#I loved the story of Notre-Dame but I remember how much painful was going through the descriptions

[faceglitchsworld]

2025 TBR Challenge

Rules: post 9 books you'd like to read in 2025

So, I saw the post made by @girldante (sorry if I tagged you but your post inspired me to join the challenge...) and I decided to make this challenge just for the sake of making a first list of books I want to read this year (hoping I'll manage to read the same number of books I reached last year).

These are all books I bought towards the end of the year or found at home. The first three books are from authors I discovered last year. I read already something from Ortese and Rea but not from La Capria so, let's see how it will be.

Also, it's been years since I read something from Hugo, it's time to see if older me can appreciate him better now (last time I read something from him I was 18 and it was the first time ever too so...uhm, yeah, I think it's time to re-evaluate him).

Don't mind about Pasolini and Calvino being placed like that haha. I'm planning to read almost everything they wrote and I want to read at least ONE book from them each year (that or switching to Levi and Buzzati once I'm not able to read something from them).

Please imagine there's a tenth spot dedicated to the last two books of The Mirror Visitor. I'm planning to read them too this year but I would have cheated by putting both of them here 😅

Tagging @rlvaille @jongside and @zaegreus (no pressure ofc!)

[kusagrasskusa]

Gaara X Innocent! Reader - "Hellfire"

Gaara's age is bumped up to 16 in this btw, and the reader is 16 as well. This takes place the night Gaara kills that one Sound Ninja on the rooftop, during the chunin exams. Also, Gaara might be considered a Yandere, but I don't know (you'll see why lol) Lastly, when I talk about Gaara burning, I mean it metaphorically. Yes, this is 100% based off The Hunchback of Notre Dame

FYI! This story isn't very romantic so if you're a fan of slightly darker stories, go ahead snd read this I suppose. Plus Y/N is kinda a coward in this

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There he sat, on top of the rooftop late at night. Tomorrow would be the full moon, when Gaara's power would increase in perfect timing for another battle in the chunin exams. Competition is getting tough and examtakers are either extra aggressive with everyone or forming alliances. Not only that, but so many people are winning each challenge that too few people are being eliminated. That's all that's important and all that will be important until the Sand Village finally finishes off Konoha with the help of the Sound Village. But how, even with these much more important factors, is the only thing Gaara could think about is some normal pediatrician girl?

The moment he met her in the streets, a flame was set in his heart. He had been walking through Konoha after register for the exams and noticed a pretty young girl running through the streets, shouting for help. All she received was weird glances and eye rolls, however Gaara and his siblings caught on. Much to his sister and brother's surprise, Gaara had no problems hearing her pleas and then defending her. Someone had been following her; someone who her family had bad history with and from the looks of it, that person planned to hurt her.

He had no problems escorting her home and listening to her talk along the way. Her voice was so soft, her colorful kimono and flowers in her hair fitting for someone with an innocent and sweet personality. She seemed to be oblivious to the mysterious looks of Gaara and his siblings, or the way Gaara was so cold and silent. She payed no mind and spoke to him as id he was normal; like he was human. And it was that fact, her ignoring his dangerous aura, that lit that flame.

After since that day, that flame grew so strong. Every set of bright shades of the colors she wore on her clothes, every flower that she decorated herself with, every word or item that she mentioned in the little time she spoke to him, and everyone with E/C eyes would make him think of her. That sweet, kind, oblivious girl. It's like she cast a spell on him to make him slowly burn alive; that little flame she set it him would quickly grow into hellfire. His burning desires to see her again, to hold her, to love, traveled through his skin and veins. It didn't take long for Gaara to convince himself she did something cruel to him to use his demon, just like his father is using his demon to destroy Konoha in a few days.

Gaara was began to assume the girl was mocking him when she spoke to him so lightly; that he was no one to be afraid of. It was so insulting, but she was able to hide her cruel and disgraceful jeers under a sweet and loving facade and cute clothing. That has to be it, he thought. No one could ever like me, no one can love me, other than me. More and more of Gaara's thoughts were consumed, then all at once, by thoughts of her. She was like a demon dragging him to hell to torture forever. That beautiful girl with those lovely E/C eyes and pretty clothing was using him, he convinced himself. And someone like that deserved death.

That sweet, young girl had a name; Y/N. She was incapable of sleeping, as a terrible feeling in her stomach was keeping her awake. She pouted her lip and huffed, poking her stomach and whispering to herself, "I want that bad feeling to go away!" That feeling was pure anxiety and a hint of fear. These emotions were very uncommon for Y/N as she had always. Even a positive thinker with lots of love in her heart for even villains to an extent. She sighed, turning over in her bed on her back for sitting up, flipping her legs over her bedside. She stood up and put on a soft kimono over her pajamas and walked to the front door of her home, put on her sandels, and walked out. "Maybe a nice walk around the village will tire me out!"

"It's almost the full moon," Gaara said aloud. "My power will only grow stronger." He stood up, staring intensly at the moon as if it's the only thing keeping him from being devored by his hellish thoughts. His thoughts of how lovely it would be to destroy that girl who made his chest feel warm and his face heat up when she talked to him. That girl who made him feel the way he feels about himself, only a bit different. He had never felt romantic love to anyone, and for him to suddenly feel so strongly about someone instantly convinced him that she did something to him. Someone who would ever control him like would burn in hell before the hellfire consumes him first.

A rough, quiet and threatening voice erupted from behind the redhead. He paid no mind to anything that came out of the mouth of the Sound Village ninja rather just acknowledged that he wanted a fight. Without even realizing it, all that bloodlust built up through thinking of Y/N was released, ending in that Sound Village ninjas blood being spilled all over the roof top. It felt like a weight was taken off his back when he killed the ninja, but in the back of his head he knew it wasn't enough. Gaara didn't want that petty ninja, only that witch known as Y/N. Every passing second, that hellfire coursing through his veins were blazing out of control, weren't they?

"Maybe a nice walk around the village will tire me out!" Gaara's ears perked at that voice. That voice. Y/N's voice. Just like that, Gaara's need for blood grew strong again but this time, it felt different. He killed the Sound Village Ninja with aggression, but knowing he could kill Y/N now that he heard her close by made him feel an exciting kind of bloodlust. Those flames coursing through his body grew hotter every second, growing ever more desperate to get his hands on her.

"It's been a while since I've seen the garden at night come to think about. The moon is bright tonight so it's bound to be pretty sight!" That sweet, soft voice called out from the ground, below Gaara's feet. She walked the pathway it takes to find a nearby lake, where a nice little garden lays. A smile rose on Gaara's face; one of pure hate and excitement. His chest pained to greatly at the thought of her death, but that hellfire coursing through his body was telling him to hurt her. The front of his mind was screaming for him to kill her and use her blood as a piece of his deadly sand, but the back of his kind was whispering for him to comprehend how he feels about her first.

So he began to follow her. Gaara quietly walked from the rooftops, not daring to make a single sound. He continued to smile as he followed her, his smile growing the more he heard her talk to herself. Such a sweet girl with such a pure heart. It's a shame someone with Gaara's problems sees her as a witch because he loves her. As another 10 minutes go by, Y/N began walking into the woods and towards the lake. Gaara jumped to the ground without making a sound and followed her discreetly by hiding behind trees. He stopped when Y/N did. Y/N's eyes widened and sparkled at the amazing sight before her; the moon reflecting on the lake as beautiful flowers and trees accompanied toads on lilipads in the water. Pure bliss.

"Wow...It's incredible!" She laughed in awe. "My arms feel so weak at the sight," she spoke again as her smile widened. "I wish mom was here to see this!" Gaara hummed, looking over the scenery as well. It wasn't very interesting, but it was something he supposed. After all, Y/N loved it. Gaara looked around and saw no one nearby, meaning now would be a great time to react. He silently tip toed over to Y/N, using trees to cover himself. However, Y/N spotted him when she looked around the area in case there was anyone nearby (after all, she was being loud and who knows who lived in the area).

"Hmm? Hi, you there!" She said, waving her hand towards that silhouette behind that tree. Gaara'a face turned into one of the confusion, his "eyebrows" furrowing. Why isn't she scared of someone creeping up behind her in the woods? "Sorry if I'm bothering you! I just wanted to see what's it's like here at night. I can leave if you want," she said, swaying her body back and forth.

"...No, it's quite alright," Gaara replied as he stepped from behind the trees. He walked up the her, and instantly Y/N recognized him. She gasped, surprised.

"I remember you! You're the one that saved me! Thank you so much!" She giggled, clasping her hands together and bowing deeply. "My deepest thanks." Gaara paused, feeling his cheeks heat up a bit.

"My heart is pounding," he mumbled allowed, pressing his hand against his chest. "What have you done to me?" He asked, tilting his head to the side. Y/N stood up straight, giving him a questioning hum in return. Her face looked so innocent and sweet; it's all apart of that facade, isn't it? Gaara growled, roughly grabbing Y/N's shoulders and pulling her close. She jumped, gasping a little at the sudden action. "I said, what did you do to me? Where did this hellfire come from, you witch!" His voice went from his normal calm tone to a scream instantly.

Y/N's eyes widened and her body started to shiver a little. She furrowed her eyebrows together, stuttering out a reply. "I-I don't understand..." That answer wasn't good enough for Gaara as he had no problem throwing her to the ground and looming over her with a look of anger across his facial features. His fist was clenched so tight that his veins were showing. "I don't know what you're talking about!" Y/N yelled out fearfully, covering her face. Tears began to swell in her eyes and her voice became shakey.

Sand began to pour out from behind him and his heart ate picked up again. That flame in his heart was so strong and terrifying to Gaara that he was okay with killing the girl he fell in love with right then and now. His body was so scared that it wanted to kill her, but his heart was too scared to rid such a wonderful girl from the world forever. "Tell me, witch. What did... you do?" He asked again, staring at her so intensely that she could feel his eyes burning into her skin. She sniffed, now too scared to reply upon seeing that sand loom over her.

After a few moments, he screamed, "tell me!" Y/N chocked up on tears, taking a deep breath before replying.

"I don't know any magic or special jutsus, sir! I didn't do anything to you!" She cried out, slowly sitting up. "I'm sorry!" Gaara hissed, silent for a couple minutes. In that time, Gaara remained still as Y/N slowly began to stand up. In her mind, she was recalling words her mom once spoke to her about dangerous people. People are born innocent and harmless and only bad environments or situations can taint their purity. With that in mind, Y/N assumed that Gaara had problems that she couldn't understand. And with a heart as pure as her's, she had already forgave Gaara for scaring her and already felt sympathy for him. She slowly walked closer to him, the hairs on her neck standing up with anxiety, and put an arm on his shoulder.

That touch made him snatch back to reality. He slowly put his hand on top of her's; he was so confused and overwhelmed with opposing emotion and thought. "Then why? Why do you make me feel this way?" He asked in a low rough voice. Y/N began to wrap her arms around him and then hug him softly, shutting her eyes tightly. She managed to push her worried back as she found giving this sad, sad man affection was more important. Gaara felt his chest grow warm again and suddenly, she chuckled.

"I think your hellfire consumed me. I can't even find it in myself to kill you anymore, witch. I think I'm in love with you," he said, blinking away tears. He was so scared and his body pained to kill her, but he just couldn't. He was so overwhelmed with the pleasant feeling of Y/N arms being around him to ever lay a finger on her in anger. Instead he just hugged her back tightly, stuffing his face into the crook of her neck and sniffing. He was obviously holding back tears, which didn't work very well. Afterall, for the first time in forever, he felt like he could show a little bit of a soft side.

"You're gonna control me, aren't you? Use my feelings against me and bend me to your will? You're so cruel, even with the face of an angel." Y/N hummed, not understanding his comments. She just sighed, hugging him tighter and opening her eyes.

"Hey, Gaara, isn't it? Why don't we spend time out here tomorrow? I'd like to get to know you better."

Gaara grunted in response, closing his eyes and wiping his tears with on arm, keeping his other arm tightly around her smaller form. Yeah, whatever hellfire he feels has completely consumed him before he could stop it.

Lol sorry this written to bad!

[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

Dear Evan Hansen

You may have seen some ~online discourse~ about the film Dear Evan Hansen, an adaptation of the 2016 Broadway musical, and you might have wondered what all the hubbub is about. I mean, it’s a feel good story about a senior in high school, Evan Hansen (Ben Platt), who has some pretty severe anxiety and depression. While trying to fulfill an assignment from his therapist to write a letter to himself, his letter gets picked up by another student, Connor (Colton Ryan) - and later that day, Connor kills himself. Connor’s grieving parents and sister Zoe (Amy Adams, Danny Pino, and Kaitlyn Dever) are desperate to learn more from the boy they think was Connor’s best friend - after all, Connor’s suicide note was a letter addressed to “Dear Evan Hansen.” And, as you can imagine, Evan tells them about the unfortunate mistake and sits with them in their grief as they struggle to pick up the pieces of their lives. 

Just kidding! He lies to them, repeatedly, elaborately, expansively for months, constructing an entire false friendship with Connor that never happened, and ingratiating himself into the wealthy nuclear family he never had, in large part because he wants to get into Zoe’s pants! THIS IS THE PROTAGONIST OF THE STORY. Oh, and it’s a musical so there is a lot of singing and crying and singing WHILE crying and sometimes crying and not singing at all. But the #inspiration, you guys. 

Things I liked:

Pretty much everything but the story and Ben Platt’s performance. The supporting cast is stacked, and all of them do a great job at elevating material scraped directly out of a diaper worn by someone who just chewed their way through a copy of the DSM-5. 

A couple of the songs are damn catchy - “Waving Through a Window” and “You Will Be Found” are standouts for a reason - and here’s the thing, Platt sings them well. But as you’ll discover, there’s a lot more to a movie musical than just singing your part. 

Stephen Chbosky, the man behind every deep thought I and a lot of people in my generation had in 2006 after he wrote The Perks of Being a Wallflower, is a pretty good director. I particularly enjoyed the fanvid-type cuts in “Waving Through a Window” in conjunction with the lyrics, and his use of interstitial shots to flashbacks (and sometimes flashforwards!) is a neat little bit of shorthand that I thought was used sparingly enough to be effective. 

Amy Fucking Adams. She’s holding on so hard, so desperately to the idea of who her son could have been, rather than the reality of who he was, and she is full of such deep pain that is masked by an almost endless supply of patience with Evan and relentless positivity. All this made me want was Enchanted 2 even worse than I already did. 

Super into everything Zoe wears - the costuming department did a great job, and now all I want to do is live in mom jeans and baggy sweaters.

Did I Cry? I teared up a couple of times because I’m not a completely heartless bastard and when Amy Adams offered Evan Connor’s college money, my heart broke for the lie Evan had thrust upon her, and Julianne Moore’s song got me good, because she’s just a single mom to Evan who is doing her goddamn best. 

Things I hated more than the time I dropped a frozen gallon container of fruit cocktail on my pinkie toe in my parents’ garage and it turned black and I thought it was gonna fall off:

Ben Platt is 28 years old. He originated the role of Evan Hansen on Broadway, so in many respects it makes sense that he plays the role in the movie, except for the one kinda sorta important thing where he looks like a wizened old crone standing amongst a sea of children doing his best twitching, cringing Hunchback of Notre Dame impression. If you want someone to convincingly play 20 years their junior, hire Paul Rudd. Otherwise, please don’t ask me to believe that this supposed 18-year-old has crow’s feet. 

And that twitching nervous energy is a huge part of the black hole at the center of this film - he’s playing to the cheap seats and walking through the halls of his high school like a wet chihuahua. It’s an excruciating acting choice to watch - he doesn’t just have anxiety, he is on the verge of a nervous breakdown seemingly every second of every day. Like honestly, where is only-mentioned-never-seen Dr. Sherman, because this young man’s meds are NOT WORKING DR. SHERMAN. 

There’s such a lack of self-awareness on behalf of the writing, directing, and performance by Platt. There’s one song, “Sincerely, Me,” that offers the only glimpse of commentary about what Evan is doing, by pointing out the malicious ridiculousness of him writing a series of fake emails as proof of his and Connor’s friendship. 

Also what high schoolers email this much?? I know this was written in probably 2014 or so, but has a bitch never heard of a text? Even a DM? This whole plot is constructed around the premise that high schoolers are just constantly, constantly emailing each other. 

Everything - and I mean EV-ER-Y-THING - about Evan’s relationship with Zoe is so creepy and disturbing that with a soundtrack change, this could easily be a horror movie. He attempts to get her to like him by describing to her all the things her brother noticed about her - oh wait, I’m sorry, all the things HE noticed about her while he was skulking in the shadows following her around for years, watching every move she made, and it ends with him singing repeatedly “I LOVE YOU” because following a girl around and never having a conversation with her or knowing her at all is love, right? This was clearly written by the same people who chose “Every Breath You Take” as their wedding song because Sting is hot and they never actually listened to the damn words. 

And it gets about 10 billion times worse when Zoe goes to Evan’s house alone, takes him up to his room, and sings “I don’t need reasons to want you” and that was the moment I was that person I hate in a movie theater and I pulled out my phone to Google who wrote the music and lyrics to the musical (we were in the back row of the theater no one was behind me THIS WAS AN OUTRAGE EMERGENCY) and of motherfucking course it was written by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, 2 men who heard about meeting an actual human woman from a friend one time but otherwise are unfamiliar with the concept. 

Lastly, enormous serial killer vibes from Evan sending unlabeled flash drives anonymously through the mail with no note in an attempt to right his wrongs. That’s not catharsis, that’s how the next installment in the Saw franchise starts, with Evan in a Billy the clown doll mask showing up on the screen and asking if you want to play a fucking game. 

Also, I know it’s not possible for the narrative to justify this in a way that could be satisfying based on Evan’s actions, but what is with this thing where single working-class mom Julianne Moore is turning down rich people’s money for Evan to go to college? Like, obviously we can’t have that happen in the movie but in real life, fuck your pride! Take those rich people’s money!

I also know how movies work but nothing annoys me more than a giant group of high schoolers all getting beeps and boops to indicate text notifications all at the same time because I don’t know a single person under the age of 55 who keeps their ringer on. That shit is on vibrate AT MOST, and I feel like that’s a millennial thing. 

The emotional climax of the film is obviously Evan’s WAY TOO LATE confession, but the idea that it’s prompted by Connor’s family suddenly getting a lot of internet hate is, frankly, laughable. If Sandy Hook taught me one thing, it is that no tragedy is immune from trolls who live only to cause other people devastating emotional pain on the internet. That shit starts day 1. Apparently no one involved in this production has ever been on Twitter?

Also it feels like there should have been a dog somewhere in this movie and there was no dog, so points off for that too. 

Perhaps Dear Evan Hansen isn’t nearly as deep as it aspires to be. Perhaps it’s a morality play, a simplistic message of “Don’t lie, kids, lying is bad!” Major studio movies wrap themselves up with a nice bow at the end so everyone can feel good about themselves and leave with a happy ending, but the moronic cruelty on display here makes that feat feel impossible. We’re left with Evan in an orchard, reading Connor’s favorite books and staring into the big blue sky with all the self-actualization he’s earned now as a lil treat. And if Evan Hansen looked like an actual 18-year-old, it would be a lot easier to extend more empathy to him and his not-fully-developed prefrontal cortex, but it’s a little harder with this fully-grown, weathered man who was old enough to remember seeing Liar Liar in theaters. 

Dear Evan Hansen, 

Get some actual help and a haircut and maybe you can grow up enough to have an actual healthy interaction with any other living person, ever.

Sincerely, 

Me

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

[mrsalwayswrite]

More Than Today (Richard Winters x Reader)

So this has been in my wips for MONTHS. But here we are! I know its also been a hot minute since I’ve written any BOB fics. Sorry, friends. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: a couple swear words (thanks Nixon)

Words: 2750

Tag List: @happyveday @evelynshelby @sydney-m @saritanotserena

Paris. 

City of Light.

City of Love. 

 Dick Winters just wished the soldier behind him would stop bumping his chair as he laughed at another dirty joke. 

 It had not been his idea to be here. Apparently Sink thought he needed a break. Nixon and Welsh ganged up on him, practically forcing him to pack his bag and get on the train. 

 Now that he was here though….it was nice. 

 He would never admit how many steaming, hot baths he had taken since finding his hotel room. Plus, sleeping in a real, soft bed- his bones sang with joy at the reprieve from the hard, army cot it had been subjected to for years now. 

 Tomorrow morning he was supposed to be leaving. His last 24 hours in Paris. Truthfully, he had done nothing, just rest. Both physically and mentally. He knew if he returned without having visited some kind of touristy place, both Nixon and Welsh would be furious. Though, he would have to have a conversation with Nix. It was not until Dick started unpacking that he found the box of condoms Nix must have slipped into his bag when he was not looking. 

 Sometimes he wondered why he put up with the man. Even that thought made him smile. Somehow him and Nix, they just clicked. Completely polar opposites but maybe that was what allowed their friendship to take root and grow. 

 The soldier behind Dick laughed loudly, rocking his chair back with the movement and knocking into Dick once again. He grimaced, just saving himself from spilling coffee onto his Class A uniform. He knew he outrank the man behind him and all his friends, he could easily say something…. but that seemed like a battle not worth fighting. 

 He quickly finished his small cup of coffee, relishing the actual bitter taste of the drink verse the watery stuff the army supplied. Standing up, he pulled out the change from his pocket, ready to leave a tip for the nice waitress. 

 "There you are!" A feminine voice called out with a distinctly British accent. 

 Dick lifted his head, knowing she was not talking to him but still curious. But then the strangest thing happened. He looked up and met her eyes as she walked past the few other tables. A blinding smile lit up her face and he felt his heartbeat stutter at how beautiful it was. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the others sitting around watching her with interest but her eyes remained solely focused on him. 

 When she came to his side, she gently placed a hand on his forearm and lifted up slightly on her toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "I'm so sorry I am late, love. I lost track of time. Do we still have time for a cup or shall we go?" She easily asked, as she slid down into the extra chair at the table. 

 He stood frozen for a moment, his mind questioning everything that just happened. Thankfully, his body went on autopilot and he sat back down in his chair. "Uh…. it’s fine."

 "Lovely!" She beamed, waving a hand to get the attention of the waitress. 

 As he stared at her, his mind finally seemed to feel the tension hidden just below the surface of her overly-sunny disposition. Her hands laid in her lap, a white-knuckle grip on her small purse though. A friendly smile remained on her face but her eyes kept shifting warily over to the other side of the street, like prey keeping a predator in its peripheral. 

 Confused and now concerned, he peered over to where her eyes kept shooting. Two men stood across the street watching her with sullen expressions. Their uniforms informed him they were US army, the chevrons on their sleeves stated they were both sergeants. 

 Dick turned back to her and lowered his voice, even though he guessed over the noise of those around him, the men would not hear. "Ma'am, are you alright?"

 "Wait." She said sharply, even though her smile never faltered. Then the waitress approached and the woman ordered a cup of tea with enthusiasm. Dick found himself ordering another cup of coffee per her insistence. 

 Finally, the waitress walked away, having had a brief conversation about the lovely color of lipstick she wore with the woman across from him after taking their orders. 

 It was then the woman peeked across the street once more. Whatever she saw, Dick watched the tension ease out of her. He glanced over to see the two men making their way back down the street. 

 "Bloody hell." She muttered, dropping her face in her hands. 

 "Are you alright? Were those men bothering you?"

 "Mmm? Oh, no, well yes. They kept following me even after I told them I was meeting my fiancé. I am so terribly sorry I dragged you into this, it was either find someone to pretend to be my fiancé or find an alley nearby and stab them. I quite like this dress and would prefer not to get blood on it today."

 He just stared at her, unsure how to take her answer. He would have thought it was a joke but with the way she casually answered, as if stating the sky was blue, he assumed she was serious. "Um, right." He coughed, not quite sure where to take the conversation from there. Luckily, she seemed to notice. 

 "Is there somewhere you need to go? I truly am sorry for holding you up. I'll pay for your coffee when the waitress returns, it's the least I can do. Don't feel like you have to stay here just for me."

 "No, no. It's alright, ma'am. I was just…." His voice trailed off. 

 She smiled softly at him, folding her hands in her lap. "Are you stationed here in Paris?"

 At that moment, the waitress returned with their ordered drinks. 

 "No." He answered her prior question, watching her take a sip from her cup. His own cup sat between his hands but he felt no need to drink it yet. "My CO demanded I take a 72-hour pass."

 "Mmm….so you are one of those?" She laughed lightly at the look of confusion on his expressive face. "A CO who actually cares about his men, focuses on making sure they are taken care of, instead of spending time with the other officers wasting all his money on booze and women."

 "Um…." He could feel a warmth spreading over his face. Hoping to hide it, he brought his cup to his lips and took a sip. 

 "It's alright, sir. We need more officers like you in this damn war. What's your name?"

 That he could easily answer. "Lieutenant Dick Winters, Easy Company, 506th, Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airbourne."

 "Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Winters. I'm y/n y/l/n. So Airbourne, hmmm? I've heard about you. Tell me about your training."

 And somehow Dick found himself telling her about Currahee, about the jumps at Mackall, the field drills in Upottery, even laughing about Sobel's antics with her. 

 Eventually, their cups ran dry. 

 "Where are you off to now?" She asked pleasantly.

 Dick answered honestly, feeling relaxed in her presence. "I'm not sure."

 "Well, it so happens I was on my way to visit the Notre-Dame Cathedral. Would you like to join me?"

 "Sure."

 Dick insisted on paying for both of their drinks, claiming his mother would read him the riot act if he allowed a woman to pay for her own. As they walked away from the cafe, she slipped her arm through his like they had done it a million times. Instead of feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable at the unexpected physical touch, he found himself smiling down at her. 

 What started off as a day without any intended plan, just enjoying not being on the front line or behind a desk writing reports, became one of the most enjoyable days of his life. After the Cathedral, they wandered along the Seine, stopping at any shop or attraction that caught their eye. She regaled him with different facts or histories of places they saw and other locations in Paris. Before the war, she had spent some time in Paris and now, having returned as a translator, she felt it was even more important to remember those things that the Nazis tried so hard to destroy. 

 Soon conversations turned to their own experiences at home, his in Pennsylvania and hers in London. The more they talked, the more he found himself attracted to her beyond the physical. She was a breath of fresh air amongst the smog of war. A ray of sunshine to remind him that above the dark clouds of War, the sun still resided. But even if the day was spent in laughter and companionship, a war still brewed outside. A painful reminder to what Dick's priorities should be. So, he promised himself that he would enjoy her company now, but once he left Paris, he would put her out of his mind. His men and the war came first. 

 As night settled over the city, they walked side by side back to her hotel. It was not too far from his own, thus he refused to listen to her protests and told her he would escort her back for her own safety. 

 "Well, this is me." She stopped in front of the lovely hotel. "Thank you for escorting me."

 "It's the least I can do. You spent the whole day being my tour guide."

 "That sounds dreadfully boring. But you'll have stories to share with that Nixon friend of yours. Though he may be more impressed if you bring him back a vintage bottle of wine."

 "No, he only drinks Vat 69. Lord knows where the man keeps finding the stuff."

 "Besides your footlocker?"

 "Yeah, besides that." He chuckled at her jest and the mischievous smile on her face. As they stood there, smiling at one another, he found himself wishing they had more time. That perhaps he had met her before or after the war and had been able to court her properly. For now though, he would cherish their time together. "Thank you for today."

 Her smile held a hint of sadness in it, as if she lamented their separation just as much as he did. "I pray our paths will cross again." 

 "Goodnight, y/n."

 "Goodnight, Dick."

 He stepped back, lingering a moment longer to gaze at her. After, he turned and started to walk away. The hour was late and they both needed to sleep. It was less than 8 hours until his train was to depart in the morning and he knew it would be wise to enjoy his soft bed one more time before returning to a hard, army cot. 

 "Dick!" 

 He spun around, surprised to see her walking towards him, her heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk. 

 "Is everything alright?"

 Without acknowledging his question, she pressed her lips to his in an eager kiss. Dick liked to consider himself a gentleman, never to take advantage of anyone, especially a woman. In this moment though, as all thoughts fled under her touch, his body reacted on instinct. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him while their lips parted, deepening the kiss. She moaned into his mouth, tasting like the wine she sipped on at dinner, her hands tightly gripping the lapels of his uniform. Heat coursed through his body as their tongues tangled together. He felt hypnotized, unable to pull away, to maintain propriety. Nor did he want too. She nipped at his bottom lip and his knees almost buckled underneath him. This moment was pleasure and fire, something he never experienced before….and something he wanted to revisit over and over with her. 

 After only a second and eternity combined, they both pulled back with swollen lips and breathless. Rising on her toes, she gave him a quick peck on the lips, a single flame compared to the bonfire they just lavished themselves in. Swiftly, she stepped back, running her hands over her dress. 

 "Goodnight…. don’t tell Nixon about this."

 He nodded, almost shyly, mind still reeling from their shared passion. "Yes, ma'am."

 With a playful, flirty wink, she twirled around and headed back towards her hotel, her heels clicking loudly on the ground. 

 Dick watched her walk away, lips still tingling and residual flames teasing his nerves. His eyes traced over her form, hoping to memorize it, to be able to always savor this moment. Looking up to the heavens, he silently prayed that one day, their paths would cross, one day he could perhaps pursue her, one day he could feel her lips against his again. 

 *****

 "So, you still haven't said much about your time in Paris." Nixon prodded, sipping from his canteen that certainly was not water. The intelligence officer had been relentlessly interrogating his friend about his pass for the past week. 

 Dick rolled his eyes, not even glancing over. "Not much to say, Nix."

 "You had to have done something! Come on! It's Paris!"

 "I saw the Notre-Dame."

 "Hey, that's something. Stop pressing him, Nix." Welsh butted in with his typical lazy grin. He reclined in the extra chair next to Nixon. "He did return the condoms."

 "For Pete's sake." Dick muttered as he listened to the two men laugh. He stood looking out the window of his office, overlooking Easy Company below being drilled by Lieutenant Dike. Again. There was something to be said about being prepared but this went beyond that. 

 "Harry, how long have they been out there now?" He asked, not removing his gaze from his men. 

 Welsh sighed, glancing at the clock. "About two hours now."

 "Right, come on. Let's go relieve them."

 The other two scrambled to their feet, following Dick out of his office and down through the labyrinth of the HQ building. Lieutenant Dike had come with high expectations but the more Dick watched the man, the more worried he became. 

 "You're too soft on them." Nixon teased, trailing behind him.  

 Dick gave a quick salute to some officers they passed, never missing a step as he responded. "They aren't learning anything by marching back and forth out there besides ways to murder their CO."

 "Was that a joke? Holy fuck. Did you hear that, Harry? Dick made a joke! Paris changed you."

 "I heard. Still in shock." Welsh deadpanned. 

 Dick sighed good-naturedly as they stepped outside the building. Slipping his cap on, he started in the direction of his newest Lieutenant. The footsteps of his companions falling in step behind him. 

 "Dick!" 

 His feet screeched to a halt. He knew that voice. Whipping around, he was greeted by the sight of her. Someone he thought he would never truly see again. A beautiful, blinding smile on her face as she hurried towards him. His heart rapidly pounded within his chest, giving away his shock and joy at seeing her. 

 "Y/n? What are you doing here?" He could not help sweeping his eyes over her, surprised to see her in a WAC uniform. Though it did nothing to diminish her beauty. 

 "I was asked to be a translator and help with deciphering coded messages." She answered casually as if she had not just revolutionized his world. Standing in front of him, she motioned to the army camp around them. "Is this where you are stationed?"

 "Yeah, yeah, it is."

 "Oh, that's lovely. We'll be able to see each other again. I am late for a meeting otherwise I'd love to chat. Could I see you tomorrow for a cuppa?"

 "Um, sure. Yes."

 "Perfect. I'll find you in the afternoon." She raised up on her toes and gave him a quick peck on the lips, causing his mind to short-circuit. "It's good seeing you, Dick."

 With that she spun on her heel and sashayed away, leaving all three men standing there shocked. 

 "Who was that?" Nixon demanded, gaze never leaving her retreating form. 

 "Y/n…. I met her in Paris."

 Nixon smacked him on the arm. "You bastard, you said nothing happened there."

 "Nothing happened." Dick tried to defend, even if the excuse sounded weak in his own ears. Besides, for him, something certainly did happen. 

 "Probably should have kept those condoms, Dick." Welsh said, clapping him on the shoulder with a chuckle. 

 And for a brief moment, Dick wondered if he was right. 

[stillebesat]

Stille’s Sanders Sides Master Post (Updated September 9th, 2022)

Here’s my official Master Post of my Sanders Sides Fics! 

All of them can also be found on my Ao3 account NikaylaSarae. ^^;;

For Tumblr, the links to all my stories are below the cut. <3

Enjoy!

The Brilliant 3 A.M. Idea  -Roman gets an Idea at 3am and must tell Thomas. -Inspired from Image posted by: organisoitukaaosteoria, Fic request: darude-sanderstorm

The Nest -Patton misplaces his cardigan and finds it in an unexpected spot. Inspired from series of text posts by: the-zebra-dragon and arc852, Fic request: sidewritings

That’s How You Know -Roman is feeling low after not getting a part he auditioned for and desperately wanted. The others step in to cheer him up. Song!Fic -That’s How You Know from Enchanted

Out There: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 -Logan finds himself alone in the apartment. So he does something he usually doesn’t do. Sing. Song!Fic -Out There from Hunchback of Notre Dame

Deep Heart: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 -When Logan leaves the others in Patton’s room, Virgil takes matters into his own hands and ends up revealing a secret Patton wanted to keep hidden. (takes place at the end of Moving On ½) Inspiration from This Post Courage, Braveheart: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 -Virgil had known since he was young that his chances for living long were slim. Still, he had hoped to have lived a little bit longer.

A Sweet Discovery -It’s 2 a.m. and Tiny!Logan is on the prowl for sweets. Tiny!Sides

It Takes Two -When Logan can’t convince Thomas to not give into peer pressure in a potentially dangerous situation, he turns to the Side he thought he’d never go to for help. Virgil.

Found in the Glitter -Working backstage is not always the easiest, especially when Virgil manages to get on the new guy’s nerves. Theatre AU

A Rainbow Connection -Roman’s on the run, desperate to escape the man who’s been able to control his entire life just by looking into his eyes. Hopping from airport to airport, Roman unexpectedly runs into the person who gave him the key to slipping from the Cobra’s mental control; Thomas Sanders.   Song!Fic

Shades of Truth: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 - -Everyone has secrets, Roman knows this. But after dealing with Deceit in the most recent video and discovering that Virgil doesn’t like liars…he decides to come clean with a secret he’s been hiding from the other Sides.

Meeting Einstein -It’d been a horrible no good very bad and awful day, and all Patton wanted was to play with the puppies in the local pet store to cheer himself up. Instead he finds something completely different.

True Colors  -There’s a place in the mindscape that Roman only goes to as a last resort when the criticism from the others becomes too much. Unfortunately, it’s becoming an all too frequent occurrence.

A Work of Art -After a rough night of public humiliation at the hands of his old rival, Roman just wants to take a shower and get some sleep. His roommate has something else in mind though.

Contained-Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 -You know what they say about Creativity. It’s best if it’s locked away.

FreeFalling- Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 -Sometimes you just need to take a leap of faith. Winged!AU

The Butterfly Effect- Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8  Chapter 9  Chapter 10  Chapter 11  Chapter 12  Chapter 13  Chapter 14  Chapter 15  Chapter 16  Chapter 17  Chapter 18  Chapter 19  Chapter 20  Chapter 21  Chapter 22  Chapter 23  Chapter 24  Chapter 25  Chapter 26  -Roman has three chances to change his life for the better. Three chances to fix past mistakes. Three chances to totally screw it all up. But who said life is worth living unless one takes a little risk?

The Training Program-It’s five a.m.. Virgil hasn’t yet slept and Thomas is summoning him. That couldn’t be good.

A Hero’s Rescue Part 1  Part 2 -After being defeated in battle, the last thing Roman expects is to have a soaking wet hero show up at his doorstep.

The Beginning -Creativity has an idea. A wonderful, awesome idea. Now…if only Creativity could focus enough to make the idea a reality.

Little Lies - Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  -All he’d been looking for when he’d revealed himself to Thomas was a little less work. One less secret to hide. One less thing to keep Thomas from knowing because his host didn’t want to know. To say it had backfired for Deceit was a bit of an understatement.

White Lies - Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 -Sequel to Little Lies -Deceit has been stuck in his ‘role’ as Dilyn for almost a year now. It’s about time he changed that.

CatScratch - Virgil’s learned to expect a lot of things helping the police solve murders, but he never thought that they’d actually find something that could crack his own unsolved case.

The Finish Line - After years of training, Logan Star is finally going to accomplish the one goal he’s had since his first High School track meet. Beat Roman Prince.

Growing Pains -Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 -For the past year Logan has been fighting to keep a part of himself hidden. Only now, thanks to Roman, he’s been compromised.

The Grade -Patton: I’m sorry I graded your tests in magic marker, but I just felt like it.

Seeking Warmth -If he’d known he’d be spending the rest of eternity freezing to death on Earth, Deceit would never have left Hell in the first place.

Spilled Milk -Logan never expected to get in the middle of a fight while at the self-checkout of a grocery store.

Egg-stenuating Circumstances -Why is it that the simplest of quests for Roman always end up more complicated than they should be?

The Rise of Deceit -With the Dragonwitch destroying the kingdom, the Crown Prince has a difficult choice to make.

Tattered -Part 1  Part 2 -Left to fend for himself, Roman can’t trust anyone…right?

Raindrops and Cookies -Most people would only be focused on getting themselves out of the rain. Patton isn’t most people.

A Special Delivery -Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  - “The stork brings the baby to deserving parents.” He whispered, quoting the words from memory. “All the lost, forgotten, and alone.”

In These Tangled Webs: Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9  Part 10  Part 11 -It should be easy admitting to your roommates that you’re not entirely human. Only in Logan’s case it’s not. Not when he discovers that Patton is afraid of Spiders.

The Old Hoodie - 2 sentence prompt –Thomas glared at Virgil, eyes filled with hate, and held out Virgil’s old hoodie, obviously expecting him to take it and go back to who he used to be. “I don’t trust Dark Sides.“

I Miss The King: Part 1  Part 2 -2 sentence prompt -“I miss you… I miss the King” a sigh “Apparently, it’s the same for me.”

Infinitesimal -Logan isn’t quite sure why Roman thinks he needs his help at three in the morning.

To Break A Curse: 2 sentence prompt -Logan looked at Roman, eyes dark. “I need you to really think about what you’re saying, because you’re going to hurt Virgil even more if you do not.“  

Shutting Down -Having your phone die shouldn’t be that big of a deal…right?

Anxious to Touch - Virgil ca’t be around the others without hurting them, so he has to stay away. Only Deceit won’t let him do that.

The Path: A Tale of Trick or Treating - Remus(1) Patton(2) Emile(3) Remy(4) ???(5) Logan(6) Roman(7) Virgil(8) Diva(9) Duke(10) Prince(11) Picani(12) Logic(13)  Deceit(14) ???(15)  -2nd person pov. -You’ve been trick or treating at the Sanders Side’s homes for as long as you can remember, but this year things get a bit more…complicated.

The Interview: Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4 Part 5 -A normal day at StoryTime! Inc. takes an unexpected turn when Logan goes to investigate why his coworkers have made a bet using Crofters as the prize.

Virgil’s Interview: -It’d been his dream to work for StoryTime! since he was a kid, and now finally, Virgil may be able to make it come true. Note: Virgil’s pov of Chapter 3 in The Interview.

The Olive Branch -They used to celebrate Christmas Eve without Anxiety there to ruin things. But this year Roman plans to change that.

These Black Wings -An hour ago Patton had been loved, wanted, celebrated. Now? He’s on the run for his life thanks to the large black wings that sprouted from his back.

Chimney Sweep -Sure. It’s great to be able to see visions of missing children…but being able to find them still alive is another thing entirely.

Meeting Romeo -A Prequel to A Work of Art. -It was unfortunate really, but someone had to tell the Romeo standing on the street that his Juliet he’d come to listen to day after day no longer lived in the apartment complex. It might as well be Virgil.

Dance with Me -Patton’s never had a father figure to bring to his ballet class for Valentine’s Day like all the other kids before. But this year…he might.

A Midnight Conversation -All Virgil expected when he stepped out onto the balcony was to have a quiet moment to himself. Note: Virgil’s pov of ch 2 of White Lies.

Warm Fuzzies -Two Sentence Prompt: Remy thought that he didn’t deserve love, not after everything he’s done. But, when Emile walked through the door to room 127, Remy’s heart skipped an unexpected beat.

A Shadowling’s Happiness  -Two Sentence Prompt: “Where the hell are you going!?” “To the subconscious,  and you can’t stop me.”

Scales- Prologue  Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Epilogue -Deceit hadn’t expected his absence from the Mindscape to be noticed by the others…until Logic knocked on his door.

Mother’s Day -Janus has never liked Mother’s Day.

Wanted -Remus knew one thing for sure. No one would ever want to Want him.

To The Moon - A Vague AU Prompt. -This wasn’t at all how Patton expected their wedding night to go.

The New Hire- Roman has never known his brother, Logan, to break a promise. Until now. Note: Roman’s pov of Chapter 4 in The Interview. 

Be My Dad- A Vague AU Prompt -Janus has no interest in being a parental figure to a kid, but trying to convince the universe of that is another thing entirely.

Moonshot-  Was it too much for Logan to ask to have just one date not revolve around sports talk?

The Sweater- Emile had said he was making a sweater for a friend. Only he neglected to tell Remy that this friend wasn’t exactly…well…human.

October ThirST -After seventy years of searching for his Soulblood, Virgil is highly doubtful he’ll find them tonight.

Lemon Drops -Patton just wanted to go somewhere where he wouldn’t be judged, wouldn’t disappoint…wouldn’t…screw up another relationship. (Takes place after SvS Redux)

The Path: A Promise Kept -sequel to The Path: A Tale of Trick or Treating -Trick or Treating may be cancelled this year, but that won’t stop you from keeping a Promise.

The Chaos Twins -prequel moment to The Sweater -Everyone has their hobbies, though Emile wishes his roommates’ hobbies were a little less…explosive.

On the Run -prequel moment to the Sweater -When life gives you an escape attempt, you run as fast and as far as you can to get away.

Nitemear -It’s not considered running away if you’re merely trying to find a more defensible position.

The Key is Confidence -Confidence. That was the key, his father had told him, to getting away with anything.

Among the Branches -Getting woken up at the crack of dawn by your landlord can’t be a good thing. Fractured Trust- Trust is a tender thing, easily made…and just as easily broken. Written for the Two sentence prompt -"Why don't you trust me Roman?" Patton asked tightening his grip on Roman's shirt. "P-Patton I-" Roman stuttered out fearfully.

A Mini’s Pep Talk -It shouldn’t surprise Roman, at this point, that on top of an already no good really really bad day he ends up getting attacked by another Side’s Mini-Me while looking for his own. (Takes place after SVS Redux)

The (K)nightmare -They say that the brain uses Dreams to help understand and solve problems one faces in the waking world.

Demon Comfort -Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 -Lurking under a Human’s bed should be downright dull for a Demon of Logan’s rank. And yet…he can’t help but be intrigued by his human charge.

First Contact - Things would be so much easier if only their human, Virgil, would talk to them.

Meeting Virgil (5x1) - Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 -Five times Remy tried to give Virgil a child and the one time he succeeded. A Special Delivery Prequel. 

Catch Me (If You Can) - Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 -Remy would not allow himself to be seen as needy and helpless in front of the general masses. He had an image to uphold. One of perfect health, snarky comebacks, and general sassiness. He didn’t get sick.

Beneath the Moon - Part 1  Part 2 Part 3 -After all the research he’d done, after all the signs he’d been experiencing. Logan needed someone to tell him he wasn’t crazy. And Roman…Roman had always been the one most likely to believe in the fantastical, the impossible, the…supernatural.

Hello Darkness (My Old ... Friend?) - Part 1  -Is it possible to search for something…for someone…when you don’t even remember that they’re missing?

Dance Break! -Roman suddenly jumped up, a sparkle in his eyes, as he turned, seeking out the first person he can find and holding out his hand. “Dance with me!” (Written with @kieraelieson)​

Christmas Eve -Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5 -Of all the barriers that Janus expected to have to overcome in order to get his son a pet for Christmas, encountering his Ex, Roman, working in the pet store had never once crossed his mind.

Code: Blanket -Part 1  Part 2 -A friendship doesn’t stop just because one person decides to act like a dick. Especially when said dick is obviously in trouble.

An Unconventional Defeat -Patton knew that heroes started out young, far younger than villains ever did. But this young?

Into the Fray -It wasn’t like he shouldn’t have expected this. It seemed like any plan involving him and Virgil had a tendency to well…go astray.

No Longer Alone -Growing up in isolation away from people has been all that Virgil’s ever known. That changes today.

A Restless Christmas Eve -Even if it had been five years since he’d appeared in the real world, this still felt like it should have been a Virgil problem and not a Deceit one. He’d never had issues staying asleep before. Let alone ending up wide awake, feeling like he needed to–to–just move. Get out. Because of a stupid storm.

Out Camping - Part 1  Part 2 -A Father and Son Camping Trip.

Sanders Sides Art Portals AU-  Deceit  Roman  Patton Logan  Virgil

[call-me-jerusalem]

You guys know how much I love this scene. In the past I have even hijacked @hemisphaeric​’s post and wrote meta about it. Now, I wrote a fic. It’s already posted at AO3, but I wanted to share it here as well, so I can attach this pretty screenshot that took me forever to capture, because it’s right before the scene changes, it’s literally the last frame we see.

This fic is what happens next.

Petrichor

Helsinki falls asleep in your arms and that’s why you cannot move.

No, wait. That’s not right. Not Helsinki, no.

Mirko.

You sigh to banish the air from your body. You are now a set of clean, empty parts, empty lungs, empty chest, empty heart. All that room just waiting to be filled up again. You have told him your sins, but you never asked for forgiveness. He acquitted you all the same.

You rest your back against the door so you can hold him as he sleeps. He gave you something when you thought you had nothing else to hold on to.

You know you will be here for a while, so you say his name. Only for yourself, yes, but you say it, quietly. It’s a prayer, almost. You want to know how it feels on your tongue, against the roof of your mouth. This sacred offer.

It’s the only part of him you haven’t tasted yet.

“Mir-ko.”

It’s not that different from Martín, you think. Two syllables, two lives, two lovers who never got to use the words, two broken mirrors. There are so many pieces to be put back together now.

“Mirko.”

He still does not stir, face buried against your chest. He must be so tired.

You wonder if he managed more than a couple of hours of sleep in the last couple of days. You should have known it, come to think of that. You were responsible for him. For them.

For her, as well.

You close your eyes and you can almost picture him sitting by her sickbed, waiting for her to wake up from your mistake. She could make mistakes, he said, but not you.

You wonder if he prayed, then. It didn’t matter if he did, and it certainly didn’t help. Gandía found her first.

Gandía found him second.

And you can’t bear to think about what would have happened if Tokyo and Bogotá had arrived only two seconds too late. You stare in horror and awe at the purple bruises around his neck, scattered where the rope kissed him deeply and slowly, took his breath away.

You thought he would be heavier, here, somehow.

Maybe it’s just the way half of his body lies on the floor, legs curled against yours, chest against your lap, his head on your arms. His beard tickles your naked skin, but you don’t dare move. He must be tired, because he heard your confession, then he cried himself to sleep.

It’s the debris scattered on the floor that bothers you. It stings against your legs, but still, you don’t move.

You try to distract yourself. You try to add up the bullet holes around the room, but you lose count twice before you finally give up. They’re everywhere. They’re on the doors, on the walls, the windows, the floor covered with empty shells.

Like a beach after the hightide, a paved street after a hailstone storm.

The air is heavy with wood dust and it dances before your eyes. You can’t see very well, but it feels familiar.

You remember being inside a cathedral with Andrés, on your first time in Europe. Maybe it was Notre Dame, or Cologne, or la Sagrada Familia, it does not matter now.

He was the artist, he knew the stories behind each fresco, and you only wanted to see where the cornerstones were laid. Now he’s gone, so he won’t care if you don’t get the place right for this metaphor.

It’s the stained-glass you think about, anyway. How it filtered the sun into beams of coloured light.

You try not to breathe in the dust, afraid it would fill your lungs and pierce you from within. You close your eyes again and try to remember the cathedral, the light, the mass, the singing. You can’t help thinking about the hymn you all sang not even an entire day before. It feels a lifetime ago.

Her lifetime.

It was her life and you traded it for ninety tons of gold.

It’s seems much better a bargain than twenty pieces of silver, and you think maybe you should go and find a rope with your name on.

But you cannot move, because you don’t want to wake him up. He’s had enough. He has lost enough.

“Mirko.”

You say it again, a little louder this time.

You wonder if she knew his name. You never heard her say it out loud, but after two years of traveling together, she must have known, surely? He must have told her. She was in love, after all. Can you be in love with someone you don’t know completely?

He could.

He said he knew you from the beginning and you can’t help wondering exactly where, when... how? How did he find out? What gave you away?

Was it something you said? Something you did? Something you let slip in one of those nights you let him have you?

After the chapel, you promised yourself you won’t let it happen again. If no-one knew you wanted them to stay, maybe it wouldn’t hurt that much when they walked away, too.

Maybe someone told him. Maybe he heard something during all those months before the Mint... but before you can entertain that idea for too long, though, you chuckle. Andrés would never have admitted he failed.

Not even Sergio knew, not the whole story, surely. He certainly didn’t know about the chapel. He lacked most social skills, our Professor, but he was never a cruel man. Would he have made you sit there for two months and stare at his brother’s face if he knew?

Oh.

Maybe that’s how he found out.

He must have noticed the way your eyes avoided that space on your left, how your voice faltered, sometimes, when you talked about the plan, the times you tried to make justice to his favourite bits and pieces, when you tried to not let it show, every time you tried to compensate, to fill up the space that used to be his.

How could you keep singing by yourself a song written for a duet?

It hurts, still, but when you close your eyes, it’s her face you see, shoved through a door, wood splinters like a crown of thorns. She was in pain.

Somehow, you knew she wouldn’t make it. You knew every word of that hymn. Your mother used to sing it in the choir, but Gandía stopped before the third stanza. It was an important one.

There, that’s how it goes:

You know what I have In my boat there is neither gold nor swords Only my nets and my work

He told you she volunteered first. How she agreed to melt gold to help the family she never had, but that was not her dream, nor her abducted lover, nor her mistake. You all send her away in a wooden box.

It was the same one the Browning was brought in.

And you cannot forget there were tears in his eyes, when you pressed the button to close the doors, when he put down his harmonica. There were tears in his eyes when he restrained himself and didn’t shoot Gandía. There were tears in his eyes an hour ago, when he offered you his name, his losses, his future.

And what did you give him back? If he already knew who you are, you didn’t offer nothing but a name to put on it.

“Martín?”

You can’t say exactly when your silent tears turned into ugly sobs, when your whole body began to shake. You never meant to wake him.

He disentangles himself from you and he stares at you, a hand on your face.

You try to focus on him, but your eyes deceive you and your tears blind you, and still, you can tell he looks like he knows exactly what he sees. He presses a kiss against your forehead, and you bury your face in his neck, taking it all in.

You think he smells like blood and gunpowder and the air does not feel so heavy anymore.

Maybe it rained and washed it all away.

Tú sabes bien lo que tengo, En mi barca no hay oro ni espadas, Tan sólo redes y mi trabajo. Pescador de Hombres

[nothingeverlost]

Fic: Henry Gold (5/?)

Summary: Regina asked for Gold’s help in procuring a child, but when he held the wee boy in his arms he couldn’t give the child up.  Ten years later it’s Henry Gold who arrives in Boston, looking for Emma.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3/ Chapter 4

A/N: Very Henry-lite, but . Emma meets Mary Margaret, a pregnant girl, and applies first aid.  More show dialog than past chapters.

II

"You had us all worried, Henry."  At Henry's request Emma walked him to school the next morning.  They were greeted in the playground by a woman with short hair who looked strangely familiar, though Emma knew that they'd never met.  "I'm glad you're safe."

"Thanks Miss Blanchard.  I have to go talk to Paige.  Bye Emma, thanks for walking me."  Henry was off before Emma had a chance to respond.  Ever since the call had come from Franklin's that it would be at least a week before her car could be repaired, thanks to a part that needed to be ordered, Henry had been much more relaxed. 

"So you're Henry's teacher."  Who happened to be the woman that Henry thought was her mother.  The mother who was, from the looks of her, the same age as Emma herself.  "I'm Emma.  I'm, uh…"

"His biological mother.  You're also the one that got him and Archie out of the mine."  Miss Blanchard shrugged.  "It's a small town, and there's not a lot to talk about.  News travels fast.  Also he apparently used my credit card to find you, or at least I assume that’s why a site called www.whoseyourmama showed up on my bill."

“I don’t have much experience with small towns.”  She wasn’t used to people knowing much about her, either. She was more used to stolen credit cards, but hadn’t realized that Henry had inherited that talent.  Was stealing hereditary?  If so he came by it honestly.

“Sometimes if can be really wonderful, having so many people know you.  Sometimes it can feel lonely, when it feels like nothing ever changes.”  She shrugged.  “I’m afraid I have to take some of the blame for yesterday, and for you being here.”

“Because of the credit card?”  Emma wondered if Henry would have still run for the mines if she had never been in the town.  If he had would he have found a way out?

“Because of the book.”  Mary Margaret looked to the corner of the playground where Henry was sitting and talking to a little blond girl.  It was the first time Emma had seen him with a kid his own age.

“You’re the one that gave it to him?”  That was weird.  Or maybe it made sense. She gave him the book so maybe seeing her as one of the characters was logical, for a ten year old.  And if his teacher was a character in the book then he’d just started naming other people too. “Why?”

“Henry is a very special boy, so smart and creative.  But he’s also very lonely.  Perhaps because of who his father is, or because he’s so clever he’s never been very good at making friends.  I thought the book could help.”

“How does a book make him less lonely?”  For a moment she was back on the bed in one of her group homes, walkman playing music through her headphones and a book in front of her.  She knew what lonely felt like, but her books and music had been a shield, not a solution.

“What do you think stories are for? These stories are classics. There’s a reason we all know them. They’re a way for us to deal with our world. A world that doesn’t always make sense to adults, let alone ten year old boys.”  Mary Margaret sighed.  “What’s the first fairytale you remember someone reading to you?”

“I didn’t get a lot of storytime.”  There had been a family once, that had almost kept her, but then they’d had a child of their own.  She’d tried to forget most of that home; it made the rest of them harder.  “I remember sneaking into a theatre to see Hunchback of Notre Dame once.” 

Mary Margaret bit her lip, looking a little like she wanted to cry.  People raised in happy homes with parents usually assumed that everyone else had the same.  “I gave the book to him because I wanted Henry to have the most important thing anyone can have. Hope. Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing.”

Emma was grateful when the bell rang and kids started running for the building.  She didn’t want to know what Mary Margaret’s next question might be.  

“It was nice meeting you, Emma.”  Mary Margaret offered her hand, but before Emma could shake a bird landed on her finger.

“Yeah.”  Maybe Henry’s stories were getting to her too, because for just a second she could understand how Henry could look at his teacher and see Snow White.  “I’ll see you around.”

II

“Are you okay?”  All she’d wanted was a cup of coffee, but she’d barely managed a sip before spilling it on her shirt.  The diner’s owner had directed her to the laundry room of the bed and breakfast next door to clean up.  Now she was faced with a very pregnant and very unhappy pregnant teen that reminded her way too much of herself.  Well, except for the lack of a prison jumper.  

“Last night, I felt contractions and the doctor said that the baby could come any day now.”  She rubbed her belly, one hand resting on it even when she poured bleach into the washing machine.  Apparently the sheets weren’t supposed to be pink.  Emma remembered waking to find her hand on her belly, feeling the movement inside and forcing herself to move her hand, wrapping it around the metal frame of her cell bed.

“Ah.”  What could she say?  Labor was scary and painful, but being that pregnant wasn’t comfortable.

“It’s just that, um, when the… When the baby comes, no one thinks that I can do this. No one thinks I can do anything.”  She looked down at her belly.  “Maybe they’re right.”

“Forget what they think, what do you think?”  She didn’t let herself think about what it what it would have been like to keep her kid.  It hadn’t been possible and it wouldn’t have been Henry’s best life.  She’d made her only possible choice, but that was her.  “What do you want for you and what do you want for this kid?”

“I’m nineteen.”

“A year older than I was.”  And from the looks of her not living on the street at least.

“When you had a kid?”  The girl frowned, as if it had never occurred to her that someone else might have been in the same boat. 

“Yeah. Everyone loves to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially with a kid. For me the right choice was adoption but I was the only person that could make that choice.  You’re the only one that can decide for you.”  Hopefully the mayor wasn’t still looking for a kid.  The idea that she could have been Henry’s mom was still unsettling.

“You don’t understand.  Sean’s father…”

“Doesn’t get to make decisions for you.”  She didn’t wonder where this ‘Sean’ was.  Clearly he wasn’t interested, nor was his father grandparent material.  “You just got to punch back and say, ‘no, this is who I am.’ You want people to look at you differently? Make them. If you want to change things, you’re going to have to go out there and change them yourself, because there are no fairy godmothers in this world.

II

“Gold?”  Emma was restlessly wandering the kitchen, trying to decide if she wanted hot chocolate or a drink from Gold’s decanter when she heard him come down the stairs.

“The alarm from my shop is going off.”  He wore an overcoat and a scarf.  She’d taken the trash out earlier and it had been see-your-breath kind of cold.  That was more than an hour ago.

“Did you want me to come with you?”  Apparently small towns didn’t have security patrols that answered alarms.  So far as she could tell they had one sheriff, and that was about it.

“No, it’s probably just a stray cat trying to get someplace warm.  I won’t be gone fifteen minutes.  Henry’s asleep, I turned off his lamp before I came down.”  He glanced up the stairs.

“Don’t forget gloves,” she suggested before going back into the kitchen to make hot chocolate with cinnamon.  Just thinking about being outside made her cold.  She drank her chocolate while wandering the rooms, looking at the photos on the walls and the odd trinkets.  There was one display case that held nothing but a teacup with a chipped rim; she wondered if the chip made it more or less valuable.  There were pictures of Henry all over the place, one tops of tables and hanging on the walls.  She lost count of how many bookcases there were; Henry’s room had a couple as well.  Gold probably did too, though she hadn’t seen his bedroom.

Emma was washing out her mug when she glanced at the clock and realized it had been more than half an hour since Gold had left, twice the time he’d expected to be gone.  If it was a false attempt to enter the shop he’d be back already; they were only five minutes away.  She slipped her phone out of her pocket and dialed his number.  It rang five times before going to voicemail.

“Crap.”  The way she figured it she only had one choice.  She called the sheriff to ask for a ride.

“Gold?”  She didn’t have a gun with her but she was fast and she was sneaky.  She had the door to the shop open before Graham caught up to her.

“Potential crime scenes are in my job description, not yours. You should let me go first,” Graham suggested.

“Habit,” she said with a shrug, scanning the room.  “This is not that different from what I do.”

“Professional thief?”  There was a hint of humor in his voice that was probably inappropriate but almost made her grin despite her worry.  If anything happened to Gold Henry would be inconsolable.

“Sort of the opposite.  I’m a bail bonds person.”  At least that was part of her job.  She did some bounty hunting as well but that was a little less official and she was talking to the local law.

“Not something we’ve ever had much use of around here.”  There was no one in the main room of the shop so together they moved through the curtain to the back.  Gold was on the floor and he didn’t look like he was moving.

“Shit, shit, shit.”  She turned on the switch, flooding the room with light.  Gold’s chest rose and fell so that was something, at least, but he didn’t flinch at the light.

“I’m going to check out back.”  Graham headed for the door.  Emma knelt next to Gold and looked for injuries.  When she rolled him to his back his hair fell to one side and revealed a bloody gash near his temple.  She didn’t know if the fancy squares in his pocket were supposed to serve any purpose but they were the first thing she grabbed to staunch the blood.

“I hope 911 works in this place.”  She’d never lived in a town small enough to wonder before.

“Don’t bother on my account.”  Gold struggled to sit up but Emma’s light hold on his chest was enough to stop him.  She didn’t realize at first glance how bloodshot his eyes were.

“Slow down there, champ.  Bleeding out on your own office floor is going to make for a pretty embarrassing story.”  Emma frowned.  She should probably ask him some questions or something, but the whole ‘do you know who the president is’ thing never made much sense to her.

“Bleeding?”  His hand went up to his head, fingertips coming away sticky and red.  “I must have hit the corner of the desk when I fell.”

“You fell?”  Graham closed the door when he came back in, and the lack of a draft made the place feel warmer.

“Must have been an uneven patch on the floor.  I should have turned the light on.”  This time he did sit up, wincing a little as he did so.  

“There wasn’t anyone else in here?”  Graham looked skeptical, which was fair because Emma knew that Gold was lying through his teeth.  It was the first lie she’d caught him in.

“No one but me and my shadow.”  He grasped for his cane but didn’t try to stand.  “Thank you for your service, sheriff, but it was a false alarm.  I’m sure Ms. Swan won’t mind driving my car home and you probably should get back to a warm bed somewhere.”

“I could follow you home just to be sure,” Graham offered.  He seemed to be reluctant to leave.

“We’ll call if we need you.”  Gold sat perfectly still until Graham was gone and the sound of the front door closing meant he’d left the building.

“Are you going to tell me now why you were lying?”  Emma stood and held out her hand.  After a moment Gold held on firmly and let her help him to stand.  She didn’t comment on the fact he’d needed help, or that he leaned on the cane more heavily than usual.

“I’d rather wait until we’re home, if you don’t mind.  I don’t like leaving Henry alone in the house.  If you wouldn’t mind locking the back door, please.”  He limped towards the front without waiting for her reply.  She made note of the fact that the lock was pretty crappy and there was a pane of broken glass that she would bet anything wasn’t broken an hour ago.  Calling it locked was a joke, really. The front door at least had a bolt.

“So are you going to tell me now?” she asked when they were back at the house and she’d run upstairs to check on Henry.  He was still sleeping.  Gold was patting his face dry with a towel, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up.  “Do you need a bandaid?”

“It’s fine,” he said dismissively with a wave of his hand.  “I’m having a drink, would you like one?”

“I’d like the truth.”  She took the drink, though, when he led her out of the kitchen and into the library.

“There was someone in my shop tonight.  A young woman that clearly needed help; she was quite wound up, not acting like herself at all.”

“And she hit you?”  Who in the world broke into a pawn shop and stole things?

“No, no.  She used pepper spray on me, threw me off my balance.  I really did hit the desk.”  He touched his wound lightly with a couple of fingers and winced.  At least it wasn’t bleeding.  “I’ve never seen her like that before.”

“You know her?”

“She’s a client, of sorts.”  He paused for a moment to sit on the sofa, raising his leg to rest on the ottoman.  “You see, Emma, there’s no lawyer here in Storybrooke.  I’m rather good with contracts, and sometimes people come to me for help with deals.  Ashley Boyd sought me out a few months ago.  She’s a young girl, only a year out of high school, and there’s a babe on the way.  Neither her family, such as it is, or the father are helping her.  She wanted to discuss options.”

“You were brokering an adoption?”  She had a sinking suspicion that she knew exactly who he was talking about.  It couldn’t be a coincidence that she’d talked to a young pregnant girl hours ago about ‘punching back’ and a young pregnant girl had broken into the shop and assaulted Gold.  Great.

“I was.  There’s a couple here in town, actually, that has been trying for years to have a child.  They have a nursery ready and names picked out.  I have a keen interest in helping families find each other.”  He glanced towards the hall and the staircase going up to his son’s room.  “She never seemed happy but she was relieved that someone would love and raise her child.  Perhaps reality is setting in now that she’s so close to having the baby.  She was raving about changing her destiny, and something confusing about godmothers.”

“Where is she now?”  Shit, it was the same girl.  And a family that might not get a baby they’d been waiting for, but if Ashley wanted her baby she deserved that chance.  Either way someone was going to lose.

“I don’t know.  She lives at the bed and breakfast and doesn’t have a car.  Her parents are both dead but there’s a stepmother.  I didn’t want to send the sheriff after her, she doesn’t need a record for one confused moment, but we should find her.”

“In the morning.”  She frowned, and wondered again about his wound.  “Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?  How do you know it’s safe to go to bed?”

“I’m far too stubborn and thick-headed for a little bump to cause any problems.”  He downed most of his drink in a single gulp.  Maybe the drink helped, because he was more steady on his feet when he stood and left the room.  Emma was about to follow when her phone rang.  It was a Maine area code.

“Hello?”  She hadn’t given her number to anyone except Gold and the guy at the repair shop.  It was a weird time to be calling about her car.

“I just wanted to be sure you made it home safely.  No ill effects?”  The sheriff’s voice was easily identifiable.

“Are you really conscientious or really bored?”  She didn’t bother asking how he had her number.  She was curious why he’d gotten it.

“Actually I have an ulterior motive.  I have discretionary funds in my budget for a deputy, and since your job isn’t that different I thought you might be interested.”

“I’m only in town for a week.”  Less than that now, but she wasn’t counting the days.

“Are you sure?  I can offer you dental, as well as donuts.  The hours are flexible and the boss is easy to work for.”  He laughed, and Emma found herself smiling.  She couldn’t say yes, though.  She had a job and a life in Boston.  Well a job at least.

“Donuts, really?”  She couldn’t think of anything else to say.  

“Sometimes the cliches are true.  I know a place that makes really good donuts.  Maybe I can show you, even if you’re only staying a week.  And maybe you’ll change your mind about staying.”  He reminded her of Henry for a moment.  “Anyway the offer’s genuine if you change your mind.  Both the job and the donuts.”

“Thanks.”  She couldn’t accept the job offer, of course, and it probably was a bad idea to go out with Graham even if it was just donuts.  Donuts could easily mean coffee too, and then they were heading into dangerous pseudo date territory.  This time next week she’d be in Boston.  Leaving behind Henry would be hard enough without making friends with more people.

Emma drained her glass and carried it into the kitchen before heading up to bed.  She deliberately didn’t check in on Henry before closing her bedroom door.  She didn’t need it to become a habit.

[kaitlynpcallmebeepme]

I’ll Fight For You

I’ll Fight For You

Peter Parker x Reader 

Warnings:  Fight scene, explosions, hurt descriptions, starving self, swearing I think, nursing organ facts (tell me if you think of any more), fluff, and a hint of angst

A/N: This is the work I have for @keepingupwiththeparkers for her 4,000 follower writing challenge. 

#kuwtp4kwc

Thinking about making an origin story for Gargoyle. The good title I thought of I want to save for my series. Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Requests are open and Messages are open if you want to chat. The gifs came from google, so credit goes to the person who made them. I don’t own Gargoyles the show either.

Background: Only slight endgame spoilers for this description. In my world, Carol snapped the gauntlet to kill Thanos and made it through the time machine, but left the mind and time stone so they could bring Vision back and returned the soul stone to save Natasha, and Steve didn't go back in time. Avengers Tower was bought back until the compound could be rebuilt and remained as a kind of a base since Queens is closer to the tower than the compound.

Tag list: Send me an ask if you want to be added. 

@trashinaglass and @peter-pan-hoe ♡

Dialogue prompt:

8. “I thought I’d lost you”

Word count: 1,860

The intel was terrible at best. When have you ever heard of a hydra agent defecting.  That didn't matter anymore. What mattered is that your team, the Avengers, got the intel about chemical weapons Hydra was developing and get out of the base as quickly as possible. 

Taking revenge on the people who tortured you is one of the sweetest things ever. You were Y/n. Last name you never knew. Part of a species of bat-human hybrids that you were the sole survivor of, thanks to hydra of course. Mainly a human body with slightly pointed ears, retractable claws, an echolocation trackability, better hearing, sharp teeth, bat-shaped wings protruding from your back, skin that can turn to stone, and slight healing powers, which were amplified if you turned completely to stone for some time. You took the name Gargoyle after Peter showed you The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It was his job to catch you, Steve, and Bucky up on all of the pop culture stuff you missed.

You and Peter had the bottom floor almost cleared with the task of searching for hostages. You liked the curly-haired nerd. You two were around the same age when the Avengers raided the Hydra base you were kept captive in. He was the one to hoist your bloody body over his shoulders and carry you out of there. You both valued stealth and sticking to ceilings. You both often trained together and we're interested in both of your talents, yours of which was blacksmithing and Anatomy. You both tested your powers to see how far you could push each other and discover what your limits were. Peter could spend an hour upside-down before he started to feel fatigued and your healing ability worked better if you have a lot of what was hurt. For example, a kidney would heal a lot faster than a heart because there are two kidneys and one heart. 

Okay, back to the mission. No hostages or test subjects have been found as you and Peter kept making your way around your floor. It was mainly storage rooms with few people in the hallways. Not as exciting for you, but you didn't want to go into a room where you two couldn't handle what was inside.

You and Peter got on the ceiling in front of the last room you had to check off your floor. When all of a sudden the door burst open on its own and the air was filled with bullets. Two big guys with miniguns. TWO?!?! Normally it would be one and a lot of smaller henchmen covering him. You looked at Peter for some silent sign of a game plan. He drew a 'Z' with his fingers and pointed to his web shooter. Then made the cracking fist motion with his hands. You nodded and made a silent prayer that this worked because you hated having to play fair when taking out minigunners. Peter shot the two guys with taser webs, which brought them both to the floor. You two then dropped down and started going ham on betting these two up. You just hit the back of their head until their occipital lobe knocked out their vision. Fury would be by later to arrest everyone, but you wanted to make sure they stayed down. You cut up their arms and legs a bit just so it would make it difficult for any of the men to escape. You disarmed the miniguns and Peter webbed down the guys as best as he could. 

"Wonder what they were guarding?" 

"I don't know Gargoyle, but we better be careful."

You gently pushed the door open revealing a planning room covered in blueprints. Some were for cannons and others were for what looked like experiments. Turning humans into other creatures, which in turn would be used for Hydra. 

"Make sure to have Karen scan all these."

Before you could analyze the plans in front of you, you were knocked to the ground. Your body went into full fight mode preparing to stab whoever tackled you. Good thing your mind caught up to your instincts and realized it was Peter who was on top of you. Your senses were thrown off as all you could hear was bullet shells hitting the ground and an AK-47 going on full blast. You extended your arm and hit a button to make a small sharp disc fly out from above your wrist. The disk shot under the table and took the last man standing down. You kicked the gun away and gave the guy a few scars with your Assassin's Creed wrist knives. 

It was only then when you realized that Peter didn't get up. He was groaning in the middle of the floor where you left him.  He was on his side, but you could see the number of bullets in his left side. You turned Peter over and realized he's bleeding a lot faster than he should be. 

"Hit near the pancreas and spleen. Shit." If there was one thing you remembered from all your time studying Anatomy, it was those two organs have a lot of blood going through them. "Nonononono. Kid, you gotta stay with me. You gotta stay awake." You hit his face a bit to keep him conscious. 

You didn't want to move him because that could make it worse and you were definitely not qualified to remove bullets on a battlefield from an advanced human. So you did the next best thing. You held the button on your earpiece. "Code Blue. Underoos's been hit. I repeat. Code Blue. Underoos's been hit." 

"What? Where are you guys?" Tony's panicked voice wasn't helping your demeanor.

"Basement; in a room full of blue-." Your eyes grew wide for a split second as you saw the guy who shot Peter with a grenade in his hand and his thumb in the ring.

"Hail Hydra." 

You didn't have time to think. You scooped up Peter and ran as fast as you could before the pin could be pulled. You both barely made it to the doorway before the whole room exploded. You wings protected the two of you from most of the flames, didn't mean it didn't hurt. 

"Kids, you ok?" There came the Dad voice from Clint again. Clint, you liked to call the perfect mix of sass and fatherly advise.

You slowly lifted your wings but kept them up to keep the rubble dust out of your eyes. You looked over at Peter who you could tell was still losing consciousness. "We're fine. The basement's clear. I can run him back to the quinjet and rush him to the medbay of you guys can meet me there." 

"We're done here. Everyone meet at the jet and we're rushing the kid back. Do you need cover?" Natasha was one of the few people to keep Tony's mind straight besides Pepper.

"No. I can run him back up. The basement's clear." Just as I scooped Peter back up and started to run to the stairs, remote turrets came online. "Of people."

Your bare feet skidded across the dirty floor as you made a break for the Northwest stairs while trying to avoid the bodies that littered the floor. Your wings covered you both, but the bullets that hit your legs still hurt. Your heart pounded in your ears as the only person you were worried for was Peter. Did he lose too much blood? Was his body healing around the bullets? Would he ever wake up from this? You pushed your thoughts to the back of your head and focused on running. 

The snow of Ireland made your bare feet bleed, but you were numb to pain at this point as you layed Peter down in the jet. You tried to focus all of your healing energy to your hands, but it wasn't helping. You just decided to step back and let Bruce and Tony try their hardest to help as F.R.I.D.A.Y flew you back to the tower.

They took Peter to the Intensive Care Unit and only when they gave him a transfusion of blood and took all 12 bullets out of his side were you allowed to see him. He had a slight concussion and his face was bruised from the fall. You couldn't do anything to help him but hold his hand with the IV still in.

"Do you remember when we met? It was my first day. Still getting used to the compound. You were hanging from the ceiling as I was quenching a blade in the garage and scared the shit out of me I almost left the blade too long in the oil. I was a mess then. Still thinking that I was undeserving of love. That hydra had used me too much that I wasn't worth anything anymore. Even before Hydra my parents never made me feel good about myself." A shaky breath left your cut lip as you let tears silently slip out. "You're too good for this world Peter. You go out of your way for the little guy. You made me realize no matter how many people kick you in the jaw, even if it's one person or just yourself that wants you to keep going, you get the hell back up. I am that now for you. Please wake up. Please. Just don't be dead. Please." You were crying waterfalls at that point that any words you tried to make came out shaky.

"You are my sunshine 

My only sunshine 

You make me ha... ha-ppy

When skies are gray

You'll never know dear

How much I love you 

Please don't take

God please don't take 

My sunshine away."

A week he was asleep. A week too long. His body was healing fine and fast. His brain just needs to realize he's ok and wake up. May visited a lot and talked to you. She felt like another mother to you. In fact, all the women you met through the Avengers were your mother. Well, Shuri was a little older than you, so she's your older sister.  You refused to eat and got ticked off at anyone who tried to get you to. Of course you couldn't die, but starving was slow and it hurt. Eventually, Wanda had to put you in a dreamlike trans in order for them to put an IV in you. You couldn't leave Peter, you couldn't.

One morning you woke up from the side of Peter's bed and saw his eyes open and him sitting up. 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah. I woke up in the night and the nurse brought me water and said you haven't left me since I got here." His hand went up and whipped away a tear that you didn't realize was falling.

"You got me there Parker. Don't ever scare me like that again. I thought I'd lost you."

"I won't and you can't get rid of me that easily." He kissed your forehead as you kept smiling through the tears. "Now we better eat before we get suffocated in Aunt May and Mr. Star's hugs." 

"Agreed."

[hunterartemis]

The Assistant: Chapter 14 (finale): Ainsi Tu Seras

Words: 9952 (my longest)

No summary for this one. Because of Spoilers!! (Doctor Who fans will get it)

Chapter Theme: (not one but 2): Together or Not at All, by Murray Gold: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Gam8ogWBLk

(the picture: Amanda Abbington as Mary Morstan in Sherlock. I do imagine her as Audrey Page, and she has all the qualities of her)

“Mum...” Maxine whimpered in the tears of joy, “is that you?”

Audrey didn’t reply her right away. She kept standing in front of her, still and serene. Her wide blue eyes all upon her daughter, her wand in her right hand and the tip on the left palm, like a small hunter crop; there was no joy of meeting her long lost daughter, neither the look of victory after killing of her daughter’s enemy. There was a coldness, the same coldness Newt used to see on Maxine’s face—as if what she has done was done out of a sense of duty, or obligation as if there was no passion behind it. Her crow’s feet moved a little as she smiled obligatorily.

“Hello, Maxine... it’s nice to finally see you.” Her eyes quickly veered towards the Paterfamilias of the Valois, Hrothgar, who looked like there was a ghost standing in front of him.

“I really like that look on your face, it’s just like I imagined” Audrey now looked at Maxine, “you know, I always knew you will turn out like me the moment you were born” she came closer to Maxine and stroked her face with her thumb, “in beauty, in intellect... and you know, mother’s instincts are never wrong—thank you for keeping me close for all those years.”

A stray tear that gathered in Maxine’s eye stooped to fall on her pearly cheeks, her eyes looked bewildered to an extent, almost maddening. Those words seemed to have an estranged effect on her, she felt that it was not the same mother, she knew who wrote all those letters, all those years ago “What are you talking about?” she exclaimed with a desperate whisper, “you’re my mother, the only relation that mattered to me in the world. All those years—after all those torturously lonely days filled with humiliation...” her voice strengthened with deep gratitude, “only you were the one who understood me... there is no word in the world with which I could say how much I love you.”

Everyone in the room stood in their places like marble sculptures to witness the events unfolding. Maxine wondered why anyone in the room hadn’t tried anything to stop that woman who killed the son-in-law of the French diplomat; how could they—it was a strange day in December, a strange gathering of wizards under roof of the Catholic church at the heart of Paris, a strange day that unfolded perhaps the most scandalous truths about one of the most reputed family in all of Europe. It is the nature of all man—noble, royal or common—to see an old power fall and shatter into pieces. There was a forbidden joy in that, like seeing a nun or a queen naked. There was an odd rush in that which stopped all senses to respond, keeping the eyes and ears extraordinarily acute for witnessing and for the recording that will surely be embedded into every living memory. And there was a common truth: a noble stays mute when noble is disrobed.

“So tell me, mum...” Maxine went a little closer to her mother, “so tell me you knew everything and killed Anatole to save me from him... tell me. Tell me that, or they will put you into Azkaban” her voice shook when she saw no change in Audrey’s face. Her distant vacant eyes were unreadable and suddenly smirk graced her thin lips.

“Don’t worry dear, that’s the least of my worries.” Audrey waved her words quite serenely and turned away towards the wedding guests, and now Maxine could really understand what was happening and why the ministers stood still. They had a mist about them, even the vapour of their breath froze still like they were in a photograph. Maxine turned to Newt and there he was: his sea-green eyes fixated into a glassy image of shock, looking up like some subject in a divine painting, just like Maxine saw him in Notre Dame.  She looked at Audrey with bafflement.

“Why is that?”

“Perpetuity spell darling...” Audrey spoke coolly, “everyone except you and I is locked in their previous time-stream. A high-level of magic, not even Dumbledore shall dare to try it.” She laughed on her own with a satisfactory vanity, “but then again not everyone is Dumbledore and delusional like him. Working as an Unspeakable has its perks.” She turned towards Maxine and found her daughter looking at her with disbelief.

“Oh c’ mon now, don’t pretend you aren’t used to all—breaking rules!” Audrey shook her hand in a casual manner, adding a bit of smile, a peculiar kind. A smile only smiled by an adult in front of a child, a smile to be faked to that child and repeated with ‘everything is going to be fine’. “I know how they raised you, I know how they pushed you aside and locked you up like the Dragon in the Tower. Oh, I know... I knew all the time when I had you. Because it was the same with me. Darling, muggles , and wizards are not very different—they detest anything that is out of the norm. I used to be locked up too... and one day, I had it enough, and next thing I remembered—I was standing beside my dead muggle parents.”

“So what do you want to say? I am like you?” Maxine threw the question with a challenge, “please... I am not an idiot. Yes, my step-family had been horrible to me, every day is a cold war. My so-called family refused to come to my failed wedding--” Maxine added sardonically after looking at Anatole’s dead-cold body with a mild disregard, “but it doesn’t mean I am like you. I am not going to kill my father just because he is a little bit too harsh on me—he is a diplomat and he being alive saved me a lot of shit--” Maxine pointed upwards, at the way where she displayed the memory tapestry, “in case if you missed—and he was actually there for me, now I have realised when you loitered around the shadows...” Maxine took a deep breath as if to gain some energy for something she was about to do “WHERE WERE YOU ALL THOSE YEARS I NEEDED YOU AT MY SIDE? WHERE. THE. HELL. HAVE. YOU. BEEN. WHEN EVERYTHING AROUND ME WERE FALLING INTO PIECES”

Audrey couldn’t speak for several moments, then when she gained her voice, her wide blue-eyed lowered, in guilt or in possible shame, “oh darling... if you only knew I had been through--”

“I understand you’ve been through a lot, but you are my freaking mother, and I need an explanation. My model family won’t tell me a thing, so I suggest you talk now.” Maxine venomously snapped as her rage spilled into her previous tears.

Audrey veered her eyes towards the stained glass window. Her face glowed in pink, blue and purple, softening her wrinkles and the tears that she was about to spill. She didn’t look at Maxine straightaway but at Hrothgar. Her wide blue eyes streamed with tears that seemed to be held back behind the dam of years of pain and resentment, “he was everything to me, the perfect person—so kind, so...compassionate. I alone and sad when I was sent to the French Ministry and he saw right through me. The amazing insight he had, he knew where and how to pluck a person to dismantle him which he rarely did—I knew I couldn’t be with him, he was a married man with a son, but he never abandoned me. He never hid anything from me, sometimes even ignored the calls from his wife and family because they NEVER CAME CLOSE TO UNDERSTAND WHAT HE WAS--” Audrey’s face reddened with anger, “I would have endured everything... being his secret, his mistress, but—he decided to take from me when I was promised that I would be married to him—he told me he was going to separate from Marguerite, but that coward...” Audrey’s emotions hardened into contempt, “backed out in the last moment... I stood here; right where you stood as English bride, alone on French soil, a heart full of love, and all I ever received was an arrest warrant and a walk of shame from Chateaux d’If, stripped off my love, my life, and my daughter...THAT MAN, THE LOVE OF MY LIFE... DID THAT TO ME” Audrey’s eyes were reddened with the ghosts of her past. But she did nothing, but to smile a crooked smile, like she had everything right all of a sudden, “so tell me I am wrong, an abysmal mother, a dutiless parent—but think of that wretched woman who was stripped bare, to her last dignity. I waited all those years, selected every possible scenario to arrange the situations to pave myself today in this abysmal church in Paris”

Maxine listened to her full story. Drops of tears rolled off Maxine’s cheeks as millions of possibilities seemed to fire in her brain: the sudden letters of Anatole a year ago, him finding his way back to her, the blue sealed letter in Romania, this perfect situation that compelled Hrothgar to marry her off with him—nothing was committed on Anatole’s whim. He was a megalomaniac, a sexual predator but he was never this grand. Moreover the codification of the Prison transcript, locked away safely but obscurely under the very nose of the British ministry, everything made sense: an Unspeakable operating right under the nose of everyone, incognito and completely silent, pushing people like pawns—the perfect candidate. And who else, who else would know in such details that if Hrothgar commanded his daughter to do something, she will be compelled to do so? The Mark happened after Anatole was convicted.

“You did all this... all of this... just to get to papa?” despair vaporised from Maxine’s lungs, “you used your own child... to get to the Father? What KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?”

“You make a mistake darling...” Audrey spoke in a cold and distant tone, “I was never your mother... I had no right over you.” Maxine felt it was like she was trying to gag whatever that was pressing to come out. If she knew her lesser, she would have suggested that it was bitter regret, but as she knew her better, she knew it wasn’t anything like that, “all because of a man that I love. But he forgot one thing, to kill me. There is a proverb in France; there is none deadlier than a woman wronged.”

The next scene happened too quickly to register into Maxine’s mind. Audrey rushed towards the statued figure of Hrothgar and took his face to embrace with her lips. Like a miracle, Hrothgar’s body sprung into the old life, tightly wrapped in Audrey’s embrace suddenly became wide-eyed and whimpered. It was the moment when Audrey stepped away from Hrothgar and her cornflower blue suit smeared with fresh blood. Maxine looked at her wide eyes and saw victory as well as unspeakable grief. The crowd behind her sprung into their instinctive panic, alertness and bustle, and before a flash of green light hit her behind, she managed to speak to Maxine for one last time.

“Forgive me, ma chere... and goodbye”

The surge of life that the nullification of the Perpetuity Spell brought was felt first as severe contracting pain in Newt’s chest; it was the first thing that he felt—a rib crushing pain, trying to squeeze the air out of his lungs. Unable to contain the feel, when he looked at Maxine’s way, clutching his heart, he saw a sweep of glittering white before his eyes. As his body registered to his current circumstances, he realised that Maxine lunged forward over the body of her dying mother. But that was not what it surprised him; even Maxine knew that Audrey was no more when the Green Light hit her—it was the action of his brother.

Theseus pushed three people out of the way, almost toppling Tina over, and Newt saw how he secured Maxine in his arms before she fell on the still body of her mother. Even though Newt was standing at the back, with his legs leaden on the floor, stupefied, he could clearly see Theseus’ right arm secured under her diaphragm and left on her décolletage. His shoulders were vibrating not prominent enough for other people to see but Newt knew that, and it was almost for her. Like a process of osmosis, Theseus’ whole body was absorbing her physical grief, and there will be no words in the world to describe the animal howls of violent sobbing of Maxine’s Valois. She was falling apart, piece by piece, and Theseus with all his being was keeping it together.

Although he felt somewhat relieved he felt very agitated towards the scene, because it was not what it was supposed to be. It was a cruel act, even for Theseus to do things to Maxine—she was deeply hurt, and he knew how it felt. Because he felt it every time when Leta walked alongside Theseus; Newt knew Maxine was no different than him in this matter, so why now—why this publish display? However as he attempted to step forward, breaking from his stupor, he felt Tina’s hand firmly grasping him.

“Let him...” Tina said looking towards Theseus and coming a bit closer to Newt. Her liquid black eyes glistened with slight moisture that had a bit of sadness. A surge of guilt washed over Newt’s entire being as Tina touched Newt’s lip with her quivering thumb and it reddened with the Mark of Maxine’s lipstick, “he has suffered long enough for that wretched woman...”

“What do you mean?” Newt looked puzzled, and Tina suddenly turned his head towards Theseus, “does your brother look like he is faking it? He had been love with her all along...” she filled the silence and inquisition of Newt with a strained smile, “a lot can happen during a dance”

“HROTHGAR...” another whimper of cry ensued from the left side of the altar. Anyone who wasn’t under that influence of the perpetuity spell did not know what happened to Maxine’s father. As they heard an old woman crying mentioning that name, Newt and Tina went to that place and saw a gleaming opal the dagger pierced the chest of the old French Diplomat and the congealed blood weaved a deep red velvet shroud on his black brocade suit worn for the occasion. He lied alongside Anatole, like sinners of the same crime, but his wide shocked eyes reflected the mistake of his past and regret. Newt knelt beside his body and gently closed his wide eyes. He turned towards Anatole and looked at his with a sense of conflict—there he lied in his final rest like a mangled insect, put into an arbitrary death, but again he remembered where he had been a few hours ago—Death remembers all and in Death, all people are the same.

Newt cradled Anatole’s head straight and closed his eyes.

...

It is strange how quickly things can change over a few hours. A few hours ago Newt, Theseus, and Tina assumed that they were going to be buried alive, a few hours ago Maxine walked the doors of Saint Chappell and the choir sang for her conjugation with Anatole Malfoy, a few hours ago even in the worst of nightmares, Hrothgar didn’t think that it would be the last time he will see the love of his life, a few hours ago not even Maxine would have thought that within half an hour she would lose everything, a few hours ago not even Newt would think he would recalibrate his entire life based on the appearance of his assistant who had been working for only a month.

Three coffins and two widows came out of Saint Chappell at that night. Marguerite and Maxine, walking side by side as their husbands made the march. The flashing of reporter’s camera permeated even through their long black face veil. Newt, Tina, and Theseus were walking at the very back of the crowd, and a conspicuous feeling was bothering Newt for some time. As Audrey’s casket was walked he felt something that he would not express to anyone. He felt one of dead was being walked with glory, one for treason and one as the stain on a noble. As for the living, one bereaved widow walked with other trapped in perpetual shame. He was wondering what would happen to Maxine now; she may have no chance of surviving this: she lost her birth mother, someone whom Maxine felt had the only living relative who loved her; and her father, for whom she stood with straightened back despite her birth. What will happen to her now—she was not the easiest of the woman to get along with, and Merlin knew not every one of her ministries was a fan of her. After her Confession, they will only need a tiny excuse to do anything with her. And this very thought made his skin crawl with disgust and fear.

“I know what you’re thinking...” Theseus said in a low raspy tone, dampened with tears he had been crying with Maxine, “as soon as old Valois is buried for good, the Embassies will come for her. Given the fact that her family didn’t even attend her wedding--,” he looked at the four newly arrived figures, two women and two men, dressed in black and busied with a spectacle of tears, “I don’t think she stands much chance. If she had her job by now, there could have been a hope for protecting her, but damn that stubborn woman. She had to leave just to prove a point that she can--”

“She isn’t half as egotistic as you think ‘Seus. She left because she was protecting you.” Newt answered grimly. He knew this was the time to come clean and there was no moment to lose.

“What do you mean she was protecting me? oh—so she is so egotistic now that she thinks that I am so vulnerable that I need protection from the person who is this close of being subjugated herself.” Theseus said with a significant amount of heat, and Newt confronted him like he never did anyone before.

“Perhaps that is why she chose to leave you, she knew it was better to leave quietly than to explain it to you what dangers you were in. She feared Anatole, all this time... she showed that in front of half the European ministry, and when he started writing she feared that her attachment to you might get yourself killed. So she left you Theseus, and watched you day after day getting closer and closer to Leta when she was breaking her heart--”

“What? Breaking her heart...?” Theseus tried to laugh it off as if Newt was spewing his ‘usual’ nonsense, and quiet with an aggravated motion pointed towards the Funeral march “do you think even for a second that Maxine Valois lets herself do that. She is no subject of affection, she never was... she was always that smart, arrogant and near-perfect woman who had every man in existence swooned for her. I saw you waltzing with her in the Yule party, and I saw nothing but a cold calculated game being played--”

“Is that a declaration to me or a consolation to yourself?” Newt abruptly interrupted the statement of his brother. The Funeral March has advanced a considerable length and the lights from the camera and the mourning candle faded into a dark and obscure Churchyard, where only a grim and dull obligatory entrance light lit the snow-laden path to bare-minimum visibility. Theseus’ lean face looked shadowy and his confusion created crooked lines of darkness on his well-natured features. He licked his lips once and avoided looking towards Newt. After a long silence, Newt opened his mouth.

“I was heartbroken when I saw Leta move on, and of all with you.” Newt said quietly, “but it was okay because she needed you more than me. She needed a leaning board, a pillar, but it fills me with anger to see how you are running away from your feelings.” Newt paused to see Theseus’ puzzlement “you see Tina told me everything about that night—and all those times—poor dear had been suffering that you never liked her back—all that time I thought you’ve been leading her, and she thought it was one-sided you bastard!” Newt gave a doleful smile.

Theseus looked at Newt with disbelief. He walked a little closer to Newt, scooting his vision under his brother’s unkempt bangs to look at him into the eye, and the twitch and pout told Theseus that Newt was genuinely annoyed with him. He felt a little surge of happiness because Newt rarely speaks to him or to anyone of that matter and if he decides to do so, it must be damn near important. He lowered his head for a moment and covered his face, as if he was soaking his face into fragrant cool water after a long tiring day, and suddenly from his complete stillness he shook himself forcefully back into life. When he straightened his face he looked like he was about to faint, but his pale face coloured with a bit of a smile; a smile smiled by a patient after long-suffering of illness. He started to pace back and forth, and Newt knew what was coming.

“Theseus, I don’t think it would be a good time—Theseus, listen she is in--”

Crack

“—mourning...” Newt plopped on the snowy steps of the church after Theseus recklessly disapparated.

It was nearly 10 o’clock in the New Years Eve. The entire Paris lit up to welcome the year of 1928, under the streets, near every secret door, illegal alcohols shoot up into fountains in the mood of celebration. Flappers dressed in gold, silver, and pearls lost their inhibitions for the sake of a livelier party and accompanying their eligible bachelors, married millionaires or extra-marital lovers trying to get laid after a long spell of dry marriage. The taste of cocktails and spiked lemonades and Harvey wall bangers livened with the sound of jazz, and at the much-neglected corner of Paris, near the Valois vault at Pere Lachaise, a woman in black stood still. When Theseus apparated there and saw Maxine standing completely still at the very centre of the garden of tombs. Her black silhouette stiff and her head lightly bowed as the long mourning veil covered up to her stomach. She was standing exactly under the Fleur De Lis crest, so ornate and detailed with Baroque carve work that it could still be seen under the faint faraway light of the city that created a dark silvery glow around the snowy graveyard. The first slosh of his feet gave away his existence to Maxine. She turned her veiled figure towards him.

“Where is everyone?” Theseus’ throat suddenly seemed very dry. His voice did little to hide that anxiety.

“Gone... ” Maxine replied shortly, and her head was turned towards the mausoleum. Theseus approached her gently and as carefully as possible. His feet weren’t giving in to his head and he fought all the impulses to bombard Maxine with all the questions Newt evoked in his mind.

“I’m so sorry about what happened--”

“She had to do it on my wedding day... it was my damn wedding day--” Maxine abruptly said with a distinct amount of anger. The statement threw Theseus into such off-hand position that he almost asked her “sorry what are you saying?”

“I mean... who does that to someone at their wedding day? Although I admit that I hated my groom and always wanted to kill him but not like this...” Maxine huffed and started to laugh hysterically. The sound of her coarse and husky laugh that sent sparks of fire into every man’s veins and chills into the enemy’s spine made Theseus skin crawl. He stood there, holding his breath, allowing her to shed her tears what she had been trying to mask under her laugh. Hell of a strong woman, she never allowed anyone to see her weak side—she never surrendered to an emotional outburst, and even when she was jealous and angry she tried to put those emotions on whoever stood on the opposite side. She was mean, cruel and egotistical and there was no excuse for her antics or her blatant disregard of authority or her mocking obedience to them. She smiled when she was sad, and that laughter was just not radar of how sad she was—it was that sort of laughter reserved for those select few who have now nothing to live for.

“I must have set the record for the shortest span of marriage. I must have been the only one in the history of the world who walked in white and walked out in black. I mean how mad is that...and the worst part is, I have nothing to do with this--”

“—Maxine you have to--”

“Let it go?” Maxine approached towards Theseus with such ferocity that Theseus, in the process of backing up, tripped on a stray snow-laden twig and fell on the ground. A stray flashing car passed near the cemetery and a little light fell on Maxine’s black veil and through its obscure layer, her grief-ridden face. Theseus looked at her, the flash on her face with awestruck amazement. It inspired the fear of madness in him; he couldn’t recognize her at all. That black-veiled figure was standing in front of him, hunching towards him with the hem of the veil slightly brushing on his chest.

“Maxine... I didn’t mean that—I have no words to comfort you. I have come--” Theseus slowly reached for the hem of Maxine’s veil while getting up, “I’ve just come to say...I have just come to say--” Theseus’ hands shook as he attempted to lift up the veil, but Maxine’s cold hands stopped him in midway

“Newt sent you now, did he?” Maxine said in a hushed but severe tone. A chill wind flew through the gravestones, moaning in the chill, “Of course he did... of course he did.” The last bit shook a little, or it distinctly did to Theseus’ ears. He didn’t speak another word because he felt that there was something on Maxine’s heart that was in dire need to get out. The distant rushing cars flashed stray lights on her black silhouette and she appeared and disappeared like a ghost or a bad dream, condemned to repeat oneself.

“Have you heard about Oedipus, Theseus?”

“No... I am not sure I have.”

“I have buried three of the closest people in my life today—” Maxine mused, “And all I could think of, all the time was Oedipus—why is that?” Maxine asked rhetorically and with an unnatural enthusiasm, “I should have been crying like a madman, but all I could think of Oedipus. And suddenly, as you appeared here... I understood everything.”

“What did you understand?” Theseus tried his best not to break down into tears; this state of Maxine made him so helpless that he wanted to hold Maxine tight into his arms again and tell her that everything would be fine.

“—Think about it, it makes so much sense--He was a king’s son who was abandoned because of a prophecy; a prophecy that said he would kill his father and fuck his mother to get the throne.” Maxine mused again with a peculiar tone, “his parents thought that now Oedipus is safe because he will never come back. But he did—only he didn’t know who were his birth parents—and he did kill his father and married his mother to sit on the throne—and when he did know what he had done he--”

“Stop Maxine... why are you saying stuff like this--” Theseus rushed towards Maxine and hastily lifted off her mourning veil. His hands firmly grabbing Maxine’s shoulder and his eyes adjusted themselves in the dark to know exactly where Maxine’s despair-laden eyes were. They almost obscured under the bloody eyelids, and like endless dark tunnels, they seemed vacuumed and empty.

“Why can’t I? Why don’t I? My father did this me—all of these. He practically stabbed himself—if you think about it—I mean, if your actions lead you to death, it’s your fault.“ Maxine paused a little, as if she was recalling something, something more horrific “you know what she said? She said that I was exactly like her—Theseus, what if I end up like her?” the last bit came out like a hysteric cry for help, “what if end up killing Newt?”

“Maxine...” Theseus spoke patiently, “there is nothing—it is nothing about you killing Newt, why would you do that? I saw you--” Theseus halted abruptly as his voice shook a little, “I saw you—why would you do that to him--don’t you—love him...?”

“I do love him Theseus” Maxine screamed with sheer helplessness, “But it means nothing. I know...I know no matter how much I love him, he can never love me—he already has Tina. Theseus, if I do that I won’t be able to forgive myself...I won’t be able to—forgive myself.”  

Theseus could hear Maxine’s whimpers echoing through the labyrinth of tombstones like a haunted soul.

...

He walked on the streets of Paris alone, loitering like a man with no home to return. The Eiffel tower could be seen lit up for the New Years Eve from the side of the city he walked. There were lights all around him, but it felt like harsh burns on his skin as if he walked naked under a midday desert sun. A couple of drunk people in festive mood bumped right into him, but Theseus’ mind was still in the heart of the Pere Lachaise where Maxine stood in despair a few hours ago—too preoccupied to react to their angry French swears. He needed a drink, a strong one, but there was an alcohol ban all over the muggle world—a nice bottle of firewhiskey to burn the sorrow away. He could afford to be a drunk right now, he needed to be drunk. But then again it was not for him, it was for her.

He had a completely different notion about her when she worked with him. People don’t handle women like her very well—too arrogant, too independent, too much of a lip and oh that temper! So much temper—someday she would be angry enough to burn the building down, and someday she would have been so mischievous that someone could lose a life with her pranks, someone always did. People couldn’t handle her, but that never stopped the office gossip or lecherous fantasies about her around the male colleagues. Lucian Carr almost got killed once just to retort

“Why, are you in love with her or something?”

No one could ever know. It would have been a huge dent in the reputation—avoid her at all cost, but why? She never advanced him or anything—she was cordial and professional and her display of ‘emotions’ came out as a characteristic trait, it was never to connect with anyone. She was the best of his employees, then why he always tried to restrain himself? Because deep down, he knew his thoughts about her were no different than other men in the office. She intimidated the hell out of him, and he fucking loved it. He distanced himself out of his freaking principles. Thankfully Leta was in the way—a beautiful distraction and his salvation from his own censored thoughts.

And then she had an outburst and left the job.

He hated the nerve of her, his ego had he convinced that she left to torment him. His thoughts about her then turned like a coward misogynist, and he would have had enough comfort with that until his drunken tumble upon her doorsteps—he wanted her! He wanted her so bad, and thought she might take—but she didn’t, she took care of him and send him away from any harm. Unpredictable little wench! She wasn’t supposed to be the caring type, women like her aren’t, and he was almost confirmed by his hypothesis of her in the Yule party but what would he do with the information he had today? The woman whom he just met today wasn’t the woman he knew before—she was a completely different creature—tender, vulnerable and so very human.

And that scared the hell out of him.

“Veux venir avec moi, monsieur?” suddenly a silky female voice called Theseus from the footpath, a gentle arm snaked on his arm as well, and that is when Theseus looked at the whore’s face. And by Merlin’s blessed head he was washed all over with shame. Maxine was right all along, he had a hero complex—he wanted his women vulnerable, so that he could save them, and now when she is in grief, his heart, and his brain opened at the same time and fought over the age-old impulse—to be or not to be. He wondered if it was his complex that spoke in him tonight, or was it his heart.

He was being led into a hotel, he could tell. The door opened and the whore’s mouth slobbered all over his neck, and despite everything he felt nothing at all—the passive eyes didn’t even found the whore stepping outside her underwear and flaunting her well-defined breasts.

“This is embarrassing…” the woman said in English, “when a woman is willingly taking her clothes off at least be nice and look at the view--” she said eloquently, and with it managed to get Theseus’ attention. As soon as he looked at her, the look in her eyes changed completely.

“What’s that eh? Can’t forget her?” she sat down on a nearby stool, her breasts drooping with her posture. Theseus smiled audibly, “how did you know?”

“Honey, I’ve been fucking gentlemen like you since I was 15. A few titties and they all stand upright like its Bastille Day—married or divorced?”

“Neither… fiancée died after a month of engagement--”

The whore stayed quiet for a while and then a cracked a smile, “but the one you’ve been hung on about is very alive one isn’t it--” she paused to look at Theseus’ inquisitive expression, “otherwise you’d let me blow the skin out of your dick and fuck the hell out of you to get it out of the system. And something else tells me, she doesn’t know about your feelings--”

“No… she does—I mean, in a way. She used to like me, I was too proud to see it—now I am not sure… by the way, why am I telling you all these?”

“Honey, we just don’t fuck people. People come to us when they have nothing else—we allow them to do whatever they want and listen to their shit—a city without prostitutes is like a house without a toilet” she smiled for the first time, a genuine humane smile which put Theseus’ heart in ease. He lowered his head out of courtesy as the whore dressed. A brief click of lock suggested that she had already opened the door.

“—oh yes, one more word—” the woman said, holding the door partially open behind her, “be honest with her and yourself about what you feel. If she comes around then fine, if not at least you’ll sleep better for the rest of your life.”

…

A loud thudding and a heavy hit on the back woke Theseus up. He must have rolled on the floor from the bed and directly on the soggy cold carpet of the hotel which he lodged at last time. He has been in the same clothes for nearly a week, his corded pajama which he wore before he was arrested—suddenly it occurred to him now. He felt really stupid and nearly tripped on the suspended bedsheet that dragged along with him before he could answer the door. A very annoyed waiter was waiting for him at the door.

“Vous Monsieur Anglais avec une putain?” the description of him by the waiter didn’t sit well with Theseus—‘the Englishman with a whore’, however being really confused, half-asleep and really demented, Theseus replied, “oui, c’est lui est moi.”

“j’ai votre paquet…” he thrust the thick parcel in his hand and left instantly.

The packet was a little larger than a magazine and thinner than a standard book. When it was opened, came out of the Newspaper. Theseus was surprised enough already as his sleepy brain tried to awaken, he reached for his pocket to take out the wand. He pointed it at the freshly unfolded Newspaper to translate it because he wasn’t clear in his mood to read French—he didn’t think until the very first words of the headlines appeared before him. His very hair stood up in attention at the back of his head. As he shook the paper in an attempt to straighten it another smaller paper fell out from it. It was a simple open note and in perfect English it said,

Save it while you can.

Theseus didn’t stand in the hotel room for a moment. He threw the newspaper aside and run out of his room like a lunatic screaming at the gone waiter, trying to figure the whereabouts of the person who delivered that parcel. In the meanwhile The Warlock Times lay abject on the soggy hotel carpet with its words slowly returning to French.

THE DUCHESS DISGRACED

Maxine Malfoy nee Valois, formerly Duchess of Croy had freshly came out of a short wedding and a triple funeral of her late husband Anatole Malfoy, her father Monsignor Hrothgar Valois and an unknown woman of a close relationship from the revered Saint Chappell last night. As shocking as this scandal gets she had accused her late husband Anatole Malfoy, the British Junior Undersecretary as a Grindlewald supporter and a serial rapist who apparently acquired the Ministry Office with considerable French influence, by fraud. The late Junior Undersecretary, as Madame Malfoy claims had a close past relationship with her to quite an exploitative range, and she, as sources report, killed him spouse right after the vows based upon such notions. Madame Malfoy is accused by the British Minister himself and today she will be held for trial at 12 pm by the French High Council of Warlock. The mysterious death of her father, the Late Diplomat Monsignor Hrothgar Valois will be looked into shortly…  

Theseus couldn’t remember when he ran so fast in his life, and perhaps he never looked so bizarre; a man in his corded pyjama running through the street of Paris with his battered, very English dressing gown flowing behind him like some bizarre parachute. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt such rush, maybe the time when he almost missed Hogwarts Express, maybe it was the last day of submitting that potions assignment to Professor Slughorn or perhaps to save Leta. He pushed the crowd away from him as he felt the icy January wind swiftly passing by his ears, making them ache. He wished that the hidden elevator would go faster now because he realised it was nearly five minutes to twelve.

“Where is the trial?” Theseus asked the receptionist of the French Ministry of Magic with such ferocity and urgency that she was a little thrown back before she could direct him to the way. A victorious rush crept through Theseus’ blood; Theseus Scamander the war hero of British Ministry of Magic is running the French Courtroom in his pyjamas to declare that the woman who was accused falsely is far above than the jury—now that’s the headlines he could pursue to read. Being an Auror taught him to measure the steps he is going to take, and for the first time in a very long time, Theseus wasn’t concerned with the outcome. He didn’t care if he is persecuted for disturbing a criminal trial, he didn’t care if she rejects him, and he didn’t care about anything at all. He just wanted her to know that he is what he is.

“Monsieur, you cannot be here... the Warlock Council is already on session--”

“Stupify--”

“Bombarda...”

Theseus had a reputation with his auror business and certainly was revered for it but today he actually felt proud for his headstrong action. With him barging in with a bang, the Warlock juries came to a standstill and all of the council looked at him with dismay and contempt, but there was one person who didn’t look at him. The person who was sitting on the trial chair, poised, upright and calm; the person who was clad in black and her face veiled.

“Impeccable timing Mr. Scamander, but in case you haven’t noticed, a session is going on.” The French Minister said sonorously with a heavy accent. Theseus could feel his ears heating with the patronised humiliation from the Warlock Council, but he chose to stay on his ground, firmly and surely. He took a sharp breath and lifted his face a little high.

“You’re wrong...”

“I’m sorry--”

“You are wrong about her. And forgive my French, but you’re all bloody coward...” Theseus said with a straightened face, “You saw and know what happened in Saint Chappell and refuse to acknowledge it. So I have come here, as the British Representative--”

“To do what, pray tell us?” the French Minister asked.

“To testify for my employee--”

Newt and Tina were standing outside. They had been there since yesterday when they couldn’t find Theseus. Their anxiety redoubled when they saw Maxine in black robes brought in the ministry at dead of the night with high-security aurors—but Theseus was nowhere to be seen. They became even more petrified when they heard why she was brought in—apparently, she confessed that she devised the murder of Anatole and her father with an unknown Englishwoman, and she had ardently confessed that she used her particularly for her status as an Unspeakable, who as soon as her vow is broken would be killed by a self-automated killing cursed, placed at the lower spine of hers, like any Unspeakable in the British Ministry. Only Newt knew that it wasn’t true—he knew the identity of the woman and with it, relied everything. But nothing matters with his knowing—hell, even his employment was illegal, if someone could do anything legitimately, it was Theseus. But the problem was Newt didn’t know how much his brother knew, or knew anything at all. He and Tina were stuck in a strange dichotomy whether they should look for Theseus outside, or wait for him, and they decided to stick around—just to see Maxine for the last time before the inevitable happens. He was afraid of the time Theseus will find out all about this.

However, an uproar ensued near the wing of the Warlock Council. Tina stepped forward quickly and scrambled whatever French she knew to ask what was happening. Tina’s agitated return made Newt anxious.

“What is it?” Newt asked.

“Someone broke in during the trial. The guard identified him as a tall brunet Englishman in corded pyjama and dressing gown--” Tina huffed in excitement, “sounds familiar--?”

“Theseus...” Newt mouthed the name of his elder brother and rushed towards the council door and halted stop when he saw Theseus coming out of the door. His well-sculpted face unreadable.

“What happened, what happened to her?” Tina asked hastily.

“I don’t know...” Theseus said quietly, “all I did was speaking the truth about her and what happened. She has always been so tight-lipped about everything. They asked me to prove it, and when I did—anyway, she was held in the trial because the French minister doesn’t trust her narrative—I don’t know what will happen next”

The courtroom door reopened, but this time the Trio was pushed aside by the plethora of journalists from all across Europe. Cameras flashed and the entire hullabaloo doubled as the Chief Justice the French Minister followed by Maxine herself came out. Tina closely looked at the minister’s face: there is no way he willingly did what he was to state. In this matter of national threat and the post-mortem scenario of a diplomat made him decide something very unwilling and obligatory. Moreover, Theseus willingly testified for Maxine. What could possibly happen?

As the minister walked forward, Maxine’s black figure glided like a dark silhouette of shadow. Her head and face were covered with a black birdcage veil that differed slightly from the long training mourning face cover that she had to wear. As the minister made to the podium where he shall give a statement to the Wizarding Press, Maxine’s head briefly turned towards the trio’s way.

None of them were hearing what the French Minister had to say. Tina noticed Theseus’ nose getting redder and redder as the time passed, she compassionately grabbed his shoulder.

“I saw her kissing Newt in the church--” he rapidly whispered and Newt’s indirect eyes flashed towards him with a pang of swift guilt, “Seus, I tried to stop her but--”

“it’s okay Newt... it’s okay, I deserve that. Twice now... I took away Leta from you, and she was taken away from me, and I neglected her—I deserve that.” Theseus lowered his eyes and squeezed his temple, “I deserve that...”

“No, you don’t...” Newt said quietly but firmly, “you don’t deserve any of that...” Tina interjected quickly “yes Theseus, you don’t need to blame yourself. All of these that are happening right now is some kind of bad timing—we are going through a bad phase that’s all. It’s not always--” Tina’s focused became hazy and Newt knew what she was thinking, “good things that happen with good people. Look at my sister—she just got persuaded away--” Tina said. Her eyes veered towards Maxine’s way, her eyes glistening “so was she... By Isolde’s hair, I used to be so angry with her—the I understood--” suddenly her tone became more determined and firm, “but it’s not the time to think stuff like that... you showed up when she needed you the most, even though she never mouthed it herself. You are patient with her, you understand her, you remember stuff about her, little stuff that is too minute—Theseus, admit it to yourself—you deserve her”

The last sentence sends a tremor in Newt’s veins and it almost scared him. Wasn’t that the fact that made fall for Tina once again, right here in the French ministry—eyes like salamander—but then again he, somewhere and someplace felt similar feelings for her too, the moments spent, the little incidents that put up a smile on his face—his train of thought came to a halt when he saw Maxine’s dark figure emerging towards the podium to make her statement—one of her hand was at her side, abjectly lulled into a peculiar position. Newt’s eyes focused on her hand, they were two meters apart from each other, and there she was—her hand, lulling to one side peculiarly. A slight spasm passed through her fingers. But it was not the strangest thing he saw. Theseus suddenly stepped forward boldly and grasped her hand. The podium wasn’t high enough to conceal Theseus’ existence, but the hands snaked together surely under the wooden shadow. Tina noticed the whole thing with a slight smile on her face and then she lead Newt from the back to a front, to see the face of Maxine.

Maxine’s face was still covered with birdcage veil, he faces slightly lowered. She didn’t speak right away. Newt was very uncomfortable looking at her under the bright flashlights of the Press Cameras. But when she straightened up to speak, she stunned people around her.

“As you are aware of,” Maxine said quietly but firmly enough “I was accused of murdering my husband on the altar and father with an unknown woman as an accomplice. I assure you it was a false narrative created by the French Ministry to interrogate me. I guess my father, despite his reputation all across Europe, pissed off a couple of people. The real narrative was brought again in the High Warlock Council this morning, by none other than this man--” Maxine turned her head towards Theseus, “who had put his reputation and job on the leverage to clear my name. The truth, ladies and gentlemen is more tragic than ever. The woman that died alongside my father and my late husband was my mother. My birth mother who happened to be the mistress of my father, her crime was she was a muggle-born and she gave birth to me. I was taken away from her and raised in Valois household with shame and contempt as my constant companion. That woman returned to my wedding for the sole purpose of killing my father, who hadn’t the courage to honour her, and for whom she spent her years in shame. Despite my father’s generous nature and keen insight, I say he brought it upon himself. A tragic loss France suffers now for one mistake he made and the lack of courage to admit it. Reputation is a scary thing; it makes one do things that are bad or harmful to others like my father did when he tried to marry me off with a criminal and a Grindlewald supporter who happened to know my secret. And to continue that lie, he was forced to imprison three innocent people into the Tower of Silence. Ainsi tu Seras—‘Thus shall you be’—a proverb we all learned in younger years that our deeds carve our final destiny. Let not remember my father’s death with a scandal, a mistake that he committed, but a lesson—a lesson that perhaps be with us in the darker times.”  

The press sheepishly stood before her, and then one after another cleared off. They did expect a scoop, another scandal—but her solemn and brutally honest confession put them off of their game. They didn’t even stay to ask a further question, there was nothing much to ask—with every stroke of her words, she shed every identity she had before: the duchess, the daughter of a diplomat, the widow of the British Junior undersecretary, the former employee of British ministry... the assistant.

Theseus slowly let go of her hand as she stepped down from the podium. She crossed the side of the wooden structure and slowly let go of her train that she was holding to walk. The black fabric glided on the pristine glassy floor as she slowly clacked her way forward. The trio watched her curiously, with bated breath, as she stood still for several moments. After a while, she slowly turned head around and her eyes were fixed on them.

[Second Theme: Aeon by Nick Murray: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Paqvq7XZGs ]

“Take me outside... I want to see the sky”

They were thrown off at her bizarre request but complied nonetheless. She slowly walked forward, rejecting both Newt and Theseus’ attempt to support her. As the spiraled lift opened outside, she sauntered towards the snow-laden main road. The powdery flakes brushed on everyone’s face, breathing their last icy breath as they disappeared. Maxine’s shoulder was slowly being studded with the white specks of snow as she slowly ripped off her black gloves and threw them on the street. She finally took off her pillbox hat and the mourning veil that was attached to it and tossed them into the air to vanish into nothingness. Theseus, Newt, and Tina looked at her mesmerized as she slowly looked up towards the sky, her pinned curls came undone behind her, her pale naked hands ascending as if to grasp a piece of heaven. The fresh snow of the New Year fell and dissolved on her warm face, tricking down like tears of joy. Like the last escaping breath from a dying person, a word came out from her mouth--

“Je suis libérée... ” (I am free)

...

The sun was the same as Newt remembered it at the Arc of Triumph as if never set and stood in the same manner as it did last year. The sun, in its brilliant golden, red, pink and purple mantle reminded him of Maxine as she stood at the bottom of the Arc and recited some strange French poetry. The sun was oddly similar to the winter Parisian sun, as he stood with his brother and Tina at the edge of the port of Saint-Malo. The noises of the ferry, the sailors felt like they, like the sun had been waiting to see this moment happen, the moment of which they all knew beforehand, except the three of them. With heavy heart, they waited for Maxine, as she prepared for her exile—stripping off her previous sparkling mantle of power and the outspoken statement has its price. Women like her are not tolerated in the polite, patriarchal society.

Light footsteps turned their heads towards the back. Maxine was standing right behind them, dressed in travel cloak and bowler hat, all in mourning black. Her face was made up, primed and proper with neat red lipstick and eyes winged with kohl. Her solemn face changed into her usual playful one when she smiled her usual crooked smile.

“Ready?”

“Together...” Theseus said fondly.

They walked Maxine at the stairs of the ship. However, she didn’t step right away, she turned again to the people, her accidental friends, and allies that came together because of a decision she made a few months ago, sitting in a restaurant. She gave them an amused look.

“Why the long faces? Shouldn’t you be happy that I will be finally away from your hair?” Maxine commented sarcastically, “of all people, Tina, you should be happy--”

“Do you like to get under people’s skin on a regular basis” Tina sniffed a little, “or is it the occasion of New Years?”

“Oh, Tina...” Maxine came near and wrapped an arm around her, “I am going to miss you...” she looked at her with an affectionate expression, “you should consider yourself lucky, because I am finally withdrawing myself from the competition.”

The three of them looked at her dumbfounded, Maxine’s mischievous smile softened into sombreness “you think I must be playing with you but no” Maxine turned her attention to Newt, looking straight towards him, smiling lightly as he attempted to hide beneath his unkempt hair, “I have been thinking about our the relationship we had in past three or four weeks, about you—all could think about how I have taken a space between you two. I had been impulsive and adamant even to admit that you have Tina, but now when I have buried my mum and my dad together, all I could do is to blame myself--”

“Maxine...” Newt spoke softly, “whatever you thought about us, or your parents were wrong. I may be a little dense in many places, but I am not blind—I saw how you behaved around me and I could ignore your advances, but somehow I couldn’t say no to you... do you know why?”

Maxine looked at him with vacant eyes

“Because I love you Maxine Valois—I cannot explain that feeling because I never had it before. It is not the way I felt for Leta, or I feel for Tina. So Max, if you think of anything, remember that—no matter what happens, I will still, have a place for you in my heart--” Newt reached out for Tina’s hand and groping his way through her fingers nervously he grasped it surely, “yes, I cannot love you the same way I love Tina, but I don’t love you the same.”

The Stuart of the ship announced to the board within five minutes. But Maxine stood teary-eyed before Newt, looking at him with an unknown expression.

“I suppose that’s the best consolation I can get... Newt Scamander, you gave this girl more than she deserved... I will never forget you as long as I live.”

A drop trickled from her eye as she spoke. The sun was nearly behind the shadowy cityscape, the east darkened with the inky night’s prelude, and Maxine’s dark eyes fell on Theseus, standing a little further than the rest, his blue eyes glittering and fixated on the gray water, sparking bleakly with the leftover daylight.

“Theseus... aren’t you going to say anything? I will not see you for six months--”

“It’s not fair...it’s just not fair...”

“I know... but I am used to the unfair—it makes great tabloid headlines”

Theseus broke into a burst of unwilling laughter and the welled up tears splashed from his eyes unceremoniously. Maxine watched the change of his expressions fondly; there was a certain endearment in that innocent smile that hasn’t faded away after so many harshnesses of his life.  

“There were so many things I wanted to say, so many things--”

“I will wait for you--”

“You--”

“Yes...” Maxine smiled forcefully; there was a constant swelling pain in her heart that arose by looking at him, “I’ll have to don’t I...?” She reached for her pocket and pulled out her wand, “I am supposed to leave this with the ministry, but I guess ministry employee would do... ” her pale finger caressed the length of the wand one last time, “aspen and phoenix feather, 11 inches--”

“Well that explains a lot...a lot of that lip--” Theseus’ unexpected sass earned him a well-intended slap on his forearm, as they both broke out in laughter. They stood, on the twilight at Saint-Malo, blue eyes locked with black ones with glistening tears of parting sorrow and with a hope of future reunion. The bugle of the ship bellowed in the sea, ready to take Maxine to an unknown horizon away from magic and away from everything she knew. At the threshold to another life, she was simply looking back to the man with whom she started a new life, who looked at her the same way he looked four years ago.

“Take care of it would you?”

As the resonance of her words faded from Theseus’ ears, the ship started to sail across the horizon, chasing the setting sun at the bustling port of Saint-Malo. Maxine’s waving hand vanished into the sky as she parted. She left all behind, everything she was and everything she knew, and it takes great strength to be her. like a Zhou-ou that is made to run away, or like the Phoenix that is made to burn and rise from its ashes, Maxine Valois burned through every obstacle in her life. In the dark times, when Grindlewald advanced and wrecked nation after nation, Maxine Valois burned like a flash of lightning that illuminated everything in an instance and faded into the dark. After a long period of suffering, she was finally free; freedom earned by herself, freedom from being trapped within the terrible memories, the freedom that came from confessing her suffering, something which she wasn’t allowed. As she sailed away, she smiled, looking at the setting sun. The sounds of seagulls flying towards their home reminded her of the life she left behind. There were no gloves in her hands...she would not need them anymore.

--The End--

--

Tags: @my-current-fandom-is

--

The title “Ainsi Tu Seras” was inspired by the story of “ Marguerite de Bressieux (15th-century legend/pseudohistory)The Black Knight Who Hunted Rapists. ” When I stumbled across it on this particular website (https://www.rejectedprincesses.com/princesses/marguerite-de-bressieux ) I thought I should incorporate with Maxine’s story. However, the end result became something else: I found an oblique parallel between the Newt-Maxine-Tina and Marguerite-Hrothgar-Audrey chain. Following up with the Oedipus myth, I finally depicted Maxine’s character development: a process where she dissociates with her mother and Audrey’s myth of vengeful lover. She takes a decision that she will pursue Newt no more, a path that may lead her to the same end as her mother.

Gloves play a significant part in Maxine’s story: it is an instrument to hide her Mark of honor, a symbol of her bondage. Missing gloves (in Maxine’s case) means freedom or the instances when she tries to be free.

I will write an epilogue, where I will finally close the story for good. It may take some time, so I ask your patience. Also, I will publish my masterlist with the poster of the story

Thank you for accompanying me on this journey.

[devolympian]

Argo, chapter 1

As the bright blue sky began to give way to the soft orange light of dusk a cold ocean breeze ran across Jasons neck.

Sweet dripped down the young mans head and soaked the wool shirt that was under his bright gold armor. The blood seeping out of the cut on his forehead blinded his left eye, while the poison in his right leg made it extremely difficult to stand properly.

Before him, resting in a tall oak tree, was the item he had sailed across the world to obtain. The golden flees; the skin of a ram, born by the god Poseidon who had taken the form of a ram him self in order to lay with the nymph Theophane.

Jason had gone through hell and back for that fleece. He had fought storms, monsters, and even gods just to have a chance to claim the golden ram skin as his own. To show it before his home of Iolcus, and prove to them that he was the right full king. The king they deserved and the one who would lead them to prosperity.

However, before him was his last challenge. 

Wrapped around the tree, its violet scales glistening in the sunset, was a long serpentine creature. A black tongue pocked out of its mouth, which was lined with dagger like teeth dripping with venom, and its orange eyes glared at Jason. Its upper-body rested on the ground, with its long, razor sharp claws digging into the grass.

The dragon was ready to end this farce of a battle, clearly having grown tired of Jasons endless attempts to steal the flee away from it.

The feeling was mutual, and with a heavy sigh, Jason prepared him self to deliver the finishing blow.

He clutched his sword firmly in his hand, and from his hip, drew a bronze dagger decorated with rare gems. 

“The gift which my beloved Medea has bestowed upon me shall be your undoing beast!”

And with those words, the captain of the Argonauts charge at the dragon who responded by launching its self right back.

However, Jason was ready and, after dipping the tip of his dagger into the wound on his forehead, flung his own blood in the monsters direction.

The taste of warm blood was to much for the dragon to resist and it tilted its body ever so slightly, just to feel the drops on its long, black tongue.

Jason took the opening, and plunged his blades into the dragons neck. 

He ignored the pain coming from his leg and forced himself forward even farther, screaming as he ran his weapons along the serpents entire upper body.

Blood and entrails spilled from the monster, staining Jasons hands and body a deep red and decorating the ground in gore. 

With one last grunt, Jason pulled his long sword from the creatures body, and swung it down, lopping its head clean off.

For a long while, the dragons body shook and slithered on the ground, its blood still spilling out of its body as it lay dying. 

Jason watched as it suffered, not wanting to be taken by surprise by the monster. However, it did not rise from the ground and eventually, it stopped moving all together, finally succumbing to its death.

With a heavy sigh, Jason proceeded to limp towards his prize.

He was beaten and bleeding. His whole body acted with pain, and he could no longer see out of his left eye, the blood forcing him to close it. 

Jason knew he looked nothing like a king, no one had to tell him this. However, how he looked right now didn’t matter. All that mattered, was the fleece.

He stood at the foot of the tree, his eyes growing wide as he beheld the golden skin he had fought so hard for.

Dropping his weapons to the ground and with hands shacking, the prince reached up towards the fleece and-

“Boo!”

I let out a loud yelp as I fell forward onto the pile of books I was suppose to be stacking, the copy of Jason and the Argonauts being thrown out of my hands.

Trying my best to look less like an idiot then I already did, I turned around on the floor and looked up at Zee flashing an ear to ear grin at me.

“What’s wrong blondie” he said, his playful smile still glued to his face, “reading a ghost story?”

“N-no” I stammered, “I’m, uh. . . reading a golds story.”

Dang it, that sounded way better in my head.

“Come backs work better when the other person knows what your talking about dude.”

Taking my hand, Zee helped pull me off the ground as I wiped the dust off my skirt and sweater.

“It was Jason and the Argonauts” I told him, while picking up an arm full of books to put on the shelf, “the version where Medeas dagger is charmed by her.”

“Oh yeah”, he said, picking up the book I head been reading, “a fearless prince sets sail on the great Argonaut, determined to claim the item which will seal his destiny as king. You do know the real one screwed over Medea and his friends right?”

“Well, yeah, but that version’s super depressing.”

“Fair enough.” He flipped the book neatly onto the shelf, and began to do the same with the others that had been strewn across the floor.

“O-oh, you don’t have to-”

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, the sooner this is done, the sooner we can hang out.”

And with that, Zee jumped up, grabbed the shelf, and shoved a copy of the hunch back of Notre Dame between our copy of Victor Hugos other books, Hernani and Les Miserables.

“Just think of me like your fairy godmother” he said, hanging off the shelf, “but instead of living in a rodent infested house with a step mom who should probably arrested for child abuse at the very least, you’re working at a library with some guy calling himself a fairy godmother.”

I let out a small giggle with out really meaning to.

“If you’re my fairy godmother shouldn't you be in a pretty blue dress?”

“Blondie, you know I’d rock that dress. I’ve got the legs for it.”

He then reached up and tossed another book into its place. Which caused the book shelf he was hanging on to fall forward and bury my fairy godmother in a pile of old books.

After about an hour or so of us stacking books and telling, extremely lame, jokes to each other, we made our way to the front of the library.

While I personally wouldn’t say our library was big, it wasn't small either. With two  floors, a large child section and computer room, as well as five study halls on the second floor, I’d say it was about the size of your average public library.

At the center of the library were two large desk, curved into a circle and with an opening between them so as to allow us to get in and out as we pleased.

My boss, Matilda, sat at the desk facing into the library, her brown hair tied into a neat little bun while the computer screen reflected in her olive eyes. She was busy typing up all the fees and check outs for the day and hadn’t noticed us yet.

A small knot formed in my tummy as I prepared to speak.

I had thought she’d be done with her work by now but she was still working so diligently. It seemed wrong to interrupt her by asking to leave.

My brain began to rock back and forth with words that I couldn’t seem to get out and I began to debate on how to approach the situation.

Should I just ask her to leave? But, she said I could go as soon as the work was done.

It’s possible she just meant my work, but what if she had meant her work as well? What is she still needed me to stay a little longer and assist with other things that need to be done before anybody left?

Oh, I know, I’ll ask if there was anything else that needed to be done. If she said no, I’ll be able to leave. Simple, right?

I swallowed heavily, and prepared to speak. It was the moment of truth.

“i-is there anything else you need done?”

There, I asked. But, it didn’t exactly come out as words. It was more like a squeak. Like, the squeak a mouse makes. In other words, to quite to hear and Matilda continued on, not noticing me in the slightest.

“Yo, Matty” Zee basically screamed, “Works done!”

That got her attention, and my boss looked up from her computer.

“Oh” she said, finally registering that we were in front of her, “heading home then Skye?”

There was a small pause as it took me a second to remember my own name.

“Oh” I stuttered out, hoping my face wasn’t as red as it felt, “y-yes. . . if, there’s nothing else you need done.”

“Nope, you’re free to go.”

“Freedom” Zee cheered, as he raised out the door.

“O-okay” I said, fallowing after him, “sorry.”

“No reason to apologies Skye” she reminded me for the umpteenth time, “have a nice night.”

“Right. . . sorry.”

Unsurprisingly, outside the marble floored building which served as my place of work, and personal stash of awesome books, the streets were filled with people either rushing on home or simply to their next destination.

Zee wasted no time in getting into a festive mood and began swinging around on a nearby street light, his spiky black hair casting a surprisingly large shadow as the summer sun hit it.

“Ah” he exclaimed in a rather over dramatic fashion, “the fresh air, the freedom, the realization that you have no money to do anything. Don’t you just love summer?”

“I’m fairly certain you’re not hurting for money” I told him, pointing to the obviously expensive motorcycle which he had parked next to the curb.

“Skye, I’m hurt. Just because I make lots of money, have great health, a cool ride, and several game consuls doesn’t mean that I don’t suffer. It means I have terrible spending habits.” 

He then picked up the extra red helmet, which we had decorated with cat stickers and a picture of Squirtle from Pokemon, and threw it in my direction. 

I, did my best to catch it, but the helmet just sort of landed at my feet.

“. . .really glad I never joined a sports team.”

“Hey, on the bright side, if you had joined foot ball, you’d get the record for how many fumbles a person could get in one game.”

“Well” I responded as I picked the helmet up, “I’m very glad my poor athletic ability can be acknowledged in a hypothetical situation. When should I expect my award?”

“Sorry” He said, scooting up to give me room to sit, “the school district can’t afford to buy plastic any more, budget cuts and the principle trying to support their gambling habit by taking out of the funding and selling sports equipment and plastic trophies meant for crappy football players. How about Dinner instead?”

“You put way to much thought into what a fictional principle would be doing if she had a gambling problem.”

“I personally think I put very little thought into that hypothetical and just said the first stupid thing that popped into my head. For example, alligators make terrible house pets.”

“Very insightful buddy” I told him, finally managing to get my unnecessarily long hair to go under my sweater, and strapped the pretty red helmet on my head, “let’s go ghost rider.” 

With a quick rev of the engine we zoomed away from the curb and into the heart of downtown.

It wasn’t really a long drive, about ten minutes if that, but the extra traffic made it a little more difficult to navigate the street. 

I didn’t particularly mind the slightly longer drive, I really liked riding on Zees motorcycle. Even though I couldn’t drive to save my life, last time I tried my moms car ended up in a tree, but simply riding side saddle on this motorized bike was enough for me.

It gave me an odd feeling of independence. Like me and my friend could go any where and do what ever we’d like with being looked at as strange or judged for what we enjoyed.

Plus, the engine made my voice all vibraty, so I kind of sounded like a robot whenever I talked. 

What I didn’t exactly care for was. . .

“Hey Zee” Someone called out over on the side walk.

Within seconds, a group of at least five people had gathered onto the other side of the street, all calling Zees name and waving at him. a lot of them pulled out their phones and took pictures or started recording videos.

Like always, Zee glued a big grin to his face and waved back to his fans.

I, tried to wave as well, but no one really cared.

Once the light turned green, Zee made sure to loudly rev the engine before shooting forward, making the small crowd cheer with excitement, and forcing me to cling to him out of fear of falling off.

We stopped a few more times after that, with a different crowed developing at each stop.

Some were smaller then the first, some where three times the size, but they were all pretty happy to see Zee.

And, with each stop, Zee made sure to put on a show with his bike. Along with wasting more then half his tank of gas.

Now, with my heart permanently relocated to my lower intestines, we pulled up to the best restaurant in our town.

Burger Boy!

Just the thought of their juicy warm meat paddies, stacked delicately on top of one another with a piece of melted cheese adorning both of them. They would both be settled between two soft buns with the perfect balance of mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise guarding the enticing beef.

On their right would be a large blue and red container, which would hold a golden treasure. Fries, cooked to perfection, with a crunchy outside, but a soft tasty inside made of the best potatoes in the world.

To their left would be another treasure box containing ten bronze chicken nuggets. I could just picture the steam flowing out of them, and the chicken meat warming my mouth as I gobbled them up.

Tying all of them together was the heart of this quartet. A large cup with little droplets of water slowly creeping down it, which you could endlessly fill with the drink only gods should be allowed to consume. Cola!

The image of this culinary combination made my heart race with excitement and my stomach scream with hunger.

And the best part?

For the past two years they have had a deal where, for just ten dollars, you can get a 50 burger big boy meal. Small coke included.

I am personally proud to admit that I have had the honor of enjoying this noble privilege on more then one occasion. I just wish they'd put more burgers in the bag.

With my memories held safely in my heart, I armed myself with the mental image I had just painted, and boldly charged for the glass door of the fast food joint.

Unfortunately, the fates have deemed it necessary to only allow the worthy into this holly domain and have sent a challenger to test me and Zee.

"Excuse me" a deep voice boomed out behind us, "are you Zee?"

We both turned around to find a large being looming over us.

They stood several heads taller then us with bright orange hair covering their eyes, while also casting a shadow over their green skin.

I could see four long fangs sticking out of either side of his mouth, and two small horns resting on the sides of their head.

Even with out being able to see his eyes, I knew the troll was looking at us. Mostly because he was standing right in front of us and had more or less yelled Zees name, but still.

I felt a large lump form in my throat as my brain began to recognize the situation we were in and form a strategy that we most insure our survival.

We couldn't ignore this opponent, however it would be impossible to take him on head on.

It was also impossible to pretend we hadn't heard his challenge do to our poor choice of turning around.

I came up with twenty four more possibilities when Zee, with no concern for his own safety, stepped forward and bravely spoke to the troll.

"Well I ain't Ab Lincoln, or the dude on the penny" he said, smiling happily at our challenger, "what's up ma dude?"

There was silence after that.

A deathly silence which consumes your soul and can drive one to madness if they were to drown in it to long.

Then, the troll reached his massive hand into its pants pocket and drew from it, his phone.

"Can I have a picture with you?"

"Heck yeah!"

The little boys green face became covered with an ear to ear grin of joy as he nervously positioned himself around Zee.

To mach the kids height, Zee floated off the ground and hoovered so that they were shoulder to shoulder together and he happily held the phone for the nervous troll who’s joyful smile seemed to grow with every second.

Their goofy grins glued to their faces, the two of them took several pictures together

Most of which were just them being goof balls.

It looked like a lot of fun.

Eventually the little kids mom called for him, a green woman with chocolate brown hair and who was twice the height as her son.

Reluctantly, the troll said goodbye to his personal hero, but not before Zee handed him a small scrap of paper with his signature on it.

With tears of joy streaming down his face, the little boy wrapped Zee in a bone crushing hug and ran to his mom with his new prized possession in hand.

Zee gladly waved goodbye to the family as they drove off, his award winning smile never leaving his face.

"Nice kid" he said before floating back down to the ground and turning in my direction, "now, shall we dine at this fine establishment filled with grease and several health violations."

"Yes" I responded, as I felt my stomach begin to devour its self out of hunger, "let's eat, right now. Like, right now, right now."

“Dude, you’re talking like you haven’t ate in days.”

“I’m a growing girl. I need my burgers.”

“Well, you’re growing in some places.”

“Thank you. . . hey!”

“To the fast food!”

With his playful smile still glued on, and avoiding my annoyed glare, Zee pushed the door open and the aroma of deliciousness that filled the air made my mouth water, and my eyes tear up from the beauty. That, or it was the pollen in the air. 

In a few minutes we managed to place our orders, with Zee paying for it because working at a library didn’t net me much in the way of money, and we made our way to the booth we’d always sit at. 

It sat snugly in the corner where there were no windows and was kind of unnoticeable. All things considered, it was rather small and cramped and a little far away from the exit. Still, it was our little slice of heaven.

We plopped our selves into the plastic seats and sat our number onto the table. The restaurant was noticeably busier then usual with several, now high school graduates, taking up most of the booths and tables.

The poor over worked elves and demon who regularly ran the registers looked ready to faint out of stress.

I slumped onto the table. impatiently waiting for our meals to get to us.

“Why did they have to be busy today?”

“Cause it’s the second day of summer and the need business.”

“Yeah. . . but does that really mean that so many people need to be here?”

The more I looked around, the more I realized just how packed it was, and the more I just wanted to hide under the table so that nobody could see me.

It didn’t help that, about every ten seconds, someone would come up to Zee and talk to him. And, every time, I didn’t know what to say or do with my self.

Once, I managed to squeak out a hello. . . which sounded more like a catatonic kitty cat dying of hunger.

Shoot, I just made my self sad with that. Poor kitty.

Eventually, the amount of people dyed down, and Zees fans seemed to leave us alone.

“Hanging in there alright blondie?”

“No” I responded to his teasing, feeling physically and socially drained, “it’s been hours, where’s our food?”

“It’s been twenty minutes.”

“Still, that’s a long wait.”

My eyes lit up as I suddenly remembered something important and I sat straight in my seat.

“You remembered to get Clair something right?”

“Apple pie and a chicken sandwich. She should be here soon by the way.”

I sighed with relief and slumped back into my seat as the guilt I felt was somewhat lessened.

We had originally made this plan without talking with Clairabell, and just kind of assumed that she would be to busy. Turns out, she had already been out for summer and had just been waiting for us to call her.

“So” Zee said, pulling his phone out for a second, “how much you wanna bet she’s gonna talk to you about what classes you should take together?”

With that, another wave of guilt washed over me as I remembered the application Clair had given me for the college she was transferring to up in Europe. And, how I had to hide it from my mom who was already telling me how great the local schools were.

“Oh, well, I’m sure she’s not that serious about it.”

I tried to let out a giggle to ease my conscience. It didn’t work, I was still a trash human being.

Zee responded with a confused look.

“. . .We’re talking about the same vampire right? The one who has spent almost every waking moment finding us a place to live that’s near campus?”

“Yeah, but still.”

I tried to find the best words that would justify what I had said, but nothing came to me. 

There wasn’t really a right way to tell him that I probably wouldn’t be going to the same school as him and Clair. Not with how excited she had been when she told us that we could all go to the school together again.

Almost on cue, the door to burger boy opened and in stepped a tall young woman with caramel brown hair, and violet colored eyes. She looked around, almost as if she were a wild animal searching for her pray.

Soon, her eyes fell onto our booth and. . .

“Guys” she cheered before running towards us and leaping into the booth.

Not wasting any time, Clair promptly wrapped her arms around Zees and planted her lips against his.

“H-hi Clair” I managed to stammer out, feeling kind of like I should give them some space.

“Hi Skee-skee” she said with a warm smile, “so, what have you two been up to?”

“Oh you know” Zee said, apparently not bothered by Clair pressing her body against him, “driving around, fighting evil, summoning giant monsters, talking like batman.”

“You know ” I added, “the usual stuff.”

“You two really need to work on your comedy act” she responded, still smiling, “oh, by the way.”

She let go of Zee for a bit and reached into her tan purse.

“Ta-da” she said, proudly holding out some papers to me, “I managed to get the class list for next semester.”

“Oh” I said, the guilt settling in again, “th-thanks.”

“. . .what’s wrong?”

I lifted my head, and swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Nothing. Just super hungry.”

“Gods” she said, a little disappointed, “they are always so slow here.”

“Hey” Zee said, “it takes time to fry up horse hooves and pig guts.” 

“You know” I said, “if they hear you talking like that, they’ll probably spit in your food.”

“Ooh, yum, spit.”

This continued for awhile. Each joke becoming worse then the last, until, finally, our food had found its way to our table.

Before me was the delicious meal I had awaited a half an hour for. 

The burger, fries, and chicken nuggets were all so tantalizing, with the sweat sent of each of them teasing my nostrils so much so that I had no idea which to bite into first.

Clapping my hands together and unable to get rid of the smile on my face, I thanked which ever god had blessed me for this delectable gift and dived into the feast.

Two minutes later, I was downing my soda to wash down the remainder of my meal.

Meanwhile, both Clair and Zee had barely touched their food. It was fine, they've always been slow eaters.

“Skee skee” Clair said, “at least enjoy the food before you gobble it up.”

“Huh” I looked at her with confusion, “but I did enjoy it. . . hey, how much do they charge for seconds.”

Clairabell then promptly slumped her head in defeat.

“Ah, it’s not fair. How can someone look so cute but be such a huge glutton at the same time?”

“Simple” Zee said, “her stomachs a black hole.”

“Some say it can teleport you to another dimension” I chimed, “but in truth all it does is devour any surrounding matter into its empty void.”

“Hey” she demanded, “you know i can’t keep up with your science mumbo jumbo.”

It was really easy science though.

With a huff, Clairabell threw her hair back and proudly picked up her sandwich.

“Alright then, black hole stomach awaken!”

She then took a big bite out of her chicken and chewed it all up.

Then her lips recoiled and her eyes got a pained look.

I offered her my drink and she quickly used it to wash down the terrible flavor that, I’m assuming, was garlic.

“Ew” she proclaimed, “when’d they start putting garlic on these things.”

“It might be an attempt to keep you from coming here” Zee said, “that, or they screwed up our order.”

She chugged some more of my soda before and Zee cracked a few more jokes while I was reminded of how out of place these two looked here.

With her make up perfectly placed on her face, and her tan shirt and black skinny jeans hugging her body, Clair looked like a super model who had just wondered in to wait for her manager.

Zee meanwhile, with his strong jaw and muscular build and v-neck that emphasized his collarbone, looked as though he had just got done staring in a super hero movie.

In short, they looked cool.

Personally, I'd like to describe our as similar to Neapolitan ice cream.

Zee was chocolate, the one everyone goes to and loves. He's a hit at parties, goes great with everything, and is always there for you.

Clairabell's strawberry, the better second. She's sweet, pretty to look at, and has a slight tang to her that makes her endearing to everybody who meats her.

I, meanwhile, was vanilla. Not necessarily a bad flavor, just one that doesn't stand out without the other two. I'm boring to look at, only taste well for a short while, and would probably make chocolate and strawberry look better if I wasn't part of the dessert in general.

Any who, Zee and Clair headed over to get her chicken sandwich changed out, while I went to refill my sody pop.

As I watched the fizzy, dark brown liquid fill the cup, I contemplated how I would explain to them that I couldn't leave the town. How it would tear my mom apart if I went to a college were she wouldn't be able to see me.

Then, I tried to think about how I could bring up Europe to mom. My dad knew my friends wanted me to go, but we both knew how much mom wanted me to stay in town. How the community college has, more or less, every class I could possibly excel in.

Then, I thought about how my soda was over flowing and spilling out.

"Oh no, no, no, no."

I pulled the cup away, splashing soda all over my hands and the counter.

With a heavy sigh, I turned to grab some napkins and clean this mess up. That's, when I noticed the person staring at me.

They were standing by the door, directly infront of the trash can to be precise. They were wearing a large, baggy, gray hoodie that seemd to conceal their physical appearance. I wasn't even able to tell what their face looked like because it was concealed by the giant hood they wore.

The only thing I could make of them was that they were rather short.

I'm sorry for how that might sound but it was the only thing I could think of that could describe them.

For a while, we both just stood there not saying anything.

I tried to think of a way to approach the sittuation. How I should great this total stranger who was just staring at me.

My heart began to raise and a giant not started forming in my stomich.

I wanted this to end. To crawl into a hole and wait until this person stopped looking at me like some strange anomaly which didn't belong in this world.

"Skye?"

I turned around so fast to meet Clairs voice that I tripped over my own feet a fell flat on my butt.

"Are you okay" Clair asked, kneeling down to make sure I wasn't hurt.

"Y-yeah" I stuttered out, "I'm f-fine."

She continued to look at me with concern clearly not believing what I said.

"S-so, what are we doing after this?"

". . .we were going to go to the arcade. But, we could just call it a night-."

"Let's go."

I hoisted my self off the ground, hoping that I didn't look as freaked out as I actually was.

In doing so I accidentally placed my hands in the sticky soda mess I had made. So, there was also that.

"Oh, okay."

She kept looking at me with a worried look even as we made our way outside.

"Alright" Zee said, "who's driving, who's riding, and who's drinking? I'm doing all three."

He then promptly pulled out a flask and started chugging.

"Zee!"

"No worries, it's sprite. I ain't an alcoholic just yet."

I was about to step forward and hop onto Zees bike, but Clair quickly grabbed my shoulder and turned me in the direction of her bright red corvet.

[ofcloudsandstars]

It is Gemini New Moon and I am back! (for now) My life is still a maelstrom but the dust is starting to settle.

I’ve been getting more into different forms of divining and I bought a pendulum while I was in Amsterdam that I would like to try out. I will probably give more info on that later. 

Some highlights from when I was away:

Aries Season: New Moon I had to leave the apartment cause my roommate was being extremely noisy again. I went to a gallery where some witches and artists had their things and a witch I met at Treadwells when I first moved here remembered me and we made friends. She offered me some free sound healing sessions at her place since she wanted to practice. I also met a wild aries witch who is an aries poster child in everyway, she also has short white hair and paints red markings on her face (I thought it was for tonight its an everyday look) and has futuristic tribal blade runner vibes. When I got home at 1pm I exploded on my roommates who wanted to have a party (They knew I had to get up at 5am for work) and declared I was moving out. Did a million find a new home spells and started hunting

Learned how to make bioplastics and bonded with the teacher at the design museum over alchemy. Making bioplastics is so similar to what alchemists were doing in their hunt for stripping down something to it's core elemental material and reshaping it to whatever they like. It also sparked my potential new interest for diving into industrial design as a career.

Went to see my sister in Paris and saw the Notre dame burn. The night air smelled like fire and brimstone

ended Aries season with a bang when my sagittarian witch friend was going through a breakup and bought me to an easter/spring inspired fetish party where everyone was dressed either as catholic gay kings, floral nymphs in pastel bondage or frisky rabbits. They had berlin DJs and the top floor was flooded with red lighting. I ran into the Aries witch there near some ritual of people in pig masks rubbing paper on someone's latex to cause some friction. I got home at 2 and had to get up at 8am for work.

Taurus Season After intense pressure hunting I found a new home though I knew I wouldn't be satisfied there. The woman who owns the house turned out to be pretty christian and doesn't want anyone bought over without her permission. So the house hunt continues.

Beltane was spent with some nice witch friends in the Heaths (of course) we found a nice clearing in the woods that was super secluded with bluebells growing everywhere. We had a blanket and bought everything from floral incense, to crystals (I got a jade crystal ring for everyone to charge and wear) to flowers (we each bought so many that we ended up casting a circle with flowers like roses, bluebells, carnations etc), and foods! I made truffle oil melted cheese sandwhiches and beetroot pea and spinach sandwhiches and sandwhich cookies with rose buttercream and matcha with gold dust and lemon curd lavender with silver dust. I also bought grass vodka to be mixed with elderflower soda. My friends bought a lot of things from blueberries to flower wines to weed to scented oils and candles. I also finished the last of my shrooms with them and the trees felt very much like sentinels though in the sense that they seemed to be watching us in our witchy shenanigans instead of a sense that they were protecting us. We each lead part in a ritual and told stories but I bought black heart candles to purify us from any attachments we had from former relationships to bring clarity or a fresh start. A new witch friend I made who was invited made us do some estatic dancing in the circle (in truth she was cold cause it was cold) but it was a great way to get the energy going and moved our sacral energy upwards when she made us twerk to attract love to ourselves lol. Then my sagittarian witch friend anointed us with oils for clarity and love and we all smelled really nice like nectary flowers. We stayed until it got so dark that the distant city lights were the only thing giving us light. We packed everything up and didn't leave a trace.

Eros moving into virgo amongst other aspects has made my sexual frusterations intense plus that venus mars square was really painful to go through. I got closer to my work crush who seems to like me too but it wouldn't work out as a FWB unless we kept it really secret because of our work position. So I decided to do a lust spell to attract another lover with a lust candle I made back when I lived in NJ. I gathered it when I was taking some stuff back during christmas and realized the love spell candles I made during last valentines day magic fair still had a lot of energy. There was only 1 lust spell candle left cause they all sold (The candles were all heart shaped and the size of your hand. The black was for cleansing relationships and was ylang ylang scented with added charcoal, the violet was for new friendships with lavender, the pink was for romance with rose oil and the red was for lust and hookups with red rose and cinnamon.) The history with the lust spell candle came from a previous successful lust spell when I used a huge red dick shaped hoodoo candle to attract a FWB on the taurus full moon and it was very successful but I still had a lot of the candle left over so I recycled the successful spell into the red wax for the new lust candles. Anyway I was going into this back story because I burned this on the full moon and it burned bright and strong the whole night into the next day for 13 hours straight. When it reached the end no wax was left, it instead grew into a massive flame which split into 3. I was mesmerized watching it, it seemed like the middle flame was me or someone having to make a decision. It went for a smaller flame on the left and they grew into a bigger flame as the little one died down then BANG!! the disk it was on E X P L O D E D and shards of glass flew Everywhere... There were pieces of dried rose petal which was the last fragment of the candle the fire had to burn on that scattered in the air like a mini meteor shower and lit little fires on the carpet of my bedroom floor. As I was cleaning I wasn't sure how to process the meaning. It was supposed to be a road opening spell to attract a FWB my way but the aggression seemed like an intense conclusion. So far I will see how it unfolds. My official Eros Return is the 10th of this month.

While I found a really cool dream apartment by the heaths I wasn't sure if it felt like the right place. I found a magical tree that was like it's own altar or temple in the woods. It had blood red leaves and the light underneath it shown like autumn. Stepping under it's cavernous-like red canopy felt like entering another realm. Underneath the ground was littered with shells from some dead seeds and the trunk of the huge tree had a large open mouth with thick saucer-sized brown mushrooms growing out. It looked like an altar so I prayed to it to help find me a home. A week later I found a nicer apartment on the east side to the park.

Gemini Season

Gemini season started off aggressively and with a lot of confusion.

I went to Amsterdam this past weekend! It's a beautiful city with big fairy energy. They are obsessed with flowers, you can buy bulbs everywhere and flowers are growing from every corner, there is nature everywhere, you can get shrooms and weed everywhere, the homes are old and beautiful with details that remind of you fairytales or iced gingerbread houses, the air is filled with sounds of chimes and bells from everyone's bikes, you have alluring enchantresses ensnaring dumb tourist men into their lairs as men glue themselves to the windows peering eagerly into their other worlds, you have shops with no clocks with the most comfortable seating to sell you joints for 4 euros while you sit there for god knows how long in a perpetual high as you eat snack after snack. Also since its the lighter half of the year the sun sets at 9:30PM and the sky isn't completely dark until 10:15. I tried to look into their urban planning and architecture centers to learn more about the city's design. It's so harmonious with nature its inspiring. I took home some shrooms (One I am excited to try is called Roaring Dragon which would be appropriate for Litha lol), some wizard like long wooden pipes, a mini mermaid tarot deck, a crystal pendulum, some goblin incense I was enticed to buy cause I was dumb high in this fairy themed shop (and in truth I wanted to buy everything cause I was dumb high and thought everything was GREAT) and a love attraction candle.

Now here I am ready to start a new moon cycle. I am really overwhelmed but I want to get my feet back on the ground lol.

[relatewithrelations]

A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear 16 year old Eliza,

I wish you could read this letter. I wish that you knew the pain I’m feeling for you because I know that it’s there deep inside. I know you struggle with a lot of things inside, that no one ever sees. I know that your heart is being ripped apart by people who are supposed to love you and protect you. I also know you feel guilty that this pain hurts so bad when your life is so “perfect”. With your perfect family, perfect friends, perfect grades, perfect goals, everything is just so fucking perfect. 

I’m not here to tell you everything is going to get better soon, because it’s not. It’s hard to believe but you’re far from rock bottom. Everything that is crumbling right now ends up collapsing. Your rock, that is so intertwined in your heart that it feels you feel what they feel, they leave. Your sibling, who you have grown to love, they leave. That burning fire in your stomach to be the very best at everything even if it kills you, well it kills you. And that fleeting dream that you’ll prove everyone wrong even though you might get broken in the process, well it breaks you. Notre dame? you dont get in. Love? ha. Every single thing you think could not get worse right now, does. Every single thing you think could not go wrong, does. Like I said, you are far from rock bottom. 

The thing is, my sweet young Eliza, you hit rock bottom fucking hard but you live. You survive. You get ripped to shreds again and again… and again. But after awhile, you stop taking pain and turning it to something destructive. Instead, you choose to turn it into something constructive. You stop hating the world and everything it has done to you, and you start seeing all it has done for you. I’m not going to pretend like life turns into sunshine and daisies because it doesn’t. I know you’ve read 300 of these “letters to my younger self” and always scoff at their happy-go-lucky outlook. It’s unrealistic and almost more sad. Your cynical and sarcastic outlook to life doesn’t change, which is good because it helps protect you. Your very strong walls protect the fragile girl inside. That is ok. You’ll be ok. 

My advice for you is to listen to the advice given to you. Allow people in, even when it’s terrifying. Do this no matter how much it ends up hurting. The scars of your past become beautiful tattoos of your future. You are a single person in a large universe and do not need to hold the weight of it on your shoulders. Remember to breathe sometimes. Remember to sleep sometimes. The fear of missing out is a far better feeling than pure exhaustion. You hold the torch to your life, don’t burn the midnight oil on people that don’t matter. There are people in this world that will never give you what you give them, take that with a grain of salt. It’s ok to let people into your house of a soul and provide shelter from a storm, but don’t be afraid to kick them out when the sun is out again. Stop begrudging your family and friends for past events. Choosing to judge yourself for extensive periods of times is a choice you make, it doesn’t give you the right to judge others. Forgive them. Be better than them. Remember they are human. 

My advice for you is don’t be afraid to fall in love with all the wrong people. You’re going to get hurt. Like really,really,really bad. Like so bad, you’re going to cry yourself to sleep for many more months than you were with them. For a long time you will think love isn’t real and that it’s not possible. Don’t listen to that voice. Love isn’t who’s sleeping in your bed, it’s the people around you. You’re going to love a lot of people, and you're going to love a lot of the wrong people. Even writing this now I want to write RUN DONT TRUST THE SYSTEM but I know that’s not true. I know that me letting in people and getting hurt every once in awhile is part of me growing up and you need to learn that too. Not everyone is going to leave. Not everyone is going to hurt you. Let your walls be gates, they can keep some people out but also let them in. 

My advice for you is don’t be afraid to “break the plan”. To be honest, you have no idea what your plan is yet. You think you do, but you don’t. The plan now is to be free. Learn to do the things you love, and learn to love the things you hate. Stop being so picky about avocados, you actually like them. Stop being so afraid to make the leap, you end up loving it. Be honest with yourself, be honest with your parents, and be honest with your friends. They aren’t part of the plan, but they’re part of you. Your plan sucks, and is sad, and is boring. You’re not boring Eliza. You’re the opposite. Your life is full of wild twists and turns so enjoy the ride. Break the plan, and be free.

I wish I could write everything that’s going to happen to you. The good, bad, and ugly. But I cant, you need to learn these things on your own. You need to know that when you’re going through hell, keep going. You have not reached your destination yet, it’s a pitstop or pothole of the journey. Your story is not written, even I don’t know where we’re going yet. Stay motivated, and stay open. You’ll figure it out soon. 

Love, 

22 year old Eliza

PS Pay attention in your language classes more, it’ll become important ;)

[therealangelicaschuyler-blog]

Why I perform

I have some pretty heavy things to get off my chest. This is long, and I don’t know if anyone will read this or care, but it’s something I need to say, so please bear with me.

It’s been two months since I’ve been in a show, six months since I’ve been in a show that made me happy, and over a year since I’ve been in a show that made me feel completely fulfilled.

I’m in the fall of my senior year of high school. I’m at a significant crossroads in my life, a time when I finally have the opportunity to make decisions for the career I want to have and the life I want to live. I’ve been preparing for years, getting ready to run while being confined to a crawl. So why is it that now, as the race is about to begin, I feel paralyzed?

Maybe part of it is that unlike before, I no longer know which direction to run in. Until about six months ago, I knew which college I wanted to attend and the exact steps I would have to take. Then, I experienced an identity crisis like nothing I’d ever felt before. I awakened, in a sense, to a feeling like the world I’d been raised in was a lie. I lost faith in the religion that my self-image, my worldview, my entire future had been predicated upon.

While this finally allowed me to escape from my psychological restraints and opened up a whole world of possibilities, it took away every source of comfort and stability I had to rely on: the support of my family, trust in the path I was on, and my entire sense of self-worth. The understanding that those things were all an illusion anyway, that I have found the truth, doesn’t take away from the overwhelming sense of loneliness, depression, worthlessness. It doesn’t make me feel any less lost.

So, with the foundation of my entire identity stripped away, I’m forced to sort through the rubble and search for a place to begin. Luckily for me, I still have something I can count on: I love theatre, and I love storytelling. It’s who I am. If you were to look at my soul, you’d see all the stories that have spoken to me in the past. That’s what initially brought me to the conclusion that acting was my calling in life, that I wanted to pursue musical theatre in college and beyond.

However, without the spiritual conviction I once had that everything would fall into place, I now find myself paralyzed with fear and self-doubt. I look at my limited experiences with theatre and wonder if I’ll ever be good enough to make a career doing what I love, when few directors have ever seen any real potential in me. I fear that in the professional world, I’d just fade into obscurity. Worst of all, as my current depressive episode and overwhelming anxiety keep me from sending in my college applications, I wonder if I’ll ever be strong enough to do what it takes to succeed, or if my mental illness will render me forever incapable of following through.

As my future suddenly seems so unclear, I’m faced with doubts that I should still pursue theatre. Ultimately, it is still my dream. There’s little else I can imagine ever making me happy. I still notice how empty and unbalanced my life feels when I’m not actively engaged in theatre. However, I’m suddenly swarmed by fears of a life worse than one of mere complacency, unhappiness, lack of artistic fulfillment. I fear remaining forever dependent on others. I fear forever feeling like maybe if I just worked harder and gave more, then I would finally be enough—as past directors have made me feel. But the absolute worst, deepest, most horrifying fear that pervades me is that perhaps I don’t have anything special to offer. That as much as I love and need theatre, it has no need for me. That no director will ever see anything in me and give me a chance to show the world, because maybe there’s just nothing to see.

Tonight, as I was contemplating this fear, I was revisiting my past experiences with theatre. I’ve been lucky enough to be a part of the ensemble in many shows with different schools and community groups. I’ve competed in thespian conferences and received high marks. I’ve even performed in the pilot amateur production of The Hunchback of Notre Dame at the International Thespian Festival as a member of the ensemble, an experience that I’ll never forget. However, there’s still never been anything that sets me apart from the crowd as a performer. In the professional world, where everyone in the audition room is talented enough to do the job well, actors have to have something special to set them apart, or they’ll remain unemployed.

While desperately scouring my memories for any indication that my fears aren’t right, I remembered an experience I had at a two-week theatre camp last summer. That camp was perhaps one of the harshest experiences I’ve ever had with how it tore down my self-confidence, for many reasons. It was my first time working with college professors on a production—at the school I had long thought I wanted to go to—and I was disheartened by how little any of them noticed me. In the production and all throughout camp, I never got any chance to show them what I was capable of.

But one night at camp, there was a talent show. None of the directors or anyone influential were there—just the campers and counselors—and I was feeling pretty disheartened at camp, but I decided to enter it anyway. I chose to perform “With You” from Ghost, a heart-wrenching song in which Molly grieves Sam’s death. I was nervous because it’s a hard song to act, but I was desperate to prove to myself that I had what it takes. So, when the time came, I got up in front of my peers, and I bared my heart and soul to them. I pulled on my own past experiences and let go of all the insecurity and hurt I had been feeling. For three minutes, I became Molly and poured everything I had into telling her story.

When the audience stood up and applauded, I dragged my emotional walls back up. I simulaneously felt proud of my performance and too emotionally drained to be happy about it. After the show, I thanked everyone who complimented me and told me that I made them cry. I guess it’s a mark of success if an actor can make an audience feel that deeply, but I still felt hollow as my friends gushed about how “amazing” I was.

Later that night, however, as one of my roommates was giving me her glowing review, I burst into tears I hadn’t thought I had left. This girl had seemed so bubbly and friendly and outgoing, and in my current state of depression and low self-esteem, I had initially misjudged her as fake, something extremely off-putting to someone like me who prizes authenticity. But after a very technical analysis of my performance, she choked up and gushed that it was like I had reached into my chest, tore out my heart, and held it out for everyone to see, demanding that they watch it bleed and pulse and begging them to accept it as is. She expressed admiration and envy that I had the ability to be so raw, so unashamed to show everyone my scars, so unafraid to wear my heart on my sleeve and give everyone the chance to break it.

With nothing left to cling to, I’m grateful once again to her kind words for reminding me that I have something worth seeing, even if it seems to be buried deep within, even if no one can see it at the time. I’ll now move forward with the understanding that yes, maybe I’ll never get the chance to share it...but knowing that it’s there is motivation enough for me to keep trying.

Because I don’t want to be emotionally distant and jaded. I want to be the kind of person that wears her heart on her sleeve. I want to be an example to the world that being broken can be beautiful. I want to use my talents to make someone feel like it’s okay not to be okay and not to hide your pain from the world.

I want to love myself and inspire others to do the same.

[gutterdreams]

i wish you would [b. hargrove head canon]

This song is a God damn gem and I won’t hear arguments to the contrary.

The fight happened a couple days ago.

It started at school.

Well, at least for Billy, it did.

He had been fine around third period. He used the exchange of classrooms as a smoke break and the two of you stood outside under a grey sky, just chatting.

He kissed you goodbye after you gave him a stick of gum.

You had gym class and he was off to math.

Somewhere between math and the end of the day, something pissed Billy off.

You were even warned by a random classmate that he was in a mood.

That wasn't weird.

When you got to the parking lot and he ripped right by you in the Camaro, that was weird.

At exactly 4:18 PM, he called and let you know what was going on.

For a second, you felt that he was growing.

He would have never called and explained himself before.

"You slept with Gavin Daly?" 

It wasn't as if you had lied to him. He knew you had been with someone else before him. 

He never asked who.

"He can't make a decent free throw to save his life! Gavin Daly?" 

He kept groaning Gavin's full name is bisbelief.

You didn't want to defend something you did before you even knew Billy existed.

Besides, if you tried to explain that Gavin's basketball skills weren't what was important to you at the time...

Billy would have probably lit something on fire.

Luckily, you two weren't really arguing about Gavin.

Billy raged about the guy with the goofy smile for about a minute.

Then he kept going on on about how bad Gavin was at basketball.

"So, are you mad that I've been with him or that he was on your team last gym class?" 

This was not clear to you.

"Was he any good?" Billy grunted. Like a teenage girl being told she couldn't sit at the lunch table. 

You swore you heard his tongue pop from being wedged into his cheek.

"Huh? 

You still didn't know if this was about your first time or basketball.

"Was he better than me?" Billy clarified. That was the important question. 

"Umm.." 

Wrong answer. 

Even though you hadn't even answered yet.

"How?! How is that even possible?"

He has done from red hot irritated to a full fledged freak out. 

"I didn't even say anything!" You had to shout.

"There's no way he was any good! I've seen him in the showers!"

"I don't want to talk about his dick, Billy."

There was no way that conversation would go over well. 

Plus, you didn't really remember much.

You had been nervous and it was dark.

Gavin's room was a mess and you could hear his brother on the other side of the wall singing along to his Grease soundtrack.

Losing your virginity to a ten year olds off key rendition of "There Are Worse Things I Could Do" was not exactly how Cosmopolitan said it would be. 

You remembered how his brother couldn't hit the last note, but you couldn't remember if Gavin was circumsized or not.

"I don't want to talk about his dick either, but it's been inside you!"

"Fuck off." He had pushed you to curse at him. 

He was being a terror. 

"Billy, I don't know what you heard, but it's not really a story. Gavin and I were together once. It was like ten seconds and then I went home."

"Ten seconds." He actually snickered.

There was a soft silence, his breathing and the television in the background through the phone.

You were just about to ask if things were okay now when he started grumbling again.

"I don't know how I feel about having Gavin Daly's sloppy seconds."

"Fuck you, Billy! That's so rude!"

You weren't his property, you were his girlfriend.

Hell, if you had been a one night stand it would have been a rotten thing to say.

"I just never thought I would have anything in common with him! Calm down."

It was so infuriating whenever Billy would tell you to calm down.

He was a loose cannon lighting up over anything and everything, but God forbid, you express yourself.

"Yeah, well I never thought I would have anything in common with every peroxide blond in Irvine, but here we are!" "And, don't flatter yourself, you don't have anything in common with Gavin. Gavin would never be this insecure."

It was a low blow, but he had really hurt your feelings.

"Don't let me stand in your way. If you wanna go fuck Gavin and his tiny pecker, go for it!" 

He was not okay with that.

"Maybe, I will."

You absolutely weren't.

"Great."

"Awesome."

"You know, [YN], it's fucked up that - "

You didn't hear what was fucked up. 

You hung up.

Billy was dumbfounded and slamming his phone into its receiver over and over.

He went to call you back, but you just let it ring.

Now, it was two days later and it was two in the morning. 

You had to be up for school at seven, but you were still lying awake in your room with your mind reeling.

Why was Billy so infuriating? 

Why did it matter that you two had been with other people before? 

What were you two actually fighting about? 

In your favorite giant t shirt, your dad's from Notre Dame University, you still didn't feel any comfort. 

For such an insensitive and out of touch boy, Billy was good at comforting you.

He would tickle you until your laughter was easily confused with joyful screaming.

He would tell you to ignore whoever was bugging you.

He would tell you ten things he liked about you. 

He would kiss his way down your body.

You missed Billy.

It felt like clockwork 

Every twelve minutes or so, headlights would burst through your window and slide over you and your four wheels.

An engine roaring.

It sounded like the Camaro.

You hadn't heard from him since the fight. 

You doubted it was him.

There was enough room in Hawkins for two noisy dummies.

You wished it was him though. 

You wishes you could tell him that it was in the past.

It was no big deal, just a dumb fight. 

Another twelve minutes passed and the lights returned.

This time you swore you could hear a Neil Peart drum solo.

It had to be Billy then. 

You threw off the covers and sighed your way into a pair of baggy grey sweatpants.

They were huge and usually Billy wore them when he slept over. 

On your tip toes, you moved through your dark house as quietly as you could. 

The smell of rain greeted you as soon as you were outside.

You hugged your bare arms to your chest and walked off your front steps and down the driveway.

Maybe, it wasn't Billy driving around your neighborhood.

Maybe it was just wishful thinking and now you looked nuts.

Only a few minutes crept by, but you sat right where your driveway met the road.

Hugging your knees, you rested the side of your face on them and just waited.

A few cold drops of rain fell onto your elbows.

You stayed put thought 

This time it was only ten minutes.

The pavement shook under your feet slightly and you heard track three of the Rush album.

It was often the only tape you and Billy could agree on.

It was the blue Camaro and the brakes slammed on as he framed you between his blinding headlights. 

Billy turned off his stereo and just stared at you through the open window.

From your knees, you watched him back. 

"It's going to rain." He told you with his chin nodding to your house

He was silently telling you to go inside.

It seemed rude, but it was Billy's way of showing he cared.

He didn't want you to get sick. 

"I can't sleep." Clearly, he couldn't either. 

He always drove around when he was up in the middle of the night, but he didn't usually do loops around your street. 

"Yeah, I keep thinking about how I pissed you off." 

Billy was no stranger to upsetting people.

He just really liked having you on his side.

"I keep thinking I shouldn't have hung up."

He was just being such a pain in the ass. 

He was here now though. 

You tried not to read into it, but you stood up and walked over to him. 

"Why do you have to push my buttons? Why does everything have to be a fight?" You honestly asked, curling your fingers around the window and playing with the lock of his car door. 

"I don't even remember what we were fighting about..." He mumbled while looking at the crooked lines of your bent knuckles.

He loved your hands.

They always kept him centered.

He thought guys who held their girlfriends hands were whipped pussies, but that was until he took up with you.

Billy looked as sad as you sounded. 

Like a puppy that just had it's cold nose bopped by a rolled up newspaper. 

"I'm glad you came back..." Softly, you admitted while looking at his knees trembling under the wheel.

"Always." Billy scoffed as a promise. "I could never stay mad." 

Hair falling around his face, he was looking up and into you. 

"Even though I was with Gavin Daly?"

He threw his head to the side, hiding his frustrated eyes.

But he went back and looked at your hand again, covering it with his from the wheel.

"Yeah. Even though."

He didn't want you to punish him for stupid desicions he made in the past.

So he had to get over it.

It didn’t matter anyway and Billy knew that deep down inside.

[your-dietician]

Inside the journey of Notre Dame's David Adams and life after football

New Post has been published on https://tattlepress.com/ncaa-football/inside-the-journey-of-notre-dames-david-adams-and-life-after-football/

Inside the journey of Notre Dame's David Adams and life after football

The magic is in his story now, in the climb that couldn’t reignite the smothered dream but perhaps launched something even better.

Even if it looks and feels like limbo at the moment.

Four months in the NCAA transfer portal for former Notre Dame linebacker David Adams produced curiosity from three Power 5 schools and slightly more than that from roughly half the schools in the Mid-American Conference and a handful of programs from the FCS.

During that same stretch, he also muscled up impressively, completed his final 10 hours of coursework for his ND degree in business as an Econ major and contracted COVID-19 twice in a 90-day span — the reinfection in April serious enough to send Adams to the hospital twice.

► More:Notre Dame athletes embrace NIL opportunities on first day of new NCAA policy

► More:Notebook: For Notre Dame OC Rees, the summer push to get better starts with himself

A litany of injuries that coaxed Adams to accept a medical disqualification at the end of his freshman year, before he could ever take a snap in a college game, was also the lingering reality that ended the comeback and prompted Adams to remove himself from the portal without a landing spot on June 14.

The original inventory of ailments Adams brought with him from Pittsburgh Central Catholic High included multiple concussions, a torn labrum of each shoulder, a torn elbow ligament, a torn medial collateral ligament in his knee, cracked knee cartilage, a knee hyperextension that required surgery, patellar tendinitis and four broken fingers.

That doesn’t count breaking both ankles during his AAU basketball days.

“I both wanted to try the comeback and needed to do it,” Adams said. “Wanted to, because I love football. I love the game. I love making tackles. I love playing defense.

“I needed to, because whether it was actually going to happen or it wasn’t, I’d get closure on this chapter in my life. If it didn’t work out, I’d get closure at the very least.”

What comes next is what the 4-for-40 mantra that Notre Dame bakes into its recruiting pitch really looks like in the real world in real time.

The gift in Adams having it thrust upon him at age 20 and reinforced at age 23 is his reaction to it.

The uncertainty of tomorrow doesn’t bother him, because the resolve and ambition that have been building inside of him are being channeled this summer into something truly inspiring.

“I’ve been stuttering my entire life,” Adams said. “Before I go looking for a job, I’m giving it my full attention. I’ve never had the time to do that before. I have it now and the belief I can overcome it.

“That’s my No. 1 focus right now. Well, that and my golf game.”

He’s working with Arthur Joseph, a renowned author, teacher, communication strategist and voice coach.

“I know it’s not going to go away overnight,” Adams said. “I’m just hoping I’m going to gain some more control for now. 

“There’s a lot of people who have had it. Joe Biden. Tiger Woods had a stutter. Shaquille O’Neal had a stutter. He told stories about when he was in school, where he’d be called on to read and he couldn’t get any of his words out, and everyone would just laugh at him.

“I know how that feels. I also know it can be overcome. It’s time to give it everything I have.”

What might have been

On a November Friday night in 2015, with a road game at Pitt set for the next day, Notre Dame head coach Brian Kelly and four assistant coaches clustered on the sideline to be seen at — every bit as much as to see — Pittsburgh Central Catholic’s WPIAL Class AAAA home playoff game with Upper St. Clair.

The targets of their efforts were Adams, at the time a junior and ranked as one of the top five linebackers nationally by Rivals and third by 247Sports, and senior defensive back Damar Hamlin, who’d eventually land at Pitt. 

Emerging as another player of interest following the 49-0 romp by PCC was an unheralded three-star defensive lineman named Kurt Hinish.

To put in perspective of what an ascending prospect Adams was at the time, the Irish allocated just one assistant — then-QBs coach Mike Sanford — to venture 20 miles north to Pine-Richland High School that same night to scout a vaunted sophomore QB named Phil Jurkovec, to whom the Irish offered a scholarship the very next day.

Adams verbally committed to the Irish the following March, and Hinish two days later. 

“I love my hometown, but I wanted to get out of my box,” Adams said. “I wanted to take the hard road. I wanted to challenge myself athletically and academically. I wanted to grow as a person.

“I had never been to Indiana until I took a visit there. I didn’t even know … I just heard it was a bunch of cornfields.

“And it is a bunch of cornfields — and so much more.”

In the fall of 2016, though, Adams’ preferred hard road took on added and unwelcome dimensions. The injuries began to accrue during his high school senior season, and he played right through them and the pain that came with them.

He did so to the point where Pittsburgh Steelers head orthopedic surgeon Dr. James Bradley, upon examining Adams, said that he had been misdiagnosed and that one of his shoulders was actually “hanging by a thread.”

The consensus top 100 prospect nationally, unsurprisingly, began to fade in the recruiting rankings. By the time he signed with the Irish in February of 2017, Adams was a three-star prospect.

By the time he enrolled at Notre Dame in June, he was a constant in the Irish football training room, seeking treatment, rehab and hope. When the 2017 season rolled around, he not only didn’t play, he wasn’t even allowed to suit up for the games.

Over the next few months, head athletic trainer Rob Hunt, team physician Dr. Matt Leiszler, special teams coach Brian Polian and defensive coordinator Clark Lea each pulled Adams aside and tried to gauge if he really wanted to continue to try to play football.

Each time it took him aback a little bit. But when Kelly brought Adams into his office for a one-on-one at the end of his freshman spring semester, in 2018, it had a different vibe to it.

“He pretty much said the player he recruited out of high school would have played a lot of football for us,” Adams related. “But, he said, ‘Your body has changed a lot since then, and I’m worried about your health.’ 

“That was very hard for me to hear, knowing everything I had put in since I was a young kid. I finally get to this high level, and I wanted to go even higher.

“I obviously had NFL aspirations, All-American aspirations, everything. But to hear that after my freshman spring ball was very difficult, because it wasn’t something where he says to me, ‘You’re just not playing good. You need to step it up.’ 

“In that case, I adapt, I get better. In this case, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do, because of my body. So it was tough.”

Adams stayed home that summer, not sure he’d ever be back.

“They left it open — ‘We would love to have you back’ and ‘you’re always welcome’ — that type of stuff,” Adams said. “But that summer was very hard. 

“Then I came back in the fall. Initially I didn’t plan on going around the football team. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, but I thought it would be too hard emotionally. After I got back, I realized it was even harder to be away from it. 

“I’ll always remember this. When I got back my sophomore year, I heard the band playing one day. And it was just like, ‘Wow, I’m back here. All my dreams are now shot. I don’t really know what to do. It’s hard being here and hard being away. But it’s harder being away from football.’

“So I decided I definitely wanted to go back and help out any way I can and hang with all my good friends.”

During Notre Dame’s 2018 playoff run Adams, then a sophomore, attended every practice and every home game. He watched film and made breakout tapes of ND’s opponents for Lea and senior defensive analyst Nick Lezynski.

He’d help oversee the scout team defense in practice. He’d help organize meetings.

“David was a throwback, in a sense,” Kelly reflected last week. “He was a downhill, knock-you-in-the-mouth linebacker. That’s how he played the game. So to have the game pulled from him so early in his career, a lot of people can’t handle the void. 

“On top of that, David had to deal with his speech impediment. He already had a challenge in front of him as it was. And I don’t know that there’s anybody I’ve ever met that has handled it quite as well as David did, given all the things that could and probably did go against him.”

Making a difference

The function of medical disqualifications/hardships is to allow players to remain on scholarship and finish their education without it counting against the team’s 85-max scholarship limit imposed by the NCAA.

It’s college football’s Mulligan.

But Adams never personified that. He counted and mattered off the field, and at a particularly critical juncture.

In 2016, the Irish cratered and went 4-8. Kelly responded with a coaching staff makeover, lots of self-reflection and a reboot of his entire philosophies when it came to the way he related to his players and how he ran his program.

None of which plays well in the cut-throat recruiting arena.

After wide receiver Michael Young’s July 20, 2016, verbal commitment, the Irish whiffed on every opportunity to add to the class through the end of the second-losingest season in Notre Dame history.

There were also a Kelly Era-high six decommitments in the cycle, including linebacker Pete Werner and cornerback Paulson Adebo, eventual stars at Ohio State and Stanford, respectively. Over the other 11 completed recruiting cycles the Irish have had 15 decommitments combined.

“Decommitting never crossed my mind,” Adams said. “I knew what Notre Dame had to offer and it’s sports, you know. Everybody has bad years. And so it was, ‘Ok, they’re having a bad year. I’m sure they might make some changes in the offseason.’ I didn’t waver at all. 

“I know some guys, who are on the team now and who have already graduated, and a few of them did waver a little bit. And me, along with others, tried our best to hold it together.

“I believe I was the first defensive commit in the class, so I took pride in trying to hold things together, making sure we got the best class possible.”

They also helped reverse the momentum late in the cycle.

Notre Dame broke the drought with the December commitment of offensive lineman Aaron Banks and closed with six commitments in the final week before signing day. Three of them, including future All-American Jeremiah Owusu-Koramoah, made their decisions on the actual National Signing Day, in February.

Four years later, the group reached graduation day with the same number of losses in four years combined as the 2016 team amassed in one (8). With it, that class helped fashion 43 wins and the first two playoff appearances in Notre Dame history.

And on Nov. 7, they played their part in upending No. 1 Clemson, 47-40 in double-overtime, at Notre Dame Stadium for the first victory by the Irish over a top-ranked team in 27 years.

“The memories are special — I’m glad I have those,” Adams said. “The people are even more special. Coach (Mike) Elston, coach Kelly. There are so many of them. They make a difference in who you become. Now I want to do that for other people.

“I don’t know what that’s going to look like yet, but I know my decision to come to Notre Dame was the right one. Football was my Plan A. My Plan B — if it doesn’t work out — I have an economics degree from one of the best universities in the world. I couldn’t go wrong either way. 

“I wanted Plan A more than anything, but I ended up getting Plan B. So yeah, I’m happy. Going to Notre Dame is going to help me in a lot of ways in my life — with opportunities. Our alumni are very strong in helping each other out. 

“The beautiful thing is when you know you have people in your corner. It makes you feel like you can still dream and accomplish anything.”

Follow ND Insider Eric Hansen on Twitter: @ehansenNDI

Source link

[samosoapsoup]

Living with a Visionary

For more than fifty years, my wife and I shared a world. Then, as Diana’s health declined, her hallucinations became her own reality.

By John Matthias

January 25, 2021

You would think it was a performance of some kind. When she wakes up, if she has slept at all, she tells me about the giants carrying trees and bushes on what she calls zip lines, which I am able to identify as telephone wires. Beneath the busy giants, she explains, there is a marching band playing familiar tunes by John Philip Sousa. She is not especially impressed by either of these things, and the various children playing games in the bedroom annoy her. “Out you go,” she says to them. Then she describes the man with no legs who spent the night lying beside her in bed. He had been mumbling in pain, but nobody would come to help him. She remembers her own pain, too. “I could hardly move,” she says.

And she can hardly move now. Her legs are stiff, her back is cracking as I lift her out of bed. Although still clearly in pain, she gives me a sly look and gestures with her chin toward the flowerpot in the hallway. “The Flowery Man,” she says. “He’s very nice.”

She is fully articulate, in many ways her familiar self. She asks me if I saw the opera. I’m not sure which opera she means; we’ve seen many over the fifty years that we’ve been married. She means the one last night in our back yard. She describes it in detail—the stage set, the costumes, the “really amazing” lighting, the beautiful voices. I ask her what opera was performed. Now I get another look, not a sly one but a suspicious one.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

I say that it’s not a matter of belief but of perception. I can’t see what she sees. She tells me that this is a great pity. I miss so much of life. I used to have something of an imagination, but I’ve evidently lost it. Maybe she should start spending time with someone else. Also, she knows about my girlfriend. The one in the red jacket. There is no girlfriend, but there is a red jacket hanging over the back of her walker. Suddenly, she forgets the girlfriend and remembers the opera. “Oh,” she says. “It was ‘La Traviata,’ and we went together with Anna Netrebko before she sang.”

Now I have my own brief vision. Diana is only twenty-one, I am twenty-five. We have just arrived in South Bend, where I am teaching English at Notre Dame. A friend wrote about us in those days as having appeared to him like two fawns in the grove of our local Arcadia. Diana wore the clothes she had brought from England, including her miniskirt, and people in cars would honk their horns and stare. In London, where we had met, it had been the middle of the nineteen-sixties; at our Midwestern college, it was more like the fifties. A former student told me that when I held classes at home, for a change of scene, he and his classmates took bets on who would be lucky enough to talk to her.

I see her walking in from the kitchen with tea and her homemade scones. College boys—only boys were admitted back then—lift china cups balanced on wafer-thin saucers. Some have never eaten a crumbly scone or sipped tea out of such a delicate cup. Diana is often told she looks like Julie Christie, and my students all want to be Omar Sharif, Christie’s co-star in “Doctor Zhivago.” Some write poems inspired by Lara, Zhivago’s muse. Diana smiles at them, greeting those whose names she remembers. Hello, Vince. Hi there, Richard. She dazzles them. She dazzles me.

Art was her passion. Later, she earned an art-history degree and became the curator of education at our university’s museum. She devised a program of what she called “curriculum-structured tours,” ambitiously proposing to organize museum tours that would be relevant to any class. This she did—chemistry students learned about the properties of seventeenth-century paint, psychology majors studied portraits for signs of their subjects’ mental health—and eventually she exported her innovations to other college campuses. Because of her, students began looking seriously at paintings and sculptures. They followed her hand, pointing out some luminous detail; they listened to the music of her voice, her British accent slowly becoming Americanized over the decades.

Diana trained a new set of gallery interns each year, teaching them about all there was to see and find in the museum’s art. She loved them dearly, and they loved her back. She had been conducting tours for thirty years when a former intern, Maria, came by the house—ostensibly on an errand to collect some of Diana’s library books. Really, she wanted to talk to me. She explained that Diana had started seeing things. The first time Maria noticed it, Diana was showing a class of French students a reduction of Charles Louis-Lucien Müller’s “The Roll Call of the Last Victims of the Reign of Terror,” from 1860. It’s a very busy painting, with dozens of figures waiting to be transported to the guillotine. Diana told the students that at the center of “The Roll Call” was a man named General Marius. But General Marius wasn’t there; he was around the corner, in a painting called “Marius and the Gaul,” about which Diana had written her thesis, many years before. She was speaking in French, and at first Maria thought that Diana had got tangled up in the language. Surely it was her words, not her reality, that had become so confused.

Not too long after Maria’s visit, Diana returned home one day looking tired and depressed. She sat down on the sofa next to me, took my hand, and said, “The students tell me that I’m seeing things that aren’t there.” I admitted that Maria had already told me about this. By then, Diana had begun treatment for Parkinson’s disease, taking a standard cocktail of medicines in small amounts: levodopa combined with carbidopa, in a drug called Sinemet. She had received the diagnosis only because her doctor couldn’t otherwise explain her onset of general weakness. Aside from fatigue, she had virtually no symptoms, and her behavior had been absolutely normal while taking Sinemet. Now she confessed that she was seeing things at home as well. She pointed at a wadded-up sweater on a chair across the room. “That’s not really a cat, is it?”

I asked her what else she saw. “Little people,” she explained, “like Gulliver’s Lilliputians.” Objects had been changing shape—“morphing” was her word—for some time, but recently things had begun appearing out of nowhere. We saw a specialist in Chicago, who, like the neurologists Eric Ahlskog and Oliver Sacks, called these “illusions.” We suspected that the hallucinations were a side effect of Sinemet, and, after consulting many books and articles, Diana and I began to titrate her medication ourselves. Most Parkinson’s patients end up doing this, experimenting with how much they take of each medicine and at what time. There were new delivery systems for the basic mix of levodopa and carbidopa, and we tried them all, along with a number of adjuvant therapies.

At first, Diana could identify her illusions as such, and sometimes even dismiss them. (“Scat!” got rid of the cat.) The things she saw were not always frightening. Many of them seemed inspired by her work in the visual arts. Visiting a neighbor, Diana enthusiastically described a painting on a blank wall where, we later learned, one had been hanging until several days before. Her knowledge of eighteenth-century art may in part explain her delight in seeing topiary figures cut into very large trees, where I saw nothing but leaves. Some of the visions she told me about were clearly breathtaking. “If only you could see this,” she said.

I couldn’t see what she saw, but I could see her. She was somehow growing more beautiful—or beautiful in a new way. Everyone noticed this. Never one to use much makeup or even visit a hair stylist, she would wash her face in the morning, put up her hair or let it hang at shoulder length, and come downstairs to start her day. Her striking good looks belied the condition that would bring her down. It was Julie Christie all over again, but not from “Doctor Zhivago”; she was the aging Christie of Sarah Polley’s movie “Away from Her.” Adapted from Alice Munro’s story “The Bear Came Over the Mountain,” the film is about a woman with Alzheimer’s disease. Her decline is slow, until it is suddenly fast. Diana watched the movie without anxiety. She had not, so far, suffered any significant memory loss. When I reminded her that decades earlier my students had compared her to the actress, she laughed. During a trip to Chicago to see her doctor, we had been approached by a man on the street, who said, “I just have to tell you how beautiful you are. Forgive me for intruding on your day.” We got into a taxi, and Diana growled to me, “I sure don’t feel very beautiful.”

For two or three years, Diana’s condition was manageable through modifications in her medications, and through her ability to recognize the hallucinations for what they were. At the art gallery, she avoided confusion by writing out scripts for her tours. She managed to retire when she was scheduled to, not before. It was shortly afterward that her hallucinations began to increase in frequency and intensity. She insisted that the topiary trees were the work of giants, and she described the giants’ elaborate uniforms. Plays and operas were staged in our back yard, spontaneous parades appeared in the streets.

It became harder and harder for her to understand that her visions were not real. She sometimes asked me why these events were not written about in the paper or covered in the news on television. In the house, nothing held still: objects danced on the mantel, the ideograms on our hanging scroll of Chinese calligraphy flew around like butterflies. At the beginning, many of these transformations had given her pleasure. More and more, however, they annoyed and alarmed her. Three women were “hanging” in her closet and refused to leave. The Flowery Man roamed the house. There were rude people who masturbated into a dresser drawer and had sex on the living-room sofa.

When Diana could no longer shake these things off, she began to surrender to them. She slowly ceased to see them as hallucinations. I had read that it did not help to deny the reality of these visions, so I stopped doing that. I began trying to deal with them as if I could see what she did. Friends were encouraged to make the same allowances. For a while this helped. A fifth person at a dinner for four did not pose a big problem once you got used to this kind of thing. I informed the members of Diana’s reading group that she might refer to people who weren’t there, and they, too, made the adjustment.

One day, she shouted for my help. A housepainter in white overalls, she told me, was painting over the portrait of one of our daughters that hung on the living-room wall. The man didn’t speak; none of Diana’s human apparitions ever spoke, though their mouths would move without sound, and sometimes they would respond to stern rebukes. I could say things like “I’ll see the painter to the door.” But often the damage had been done. In the case of our daughter’s portrait, it continued to exist, for Diana, partially erased. She referred to the painting as “the half-faced child.”

Some medications work for Parkinson’s patients with hallucinations, but for Diana they all seemed to make things worse. In November of 2019, a new kind of confusion about both space and time took hold. One morning, I found her with her suitcase packed, ready to travel. When I asked where she was going, she wasn’t sure. “Away,” she said. She wasn’t sure why. But, she insisted, “we certainly can’t stay any longer in this person’s house, in a place where we don’t even speak the language.”

Christmas approaches, and I return to the present tense. Everything that happens after this feels like it’s still happening now. Slowly, through the winter, Diana’s benign hallucinations become terrible and threatening presences. (Meanwhile, in China, a new and deadly virus is unleashed on the world.) Diana loses her ability to sleep, a common and debilitating feature of Parkinson’s. Because she is either sleepless or tormented by nightmares, I am also unable to sleep. For a while, I am able to soothe her and offer comfort, but often her dreams continue unabated when she wakes up. Eventually, I am simply incorporated into them. When I ask her if she is awake, she says she does not know.

Her eating also becomes a problem, and I know that she is not getting proper nutrition. I use the blender again and again, counting calories, mixing in anything containing protein. She is getting very thin. I sleep only when she sleeps and eat a quick sandwich as I cook for her. She looks at me one morning and says, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Because Diana hides things, then promptly forgets where they are, I often find myself searching for her medical-insurance cards, her driver’s license, some kind of I.D. with her picture on it. She sends me on a wild-goose chase all over the house. This drawer. That closet. But I can never find what we need. The hallucinated people begin to take on more life than the living. And they have names. Not generic and rather charming names like the Flowery Man but monosyllabic American names like Bob, Pete, Dick, George, Jack. No one seems to have a surname. “Jack who?” I ask her. She gives me a straight look and says, “Jack the Ripper.” She keeps asking, “Who’s in charge?” I wish I knew.

In March, as the pandemic descends on the Midwest, I try to explain why she cannot go out or see friends. She doesn’t understand. I don’t dare leave her alone, even for a short trip to the grocery store. She begins going outside when my back is turned, and she frightens some of the neighbors with things she claims to see. I make rules. No phoning friends after 10 p.m. No going outdoors after bed or going downstairs for breakfast in the middle of the night. I finally move to a bed in a separate room.

With the country in lockdown, I can no longer reach Diana’s neurologist in Chicago. Local doctors help us refill some of her medications over the telephone, but have nothing to offer that might help the dementia that is now clearly part of the picture. My most recent reading makes me wonder whether she might have not Parkinson’s but something called Lewy body dementia, which produces vivid hallucinations. Its terrifying symptoms are believed to have led to the suicide of the actor Robin Williams. Diana talks about “jumping in the river.” (The St. Joseph River is only a few hundred yards from our front door.) Neighbors offer to do some shopping for us, but as the pandemic gets worse I hesitate to ask them for more help. When I finally make contact with two or three “senior helper” organizations, I am told that all their programs are on hold. I can do nothing but try to continue on my own. I begin taking pills myself—sedatives washed down with glasses of Merlot. We are living on cans of beans and prescription drugs.

There are still moments when Diana is very happy. Sometimes, she seems to be in a state of bliss. She stands at the open doorway and gazes into the sky. I stand behind her. “Look!” she says. “Why can’t you see?” I tell her that I’m trying, but maybe need some help. She becomes angry and shouts, “The gods! The gods!”

One day, I find Diana clutching a balled-up blanket to her breast. “What have you got?” I ask her. “A dead baby,” she says. I have never seen such terror in her eyes. I have never seen it in anybody’s eyes.

At some point—a day later, two days later—police arrive at the door. In the street, an ambulance is flashing its colored lights. The three policemen at the door have masks on, and I’m initially frightened by this, because I don’t know that many people are now wearing them. Someone has called the police about a lady who lives here who may need to go to the hospital. I stand there gazing stupidly at the policemen. They ask if they can talk to the lady. I tell them she’s my wife. Diana is on the sofa, more or less catatonic.

When I step onto the front porch, I notice some of our neighbors watching from their yards. I am asked questions about Diana and who has been looking after her. I begin to fear that I’m about to be arrested. Someone suggests that maybe it would be good for her to be completely checked out in the E.R., and possibly admitted for a day or so. The next thing I know, two of the ambulance men are bringing a stretcher up to the porch. One of them asks if he can talk to my wife. Finally, I’m able to say something. I say no. They are immediately suspicious. To my amazement, I hear Diana saying, “I’ll talk to them. It’s O.K.” They ask her what’s wrong. She describes a few of her hallucinations. She’s worried about what’s happened to the dead baby. What dead baby? I try to intervene, but already she’s explaining that she had the dead baby in her arms just a moment ago. Perhaps it has rolled away. She gets down on one knee and reaches under the sofa. “Oh, good,” she says, reappearing with the blanket. “Here it is.”

While the medics are conferring with one another, Diana suddenly says, “I think I should go to the hospital.” The ambulance guys seem delighted by this. Diana is put on the stretcher, and the ambulance disappears. No one asks what I think should be done. No one asks me to come along. In the confusion, the blanket has been left on the front porch. When everyone is gone, I take it inside.

That night, Diana is admitted to the hospital for observation. I won’t be able to visit her, because of covid restrictions. I am frantic: they’ll get all the Parkinson’s meds mixed up, they don’t know her schedule. What will happen if she misses a dose of Sinemet?

What transpires in the next days and weeks is sometimes vividly clear and sometimes swirling in a surrealistic fog. At some point, it is decided that I, too, should be examined in the hospital. In the E.R., I am told that I am suffering from exhaustion, malnutrition, and dehydration. I end up on the same floor as Diana. By the time I arrive, she has told everyone that she is a movie director working on a documentary about art therapy in hospitals. From my bed, I explain to her doctors, who are different from my own, as much of her medical history as I can. I am allowed to talk to Diana only by phone.

Social workers keep appearing with documents for me to sign. My daughter Laura and I have agreed, in theory, that eventually Diana will have to move into an assisted-living community. A new facility for patients with dementia has recently been built near Laura’s house, in Worthington, Ohio. Laura wants to take Diana there, and I have to admit that I am no longer able to look after her. I am barely able to look after myself. I sign the papers giving Laura power of attorney for Diana and me. There are decisions to be made, bills to be paid, and I am flat on my back in the hospital.

Covid is tearing through the country. The hospital is filling up with patients, my bed is in demand. My doctors ask if I want to be sent home or to spend three days in the psychiatric hospital associated with the general hospital where I am being treated. They talk about rest, recovery.

Where I end up is not a health spa but more like a boot camp. Before I am moved, all my possessions are taken away. No shoelaces, no belt. At the new facility, I am given a handful of large and small pills every three hours. At night, all patients are on suicide watch. I barely sleep. While I am in the psych ward, Diana is driven in a long-distance ambulance to the care facility in Ohio, where, after a fourteen-day quarantine, she will now live. How Diana deals with this news, what she understands and doesn’t understand, I do not know. She still thinks she is directing a documentary film. I am not allowed to see her before she leaves.

In the second psych ward where I find myself remanded, I am the oldest patient by far. The program of endless group therapies seems designed for adolescents. At seventy-nine, I am too weak to do many of the things demanded of me. When I do not immediately respond to the pills I’m given, there is talk of electroconvulsive therapy. I object, and an online hearing is convened, where a judge concludes that, although I must stay beyond the hospital’s mandatory seventy-two-hour observation period, I do not have to undergo shock therapy.

Meanwhile, I am terrified of covid. Locked out of our rooms for most of the day, we are all in one another’s way, and patients share a common bathroom. One day, I am required to cut off my beard. Looking at myself in the mirror, I discover the corners of my mouth locked in a permanent grimace. The beard has hidden this from me: I can’t smile.

I try to explain to the staff that there has been some kind of mistake, that I need to rescue my wife, who has been taken to Ohio. The things I say to the nurses and therapists must sound mad. When I am finally allowed to see the chief psychiatrist, I hear the desperation in my voice. I watch the unbelieving faces of everyone around me, and wonder how often Diana saw the same incredulity in my own face.

Somehow, our family lawyer gets in touch with a woman named Mary, a registered nurse and “personal health-care advocate,” who is the one to finally secure my release from the psychiatric facility. I am asked to sign some papers that I haven’t read, and then I am free. On the way home in an ambulance, driving back the same way Diana came, I consider asking the attendants riding alongside me if they have heard of the Flowery Man, the topiary trees, the little people—any of Diana’s hallucinated cast of characters. For years I have tried as hard as I could to see these things, to share Diana’s view of the passing world. In her absence, returning to the home where I must now begin to live by myself, I long all the more to understand the reality that she inhabits.

When covid insinuated itself into the facility in Worthington, Ohio, in November, I had been at home for five months. For a couple of weeks, I had managed to communicate with Diana through screens. This confused her, though, so we started using the telephone instead. The last time I saw her face was on Zoom. She told me that she had something beginning with the letter “C.” Then she suddenly smiled her wonderful smile. “What a sweet little girl,” she said, following a hallucination with a sharp turn of her head.

Diana almost survived covid. After testing positive, she spent several nights at the hospital, but was sent back to her facility with a normal temperature and a negative test result. For a few days, I was able to imagine seeing her again, even touching her. I had it all figured out. I would be among the first in line to be vaccinated, among the first to embrace a loved one who had been unreachable for so long. I didn’t care how many hallucinated people came along, as long as Diana was around to see them.

Then her blood-oxygen level dropped. She was not likely to live through the night. Laura put the phone to Diana’s ear, and I read the first poem I ever wrote for her—about waking together in a small Left Bank hotel in Paris before we were married. Finally, I started reading from a book of poetry I had written about her struggle. The dedicatory poem is about the Greek goddess Artemis, known by the Romans as Diana. Its final lines return to Diana the mortal, my wife:

If she could change, she Might be like the woman called by her Roman name Reading in a book beside the fire in my own house. She has come down all these years with me

I couldn’t continue. “You’re doing great, Dad,” my daughter said, “but she wants to know about the Flowery Man.” So I told her everything I knew. ♦

John Matthias, a professor emeritus at the University of Notre Dame, has published some thirty books of poetry, fiction, memoir, translation, and criticism.

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/02/01/living-with-a-visionary