#It may have taken eons for me to settle on a version of it that I was happy with... though I think this is it!

[stardestroyer81]

Nothing like a bit of small talk to pass the time on a slow day. 🥪✨

[jarienn972]

La Sirena

Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020

Posting day is here at last!  I have been looking forward to sharing this new @cssns tale with everyone.  The past 2 events have allowed me to experiment and stretch my creativity out of my comfort zone, inspiring me to create the world for this story. 

This is the story of a disillusioned and lonely siren who chooses to defy her nature and rescue the sole survivor of a shipwreck, providing him shelter while he recovers.  The two come from very different worlds but they find a kinship through`their similar failed expectations. My interpretation of the Greek mythology here has not been taken literally.  In this story, sirens are shape-shifting sea creatures. Also, please note that the version of Killian written here is the young Lieutenant Jones so he does not have a hook.  I know that there are some readers out there who prefer him to have the hook in CS fics so I wanted to make that clear if it is an issue for anyone.

I have to thanks @kmomof4 for being an amazing beta and I also want to thank @courtorderedcake​ for the absolutely stunning watercolor artwork she created for this story! (Edited to add artwork)

If all goes as planned, I’m hoping to update weekly.  I’ll also be posting updates on AO3 and FF.net.

And here he go!

The Siren

For as far back as she could remember, this craggy spit of sand at the southernmost end of a narrow isthmus had been hers and hers alone. She had a nearly unobstructed view of the rock strewn bay as it blended into the deep blue sea at the horizon. Each dawn, she watched the sun rise to the east, basking in its glow until it sank beneath the waves at sunset, rarely encountering others of her kind - which was fine with her.

She'd separated herself from them decades ago, no longer content with doing Poseidon's bidding. She'd tired of using her song as a weapon, enchanting unsuspecting sailors until they leapt to their watery deaths as their ships were crushed against the boulders, their spoils lost to the depths. She'd long been told that it was merely what she'd been created to do, her beautiful voice simply a tool to serve the god of the sea. Her duty to Poseidon to rid the seas of the scourge of humanity.

Some time ago, she'd grown weary of her meager existence, gradually distancing herself from the pack. Her solitude had been her own choice, the years of loneliness easing the conscience that she wasn't supposed to have. These turquoise waters surrounding her cove provided all she needed - all except the one thing her heart desired most.

This day had begun like so many before it, low grayish clouds hugging the glassy surface of the bay. With scarcely a breeze, she knew these clouds would linger until the early morning sun rose high enough into the sky for its rays to dissipate them.

The water calm and clear, she'd decided to take a sunrise swim, wading into the gentle surf until she was deep enough for her land legs to transform into her muscular tail. The metamorphosis began at her waist, shimmering scales replacing her ivory skin as she dove beneath the surface with a flick of her fins. She was grateful for the unique physiology of her species which allowed her to breathe as freely in the depths of the sea as she could on land as it had allowed her the freedom to explore the hidden caves and reefs below the land she called home. She'd become familiar with every detail. Every pebble. Every blade of kelp. Every colorful fish that lived here amongst the coral. These were her friends, her confidants. Today, however, she sensed something out of place.

As she skimmed above the reef, her gaze was drawn upward to the streams of light that filtered through the ocean's surface, discovering a sight that didn't belong - a dark void blocking the light. The anomaly seemed too large to be any sea life from this bay and the shape unlike any ocean creature she'd seen - oddly rectangular but with two shorter and narrower protrusions sticking out from one side. It was also remaining strangely close to the surface… Whatever might this mysterious thing be?

Curious, she gave her tail fin a powerful kick to propel herself upward, poking her head above the waves a safe distance from the floating object. It may have been eons since she'd last used her voice to scuttle a ship into its grave but she could still recognize the long wooden planks as having belonged to such a vessel. Such wreckage was commonplace along these shores but what drew her attention was the human engaged in a desperate struggle to retain his grip on those still-buoyant planks.

She'd witnessed many a man plunge willingly into the depths under the hypnotic spell of the siren song but never had she seen one this close - and never had she seen one fighting to stay alive! She was transfixed by the human's struggle. Such an unusual sight - the flailing and raw instinct to save itself. She found it fascinating to watch - at least until the human's eyes met hers.

In that fraction of a second, she saw the fear in his stare transform into a glimpse of hope and now she was the one who was terrified. No human had ever seen her before, her nature screaming at her to drown this human and put him out of his misery. The problem was, her intuition was telling her to do the opposite.

It was becoming obvious that the man's strength was failing. There was no telling how long he'd been in the water but as his eyes fell closed and his grip went slack, she sprang into motion. She twisted and twirled her body towards the mysterious human, her fins and tail separating into six lithe tentacles, one of which encircled his midsection, raising his torso above the surf as she maneuvered them both to the shore.

She lowered him gently onto the white sand then drew her tentacle back into the sea as she regained her humanlike legs. Splashing her way out of the shallows, she made her way up the beach and dropped to her knees beside him although she had absolutely no idea what to do next. Tentatively, she extended a hand to touch the strange creature, oddly fearful that it might surge to life and bite her fingers off. When her fingertips at last made contact with the human's arm, they brushed against the tattered remnants of the cloth garments the man wore. He made no movement at her touch, boosting her confidence to proceed.

The majority of her kind were female and although there were a few exceptions, she'd rarely had the opportunity to be in close proximity of a male. This one lacked the long flowing locks of the males of her species, sporting dark hair cropped close to his scalp. She traced her fingers along his hairline and down across the exposed side of his face, bristling at the prickly whiskers that lined his jaw. Save for Poseidon himself, facial hair was unheard of, as was body hair. This human possessed a broad patch of wiry, dark hair across the exposed sections of his torso and a similar, though lighter coating covered other sections of visible skin on the man's arms and legs.

There was little doubt that he was the strangest creature she'd ever laid eyes upon.

But there was so much more that she could also see. The man was obviously injured. A trickle of crimson spilled over his forehead from what appeared to be a deep laceration along his hairline and she noticed dark purplish splotches dotting his pallid skin, the most prominent extending from his brow to the hollow of his cheek. The bruises showed only traces of yellowing, indicating that they were recent. His wrists were ringed with angry abrasions and she held no doubts that invisible wounds lay unseen. Whatever had this man suffered?

She hopped backwards as the human lurched awake, curling onto his side while choking and spewing seawater and bile. She'd not intended to flinch, but his unexpected movement startled her. She remained perched just beyond his reach as his fit settled and he dropped listlessly back to the sand, all the while staring at her with his haunting, intense blue eyes. He uttered but a single word before fading back into unconsciousness.

"Angel."

The Sailor

He'd been a bloody, damned fool to allow himself to be captured. The mission plans had been perfect. Liam had drawn them up himself and yet they'd still failed. Most of his landing expedition had been lost in the battle and the rest who'd survived had been captured along with him. All because His Majesty, King George, had insisted that they scout and survey a previously uncharted island that he'd now coined Neverland. The island may have been uncharted but it had been far from undiscovered as his team had found it teeming with bloodthirsty pirates - pirates who had been using the land's numerous craggy coves to stash their treasures.

On their second day after landing the skiff on the deceptively calm shore, they'd run afoul of a band of rapscallions, ill-prepared for the skirmish that followed. That had been his fault. He should have done more reconnaissance. He should never have blindly trusted the vague map and initial scouting report provided, even if they had come with his brother's blessing. As their lieutenant, it was his mission. His to lead and his alone to fail, not that any of it mattered right now…

He believed it to have been a week since he'd been taken prisoner, but in truth, he'd lost track of time. He'd spent most of his captivity bound, beaten and locked away in a foul smelling hole adjacent to the ship's cargo hold. He'd not laid eyes on his remaining crew in days, wondering whether they were in a similar predicament, were they even still alive. His captors had kept him isolated, perhaps because he was an officer in His Majesty's Royal Navy. He might fetch a ransom, should the king show favor upon him. If not, he feared he'd be executed without a second thought.

As each day passed, he was slowly losing hope that he might be rescued. Surely Liam would have learned by now that the expedition team had not returned to the rendezvous point. Would they have dispatched a search team? Did anyone even know he'd been taken prisoner? His dreams of one day captaining a ship himself taunted him as he wallowed here in this dank prison.

But as he did each day, he clenched his jaw and swallowed back the pain as he struggled to wriggle free of the ropes binding his wrists behind his back. His skin might be raw and the hemp bindings soaked with his blood, but he was Killian Jones and he'd be damned if he didn't at least attempt an escape.

The crew of this vessel had clearly been ordered to keep him alive, as evidenced by the swill they brought him as sustenance. The mangy pirates would show up periodically with a bowl of slop, untying his hands only long enough to gag it down. They cackled as he drank it, the contents never identifiable but he didn't dare think about that. He focused solely on the sustaining water it contained, avoiding thoughts of contracting dysentery or whatever other foul disease might be present.

On this day, he'd barely a minute to swallow their putrid offerings before the bowl was snatched away and his arms were yanked behind his back once again. He'd expected them to bind his wrists tighter as they typically did yet for some reason, the ropes didn't feel quite as restrictive. He wasn't sure what may have transpired, whether his captors may have been distracted, but he was certain that he'd not heard them secure the hatch either.

If he could find a way to get free… Find a sword and perchance - a way off of this miserable vessel… There were so many ifs but he had little to lose. At least were he to die fighting, he'd die with honor.

He'd not expected the sudden lurch that came next, his aching body slammed into the chamber wall as the ship's forward motion abruptly ceased. A boom reminiscent of a loud thunder crack echoed through the hull followed by the gushing of water into the void.

They'd struck something.

Was this what had distracted the pirates? Had they run aground on a sandbar or veered into the shallows in error? Oddly, he heard no voices resounding on the decks above. No orders shouted. No fearful pleas for aid. All his ears could hear was the creaking of failing wood and the pounding of his own heart.

It was life or death now for certain. This ship was sinking; he could feel the list to port and there was absolutely no way he was going to be dragged down to Davy Jones' locker on this heap. He felt along the cell walls for anything he might use to free his hands - a protruding nail or even a splintering board would help. As luck would have it, he chanced upon a bent nail which provided just enough leverage to hold the rope taut while he wriggled and contorted his hands until he could pull them free.

He shook his arms out of the bindings, grimacing as his muscles protested but he couldn't spare a moment to dwell on aching bones. While it hadn't reached the cargo hold yet, it was only a matter of time before it filled with seawater so his first priority was to get to the upper deck. He leaned his hip into the hatch, whispering a silent prayer that he'd been correct and it hadn't been fully secured.

The hatch fortuitously swung open as another violent tremor shook the ship, knocking him off of his bare feet. He was certain that the hull was fully breached as he crawled on hands and knees through the tight confines of the cargo hold in search of the spiraling steps that would lead up to the crew deck. He'd remembered to count his paces when they'd led him blindfolded to the tiny chamber so even in the darkness of the hold, he knew they must be around here somewhere.

Killian scrambled to his feet as his hand found the staircase and he scurried upward to the seemingly vacant crew deck. It was strange not to encounter another soul as he ascended through the open hatch. It was eerily quiet but nevertheless, he pressed on toward the midship staircase that would open onto the main deck. At least this deck had lanterns to illuminate his way as he dodged empty hammocks and hurried past the unoccupied bunks to get topside.

The late afternoon sun assaulted his vision as he emerged onto the abandoned deck. There wasn't a single man visible as his eyes swept his surroundings. He spied no one manning the riggings, no one in the crow's nest and most disturbing - no one at the helm. So these cowardly pirates had all abandoned ship, including their captain? So much for the captain going down with his ship…

He crossed the deck and vaulted up the steps to the bow, trying to get his bearings and determine the ship's position. He was only vaguely familiar with this expanse of the sea but there seemed to be a landmass on the horizon off of the starboard side. It was likely where the pirates had set off for although he saw no dinghies in the water. Something didn't seem to add up here.

From the bow, he was able to get a glance of the rocky outcrop they'd struck. It extended well above the surface and in broad daylight, should have been quite visible to the navigator. Experienced sailors would have known to steer away. Everything about this situation was confounding his brain but he had to concern himself with escaping this ship.

The ship shuddered beneath him as it began to slide free of the rocks. He slipped, bare feet unable to find purchase on the slick teak planks as he fell, driven into the side rail as the vessel leaned more to port. He clung to the still-sturdy posts separating him from the sea as his mind went into overdrive. Even if the pirates had left a skiff behind, he doubted he could launch it himself. And then there would be the problem of encountering these deviants again should he reach land but it seemed preferable at this moment to take his chances with the pirates rather than ride this sinking ship into the depths.

He needed to locate something that would float, not daring to attempt swimming that far in his weakened state. Maybe there was an empty barrel? A hatch he could pry loose? And he'd need a way to debark… Where would they keep their rope ladder?

He forced himself back upright using the railing for support. On Liam's ship, the rope ladder was dispatched from the aft deck and as this ship was of similar design to the Royal Navy schooners, he knew he was on the wrong end of the ship - and his good fortune had run out.

Too much water had now entered the ship's hull and she was beginning to break apart. The weight of the water tore the ship free of the boulder that had ripped through the hull and as it slipped deeper into the waves, a crack split the deck apart. Killian grasped wildly to the closest rigging lines he could find as the stern broke loose. The time for plans was gone.

He swung out of control in the tangle of ropes and pulleys, teetering precariously above the deep blue ocean. Damnit, Jones - what the hell have you gotten yourself into? He'd trained for dangers like this - for how to survive a sinking ship… He'd just never figured he'd be without a crew…

And out of nowhere, his chances of survival took a turn for the worst. A steel pulley swinging in tandem with him smacked into his forehead and he lost his grip on the rope. Stunned from the blow, he couldn't coordinate his limbs to reach for anything that would stop his fall, splashing awkwardly into the sea.

That sudden impact jolted him back to consciousness as sheer instinct took over. He was a strong swimmer under normal circumstances, but this certainly was not and to make matters more complicated, the sun would soon set. He could tread water in the dark all night…

There! his weary brain called out to him. There's a board… It will serve as a raft. Get yourself to it! His gaze caught sight of the planks floating a short distance from him. Hampered by the sting of salt water in his wounds, angry muscles that had been abused for too long and a steady stream of blood pouring from the fresh cut above his brow, the swim was arduous. He was near ready to faint by the time he reached the panel of three boards still somehow holding together. He used every remaining bit of his strength to drag himself atop it and collapsed.

Killian was thankful for calm seas as he drifted through the night although less thankful that the current had carried him away from the land he'd hoped to reach. By the time the first golden rays of morning sun crested over the eastern horizon, he found himself enveloped amidst a thin layer of marine clouds. He could no longer see any traces of the ill-fated pirate ship nor any visible land masses.

He'd fought valiantly to remain alert throughout the evening, fearful of losing his perch on the narrow planks but fatigue and injury were taking their toll. He struggled to raise his head as he succumbed to the blissful call of unconsciousness. As a man of the sea, he'd always expected that his death would come at the mercy of the sea. Perhaps he hadn't thought it would come so soon…

I'm sorry, Liam… I've failed you yet again… was the last thought he remembered as he gave in to the blackness.

He wouldn't recall slipping from the planks or the momentary struggle to pull himself back atop of his makeshift raft. The next time his eyes opened, he was certain he'd crossed over into the afterlife. An expanse of azure sky loomed above him and he felt the security of land beneath his back. He wouldn't have expected the aches and pains of his life tragically cut short would have accompanied him into the next life, but he'd never died before…

Of course, this could be but a dream. Exhaustion still weighed heavily upon him so this could all be a mere hallucination of a dying man - more so when he saw her. Killian couldn't make out the details of her face but there she was, cutting a figure akin to a goddess with tresses like the sun tumbling over her porcelain shoulders and bared bosoms. Such beauty could only be…

The words formed in his head: Are you an… Only one would cross his lips - "Angel?"

[septembriseur]

You guys know that I’m back to working on Transposition. But it is, frankly, a challenge, and I feel a lot of pressure to put something out there and prove that the story will be finished. So I’m posting what is essentially some AU tidbits, because it’s a draft of part of Chapter 52 that I threw out and totally reconceptualized. It is not particularly good, but here it is!

Telford trades the tel’tak to a junk dealer in the P3S-805 system and ends up in a ratty little cobbled-together half-Kerobottri exoship that shakes when you try to engage its makeshift FTL drive, but, hey, it comes with no questions asked. And it’s not like he has any reason to be picky; he’s just trying to get a couple of gate-trips ahead of Kiva’s people before he finds a spaceport and settles down to get drunk.

The place he ends up in is a shithole clustered around the North Pole of a medium-sized planet in the Formalhaut Debris Ring, about twenty-two light years from Earth. It’s a frozen, sandy desert with a dozen tiny speckling moons above it, and not a single building more than three stories tall. It caters to frack miners running hot crews through the debris ring, which the LA’s First and Second House periodically squabble over, and the occasional Goa’uld war criminal hoping to lay low. That makes it a good place for Telford, even if the liquor is shitty. So he hauls out some of the raw data crystals that he stripped off the Sixth House tel’tak and pays enough to dock his ship, then keeps paying until the barkeeper at the watering hole hands over the bottle.

It’s whatever the latest thing is that the Lucian kids are cooking up out of kassa. It doesn’t really taste like anything; just like ethanol and antiseptic. He hunkers down in his ship and knocks the stuff back without a chaser. And again. And then again. For a while, grimly determined, that’s all he does: limiting his world to the fumes that he breathes out, and the back of his throat, where the mucous membrane is burning.

He doesn’t have a jacket anymore, but he’s got what the bounty hunter threw in with the exoship: a couple of Himalayan-looking blankets made out of knotted-up fibers, and a hooded coat lined with some kind of animal fur. So he puts the coat on, and, after a while, the hood too, then drags one of the blankets over his shoulders and breathes into his cupped hands. He can smell the coat’s earthy leather, and whatever it is that fur smells like. The air smells like naquadah and ozone. He looks out over the bulks of the ships, great beasts sleeping in the desert on every side of the outpost-city, some as tall as the buildings and twice as big. The dim light of the sun, filtered through dust clouds, glints off the shinier of their surfaces, along with the occasional scattered fleck of a moon. They’re like shrapnel wounds, that spray of moons— not quite regular enough to be strafe-marks, but deep enough that you can see the inside of whatever it is that was punctured.

He takes another abrupt swig of the liquor.

He thinks his first step should be to take stock of what he has left. The Hemingway is gone now, and the Dostoevsky. The— assorted personal knickknacks that he hadn’t needed anyway. He took enough shit off the tel’tak to last him a little while if he barters, but when he’d made his elaborate back-up plans, he always assumed he’d be leaving from Earth. So he hasn’t got a whole hell of a lot of assets out here in deep space. He can always sell intel, but that comes with the risk of someone back-tracing the information. Or he can take the sensible option and just turn mere. It’s what a lot of guys did on Earth, anyway, after they’d left the service, if they’d gotten deep in debt or just couldn’t fit in.

He’d tried to imagine it himself, when he was younger: leaving the service. Retiring. Consulting. Security. A house, a car, a wife, a couple of kids. On some level that language didn’t reach down to, the thought had always repelled him. He’d thought that if he tried it, he would end up like one of those guys you heard about who just went missing, just up and walked away from their lives one day. They turned up twenty years later running a tackle shop off the coast of Alaska, or flying prop planes in the South Pacific, or else they didn’t turned up, and stayed question marks forever, strangers who had sealed whatever secret they carried so well inside them that they had taken it, totally unknown, to their graves.

It was possible to do that. It wasn’t a failure. Maybe it even meant that you’d won. Whatever was inside you, you’d kept it: pure and unsullied, a hard bright crystal, a fuel you could burn. It was uncontaminated and yours forever.

He can feel it inside him now: a pain in the region of his chest, close to but not exactly contiguous with the heart.

He drinks and watches cosmic dust catch the amber glow of the distant sunlight.

A cold wind shifts and rattles the sand.

***

An ice storm in the morning, with no rain: only hailstones rattling like pebbles against the walls of the exoship. He wakes from a restless sleep still wrapped in fur and heavy blankets. He feels like God has picked up the box he’s hiding in and shaken it right next to His ear to hear if anything left inside still scuttles. He thinks about Rush explaining Wittgenstein’s beetle. There is something alive in us, though it may be a very singular creature. It may not be what other people thought— hoped— it was.

Still. Something scuttles. Insect legs against the siding.

He erases his travel history in the ship’s computer and swallows down another couple fingers of kassa liquor for breakfast, tunelessly humming Mahler under his breath, then throws it up an hour later courtesy of his hangover.

When he stands, he sees starbursts against the array of evening. It’s not really evening, of course; there’s not really night or day, this close to the magnetic pole of a planet, unless you count the constant half-dim polar twilight. One long night lasting half a year, deranging the little rock’s temporalities like every other kind of measurement was deranged by the location. Get too close to the axis of something, and you lose all sense of how to chart it.

He’s familiar with the problem.

***

Ships come and go like fireflies in a summer time-lapse, their engines burning off into the dusk.

It’s fall on Earth, he guesses. So: no more fireflies, which: fuck ‘em, anyway. They only last a few months before they’re done. Like humans, when seen from an Ascended perspective. Little chips of mica; little specks of dust. You could lose a fistful and not notice, so why should they matter?

He thinks of Rush sinking his hands in the floor up to the wrists, as though he could reach down and reclaim the mineral flecks trapped there for eons. As though the whole universe were just water, none of it yet set in stone around him.

It should’ve been me, Telford thinks. It should’ve been me who—

But he hadn’t had the genes.

Always something missing.

***

He doesn’t speak English out here. He speaks the degraded Babylonian of Sixth House. Or at least that’s what Jackson had always said it was— the bastard child of Akkadian and Aramaic, mixed with the Hebrew dialects of the Asar planets, sort of like what might have happened if the Babylonian Empire still existed. He’d had to learn it from scratch when he went undercover the first time, in case the translation matrix ever encountered a glitch. It was hard work, but he was good at it, at least according to Jackson. Jackson had seemed faintly surprised; Telford had said, “You thought I’d be as dumb as a brick.” “No,” Jackson had said, but his eyes had slid guiltily away. Telford had smirked, grimly pleased by the implied admission. Jackson had said, too hurriedly, “I didn’t. II wasn’t surprised because— I mean, I wasn’t alluding to— obviously that’s not what I meant.”

What he’d meant didn’t interest Telford. At forty-two years old, he’d had every version of that conversation, the one that was all ellipses. The last thing he wanted was to rehash them again with fucking Jackson. So, instead, he’d said, “Aramaic in space. Doesn’t it ever make you wonder?”

Jackson had looked uncomfortable. He’d adjusted his glasses with both hands. “Wonder what?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me. If Jesus was— you know.”

“Extraterrestrial, you mean? A Goa’uld? The idea’s been floated.”

“And?”

They’d been sitting in an empty conference room, waiting for some meeting to start; it had been late, Telford thinks now, or very early; there had been this hush, like sound was suppressed. Sometimes late at night there, he’d feel like he was under the ocean: the pressure deforming his eardrums, till all he could hear was the rush of his own blood. Jackson had toyed with a pencil, balancing it on the side of one finger. Unbidden, Telford had been reminded of the Egyptian scale of justice, where your heart was weighed against a feather after you were dead. The image had seemed apt; Daniel, he’d thought, what a fan-fucking-tastic Eternal Judge you’d make, sitting there with your schoolboy pout and your moralizing.

Without looking up, Jackson had said, “Oh, I don’t know. Not really the Goa’uld modus operandi, is it?”

“No? Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s; forget about getting what you deserve, and God’s going to magically provide you with loaves and fishes?”

“That seems like a very thin interpretation of the Gospels.”

Telford had half-laughed incredulously. “You’re going to come over all Christian on me, Jackson?”

Jackson flattened his pout out into a thin line. “I hardly think it has to be Christian to suggest that the impulse behind one of Earth’s major religions, and a full interpretation of its sacred texts, is about more than just the redistribution of resources.”

“So— what, then?” Telford moved restlessly in his chair.

“Divine justice,” Jackson said. He had the air of someone offering a challenge. “The idea that there’s something beyond us, some truth, some ultimate harmony or knowledge. Something that we’re a part of, if we want to be— if we want to be good.”

Telford had felt incredulous. “Knowledge,” he’d repeated. “Ultimate knowledge.”

“You don’t think that’s what God is? Knowledge?” Jackson seemed genuinely curious. His forehead was furrowed.

“Well,” Telford said, “for starters, I don’t think God is good.”

“I can’t tell you how amazed I am to hear it.” Jackson’s mouth gained a sad quirk. He looked down, at where the pencil was perfectly balanced on his finger. “So: not harmonious, but maybe— maybe still knowledge.”

Telford had shaken his head— slowly at first, and then faster, like a round of sardonic applause building. “Don’t get me wrong, Jackson— I know you’ve been a floating space octopus of pure light and shit, and gotten the sublime wisdom of the Ancients, but to paraphrase a much wiser man than myself: kid, I’ve flown from one side of this galaxy to the other, and I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff, but I’ve never seen anything to make me believe that all I need is more information, like a giant celestial textbook is going to make it all make sense.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Jackson said.

But he looked hurt; stung, somehow. His face had closed off. He curled his fist around the pencil. Telford had felt a brief surge of triumph; he liked defeating Jackson. At the same time, he had recognized Jackson’s expression. Back then, he hadn’t known why or what it meant. Now, he remembers it and senses some vague association with the dreams in which he tries to find the Chinese room. He wants to trust that there’s a place in which the answers will all be provided. He wants a dictionary that will teach him how to be a man. Unlike Jackson, though, he doesn’t think that one exists. There are no universals. There is no truth that we are trying to uncover in the only way that Jackson would’ve understood— the way an archeologist sifts through layers of dirt, patiently looking for the pieces that were once part of a coin, a corpse, a kettle, before the annihilating storm of history blew through. There’s a churning mass that has never had a meaning. It isn’t moving towards or away from something. It just is what it is.

When he was undercover, speaking Babylonian had helped; he’d felt like a different person. He’d felt like he was moving through a different world, one that wasn’t organized according to the same kind of principles he’d grown up with. There was no right or wrong to it; just a different set of facts. He took to it like a fish to water, once he’d mastered the language. The sense of alienation was familiar to him. When he went back to Earth between assignments, that was the strange part— standing in his own house, his own kitchen.

And now he never has to go back there. Never has to speak English again, if he doesn’t want to. He can move through different languages, different truths, like putting uniforms on and taking them off when you’re finished.

“Shkarum,” he says to the bartender, tapping the bar with two emphatic fingers. “Ak shkarum yahab, vakash.”

His accent is very good.

***

[raendown]

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 1815 Summary: Tobirama has been haunted by an ancient legend for most of his life and only when he is well in to adulthood does he decide to chase its origins. Maybe if he finally understands where the legend began then he might understand why it fascinates him so.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

Eternity’s End

Tobirama couldn’t remember in the slightest where he had first heard the story, picking up bits and pieces as the years went by and never quite able to let the idea of it go. Childhood passed in to adulthood and again and again the myth came back to him in storybooks and movie themes until finally one day he decided that enough was enough. He needed to get to the bottom of this once and for all, find the truth out for himself. Barely a week later he had packed a bag and boarded a plane, heading for a small country that seemed almost forgotten by time itself.

Weeks it had taken him to hike his way through treacherous mountains to find a small village almost entirely cut off from the rest of the world. Here was where he had tracked the origins of the story to and he was a little surprised that it had taken him less than half an hour to find someone willing to guide him to the shrine about which he asked them. Perhaps he should have found it suspicious, her eagerness, but all he could think about was how close he was to answers, to the end of the mystery which had haunted him for as long as he could remember.

He asked his guide to recount to him her version of the story while they walked along overgrown paths. It seemed to him that word of mouth would have changed the myth over the years as it made its way around the globe. Surely here, where it had all began, he would find the purest version. With a mysterious smile on her face, his guide acquiesced. As they walked she spun him a vision.

“Legend tells of a time long ago when our people still remembered the old magics of the earth. Two men wielded power greater than any others, one the power of water and one the power of fire. Great compliments they were to each other and so easily did they fall in love but they had been born of different clans whose people were at war.

They met one day at the top of the mountain by an ancient shrine to one of the Old Gods. It was a place of great power, the place where they had first declared their love for one another, and it was the only place where they knew they would be safe from those who sought to keep them apart.

As soon as he laid eyes on his love, the elder of the two knew that something was wrong.

‘You are unhappy,’ said he and his companion agreed.

‘My people have discovered us. We are leaving these lands to go find our place elsewhere in the world. From henceforth will we be separated.’

The elder, who wielded the power of the fire, beseeched his love to stay with him and make their own paths together. But alas, he who wielded the power of water had a brother whom he loved dearly. To stay with one was to abandon the other and he was torn, unable to decide what to do.

‘Go then,’ said the elder. ‘Be with your brother and may you find happiness until you return here to me.’

The younger was confused and distraught. He was unsure if he would ever be able to return in this lifetime or even in the next. But the elder comforted him with a smile and a gentle touch.

‘I would wait one thousand lifetimes for your love.’

With that he knelt upon the earth from which all drew their power. Upon his knees, he looked up in to the face of the one to whom he had given his heart and he called to the Old God of fire whom he had always served faithfully, asking of them a favor. His prayers were heard and in moments he was turned to stone, unmoving and everlasting.

He remains there to this day, steadfast in his determination to await the return of his one true love.”

Tobirama was startled back to the present as his guide stopped speaking, blinking out in to the forest around them in surprise. As she spoke he had felt as though he could see it all happening right before his eyes. In those moments he had been sure he could have said exactly what the two lovers looked like, what the air had smelled of on that fateful night, how the chill of winter had pricked at their skin.

Back in reality the day was warm and he could felt droplets of sweat gathering at his temples as they came to the base of a steep set of stairs. He had already climbed up several steps before he realized that his guide was no longer there at his side. When he turned to check and see where she was he discovered that she had turned back, already a dozen feet away down the path. Just before she could disappear around a bend in the forest he called out to her, prompting her to turn and arch one brow at him over her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” he demanded. Something wild clamored around the edges of her answering grin.

“I’m returning to my village. You don’t need my help to find your way up one teensy little staircase, do you?”

“Well…no. I guess not.” She turned to leave again and Tobirama called out one more time. “You never told me your name.” Each time he had asked she had managed to dodge the question without him noticing somehow. Now she laughed with her head thrown back, red hair swirling behind her like an entity of its own.

“Kushina. My name is Kushina and I am the keeper of the path to Kurama.”

Before he could ask who or what Kurama was, the woman was gone. Huffing in irritation, Tobirama turned and stomped his way up the stairs. Sure, the way back was fairly straightforward and he was certain that he wouldn’t get lost, but it was still incredibly rude of her to just leave him here – and without even escorting him all the way to his destination! Obviously she wasn’t used to being hired as a guide if she didn’t even know the proper etiquettes for the job.

For some reason it felt as though the stairs took longer than they should have. His legs felt as though he had been climbing for hours before he got anywhere near the top and yet when he checked the sun it had barely moved. Shaking his head, Tobirama ploughed on until at last he reached the top and stepped out on to a small plateau, the very top of the mountain.

Directly across from him there was a large grotto carved in to the last bit of cliff face reaching towards the sky, tucked in to which was an intricately carved statue of a giant fox. Something about the fox seemed mischievous and intelligent, yet he also seemed to carry a great anger in his face and around the massive ears that were pinned back against his skull. Tobirama stared at the statue for a long time before his gaze fell lower and he felt himself drawn forwards by some inescapable force. This was it; this was what he had come for.

At the fox’s feet rested the statue of a man, perfectly proportioned and so detailed he looked ready to stand and draw breath. Kneeling on the ground just as the legends said of him, his chin was raised the lift his gaze towards something above him. Upon his face was carved such an expression longing and love that Tobirama felt his heart stutter inside his chest.

His feet were moving without thought, bringing him closer and closer to the stone man, and as he drew near Tobirama found his hand aching to reach out. Something called to him, to something deep down within his soul, and he was powerless to do anything but answer it.

Stopping just in front of the statue, Tobirama looked down and found that because of where he had come to rest the man’s gaze now looked directly in to his own. For some reason, he imagined that they would be incredibly dark eyes. The wild hair that flowed so long it brushed the ground would be black as night – and soft, as soft as the finest silks. When he spoke his voice would be deep and his anger terrible yet beautiful to behold.

As though in a dream, Tobirama saw his hand reach out and didn’t even think to stop it. Without knowing why he found his palm sliding across the jaw of the stone man, cupping his face in what could only be described as a loving touch.

Warmth met his fingers, smooth skin instead of rough stone, and memories rushed in to him at the exact same moment that the stone began to melt away underneath his touch. Dizziness took hold of him and he closed his eyes, swaying on the spot as entire lifetimes rushed by inside his mind, decades and eons passing all in an instant, each filled with more and more loneliness than he wished to comprehend.

Just when he thought he might faint from the stress of it a hand placed itself over top of his, grounding him and calming the maelstrom inside.

Tobirama opened his eyes to see another dark set of eyes staring back at him from above a soft and loving smile. Black hair shifted in the light wind and the scent of smoke drifted about the clearing, filling him with a nostalgia that was barely his own.

“Madara,” he breathed in wonder. In this life that name had never once passed his lips and yet the very sounds of it were carved deeply in to his heart.

“I knew eventually that you would return to me. And here you are, just as beautiful as you were in your first life.” The man’s voice was the booming of thunder and the crackling of fire. Memories settled ever deeper in to his consciousness and when he replied, Tobirama found that his own voice was the crashing of waves and the roar of surf.

“Patience isn’t like you, Madara,” he said teasingly.

His lover of ages past, the man who had been cast in stone for countless millennia, rose slowly to his feet. Their hands stayed clasped as Madara stepped forward, looking at him as though he were the most precious thing in all of the universe.

“I would have waited for you forever.”

“Dramatic,” Tobirama accused him. Then he leaned forward to breathe in the scent of his lost love. “I missed you.”

“I love you,” Madara countered. “Always.”

Tobirama smiled and before he pulled the man in for a kiss, he agreed, “Always.” 

[unlikelywallflower]

on finally getting what I want, personal loss, and collective pain

In addition to the content warning in the graphic, I’d like to preface this with a content “request”: While I appreciate any loving shows of support (via text/email/FB message), I am not looking for any advice or suggestions on how to cope (the only exception, possibly, being if you’ve personally been through this and want to share what you did for yourself).

This is going to be a long one, y’all. Also one that feels strange, because while I do feel more women talk about this more of the time than they used to, it’s probably not something that many people are this public about. That said, sharing my whole journey, for my own processing and shedding light, and for the benefit of those who are dealing with some/any of the same things, is what this blog has been about from the start. So here we go...

What feels like eons ago, but was actually only six weeks ago, I started feeling crampy—like “my period is coming tomorrow” crampy—and immediately went into a tailspin of misery that I was not only going to have to go through it all over again, but was going to have to take more of the fertility drugs whose side effects I still hadn’t recovered from. But then, the next morning, I woke to a 0.4 degree rise in temperature (for those of you who aren’t fertility nerds, that is a fairly sure sign of either a fever or pregnancy, and I definitely wasn’t sick), peed on maybe the fifth stick that week, and for the first time in seven months of trying, saw a very faint second line. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or be terrified or think I was imagining the whole thing, so I decided to keep it to myself for the day. I slept terribly, and then that faint line got a little darker the next morning. I knew then that I was for sure pregnant, and alternated between crying with joy, smiling to myself, singing and talking to my little blastocyst, filling out intake forms for the six different midwifery practices in the city, looking at the stick every five minutes, and feeling more nervous than I had in a long, long time. I also made a list of everyone I was going to tell before making a grand public announcement and at what stage I was going to tell them, and started thinking seriously about how I was going to creatively share the news with each of those people.

That drive to come up with an individually personalized experience for telling every single person in my life got pretty exhausting pretty fast, and was adding to the already mounting swell of anxious thoughts that were continuing to wake me up at 4am: what if it’s twins or even triplets (the fertility drugs did their job, helping me develop two mature and one smaller “immature” follicle)? What if the baby isn’t healthy? What if I have a miscarriage? What if I somehow lose my job and can’t afford this? What if? What if? What if?

I managed to calm down a little after a few days, and started just, you know, telling people. In a time when my feelings about being pregnant were about 60% anxiety, 10% excitement, 15% shame that I was more terrified than elated, and 15% “WTF was I thinking?”, telling people felt like my only real access to feeling excited about this pregnancy. My hCG hormone (the “pregnancy hormone”) was on the very high side of normal on the first couple of blood tests, which did not help the twin anxiety, and at the six-week mark, the nausea and exhaustion kicked into overdrive. (Note to those who don’t know about pregnancy week-counting: they start counting from the first day of your last period, so by the time you find out roughly two weeks after conception, you’re already technically four weeks pregnant). I kept feeling like I should be glowing and walking on air, but mostly I just felt like throwing up and having a nap.

I was so nervous for the first ultrasound at 7.5 weeks, but comforted by SD#1’s presence. And it looked like my prayers had been answered: there was one little blob on the screen; one single, very strong heartbeat. I cried with relief and immediately got on a train home to tell my parents in person (I had already planned the trip; I luckily had a client meeting in my home town the next day). The clinic scheduled me for another (completely medically unnecessary) ultrasound at 9.5 weeks, which I thought about not keeping, but then realized fairly quickly that the reassurance would be comforting—waiting til the standard 12-week screening sounded awful.

After telling my parents, I settled into it a little more, and by nine weeks, had told what felt like a lot of people. No one that I wouldn’t want to know if it didn’t work out, mind you. Then the day of the second ultrasound came. I was, as usual, nervous, but SD#1 was with me again. The ultrasound took an unusually long time, but the technician had a relatively neutral face and was chatting me up about the Raptors, so I wasn’t too worried. That is, until the end, when she said that she wasn’t going to bring my “husband” in to see the results on the screen, because there was something the radiologist needed to look at, and that our nurse would go over everything with us. I immediately knew something was wrong, but tried to remind myself that it could just be some anomaly they needed to look at more closely. As we waited for what felt like an interminable half hour in the waiting room to see the doctor, my thoughts got darker and darker, and were finally confirmed when she told us that the worst case scenario had happened: there was no heartbeat. She rushed through options as I sobbed: wait it out at home (which could take up to two weeks), drugs to stimulate it happening faster (which would still take a few days and may end up having to be taken twice), or a D&C. I opted for the latter, and they scheduled it for three days later; I ended up moving it forward by a day just so I could have it over and done with sooner. I survived a long Uber ride home from the clinic, told my boss I was taking a few days off, called my parents, and they were in Toronto within a few hours. I am really blessed, y’all. I have a lot of really great people in my life who really showed up, texted everyone I’d told so I wouldn’t have to, fed me, cleaned my house, held me while I cried, listened to me talk for hours.

The day of the D&C, I woke up hours earlier than I needed to and cried in bed while I said goodbye to the little embryo inside of me (or fetus; the line when they “graduate” is 9 weeks, which is exactly how far along I was, so it’s a little blurry). The clinic staff could not have been kinder or taken better care of me. When I walked into the surgical suite and got on the table (already doped up on a mixture of Ativan and Gravol), it was freezing and I started shaking uncontrollably, and sobbing. My doctor, for whom I will forever be grateful, slid her stool up to the end of the table, put my feet on her knees and her hands on my feet and just grounded me until the pain meds kicked in enough to put me out. It was the kindest and most compassionate gesture in the midst of one of the most terrible moments of my life. I woke up an hour or so later in the recovery room, and we made our way home. All I could focus on for the rest of the day (in between sleeping off the meds) was that one moment I had been pregnant, and then 10 minutes later, I wasn’t. It was over.

The last few days have been a hazy blend of crying, praying, calm moments of knowing I’ll be okay, a very modest amount of retail therapy, fear of all the things this means for my future, ruminations on the terrible moments, a ton of supportive texts from the wider group of people I’d told, a whole lot of support from my closest humans, and doing/planning all the things I can’t/won’t do when I’m pregnant. I had a poke bowl with double salmon. I had a cider—my first drink since November—accompanied by a charcuterie plate. My dear friend brought me to Wonderland to ride all the biggest rollercoasters, in the front car for maximum terror, where I screamed my grief and fears into the wind. And I finally walked into the tattoo shop, with the encouragement and accompaniment of another dear friend, to get a consult on the tattoo I’ve been thinking about for over a year.

Here are a few of the things I know: as strange as this may sound, I prayed for this. I prayed that if this wasn’t a healthy baby, that my pregnancy would end sooner rather than later, because that felt like it would be infinitely easier to cope with. I know that I am surrounded by people who are going to support me through this. I know that I have a lot of tools, and that I will be okay. I also know that I know a lot of people who have been through a miscarriage, or several, and went on to have healthy babies.

One of the things I’ve said over the past few days is that this feels kind of like a breakup: right now, it sucks and is immeasurably painful and sad. And every day, it will keep getting a little easier. Unlike a breakup, though, which somehow feels intensely personal even though pretty much every single human over the age of 13 on the planet has been through it, this does not feel like a personal experience. Yes, I am personally in pain. But knowing that so many women have gone through their own version of this, that I am somehow part of a collective pain, has been immensely comforting. It’s a shitty club to be in, but God am I grateful not to be in it alone.

[bushlaboo]

defenders of the night

It’s that time: @olicityficbang!

Over a thousand years ago, superstition and the sword ruled.

It was a time of darkness. It was a world of fear. It was the age of gargoyles.

When their centuries long curse is lifted, Oliver and his clan find themselves facing the modern world of Starling City where new foes and a familiar face pose a threat to their continued existence.

Aka a Gargoyles Arrow AU.

Author’s Note: For the sake of my sanity, a few changes to the Gargoyle clans: 1) they have names and 2) known family ties, but the clan still sees themselves as one extended family.

The idea for this AU first came up eons ago, or so it seems, when Holly (@geniewithwifi) was looking for suggestions. Mel (@melsanfo) and I sort of ran with some thoughts and everyone pretty much begged Masque (@thatmasquedgirl) to write it. I suppose that could still happen and I champion it because I am certain my wifey’s version would be 10x better.

Anyway, fast forward a little bit and OFBB Round 3 was announced. I really wanted to give it a try and I went looking for an idea that could reach the word count. It was then that I remembered this AU and well as things often do, the spiral began. Very special thanks to Rebecca (@nvwhovian) for early encouragement and beta-ing and Masque and my beloved Mind-Twin, @msdanvers, for bouncing ideas off of; this would not be happening without you guys.

Last but not least an extra special shout out to @funstory for making me such a lovely fanfic art piece.

Defenders of the Night: Prologue (AO3)

994

His heart felt heavy, as if it had gained the weight his broad, muscular frame took on each sun rise when it transformed into stone. All Oliver could think about as he soared through the air with Princess Caitlin in his arms was of the massive loss he'd be returning to – his once numerous clan reduced to a dozen unhatched eggs, his mentor, three younger brothers and their pet, Longbow; the castle they called home broken and scarred from battle.

His wings constricted, allowing him to pick up speed as his emotions threatened to swallow him whole. If not for the frightened gasp of the delicate human woman in his arms, Oliver may have allowed the searing pain to drop him from the sky. It would be as if he became one of the weapons that had ravaged his home – a sailing boulder tumbling from above with no care for itself or what laid within its path.

The burning core of a gargoyle's nature was the instinct to protect – their clan and their home, and by extension the humans with whom they shared it. Though the Princess had been wary of his kind, she had not been the one to betray them. That dubious distinction fell on the human who’d been their most trusted ally, the captain of the Princess’s guard, a man that had sworn allegiance to her just as he’d vowed brotherhood to his clan. Oliver trusted Slade as if he’d been a gargoyle, a mistake that cost him and the Princess dearly. Castle Wyvern had been breached and the invading army had slaughtered most of their families.

Sighting the enemy’s encampment Oliver took note of their scattering forces and felt a sense of pride fill him. He’d been denied his vengeance as Slade and the Viking leader, Hakon, turned on each other – each shouting that the other was responsible for smashing his clan to pieces, shoving one another until they went tumbling over the cliff’s edge with the Princess caught between them. He had only had a moment to react, to choose: save an innocent or capture one of the men so that he could unleash his rage and heartbreak upon them.

Either choice would have cost him a piece of his soul, but Oliver could not deny his purpose, so when he lunged forward over the edge, his clawed hand clasped around the rope used to bind the Princess. The rough-hewed material gave a bit under the sharp ends of his hand, but held long enough for him to lift the Princess to safety. He secured her from the cliff’s edge before slicing through the rope with his claws, freeing her. It was only after that task was complete that Oliver allowed himself to roar out his frustration.

He had wanted to end his enemy, to make them feel physically the pain that ravaged his heart … his clan, his Angel of the Night … his entire world was lost to him.

Oliver’s wings fluttered as he landed. He made sure the Princess was steady on her feet before stepping back from her and wrapping his wings around himself. He expected her to retreat from him, but instead she looked up at him with wide, sad dark eyes. “Oliver,” she said his name softly, for the first time without any fear or reserve, as she reached out to touch the stretch of his arm left exposed through his wings. Her eyes were wet and gleamed in the moonlight and her voice trembled as she spoke. “I cann’a say how sorry I am for your loss,” to emphasize her words the Princess squeezed his forearm gently, “nor how grateful I am for saving my life.”

Oliver sighed, uncertain how accept the kindness she offered when his heart felt cold and useless. A young, distressed voice called out his name saving him from having to figure out how to respond to the Princess. The dark headed boy raced towards them, his face red and blotchy; tear tracks smeared down his dirty cheeks. For the most part human features were not distinct enough for Oliver to tell them apart easily but he recognized the youth as the refugee, Ronnie, who’d been fascinated by his kind. His mother’s ignorance is what caused the discord that led him to order the surviving members of his clan into the rookery. A punishment that saved their lives.

“Hurry,” the lad pleaded, tugging on his wing. “Your friends,” he hiccupped in anguish through panting breaths, “need you.” Oliver growled, his eyes flashing a hot white, as he stalked towards the center of the encampment with the boy on his heels.

Humans skittered out of his path and Oliver couldn’t tell if they were gasping in fear of him or not, not that he cared. What was left of his family needed him and Oliver had to get to them – that was all that mattered.

The sight of his brothers frozen in stone at night stopped him in his tracks. His heart shuddered as Oliver reached out to drag his claws lightly over the shoulder of his mentor. Diggle’s form was hard and cold beneath his hand. “What sorcery is this?” he growled lowly, his eyes drifting over his stone encased brethren. As realization dawned that he was now truly alone in the world Oliver found himself unable to breathe.

An enraged voice filled the air, “Sorcery indeed! And now you shall join them,” the Mage seethed. The human’s usually pristine garb was torn and mud splattered.

Oliver turned, a harsh scowl drawn across his face, ready to rip the man to shreds. For the briefest of moments his own wrath was reflected back at him, charged blue eyes sparking before the man paled, his face going slack. “Princess,” he gasped, dropping the book he’d been clutching, clearly awed by seeing her standing before him. “You’re … you’re alive.”

“Oh Harrison,” the Princess sighed stepping forward to take in the unnaturally stilled gargoyles. “What have you done?”

“I … I thought you were dead,” he sputtered. “In my grief,” the Mage began to explain, but Oliver had no use for his excuses. The man stopped speaking when Oliver wrenched him violently off the ground, “Turn them back,” he ordered giving the man a fierce shake before dropping him unceremoniously to the ground.

The Mage reached for his spellbook, the Grimorum Arcanorum, with shaking fingers. His entire being trembled as he searched through the pages of his book. “No, no, no,” he cried out, sorrow contorting his face. “The page with the counter spell was burned,” the Mage stated, his voice cracking with regret.

The Princess kneeled beside him, resting a soothing hand on his shoulder she queried, “They’re stone forever?”

The Mage shook his head. “They’ll sleep ‘til the castle rises above the clouds.”

Oliver snarled at the news. That occurrence seemed near impossible to him so his brethren’s plight might as well be forever. They were trapped and he was alone with no guarantee that any of the eggs in the rookery, including his parents’ last egg, would survive or be female; meaning his clan could very well end with him.

He felt the Princess’s hands cup one of his own, drawing him out of his morbid thoughts. “I’m so sorry Oliver.” Her heartfelt sympathy was not enough to breach his tempestuous emotions. He merely shifted out from underneath her touch and crossed over to the chiseled sculpture of his mentor.

“Old friend,” he said reverently, his voice heavy with loss before lifting the stone mass. His muscles strained under the weight, but he paid the stress no mind as he started towards the castle. Oliver heard clattering behind him. He turned just enough to see the castle’s remaining inhabitants and the refugees they’d taken in begin to work the other gargoyles into wagons. Oliver was torn over the humans touching his clan given the Mage’s culpability for trapping them, but the care they were taking stayed his tongue. He was strong and if he had the time he’d be able to move each of his brothers back to their home, but he was determined to have matters settled before dawn broke. He would need human assistance to see to that so he proceeded towards Castle Wyvern without a word.

An hour before sunrise his brothers had all been mounted around the castle’s central tower and Princess Caitlin had vowed to look after the clan’s eggs, with special care to ensure the survival of his parents’ egg. With that promise secured, Oliver requested the Mage to, “Cast your spell one more time.”

Kneeling on his perch, Oliver looked out past the walls of the castle and to the rugged land that surrounded his home. The Mage’s voice was strong and clear as he gazed up to the starry night sky for what he believed would be the last time.

“Dormiatis dum castellum super nubes ascendat.”

End Note: I don’t have a posting schedule for this yet. I’ve never actually done one of those. I find the thought intimidating but it might help keep me on task. I am currently writing chapter six and will be going back with the help of my lovely beta to review earlier chapters before they get posted. Chapter 1 will up in the next few days since the prologue is so short, but after that … we’ll be playing it by ear, especially since I’ll be doing some traveling this month.