WEREWOLVES DIE DIE DIE!!!! (Not you, Angua dear)
Nancy and Unity, the werewolf bitches, are really in for some serious trouble with me now if I ever see them again. And if they go near my Lajos again, too! Yesterday, they turned up when he was here, pretending to want to see my paintings. A polite "No" was useless, and an earnest "Please, not now", either, so when they got cheeky, I slapped one. Great puddles of blood, I don't even know which is Nancy and which Unitiy. I slapped the one in the red velvet dress, not the green brocade one. Both turned into wolves, so I caught them by the scruff of their necks before they could get anywhere near Lajos. I threw them out, they turned even in the air to come at me again, so I kicked them. They didn't look like giving up, so I grabbed them again, flew up a bit, spun around and then threw them off the mountain altogether. They haven't turned up again, and it's been almost 18 hours. So perhaps they got the message.
They left their dresses when they changed, so Margo took them back to the top werewolf.
I bloody hate the bloody bitches!!! I want their pelts for a hearth rug, and the bloody rest of them burned to cinders. And as I am an ancient bloody monster myself, I am then going to make love to my Lajos on my new hearth rug, unless it squicks him, of course!
[Nobody can read this except me]
I mean, things were bad enough before, okay? Without Lajos getting some sort of relapse of the "pretty pointy poison". The moment he read Lupine's entry and realised that Lacci has Tomjon as well, he came undone. I could feel his shock slam through me all the way from Bonk. For a moment, I thought Polly was dead until I felt something distinctly Tomjon-flavoured in his almost obliterating pain and remorse. Soon, I felt him move towards me; so I went up and swooped down on him the moment he reached the shelter of the trees. He fell into my arms and cried.
Now, Lajos doesn't cry. He goes very glum, or very snarky, or very silent, or very melancholy and needs to be cuddled a lot. He has black moods at times, but the one who cries is me. I hide my face in his luscious curls and bawl my eyes out at some sad play or because of the Borogravian kids or because Sir Samuel thought I might bite his cute little fellow, and Lajos holds on to me with a kind of amused, possessive tenderness, his arms so warm around me until a calm down, and he kisses the bloody tears away from my face.
He didn't cry over William and his father, nor over the dead man in the Shades, or over the Borogravian kids. He never shed a tear over the way Tomjon treated him atrociously while we were in Ankh-Morpork. He even didn't cry that night in Lancre while I bawled with confessing my love until that small dark pelt he has on his chest fairly dripped with my tears, and I could clearly see the pale thin lines that are the scars from the run-in with Angua's brother, like furrows where nothing will grow again. But he cried over Tomjon today, with worry and remorse and ignored, never dissipated, infatuation, nah, love.
At least his first impulse was to get to me, to cling to me, to tell me over and over that of course he really loves only me, but. I cried right along with him, soppy creature that I am, because of the unexpected feeling of my Lajos's terrible sadness and regret and fear for Mr Pointy's life, but a good part of that was simple jealousy.
Because of that silly stunt in May, his poetry is forever forfeit to Tomjon who hates it, simply because people would recognise him if he posted anything about what he feels now to his old writing journal, or would recognise the style if he wrote poetry in his regular journal. The two carracks have made me hopeful that he'd get his ability and impluse back enough to write little things to me under private tags, though. I'm Sacramantan; a person's creativity is important to me, even if the quality isn't all that great. Expression is the thing. Doing something at all. And I think Tomjon's not worth Lajos sacrificing his entire potential poetry to.
Now, damn Mr Pointy has the privilege of Lajos's tears as well.
Of course, the fact that we love each other now doesn't eradicate the past, nor should it. Part of me will always love Avi, with the added bitterness that he'll wake up and be there again after Lajos is long gone. So why should not a tiny part of Lajos always belong to Mr Pointy? And really, despite all the protestations of "silly, immature infatuation" and the mockery, there is a small, strong, shiny core to his infatuation that I have felt clearly while he was telling me about it, and that merits the name of love. Tomjon doesn't deserve it, but that has never stopped anybody. Nothing will ever und the fact that Lajos loved that fellow Paavo from Endia whom he knew at his Academy and who got killed be werewolves. He had never had an iconograph of him, and when I offered to take the image straight from Lajos's memory and paint it, Lajos was incredibly grateful for the small watercolour sketch I did. But even when I showed him that, he didn't cry.
And of course nothing will ever change my recollection for my earlier human lovers, and the love I still feel for them even if they're dust now. Rafalo DiCorcoran will always remain one of the most special people I've ever known, mine on and off for almost seventy years, the love and the fun and the quarrels and the scandals and the incredible pain when I had to kill him after his accident and he died in my arms all fresh in my soul. And there's Raimon DiCorcoran now, actual four-times-great-grandson of Rafalo, who has traditional rights to me that I can't even begin to explain to Lajos, in addition to the the fact that I was Raimon's first a few years ago, and nothing will change that. But that probably won't keep Lajos from becoming friends with him; after all, we're really good friends with Otto now, and nothing will ever change the fast that he was Lajos's first.
Still, Lajos's inner turmoil over pretty Tomjon Vitoller being in Lacci's hands is painful for me. I was crying right along with him, barely inside my chapel, clinging to him as he clung to me, when the bitches came. I had so spun a cocoon of love and tenderness around both of us, too much of my sense-of-life-force was distracted from noticing things going on, they walked right in on us.
The one in the red dress said a few things I'll never forgive her. I can't even repeat them.
They left their dresses when they changed, so Margo took them back to the top werewolf.
I bloody hate the bloody bitches!!! I want their pelts for a hearth rug, and the bloody rest of them burned to cinders. And as I am an ancient bloody monster myself, I am then going to make love to my Lajos on my new hearth rug, unless it squicks him, of course!
[Nobody can read this except me]
I mean, things were bad enough before, okay? Without Lajos getting some sort of relapse of the "pretty pointy poison". The moment he read Lupine's entry and realised that Lacci has Tomjon as well, he came undone. I could feel his shock slam through me all the way from Bonk. For a moment, I thought Polly was dead until I felt something distinctly Tomjon-flavoured in his almost obliterating pain and remorse. Soon, I felt him move towards me; so I went up and swooped down on him the moment he reached the shelter of the trees. He fell into my arms and cried.
Now, Lajos doesn't cry. He goes very glum, or very snarky, or very silent, or very melancholy and needs to be cuddled a lot. He has black moods at times, but the one who cries is me. I hide my face in his luscious curls and bawl my eyes out at some sad play or because of the Borogravian kids or because Sir Samuel thought I might bite his cute little fellow, and Lajos holds on to me with a kind of amused, possessive tenderness, his arms so warm around me until a calm down, and he kisses the bloody tears away from my face.
He didn't cry over William and his father, nor over the dead man in the Shades, or over the Borogravian kids. He never shed a tear over the way Tomjon treated him atrociously while we were in Ankh-Morpork. He even didn't cry that night in Lancre while I bawled with confessing my love until that small dark pelt he has on his chest fairly dripped with my tears, and I could clearly see the pale thin lines that are the scars from the run-in with Angua's brother, like furrows where nothing will grow again. But he cried over Tomjon today, with worry and remorse and ignored, never dissipated, infatuation, nah, love.
At least his first impulse was to get to me, to cling to me, to tell me over and over that of course he really loves only me, but. I cried right along with him, soppy creature that I am, because of the unexpected feeling of my Lajos's terrible sadness and regret and fear for Mr Pointy's life, but a good part of that was simple jealousy.
Because of that silly stunt in May, his poetry is forever forfeit to Tomjon who hates it, simply because people would recognise him if he posted anything about what he feels now to his old writing journal, or would recognise the style if he wrote poetry in his regular journal. The two carracks have made me hopeful that he'd get his ability and impluse back enough to write little things to me under private tags, though. I'm Sacramantan; a person's creativity is important to me, even if the quality isn't all that great. Expression is the thing. Doing something at all. And I think Tomjon's not worth Lajos sacrificing his entire potential poetry to.
Now, damn Mr Pointy has the privilege of Lajos's tears as well.
Of course, the fact that we love each other now doesn't eradicate the past, nor should it. Part of me will always love Avi, with the added bitterness that he'll wake up and be there again after Lajos is long gone. So why should not a tiny part of Lajos always belong to Mr Pointy? And really, despite all the protestations of "silly, immature infatuation" and the mockery, there is a small, strong, shiny core to his infatuation that I have felt clearly while he was telling me about it, and that merits the name of love. Tomjon doesn't deserve it, but that has never stopped anybody. Nothing will ever und the fact that Lajos loved that fellow Paavo from Endia whom he knew at his Academy and who got killed be werewolves. He had never had an iconograph of him, and when I offered to take the image straight from Lajos's memory and paint it, Lajos was incredibly grateful for the small watercolour sketch I did. But even when I showed him that, he didn't cry.
And of course nothing will ever change my recollection for my earlier human lovers, and the love I still feel for them even if they're dust now. Rafalo DiCorcoran will always remain one of the most special people I've ever known, mine on and off for almost seventy years, the love and the fun and the quarrels and the scandals and the incredible pain when I had to kill him after his accident and he died in my arms all fresh in my soul. And there's Raimon DiCorcoran now, actual four-times-great-grandson of Rafalo, who has traditional rights to me that I can't even begin to explain to Lajos, in addition to the the fact that I was Raimon's first a few years ago, and nothing will change that. But that probably won't keep Lajos from becoming friends with him; after all, we're really good friends with Otto now, and nothing will ever change the fast that he was Lajos's first.
Still, Lajos's inner turmoil over pretty Tomjon Vitoller being in Lacci's hands is painful for me. I was crying right along with him, barely inside my chapel, clinging to him as he clung to me, when the bitches came. I had so spun a cocoon of love and tenderness around both of us, too much of my sense-of-life-force was distracted from noticing things going on, they walked right in on us.
The one in the red dress said a few things I'll never forgive her. I can't even repeat them.