky was turning a hazy pink.
“Mr. Grimm?”
Jacob looked down. A gold-tressed, wide-eyed little cherub, just old enough not to be called child anymore, blinked up at him. It was Lily, Angelika’s youngest sister. The girl curtsied with a timid bounce, holding out the edge of the white dress she wore—the same dress they’d all worn in the crypts.
“My sister said it would be alright for me to ask you to dance,” she said with a practiced tone. “Would you like to?”
Her precociousness was irresistible. Jacob held out his hand with a smile. “It would be my pleasure, lady,” he said, feeling like a hero.
The girls were all scattered in the crowd still, too exhilarated to go to bed, laughing and dancing and playing games as if nothing had changed. Caught up in the enthusiasm, he picked Lily straight up off the ground and spun with her as the music reeled, and her laughter was like a bell.
He wondered later, as she went to rejoin the others, to giggle and twirl and chase each other around the square, if they remembered any of the ordeal; were in any way changed by what had happened to them. The way these stories went, they would either emerge stronger and more resilient in order to face the world, or the memory would eventually fade away, leaving only the sense of a vanished dream.
He wasn’t sure which one to hope for.Mood:  wistful |
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