#.selfpara

[catscratch-jackson]

Self Para: After the Strawberry Moon Faire

The sun had drifted low beyond the horizon as the day's festivities ended and Jackson was fast asleep, stretching out underneath a tree where he'd been seeking shelter from the sun. The day had been an excellent success, in Jackson's opinion. Sure there was the brief moment where he'd almost punched some rich man in his smug little face. But if he was being honest, Jackson ended up punching someone more days than not, and he'd almost completely forgotten about it by the time he passed another tent offering free samples of something warm and fishy. Losing his temper was a regular occurrence, but a day full of food that left him with a full belly most certainly was not.

It was that full and warm feeling that had Jackson falling asleep beneath the tree, not thinking or planning ahead for the upcoming night's dangers.

It was a howl that awoke him, startling Jackson back into consciousness and plunging him into the eerie light of the full moon. The scent of the wolves was already hanging heavily in the air and it raised the hairs on the back of Jackson's neck. A low growl from behind him had Jackson shifting instantly, shedding his clothes and darting away from the sound.

Jackson didn't know how long he was chased, didn't know how close the wolves had come to snapping at his heels--didn't want to think about the consequences of what would have happened to him had they managed to sink their teeth into their target. Blessedly, when he wasn't sure if he'd be able to keep going on much longer, Jackson launched himself into a deep crevice between two buildings, scrambling back as far as he could and willing himself to curl into the smallest shape he could.

The wolves snarled and snapped for a while, their paws almost reaching where Jackson cowered but never quite touched him. It took a while for the wolves to lose interest, leaving Jackson alone and shaking in a tight ball of fur until he eventually fell asleep.

[lcianhale]

Here's what you missed on Lucian:

A quebra do silêncio dos deuses se provara uma péssima coisa para Lucian. Fazia anos que não saia numa missão oficial e o resultado da primeira missão após o seu retorno foi um tanto... desastrosa. Acabara ferido pelas formigas gigantes enquanto investigava a fenda com Dove e Joseph, encontraram uma segunda fenda e ainda por cima, trombaram com o cão infernal no caminho de volta, fazendo com que Lucian ficasse assistindo enquanto seus companheiros davam conta da criatura. Se não estivesse tão machucado, acreditava que teriam conseguido derrotar o monstro. Porém, seus colegas de missão deram prioridade a sua segurança, deixando que o cão infernal desaparecesse enquanto o carregavam.

Durante o retorno, o filho de Apolo perdeu a consciência diversas vezes, o veneno das myrmekes correndo por suas veias. Só veio dar sinal de vida no dia seguinte, repousando na maca ao lado de Stevie, de Niké, que também havia sido vítima das formigas. Seus comentários trouxeram um breve sorriso aos lábios de Lucian embora ainda estivesse fazendo careta devido a queimadura de ácido que corroera sua braçadeira.

Os dias se passaram e veio a revelação sobre o desaparecimento de Apolo e as coisas começaram a fazer sentido em sua cabeça. O constante tempo nublado vinha lhe incomodando há algum tempo e finalmente ter alguma resposta sobre o assunto era um alívio. Que é claro estava acompanhado de ressentimento. Se não fosse por Veronica, quem sabe por quanto tempo Quíron e o Sr. D. manteriam a informação em segredo?

Lucian fazia suas as palavras que Yasemin jogou na cara dos dois, eram basicamente os mesmos questionamentos que passavam por sua cabeça. Sentia-se traído pela direção do acampamento. O semideus jamais hesitara em compartilhar suas previsões através de desenhos com eles, e fora ingênuo o suficiente para acreditar que a confiança era uma via de mão dupla. Estava terrivelmente errado. Hale não compartilharia o conteúdo de seus sonhos com eles, não por agora.

Apesar da raiva que sentia da direção do acampamento, Lucian fizera sua parte na tentativa de emboscar o cão infernal. Ainda remoía o fato de que a criatura continuava andando por aí depois de terem topado com ela durante sua missão. Seu instinto era o de lançar flecha atrás de flecha no monstro, uma vingança poética para a criatura responsável pela morte de Aidan.

Seus planos foram por água abaixo quando reparou a reação de seus irmãos mais novos. O desejo de vingança era compartilhado por muitos residentes do chalé sete, o vazio causado pelo luto sendo preenchido por uma sede de violência. Já tinha visto aquele tipo de reação antes. Foi a mesma que tivera diante da Batalha do Labirinto e a morte de Lee. Alguém precisava cuidar dos mais novos. Sabendo exatamente como se sentiam, Lucian se voluntariou para o trabalho.

O clima no acampamento tinha voltado a sua "normalidade anormal", enquanto Lucian passava mais e mais tempo na biblioteca tentando interpretar seus desenhos. E aí veio o anúncio o tal do baile de gala. Tinha que confessar que não estava nem um pouco animado para o evento. A última coisa que queria fazer era participar de uma comemoração romântica. Fazia meses que tinha trocado São Francisco pelo Acampamento Meio-Sangue e quanto mais o tempo passava, mais Lucian se arrependia de não ter contado para seu namorado sobre sua herança divina.

Com a mensagem de Dionísio e sua previsão sobre a Rachel, Hale fez as malas e partiu para Long Island com a desculpa esfarrapada de uma "emergência de família". A ideia de procurar um apartamento com James quando seu contrato de aluguel acabasse indo para o brejo pois cá estava, com o contrato vencido e sem poder entrar em contato com o amado. Lucian não estava nem um pouco interessado em sentir o amor no ar quando nem tinha certeza se ainda estava em um relacionamento.

This is what you missed on Lucian.

[jovvest]

THE GRUDGE Dormitorios. 3 de mayo, 03:25 AM.

Le había ido fatal en Toledo; no necesitaba una tabla de posiciones para darse cuenta de ello. Estaba fallándole a su equipo de sobremanera. Era un fracaso. No era algo extraño despertarse en medio de la noche; las pesadillas le atormentaban cada día más. Escabullirse a la sala común con su diario íntimo se había vuelto un ritual para la británica y esa madrugada no era la excepción. Esta vez llevaba algo más consigo; además de la pequeña libreta y un bolígrafo, la acompañaba una vieja y descolorida carta. No dudó en tomar asiento, creyendo ser la única alma deambulando por el edificio a esas horas, preparada para volver al pasado una vez más.

Querida Jo, He escuchado a papá decir que no tienes planes de regresar a los Cotswolds. ¿Es verdad? Ha pasado mucho tiempo desde el incidente y aún no te he visto. Entiendo que a veces puedas ser un poco temperamental, pero eres nuestra familia, no puedes simplemente alejarte así. Aquella noche en la que mencionaste la idea de escapar juntas, supongo que solo bromeabas, ¿verdad? Sonaba bastante descabellado. Mi hogar, mi vida y mi amor están aquí. Si mi respuesta no fue la que esperabas, lo siento. Deberías reconsiderarlo, escuchar los consejos de quienes más te quieren y dejar de perseguir algo que quizás ni siquiera existe. Lo tienes todo aquí, ¿por qué arriesgarlo? No seas imprudente; temo que puedas salir lastimada. Apenas puedes lidiar con Charles, te has caído más de mil veces tratando de montarlo, y él es solo un caballo manso. Sé que te levantarás como siempre, pero no creo que valga la pena el sufrimiento. ¿Qué opinas tú? Pero ignora eso, no necesito una respuesta, es obvio que eres terca, siempre lo has sido. Con cariño, Meg P. D.: Cuéntame todo sobre ese chico Daniel, ¿es guapo? Recuerda mencionarle que tienes una gemela, no vaya a ser que se confunda de persona.

Lágrimas comenzaron a caer sobre el pedazo de papel al releerlo. Se sentía tan perdida como hace diez años atrás. Mantuvo silencio y simplemente apartó sus pertenencias a un lado. Observó el techo, sintiendo cómo su fe desvanecía lentamente. Algo dentro de ella había muerto tiempo atrás; su fantasma la perseguía sin tener piedad alguna. ¿Qué opinaría de ella en estos momentos? No podía evitar preguntarse lo mismo una y otra vez, aunque sabía que por más que lo intentara no conseguiría una respuesta. Su hermana no era más que un recuerdo que le gustaría olvidar, tal como esta parecía no recordar que aún seguía con vida.

—Seré una terca —cerró los ojos por un momento, susurrando para sí misma—, pues nunca dejaré de amarte, a pesar de que hayas sido tan cruel.

[prcspero]

LAST NIGHT AT NORNWATCH

Mentions: @alrikhart & @alessiathepath Location: Nornwatch Keep Trigger Warning(s): Death, Drowning Mention, Alcoholism, Vomitting

“The Wheel does not care if you are young or afraid, petty or weak. It certainly doesn't care what you want. The Wheel calls you to this. Whether you can bear it or not. The Last Battle is coming. What any of us wants now is meaningless. The only thing that matters… is what you do.”

Becoming a Darkfiend had not been something Prospero ever expected in life. He’d heard about them. He’d avoided devils like they were the plague because they simply might as well been. But grief and loss drew people to madness. The druid could have never considered himself mad, but those two things had taken a toll on him more than he ever cared to admit. When he thought about losing his mother to the Arches, he wondered if he could have gone into them and pulled her out himself. When he thought about losing his father and brother, he wondered if he could have gotten back to Northreach faster than he had been able to. Prospero couldn’t change the past. He knew that. Everything was supposed to happen for a reason, right? Druids were always supposed to be in the right place at the right time. So why couldn’t he have been there? Why couldn’t he have saved any of them?

Was it their fate to die?

Perhaps it was. And the loss and grief that Prospero had always felt was increased tenfold. And all he could do, day in and day out, was mourn. He’d pour himself into perfecting his magic. He’d focus on learning how to use weapons that could help him in any situation.When that eventually ended up not working, he always ended up looking down at the bottom of a bottle and wondering how everything had gone so wrong for him. He’d made a deal with a devil and, very soon after, he’d fallen into this situation with two witches that he felt like he needed to do everything for.

This was what he wished for, wasn’t it?

Alrik and Alessia. The two of them had been somewhat of a breath of fresh air for him. Where it had always felt like Prospero was drowning, it seemed that he saw their hands reaching out for him when he was just about to lose his last bit of breath. Sometimes he felt like they were more of his saviors than he could ever be for them. Look what he had done to even get in this position in the first place, to look at them and see the family that he had lost. He’d lost so much and he didn’t want to lose it again. So he looked down at the bottom of that bottle again. Horrible mead that compared to nothing in Lysara was all he had to cope with what he had done.

It felt cold, but his own body heat seemed to keep him warm as he stumbled his way back to his chambers for the night. A bedroll in a place where nobody was meant to come back out alive. This was the edge of the world, it felt like. The void that Prospero stared into when he closed his eyes every night felt finite when met with the darkness that crept into the hearts of everyone at Nornwatch. Leaning against a wall, he closed his eyes at the thought and that darkness felt even stronger than it could ever feel.

Once he opened them again, there had been so much blood.

Prospero’s hands had always been covered in blood.

Why was it never his own?

When he had looked behind him, he saw the dead Legionnaire through his blurred vision. Had that been him? A moment passed as he looked at the body. Blood seemed to stop flowing from the other’s neck, death claiming him before anyone could think to stop it. Prospero had seen several dead bodies; he had killed people before for a quick coin.

Before he could think further on it, his body heaved forward and the contents of his stomach, what little there was, mixed in with the snow that had stuck to the ground. He’d heaved over and over again until it felt like there was nothing left to spew out. With a firm hand, he gripped the gate. Maybe that would help with how much the world felt like it was spinning. Hadn’t it always been spinning for him?

As Prospero looked up, his blurred vision that had cleared up only slightly caught sight of the lock that kept the gate closed. Unlatched within the grip of his hand, he thought of closing it. There was a screech in the distance that had him closing his eyes. Things always went bump in the night. Creatures that came from the darkness seemed to tickle the back of his neck as he stared at the unlatched gate. He should have locked it back up, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned off of the gate, tossing his bloodied tunic into the darkness behind him.

“I have to go.”

His eyes closed again as he heard his mother’s voice in his head. Or had that been him? It all felt so blurred. A breath left his mouth as his gaze fell to the Legionnaire’s body on the floor again.

“I have to go.”

That had been him this time. Maybe it had been him the first time, too. But it sounded so familiar.

Stepping over the body, he stumbled his way back to his chambers. It was just a bedroll, but Prospero had slept in worse. Perhaps he had deserved it anyway. A moment passed as he closed his eyes again. His body fell forward and the floor felt like the most comfortable thing in the world.

When he next opened his eyes again, it was to the sound of screaming.

[octaviuscreed]

Moves and Countermoves

Synopsis: Octavius' hours before the Vox attack, and the days following their attack. Characters: Octavius Creed, mentions of; Nerissa Snow, Vox Officials, The Creed Family, mentions of other high-ranking Capitol officials TW: None

The Games were running as they were supposed to, but nothing noteworthy was going on, so Octavius took that as his chance to depart from the Gamemaker's room, return to the Creed Estate, and celebrate his mother's very late 90th birthday dinner. He was easily accessible should he have to step away but he was sure any problems that could arise would be easy to manage, especially with their latest Head Gamemaker on the scene. Dinner was as unnoteworthy as he expected. His sister talked about lumber production from their mills in Seven, apparently, there was a work shortage with people trying to or successfully fleeing to join Free Eleven. Octavius had told Nerissa that her handling of the situation and of he Defense Minister was filled with flaws and to allow him to examine the situation, he had been told to return to his Games.

"The Creeds survived the Dark Days, we will survive this." His mother boldly proclaimed, and he was inclined to agree, but not by following the path Nerissa Snow, and her government had laid out for them. Octavius knew that, most people who were smart enough knew that. Unfortunately in his eyes, the cabinet was filled with people too afraid to tell the President differently then what she wanted to hear, to tell her the things she needed to hear.

"We will. Yes, we will. However, to ensure that survival, I believe it prudent, the family move itself into the Creed Bunker." It was something they had designed after the Dark Days, to make sure they never knew hunger again, it was well-protected and well-stocked. "Because of my relationship with President Snow, I know that the rebels are already within the city limits. That is why the Tower is on lockdown, it is why we have so much heightened security, and why we lost power during the Interviews. I think.....an attack is imminent. I do not know exactly when it will happen, but it will be before the end of this game. When the attack comes, I think the government will collapse rather quickly." His mother and sister were silent, before his mother shook her head, "Coriolanus never would have let this happen. He was strong, Nerissa....." His mother waved a hand before nodding. "If that's what you think, Octavius, neither of us will fight you." Pointing at her daughter, "Don't argue with it, think of your kids, my grandchildren, and your own grandchild. My great-grandchild. We cannot allow a family that has existed as long as we have disappear because of Nerissa Snow."

Octavius nodded, "I will have you all retrieved when it is safe to do so." A brief debate arose, well why wouldn't he be with them, because he needed to secure their safety. They wouldn't simply be allowed to hide and eventually pop out forgiven. Forgiveness would need to be gained......and if not forgiveness, then at least a pardon. Favors were easy to win with rising governments. They would need help, and Octavius if the map looked so favorable would be more than happy to give them that help. Once he got his mother to relent, the family was packed into a car, and off they went to the safety of their bunker, Octavius while packing watched live feeds of the camera, and he saw it before probably anyone else.....the attack was beginning.

Power in the city was flickering, here and there and he knew because of that he would need to act quickly. Certain skills as a Gamemaker were now proving their worth, and rather quickly he was able to open up a channel of communication with those who represented the leaders of Vox. They were rather surprised that an old Gamemaker, from an Old Capitol Family reached out to them, but when they arrived at the Creed Family home, no traps were waiting. Rather, Octavius was, with a lunch spread, along with tablets, and books and letters and notes. All carefully collected over the years to protect himself in a moment like this, when information would be vital.

What was the information he was offering to Vox? Access codes to penthouses, and mansions. Capitol military capabilities, the locations of weapon stockades, and contingency plans. Anything and everything that he had that could prove useful to them making their control over the Capitol quicker, and easier. All he asked for in exchange was a full pardon for the Creed Family, and the assurance that their bank accounts would not be seized. What the future of Seven may have held was entirely up to Vox, but he would be more than willing to negotiate pay increases, break times, and the like if they so wished.

Which is why now, at the end of this month now that power was restored to the city, his family was returning from their bunker, and he would be returning to the Tower. Octavius Creed, a friend and early investor of the new Vox Government.

[erikdragon]

But that was just a dream

A new age of The Golden One starts. Where: Erik's mansion. Who: Erik Drakorn and Dr. William Bones.

Slowly, Erik’s faith in his people had faded. Not to say that he’d ever stop caring about his town, he sworn to protect it at all costs long before anyone who walked these streets took their first breath, but he couldn’t help but feel like his own presence there didn’t matter anymore.

Back in the golden days, the mansion was called The Golden One’s Temple, he used to take women in as sacrifices, the ones whom society had failed. the ones who’s options were to run away or death, and he’d give them new life under his roof. He missed his priestesses. They were always nice to him, they kept the mansion clean and bustling with life, they kept him fed and entertained, and most of all, they kept him up to date with the villager’s affairs.

People used to come in asking for protection, for blessings and even to settle disagreements. He was a king to most senses of the word, he was respected and cherished, and he liked it.

Erik refused to think about it for long, though. For one, because he couldn’t complain about his life with Seth, he was happy, and also because then he’d have to admit to himself that he regretted sleeping for so long. Now he could see that a heartbreak wasn’t enough of a reason to miss this.

Those thoughts were running through his head as he sat in his library, his phone in hand showing the email he had reread at least a dozen times by now.

A couple of weeks prior, Erik was surprised by a knock on his door in the middle of the afternoon. An old man stood there, the coordinator of the History department of the local college, he said, Dr. William Bones. He had nice eyes, gray hair and the wrinkles of someone who smiled way too much in his youth, so Erik didn’t think much to it when he invited the man in for tea.

“My mother used to tell me stories about this place” he said, picking Erik’s interest “It’s a legend really, they say somewhere along my family tree there was a woman who lived here.”

“Is that so?” Erik asked, expression soft.

“Yes, she was one of the Golden One’s priestesses. Her name was Meredith.”

He remembered her, of course. She was a young one, must’ve been twelve or so when she arrived. She had freckles and the same kind eyes. He remembered she had something about her hands, back then they didn’t know the name of the condition, just called them defective. She broke so many of his ceramic bowls that Erik made her one out of metal with his own hands, if he looked around his lair that bowl might still be there.

“Not many people know his name these days. The… Golden One” Erik said instead.

“Yes, that’s precisely why I’m here.” Dr. Bones followed when he saw Erik’s confused frown “You see, my students were pretty passionate about reviving the traditions of the town, once they discovered there were any.” He chuckled “And who could blame them? Not many towns get to say they used to have a god amongst them, that they were protected by a dragon, that’s for sure” He also seemed passionate about it.

Erik smiled at his enthusiasm “Do you believe that he was real?”

Dr. Bones smiled kindly “Does it matter?” He paused, then sighed “Some things in history are not so literal, sometimes they’re… ideas, emotions, collective thoughts. The Golden One could’ve been a goat for all I know, but what he represented? That was precious.”

Erik smiled behind his cup of tea, a warmth in his chest. The historian continued.

“Which brings us to why I am here.”

“Oh? So you didn’t come here for tea, then?” Erik teased, the man laughed.

“As delicious as your blend is, no, I’m afraid not” he placed the teacup on the side table “Mr. Drakorn, you said your family has lived in this historical sight for hundreds of years, am I correct?”

“Something like that” the dragon shrugged, unable to give him a more accurate answer.

“I was wondering, if maybe you’d have any material that could help in our quest to put some pieces together”

“Pieces?”

“Yes, you see” the old man took a file from his messenger bag, showing Erik the papers inside. Notes and illustrations of The Golden One, quotes and pages taken out of history books, ancient maps of the town showing the new buildings and more. His eyes stopped on an illustration of a party, the image of women dancing around a fire with glasses in their hands. Their clothes weren’t exactly accurate nor the decorations, but he smiled when he realized what that was supposed to represent. 

His festival.

“We’ve been gathering information all around town, with the most traditional of families. Everyone knows a story or two about the Golden One, or about the festivals they used to have, or his blessings of the crops, or something or another. But we’re missing some key details and I was hoping  you could help us fill in the gaps.”

“I… have a few old books lying around, I could check if they have anything of interest for your… research? Is that what this is?” Erik asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

People remembered him! More people would know about him now!

“Something like that” Dr. Bones repeated Erik’s words with a teasing smile, then grabbed the illustration of the festival and handed it to the dragon “This festival. It used to happen every year, for days on end. People celebrated the community, they shared their harvest, were grateful for blessings of fertility and even whole wedding ceremonies happened in them.” Erik held back from mentioning the orgies. “It was an act of togetherness that reinforced the bonds of the townsfolk. I feel like it’s something that- that we’ve been losing in the last few decades and to be honest I fear of what will be of the next generations when they grow even more apart.”

“What are you saying, Dr. Bones?”

“I’m saying we have a project to bring back the Great Festival of the Golden One, Mr. Drakorn.”

Erik stopped breathing.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be the same, we wouldn’t have the support of the community for so many days off as they used to last, but I’ve been sharing my findings with the mayor office and there’s talk of even turning it into a local holiday. The mayor thinks it could help with tourism, even. But for that to happen, we’d need more… concrete evidence of the history of the town.” He paused, Erik wasn’t blinking. “Which is why I came here to talk to you.”

A moment too long, Erik took a deep breath, forcing his body to react “Of course” he said, clearing his throat. Was he serious? “Well, I will help in any way I can, Dr. Bones.” The dragon offered his hand to the old man to shake, a smile on his face “Consider me an avid supporter of the project.”

In the days that followed, Erik had taken some of his books downtown, to the history department. He also took a couple of handbound notebooks he had found after his latest clean up - journals of the priestesses. He made sure to include a few notes from Meredith too, just because, and one of the vests they used to wear around the temple.

Dr. Bones was ecstatic to say the least, Erik worried he might’ve given the old man a heart attack with how excited he got with the donations. 

He invited the man and his pupils to a tour of the mansion at the end of the week as well, showing them the priestesses quarters and the whole side of the mansion that wasn’t used anymore, telling them a couple of stories about the temple and answering some of their questions as they took notes and pictures. He avoided the lair, for obvious reasons, but the exposure he had given seemed to be more than enough to light the fire inside of the young historians.

Which brings us back to the email.

His hands were shaking as he picked th phone up again, to read it just one more time, as if the words would be different on the thirteenth read through, as if he had understood something wrong due to wishful thinking. Still, they were crisp and clean as they were in the first time he read them.

To the esteemed Mr. Erik Drakorn, I come this bright sunny morning to bring you up to date on recent occurings about the project Golden One Festival, which we have discussed before. Your donations to our cause were fundamental to the development of the project, as they made up the backbone of the presentation we have given to the mayor office a couple of days ago. The mayor himself was surprised and extremely excited with the sheer amount of information we were able to collect as well as the quality of it. He was so excited, in fact, that he greenlit the project right away. We’re aiming for a late October festival, the paperwork for the official holiday has been sent and the culture and tourism department are already working on the publicity campaign to engage the local community on the festivities. The Golden One Festival is happening, and we couldn’t have done it without you, Mr. Drakorn. So I must offer you my most sincere gratitude. I’d also like to invite you to be a part on the planning of the festivities, if you’d like. Let me know what you think? With my best wishes, Dr. William Bones. Head Director of the History Department Hollow’s Creek Community College

[ggathena]

bitter brew {self para}

The White Wyvern was a haven for withces and wizards seeking solace and celebration. Tonight, it was a refuger for Athena, who sat in a shadowed corner nursing a tumbler of firewhisky. The amber liquid burned her throat, but the physical heat was a welcome distraction from the storm raging within her.

The news had hit her like a Bludger to the chest. Her mind replayed the moment she found out in excrutiating detail. Rita was ruthless, she lived for the gossip and took a special kind of pleasure in writing sensationalist stories to get the best out of her readers. Athena had always admired her cousin for that wicked quality yet had never been one to indulge behind the scenes or pay attention to what she was writing. However, she had certainly appreciated the private meeting they'd shared where she had shown pictures and spilled all the details of the couple's outings. A brief encounter, a strong negative on her part and off she was.

"Another one," she murmured to the barmaid, who eyed her with a mix of sypmathy and concern.

"Sure you don't want to slow down, love?" she asked, but Athena only shook her head, her eyes fixated on the glass in front of her, downing its contents and extending the glass for the barmaid to refill it with a deft hand.

I love you, Thea. The words echoed through her head, her grip tightening on the glass. In spite of the breakup, all throughout these years their time together had been a whirlwind of passion and volatility, a flame that burned too bright for it to ever die out. She'd already known heartbreak once, stepping out of his room where she'd seen his blonde hair resting on the pillow beside another witch. That should've been it, enough to have her stay away from him, but it never really was. Relentlessly drawn back together, the beater's love for the wizard had never once faltered and after too many late nights lying awake wondering if she shouldn't have walked away, she'd finally came to the conclusion she didn't want to lie to herself anymore.

It had been only a couple of nights ago where she'd confessed her love, vowed herself his and believed they were finally in the same page again. How mistaken had she been. While she'd put herself out there, wrapped her heart up and delivered it to him hopeful and determined, he had laughed right in her face, a pretense that had her stripping her clothes for him one last time, murmuring in the dark a love that wasn't returned, promising to be his when he was already someone else's.

She downed the rest of her firewhisky in one gulp, the liquid scorching her throat but failing to cleanse her heart. Her eyes were red, anger flashing behind them, the tears welling up as she held onto the glass with all her force, smashing it to pieces just like her soul had. She didn't feel the pain from the nasty cut now in her hand, her body too numb from the alcohol intake that had been going on for hours at this time. Emma's face appeared beneath her eyes though she was certain the witch wasn't really there, a wicked trick her mind was playing her. She knew her friend hadn't meant to hurt her, after all she didn't exactly knew about her past with Thorfinn, but that knowledge didn't ease the sting of betrayal she felt now.

The brunette stood up unsteady, not caring to look back at the table or the mess she'd left behind. Making her way past the door and into the cold night, the dim lights blurred into a kaleidoscope of pain and confusion as she stumbled down the damp streets, her vision swimming from the alcohol, blood mingling with rainwater as it dripped from her hand, leaving crimson trails on the craked pavement. The irony of the glass with her favorite shattering in her grip, mirroring the shards of her heart. The betrayal had been swift and brutal, her lover and her best friend, entwined in deceit that left her world crumbling.

Now, she wandered aimlessly, the cool night air doing little to soothe the searing pain that tore through her chest. People passed by, their faces a blur of indifference, unaware or unisterested in the silent scream that echoed within her.

Her steps faltered as she reached a deserted alley, the oppressive darkness matching the void inside her. She fell to her knees, the rough asphalt digging into her flesh. The sobs came then, wracking her body with violent shudders. She clutched her bleeding hand to her chest, the physical pain should've been a distraction from the torment in her sould, yet it was not.

"Why?" She choked out, her voice breaking in the emptiness. The word hung in the air, unanswered, swallowed by the night. She bower her head, the tears mingling with the rain, her heart splintering with every beat. There was no solace, no escape from the anguish that consumed her. She was lost, adrift in a sea of betrayal and heartache, drowning in her sorrow.

The witch's eyes snapped open, blazing with a resolve born of her pain. She wasn't going to be a victim, her heart had been taken from her, a void left in her chest-- but they hadn't taken her strenght. She pushed herself to her feet, looking down at the dry blood in her hand, a reminder of the night's cruel reality.

Her breath came faster, her anger intensifying with each passing moment. Athena clenched her jaw, tasting the metalic tang of blood as she bit down on her lip. She wanted to confront him, to demand answers, to make him feel a fraction of the torment he had inflicted upon her.

But even as the fury consumed her, a hollow ache lingered beneath it. She still loved him, despite everything. The thought twisted like a knife in her gut, adding a bitter edge to her anger. How could she still care for someone who had shattered her so completely? Twice?

Torn between her rage and the remnants of her love, the brunette stromed out of the alley, the cold rain pelting her face, mingling with the hot tears of rage. Her steps grew surer, her heart pounding with a volatile mix of fury and longing. It wasn't over, and she wasn't done. He would know of her pain, and somehow she would confront the love that still, inexplicably, held a piece of her heart.

[temperednuvi]

Memories in the Wildlands

Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future.

Summer has long since fallen upon Lysara, the season seeing her parents occupied by their duties, allowing Nuvi to slip away and past the Moon Gate without much trouble. It’s a childish mischief, the one that prompts her to run barefoot through the branches that make Eluvian’s Veil, a delighted laugh escaping her as she races the chattering squirrels and the chirping birds. Any other day, she would have been content to stay within Avalon, cheerful humming following deeper into Laurelin's branches as she explored the mysteries that called her in a language she had not yet understood. 

It’s not any other day. 

In a moment of childish fancy, she had spoken to the red elk she had encountered last time she had entered the Feywilds with her parents. Usually, their meetings had been punctuated by silence, the awe humming on her chest enough to leave her wordless despite her already earned reputation as a chatterbox. But not their last meeting. No, she had gathered her courage and asked to meet again, and Nuvi would swear up and down that the majestic creature had agreed. 

It meant nothing. It meant everything. 

She doesn’t know it yet, young as she is. Doesn’t know the significance of her actions, the meaning behind the constant whispering of the Weave, urging her forward forever more, urging her to fail more than she will succeed, yet continuing nonetheless. 

It is a lesson that she will come to learn, bathed in blood, sweat and tears, all her own. But it’s a lesson she learns that day. 

That day she learns a lesson of mutual respect, of mutual recognition. 

The red elk awaits her at the other side of the Moon Gate. 

Wide brown eyes stare upwards, swallowing the face of the young high elvhen with awe and wonder. The red elk towers over her, a tiny slip of a thing against a powerful body meant to protect the forests they both love. Many would be consumed by fear at the sight, but not Shenuvun. All she feels is a sense of belonging like nothing she had felt before. She is far too young to understand the significance of the moment. To see the red elk bowing before her childlike wonder for what it is. 

An eternity weighs between the two of them, the silence only broken by the sounds of the forest extending beyond them and into the Feywilds. It is as the birds sing the promise of summer, that she moves forward, slowly, as if in a dream.

Shenuvun reaches Harajatish, and she presses her forehead against his. 

That day, Harajatish — one of the guardians of the forest — deems Shenuvun of Elune’s Veil worthy. 

Hundreds of years later, Shenuvun’s eyes snap open and springs from the coat provided to her by the Queen of Haven. A shuddering sigh leaves her as the memory of her dream and the wonder she has always felt next to Harajatish fades, leaving her with nothing but the cold realities of her present. Sweat covers her, at odds with the pleasant nature of the dream, and she realizes that it has been the first time in what seems like forever since she had felt anything but fear as she awakens. Her body doesn’t know what it is like not to be afraid, not anymore, and even the softest of dreams set her heart racing, and her body freezing in adrenaline. 

She knows now, what it means to be afraid, to be alone, and she cannot abide the thought for a second, even if that second is the passage between dream-like memories and the solid grip of reality. 

But. 

She is not alone, is she?

Sharp elvhen ears catch the breaths of the troupe, the intake and exhalation of those who had survived trials and tribulations with her, and those who had chosen to confront the unknown for them. A strange medley of creatures, most predisposed to hate each other by the nature of their origins, but willing to work together for survival’s sake. A strange journey taken, lessons learned by actions failed. Lessons learned while standing next to those who had once ruined her. 

It’s almost too much for her to wrap her head around, almost too intense for her to absorb. Shenuvun is not a soldier, not a warrior, she is a scholar, meant to explore ruins and marvel in the wonders of the knowledge that has been lost. Yet she had been forced to fight like one, and had almost died like one for her foolishness. 

Almost. 

They had survived by luck, divine intervention and countless other variables she could not explain, but wanted to dissect. A myriad of knowledge had been presented before her in her journey, the impossible made possible and she had failed to find any answer of worth. 

You will fail far more times than you will succeed 

The cat sidhe’s voice echoes inside her head, the memory almost palpable and she can’t help but laugh. It is a soft exhale of laughter, but one that comes out in grim realization. Shenuvun had not expected otherwise, not when she attempts to do the impossible, but it is one thing to know the truth and yet another to have it be told to you, being dismissed altogether for your efforts. 

The reality of her situation won’t stop her, not when her desire to find the answers outweighs her fear of failure, not when her desire of help survived even the coldest of the mines. 

A thousand questions she has, and she will not stop until a thousand answers she gets. 

And now? Now she knows that she won’t be alone.

Sylas’ spirit thrums in the space next to her heart, the young shade nearly a physical presence ever since he had chosen to reside within her for the search of answers. Answers that she cannot provide, but answers that she will not stop until she finds. The questions delivered by the spirit of the young elvhen had joined the thousands of questions without answers she had found through the years, the itch to move forward ever-so-strong despite the fear of what her curiosity will bring. 

Eight years is an awfully long time to spend in the dark, even for an elvhen. And she knows that her stay at the mines is nothing but her own fault, a consequence to her desire for knowledge, a reminder that her search for answers might as well destroy her. It is, perhaps, even something that could be considered a lesson from her gods, but it is a lesson she cannot heed. Not fully, and not faultlessly. 

Caution and paranoia have been born from the mines, but she is aware nothing else has taken root. Her obsession with mending what was broken, with piecing together the pieces of the past others were not willing to explore in hopes of gaining the instruments necessary to stitch together the future, far too strong to be assuaged by something as paltry as fear. 

A rustle outside the camping area for the refugees distracts her from her thoughts, sharp ears lifting at the sound of crunched leaves, of hooves against dirt, of antlers against wood. Tears prick her eyes, and she moves as if in a trance, barefoot as she waddles through the sleeping refugees, careful not to make a sound or to wake them after countless weeks of trekking to make them ever so weary. 

Shenuvun slips out of the hall where they had all been gathered that morning, and looks back at the masses, taking the view in before turning back towards the door and rushing out into the wilderness. The farther she is from people, the less measured her steps grow, until she is running, barefoot and careless, through the wilds, the Weave urging her forward and forward until it tells her to stoop. 

There. 

In a forest clearing near Haven, she finds him, highlighted by the sliver of the waxing moon in the sky. 

The red elk of her dreams, her Harajatish. Whole and hearty despite her fear, older than she remembers and with silver on his coat where scars should have been, but alive. 

A sob escapes her and she steps forward and into the dream-like state of her memories. 

Another step, and the mighty red elk falls to its knees. 

Another, and she reaches a hand forward, hands scarred by the mines cradling the red elk’s head with a tenderness she had thought forgotten. 

Carefully, gently, she bumps her forehead against Harajatish. And she is home.

[ezekielurquhart]

Memento Mori

"Some people don't know what they have until it's gone." "But what about the ones who do know? The ones who never took a damn thing for granted? Who tried their hardest to hold on, yet could only look on helplessly while they lost the thing they loved the most. Isn't it so much worse for them?" - Lang Leav

XXX

[withoz]

where : carnival of time when : mid-september

There was no denying Dorothy had her insecurities. It was evident from the way she carried herself as if she was trying to blend in with her surroundings, how her eyes would widen in reaction to her own words in fear of saying the wrong thing, or how she would get heavily centered on a simple detail others may not even think twice about. Sometimes it was so exhausting being inside her own head that she just wished she could turn off any further thoughts. But it was different at the circus. The acrobat wasn't really sure when the heaviness of being concerned with how the entire world viewed her began, but she remembered being young inside the large circus tents where that feeling didn't exist. And then she would get to school-age where she would be mocked for being a freak for one reason or another but once she returned back into that space of familiarity, she could breath easily again. It would always be the place in which she felt most comfortable, most at home. It was why she never left, choosing to drop out of high school to travel with who she had decided was her true extended family and leave behind the West Virginia town that provided nothing but pain and torment. She had never left the circus. Even when her decision to move to Anchorage was made, she would find herself gravitating towards the same environment within the carnival that provided that familiar sense of comfort. The circus was what she knew. Acrobatics was what she knew. It may have been the only thing she was truly confident in. Dorothy second guessed almost everything she did. But when she was thirty feet off the ground, there was no time for that. There wasn't a moment to think about how many eyes were on her when a single second or her legs just slightly off angle could affect catching the next bar or falling to the net below. It was freeing to be so focused on something that not even her usual concerns could penetrate that concentration. Except lately it felt like her usual insecurities had been tenfold. And as much as she hated to admit it, Dorothy had even began feeling it in comparison to her siblings. All three of them had so much going for them, and as much as she knew comparison would only ever get her nowhere, it didn't change those awful little thoughts that popped into her head. Everyone had gone off to have their own accomplishments while she stayed behind where they all started, never going beyond that. In the decade that she had been performing, she had only had a few falls in front of audience members, most when she was still newer to the practice and the crowds. The last hadn't been for at least a few years. But it only took getting distracted for a moment, and it only took having one off-putting thought for a distraction. Before the youngest Graves-Seong could even realize what was happening, the bar slipped past her fingertips mid-air, hands unable to get a good grip on it. The feeling of landing on the matts below was so quick it was barely felt, instead the gasps from spectators was what sunk in first. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, not from fear or physical pain, but just from the thought of all the eyes just witnessing her mistake, her failure. A good performer always went on with the show, no matter what happened. Even if she didn't feel like a very good performer at that moment, she still gave as wide of a smile as she good, no matter how shaky it was as her lips wanted to pull in the opposite direction. Spinning on her heel, feet carried her as fast as possible to the curtains that lead backstage, only then the hot tears hitting her cheeks and the sharp pain in her wrist registering. Acrobatics may have been what she was best at, but she didn't feel very good at it in that moment.

[lcianhale]

tw: sangue, morte, menção a corpos.

Havia uma mancha marrom no all star branco de Lucian. Um par de sapatos que horas atrás estava impecável. Branquinho, como se tivesse acabado de sair da caixa.

Agora, estava todo sujo de terra. Com certeza culpa da imensa fenda que agora cortava o acampamento. Mas aquela mancha em específico que Lucian encarava… Não era lama. 

Não possuía o formato retilíneo fruto de uma corrida por um terreno acidentado e cheio de terra. Era uma mancha que só poderia resultar da gravidade. De uma gota caindo de uma determinada altura e atingindo a superfície de tecido do sapato. Um pequeno splat.  Bordas irregulares. Que já não era vermelho e sim marrom escuro. Estava coagulado. 

E Lucian sabia a quem pertencia aquela gota de sangue. Era de um irmão. De Aidan. 

A primeira vez que se viu ajudando na enfermaria do acampamento, tinha apenas treze anos de idade. As forças de Cronos invadiram o acampamento pelo Punho de Zeus e o evento ficou conhecido como a Batalha do Labirinto. Lee Fletcher, conselheiro de Apolo na época, trancou os irmãos mais novos no chalé sete, Lucian entre eles. Os sons da batalha de que não participara o assombravam até hoje. Mas pior do que as lembranças dos sons era a lembrança do corpo de Lee. A clava de um gigante, disseram aqueles que viram o que aconteceu. 

Após a batalha, Lucian disparou em busca de seus irmãos. Os semideuses mais velhos tentaram impedir que ele visse a cena, mas não foram capazes de contê-lo. Havia uma determinação em seu olhar e muitos precisando de primeiros socorros. Lucian era apenas um par extra de mãos na época, sem muita ideia do que estava fazendo, mas ajudava. Correndo de um lado para o outro pegando bandagens, anti séptico, algodão. Fora proibido de lutar naquela batalha, mas não ficaria de fora na próxima vez. Invadiram o lugar que chamava de casa. 

Hoje, também corria de um lado para o outro, ajudando da maneira que conseguia: gazes, curativos básicos e um sorriso falso para os semideuses mais novos. Nem mesmo em seus dias mais otimistas Lucian conseguiria exibir um sorriso verdadeiro após a morte de um irmão. 

Mas como uma gota de sangue de Aidan foi parar em seu tênis? Ao preparar a mortalha, não colocariam seu corpo vestindo as roupas ensanguentadas em que morrera. Lucian fora o responsável por levá-las até a lixeira hospitalar para o descarte adequado. Mas o sangue ainda pingava do tecido quando Lucian fez esse transporte. 

Estava usando luvas então suas mãos não ficaram manchadas de sangue. Mas seu sapato direito? Estava lá a prova de que aquilo era vida real e não um pesadelo.

Já era manhã. E nenhum sinal do Sol. “Você também está de luto, pai?” perguntou Lucian em sua cabeça. “É por Aidan que está em silêncio e desaparecido?” Já sabia que não obteria resposta alguma, afinal, os deuses estavam em silêncio. E Apolo parecia não estar realizando nem sua tarefa diária no momento. 

Lucian caminhava em direção ao Chalé 7 após algumas horas na enfermaria, ajudando como podia. O lugar que geralmente a esta hora já estaria refletindo a luz do sol, cegando temporariamente quem encarasse suas paredes diretamente estava esmaecido. O ouro sólido e normalmente brilhante parecia quase opaco. Era uma imagem perturbadora. 

Atravessou o arco dourado e entrou no Chalé, observando os danos causados pelos tremores. Percebeu que alguns dos beliches foram afetados e ofereceu sua cama de solteiro para alguns dos mais novos. Não os deixaria se arriscar e dormir num beliche instável. Lucian se viraria com um cobertor no chão.

Enquanto arrumava sua cama para os irmãos, encontrou os rabiscos que fizera na manhã anterior, antes de sair para sua habitual corrida. Sentiu o coração afundar em seu peito. 

Na maioria das vezes, suas “visões” eram insignificantes. Detalhes aleatórios do dia a dia, vez ou outra revelando algo maior, como no dia que pintara Rachel envolta por uma névoa verde. Jamais iria imaginar a importância da profecia dita por ela através de sua visão. Parecia algo comum: um oráculo e suas previsões apenas. 

Quando criança, tinha sido obcecado por entender o que suas previsões significavam. Apenas depois de muitas frustrações conseguiu entender que não adiantava. Eram vagas, e parecia ser de propósito. 

Os rabiscos da manhã anterior, vistos após o evento da madrugada, revelavam tudo. Ignorara o rascunho feito em carvão pois não seria a primeira vez que previa um terremoto. Suas visões não eram sempre exatas ou literais. Mas observando agora… Era uma réplica quase perfeita da fenda que agora cortava o Acampamento Meio-Sangue. 

De que adiantava um aviso só entendido quando já não servia mais para nada?

Por que Hades apareceu só para reclamar um semideus?

Estaria o silêncio dos deuses próximo do fim?

Como um cão infernal entrara no Acampamento?

Se Lucian ainda tentasse entender suas visões, estaria Aidan vivo?

[acolyterose]

Tagging: mentions of @octavianrising and @legioneoin Location: Harlan, Rome, and some abandoned warehouse Timeframe: Various, childhood until now Notes: tldr; atlas kills his ex stepdad Trigger Warnings: homophobia, bullying, violence, death, and torture. Also it's done mostly in first person until the kill kill.

Curtis Waddell used to laugh every time I walked by, he’d snicker anytime that he saw me like my whole existence was some big joke to him. Him and his friends could have just left it at that because I’d go home every night and think that I was something worth laughing at. They didn’t, they never did, they always had to make it worse. 

School wasn’t a safe place for me, you’d think that the adults would have known better but small towns bred small minds and nobody blinked twice at the appearance of a bruise or split lip. If I’d come back from break soaked or if I didn’t come back at all the latter was my fault, I was making a choice not to go to class and so I had to be punished for it. Detention wasn’t much of a sentencing though because for me it helped delay the inevitable or sometimes put it off completely. Waylon Roberts, or Ryan Harper, or Stephen Taylor sometimes got bored of waiting and ended up somewhere else. That’s what I used to call a lucky day. 

The thing is we used to be friends, briefly, for a time. My dad worked with their dads in the mines but the difference between me and Curtis Waddell, and everyone else was we both lost ours in the same accident. It was more common than you’d think but there were dangers to working at those depths and the company was generous when something did happen. Most families were lucky and everyone got out okay, Curtis and I weren’t. I can’t pinpoint the time when he’d started to hate me but it happened definitively. I think now that the line between love and hate is thin for a reason; you can love someone one day and then hate them the next. Going one way was always easy, but I can’t remember a time when there was ever any back and forth. 

One weekend I was in Curtis’ basement, swapping his N64 controller every twenty minutes as we played Ocarina of Time, the bike I’d ridden to his house was tipped over and abandoned in his front yard, and then the next he was laughing as Kyle Russel shoved me over the 840 bridge into the Cumberland river. Most parts were safe to swim in, this one notoriously wasn’t, but they didn’t care, I heard them laughing as I broke the surface. There was a brief pause as another splash followed, I didn’t know if it was Curtis, Kyle, or Waylon Roberts but one of them threw my bike in after me and then shortly after the laughter continued, then receded. I’d heard what they called me after my bike went in but I never really associated it with myself, it wasn’t something anyone ever wanted to be but my ‘friends’ and I used to use it to describe that guy that lived above the movie theatre. 

I cried, and I cried, and I cried. Tears were cheap and easy and while my mom stroked my hair I kept my head in her lap. She asked me what had happened but I was too embarrassed to say it, because if I told her then she’d learn what they said and I’d be letting her in on this awful truth that I didn’t want to see. One that I felt was more taboo than anything, the worst thing any man could be was different, and apart from that one loner that lived above the movie theatre, I was completely alone in myself. I learned that I walked differently because Garrett Kennedy let me know that I looked like a fairy, I realised I had a lisp and affected the wrong syllables because Joshua McRay mocked me anytime I opened my mouth. So, I tried not to. I raised my hand less, I spoke out less often, and I tried to keep the words that burned at the back of my throat at bay.

Fathers brought their sons to the park, they went to their games, they were there in the stands even with soot covered fingers. Mine wasn’t, he couldn’t be, he would never be. I always thought that Curtis Waddell and I had a sort of understanding because of it but instead of sympathy I just heard his laughter. Slurs shouted in the halls, that word in particular uttered in contempt as he shoved me into a locker, jeering cries as he and his friends flushed filthy toilet water around my head. Pushed into cow pies or made to eat a live frog, even that was meant to be less gross than the moniker they gave me. The first bottle rocket was shot by Derick Young, I can still remember that grin on his face when he lifted his arm; I didn’t realise at the time what it was at the time until it went off and I jumped out of my skin. Another went off and another, I’d never really run from them then because they had a way of sneaking up on me. In the halls at school, in the park, at festivals and that sort of thing. I ran then, and I ran every time after that. 

I started running a lot to try and get good at it, by the end of middle school I was on the track team and my mother had me in self defence classes for a few years prior. None of it really mattered, they still caught up with me, and they still outnumbered me. Only difference was I stopped being quiet and I started getting bold, it didn’t matter how silent I made myself because inevitably they were still going to torture me. I could have not said a word all day and I’d still go home and cry myself to sleep, still listen in the late hours as my tired and overworked mother vented to her friend. How she’d call around and demand that people do something about their own damn kids, eventually she either stopped or they didn’t bother picking up their phones. I didn’t know for sure which it was and yet I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t the former. 

Video games were a quiet solace, in a fantasy world I could be the protagonist of the story and in a melee I could be the winner if I clicked the buttons in proper succession. It was always fair then, there weren’t cheat codes in a one on one fight and there was no one there to call over their friends to make it easier. Local tournaments turned into regional ones. My mother forked over the cash she saved for vacations and expenses because these were the only victories I was getting and it was one of the few times that she got to see me smile. 

I got louder and she got louder too, but she had the decency to wait for me to come to her. To tearfully admit why everyone hated me as much as they did, to apologise to her for being so different from all the other boys my age. She hadn’t meant to laugh but it helped that she did, because unlike Waylon Roberts and his friends it didn’t sting this time. There was no cruelty behind her voice, just acknowledgement because she had known just like everyone else had always known and she was so happy that I’d finally told her. She held me and I cried and because she knew how hard my life was going to be she cried too. That’s when the flag went up and the enamel pins went on, she’d wear this vest tailored to allyship everytime we went anywhere and anytime she went to work. Even if she was the only woman in Harlan that was happy to say her son was gay, eventually that ended up being enough for me. It was enough for me to say it too, to her, and to myself. 

Thomas Jackson broke my arm the summer before high school, not unintentionally or because they’d shoved me a bit too hard, but because when I was on the ground I’d lifted it to try and shield my face. That was when the police got involved and while I’d say his name and the name of every other boy there: Waylon Roberts, Derick Young, Stephen Taylor, Curtis Waddell, Ryan Harper, Garrett Kennedy, Joshua McRay, and Kyle Russell, nothing happened to them. The cop laughed, it was small, a short scoff but he put his pen down and I could see the shrug. He reminded me of the man that lived above the movie theatre, the one that didn’t make it out of Harlan alive. Not in any way that he acted but in that they would have been about the same age, I was a sharp kid, smart, especially once I’d started speaking up in class and applying myself. So I could recognise a bully when I saw one, he was just like the ones I’d named, and boys would be boys. 

I’d been hurt before, but this was different and I saw then that my mom had changed because she was going to do whatever it took to get us out. To get me out. We were both Harlan born and raised so she knew better than me what kind of life waited out in front, just like the guys that made my life hell I’d probably end up working in the mines. She said that I was good, too good for those kids that didn’t have parents willing to teach them any better. “A damn shame,” she’d say, then she’d repeat it louder, with an expletive in the middle. 

Cadmus was such a strange name, then again, so was Atlas. I think that’s why I took to him as quickly as I did because he was an outsider, a little bit like me. He had an Italian accent that sounded out of place amidst the Kentucky twang and before I realised it was happening my mother was completely taken by him. He was suave and travelling on the road for work, he came by with gifts for both me and her; the strangest thing about him though was how everything just seemed to get easier when he was around. Curtis Waddell stopped laughing when I walked by, Ryan Harper didn’t shove me in the locker anymore; one afternoon I turned a corner and managed to make my way right past the lot of them without any issue. They didn’t acknowledge me, truthfully they barely even looked at me, but one week rolled into two and all of a sudden I felt free. Then Cadmus left and it started all over again, though maybe it was worse because the first day of Freshmen year they’d found me, stripped me, and left me taped across the flagpole with that familiar word spray painted across my chest.

High school was unbearable and teenagers were quicker to violence than their adolescent selves, but that was also when it ended and something else began. Cadmus invited us to Rome, he proposed to my mother, and he enrolled me in a private school. I’d always been bright, a big fish in a small pond and now I was somewhere that challenged me. People didn’t bother me but my sharp tongue had already been formed, I’d been so used to defending myself that cutting into others felt appropriate. Better them than me, better to be predator than prey. Needless to say I wasn’t popular but I didn’t care, I didn’t need to be because at the very least I was safe. My mother was in love and she was happy, happier than I’d ever seen her. She kept the vest and she kept the flag and she kept going to the parades. She sat on every committee and she attended every event, she dragged me along too. I’d been scared and ashamed for so long, she wanted me to know that it was alright and that everything would be okay from then on. 

I believed her. I believed everything she said and loving Cadmus came easy too because he was kind and he’d done more than anyone else ever had for us. Calling him dad happened that first Christmas in Rome, it wasn’t an accident because I’d been thinking about it for a while. I had planned it like it was some secret gift I was going to give him, I offered it and he smiled and then he hugged me. Dad and father, he was also there at every stupid event with my mother and he wore those silly little pins that she gave him. I believed him. 

I had my choice of schools after that, I could have gone anywhere but I wanted to stay in Rome. I wanted to be close to my mom and my dad. That was also the year that I stopped being so repressed, I started university and any inhibition was kicked down. My first time was with someone I’d been stalking for weeks, he’d bumped into me in the hallway and before I could call him some rude name he was already helping me pick up his books. I knew him from one of my classes and I knew that he had a girlfriend, but I didn’t care because in my head we were going to be together forever. A single act of kindness and all of a sudden I was convinced that it had to be love. In the bathroom of some house party came the great romantic climax that every young homosexual man dreamt of (not), it was after that I realised he didn’t know my name because he said the wrong one after he’d finished and I was left wondering if it was supposed to hurt as much as it had. Better came when I found one of his friends that same night and opted to, rather poorly, use my throat instead. He at least remembered me as being the guy that was really good at Super Smash Brothers after I’d kicked his, and everyone else’s ass, at one of the game nights hosted on campus.

When neither of them responded to my subsequent DMs the next day I felt rejected and hurt, I cried because it was in my nature to cry everytime I projected my selfish need to be loved onto people who couldn’t and wouldn’t ever reciprocate my feelings. I’d thought then that if I kept giving myself over to people who weren’t deserving then maybe one of them would step up to the plate. I got better at interpreting what people wanted and what they liked, my candour was abrasive but I made up for it by being forward and pretending like rejection didn’t phase me. It did, it always did. It didn’t stop me from trying to find myself in any man that would spare me a shred of kindness, or any unworthy guy that I saw fit to welcome into my body. I was popular both on campus and off but not for any reason that I was particularly proud of, my mom always laughed when I told her and insisted that I be safe. That I do whatever I have to do to be happy. She’d make a joke at my expense but when she did it it felt good, natural, and I found I didn’t mind it so much when it came from a place of kindness. 

My mother got sick that year, very sick, very quickly, and overnight Cadmus was gone. The name was a fake one, the police had never heard of him, and while my mother sat with a monitor on her arm a doctor pulled me aside and turned everything upside down. They were breaking a law by telling me, some ancient creed that I was yet to wrap my mind around that kept humans like me in the dark. Humans like my mother, a woman that had been made the victim of a witch’s spell. A witch who’d funnelled away her soul and left her an empty shell. It wasn’t meant to be long but all this came with a cost, a cost that meant I had to leave school, and a cost that meant I had to pick up the slack. It hadn’t been quick, in fact my mother suffered in her bedroom for years. Nurses, medications, constant pain, and her dignity stripped away as she lost control of everything from her bowels to her own breathing. Not-so-selfishly I wished she had died quickly, I wished that the doctor was right and it would have been over in a month or two because I found it hard to remember her red hair in the sunlight and that ridiculous vest. Instead I saw how she had thinned and paled, how her hair grew sparse and her eyes sunk low. I remembered her ragged breathing more than the deep laughter that she was best known for. I remembered her sickness, not her health, and I remembered the man that did this to her. 

When she died I felt myself take in a breath and I’ve been holding it ever since. 

Present Day

The basement was dank, it smelled of earth and iron. Mildew crept along the walls of the concrete foundation below the abandoned factory. There was nothing but the drip of water against old pipes and the distant scurrying of rodents scratching at the walls. Metal grinding against metal as the chains that bound the witch rubbed against one another. Atlas had Eoin to thank for this, a surprise text, a brief meeting, and at the druid’s insistence he’d been left alone with the witch who’d once gone by Cadmus. 

Light filtered through the grimy windows as specks of dust glowed within the golden hue of the morning sun. Blood lined what Atlas remembered as handsome features, a swollen eye obscured what the druid had once known, but at Atlas’ core he knew who this was. He could tell by the line of Cadmus’ jaw and the slope of his nose, the cant of his brow and the soft groans that fell from his unconscious frame. This was him, this was the bastard that had killed his mother. The witch that tricked them and deceived them, the man that was responsible for destroying the one person who’d always been in Atlas’ corner.

People said that vengeance didn’t make you feel better, there were quotes about the need for two graves, for the emptiness it left behind, and for how it was so much better to choose forgiveness instead. That wasn’t Atlas’ experience, killing Cadmus didn’t hollow him out, it just felt good. Dawn’s light faded to dusk’s twilight and the witch’s screams never relented, they felt good, better than Atlas would have thought possible. He remembered every night he’d gone to bed with tears in his eyes and every night that his mother had sat up stroking his hair, he remembered her ragged breaths and the fits that came to follow any laughter. He remembered the first time she’d put on that stupid vest and waved around those shiny enamel pins, and he remembered packing them all away and trying to decide what to do with her leftover medication. He remembered how hard he had to work to stay afloat and remembered what it felt like to be reborn in flames.

Bit by bit and nerve by nerve Atlas let himself be transformed. His minted azure flames that exposed the truth at the core of the witch’s being: a flailing coward who emptied his bowels over a concrete floor while he begged for his life. Somehow Atlas had expected more, he expected the slurs and the mockery that Cadmus started with, but the begging felt unnecessary. First the witch pleaded for him to stop, then he begged for death. It was hours before the sun came up when Cadmus stopped pleading entirely, nerves exposed and dead, his mind seemed to be doing whatever it could to protect him. By dawn Atlas got tired of torturing burnt meat, following Cadmus’ death rattle, Atlas reduced whatever remained of the witch to ash.

He was glad it was over though, the adrenaline had left a long time ago and he felt tired now. His hands were bloodied and burnt, they reminded him of Knossos and that feeling of being so broken he couldn’t recognize himself. For Atlas, this was different, because he’d come a long way from the pathetic cat that was still learning how to sharpen his claws. When it was over the druid caught his reflection in the grimy window. He didn’t recognize himself anymore, this person that he’d started towards ever since he stood over his mother’s slab in the funeral home. 

That was the thing about cremation though, they made you look at the body one last time before they turned it to ash.

[cjvno]

A FOOL TO BELIEVE HABILIDAD: ADAPTACIÓN (2/3). Un momento triste.

Víspera de navidad. Florida, 2023. Juno regresa a Florida sólo con la intención de terminar su relación de casi cinco años con Peter Walker.

El regreso a Florida había sido más pacifico de lo esperado, en efecto cuando se trataba de trabajo, Juno lograba distraerse. A pesar de lo que últimamente estaba viviendo no estaba extrañando para nada su vida, todo lo contrario, Juno sentía un gran alivio de haber salido de ese lugar, de haber corrido, aún así sabía que tendría que volver. Aunque ahora mismo no era su preocupación. Necesitaba que se quedara todo allá y  por eso accedió a él, por eso aceptó que su madre le volviera a enterrar un cuchillo por la espalda al pasar por alto todas sus exigencias de no meterse, pero tal parecía que él era más querido por su progenitora a pesar de todo lo que estaba viviendo con Peter, no estaban bien y de hecho llevaban casi dos meses sin vivir juntos. ¿Eso aún contaba como una relación? 

Juno se quedó parada por un momento tras el vidrio admirandole, Peter seguía igual, seguía siendo el hombre del que se enamoró y eso dolía, dolía porque ella nunca sería la mujer para él. Por más que luchara, siempre había algo más importante para ella y era egoísta pensar que podrían estar juntos, que formaría una familia con él, que dejaría sus sueños para cumplir los de él. Su mano casi toca el vidrio cuando se encuentra con la mirada del adverso y tan sólo la mueve en señal de saludo, disimulando lo que realmente quería hacer: tocarlo.  

Entra llena de tantas emociones, volverlo a ver no sabía que iba a ser tan intenso. Sus ojos, su sonrisa, pero esos ojos que más de una vez se quedó mirando hasta caer rendida, azules, tan azules como el mismo mar. Son su perdición.

—Peter. —Junnie.

La mirada que le entrega la aturde por un momento, no quiere que tenga ese poder contra ella. Y de pronto se siente la tonta chica que alguna vez fue cadete, lo odia. Toma asiento delante suyo, impaciente, sabe que lo que continuara no es lo que espera, tampoco esa es la manera en la que esperaba que las cosas sucedieran. 

Lo va terminar y ni se lo imagina. 

ㅡPedí lo que te gusta, café americano frío, sin azúcar con un toque de leche de avena, no te gusta la soya.

Y ahí estaba, la conocía tan bien, que tan solo pudo apretar el vaso frente de ella así como una leve sonrisa le coloreaba el bolso. 

ㅡGracias. 

Ni siquiera lo prueba, tiene un vacío en el estómago que de tratar de llenarlo la hará vomitar, toda esta situación es tan dolorosa. Se muerde el labio inferior escuchando lo que con tanto cariño intenta contarle, perdiéndose un poco en la conversación acerca del trabajo, de la mascota qué comparten juntas (pero que siempre le siguió más a él), de cómo la extrañaba ¿eso acaba de decir? La coreana pestañeo incrédula cuando su mirada volvió a dar con la impropia. 

—Ah…

¿Cómo puede extrañarla después de haberle dejado casi dos meses solo? Y es por eso mismo que deben separarse, no le está dando lo que necesita y de hecho solo se está convirtiendo cada día más en su madre y lo odia. No merece eso, no merece alguien que le dé migajas, merece todo el mundo, todo el amor. Y no es que no lo quiera, o pueda dárselo es sólo se quiere más a ella misma. 

—Terminemos esto—es fría, y duele, pero es lo mejor, él no la quiere a ella, ama a la versión que creo de ella, la versión que por desgracia Juno nunca podrá ser —Lo siento, pero es lo mejor. 

Espera réplicas, porque lo conoce, iría tras de ella a dónde fuese, y es por eso que ella decide tomar la decisión. Se desconecta, y mientras el adverso despotricar, toda su atención está en no llorar, lo escucha como un ruido de fondo, lo que le diga, lo que le pida, no lo va poder cumplir. Y no es hasta luego de unos minutos, cuando lo ve deshecho, cuando lo ve con el corazón rotó qué se levanta. 

ㅡSé que no te gusta mi decisión, lo veo en tus ojos, pero es lo mejor. Yo no te daré lo que me pides, no te puedo dar el "sí" que tanto deseas, lo sé, vi el anillo en el buró. Tampoco una familia ㅡsus manos tratan de buscar las adversas, pero se arrepiente a medio camino, cerrándose en un puño tan fuerte, que puede sentir sus uñas sobre la palmaㅡ, estás a tiempo de encontrar una chica que este dispuesta a dar todo por ti, pero yo no soy esa... ㅡno termina la oración pues la voz comienza a temblarleㅡ Perdón. Alana irá por el resto de mis cosas, cuídate mucho, Peter. 

Mentiras. Ni siquiera tocó el café, no pudo verlo otra vez, sabía que si lo hacía iba a llorar. No lo miró hasta que salió, sólo para confirmar lo que acababa de hacer: romperle el corazón a la persona que más la había amado. Y fue hasta ese momento que las lagrimas se dignaron a salir. 

Era para lo mejor, trato de repetírselo así misma, una y otra vez. Pero nadie lo sabría, solo ellos dos. Ya inventaría algo para que no insistieran, para que no le recordarán el horrible ser humano que era y el cómo había dejado ir a un gran hombre. 

[mischiefxmuses]

self para - Iorveth finding Lexi ( @vcndetta )

tw: death, blood, grief

Iorveth had been searching for her. There was little else he needed to do right now. He wasn't one to show emotion or really let himself care so finding her was his priority. He was trying to use his tracking skills but tracking in concrete was basically impossible to leave tracks or any traces. He would have to rely on hopefully sheer dumb luck. He kept looking, asking people if they had seen her but mostly got nothing back. Nothing useful anyway and he was beginning to lose hope. The little that he had anyway.

He kept looking, until he arrived to a small park, the tree covering it. Not much could be there. But some greenery in the city. His heart stopped, and eyes went wide. "Lexi..." His voice quiet as he spoke but his feet carried him into a run. He hoped to all of his gods he was wrong but he had this sinking feeling. Which was just confirmed when he saw her lying there on the ground. Blood pooling around her from a gunshot wound. He sunk to his knees beside her. In complete shock and horror. He was too late. He failed her. He should have been there to protect her. Carefully he took her into his arms. Not caring about the blood that was now on him.

"I am sorry." He brushed her hair from her face and looked at her. "I am so so sorry." He rested his forehead against hers. He could feel some tears in the corner of his eyes. Iorveth didn't cry. Last time he cried was tears of rage when Roche took his eye. But he felt it coming on, rage at the person who killed her, pain at her loss and guilt that he couldn't protect her. He needed to get her out of here. He carefully picked her up off the ground, even if she was dead, he would be incredibly careful with her. She could wake up at any moment if he knew the magic of this place but decided getting her home was best.

He pushed all his emotions deep inside him as he focused on the task at hand. Carefully he navigated the streets. He felt this pit in his stomach, she was dead. He couldn't believe that she was dead... was there something he could have done?

He carried her all the way back to her home, kicking down the door as he didn't have the keys and brought her to her room. He placed her down on her bed. Taking a step back. Looking at her. The pit was growing. The tears threatening to fall more and more. He knew that she'd likely not know who he was when she woke. So he shouldn't be here. "I am sorry, I should have protected you." He stepped back towards her for a moment, placing a kiss on her hand. "You won't remember but I hope one day you will. I love you very much, Lexi." He left a little note with his phone number on it on her bedside table and left. A stranger in her room? He wouldn't have a good explanation. Outside her broken door, he just sunk to the ground. Hands covering his face as the tears finally fell.

[netteliax]

Archdruid.

You're used to hearing that you're something above the ordinary, golden You want to be the one and only Doesn't it get lonely

content warning: violence and death.

They were coming. 

There were hundreds at first, on two, four, or more legs they crawled or they ran. Nettelia stood amidst a field of corpses, men and women that she’d been working alongside only moments prior, soldiers that she had been trying to heal, innocents that the archdruid was giving everything to protect. Beneath her feet the ground rumbled like thunder, growing louder hundreds became thousands as demons crawled from the bottom of the Abyssal pit while the Inferno collapsed behind them. 

Death had long become comfortable to her, He was an old friend in which the archdruid was painfully familiar with. She’d met him more than once, he was there when she bid farewell to nieces and nephews, he stood at the ready when Nettelia said goodbye to friends or acolytes that were taken far too soon. The nymphs that used to braid her hair, the fey that used to fill her life with so many songs and so many fables. He had not come for her husband, and selfishly, Nettelia had been grateful. 

These demons were coming for her, they were coming for her home, and thousands grew further, middling, lesser and greater: half a million with the monarchy of Hell toted above them. Charon, Alecto, Minos, Rhadamanthus, an Aeacus in cages and chains, they’d be dead already if Death had not opted to turn a blind eye. Lucifer with their six present siblings, an army that grew as it continued to rumble from below, not only did they march, but they dug as well into the ground beneath her feet. Nettelia the mad, the deranged, the heartbroken woman who’d given everything and lost just as much for a man who couldn’t look at her without cringing. 

She’d brought Epimetheus here to protect him, if nothing else Nettelia thought that she could shelter him but the force of the blast had been too quick and too great. Too sudden, Nettelia was immune, but still she had taken the power that came her way and hoarded it like the glutton so many had taken to see her as. The woman who couldn’t let go, the mad creature who’d slaughtered a hundred just to save one. Selfish to her core. Unforgiving, petty, relentless, and ruthless. Maybe it was true, maybe she was all of those things: but if she had forced Epimetheus away from the beginning like she should have, her brother-in-law would still be alive. He was a comforting thought, Epimetheus reminded her of one of the last times she’d been happy, and in her greed she had kept him at her side. 

His lifeless body next to her, stripped of flesh, the feathers of the avariel strewn about- Nettelia shouldn’t have been able to recognize him. It was the macabre nature of the archdruid that was half death and half divinity to know a person by the shape of their skull alone, by the width and breadth of their ribcage and how he’d coiled his arms in front of his face in fear of the end. Nettelia had failed him, she’d failed so many, now the hordes of Hell sought to wash the earth while the book still lived and breathed at her back. She couldn’t allow that, whatever time she could buy for them, Nettelia would: gladly, and hopeful that if it was nothing else then it could at the very least be enough.

The demons felt like fire, a great rise of hellfire over the horizon that looked at the vile archdruid as an easy meal. Among her siblings there were none with a knowledge so intricate in the ways of healing as her, the healer always had the bloodiest hands, and those most apt at repairing the body were most apt at destroying it as well. Elements of the earth: what else was a body if not a composite of oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon, calcium, and phosphorus? Sulphur, potassium, sodium, chlorine, and magnesium? She’d come to understand each as she had knit them neatly together to create the necronomicon in the first place, bindings of flesh and bone to infuse magic and creation itself. From the bedrock of the Otherworld itself Nettelia pulled the power from the foundation of the shifting realm, let it sing under her veins as the murkiness of the swamps desiccated, the trees petrified and shattered. The air itself became still and quiet as the clouds above evaporated. Into the archdruid their power was pulled until there was nothing but a barren, trembling earth beneath her feet. 

Nettelia’s hands touched the ground at her feet, the dark gift of transference, of life and of death was a weight that Oztalun had saddled her with. A blessing and a curse, she’d used him once to create the necronomicon, and the Asphodel had used him a second time to further their means. This had begun with her and this would end with her. 

Tendrils of magic threaded their way into the corpses and the devastated, ripped apart at the seams, shredded by the necronomicon’s insatiable appetite, the parts of the Allies’ bodies that were torn away were patched up with rocks, with water, with fire, and with air. Nettelia sewed them together as she stitched their bodies, amalgamations of flesh, bone, and the ephemeral elements of the Otherworld beneath their feet. Necromantic golems of the fallen Allies stood in the path of the great force, some in the shape of serpents, others as giants, or dire wolves. Teeth, claws, and breaths of concussive air, flames, or torrents of highly pressurised water that could cut diamonds. 

The demons broke against her wall, violet eyes blazed, and Nettelia screamed.

[livingdexdgurl]

ARCHIVO POLICIAL 1

La entrevista.

Participantes: Zamira & Detective Sanderson.

Lugar: Hospital de Sanlow.

Tw: as*sinato, s*ngre.

Notas: pueden usar al detective y cualquier cosa que les sea útil. @oct31m

La noche anterior había sido una dicha y una pesadilla al mismo tiempo porque tuvo una de las mejores noches de su vida con sus nuevos amigos lejos de su restrictivo hogar. Había conocido gente muy genial y oficialmente sería su primera fiesta en lo que era su nueva ciudad mientras estudiaba. Ciertamente Zamira no era tan inocente y tenía sus razones para estar ahí así como los medios que utilizó no eran quizás los mejores pero al final lo que importaba era que ya estaba ahí.

Se sabía deseada por más de una persona pero ella ya había elegido a quien le gustaría. Todo estaba saliendo muy bien esa noche, jamás se había sentido tan viva y tan buscada. Los recuerdos eufóricos de esa noche estaban ahí en su cabeza pero la realidad es que le dolía mucho la cabeza y el cuerpo. No supo cuánto tiempo estuvo inconsciente hasta que medio despertó en una ambulancia y horas más tarde por dolor en una cama de hospital. Le habían hecho un par de estudios para asegurarse de que solo hubiera sido una contusión y no algo más grave en su cerebro. No habían transcurrido más de un par de horas desde que ganó consciencia, las enfermeras le habían suministrado un par de analgésicos y ella quiso preguntar que había pasado con sus amigos pero... ¿De verdad quería saberlo? ¿Eran sus amigos? Una lágrima recorrió su rostro porqué lo recordó. La recordó. Ya no estaba, no estaba viva en ese momento. La sensación de que querer arrancarse el corazón en ese momento se manifestó por llanto, no supo cuánto tiempo lloró hasta quedarse dormida pero un murmullo le despertó de repente. "¿Le ponemos un calmante?" Escuchó a una enfermera decir mientras una voz masculina se negó. "No, necesitamos que ella esté consciente" pronto la puerta se abrió abruptamente y varias enfermeras entraron con dos hombres. El que hablaba traía una gabardina de un color horrendo y apestaba a cigarro en cuánto puso un pie en la habitación.

No entendía que estaba pasando y se sentía confundida ¿Por qué había tanta gente?. "Soy el detective Sanderson" sacó su placa aunque era evidente que Zamira no alcanzaba a leer nada. "Estoy aquí porque quiero saber que pasó" dijo sin más. "¿Que pasó? ¿De qué?" Murmuró confundida para escuchar una risotada. "Ya sabes, tenemos a cinco personas muertas. Tus amigos ¿No?" El hombre le miraba de una manera muy fea que le hubiera gustado no ver nunca. Muertos, cinco de ellos y una era Minnie. Iba a ponerse a llorar cuando el hombre le tronó los dedos en su cara "Espabila, que no te puedes dormir sin que me cuentes lo que sabes. ¿Si sabes que eres sospechosa?" Zamira tragó y lo miró un momento. "¿Sospechosa? ¿Por qué?" el hombre volvió a reír para sacar una carpeta y sacar un par de hojas que básicamente aventó a su regazo. Era sin duda el cadaver de Aster Warner, el chico popular. "Mira, te lo diré sin suavizar las cosas. Todo era paz y tranquilidad, resulta que llegas tu y te haces amiga de ellos entonces ¡pum! todos mueren. Sabemos que tienes una relación muy cercana con el hermane de Aster. Incluso sabemos que gracias a elle es que estás aquí ¿no es así?" se cruzó de brazos. "¿Que clase de relación tienes con elle?" nunca pensó que sería un problema o que se metería en tremendo problema. "Yo... " volvió a tronar los dedos "Tienes que hablar, y rápido niña. Que tengo otros a quienes cuestionar ¿Estabas con elle cuándo sucedió eso?" negó con la cabeza "No somos nada, es decir nos hicimos amigos por internet. Me dijo que podía ayudarme a mudarme acá, es cierto que quizás le di alas pero no teníamos realmente nada" un poco de mentira pues Zamira si que había jugueteado y seducido al hermane de Aster para poder salir de su país pero no estaba realmente interesada en elle.

El otro oficial comenzó a apuntar todo en una libreta "Me llamó sí, antes estaba hablando con Ming Zhu" dijo en un hilo de voz, si tan solo no hubiera ido con elle pero era tan insistente. "Cuándo baje todo estaba hecho un desastre. Me encontré con Leonie y Klaus. Tratamos de escapar, fue cuando me golpeó con algo y me desmayé. Ya no vi más, sólo la sangre." No tenía idea en realidad de quien de sus amigos había muerto y quienes vivían. Sabía que Klaus estaba vivo porque fue en la misma ambulancia que ella y llegó a ver el cuerpo de Minnie pero no tenía idea de los demás. Ahora sabía que Aster también estaba muerto. "Creemos que el hermane de Aster quizás le tenía envidia. ¿No te pidió de favor para venirte a este pueblo quizás que le ayudaras a deshacerte de él?" Zamira puso cara de horror "¿Qué? No, nunca me pidió nada a cambio más que quizás una cita y eso pero nunca otra cosa. No sé que clase de persona me creen" dijo enojada "Y elle quiere mucho a Aster aunque sea un imbécil. Eso mismo, el tipo es un imbécil y a lo mejor lo querían muerto pero no entiendo porque matarían a todos" el policía le miró. "¿Estás diciendo que Aster tenía enemigos? ¿Sabías que salía con Ming Zhu? Los encontraron muertos en el mismo cuarto, al parecer tenían una relación amorosa. ¿Crees que Freya pudo asesinarles?" Zamira tuvo que recargarse en la almohada. "¿Qué?" No era posible que Minnie estuviera con alguien cómo Aster, después de todo Freya era su mejor amiga y justo la noche anterior ambas habían confesado su atracción mutua y el amor que sentían la una con la otra. "Debe tratarse de un mal entendido porque ella no estaría con alguien como él." El hombre le miró de forma sospechosa "Ella no era esa clase de persona" dijo en voz baja ya muy desanimada "No creo que haya sido Freya, mire. La verdad es que no tiene mucho que estoy acá y no les conozco tanto como para meter la mano al fuego por nadie. Sólo puedo decir que yo no maté a nadie, tampoco planee la muerte de nadie." Miró al hombre "Y estuve desmayada la mayor parte del tiempo por lo que no sé que pasó después." El otro seguía apuntando en su libreta y el detective le miró. "Creo que es todo por el momento". Salieron así como entraron dejando a Zamira confundida, otra vez las lágrimas cayeron por su rostro.