#It’s summer. Corona season

[tulpartrials]

I’ve got a killer headache right now. Annoying. Maybe another beer will fix it

[lazilyhereandhazilyclear]

I was tagged by the lovely @thesadboisguidetolife to give this a go.

Rules: bold & color the ones that are true and tag whoever you want to do it too!

APPEARANCE:

i'm over 5'8” // i wear glasses/contacts // i have blonde hair // i prefer loose clothing to tight clothing // i have one or more piercings // i have at least one tattoo // i have blue eyes // i have dyed or highlighted my hair // i have gotten plastic surgery // i have or had braces // i sunburn easily // i have freckles // i paint my nails // i typically wear make-up // i don't often smile // i am pleased with how i look // i prefer nike to adidas // i wear baseball hats backwards

HOBBIES & TALENTS:

i play a sport (or used to) // i can play an instrument // i am artistic // i know more than one language // i have won a trophy in some sort of competition // i can do a handstand

RELATIONSHIPS:

i have been single for over a year// i have a crush // i have a best friend i have known for ten years // my parents are together // i have dated my best friend // i am adopted // my crush has confessed to me // i have a long distance relationship // i am an only child // i give advice to my friends // i have made an online friend // i met up with someone i have met online

AESTHETICS:

i have heard the ocean in a conch shell // i have watched the sun rise // i enjoy rainy days // i have slept under the stars // i meditate outside // the sound of chirping calms me // i enjoy the smell of the beach // i know what snow tastes like // i listen to music to fall asleep // i enjoy thunderstorms // i enjoy cloud watching // i have attended a bonfire // i pay close attention to colors // i find mystery in the ocean // i enjoy hiking on nature paths // autumn is my favorite season

MISCELLANEOUS:

i can fall asleep in a moving vehicle// i am the mom friend // i live by a certain quote // i like the smell of sharpies //i am involved in extracurricular activities // i enjoy mexican food // i can drive a stick-shift // i believe in true love // i make up scenarios to fall asleep // i sing in the shower // i wish i lived in a video game // i have a canopy above my bed // i am multiracial // i am a redhead // i own at least three dogs

i'll edit this post soon to tag others (trying to shift my hyperfocus to, like, maybe i should cook and eat), but here ya go.

[poge-life]

𝔹𝕦𝕫𝕫𝔽𝕖𝕖𝕕 ℝ𝕖𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕡 𝕋𝕖𝕤𝕥 ~ 𝔻𝕣𝕖𝕨 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕖𝕪

“I’m (y/n) (l/n) and this fine looking gentleman is my boyfriend, Joseph and today…we’re doing the BuzzFeed relationship quiz to see how well we know each other.”

Drew let out a groan at the use of his first name, looking over at you, “I don’t like when you call me that. You only call me that when you’re mad at me.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek before placing one on his shoulder and looking down at the laptop. The questions listed were more like a checklist rather than actual questions but there was a variety to choose from.

‘Their birthday’

“(Y/B/D) (Y/B/Y)” He answered, tapping his hands on the desk

“November 4, 1993.” You said, “I didn’t believe him when he told me he was 26 when we first met because he doesn’t look like he’s 30.”

Drew let out sigh, shaking his head, “I don’t like to talk about it.”

“You’re getting up there, grandpa.” You teased, letting out a laugh as he shrugged your head off of his shoulder.

‘Their Astrological Sign’

“Your astrological sign is (y/s/s). Most compatible with mine, by the way.” Drew said, looking over at you as you agreed, “Obviously. You are a scorpio. Totally makes sense.”

‘Their Phone Number’

“Okay, my number has been leaked so many times that I’m not even gonna let him say it,” You declared as Drew agreed, “I know you know mine because you use it at Dunkin’ all the time.”

You just smiled at the camera as he rolled his eyes at you.

‘Their Biggest celebrity crush’

“Nick Cirillo is his.” You answered, “Nick gets more attention than I do when we’re on set. Especially this season.”

“Nick is a beautiful man, what can I say?” Drew chuckled, raising his hands in surrender, “Yours is always changing. But, if it were to come down to it, I would have to say…(y/c/c). You talk about them a lot.”

You rolled your eyes at your boyfriend, turning to give him an ‘are you serious’ look. Drew winked at you before turning back to the computer.

‘What their nickname is’

“Drewsph is a big one between our friend group,” you said, “I call you ‘baby’ a lot. I’ve also called you Drafe before on set.”

“When have you ever called me that?” He asked, confusion on his face, “I’ve literally never heard that one.”

“I do it when we’re on set and you’re in costume but not acting,” you explained, “you’re not exactly Drew and you’re not exactly Rafe. So… you’re ‘drafe.’”

Drew just looked at you with a blank expression before looking back at the camera, “I call her ‘babe’, ‘hun’, ‘sweet girl’ has been in there a few times. Maddy calls you Pookie.”

You let out a groan , banging your head against the desk, “They didn’t need to know that.”

“You called me Joseph, it’s fair game, babe.” Drew leaned down and placed a kiss to the top of your head.

‘Their coffee order’

“Oh good lord. Yours is always changing,” Drew answered, looking over at you, “Your current one is (y/c/o). You also do that vanilla cold brew from Starbucks a lot.”

“Do you know exactly how I get it though?” You asked

“5 pumps of vanilla and an extra pump of sweet cream.”

“You always just either drink an iced coffee with a little bit of creamer and like a spoonful of sugar or you get an Iced Almondmilk flat white.” You answered, “because you’re weird and can’t have a normal fucking coffee order.”

Drew narrowed his eyes at you, pursing his lips in the process, “Says the one who just weeds out their coffee with creamer.”

“Because straight black coffee is disgusting.” You argued, “If I wasn’t supposed to drown out the taste of coffee with creamer, it shouldn’t have been created.”

“So dramatic.” Drew mumbled and you mocked him “ ‘so dramatic’ Yeah. Okay.”

‘Their favorite alcoholic drink’

“Yours is different every time we go out,” You looked over at Drew, who agreed, “You drink beer in the summer, corona or Coors. When we go out to dinner, you do either whiskey. On the rocks. Or some kind of cocktail.”

“Yours depends on who you’re with,” Drew said, “You and Maddy have wine parties and go crazy for Mimosas at breakfast. But when we go out, you have (y/d/c).”

You threw your head back with a laugh at how crazy you both sound, “we sound like we’re alcoholics.”

“You and Maddy are just about there.” Drew shrugged, ignoring the look you sent him.

‘Their favorite co-worker’

You rolled your eyes at your answer, “Once again, Nick. But you also spend a lot of time with Austin and JD. But out of those three, I’m going with JD. You two hang out a lot together and he’s always at our apartment.”

Drew seemed pleased enough with your answer, “I’d say…Maddy or Rudy. You and Maddy instantly clicked when you two met and hung out more than the rest of us. But with Rudy, you two always find ways to entertain yourselves when you’re left alone.”

You had a grin on your face as you looked at the camera, “It’s always a good time with Rudy. He is the definition of letting the impulsive thoughts win. There is never a dull moment with him.”

‘Their pet peeve.’

You had to think about this one. Drew was a pretty calm person when he was around everyone and didn’t let anything really bother him. You couldn’t remember if he mentioned anything that bothered him.

“People chewing with their mouths open is your top one,” Drew said, “when people don’t take their shoes off before they sit on the couch-“

You cut him off before he could continue, “First off, we have a white couch and two, is it so wrong I don’t want whatever is on their shoes to be on our furniture? That seems like a pretty reasonable one to me.”

“Okay. I’ll give you that one. You also hate it when people don’t stack their dishes whenever we leave a restaurant.”

“I was a server in high school and college and I can say, it always made my job easier when we were busy.” You argued

You looked at Drew with your head tilted in thought, struggling to think of anything, “It’s not a pet peeve but it’s something that bothers you. When people come up to you at parties and think you’re like Rafe and give zero shits about your feelings.”

Drew let out a groan as he looked at the camera, “Please don’t come up to me and ask if I wanna do coke. I don’t do coke.”

“It’s amazing how many people in LA can get their hands on it,” You added. “You hate when people go through your camera without asking. That’s a major one I can think of. You also hate when people come over-“

“I do hate it when people come over.” Drew nodded and you rolled your eyes at him. “As I was saying, mr homebody, when people come over and use the shower and don’t hang up the towels or put out new ones.”

Drew looked at you in bewilderment, “You say that you it’s not something that wouldn’t bother everyone else. I don’t want to walk into a bathroom and step on a wet towel or be showering and not have a towel in the bathroom?”

You didn’t say anything as you just stared at him. You shook your head as you turned back to the camera and Drew just mimicked you, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And there you have it! I think this proves that we know each other better than we thought we did.” You smiled, looking over at Drew, who agreed, “It’s not like we’ve been dating for three years or anything.”

“Anyways, season 3 is now streaming and if you wanna see more of us and our beautiful friends, go ahead and watch it! And we hope you enjoyed this as much as we did!”

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Something to Cry About

Consider this a spinoff of a spinoff. Based on @ibrithir-was-here's Blood of My Blood and directly jumping off of @bluecatwriter's chapter, Overindulgence.

In which the Master of the castle runs into an unexpected concern regarding his dear vassal and being the monster in the picture is not quite as fun as he recalls.

(Warnings for suicidal ideation and domestic abuse.)

His eyes were shut, but he wasn’t sleeping.

It was not the first time his friend had greeted him so. Back in that first private summer there had been something of a game made from it. Whenever his friend was caught supine in bed or on a couch without the will to drag himself to consciousness and perform for his Master, the latter would sometimes test the limits of the act. A hand on his throat. Another under the shirt and over the drumming heart. That had been back when only one of them carried a chill.

What a distant thing that season was now. The dark-haired youth had only been able to hide his expression because fatigue still left its miserable countenance stamped on him. He had not been able to fully hide his shudders then; not when the hands began to move. Now here was his friend just shy of the full metamorphosis, human by the thinnest wisp of definition, a marble statue in his bed.

Stained marble. He was so drained as to nearly match the silver-white corona of hair on the pillow. There were the usual shadows under the eyes and the mottling spots that showed where his family nursed at throat and wrist. But the palette broke anew along one side. Even if it was to allow space for the bandages.

Bandages that had started white but now flared in spots of scarlet. Rings, rather.

Bites.

Ah, he had indulged deeply. 

Enough to sand the years away to those earliest days when he himself had been a youth peddling soul and sacrifices away beneath the Mountain. Amusing as it was, and infinitely worth the woman’s face upon seeing the full claim of her husband in action, he did catch himself counting the hours until this whipcord stage would fade out of him. It would be a pain in and of itself for bone and beard and build to all even out again into full manhood. Just having his own voice in his ears would be a relief in itself. Unquestioned as his rule was, even he could not play deaf to the absurdity of the lord of the castle sounding a year short of his first shave.

He could almost fool himself into thinking dear Jonathan was playing ignorant because he did not recognize his Master’s voice. Almost.

“She wrapped it poorly,” he hummed. He sat at the faux dreamer’s hip. “The stain should not be visible.”

Jonathan’s eyes stayed shut. His breathing did not change, thin as it was. Perhaps the woman was in his head, whispering behind his back. But a simple check showed otherwise.

Mother and child were both out from underfoot for the moment, amusing themselves with animals. The boy maintained the wolves as his most cherished creatures, as was right, but the other beasts in the dark had hooked his eye as well. Bat and rat, owl and fox. The latter had scared him once, hearing it scream for the first time—a human shriek from an inhuman throat. The woman was out with another of her husband’s doting gifts, a book of fauna with all the airy definitions and dissections that mortal science had seen fit to cage the local range of species in. It was something to keep them busy and another little facet to add to the boy’s knowledge.

The woman felt him prying and a reflexive response tried to leap back at him. He shut her out before she could know where he was. Not that it would matter. He could revoke her meager privilege with his friend as he liked. But this was not for others to intrude on. Supposing Jonathan dropped his act sometime this decade.

“Oh, dear. I had not realized you were so depleted. Perhaps I should fetch some donors from the village and have them pipe their veins into yours. It worked so artfully for other patients. Or,” he made a show of slitting open a wrist to let the dark vein ooze, knowing the gesture was sensed even behind closed eyes, “since you are so set on the repose of death, we could go ahead and rescind all the playacting and reach denouement early. It would surely save much in time and tears and—,”

Jonathan’s eyes were open. Not looking at him. The pale hands remained folded atop the sheets. One was limp. The other was lax only from the effort to avoid becoming a fist.

“There you are. Ah, and there is the opportunity gone.”

His wrist was already healed. Sealed shut almost the instant it was cut. Even two nights on, he was swollen with his friend’s draught. He had to admire the vitality required for such a task. Poor Lucy would have wilted at the first two bites, with or without her impotent ring of suitors dumping their blood into her to drag out the inevitable. In truth, he had half-hoped that the sweet diversion of the Lesson would end with Jonathan’s heart stopping altogether. The feeding of blood was only a requirement if the transformation was intended to be a slower process, as it had been meted out to the woman.

Had Jonathan died, he would be undead within the same night. Perhaps even the same hour. Being siphoned for almost half a decade by three vampires would leave no room for the process to drag its heels. What a treat it might have been to see the woman realize what she’d done. All her beloved’s sacrifice thrown away because she’d grasped beyond what was hers. And better still to have the weight of the farce finally shrugged from his shoulders as it was ripped from Jonathan’s. The boy would have cheered, he knew, to see his Papa finally in their ranks completely.

And then would come their first hunt…

But he was woolgathering. And, in the fashion of a youth, chasing mere impulse when he knew the fruits were not yet ripe. Let the game play out, young man. He would have his way by the end, do not throw the foreplay away now.

Jonathan still did not look at him.

“You seem unable to turn your head, my friend. Did I truly spend so long with your neck? Memory does not lie and I can see myself that the shoulder received far more attention.”

Jonathan did turn his head—to face the wall. The ghost-light eyes hovered on the calendar, brow furrowed in reading the weeks. His lips moved in silent muttering.

A clawed finger reached out, hooking the pallid chin until Jonathan turned to him. There was a genuine wince as he did so. He had bitten deep and not with the usual set of teeth. He’d called upon the Wolf’s rows to be sure of strength and for the demonstration made before his greedy audience. But even with the heady extra helping of blood, even with the Lesson successfully taught, there was no sidestepping the fact of the method’s sloppiness. Intentional in the moment, yes, but…

But what? He will heal. And if he doesn’t, he will die and do better than heal. Call it a Lesson for him too. Such is the lot of one who clings to the role of livestock. Really, it is probably a boon to his penitent soul. A belated lashing for what he still considers his sins. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked aloud.

Jonathan did not answer. Only stared at him. There was no fear there, nor even that constant element of melancholy. There was only a queer flatness. It might nearly be mistaken for the same glaze of placidity the woman tried to hide her rages with. But no, it was not even anger. What, then?

“Have you lost the use of your tongue as well?” The question came with a flicker of mesmer. It hooked the root of Jonathan’s tongue and yanked.

“No,” Jonathan offered blandly. And no more than that. As if there were truly no other words he had to spare for his Master.

“I had not realized you stored your vocabulary in your arteries.”

“Even if it were otherwise, I imagine I’d have little to say worth sharing.”

My friend, is this you sulking? It has been years!

Years since that last pregnant silence as he showed Mr. Harker the wolves at the door. Since he watched the young man sit and stew and struggle against tears before ascending wordlessly to his room. What a raw little thing he’d been then.

But the thing staring back at him was not raw. It was something leaden and tired and…bored? Was that it? Something near to that, perhaps, but sharper.

“Now, there is no need to pout. You know I have never ceased to cherish our little talks. But I do see you are making do with only water and bread. Dear Mina has left you like a lame pet up here.” In reality the water was fresh and the bread, baked the day before, was joined by what non-perishable goods the woman had scrounged by way of a breakfast. Even the boy had left him with what he considered a treasure by way of a bowl brimming with wild berries he’d picked himself around the castle. All this had been sampled, if thinly. “Yours is the only tongue here left to appreciate a vintage in its original state rather than filtered through a vein. Shall you have a claret or something stronger?”

“Neither. Thank you.”

Flat as a skipping stone. He did not even reach for the old half-joking insistence that he did not dare risk an overindulgence of wine or liquor as, quote, ‘If I drank every time I felt I needed it, I would be an alcoholic within a week.’ Instead, the stare. Still ongoing. Seeming to realize this, Jonathan made himself blink before trying to turn his head away. Back to the calendar.

His Master locked a full hand around his jaw and twisted him back. Another wince.

No fear. No sorrow. No anything. Just that blunt void of acknowledgment. That unknown thing hovering between ire and lethargy.

“Might I ask what it is that so fascinates you about the date? It must be some worthy holiday to outweigh your Master’s presence.”

“Not a holiday,” Jonathan allowed. “Though I suppose I should mark down the evening three nights prior as a milestone. Something to keep on record.” Three nights prior. When the Lesson was taught. “Your first bout of physical abuse on me. I had thought you couldn’t hold out beyond two years. Most of you don’t even make it past the first two months. Yet you are patient, so I figured there would be an insulation period.” 

It was his turn to stare back. Jonathan waited as he did, seeming oddly like he was itching for a pocket watch to tally how many minutes he was wasting breath on this exchange. His Master’s hand moved from the pale chin to the bandaged shoulder.

“Most of who?”

The hand squeezed. Jonathan grimaced, but didn’t blink.

“The demographic of men I had hoped you were better than. There was evidence enough to suggest it. At least a ratio of odds that favored something less predictable. Despite what proofs there are to the contrary, you are not a violent man, Sir. Not when you can happily do worse than violence. Certainly not when the prelude to it provides better results and entertainment. Why else would you take such care to drag out a season of captivity or play your games on the Demeter? Why feed on a victim by drops rather than ravage outright but for the joy of watching their comprehension of the inevitable? The only instances in which you resort to straight aggression are when you want something over with.

“A mother eaten by wolves. Sacks of children thrown like scraps. Your own aide waiting ashore, slaughtered and stuffed in a stone wall to muddy your trail. Quick, quick, quick. Violence bores you in the same way doing linens bores a laundress. If it must be done, fine, let it be over with—but it is no more or less than something to scrape from the schedule. At a guess, that night’s violence was for Mina’s sake. I had not changed anything in my routine. Quincey had done no ill. Mina, I suspect…what? Blinked incorrectly? Asked to see me for a heartbeat beyond the scheduled feeding? Dared to request a moment of make-believe where you do not own us all, as if the very act of imagination equated a challenge to you?

“But that is all beside the point. You have stepped fully into the cliché. And I had accounted for that. The first round tallied. Fine. The issue comes with the timing. Your insistence on who else ought to be in the audience.” In his lap, one hand finally lost the fight and hardened into a fist. The other, attached to the bitten arm, only twitched. “Mina was the point of the show. But our son? Was he part of the Lesson too? Did you order him to stay as yet another hoop for her to jump through, to make her act and lie beyond all extremes? No, I should not ask. Of course he was.”

The ghost-light eyes burned.

“This, when he loves you as his Father. When the entire point of all this is giving him a life he can trust in. You saw him smile for you in this room. He held you and beamed and heard your stories. And then what? What did he ask before you left him in his coffin?”

The woman had not been in his mind at the time to overhear. She could not know. She could not have told her husband what the boy asked.

The boy, his smile fading, his eyes sunset-bright and wondering, blankets fidgeting in his hands.

‘Are you sure Papa is alright? He looked really tired…’     

His Father had told him yes, of course, but Papa had been so enchanting that night that Father had not been able to help himself. Not to worry, his Mum would take care of him as she always did. All’s well, diavol. And the boy had tried to smile. Tried to believe him.

And couldn’t.

“He turns five next year. Five. And you are already blasting holes in the foundation of his faith in you. In what we have been building out of debris to produce a happy reality for him, in which his parents are not monsters.” Now a note of true venom slipped through his voice, the hollow-burning eyes narrowed to cold angles, and at last the feeling was recognized for what it was, and it was... “In which he does not have to be yet another actor for your benefit.”

…Disappointment.

Cold and grey and coarse with recognition. With experience.

“All of that being said, Sir, if you feel you must make another show of the obvious,” the fist uncurled to gesture at the mauled shoulder, “I ask that you reserve it strictly for the adults.” Finally the lambent gaze skidded away, looking not at Master or calendar, but at his still-resting hand on the covers. The fingers still hadn’t curled further than halfway to his palm. “Perhaps I’ll blame it on a doorknob next time.” Then, as if the entire topic were dismissed, he reached across to the nightstand. A notebook sat beside the dish of food. Not another diary, but a weighty planner. Jonathan folded it open to the latest page. The fountain pen’s cap was worked off with some difficulty by wedging it between the fingers of the lax hand. “Most of the itinerary was cleared a week ahead. The triplicates will take a little longer than I’d hoped, but they should still be ready within the month.” The nib poised on the page. “Was there anything else that needed attention, Sir?”

Besides you? said the ghost-light eyes.

His Master regarded him for a moment. Another. A third. As he regarded him, a clawed hand floated out and pinched the book out of Jonathan’s hold. The book flew like a discus into the furthest wall. Outside, a summer storm grumbled. He felt a distant twitch of his senses as the woman and the boy both prickled with worry. Storms were never just storms around the castle.

Jonathan capped the pen and waited. Even devoid of a psychic voice, his eyes spoke with an articulation so clear he might have talked aloud:

Go on. The moment fits the criteria. We are our only witnesses. Fetch a switch off a tree or a broken bottle while you’re at it. Really round out the scene.  

“I came here,” his Master grated with rigid courtesy, “to offer some manner of respite. Perhaps even a token of reward for so expertly assisting in a much-needed Lesson. But I see I was mistaken. If I had known you were in such an ungrateful state, I would have waited. As it stands, it appears you need educating of your own. Poor Mina, she will be so disappointed to learn that her dearly-bought visits are now revoked.” He feigned his own interest in the calendar. Then at the vast window that looked out on the plummeting height of the tower and the half-moon squinting through the thunderhead’s cracks. “Our son’s as well, I think. He really is so spoiled in his free time. Bothering his poor beset Papa night and day when he has so much to do…

“Ah, but then, perhaps this is remiss of me too. I am no child despite my current face. I have run the entirety of this castle and its domain singlehandedly for centuries, all without any novice solicitors to flutter around my office. Likewise for the tending of the castle itself. Really, my friend, what reason is there for you to be so abused as to leave this room at all? To be bothered by maintaining the performance for mother and child? Such a labor, such a trial.

“Well, no more of it! You can stay here, they can stay without, and whenever it comes time to feed, you may empty your veins into a cup. Far tidier that way, and so much closer to the human façade besides! You do want the boy to learn how to pantomime humanity in full, yes? Of course you do. So that is how it shall be from here out. You in your tower, they in the crypt, and I shall endeavor to play go-between for all to the best of my ability. How does that suit you?”

He bared his teeth to the gums with his grin. Waiting for the tears. For the shattering of the dull mask. For the bribe, the plea, the grovel. He did all quite beautifully when the occasion called for it over the years. His wife did well enough, especially for one grappling with the impulse-weight of the Vampire, but Jonathan had it down to an artform. Indeed, he saw the first shine of dew come over the brilliant white-blue of the eyes, the quirk and twitch of his face into a grimace—

No. No, not a grimace.

A rictus.

The corners flinched up before Jonathan could hide it behind his hand. By then it was too late. Assuming the man could’ve stopped himself. A noise that tried to be a sob leapt through his teeth. It came out as a laugh. As did all the sounds that followed. A long hideous string of giggles boiling over into a cackle that brought rivers of tears to his shining eyes. It was not a man’s sound, but the mock-laughter of hyenas, the baying racket of jackals.

Unbidden, he leaned an inch away from his friend. Several inches. The movement snapped Jonathan’s eyes back to him, wide and wild and blazing and for one lunatic instant they seemed to brand the afterimage of the house in Piccadilly on the room, that surreal moment in which he first saw the uncanny Thing that wore his dear friend’s skin; a Thing that could and would kill him with his steel or his own hands. Even in a crowded street.

But that moment passed—long, long ago now, back before the insurance of the woman and her collared will were his precious cudgel—and Jonathan himself seemed wholly oblivious to the recollection. In his face there was only a madness of such profound despair and scorn that the effect dizzied.

“You do not understand. You really truly don’t, do you?” The words were cracked and brittle, barely holding an intelligible shape. “You talk of tokens and punishments. As if I have ever dared to hope, to even think of wanting anything for myself, since that night in October. As if I have not already imagined and lived, expected and met every possible nightmare that God could throw in my path and hers. I lived the first twenty years of a pointless joke of a life already under every bootheel the civilized human world had to offer, as did she. We grasped at crumbs of joy, of hope, of respite from the reality of our lots. This we could do because we had each other and our faith. Faith that for all the ills that humanity dealt out with the good, there was at least a chance for us. There was, we prayed, something better waiting on the other end of life. If we were good. If we did good.     

“But then you had to prove it all wrong. To burst the lie. Not that God is not real. He so very clearly is. But you—all that you are, all that you’ve done, all you will continue to do without so much as a slap on the wrist from the divine Powers that Be—proved that He is fickle. That His love and protection is wholly conditional. That someone as good, as pure, as blisteringly virtuous as Mina could be burned by the Son for another’s sin, abandoned and denied like a used rag for the crime of someone else’s violation. All to have the ransom of her humanity dangled over our heads to spur a handful of strangers onto the hunt after…what? Four centuries’ worth of you owning these mountains and its people, all of them dutifully cowering and dying behind their own half-helpful crucifixes?

“But oh no! Too late! Complications abound! The mother is with child and it does not matter to the good men who swore to slaughter her! And God must have declared them good men, for they did so good with Lucy. Lucy, who has surely gone to Heaven with her slaying…or not. What proof is there? What guarantee is there that anyone with your poison in them can hope for salvation, alive or dead? They saw her corpse and nothing else. They choked on hope and called it evidence that this was the right thing to do. God’s will be done.

“I have already murdered to go against His will. I slew those good men to keep them from making an Isaac and a slaughtered lamb of my Loves. I damned myself then as I had been preparing to damn myself since the moment I woke to her screams and your work. Do you understand?”

Despite the sultry rainstorm air trying to bleed in through the window, the room was cold. Somehow it had grown outright frigid around the bed and the Thing hunching out of his sheets.

“I have nothing. Nothing at all but purpose. Nothing I would dare to want, knowing it will be lost. Nothing I have left to lose, having ceased to believe the lie that I have any potential for joy beyond a reflection of my Loves’ peace. Nothing resembling anything so laughable as respite on any level. I am reduced to a talking trough for the sake of a family who deserves worlds beyond the stain you and I would leave on them without supreme effort. So, go ahead. Play jailor. Play glutton. Play king of the castle and lord above all and whatever else you stopped being able to play with your last captive audience once they were worn down to cackling husks that only had room in themselves for hunger and jeering, knowing that you had no more to threaten them with after taking all that they had.

“In fact? Here. Since I still have some feeling in my left hand. Wouldn’t want you giving me a holiday from work without due reason, and it shall save you the trouble of inventing an excuse to maim the rest.”

As he spoke, Jonathan tore at the bandages. They fell away in grisly ribbons to reveal a far grimmer map of injury than expected. It was worse still when Jonathan twisted to show his back. Bites and bruises patterned him like gruesome puzzle pieces. There were stitches closing two flaps of skin together. In one portion there were small chunks of flesh entirely gone where the teeth had torn them loose.

“Go on. Get on with it. Or would it be better for you if I threw in a scream and a plea to top things off? Pick a script, Sir, let me know.”

Jonathan kept his back to his Master. His Master only stared. Then, with a hand laid gentle as a feather on the ruined shoulder:

“I believe you were right at the start. You do have little to say worth sharing.”

The hand traced the first of the marks. A broad bite clamped along the carotid; the kind that could have torn the entire throat out, Adam’s apple and all. If its maker were not cautious. It was only the ensuing that had been ragged, tearing at muscle more than vein. To make a necessary a point.

As if his friend cared. As if he should care whether his friend cared.

His thumb brushed over a small crater where a canine had torn away so thickly that the flesh dimpled.

Jonathan waited for it to be joined by others like it.

Waited. Waited.

It was almost a full minute before he realized the light touch on him was no touch at all. He turned to see his Master was gone. If he’d had the energy to leave the bed, he might have gone to the door. His Master was on the other side, turning the key over in his hand. As he lingered, a bat summoned to the window. Beady borrowed eyes peered through the glass, waiting for Jonathan to rise, to go to the door and see if it was open.

Should he lock it as he rose? As he tried to turn the knob? Or did he skip the key entirely and simply hold the door shut to watch him scrabble one-handed at it?

The bat watched Jonathan hobble from the bed and to the chair of the writing desk. He dragged the chair to the window. Sat. Stared out through the glass at the moon.

His Master willed the clouds to cover it.

Jonathan stared still.

Still.

Still.

His good hand was the only part that moved. There was something white being fidgeted with. A stick of chalk.

It was only when he felt the woman and the boy heading for the tower that the key was pocketed unused and its owner drifted as a mist through another window. The bat watched as Jonathan pocketed his chalk and stood from his chair upon hearing the child’s chirruping voice echoing up the stairs. Papa-Papa-Papa-are-you-up? Papa hid the bandages and donned a robe before grabbing a book at random for his lap while his good hand pinched cold food from his plate. The boy bounded in, mother in tow, Papa, Papa, look-look-look. Jonathan looked dutifully at the new drawings he’d made, including one done from life of a red fox that let them get this close before running off. Jonathan was duly impressed. His weak hand was in his woman’s fingers, gently held, more gently curling and testing the limp knuckles.

Their Master did not linger long enough to know whether Jonathan would tell her of their visit now or later. It was moot. The scene cloyed.

The bat flew and the mist sank away.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been in his women’s chambers. Even the sole woman left in the castle hardly bothered with them. Antique treasures were buried under the modern trappings he’d tossed their way in preparation for England. They would have been with him once he set the groundwork in London. Them and his good friend.

All dust now.

Like the dust now glazing so much of the old rooms. Jonathan had taken a Herculean task upon himself some years prior to try and chip at the disuse and damage of a room at a time between his usual work. The paperwork, the horses, the errands, the cautious playing of mouthpiece and shield between Master and subjects. Between all that, he set himself to the tidying of this hall or that chamber. It was as impressive as it was embarrassing to note whenever his Master passed by one of these rooms in a state of surprise. He’d half-forgotten most of them existed, let alone what they had looked like before the ennui set in. Even the tarnish on the fixtures and doorknobs was cleaned away.

‘Perhaps I’ll blame it on a doorknob next time.’

He curled his lip and shoved the thought away. Then shoved over a bookcase for good measure. Novels in half a dozen languages went tumbling alongside a few expensive baubles. Old gold bookends, glass statues, cut gems so large and hollowed they could hold a wealth of rings and bracelets. All to pair with the tailoring of the wardrobes. These stood at attention beside abandoned easels, instruments, and myriad other distractions. All things given to be taken away. Only as was merited, of course. Such lazy mincing things, his old Loves. Coaxing anything but bile or idleness from them was like convincing a snail to run.

And most of what was goaded had been—

‘You yourself never loved. You never loved!’

—not a fraction of what they had given at the start. Not even their beginnings had amounted to much after the consummation. Stolen or bartered or lured, his Loves had lapsed so quickly into backhanded camaraderie. They had made cats of themselves, knowing they were craved simply for the fact of their presence and it gave them as close to free reign as their Master would ever give. Not enemies, but pets. Pretty faces and musical laughter to populate the nights with more than his own echoes.

For there had been laughter. With him. At him. Sometimes he had even let them claw or snap at him just for the excuse of the punishment he would inflict after. Really, for the sake of something to actually do with them beyond their nightly sniping.

He left the chambers and frowned down the hall. Moonlight fell through the nearest southward chamber, the window clean for the first time in ages, the interior righted and swept. It held books he had read two centuries ago, an old chessboard he had lost a century before that, now with its polished crystal men standing at attention, fallen curtains beaten from their dust and hung anew, paintings and an elderly world map peppered with monsters reframed and set upon the walls. The latter had been drawn to his attention by Jonathan himself, smiling with the boy in his lap, mentioning idly that he had found a map of fascinating creatures he had no name for, might Father know them..?

Father had, of course. The boy had been enraptured for nights with his definitions, with the monsters proven wholly imaginary or simply animals or, he knew from experience, terribly real. Tales he had relayed giddily at the next family meal, his Papa wasted but smiling on between him and his mother who had already heard her dose of legendry down in the crypt. Holding his Loves with two good hands.

He knocked a dresser over as well.

What did he care? What did he possibly care whether his dear friend took some overdue recompense for his betrayal? For upending meticulous plans and striking a scar into his Master’s brow and daring to haggle for the chance to squat here, under his lenient aegis rather than order the woman to tear into him and their brat and bash her own skull to gruel? Really, his friend was lucky to have such a meager toll to pay.

Other than vassalage. Other than slaughtering in Love’s name over God’s and sending the hunting party’s scraps limping away. Other than complaining of his mangling only because it upset the child; because the child had to hide that he was upset, just like Mum and Papa hide from Father. Other than actively laying foundations for a second invasion of England once the boy is grown, selling himself further down the layers of Hell, for Love’s sake. Other than this, yes, most meager. Practically nothing. You are many things, old devil, but the least you can be is honest with yourself. Or are you not still preening to yourself even now at your bargain?

Your losses: A scratch on the head. A two-decade wait. A handful of women.

Your gains: Your mind. Your future no longer being a mere checklist. Your Harkers.

Your friend.

Draga ta.

He first bristled, then sighed. His mind was walled off. There was no spying. He could admit the obvious to himself.

Not now, not tomorrow, but eventually. No need to fret over it. Time is the sea that eats away all stone, however stubborn. He will break given ages enough. It took the weight of the Mountain and its Lessons, but you broke too. And you were better for it. This sour period will pass. They will all break and learn and be pieced into proper shape.

Obvious, obvious. Of course.

His feet took him to the southward room. Map, art, chess, books. One of many rooms with forgotten treasures. Converted and cleaned and left like little oases. For the boy, for the woman, for his Master.

And yet Jonathan’s own room remained bare.

There was a little bookcase, he knew. But was it used? Was there anything else in the man’s room but a bed, clothes, and a desk? Memory ticked back along his mind. All the visits made to drink or talk or, in his friend’s sleep, simply to watch. What was there to that room that was not already waiting for him when his Master first ordered him in?

Sometimes there were drawings or wild bouquets from the boy. Food from the woman whenever he worked into one of those stupors that made him forget his meals. No more than that. Almost five years under the castle’s roof, diving in and out of the place’s uncounted rooms, going to and from the towns or ordering from afar, and there was not a single thing within his personal four walls to suggest it. And was that not strange in itself? True, he might occasionally be locked inside the tower, but not as a constant.

If the point of giving something was to have it taken away, the reverse held true too. He did let his friend roam where he may more often than not. And his friend did make use of it and his limited access to his Master’s coffers.

For anyone other than himself.

Yes, well. He does have his chair and his window. If he has gone so long without need of more, so much the better. Far easier upkeep than some hangers-on you could mention.

The thought failed to raise a smile on him.

He gripped the bookcase before him—jammed end to end with hardcovers of multiple eras, not a volume out of place—and thought for several minutes of tipping it over. Perhaps throwing it into the courtyard. Instead, he walked his fingers along until they landed on a history text. Written in the native tongue, it was one of the less maddeningly misinformed volumes of the late 17th century. Even the illustrations were passable. Jonathan must have overlooked it. He had been as adamant as their son once upon a time when it came to unearthing old histories. More, he was making more than fair leaps with his practice in the different languages of the mountains.

The book left the room with him.

The book stayed with him for the rest of the night and all of the day.

His eyes were sent elsewhere.

The bats slept, but the rats were busy. Or they would be, if he’d had need of more than one left loitering in the shade under Jonathan’s wardrobe. Animal-fear waned to animal-confusion waned to animal-annoyance as hours ticked by and its verminous little belly went empty as it continued to keep watch for its Master. Eventually it was swapped for another, this one peeking through a crack near the roof. Fear-confusion-annoyance under his thrall again. The same went for a third and fourth rat. Their eyes all showed the same tedium.

Jonathan Harker only ever allowed himself leisure when he had no choice. He only had no choice when he was recuperating from exsanguination. It turned out that his idea of this amounted to either laying in bed or shuffling to the chair to look out the window. Sometimes he even stood and gripped the windowsill. And once, just once, he undid the latch and swung the pane open.

Looking out. Looking down.

His good hand moved on the windowsill as he stared. The chalk had returned. Scratch, scratch, scratch it went, all the way along the stone, like a student writing out a long verse. It was the damned shorthand, of course. Yet it couldn’t be a message for the woman. Her mind was sunk deep in the torpor. Deep enough that her Master could filter into her unnoticed. There was hardly anything worth digging for beyond the usual infantile fantasies of his brutal demise and carrying her Loves off into the sunset. All he needed was at the surface.

Just a few notes. Just enough to make sense of the arcane little dashes.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, Jonathan wrote.

His Master angled the latest rat so he could read it all and filter it through the woman’s knowledge. The rat squealed and flinched away into its hole as its Master’s own shock prodded its speck of a mind.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

DO NOT DO IT DO NOT DO IT DO NOT DO IT DO NOT DO IT

FOR THEM FOR THEM FOR THEM FOR THEM FOR THEM FOR THEM

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

He twitched in his coffin, almost rising wholly from the anchor of the death-sleep.

But then Jonathan sighed and closed the pane. The chalk was erased. A return to the chair, a return to the stare. This time with new tears tracking down his cheeks. He didn’t move again until his stomach snarled. The doorknob was checked—unlocked—and he took himself away to eat. His Master’s borrowed eyes followed him all the way down, watching him cook and carve a fish without relish. Watched him try and fail to open the office door—locked—before idling down one of the in-progress halls. He worked in the dust and the decrepit furnishings for a few hours before marching back up to the tower. His hands were empty despite having handled an array of oddments and literature and art.

Up. Chair. Stare. Bed. Wait.

It is nothing but a recent spell. He has been here almost half a decade. He’s not spent his time only in his little labors and bloodletting. Who could? Perhaps he dwells on the pending retribution for his outburst. Waiting for the sword to fall.

And what of the threadbare room? What of the trips that brought home nothing but sustenance to let him feed his family, give or take a new treat for them bartered from what allowance was spared for him?

What of it?

He did not answer himself. Only waited until the woman made her exit to the tower. The boy was called to under the level of her psychic awareness.

Come here, child. I have an important task for you.

The boy was still in his coffin, reading in the heap of blankets and fairy books. He poked his head up over the rim with a look that balanced between worry and curiosity.

A Lesson?

Not at the moment. Unless you wish for a Lesson on why not to keep your Father waiting.

But the boy was already scurrying out of his box and up the steps of the tomb. He paused to look up in wonder at his Father.

“Your face is coming back.”

So it was. Finally. He felt the itch along his cheek and jaw which told him adolescence was waning finally back to his prime, just as the shiver of bone announced the return to full stature. There was a reason he rarely drank this deep.

“It is. The body prefers its natural shape even after an indulgence too far. It may only be another night before I am myself again. But that is too long a wait for this. Here.” He passed the history text down into the boy’s small hands. “Be mindful of not turning to the wrong page. There are sights inside that your poor parents would not approve of.”

An easy bait, that. The boy’s eyes glittered like a little Pandora’s. For an instant. But then a cherubic moue passed over him as he mouthed out the title. What little blood he had in him flamed up to his cheek.

“I don’t think I can read this yet, Father.” The boy admitted as much as though it were a crime.

“I would be stunned if you could, child. No, this is something to bring to your Papa. He is a fiend as much for history as the trudge of modernity and I know he is as eager as you to master all tongues in the mountains. This shall be a fine practice for him as your little tales are for you. Come, I shall walk you up.” He reached to tuck the boy under his arm in the usual way only for the child to shrivel under his hand. His gaze had flicked away from his Father in the same moment as his buzzing little mind tried clumsily to bury something. “Diavol. Is there something you wish to tell me?”

The boy started to shake his head, knew better, and simply shrank deeper into himself. His eyes were nailed firmly to the hardcover. He hugged the volume like a paltry shield.

“Child.”

The lips trembled and cracked at the same time those brilliant ruby eyes rolled up to him. Fear hovered there, but it was not quite of his Father. It was the kind of fear a Father was meant to dispel.

“Are you and Papa fighting?”

“Where would get such an idea?”

His hand reached out again. The boy still cringed, but did not shrink from him. They walked from the tomb and on toward the stairs.

“Since our last meal he hasn’t talked how he used to.”

“Oh, dear. He has gone mute?”

“No. No, he talks. Only he skips over things now. Things he used to bring up all on his own.”

“We are not playing a guessing game, diavol. Speak plainly.”

They had made it to the floors aboveground now. The boy paused mid-step to look up at his Father, his face turned pale as ivory in a window’s moonlight.

“He has not talked about you, Father. Before he brought you up at least once whenever we were together. Asking what you taught me last. Sometimes he’d bring things up like you do. Little hints and edges of things I would have to go to you or Mum to ask about. Papa was the one who brought up journalism—the power that records the world—and told me to ask Mum about it. And he told me that you knew how to find buried treasure on a magic night, that everyone else was too scared to try. And…” His narrow throat worked with a strain. “And he told stories about before me. About how you and Mum and him all came together.”

A crest of the innate fondness rose and fell in the boy’s look at that. He was ever a fiend for the romance of his parents’ history before they came to live in the castle. The romance as their Master had scripted it.

Yet the child’s cheer over it blew out like a candle.

“He won’t talk about you at all now.” The ruby stare flicked up at him. “Not since we ate.”

Not since you tore at Papa like a wolf with a rabbit, Father.

“It has been less than a week, child. For all that I am an occasional favored subject,” he failed to ignore how something twisted in his chest at that, “it is nonsense to expect he keep a checklist of things to speak of. He is recuperating and things will slip a hazy mind. But, to answer your question, no, Papa and I are not fighting.”

The boy did not look away. Even the expected smile could not follow the rules.

And since when does he have rules of acting to follow?

“Was there something else?”

The fear was back. Redoubled. Not the kind dispelled by a Father.

“Father, are you the one who’s been making him sit?”

They had been walking again. Halfway to the tower. Now it was Father’s turn to freeze. Even to gawk.

“What?” The boy shivered at his tone, half-hiding behind the history book. He winced as the white hand at his shoulder grew out its claws. A long breath was forced. The claws retracted an increment. Then, again, “What do you mean ‘making him sit,’ child?”

“Do you remember when I had the Lesson about trancing?”

The one in which mother, child, and Master sank their psychic teeth in dear Jonathan’s mind and almost tore it three ways down the center with their mesmeric quibbling? Yes, vaguely.

“I recall.”

Now the boy looked away entirely. Facing the tower’s direction. Dread came off him like a perfume.

“Do you remember the sharp thoughts in Papa’s head?”

“…I do.”

“Mum said before—,” another lurch of the little throat, almost choking, “before we all jumped in him, when the Lesson started, that she could make him do things. Things people aren’t supposed to do to themselves. Like walk in a fire or make him stay in one place for hours and hours, not doing anything. No sleep or food or anything that keeps Papa alive. She could do that. But she didn’t. She hasn’t been. Papa would know and he’d not be so mad at her that time when she used him in the Lesson.” The child rattled where he stood, intent on the shadows that led up to the tower. “He was sitting at the window before that night. Lots of nights. And days. The first couple times, I thought he was waiting for me. Back when I first learned to do climbing. I snuck up to his door to surprise him. Watching in the keyhole.

“And he sat and sat and sat there, looking out the window. Sometimes he stood up to look closer, sometimes he scratched something out on the stone and wiped it off. Then he’d go back to sitting. It was strange. I didn’t know what it was. But then the Lesson happened and I saw—I saw him—,”

He could not finish and did not need to. His Father remembered.

Vision of a daylit escape. Rising from the chair. No message written on the sill. Just the open pane, his feet on the ledge, and a tipping over into gravity’s arms. Down, down, down. Gone. Among other methods by rope or steel. But the fall came first and crispest to his flailing mind.

Before. He was thinking of it even before that night. Since the boy started climbing. At least two years. And that was just when it was noticed.

The boy was making noise at him again. Accusing.

“Are you the one doing it, Father?”

He would have been mad if it was Mum. We all know no one is allowed to be mad at you. Right, Father?

He struggled with a sudden urge to snatch the child up by his scruff and drag him the rest of the way up to the tower. To hurl him squealing into the room where the loving couple roosted, watching their faces drop slack with horror, and then—

And then..?

Then his mind fell into a red haze. A livid shapeless blank where something like release from the growing storm behind his temples would finally come.

“No, child. I am not responsible.” He stole his hand back with a twitch. “Go the rest of the way yourself. There is something I must see to first.” The boy peered up at him. Doubt in miniature. “Do I need to tell you twice?”

The boy fled. Not walked, not ran, not ambled. Fled. From him.

What of it, old devil? Is this not the proper way? Your adversaries and their spawn cringing and scrambling from you at every turn, quailing under your thumb? This is victory at its height. Is it not so?

He thought of three harpies who mocked and robbed and tittered as he piled their centuries up with gifts and weeping sweetmeat.

He thought of the spur of a delightfully infuriating woman and the admiration of an impossible child.

He thought of his friend, red-handed with the enemies slain for his wife and his Master, slipping silently into servitude and his tithes of blood and obedience, the quiet misery free of charge, Sir.

He thought of his friend, sweeping dust from his mind as blithely as he banished it from his forsaken rooms, varnishing and whetting his nights to an edge finer than a surrendered kukri.

He thought of his friend, who had begun as a mere pending addition to his colony and was now evolved into a thing worth bartering for, worth sheltering and hoarding and honing despite a betrayal paid triply in death and deeds on his Master’s behalf.

He thought of his friend, screaming in his jaws. Clawing his way towards a laugh, look, son, see, son, it’s alright. No, Mina, no, let it be, let him do it, please, Mina, don’t, Mina, do not risk yourself, our boy, please, please.

He thought of his friend, mauled for another’s Lesson, half-dead, streaked in gore and sweat and tears, patched together with inexpert hands. 

He thought of his friend in his desolate box of a room, staring out the window with a piece of chalk as the only barrier between life and death.

He thought of all these things and many more. He went on thinking them as he stalked away to his own room and went to work.

An hour had come and gone since he finished what was needed.

An hour and fifteen minutes since he masked himself from their senses and planted himself outside Jonathan’s door. He listened to the cadence of them as one might strain for snatches of birdsong. Only Jonathan and the boy were audible, but even the woman’s mental chatter carried a bristle on the air. His Harkers made such a warm sound all together.

The sound stopped as he turned the knob.

Three heads lifted like a trio of deer hearing a huntsman’s boot disturbing the grass.

They were huddled together on the bed, as always. The woman guarded her husband’s wounded side. The boy sat under his Papa’s good arm with two books open across their laps. Here was the history book and one of the fairy tale collections. They had been taking their turns reading a page apiece, son reading meticulously through a moment of fantasy in Hungarian while his Papa overdid a silly dull drone in the same tongue over the drudgery of an overpacked page for the child to groan at. Mum would cap the whole act by way of glancing at the page and then thinking a flash of knowledge into their heads. There, done. Thank you, Mum. Laughter abounded.

Until now.

“Goodness, such a hush. Do I interrupt?”

Jonathan, the immaculate actor, smiled and shook his head.

“Nothing that did not want interrupting. For some reason I’m failing to win any appreciation for the recital of 200-year-old politics across the Carpathians. Perhaps it’s my delivery.” The latter was directed half to his Master, half to the boy. He even cupped the child’s shoulder. Hinting. The boy offered him a smile in return.

And tried, “They didn’t make it like a story. Just a lot of, ‘This happened and then this and then this and then this.’ You and Mum could write it better.”

The woman offered a sing-song rebuttal of, Or you could, Dearest. It would make for very thorough writing practice.

The boy made a face of dismay and denial, pretending to take cover behind his book of fables. Cute. Precious, even. The whole charade was. Their Master felt his own grin strain to hold in place as he strolled to the bed. Anxiety thick enough to gag floated on the air.

“I leave such judgment to mother and son. For now, Papa and I must speak in private.” He set his gaze level with Jonathan’s. “There is something I require your assistance with, my friend.” His hand uncurled to take. “Come.”

“Of course,” from Jonathan. Not so much as a tremor. He turned to the woman as his good hand gave the boy a parting hug, then raised it to set in his Master’s palm. “I’m afraid you must take up the mantle of inflicting ancient territory disputes on him—,” But then found his good hand was trapped. By the boy. The woman tensed. Jonathan froze. “Sweetheart…”

“Papa, don’t go. Please don’t go.” The boy held fast around his Papa’s hand and half his arm, a feeble anchor whose attention jumped fitfully among his parents; not including his Father. “Mum, tell him not to. Please?” A hesitant thread of mesmer squirmed in his voice. His Father could have rolled his eyes. This tug-of-war again? Was the child dense? “He’s going to do it again.”

The room chilled.

Jonathan flicked a frantic gaze to his wife, blasting silent urgency through his thoughts. The woman fought an enormous urge of her own to spare her Master a glower before addressing her son:

Dearest. You know that night was only an accident. We are a long way from another meal besides.

Then, thrumming with the weight of a lie:

It’s alright.

But the boy would not swallow it this time. He was an amateur at playing pretend in the way of his parents. A child fed on blood and fairy tales full of monsters who lived in the house as much as without. The boy held onto his Papa and shook his head. Fear crashed up against sorrow and sorrow up against anger.

“It isn’t! You all keep saying it is, and it isn’t! Papa, he hurt you and he did it on purpose! He didn’t kiss you at all! It was just tearing and hurting and—,” a word stuck, choked, flew, “—and lying. He says you aren’t fighting, but you are, or he wouldn’t hurt you and make you sit and be sad and sharp all the time and…and…” His eyes were close to running now, the words melting into a hiccough. “…and he never even said sorry…” The boy forewent his Papa’s arm and clamped around his middle instead, hugging tight and hiding his face in the man’s side. “Papa, don’t go with him…”

Him, him, him.

Was he not even Father anymore?

“Quincey, I promise you we aren’t fighting. Even grownups make mistakes. That’s all that night was.” Then, silk-smooth, “Father apologized already.” He turned to the woman, expecting reinforcements, “Mina, you remember—,” But the woman was looking through him and into the boy. The boy, who had peeked up enough from his sniveling to think out at her, showing the little chat shared between Father and son on the way to the tower. Inhaling it, she looked to her husband with renewed alarm, reflecting their child’s tattling into Jonathan’s mind.

Jonathan lost another shade in his pallor. He turned all but snowy as his wife turned her attention to their Master. A blazing thing, all horror and hate and, surprised that she could still feel it, a new level of shocked disgust.

Even this is not beneath you?

‘This’ being the vision scraped from her son’s spying through the keyhole. Hours and nights and days’ worth of the sight of Jonathan Harker mesmerized by his window.

Her hands had drifted by reflex to grasp her husband, her position shifted in paltry protection of her prize. Likewise for the boy who now clung wholly around his Papa’s waist. Jonathan, meanwhile, appeared truly and entirely terrified to a degree his Master hadn’t seen since their last nights together in that long-ago summer. Afraid for them.

He held them each as best he could before lifting his good hand again—

“My Loves, it’s alright, I promise, I—,”

—and having it caught in his Master’s.

His Master, roiling with ire, pulled him forward. His kin, roiling with fear-hate-love, pulled back. Three iron grips all working against each other.

And what was begun in a battleground of the psyche not so long ago was made flesh upon the bed. Briefly. Just before they heard the pop.

A muffled sound, almost comical. Wet and cracking and quick.

Pop went Papa’s shoulder.

Papa made his own noise to go with it.

The iron grips turned to jelly, their owners flinching back as one. Jonathan caught himself on his working elbow and fought down another agonized note as its own pain throbbed up to the mangled shoulder. This he tried to turn into another smile as his breath came in a huffed stutter of a laugh.

“Oops,” he panted, wavering up on his knees. His only hand went to the sagging shoulder, the hold still too weak to hoist it. “See? Accidents happen.” A hoarse noise, fighting not to be a sob. “Darling, could you..?”

But she was already on him, aligning shoulder to socket, bracing, shoving—

Pop!

—the arm back in place. Another noise from Papa, this time through locked teeth.

“Thank you. See?” The fingers of his right hand flexed experimentally. Weak, but functional. “It’s fine, Sweetheart, it’s fine, you didn’t mean it, no one did, it’s alright…”

But the boy was past mere sniffling. Now he bawled. Red rivers of tears emptied from his eyes, turning his little face wax-white as he scrambled to his Papa, blubbering fragments of apology, of denial, of no no no, Papa, it isn’t alright, no no no. The woman’s eyes were running too. Shame and rage and pain streaked her face like a mask of grief as she wrapped herself around her husband, her mind a litany as garbled as her son’s.

Jonathan Jonathan sorry so sorry Darling my Love sorry sorry sorry sorrysorrysorrysosorry—

“It’s alright,” Jonathan echoed mindlessly back, the most he could do by way of dialogue through pain and panic. “It’s alright,” as his arms, now both water-weak and crippled, folded around wife and child. His back to his Master as if he might shield them.

His Master felt somehow as if he had ceased to be in the room. Now he was watching a lackluster play unfold. See here, the poor little family menaced and ravaged by the monster. The monster looms over them, gloating over the injuries left, waiting to strike again as they weep. The boy cries, the woman cries, Jonathan cries. And why not? The monster gives them something to cry about. As monsters should. As is right. The family belongs to the monster, not the reverse. The monster has no place within the family. Fragile and grating little thing that it is.

See how easily it’s wounded? How quickly it turns on the monster for a mistake? Not even his own! Not entirely his own, at least.

This time.

So. You can admit it.

The boy, the woman, Jonathan, all crying. All huddling against him. Away from him.

As if any of them can spare the loss of blood. As if they expect him to open his veins and refill them to make up for their own idiot blubbering. As if he can waste more of himself on their fumbling and failures. As if he has not hollowed himself of everything, feeding his blood and his time and his toil and his soul until he has only a husk left for himself, picture of the good husband and father, give give give, work work work, feed feed feed, and all they offer him is more need, more pain, more excuses, sorry, sorry, I did not mean it, Papa, I did not mean it, Darling—

He watched Jonathan raise his head enough to look over the heads of his Loves. A single pining glance at the window.

I did not mean it, draga mea.

“Enough.” It was not the bark he wished it to be. He was not even sure if his Harkers heard him. But they didn’t need to. Within a heartbeat he had shot forward snaked his arm around Jonathan’s middle. He hoisted the man like a doll, shock alone making him flinch and scrabble at the hold. The child keened piercingly and the mother’s mind erupted with hate-panic. Her Master flung an order out.

Hold the boy. Do not follow.

The woman spasmed against the order until every cord of muscle stood out from her like wire. Then she was giving a mute howl as she fell upon her son, snatching him up and trapping him in her arms. The boy shrilled deafeningly and fought his mother in a blur of little limbs, tugging, reaching, kicking, begging.

“Let go! Mum, let go! Papa! Papa!”

The boy’s face was a horror of running blood, his eyes turned to marbles of red glass.

Jonathan was little better. His Master had not allowed him to stand. He would waste time if he had; would have tried to dawdle, to scramble back and soothe the tantrum away, to trap himself and his Master another endless minute in this squalling hell of a room. So his Master had hoisted him up first as a farmer might trap an errant lamb under his arm, then threw him over his shoulder.

Then moved to the window.

The boy shrieked.

“Papa! Papa! No, let him go! Papa!”

“Please,” Jonathan’s voice was a hoarse whisper. His hands clung without strength to his Master’s back, trying to drag himself loose, straining towards mother and child like a dying flower bowing toward the sun. “Please, Sir, not like this. I have to go to them, have to explain things, I have to—,”

SLEEP.

Jonathan became a dead weight over his shoulder. The window was opened. Another scream from the boy, this one so great it turned into a nigh rupturing cough.

“Papa,” a reedy sound, “Papa, wake up, Papa..!”

Out the window they went.

Mid-descent, monster turned to mist, carrying his prey like a leaf in a breeze. Down and away and around the castle’s side. Finding the way back in that no eye or mind within the castle could discover.

Jonathan woke half an hour later.

He did so with a surprising lack of pain. As sleep melted off, he became aware of new wrappings layered on both shoulders. The left’s ragged side was plastered with a cooling sleeve of linen strips. His right was bound with something that felt like a fuzzing velvet numbness trapped under its bandages. Each side ate away their respective aches.

“Alchemy as men know it never did manage to turn iron to gold. But it bridged many gaps between simple medicine and magic’s bending of bodily law.”

Jonathan raised his head enough to see his Master sat at the opposite end of the bed. If one considered it a bed. They were in a nest of blankets and cushions that had been layered into a den of alien stonework. While not musty in the way of other ancient bedding strewn around the castle, they carried the spiced stamp of aromas from the work that was done in the adjoining room. Over his Master’s shoulder he could see a heavy oaken door left a crack open. A lamp glowed there, highlighting glass and clay vessels arranged on a far worktable. Some smoked. Some glowed. Some seemed to look back at him.

“Nature would have you heal over the course of weeks. Likely months. Supernature,” his Master gestured at the bandaged shoulders, “will see you healed within the next two nights at the latest. Of course, this will hardly matter if you decide to forsake your little chalk notes and throw yourself from the window.” Jonathan held his tongue as his Master sunk both eyes into him like brands. “The boy did not catch what you wrote on the windowsill, if it’s any consolation. You could let them go on believing I have been so monstrous as to force my poor friend, poor Papa, poor Darling, to sit dull and dead before the window for hours upon hours whenever he does not work or sleep or bleed. I am so suddenly the only monster under this roof as well as Master.”

Jonathan swallowed. Once, twice.

“Apologies. I shall—I shall explain things to them. Please, forgive me, Sir.”

“No.” Jonathan stared at him. Worry and confusion clashed and crumbled into each other behind the ghost-light eyes. “No,” his Master echoed, “this is not something that is forgiven any more than it is forgotten.” His hands clenched to white stones in his lap. “How long have you been like this, Jonathan?”

Do not lie.

Jonathan twitched but failed to catch his tongue in time.

“The first time was in mid-May. Back when I first started to suspect you. The prospect rose and fell in me more than once until the end of June. If it were not for the chance of seeing Mina again, I would have walked into the wolves on that last night together. I was still thinking of cliffs and wolves the day I escaped, prepared to take that route rather than have the Weird Sisters’ teeth pin me here forever. But those thoughts came and went.

“It wasn’t until October 3rd that the urge came back and never left. That was when I stopped being sure whether or not Mina would heed the threat of death potentially leading to undeath. I know she still thought of high buildings. Of train tracks. Fires. So I started thinking of them too. Just in case. After November, after the killing, I just kept thinking it. Whenever I was not busy or seen or sleeping. I have heard that suicides are damned outright. Murderers of good men too. I have thought sometimes that I could take that leap and die, but I would not know the difference once I woke to Hell. Sometimes I think I jumped an eternity ago and just can’t remember.  

“I know I cannot risk it, of course. It would risk them too and leave them hurting besides. All it amounts to now is a sort of meditation. And I do appreciate the view. It is no more than that, I swear.”

“You swear,” his Master nodded. “You swear in this particular moment. Just as, not so long ago, caught in a snare, you thought of taking yourself away in earnest. The leap or the rope or the knife reached for in full daylight. A most effective slap to rouse your greedy little family from their play. But it does not bode well for this, your current oath. Only a thought, only a meditation. Not to worry. This is what you would have me believe?”

“Thought is not action, Sir. I would not still be here if it was.”

“Indeed, you are here. And doing what? Ah, let me specify. Doing what, besides working and bleeding?”

Jonathan frowned at him.

“Raising my family.”

“Which falls under work.”

A deeper frown, almost stormy.   

“It hardly feels so, Sir. My Loves are not the burden you would paint them as.”

“Even if I believed you, you still have not answered my question. What are you doing, Jonathan Harker? What are you doing solely for yourself? You stare out a window that you must convince yourself every day not to leap from. You clear dust away from every room in the castle but your own. You touch a book only when you must be seen reading, you sing only when there is an ear besides yours to hear it, you wear your smiles the same way a maid dons her uniform. You do not answer me because you have no answer to give.” Lantern eyes burned. “In the five years since you have been here, you have done nothing but hollow yourself of everything. Blood and fealty and life and love. Yes, true, you live. Because that too is in your itinerary. Just another chore of maintenance.”  

 Jonathan sat up fully now.

“And?” A whisper. A thing of lead. “What does it matter?”

Why do you care?

“It matters because, even without a stomach, I am not immune to nausea. Call it secondhand indignation if you like. I have made deals with many devils and played pupil to the best of them. You see what bounty such Lessons have afforded me compared to,” he waved a clawed hand in Jonathan’s direction, “the usual lot of misery that comes to the would-be hero and the practicing martyr. If I should ever get around to some dire retribution from kismet, it will only be after nigh half a millennium of unchecked power and slaughter with nary an angel flying by to chide me for my play. Even Faustus got to have his allotment of pleasure before Mephistopheles tore him to shreds and flung his soul to Hell. But you? You spoke the truth before.

“You have nothing. You began with scarcely more than that. A narrow starving life with only the distraction of a woman who hardly merited the pedestal you lifted her on for playing nursemaid and starring, as so many muses do, within a theatre of high romance you painted around her; she, a soul as commonplace as a grain of sand in a desert. For her, you damn yourself. Her and the unholy miracle of the boy. You started with crumbs and gave away all you had and more, gaining nothing but the safeguarding of others’ fortune. Others’ lives. While you whore your life and veins away and tell yourself a chair and a window are sufficient for the last dregs of self you permit to exist.

“Do not mistake me. It is hilarious in the abstract. I would laugh if you were on a stage. But you are here and real and proving insufferable with your insistence on denying yourself any opportunity to do something other than play the role of grist in a mill.” He bared his teeth. It was not a grin. “But I waste my time telling you what you already know, yes? You have clearly made peace with this Spartan half-life. You did not even bat a lash at the prospect of mother and child’s visits being stripped away.” Jonathan’s breath stopped as his Master looked down on him. Lantern eyes now infernos. “Until tonight. There is a crack in the performance now. Father is suddenly a monster and he has stolen poor Papa away.

“And here, in this space, Papa can never be found. Not even by his wife’s prying mind.” White knuckles rapped against the strange black stonework. “It was not easy making this place. A genius loci can only flex so much. But the Scholomance exists in a space that is not possible and it was with brick from that Mountain that I formed these walls. A little sanctum away from Earthly meddling. Back before my condition required the grave soil. How nice to know it will not go to waste.”

Jonathan’s face fell as his Master stood. In less than a blink his Master was at the door, then through it, filling up the threshold. Perhaps too late it occurred to him that the nest of a room had no light lit in it. Not so much as a candle. The only illumination left was the faint glow at his Master’s back and the fires that were his Master’s eyes.

“You have a new task before you, my friend. Something to meditate on without distraction. No work. No window. No wife or child. The task is this: Think of something to do, to be, to want, that serves only you. An addition to your life that you can drop into the raw pit you have carved out of yourself to feed the clamoring maws of your dear family.”

His hand curled around the handle.

Jonathan’s eyes were wide and bright as stars.

“Wait—,”

“In the meantime, for as long as you fail in this endeavor, you will be here. To the boy and his mother, you will be a ghost. Undetectable by mind or sound or scent. They will only know you live by the taste of you in the cup. But do not rush yourself. Take however many nights or years you need.”

Jonathan fought his way out of the tangle of covers.

“Please, wait—,”

“I’m certain they will take it well.”      

The door shut and bolted. A moment later there was a hammering in the dark interior, fists drumming against the thick oak. From the exterior it sounded barely louder than the patter of rain. The shouting only the buzz of an insect. Rain and insect grew slightly louder when the laboratory’s light was put out, erasing even the outline of the door. All was dark. Hammer, patter, shout, buzz.

Silently, the Master of the castle sighed.

He just as silently took a seat outside the door. His eyes were their own strange points of light in the pitch and they glanced down into the open face of his pocket watch. It stood out clearly enough to him. One hour. Two. Three. His friend carried on at intervals through them all. Shouts or sobs, pleas or pounding.

Out in the castle, mother and child were hunting. Father and Papa were nowhere to be found. They threw out the feelers of their psyche as far as they could go, scented the air, raced and called to each other on every floor and through every room. Nothing, nothing. The woman even dared to breach her Master’s bedroom.

Ah, close! So close! Did she detect her husband there? An echo of his presence?

Of course she did.

Her husband was the only one other than her Master to be allowed in that room, and then only with their Master’s beckoning. Even if she had no reason to doubt the freshness of the hint, there was still no following. Not into this space that only a student of the Mountain could detect, let alone enter. She came and went within walking distance of her beloved. All as he screamed out for her. For their boy. For their Master.

By the fourth hour the room had quieted.

He held his ear to the crack:

“Please…” came a croak almost too thin to count as a voice. “Please, I don’t understand this. What do you want from me? What am I supposed to say? Just tell me, please…”

I did. I did and you still cannot make sense of it. Draga mea, has this been you your whole life?

He wanted to laugh.

A curse was mouthed instead.

He stood, relit the lamp, unbolted the door, and found his arms suddenly full of his friend. The bandaged arms clung to him while a face streaked in tears and sweat ground into his chest, eyes somehow still running. He made a note to force a carafe down the man’s throat before he passed out. For now, he let his friend hold to him, shaking.

“Sir, Master, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for angering you. I only want to understand what has to be done to mend this. Please.”

He held his friend in turn, stroking through the white cloud of hair.

“That you say this means you have not taken the order to heart. How is it such a trial to want something? Whether you fear it being taken or not, how is it you cannot even name a thing you desire?”

“I don’t know.” The words left his friend like millstones. He seemed almost to deflate in his Master’s arms. “I don’t know.”

“You could not have been so before you were here. Before you were mine. Even the destitute will dream. Did you not want for anything then, however meager?”

Quiet unspooled for almost a minute. There was a small breath. He waited.

“…Wanting gets conditioned out of some lives,” was his friend’s answer. “Need comes first. Need is always there, taking up your mind and your time. Urgency. Efficiency. Every cent and minute hoarded. Books were a luxury. Second and thirdhand purchases, the rest from the library. Theatre was a treat to reserve once a season at most. No concerts, no revelries, no records playing in the apartment on a phonograph never afforded. The first time we did not know need was after the man I considered a father died and left the gift of his will behind. A house and a business and a bank account that finally did not sting to look at, traded into our hands at the loss of another precious life.

“Between Lucy and Hawkins, there was not even a heartbeat in which to be more than performative in appreciating our changed fortune. Not before the trap of you sprang again. Van Helsing’s call to arms. You know the rest. Even Mina, even the blessing of our child, those priceless wants above all others, were made into another thunderbolt from Fate. Another proof that some people are just not meant to want, let alone have. No matter how great or small a treasure. I learned that Lesson well enough even before you. And so I have schooled myself out of it. Wanting.

“The part of a mind that craves for itself has been atrophied and beaten into dust in me. But if you say I must want, I can perform otherwise. Tell me I am sick of the window and I shall board it up. Tell me to read, I will read. Or sing a song. Or dig up old recipes to enjoy even when I am not cooking to flavor myself. Or whatever else. Even while you all sleep. Even with no one looking.” Jonathan pulled his face away from his Master’s heart and turned bleary eyes up to him. Blue ringed in rose. “Whatever fixes this. Please.”

Throw him back in. He will do better in a week. A month at most. Do it.

He sensed mother and child outside the castle now. Running, circling. They had taken clothes from Jonathan’s wardrobe and, against the Lesson so gravely taught, son watched mother order the wolves to her, demanding they take her husband’s scent and search, go! The wolves would lead them to the usual route Jonathan took to the towns, no more. But they were desperate. Still weeping. Bloodless and starving for grief.

Do it.

Jonathan stared at him. Waiting for another blow. For a laugh, a sneer. A cold hand tossing him back into the dark. The dog laying before his Master’s rising boot, knowing the fine quarry brought home was no excuse for not wagging his tail as he did so.

A fine dragon you are, old devil. Are you so soft now? You laid out the terms. He has not satisfied them. Do it. Do it!

“Fifteen years. That is how long the boy has left to nurse from you if you have your way. Fifteen more years until he is a man, innocent of taking a single life. Likewise for his mother. Because you feed us all. Wasting and wasting until that final night. Do you expect to die and remain dead at that hour? Do you think I would lose you, even if Mephistopheles himself came up to collect?”

“No,” barely a breath. Jonathan seemed to wilt another inch as it left him.

“No. The wait ends. Your unlife begins. Which means what?”

Jonathan could not bring himself to speak. Only looked away. His Master thumbed away another tear.

“Eternity in potentia,” he answered himself. “Centuries. Longer. We both know the Vampire is made of its wants before anything else. Such is our nature. I will give credit to dear Mina for her control. She has far more cause for loathing me than her Sisters did and she does admirably against her own desires. Even if she only has as much will as my own allows, it is a thing of iron in itself. But what of you, draga mea?”

Recognition pinched Jonathan upright again. The ghost-light eyes gaped with what was uncertainty or else the wish to be uncertain.

“You will no longer be as you are. No more playing vassal. No more wearing the yoke of mere servility. No more stalling in your martyr’s Pit. You will be Vampire, you will be want. And what will you do if there is nothing of the latter there to catch you? What shall you do with infinity? Will you only be as my missing shadow? Only your woman’s faithful dog? Will you still have the boy, grown and whole, pulling at your apron strings? A servant, forever caught between bowing to others or laying as a corpse in the moonlight for lack of anyone to serve. That you would be for eternity?”

The hand that wiped the tear moved to Jonathan’s jaw. It held like a strut against his attempt to turn away.

“I always kill my pests. I may torture an enemy before his end. But I would ultimately be rid of them, not leave them to such a Hell as the one you seem so dedicated to crafting for yourself.”

The hand was a snare and it kept Jonathan facing forward. Straight into the basilisk gaze and the mesmer at its heart. An order that was a plea.

“Think. Think of one single thing you want for yourself tonight. Just one.”

The trance worked deep. Snapping at the heels of Jonathan’s mind like a hound after a fox. Further, further, down, down, through a pinhole of a tunnel into the abandoned gloom where the carcasses of hope and yearning had been thrown away. The trance dug. The trance prodded. The trance found a coin’s worth of treasure, like dead men’s gold hidden under a blue flame.

Here was another view from another window. After the departure of a captor. Before the arrival of the hypnotic mists and their hungry smiles. Sweetly in-between, here was the sight of the moonlit world back when it had been a beautiful balm. A sole comfort in his terror but a heartbeat from being spoiled by his hostesses’ threat.

Jonathan Harker had seen small shapes moving on the wind. An owl soaring far below. Moths fluttering past like living petals. So high, so close to the peaks and stars, a needle of nostalgia had found him. The boy within the young man who had wished with the hopeless fantasy of all hungry children looking up from their sparse plates and miserable families and through tatty curtains at the open and untouchable sky. Wished with sweet-somber futility for escape. For…for…

Jonathan spoke the wish aloud. A last wet trail fell from his bloodshot stare. His Master wiped this too.

And found Jonathan’s mouth with his before willing him back to sleep.

Mother and child were returning from the road. She had taken the boy up in her arms again, cursing as she half-ran, half-flew. The child had ceased sobbing, at last, but he rattled in her embrace. This had never happened before. They had not thought such a thing could happen. That anyone, let alone Papa and Father, could simply disappear. Especially from her senses. It was impossible to lose track of them. She always knew where they were. Always.

And now…

“Mum?” She had stopped. Her head cocked like a wolf’s, ears pricked high, eyes flaring. “Mum, what is it?”

There. They’re right there. How?

“Where, Mum? Are they close?”

She didn’t answer. Only took off at another rush, firing herself and her son like a spectral bullet through the forest. Perhaps the boy would have been more stunned than afraid that his mother could be such a blur if not for his worry. His senses were smaller than hers, still reaching and searching for whatever it was she’d found. It wasn’t until the outline of the castle came into view that he skimmed the presence of his fathers on the air. They were at the castle, but not within it.

Two frantic sets of eyes hunted around the grounds, trying to make sense of how the mingled presences could be so near and invisible at once. Closer. Closer.

Up.

They craned their heads until the moon met their gaze. That and the two shapes against the sky.

Jonathan was held close in his Master’s arms. The two of them were a speck against the stars. A moment more and they were drifting down to the ground. Jonathan was set lightly on his feet and almost knocked off them as his son clamped around his waist. His wife almost finished the job by locking her arms about his mending shoulders. Their Master watched on at a careful distance; no sudden moves to alert the herd.

The next hour was devoted to running both men’s tongues ragged.

Yes, diavol, he had lied. There had been a fight and he was embarrassed for it. But it was not what caused his Father’s tearing at Papa. That was his Father forgetting himself, forgetting how easy Papa was to break. Father grew angry at himself first for the mistake, then again when Papa was upset for frightening their son, and then most of all when, old man that his Father was, he had forgotten a remedy he had once known to cure away the injury and make Papa well again. It made him stormy, as all saw. He hated having a solution just out of reach.

But he had remembered at last. That was why he had come to take Papa away that evening. To put his mistake right. But then had come all the hurtful words from their harsh-tongued child, the tears, the fretting, and then that nasty surprise of a second mistake. Again, poor Papa was forced to pay the price for an unruly family. And Father had snatched him away before more pains could add up.

He had gone to a place that, he will be honest, did not exist properly inside the castle. Like a ballroom tucked into a woodshed. It was where his older magic was stored, back before Father was all that he was, back when he had need to worry about skin and bone. There he took Papa to heal. And to talk.

About his sitting and staring. About how he did this for lack of joy alone. Papa made himself so busy and tired that there was nothing left in him to play or take pleasure all on his own.

Was it the sharp thoughts again, Papa?

A tremor here from the boy. Begging, but bracing.

No, son, only absurd ones. The kind that grownups do not like to admit out loud because they do not wish to seem foolish or idle. Other things too. Little things that would need asking for. But your Papa hates to ask for anything, and so he hid all that in his head too, so he would not ask at all.

Yet Father had made him talk and ask and it turned out it really wasn’t such an absurd thing at all.    

“I asked to fly.”

“Like us?”

“Like you. Isn’t that silly?”

“It’s silly that you didn’t ask! I always wanted to fly too, seeing Mum and Father do it so easy.” The boy held tight to him again, grinding the coagulation of old tears against his Papa’s neck. In a small voice he shuddered, “I thought you wanted to do something else. I thought…”

“I know, Sweetheart. I’m sorry for scaring you all before. I would never listen to the sharp thoughts like that. It’s just a sour part of imagination. That’s all.” He rested his chin atop the boy’s head. One hand cupped him close. The other looped around the woman’s shoulders, the ease of the gesture proving the strength of the medicine. Her eyes dug in his. Knowing and shelving the truth for later. “I promise,” Jonathan breathed.

…Do you still want to fly?

“Once you have another meal in you, Darling. I think we are all too worn out for now.”

“No,” the Master intoned from the castle’s shadow, “You need not soften it. You are worn out, all of you. I remain the only one overfed and hale. I shall still be so once you are ready to feed again.” He waved his hand. “I shall skip my helping at the next feeding, lest I burst like a tick.” The boy perked up in his Papa’s lap while his mother narrowed her eyes. Father never skipped his taste of Papa. Not ever. Father only grinned. “But before Papa plays family dinner again, it must be agreed that he needs a holiday. I believe he had some ideas he wished to share with you.” His gaze flicked to Jonathan. “Is it not so, draga mea?”

Mother and child each recognized the term as it hit the air.

The woman was considerably less enthused than her son, who knew the words from the fairy tales. The magic words between one true love and another.

Jonathan distracted them both with the first small thing: A phonograph and new music to play on it. Perhaps even sheet music of their own, if any of them would dare to risk each others’ ears with the practice.  

What was a phonograph, Papa? Was that like the music boxes he’d brought home for them?

Something like that…

Chatter carried on under the moon until Jonathan’s stomach growled. The woman stopped just short of carrying him off to the kitchen. Master and child dawdled behind. The latter pretended interest in a moth that had landed first on a flower, then a stone, and then up on his Father’s shoulder like a great grim tree.

But the moth flew off and still he did not look away.

“…Yes, child?”

“I’m sorry, Father.” Thank every god below the Earth, he did not bring himself to tears as he said it. Though he looked close. “I should never have thought you’d hurt Papa.”

“Ah, but I did hurt him. We all did. By accident, with carelessness, without ill intent, still he was hurt. We are fortunate that he is so forgiving a soul and strong enough to weather us. Such men as him are rare. I do not think I have met another like him in four hundred years.” The child’s eyes shined just short of another bloody tide he could not afford to lose. Sensing this, he snuffled and squinted and fought the weeping back. Good boy. “He will be alright. Amends will be made and we shall not repeat our mistakes with him. Papa does so much out of love for us. We will do the same, yes?”

He held out his hand. The boy forsook it to duck wholly under his arm in his accustomed spot, huddled close as a pup to his kin. The open hand drifted down to stroke his hair.

“Yes,” the boy nodded against him, scrubbing the last dry tracks of tears away on his suit. “Promise.”

“Good. No more tears tonight, diavol. There is nothing to cry about.”

[whirligig-girl]

Some of the history of Zwo-nmu System Exploration by Mellanoid Slime Worm Space Programs.

A reminder of the Zwo-nmu Planetary System. The Sun, also called The Zwo-nmu (literally The Day Light) is a G8V main sequence star with many giant planets. Mellanus, called Gymnome by some of its inhabitants, is the homeworld of the Mellanoid Slime Worms--Eaurp Guz's people. Mellanus is a coorbital of Omen in a horseshoe orbit. Every 15 or so earth years, Mellanus approaches Omen, which moves it into a higher or lower orbit around the Sun.

This graphic is in a rotating reference frame following Omen. green circle is Omen's orbit in a non-rotating reference frame. Yellow circle is Mellanus' inner/short/summer/hot orbit. Purple circle is Mellanus' outer/long/winter/cold orbit. Blue and gray circles are the orbits of Cold Ember and Rabbit. Times are given in Earth days and distances in Earth-Sun-distances (astronomical units)

Omen is named, of course, as it represents drastic climate change--orbital seasons affecting both hemispheres for many years at a time.

With that reminder out of the way...

Zwo-nmu (the star)

extensive telescopic study from low mellanus orbit. The first solar telescope to enter orbit discovered the corona but was not set up to observe it properly, so follow-up missions had to be undertaken.

studied by the Cold Ember probes and by at least one dedicated "sun-scraper"

Cold Ember (the hot super-earth/sub-neptunian)

Of the five probes sent to Cold Ember at various times, only two have made it.

The second one to make it is an orbiter. It relies on stationkeeping propellant so its elliptical orbit always keeps its apoapsis on the night side of the planet, such that it can spend time in the shadow to keep cool. Within a few days of it running out of stationkeeping fuel it will begin to overheat. There are proposals to send a Rescue Shuttle up to resupply and repair the probe, but the strict rules about use of alien spacecrafts in the mellanoid space program make that difficult.

Rabbit

Visited by 2 robotic probes--a flyby and a short-lived orbiter. A lander/rover is planned, but doesn't have the same priority as the Omen Development Program and the Ice Giants Exploration Program.

Mellanus Orbit

At its peak, Mellanus had thousands of satellites and dozens of space stations, but a near-miss with ablation cascade (see: the movie Gravity (2013)) that was only averted thanks to the recently installed phaser network has lead to many restrictions being put in place on the number and function of satellites. Early in the history of mellanoid space exploration, there was not much automation available. Satellites had to be crewed, and so there were many space stations, and when automation happened, those space stations grew into constellations of satellites. Telecommunications constellations were the real culprit, with several competing agencies, companies, and nations setting up their own independent constellations ranging from 10s to 1000s of satellites each. But now, subspace technology has rendered low-orbit communications satellites obsolete, and there are just a few dozen geosynchronous communications satellites, a GPS network, and the number of Mellanus observation satellites has been coralled.

One of the United Mellanus Space Program's current duties is the cleanup of low orbit, which is operated both by phaser blasts in an emergency and by crewed spacecrafts. Most of the space stations in mellanus orbit are specifically infrastructure intended to refuel these spacecrafts, since they need to be able to access a wide range of inclinations, and inclination changes are difficult to accomplish.

Other space stations include the constellation of orbital drydocks, which are all orbiting about a hundred kilometers apart from one another, and the Starbase, a very large rotating artificial gravity space station which was built between the 2340s and the 2360s, and serves as the space end of the interstellar spaceport.

Mellanus natural satellites

Mellanus has one permanent satellite, Ubbi, a 340 meter wide rubble pile which is thought to have once been another asteroid's moon, millions of years ago. It is just barely bright enough to be seen by a mellanoid who has expanded their eye to the greatest practical width, but it wasn't noticed to be a moving star until after the invention of the astronomical telescope and the popularization of sun-centrism. It was thought at first to be an asteroid, since it was discovered while Mellanus was passing through Omen's trojan cloud, but careful observations determined that it was a satellite in a stable circular orbit, and a careful observation of photographic plates and star charts indicate it's been orbiting Mellanus for at least hundreds of years. It's named after its discoverer.

Many early mellanoid space activities have used Ubbi as a target. There are dozens of probes. Sadly Ubbi is very resource poor, being poor in both volatiles that could be used for propellant and metals that could make it valuable. It's not even a useful science target, since one of the earliest missions to visit it was an impactor which essentially exploded Ubbi. It reformed again, but completely resurfaced, burying clues to its origin as a satellite. Ubbi is currently orbited by one derelict spacecraft and

There have been three temporary natural satellites of Mellanus to be visited by spacecrafts. All but one have entered Mellanus orbit only for a few months and were only visited by robotic probes. The largest one, Temma was three kilometers across and in an eccentric orbit that remained stable all the way up until two Omen conjunctions later, so it lasted for about 30-35 years. However, as a carbonaceous asteroid, it was rich in volatiles, and it was explored and settled extensively by all major space programs. The first crewed international interplanetary trips to Omen used fuel refined from Temma and brought down to low orbit.

The Omen Coorbitals (Trojans, Greeks, and Other Horseshoes)

Outside of Ubbi and Temma, the Coorbitals are the next step out into space. Mellanus occasionally has close encounters with coorbitals. Over time Mellanus and Omen together have corralled the coorbitals into very specific lanes. There are far fewer coorbitals around Omen than Glerbuh, or, say, Jupiter, because coorbital or not, Mellanus is still a planet. Most of the coorbitals are trojans, with the apsides neatly tucked in between the outer edge of Mellanus' sphere of influence in the low orbit, and the inner edge of Mellanus' sphere of influence in the high orbit. The Greeks--the trojans on the leading edge of Omen's orbit--are especially depleted. It's thought that Mellanus was once the only large object in the greek camp, but was perturbed onto its current horseshoe orbit billions of years ago. As a result, the greek camp is a hodge-podge of scattered objects from elsewhere in the system, whereas the trojan camp is comprised of more objects original to this part of the circumstellar disk. Each camp can answer different questions about the evolution of the Zwo-nmu system, and Mellanus' relation to it in particular. Ironically, even though the greek camp is Mellanus' original home, it's the trojan camp that is more relevant to studying Mellanus itself.

It is possible on any given year to send a spacecraft to visit Omen, Trojans, Greeks, or any other coorbital. However, the trajectories which take a minimum of fuel are only accessible 1-6 months or so before the closest approach with either object, and for crewed missions, less efficient but faster trajectories lasting only a month right around the close approach are preferred.

Outside of the Omen apparitions, the most active times for interplanetary spaceflight have historically been around the passing through the trojan clouds, which happens about 6 years before and after each Omen apparition. Starting from the low summer orbit, Mellanus passes the Trojan Camp. 6 years later, it reaches Omen and moves to the high winter orbit. 6 years after that, it passes the Trojan camp again. Then 15 years later, it passes the Greek Camp. 6 more years later, Omen appears large and Mellanus shifts to the summer orbit. 6 years later, it passes the Greek camp again. 15 years pass, and then we restart the cycle.

other horseshoe-coorbitals can be encountered at any time of year, but there's only a few of these known to exist.

Crewed missions to the other coorbitals have served as test flights for Omen missions, while also contributing meaningfully to planetary science as a whole. While asteroid exploration may not be exciting or glamorous, the use of trojan missions as testbeds has allowed a lot of groundbreaking work that otherwise might not have had any support to be performed.

Humans currently, in the real world 2020s, posses the propulsion technology and even, in principle, the industrial capacity to send humans to Mars. What we lack is a good idea of how to support humans on interplanetary spaceflight for many months or years at a time. A typical stay on the International Space Station is not even comparable to a Mars mission. That research is still underway. But we can go to the Moon. What's crucial is the relatively short turnaround time. A Moon mission may take only a week or two. The Artemis lunar missions will last longer, but not as long as a Mars mission would have to.

Absent a permanent moon of any substance, the Mellanoids are able to get their relatively short turnaround missions done thanks to the coorbitals. If Mellanus were still a trojan, it'd have emptied out the Greek Camp. Omen would never get particularly close, and it'd take over a year to make a round trip to it. It'd be just as hard to reach as Mars or the Main Asteroid Belt. But since Mellanus is in a horseshoe orbit, for about a year at a time every 6-15 years it is within spitting distance of some celestial body or another. Every 18-19 years that celestial body is the magnificent planet Omen with its own system of moons. When it's not Omen, it's the coorbital asteroids.

Propulsion wise it is not that much easier to reach the Omen coorbitals than it is for humans to go to Mars. You still have to escape Mellanus and keep accelerating on top of that.

But instead of bringing all of the comforts and necessities involved in the long-term habitation of space with you to a distant planet, you can get away with using capsules that are not much more advanced than what we were using in the Apollo era. The long term habitation problem is solved, leaving the only major problem left that of propulsion, of vehicle design. And since Mellanus is relatively small and they aren't shy about using nuclear rockets, the propulsion problem isn't that big of a deal. in a way, Omen and the coorbitals are a crutch. By the 2340s Mellanoid space programs still had not undertaken crewed interplanetary missions beyond the coorbitals. But, at least in Star Trek, human spaceflights to Europa & Jupiter were being undertaken in the 2020s. These missions would have had to take years! that said, there is a reason Omen has been such a focus--and it's not just because it is so culturally important.

The Omen System

Since the dawn of the Mellanoid space age, there have been six Omen apparitions.

Years given are Earth Years

1) 2300: Two nations launched robotic flyby attempts this year. One succeeded, but it was little more than a spinning photopolarimeter which could take a grainy image of Omen and a magnetometer which produced useful magnetic field readings. 2) 2315: Two failed atmosphere probes for Oldsky, one successful robotic lander on Rival, one successful robotic lander on Spark, and successful orbit insertion of a robotic Omen orbiter which continued to send back photos of Omen and its moons right through to the next conjunction. During the lifetime of this orbiter, Oldsky was conclusively shown to have complex life. 3) 2329: First crewed missions. There is a crewed landing on Rival, a crewed orbiter mission for Oldsky. It had originally intended to operate out of a small space station placed into Oldsky orbit a year in advance, but this station was covertly destroyed by Zaldans, and the orbiter mission was repurposed as a mere flyby, which fails, leading to first contact with Zaldans. 4) 2344: The most important year yet--the beginning of space archaeology. It's also the year asteroid Temma departs Mellanus and makes its own flyby of Omen. 5) 2358: International grand tour involving orbiters and landers on every planet including Oldsky. Leads to formation of United Mellanus Space Program. 6) 2373: Fission-impulse rockets have made regular interplanetary travel between Mellanus and Omen possible on any year. 7) 2387: Oldsky is now a colony of Mellanus.

Mellanus is on the border of the Zaldan sphere of influence, and with the increasing expansionism of the Cardassians and the tragedy of what they had begun to do to the Bajorans, the Zaldans desired military bases on the stars near their industrial colonies and their homeworld. These bases had to provide deuterium, so they needed to be located in a system with a gas giant, and also function as repair stations. The stars surrounding Mellanus were poor candidates--there are no M-class habitable planets around the nearby stars, and the only other gas giants were hot Jupiters or brown dwarfs which would make deuterium extraction difficult.

The Zaldans respected the non-interference directive, but not if it meant a gaping hole in their security. They would set up a military base on Omen's M-class moon Oldsky. There was an orbiting space station and a surface base, connected by cargo transporters and shuttlecrafts, staffed by military officers and a few civilian personnel, not unlike Deep Space Nine, but considerably more of a frontier for all involved. There was also a space station built in very low orbit of Omen, designed to scrape the atmosphere for deuterium to fuel freighters. These ships would be undetectable to the mellanoids as long as ships entering the system avoided activity during close encounters and all ships entering and leaving the system hid their photon wakes behind the Sun, resulting in fairly complex routing.

During the 2329 Omen apparition, a spacecraft that had been intended to fly by Omen had a severe failure, akin to Apollo 13. Still over a month from home, with no prospect but a horrible death, they were famously rescued by Commander Halen's ship, EZM-407, marking official first contact with the Zaldans. They were returned to Mellanus and the Zaldans finally landed, showing the world that not only were Mellanoids not alone in the universe, they weren't even alone in their own solar system.

Several ships visited Mellanus over the next few years on primarily diplomatic missions, but the Zaldans still kept hands-off, sharing only a minimum of information with the Mellanoids. Not many Zaldans had Halen's affinity for the slimes, and they saw mellanoids as lowly uncivilized savages--and their flowery polite diplomatic language only confirmed this to them. It wasn't before someone really stood up to them--a space program engineer who had gotten tired of standing in the sidelines while his people were being insulted--that the Zaldans finally found a glimmer of respect for the mellanoids.

There had been plans to fly a Mellanoid astronaut to Oldsky in exchange for allowing Zaldan researchers to visit Mellanus, and even early talks of embassies and sharing of the Omen infrastructure, when the Zaldans just… disappeared. Completely cut contact.

If sharing their solar system with rude bullies (who, yes, could have wiped them out a dozen times over yet decided not to so at least there's that) wasn't scary enough, those rude bullies disappearing without a trace was even scarier. On a scale greater than even the Apollo program, nations rushed to assemble their missions to visit Omen and Oldsky to figure out what happened to the Zaldan Military Base. Their robotic probes launched on off-years didn't return any answers--crewed exploration and actually landing mellanoids on Oldsky would be the only answer.

There was also the fact that recovering technology from Oldsky could potentially be transformative--the right technology in the wrong hands could destroy the world. This is spaceflight at its most competitive. This was no longer a game--recovering the alien technology was potentially life or death.

After the first contact with the Federation and the series of revolutions and reforms that lead to the current political situation, one of the main unifying rallying cries for mellanoids was the notion that they deserved the right to sovereign exploration of their own solar system. Outsiders--whether Zaldan, or Federation, or Dominion--would not develop any part of the system!

Ok, the Federation can provide some baseline infrastructure to protect Mellanus from invasion, but space exploration is OUR COMMON HERITAGE!

The current age of Mellanoid Space Exploration is characterized by extensive permanent infrastructure development. Since the 2360s, Mellanoids have been building research stations on Oldsky, Lake, and Rival. Setting up an industrial capability on another planet from scratch is hard to do, but Oldsky has a stable climate year-round and a breathable atmosphere. Much of Oldsky is a desert, and even the "humid" regions are quite dry, but it's still more habitable than literally any other planet in the solar system except for Mellanus, which makes it practical to build using traditional methods.

As of 2380, more people are living and working on Oldsky at any given moment than are doing so in Low Mellanus Orbit. Oldsky station visitors includes geologists, biologists, space archaeologists still studying what remains of Zaldan activity on Oldsky, civil engineers, aerospace engineers, construction workers, miners, marine biologists, submarine helmcrew, aircraft pilots, spacecraft pilots, rover drivers, doctors, astronomers, and even a few tourists selected by raffle.

Propellant infrastructure has been established to keep the fast interplanetary rockets zipping along. At this point, it is possible to stay on Oldsky permanently, but so far, all visitors to Oldsky are temporary, and on years when Omen is inaccessible even with nuclear-fission-impulse rockets (i.e, when the Sun is between it and Mellanus), only a skeleton crew remains to maintain the stations.

Oldsky will probably not have its own self sufficient industry and capacity for its own space program any time soon, but it does have a spaceport serviced by reusable launch vehicles.

Phaser-thermal rockets are used for heavy lift launches from Mellanus these days, but conventional chemical rockets are still used on Oldsky, fueled by hydrogen and oxygen split by electrolysis. There is an oil refinery on Oldsky, so kerosene/oxygen rockets are possible too. things remain somewhat low-tech on Oldsky. Imported vehicles can be powered by batteries, but there aren't let any lithium mines on Oldsky--good deposits have yet to be discovered--so internal combustion engines powered by oil are sadly being used. The Oldsky Planetary Protection Office on Mellanus intends to phase out fossil fuel engines as soon as the planet is capable of producing its own high-energy-density batteries… whenever that is… also, between you and me, they really ought to get more aquatics flying on these missions. what an aquatic astronaut could find on Oldsky might be quite shocking.

Anyway outside of the Omen system and Oldsky Glerbuh has had its fair share of robotic exploration and crewed expeditions. Two of the four ice giants have also been visited by robotic flyby probes, and Glarpi (the innermost ice giant) has had a robotic orbiter. The big crewed grand tour expedition to explore all four ice giants and there moons was one of the major science goals of the 2380s outside of exploring and developing Oldsky. However, it had to be modified to turn into a rescue mission for a mellanoid starfleet officer who was stranded on a planet orbiting a nearby star called TE-92. It's a whole thing. If they manage to rescue them maybe they'll write a novel about it.

[alwayshappyhoursomewhere]

[Translation] SPUR September 2023

Exclusive Interview with Stéphane Lambiel "About Love"

Stéphane Lambiel invites us into his beautiful musical world with his smooth skating and graceful ballet-like movements on the ice. He talks about his love and passion for skating, and everything in his life.

Looking back on his remarkable season as a coach.

Stéphane Lambiel came to Japan to perform in "Fantasy on Ice," the most prominent ice show in Japan. In the 2022-23 figure skating season, Japan's Shoma Uno, whom he coaches, won his second consecutive World Championships, and Koshiro Shimada won a silver medal at the All-Japan Championships. Latvia's Deniss Vasiljevs has also distinguished himself in the Grand Prix Series, so it has been smooth sailing for the coach.

"Shoma, Koshiro, and Deniss are not the only young talents sprouting up one after another. I want all the students at Champery (Switzerland) to grow. I hope my teaching will have a positive impact on their careers and lives. That's my number one goal right now."

After the Corona disaster, the international sports scene is slowly returning to its original state. This year, Stéphane organized a joint training camp in Kyoto with students from the Kinoshita Academy in Japan and Champéry.

"This is a good opportunity for the students to experience a different method from the one they are used to," said Stéphane. This time, we also made time for them to learn physical performance that is different from skating, such as yoga and dance lessons, not only on the ice. By learning new ways to use their bodies, they can feed back to their skating and improve their artistry. They were able to motivate each other, so I felt it was beneficial to share practice.

Today, Kinoshita is home to an elite group of figure skaters who are the future of figure skating.

"I was amazed by all the students. They are able to practice very meticulously while also maintaining their focus. If I had to name a few players that I personally pay attention to, I would say junior players Mao Shimada and Shunsuke Nakamura. I feel something special about them. Hana Yoshida knows her body well and has the ability to use it well."

About the challenges to tackle for the new season

During the training camp, Stéphane also choreographed new programs. He also said it was an opportunity to see the response from Uno, Shimada, and Vasilijevs.

"As for Koshiro, he will continue with his SP "Sing Sing Sing". For FS, he will perform a piano version of "Danse Macabre," choreographed by me. Denis performed his new SP "Hallelujah" for "Fantasy on Ice". This was his first time working with choreographer Shae-Lynn Bourne. It was a very innovative piece, and it took him some time to understand what she was trying to achieve. Then he practiced a lot, and made it his own. I will be choreographing the FS, which will be different from the atmosphere of the past. Please look forward to it.

Shoma has two programs for SP, and I think he is considering which one to use for the competition.One is by Shae-Lynn, and the other one is my creation. I think he will decide after skating both of them at the summer ice show. The SP I made will have a pretty challenging content. It will be divided into several parts, with a short intro to present the outline of the story, followed by a romantic and lyrical part, and then a dynamic change at the end. The unfolding is quite extreme, and I think it will be a very intense performance. I'm looking forward to seeing it at the show, too. For FS, I have proposed some songs, and the choreography will be done by Kenji Miyamoto."

This will be his third (sic) season as Uno's coach. Stéphane says he will do his best to support Uno, who has expressed his desire to improve his expressive side.

There are two wonderful things about Shoma," said Stéphane. One is the rich expressive power of his eyes and of his body movements as a whole. The other is his passion to control everything by himself. When he learns something new, his willingness to practice and make it absolutely his own is second to none. These two virtues have already made him a unique, one-of-a-kind skater. If he is looking for something more on top of that... from me, I think I can help him in terms of musicality. Of course he has musical sense, but I think he can deepen it even more. by refining his sensibility, he will be able to add more "umami", as they say in Japanese, to his performance, a taste that only he can bring out. I believe that the audience too will be able to sense something special from his performance.

Putting his love for his soulmate into his dance on the ice

Thirteen years after retiring from professional skating, Stéphane is now in his mature stage as a professional figure skater. The two performances at this year's Ice Show were truly musical works that moved the audience emotionally.

The first piece performed at Fantasy on Ice was the fourth movement of Gustav Mahler's Symphony No. 5, Adagietto. My friend Beatrice Belieu(?), a musician, played the piano and made the arrangement. The second is "Simple song" from the soundtrack of the movie "Grand Finale" (2015). Adagietto was choreographed by Salome Brunner. In fact, the performance presented here is only a part of the whole. Champéry has a festival called "Rencontres Musicales de Champéry" (Encounters with Music), and next year I will be skating Adagietto with Beatrice, who will play live.

The adagietto by Maher, known in the 70's for the film "Death in Venice" and more recently as the key piece in the film "TAR" (2022), is a classic. The sweet and dramatic tune is linked with a personal story.

Mahler's Adagietto was written with love as its theme. Through this song, I wanted to express the various stages of love that I have experienced. It begins with the meeting of two people, the period of burning love that brings them together as one, and then the period when there are discrepancies in the relationship. After overcoming these difficulties, they feel comfortable with each other, and then they rediscover each other as if they had met anew, even though they are the same person. The first meeting and the last meeting have different meanings, and their love evolves. When I skate to this song, I envision in my mind's eye a very rich relationship with the person I am now living with, my soulmate. There is actually a subtle twist to this performance. I thought of it with Salome, it has the same movement at the beginning and the end, but in reverse. With that movement, I expressed the evolution of the relationship and the sense of distance that is created.

He devised the choreography for 'Simple song' with his colleagues at Champéry. It is an insert song for the movie, sung wistfully by Korean opera singer Sumi Jo.

I had heard this song by chance before I saw the movie, and I thought it was a great song. I rediscovered it after watching the film, and then chose it. The personal theme of this film is growing older. Considering my own career, I am slowly approaching the limits of my physical capabilities, and I don't think I will be able to skate for much longer in the future. Still, there is a part of me that wants to skate forever. So when I am skating to this song, I express myself to the fullest as my performance, and I hope that it will be forever. *Adagietto and Simple Song both incorporate movements that require quite a bit of physical endurance, since I have to stand on one point of the edge of my skates and hold it for a long time. The goal is to achieve a noble movement despite being forced to exert that kind of control. Although I feel pleasure in being able to be in control, there are also times when I feel fragility and danger in front of the audience. It's a very lovely moment."

At this year's Fantasy on Ice, fellow skater Johnny Weir retired.

We get together every year in early summer for the show, and the performers are like family. I've talked about that with Johnny, too. It's sad to retire from the ice show, but I think it's also a positive thing. I can't speak for him, but I think he would like to do another project in his life. We have promised that we will spend time together again somewhere. Maybe a private vacation! Sometimes I think about my last show myself. I haven't made up my mind yet.

Despite being involved in a variety of activities, you are still passionate about skating. What is the source of your motivation?

I think it has something to do with the fact that I have matured, and when I aim for my best performance, I want to express myself in the most natural way. My personality is lyrical and romantic, so I often get inspiration from watching that kind of movies or from stage music. Music shakes up emotions from a deep place inside of me, and pushes to the surface the life force within. I can skate by borrowing the energy of the song. As I feel that, I guess that maybe I can perform better, with a sense of unity."

[talesfromasnarkylisa]

Stranded In Arendelle: Prologue

July 12, 1843 AC

Princess Rapunzel was busy packing for her trip to Arendelle. Dresses, hygiene, books, presents for the foreign royals. And a hairbrush - though she needed it much less now that her long blonde hair was gone. The kingdom was going to coronate its new queen in less than two weeks, and it would take about a week to get there. Rapunzel would have gone earlier, but she had been acting queen for some time due to King Frederic being sick and Queen Arianna visiting some faraway relatives. Thankfully, the king had recently recovered.

The coronation being a formal event, only embassies, federal/state government officials and royals were allowed to attend. Varian was a little disappointed. He had been hoping to show off some of his new inventions to the officials in Arendelle. But on the other hand, this did give him the opportunity to investigate his mother’s journal further for experiments. Plus, it’s not like his reputation was perfectly clean outside of Corona anyways.

After packing her last set of clothes, Rapunzel went to talk to King Frederic. She was still somewhat worried about him being sick and didn’t want the kingdom to fall into disarray should the worst happen.

While she was walking down the royal hallways, Rapunzel was interrupted by a voice behind her.

“Sweetheart?”

The princess turned around. It was Eugene.

“Yes?”

“You forgot this,” her husband said.

He showed Rapunzel her extra coat. 

“A jacket?” Rapunzel felt befuddled. “It’s summer!”

“You never know what the weather’s like up north,” Eugene responded. 

Rapunzel chuckled.

“Honey, I’m sure they have the same seasons we do.”

The couple made their way to the throne room.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” stated Eugene. “I’ve travelled there during my thieving days long ago in May. Guess what? There was snow and freezing rain which lasted three days.”

Rapunzel pondered for a bit.

“Ok,” she told Eugene. “I’ll pack the coat. Just in case.”

The prince and princess entered the king’s spacious throne room. It was squeaky clean and well kept as usual. Frederic had just finished talking with Quirin when Rapunzel and Eugene approached the former.

“So, when are you two leaving?” asked King Frederic.

“Tomorrow, Dad,” answered Rapunzel. 

She noticed her father looked rather tired in spite of his recovery. His eyes looked baggy underneath and his breathing had a slight wheeze to it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rapunzel worried.

“Don’t worry,” he insisted. “I’m fine.”

“I can take care of the kingdom if you want,” Eugene told the king. “There’s a guard I know who’d be a good deputy guard captain.”

King Frederic frowned.

“You’re not talking about Cassandra, are you?”

“No,” Eugene stated.

Rapunzel chimed in.

“She wouldn’t be that bad of a captain, honestly. She’s been trained at it for over a decade. The only real thing against her is doing some crazy things while corrupted by the Moonstone.”

Eugene sighed.

“You do remember I banished Cassandra for 5 years, right?” snarked King Frederic. “She committed treason. There has to be some sort of punishment for that. And how many years have it been? Two.”

“Alright,” Rapunzel changed the topic. “Eugene, were you invited to the coronation?”

“I did get a letter saying the prince of Corona was invited,” stated Eugene as he took out a mail envelope. “But it talked about an F.R, so I don’t know.”

Rapunzel inspected the invitation.

“Eugene,” she said, “that’s you.”

“Ohhhhhh,” he responded. “Who’s F.R. then?”

“They still think you go by Flynn Rider,” Rapunzel folded the paper. 

Do they really want me there? Eugene thought to himself. They can’t even get my name right! Am I still a thief to them?

“I think you should go,” King Frederic told Eugene. “Think about it. You come from a common background. Showing up to a royal coronation shows you’re serious about your duties.”

And so Eugene decided to go with Rapunzel. Besides, it meant more time with his wife.

Wattpad version: https://www.wattpad.com/1457499612-stranded-in-arendelle-prologue

(Protected under fair use and dealing for edutainment purposes).

[masherbrum]

had to google when exactly that favre-sacking after 5:1 vs vfb was.

these years are kind of a blur football-wise, it was basically the same thing every season. and yeah this was in december 2020, i remember that this was probably the point at which i was most disconnected with football since... forever. which is also why i don't really remember that sacking as emotional in any way, even though favre was basically the last coach (only one since klopp, except maybe edin?) that i trusted to actually get more out of the squad than the 'theoretical potential'. i really liked the guy, but i just didn't care back then. i had moved on and had started something new somewhere else after a particularly shitty 1st corona-summer, empty stadiums, basically didn't care at all back then...

[foxymoxynoona]

Amended Drabble: Taehyung & Kristin: Friends

Ok, someone sent in this drabble request idea ages ago but I can't find it in my inbox, so I suspect it was part of another thing I already answered. But here it is now!

Request/Summary: "Btw a drabble on Kristen and Taehyung from Amended, I recall she was into him for a long while and I think Itd be nice to explore that dynamic, maybe from her pov … him not being interested at first and then they end up together… it’s really fascinating to me that she actually remained open to him especially after he ignored her feelings for so long even when they lived together and from what jk said would regularly bring other women around…"

Story: Amended Characters: Taehyung & Kristin CW: denial, some dirty jokes

Kristin failed to catch the bag of chips Anna tossed at her, taking the bag of tortilla crisps right to the face. Her complaint turned into a yelp as Anna acted like she was going to throw the bottle of Corona as well only to laugh and set both down on the coffee table –no coasters– between the salsa and guac.

“Limes?” Kristin asked.

Anna’s face scrunched up, “For… what?”

“The beers? Damn, I forgot you’re not a beer drinker–”

“Hey I’m trying here!”

“You don’t have to try to drink something you don’t like, but if you’re gonna to do it, you should at least do it right. Who are you trying to impress though? Not me.”

Anna admitted, “Well, to be honest, I fucked up the sangria.”

“How?!”

“Salt instead of sugar…”

“Damn you make me feel so competent.”

“Hey!” Anna’s laugh was punctuated by a kick to Kristin’s ankles. Kristin, unlike Anna, was a beer drinker, though less enthused about drinking a Corona without the requisite lime. Who had taught her that? She tried to recall, then backpedaled from the memory –Taehyung had taught her about Coronas with lime, the first summer she’d gone tubing at the river with her then-roommates Jimin and Jungkook, and Jungkook’s cousin Taehyung. 

“It’s fine without a lime,” Kristin assured her. 

“I got the good guac at least!”

“You did! Good girl!” Kristin teased. She settled the chips as Anna pulled up the entertainment of choice for their “self care” day: binging as much as they wanted of the latest season of Love Island. They didn’t often laze around this hard, but why not, when they both had the day and the desire and plenty of snacks?

And then, several episodes in, her phone buzzed. Kristin wasn’t always the most timely texter, but it buzzed while she was already holding it, reading Twitter reactions outloud to Anna as they bickered about the on-screen drama.

[Taehyung]: hey I need a bj

Kristin couldn’t stop the snort, the eye roll, and apparently that was enough to make Anna’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

[Taehyung]: I mean a trip to bj’s

Kristin knew the smug grin he was wearing as he sent the texts. He thought he was so funny. Every fourteen-year-old got a good laugh that the big-box discount store was called BJ’s, but leave it to Taehyung to still be making the joke into his twenties. Leave it to Taehyung to make the joke to a girl who– well, whatever.

[Kristin]: I’m sure you do but I’m busy beg someone else

[Taehyung]: I’m begging you

Kristin sighed through her nose. He knew the things he said. He was such a flirt when he wanted something and it was both an aggravating and endearing trait of his. She suspected he had already pestered Yoongi and been turned down. His own parents had a membership too,  though, so why her?

Not for the reasons she had wished for long ago, that was for damn sure. And that was fine. Fine! Even if Anna’s expression made it seem not fine.

“I can tell who it is by your face,” Anna smirked.

“Oh really? The annoyance is that clear?”

“Annoyance? That’s what you’d call it?”

Kristin glared.

Anna sighed, “Kristiiiin…”

“What? I didn’t say anything! It’s just Taehyung asking to use my BJ’s membership.”

“And you want to go. On this, our sacred Love Island–”

“I didn’t say that. I’m not going.” At Anna’s arched eyebrow, Kristin defended, “I’m not going!”

“You always go.”

“I do not. You’re going to piss me off. I tell him no all the fucking time.”

“Ok ok, I know.”

“That ship sailed years ago,” Kristin continued.

Anna nodded, “I know, I know.”

“It’s just friendly. He’s just mooching off my membership.”

“Are you telling me or yourself?”

Kristin huffed, “Well if you’re going to be like this–”

“Sorry, I’ve had too many beers,” Anna frowned, trying to slide across Kristin’s lap even though Anna wasn’t typically a very physical person.

“You’ve had two!”

“Which is enough to buzz me enough to tell you that I just don’t want to see you slide back into sad puppy Kristin just because he seems to be texting you a lot lately.”

Kristin held her breath for a moment as Anna slithered to get comfortable, before pressing carefully, “You think so?” She thought so, but she didn’t think it was anything remarkable enough anyone else would notice. But yeah, though she’d been friends with Taehyung for years now, the last month or so she did think he’d been messaging her more than usual. Not anything important, just to tell her… a band they liked was coming to town, or to make sure she knew they were all heading to the bar, or to ask her to fact check this or that ‘white girl’ thing he’d seen a TikTok meme about. It wasn’t like texting between them was unusual. It just seemed like he was doing it… you know, a little more often.

But that didn’t mean anything and she knew that. How many years of her life had she wasted pining after this guy who saw her as nothing more than his cousin’s former roommate at worst, “one of his bros” at best? Anna knew the whole saga, which Kristin had done her best to downplay over the years. She really had boxed up those feelings and put them on the shelf. Everyone lived with former feelings for at least one of their friends, right? And hers was Taehyung, but it had only ever been friendly with him, and she’d understood years ago that wasn’t going to change. She’d dated other people. Sort of. A little bit. Ok, maybe it was true she didn’t have much luck with guys, which included Taehyung, but she wasn’t just sitting around pining for him. Not anymore! 

And he has sure dated other people. 

“Just go,” Anna said, stretching to reach for the remote and nearly falling off the sofa. “I want to take a nap anyway. Beer makes me sleepy.”

“I’m not going to go. I’m not going to change my plans just because Taehyung needs toilet paper or whatever! We’re just friends and friends can tell each other no. I tell him no all the time.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I do! I’m busy. Start the next episode.”

**

“Ahhhh they keep it so nice and cold in here,” Taehyung sighed, throwing his hair back, running his fingers through it like someone was taking pictures. Someone ought to be.

Kristin knew she seemed casual and cool. That’s who she was; Taehyung had said so himself before. He had no idea of her feelings, she was pretty sure of that too, that most of their friend group didn’t except Anna. At least nobody had ever said anything to her. Or maybe they thought she was just kind of pathetic, crushing on a guy who didn’t have a whiff of romantic feelings towards her. Maybe she really was pathetic to have spent so long getting butterflies under the sunbeam of his attention, platonic though it was. At least she could say she hadn’t let her heart get too broken up over it. She had known better than to hope for anything. After all, her crush had begun in high school when he was way too cool to even look her way at the next locker over, making the limits of his attraction to her obvious from the start –long before he helped Jungkook move in and she realized her mistake in agreeing Jungkook could have the third bedroom in her place with Jimin.

“That stuff tastes like shit,” Taehyung scowled and literally took the box of Blueberry K-Cups from her hands to put back on the shelf.

Instantly she huffed, “It’s not for you!”

“Yeah? Well you can’t drink it.”

“I can drink whatever the fuck I want.”

“Your breath will smell like it.”

“What do you care what my breath smells like? You don’t even like coffee,” she scowled, because the thing that sucked about being Taehyung’s friend when you used to have a crush on him was that sometimes he said things like that. Who said things like that to their friends?! She’d never figured out whether he couldn’t help flirting with her because he was so charming with everyone, or if it didn’t even register to him that it could sound like flirting because it was her. Kristin. Pumpkin-spice-latte loving, riding-boot-wearing, former marching band trumpet and varsity volleyball playing Kristin. Generic Kristin. 

That was another thing about hanging out with Taehyung. He was just so exceptional –in looks, in personality, in style– that sometimes you felt insignificant next to him because he looked like that, and other times he made you feel great about yourself because of his attention, his friendship, and because he was so damn nice. He wasn’t an asshole and he could have been, everyone would have understood if he turned out to be an asshole, looking like that. Instead he was casual and cool and nice and Kristin felt so fucking plain. Not that she was usually so down on herself, usually. She was fine! She did ok! She liked herself overall, she was comfortable in her skin. 

But then you stand next to someone who looks like that as he eases a giant box of Coca-Cola off the shelf above his head, forearm muscles twitching, chin lifted and eyes narrowed in concentration, and…

“You aren’t going to help at all,” he realized with a laugh.

“You’ve got it.”

“At least move the paper towels?”

“You’re putting it on the bottom? No, put it in this part–”

“The paper towels can go on top of it.”

“On the bottom of the cart together? There’s not room!”

“I’ll make room, just move it.”

“You can’t just make room–”

“Kristin, just move it!”

“God you’re bossy,” she huffed and tugged the bulk pack of paper towels out of the bottom of the cart so he could finally set the Cokes down with an oomph. She thought it was cute how strong and weak he was at the same time. Sometimes they arm-wrestled when they were drunk and she felt great pride that they were pretty evenly matched. He had no reason to let her win. He was a good sport about losing, yet another positive feature. He had flaws… she just couldn’t remember what they were right now…. Oh yeah, he was stubborn as shit…

She stood back, arms crossed and amusement on her face as she watched him do his best to wedge the paper towels in on top of the Coke box. It didn’t fit, just as she’d warned. He kept trying, clearly determined to prove her wrong, until she couldn’t help laughing.

“So fucking stubborn!” she teased, pushing his arm. “Move, let me show you.” He scowled but let her rearrange the cart to make things fit: the paper towels, the Coca-Cola, the Red Solo cups, the gallon of Goldfish, the 250-count of freezer pops, 120 gallon ziplock bags, 250 yards of tin foil, and so on.

“Wowww,” he said, unclear whether he was teasing or sincere. “Tetris master, huh?”

“You make that same joke every time we come here.”

“I don’t repeat jokes. Sorry, you’ve got me confused with the other guys you do BJ’s with.”

His repetition of another joke made her laugh. She hated laughing, hated that he could make her laugh so easily, hated how smug he looked about it.

“You’re an idiot,” she laughed and began to walk again.

“What part of that was idiot? You don’t mean I’m the only guy you bring to BJ’s.”

“Obviously not,” she quickly answered. “Are you kidding? This membership is a great way to pick up guys.”

“No, don’t let guys use you for your BJ’s membership!”

“Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?” she pointed out.

“Well I mean except for me,” he quickly corrected. “I’m special.”

“Uh huh.”

She walked along, hands pulled into the cardigan she’d stolen from Taehyung’s car because it was always so fucking cold in BJ’s. Taehyung pushed the card, gaining some momentum and riding on the bar of it until they reached the end of the aisle.

“What, you didn’t bring… what was the guy’s name… uh…”

Kristin raised her eyebrows, genuinely not sure who the fuck he was talking about.

“That guy you went on a couple dates with.”

“Adam?”

“Yeah.”

“What made you think of him? I only went on like three dates with him.”

“Three dates is a lot for…”

“For me?” She gasped and shoved his arm. “Asshole. It’s a lot for you.”

“Maybe it is,” he admitted. “I don’t know, I don’t see the point of getting past date two if I can’t see myself just spending an afternoon at BJ’s with a girl, you know?”

See? Sometimes he said things like that.

Kristin awkwardly pointed, “Ah, raisin bread! I don’t need two loaves of it though.”

“Throw it in, we can split it,” he suggested, so she did, and thankfully the dating conversation got dropped. She didn’t know what had made him think of it, but Taehyung’s mind was a funny one to try and track. You didn’t always know where he was stepping next but he expected you to keep up, he wasn’t going to explain the connections.

They reached the end of the aisle and Taehyung sighed, “Ahhh, should we go through the bakery part?”

“Obviously.”

“But I’ll want to buy everything. I fucking love bread and stuff.”

“So buy some bread and stuff,” Kristin said. “Isn’t that why you came?”

“Not for cinnamon rolls! I need like… Spam, and pasta sauce and Pizza Rolls and–”

“Wait, have we not gotten anything on your list yet?!”

“Coke and paper towels. Anyway, I don’t have a list, I just get whatever I’m moved to get. I know it when I see it.”

Kristin shook her head and led him to the bakery section, where they spent a great deal of time debating cookies or brownies or cinnamon rolls and who would take how many of each home. She grabbed the 48-pack of Hawaiian rolls, which Taehyung never left without, and rolled her eyes when he fluttered his eyelashes at her and teased her for remembering that. 

They wandered down the toy aisles without it needing to be said, and teased each other over being drawn to completely unnecessary things: big boxes of chalk, a plastic tower of off-brand Hot Wheels cars, Nerf guns. Kristin grinned when Taehyung took the pack of bubble wands from her hand and put them in the cart. When she grabbed a toy space gun and pretended to open fire, he grabbed a baseball bat to use as a light saber and ducked around the aisle, their game continuing until two actual children wandered past and Taehyung solemnly handed one his bat ‘to protect yourself from the space invaders.’

The thing Kristin liked about Taehyung is that he never made you feel stupid for being playful, or getting something wrong, or indulging yourself. Other than his tradition of pretending he wasn’t going to load the cart up with bread, Taehyung believed you ought to enjoy life and fuck anyone who bothered you about it. Kristin hadn’t adopted that philosophy completely, but on occasion found it very freeing.

Which was quite the set up for him suddenly pulling a large very floral shirt off the tables with affordable apparel and saying, “You should buy this.”

“Uh… why?” Kristin didn’t take it from him, so he held it up himself. It looked like something a middle-aged suburban woman would wear, which wasn’t a bad thing but it wasn’t Kristin’s style at all.

“It’ll look good on you.”

“Be serious.”

“I am! It’s stylish and you have that kind of feminine sporty leisure style to you.”

“What does that even mean?” Kristin laughed. She had never once in her life considered herself fashionable, and hearing such a lie from the lips of the very fashionable Taehyung was quite the joke.

“No, look, this size will hang off your shoulder. I think it’ll look good.”

“Might as well get that Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt too,” she joked.

“Yeah, why not? You like Winnie the Pooh? I think that’s fashionable too.”

“Wait are you just insulting my style?” she cried.

His face looked sincere as he insisted, “No, I’m serious! You have that look to you, you have that kind of vibe where you can make something like this look trendy and cool.”

Kristin didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t mean that, it was an absurd thing to say, but his telltale smirk didn’t creep out as she merely stared at him. She didn’t. 

“My style,” she said slowly, “is kind of just that I wear whatever the fuck I want.”

“Exactly, I like that about your style! So I think this would look good on you, that’s all I meant,” he said, turning away. He actually looked sulky about it now and Kristin got the distinct impression he’d been serious. “Whatever,” he continued. “I like it so I’ll get it for me and wear it.”

Quickly she yanked it out of his hands, “No, you said it would look good on me. Better.”

“I didn’t say better.”

“But you meant better.”

He laughed and argued, “I did not. It would look good on you but it would look great on me.”

“It’s for women.”

“Stupid rules are only for stupid people,” Taehyung argued. “Be smart.”

“Well I’m buying the shirt, so…”

“No, I’m buying the shirt,” he argued.

“We’re not getting matching shirts.”

“I guess we are if you don’t back down, because I’m buying the shirt.”

Kristin made a face, “No, I’m not matching with you. Just buy the shirt for me and maybe I’ll let you borrow it sometimes.” She’d said it all in jest. Taehyung was absurd and this conversation was absurd.

“Ok, deal,” he agreed and tossed it into the cart. And there was his smug grin, his eyes flashing as he began to push the cart again, as if this had just gone exactly the way he intended The whole thing was so confusing, but that’s how Taehyung was! He did confusing things, and it amused the hell out of Kristin.

“Wait, I need to buy you one too then,” she said.

“God no.”

“What!”

“Ah, my style is…”

She tried to pinch his ribs but he twisted away as she cried, “Are you saying I’m not stylish enough to pick a shirt out for you? What happened to being Taehyung Kim, able to wear anything?”

“Ah… yes, that’s true… I can pull off anything– that’s not a dare!” he laughed as she began to dig through the tables. “I picked out something actually good for you.”

Kristin yanked up a t shirt and tossed it at him: a vintage-y looking t-shirt that said Everything I know I learned on Sesame Street with several cast members.

“Fuck, this is really cool,” he admitted, looking it over with a pleased smile.

“See?”

“Ok ok and then we’ll get the Winnie the Pooh sweatshirts–”

“We don’t need those,” she laughed. “It’s June!”

“Come on, let’s get them to commemorate our day.”

For the briefest moment Kristin could have sworn he said date. But of course he hadn’t. Day. Because that was such a normal thing, to buy sweatshirts to commemorate a shopping trip to BJ’s.

“Not Winnie the Pooh. Something that’s like… more subtle,” Kristin insisted, reaching around him to dig. 

Taehyung snickered, “Ok yeah that’s funny, we could wear them and see if anyone notices….”

They wound up settling on a striped blue short-sleeved button up shirt, both laughing at how differently they would style it. It was silly. So was their next debate over whether to get a S’mores kit even though neither of them had access to a firepit, but instead they bought a two-pack of water bottles to split because Taehyung said he needed a new one but only one and Kristin had a hard time saying no to him even though she had a cabinet full of mismatched water bottles already.

At the checkout, Taehyung gave her his (annoyingly) cute boxy grin as she scanned her card, only to protest when she nudged him to pay.

“No, you pay and tell me how much I owe you,” he whined.

“You bought more stuff! You do the math.”

“I don’t do math.”

“Me neither.”

“Kristin. Don’t make me do math.”

“Yes. It’s time you learned.”

“Look, one of us was a nerd in high school–”

“Hey!” she scoffed as he stepped around her to pay, as if they weren’t still arguing. “Being a band nerd isn’t the same as being a math nerd and besides you have since admitted you wish you were in the band.”

“I did not! I said I wished I played saxophone earlier but not in the marching band.”

 “Why, too good for marching band?” she taunted.

She should have predicted his answer, “Definitely.”

“You’re such an ass.”

He gave her that boxy grin again as he accepted the receipt and offered, “Well since I’m the ass who’s stuck doing the math, I’ll let you buy me a slice of pizza and a Coke while I try to figure it out.”

“Oh, you’ll let me?” Kristin repeated with a roll of her eyes.

“It’s a good deal!”

“You should buy it, you’re the one piggy-backing on my membership.”

“Ah, that’s almost a good point,” he said, taking it upon himself to push the cart towards the small food court space. “But look at it this way, you got my dazzling company for an afternoon. So I guess you could say it’s not piggy-backing, it’s a symbiotic–”

“Nah, you’re a parasite,” she assured him. And the way his dark hair bounced as he shook his head was so annoyingly gorgeous that she tripped over the voice in her head reminding you don’t have a crush anymore; you’re over him; you’re just friends; this is not a date and you wouldn’t care even if it was because you’re over this and conceded, “Fine, I’ll buy the pizza and Cokes but then I want a coffee while we figure the math out together.”

“This late? You’ll be up all night!”

“What do you know about it?” she laughed.

“Well if you’re up all night you can come over and play games,” he decided. It brought her up short. She didn’t really play games, and it was an odd invitation.

“Oh you’re playing with who tonight, Yoongi? Not Jungkook, he’s so wrapped up with–”

“No, no plans, I don’t even know what I’m going to play yet,” Taehyung shrugged. 

The invitation was like a zap of electricity through Kristin. It didn’t really make sense. Like, ok, she and Taehyung were friends. They could go to BJ’s together, though they didn’t do that often. Sometimes they’d bum a ride from each other. They’d joke around at friend gatherings. Once they’d even gone to a movie together just the two of them, but only because Jimin had bailed at the last second. She’d been sleepless with delusions from that “not a date” for days. But they didn’t exactly just go to each other’s place to hang, just the two of them, ever. For Kristin’s self-preservation maybe more than anything, but it wasn’t like Taehyung invited her over to hang just the two of them.

But she knew it didn’t mean anything. Not the way she would have wanted it to mean anything –years ago. Not now, obviously, because now they were just friends and she was fine with that. Taehyung was a great friend. They could have fun together even just shopping at BJ’s.

Her determination to hold her boundary and prove to herself as much as anyone else that she was fine and over it led her to laugh, “Come on, it’s Saturday night, I already have plans!”

“Really? With who?” He carefully edged the cart to the side of a table to claim a spot before they went to get their food.

“None of your business.”

“Fine fine, don’t tell me about your dating life. Guess you won’t mind being up all night then, I’ll buy you the coffee. Meet back here?”

“You betcha,” Kristin grinned, and tried not to read into his curiosity. Taehyung was just a nosy person. It didn’t mean anything. 

They were friends, nothing more, and though once it might have been a painful disappointment, by now Kristin just felt lucky. Lucky that this goofy, playful, handsome, charming guy seemed to enjoy spending an afternoon with her. Lucky that she was the one who got to settle down for the greasy meal with him. Lucky she was the one his smile aimed at when she told him about the grease on his chin and threw a napkin and he threw it back. Lucky that when she sipped her coffee, she realized he had put just the right amount of cream and sugar in it, even though he didn’t drink coffee himself. Well, close enough anyway.

After all, Taehyung was the kind of guy it was better to be friends with than nothing. How great to be friends with Taehyung. Kristin was a lucky girl. 

“What are you smiling about?” he asked and her stomach did a painful twist.

“You have grease on your cheek,” she lied. “How do you eat like a toddler?”

“Wipe it off for me.”

“I’m not wiping your face!”

“I’ll just smear it around if I try to do it.”

Kristin grabbed the napkin and just slapped it against his cheek. He laughed so hard he choked on the bite he’d been talking around and hurried to slurp down his Coke. She didn’t understand why it was so funny but his laughter made her laugh, she couldn’t stop either. Just two idiots laughing at the BJ’s over pizza grease that wasn’t even there. Friends. 

[firstaidspray]

OC Interview!!

Tagged by @adelaidedrubman to do an interview for Reverie. Well, for an oc, but I chose Reverie so this is what you get.

...

"An interview? Like, for a new job?" Reverie tilts her head. "I like my job in surgery, thanks. Don't want a job on your team, much as I like hanging around your office."

House scoffs. "Hire you for my team? A nurse? Please. No, this is an interview for a campaign for Princeton-Plainsboro, something about "good publicity." Don't think you're special, I had to do one too."

Rolling her eyes, Reverie takes a seat at the table. "Yeah, 'cause you're the picture perfect example of good publicity, House. 'Kay, so where do I start?"

"Just talk to the camera like a person," Cuddy interjects, popping out from behind said device. "Don't be shy. God knows he wasn't."

Reverie inhales sharply and stares at the camera with those eerily dark, almost-black brown eyes. "Fine. Fire away."

Name: Reverie. No, I don't have a last name. So don't ask again.

Nickname: Rev, Angel, some stuff House calls me that I'd rather not repeat.

Gender: Angel. (House: not a gender!) *sighs* Fine, I'm a girl.

Star Sign: Pisces. Birthday's coming up, you know. The 25th. Just a tip.

Personality Type: The first day of nursing school, they made us do these ridiculous tests, and apparently I'm an INFP. I don't really know what any of that shit means.

Height: 5’1. 5'4 with the halo. Which Cuddy doesn't let me wear to work anymore...

Orientation: Bisexual. And before you ask me for the fiftieth time, House, I've never had a threesome. (House: you're no fun!)

Nationality/Ethnicity: Aussie born and raised, now I'm in New Jersey.

Fave Fruit: Citrus, give me anything citrus. I'll take the limes out your Corona and suck 'em. House, keep your mouth shut on that.

Fave Season: I'm assuming you mean Northern Hemisphere, since I'm living in the great state of New Jersey now. Summer. Chase takes me surfing in the summer, we go to the beach a lot. It's warm. Whatever.

Fave Flower: Everyone around me is convinced this is a subtle psychological influence from playing Metal Gear Solid 3, but star of Bethlehem. House, keep your mouth shut. You can say you're not a video game dork but the fact that you attribute my love for a damn flower to a game is kind of contradictory, no?

Fave Scent: There's this Tyler Candle scent, Diva. I wash all my clothes and sheets in it, light candles of it. I made it Chase's favorite scent, too.

Coffee, Tea, or Hot Chocolate: FUCK HOT DRINKS.

Average Hours of Sleep: I'm a surgical assistant RN on call constantly. Answering this is like playing roulette.

Dog or Cat Person: I love all animals, so I like to say equal. I'm honestly more of a fish person, though. I keep begging Chase for a fish tank. When we get a bigger place, he says...

Dream Trip: Chase and I will return to Australia, and he'll take me diving in the Great Barrier Reef. We'll surf and comb the beach and explore parts of the country I never got to see growing up. Together.

Favorite Fictional/Real Character: Babydoll from Sucker Punch. I'd like to dress as her one day.

Number of Blankets You Sleep With: One, but Chase and I each have our own because if we try to share one I always steal it.

Random Fact: House and I race our motorcycles to work sometimes. I always beat him.

House peeks into the frame. "Okay, you may lie to the camera with cute stories about the beach and your little boyfriend, but that is one lie I will not let your smooth-talking, con artist self get away with. I have beaten you at least five times."

"They weren't lies, House. Some people are happy. And..hmm...to be fair, there was a tie once."

"A tie? A t-- no it wasn't!"

The two are about to break into an argument when Cuddy shuts off the camera and says, "Okay! That's enough! Reverie, why don't you take five and go find Chase?"

[ta9yaoda]

Corona Beer

Reading through the Corona case, the notion that "Brand meaning is co-created", a key point from the last lecture, resonates me. Especially, the case illustrates this concept through the consumer-originated ritual of adding a lime to Corona's bottle, a practice started in the U.S. yet not traditionally encouraged in its home country, Mexico. I personally think this co-creation between Corona and its international consumers shows the role of cultural integration in brand perception. In Japan, as part of Corona beer's marketing initiatives, there was a project growing limes in urban farming setups, given the limited domestic production of limes.

Corona's marketing strategy, "Fun, Sun, Beach" theme, is a symbolic to the power of clear, relatable, and globally consistent branding. This theme, which I remember from a TV commercial I watched in Japan, aligns with the brand's identity across different markets. The commercial's image of leisure and relaxation reflects the global image Corona aims to project. Despite my personal preference for Heineken based on taste, Corona invariably becomes my choice in settings, such as beaches or rooftop gatherings during the warmer months. My choice shows the effectiveness of Corona's branding in influencing consumer behavior in specific contexts.

However, this strong image also gets me to think about the sales cyclicality of Corona compared to Heineken. The strong seasonal association of Corona with spring and summer leisure moments suggests a potential vulnerability in its sales pattern, whereas Heineken's branding does not lean as heavily on seasonal imagery, leading to a possibly more stable year-round demand.

[barbruhkwin]

“Land of the Rising Sun”

"Shiawasena Dokusho" means happy reading

JAPAN

Japan is often called “the land of the rising sun”.  Many people from around the world wonder why Japan is called the land of the rising sun. Is this because Japan is the first country to see the sun?  In Japanese, the country is called Nihon (Nippon). Both Nihon and Japan originate from the same words; they literally mean “where the sun rises”. The English term for Japan's national flag is "the rising sun flag." The Japanese flag with the sun in the middle was first flown at the start of the seventh century. It is said, nevertheless, that the flag's color scheme was altered from what it is today. A red background with a golden sun was the initial color scheme. Ships used this flag to display their nationality near the end of the Edo Period. It was then applied in numerous other locations (Japan luggage,2023).

One of the best place to visit in Japan is Tokyo. It is Japan's capital and the world's most populous metropolis. It is located at the head of Tokyo Bay on the Pacific coast of central Honshu. It is the focus of the vast metropolitan area often called Greater Tokyo, the largest urban and industrial agglomeration in Japan (The editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica ,2023).

If you would visit Japan you should be ready to the expenses because The major costs of a trip to Japan are flights, accommodation, transportation, food, and activities. Flights to Japan can cost anywhere from $600 to $1,200 for a round-trip ticket (trip.com, 2023). So if you’re from the Philippines we convert dollars into Philippine peso it would cost ₱33,732.60 to ₱67,465.80.

Japanese people always display modesty and humility. People often bow to convey the message: “I am not above you. I respect you.” Bowing longer with a higher degree of angle means more respect. The Japanese people are simultaneously followers of Buddhism and Shintoism. In Japan, a Buddhist temple serves as the site of funeral rites for deceased people and a Shinto shrine serves as the location for birth ceremonies. In Japan, individuals take off their shoes when they enter a house and bathe nearly every day because they are so concerned about hygiene. The fact that there are no garbage cans in public spaces and everything is still clean surprises a lot of visitors (Acar, 2023).

Compared to other countries, Japan has relatively more festivals because Japanese religions are related to  the harvest  and the change of the seasons. Each of Japan's 47  prefectures has a different festival, usually held in the summer. Locals usually wear yukata and sandals to participate in the festival. One of the biggest parade in Japan is the Gion Festival in Kyoto that started in the 8th century when there was an epidemic like the corona virus (Acar, 2023).

In Japan you should know some of the rules before visiting the place. Some of the rules are when taking public transportation in Japan, it is important to know a couple of things. Talking loudly to friends on the train, chatting on the phone and blasting music through headphones are all very much frowned upon in Japan. Using chopsticks properly is very important in Japan, it is not expected of you to be able to use chopsticks as a tourist in Japan but the Japanese will be super impressed if you do. Most restaurants will have forks on hand if you need one (Ciara, 2023).

Resources

Reference:

Why is Japan called the “land of the rising sun”? (2023). Japan luggage express.jluggage.com/blog/Japan/why-is-japan-called-the-land-of-the-rising-sun/

Acar, A. (2023). Japanese culture and traditions. kimino tea ceremony maikoya

Ciara (2023). Dos and Don’ts. In Japan-what to know before you go in 2023. A view outside. Aviewoutside.com/dos-and-don’ts-japan-tourist-etiquette-guide/

Britannica, T. Editors of Encyclopedia (2023). Tokyo. Encyclopedia Britannica. https://www.Britannica.com/place/tokyo

Trip.com (2023). Japan travel on a budget tricks for a memorable trip. trip.com/guide/info/trip-to-japan-cost.httml#26n3s

[twotangledsisters]

Since you write ahead, if you could share any future scene from Two Tangled Sisters, what scene would you share?

How far ahead are you in your writing and how much is planned out?

Love your series!

Oh, such a good ask! Also not an easy one to answer without major spoilers, but I’ll do my best!

I think, after rummaging through my fic file, I have to land on a chapter from Season 3 titled 'The Crown on the Black Rocks' that I wrote in a moment of inspiration. The events in the chapter were in my plan but when I wrote it, it turned out sooo much darker than I expected, but I loved it. That scene is the reason I’ll probably have to start putting a warning on Season 3 fics for ‘graphic depictions of violence’, which are like… Graphic, but we’ve all probably read worse in the Hunger Games. It’s a chapter I’m very proud of and very excited about!

How far ahead I’ve written and planned… Well, as far as plans go technically: everything (or at least all of the BIG plot points). Though I often add in new bits and then, just like the AU itself, those bits have a domino effect and more stuff change. But I do know and even have bits written on how the final battle take place and where characters go afterwards. As for writing itself, though I do have scenes and chapters written as far as season 3 and beyond, if looking purely at what’s ready to upload I’m currently writing ‘Demanitus Labyrinth’, which is 43 chapters from today… However there are three in-between chapters (Corona and not-main-gang arcs) I’m yet to write so I’m exactly 40 chapters ahead in what I’ve written! I try to remain at 40 chapters ahead as it gives me a good margin! Though I’ll admit with the heat wave of this summer, I’ve been only just maintaining that standard.

I’m so glad you enjoy the series and thank you so much for the ask!

And for anybody who's wondering... how violent?

So as to not leave you waiting for months and months, I added a tiny snippet, edited to minimize spoilers below the read more to give you an idea (minimize but not eliminate fully, also, graphic depiction of violence, obviously, tread with caution).

Their fists clenched and black rocks sprouted from the ground tearing through the rope, through the wooden stakes, giving the King only seconds to process what had just happened before one went thought him, through his chest then his neck then splitting his skull in half. A quick death. Something he hadn’t granted many who came before him. The two separate sides of the skull fell to the ground, almost slowly as the muscle tore, followed by the two bloodied halves of his body. The crown, however, clinked against the sides of the black rock as it slid down until the rock was too thick for it to fall any further.

[garrickxvelour]

as the temperatures in merrock continue to climb higher and higher (as warm as maine tends to get), garrick is soaking up the season in every way that he can.

answers to the prompts are under the cut!

What does your character think about summer? Are they a fan, or do they long for the colder, more temperate months?

Garrick isn't the biggest fan of summer. A casual enjoyer, but he's much more of a fan of the colder months. With his birthday in early November, he loves the fall and winter season. In all of their crisp morning and snowstorm glory.

2. Is there a certain food or cold treat that they reach for on a hot night when a regular dinner just won’t work?

Some ice cream always hits the spot. He doesn't have an insane sweet tooth, but he loves some savory flavors like coffee.

3. What about a beverage they enjoy in the summer?

A nice cold beer. A Corona or Blue Moon. While he has a wide array of favorite alcoholic beverages, when summer rolls around, it's only right to welcome the season with some beer.

4. Describe your character’s sense of style / fashion go-tos when it comes to the warm months.

His style during the summer could very much be described as something between mature frat boy and vacation dad. He’s stylish and takes care of his appearance—has an eye for color and the occasional accessory. Open button downs with floral or beachy patterns paired with shorts. Boat shoes and sunglasses and maybe a matching hat. Some comfy loafers for a night out.

5. What about what they wear to the pool or the beach?

He’s definitely breaking out his little swim trunks. His shorts for day to day wear or pool wear always are above the knee. He tends to prefer darker colors such as deep purples and plums, burgundies and maroons, but in the summer he does make a little exception. He has some salmon swim shorts in his arsenal.

6. Speaking of – if they’re at the beach, what is their favorite thing to do?

He parks himself under a large umbrella in a beach chair, water in one cup holder, a beer or another refreshing beverage in the other, and a book in his lap. He’s the type to take a dip in the water from type to time, but he’s too fair to be out in the sun without burning. Listening to the waves rolling in and seagulls calling is enough ambience to soothe him.

7. If your character had to choose, would they rather spend time at the pool, or at the beach?

As much as he enjoys both, I think growing up he spent more time at a pool in general and has so many fond memories associated with them. He appreciates the beach for what it is. Enjoys reading alone. But the social nature that comes with lounging by a pool supersedes that of a beach.

8. When they’re at the pool, are they a lounge around, soaking up the sun type, or in the water, causing chaos type?

Oh, a lounge around kind of guy for sure. Catch him drinking and striking up conversation, throwing charming smiles and flirting. He won’t get rowdy in the water unless someone instigates.

9. Outside of pool and beach fun, what is your character’s favorite summer hobby or pastime that they can’t wait to do?

He loves a good BBQ. A classic, big family and friend gathering. Cooking at a grill with a drink in hand, jumping into a pool, sitting around a fire pit, lighting sparklers. He’s romanticized it just a bit, but enjoys it all the same.

10. Are they big on vacations, or are they more of a staycation kind of person?

He loves a nice vacation. A habitual enjoyer of touring historic locations and rustic historic towns to match. He loves museums and sightseeing around cities and towns. He's been known to dabble with some outdoorsy escapades like kayaking and hiking.

11. When it comes to outdoor space, gardening, etc., what does your character do? Do they mow their lawn, do they have a garden, is their home full of plants?

He has some landscaping in the front of his house—some shrubs and flowers and simple plants. He isn’t the biggest gardener, but after years of tending to some simple crops on a farm, he has an eye for helping house plants flourish.

12. What is their favorite spot to spend time in Merrock that doesn’t include the public pool and the swim beach?

He really enjoys the market. The bustle of people moving about, buying goods and food from local sellers. Live bands playing on the street. The sense of community it lends.

13. If they had to pick one thing to say that they disliked about summer… what would it be and why?

The heat. As much as he likes the sunshine, high temperatures are sometimes too much for him and his northern upbringing.

14. What is your character’s favorite summertime memory? Whether it be from their childhood or their big kid years?

The first summer he spent in the states. All of his new friends from college once spent a weekend at someone's parents' house on a lake, skinny dipped in the water, and made s'mores, kissed under the stars and crashed in a heap of blankets and pillows. The quintessential "American" summer.

15. And lastly… what is one thing that they really hope to do this summer?

T watch the sunset on the beach while on a picnic. Even if he doesn’t have any company. He wants to take full advantage of not only living on the Atlantic again, but having beautiful beaches to enjoy.

[adventuretolkienlover]

Varian's First Lab Partner (A Short Story.)

Intro: A friend thought a little story about how Varian met Ruddigar would be cute. So here we are! Hopefully it's not too cringy. Although some parts might be. Anyhoo, Hope I did good bestie!

Summary: Varian recounts the day he met Ruddigar to his siblings.

Trigger Warnings: Brief mentions of blood and a very mild injury. Like a cut. Nothing too serious.

A cool breeze blew through the orchard. It was one of those summer days when everything seemed to be at rest. Not much was heard except the lowing of cattle and insects chirping and clicking in the grass.

And of course, the occasional flipping of pages. Made by Varian. Him, Belle, Jacky, and Hugo were sitting beneath one of the larger apple trees enjoying some free time. Varian was looking through a new engineering book he'd aquired. And Hugo was making some adjustments to Cheese's workings. Jacky was lying on the ground staring up at the sky. Last but not least, Belle was simply looking out over Old Corona. The view was magnificent. She could hardly believe she lived there. Bayangor had nothing on this place. The tranquility was unprecedented. Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by some rustling in the branches above her. She looked up in surprise and saw Ruddigar balancing precariously on the end of a branch, reaching for a juicy red apple.

"Uh, Var? Ruddigar is-"

But she didn't need to finish. Ruddigar fell out of the tree, apple in paws, right onto Varian's head! This gave Varian quite a shock!

"AH! Wha-" Varian blew Ruddigar's tail out of his face, only for it to flop back against his forehead. "Ruddigar, what are you doing?" He said as he lifted Ruddigar's tail out of his face and looked up at his new headpiece. Ruddigar shrugged and stuffed the apple in his mouth before anyone else could grab it.

Hugo snickered. "Nice coonskin hat Hairstripe." he laughed.

Varian lifted Ruddigar off his head and held him infront of his face. "So, was that apple worth almost hurting yourself?" Ruddigar eagerly nodded yes. "Oh brother." Varian chuckled as he let the racoon curl up on his usual spot on his shoulders.

"Hey Var? How'd you get Ruddigar?" Jacky asked. "I mean, Hugo built Cheese. But where did Ruddigar come from?"

"Oh, that's an interesting story." Varian started. "I actually found him when I was ten. And we've been friends ever since. It's bit of a long story though."

"Oh come on now Var." Hugo interjected. He stretched his arms and leaned against the tree. "We've got plenty of free time. Why don't you tell it?" he continued.

"Heh. Alright. Well, it all started eight years ago..."

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Ten year old Varian was on the very last rung of his ladder, trying to reach an apple high in the branches of a tree. "Come on!" Varian strained. "Almost there!" It was the rainy season and a big storm was coming. Him and his father had to get the last of the produce in before the storm hit. Suddenly, Varian's began to lose his balance.

"Wa-WOAH!" The ladder swayed! Suddenly it began to fall! Varian gasped and grabbed ahold of a close branch. CLANK! The ladder fell! Leaving Varian hanging! Varian clawed at the big branch and pulled himself up onto it. He sat there panting and looking down at the ladder.

"Uh oh." he said. He looked around for a way down, but there was none. Varian then looked around for the next best thing. Dad. Varian scanned the farm for the tall muscular figure of Quirin. In the distance, he could see him pushing a wheelbarrow of apples to the barn.

"Dad! Help! I'm stuck!" he shouted. Quirin couldn't hear him though. He was too far away. Quirin went into the barn and closed the door. Varian huffed in frustration.

"Great." he said as he leaned against the tree trunk. "Now what?" Wind blew through the branches and Varian shivered. He tugged at his collar in an attempt to keep warm. Suddenly, BONK! An apple hit him on the head! "Ow! Hey!" Varian looked up while rubbing his head. This day was just getting worse. But what he saw snapped him out of his grumpy flunk. A striped tail was hanging over the branch just above him.

"Huh?" Varian looked closer at the tail. The tail was pulled out of view and a sniffing, shining, black nose poked over the other side of the branch. Followed by a white snout. And then a black masked face. It was a raccoon kit! Varian gasped excitedly.

"Hi! Hi little guy!" The little raccoon ran higher up the tree at the sound of his voice. "Wait! I-It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you." Varian climbed up to the branch the trembling kit was sitting on. The raccoon scrambled closer to the trunk in an attempt to get away from the boy. "It's okay. Really!" Varian noticed the raccoon had a bad scratch on his leg. "Aw. You're hurt. No wonder you're scared."

Varian remembered seeing some of the neighbors placing traps around the crops to keep racoons and other pests away. He must have gotten hurt in one of them. Varian hated hunting and trapping. He despised it. Why would you want to hurt another living thing? They were just hungry and scared. But there was no time to think about that. Varian had to help. Luckily, he had a bandana around neck. He thought, if he could catch the little raccoon, he might be able to stop the bleeding. Varian slowly took off the bandana.

"Okay. I'm gonna help you. But you have to trust me." The raccoon just stared him. Wide eyed and sniffing the air nervously. Varian reached for the kit. He shied away and squeaked. Varian sighed. "Please little guy? I need to help you." Suddenly a strong gust of wind blew through the tree! Varian lost his balance again! "AAAAAAAAAAAH!" Varian started to fall! He grabbed the branch, but he had no foot hold! The trunk was too far away! He tried to pull himself up, but the thinner branch was hard to grip. He stated to slip! "AhhHHHhhhh! Help! Anyone! Please?!" He shouted. Just then, he felt something tugging on his arm! It was the kit! He was trying to pull him up! "No! No little guy! I'm too heavy!" The kit stopped and panted. Then spotted Quirin across the farm exiting the barn! He had never run up to farmers. But this one's kit was in danger! He need him to come! The kit scrambled down the tree! "Wait! Don't leave me!" Varian cried! But the kit kept on running. Which wasn't easy with a hurt leg. Varian felt like crying. Everything was going wrong.

Meanwhile, Quirin was just closing the barn door. Almost all the crops were in. Just a few more apples. It was good thing too. He could see black storm clouds approaching. Just then he heard chittering at his feet. He looked down in surprise and saw a tiny and very tired racoon in front of him. Quirin didn't know why he was here, but he wasn't going to be eating the apples. He waved his arms.

"Shoo! Go away! You can't eat these!" The kit skittered away slightly, then ran up to him and began pawing at his pant leg. Now this was new. Quirin watched him intrigued. The kit pointed toward the orchard frantically. Quirin looked toward it and squinted. He saw Varian hanging precariously in of the trees! Quirin gasped and ran toward the orchard, leaving the kit behind.

"Hold on Varian! I'm coming!"

Varian was losing strength. The branch slipped through his fingers! He fell. "AHHHHHHHHH!" Varian screamed! He shut his eyes and prepare to feel himself hitting the ground. But his didn't. He opened one eye. Then the other. He looked up. He was in his father's arms! Quirin had caught him!

"Daddy!" Varian exclaimed. Quirin chuckled. "Are you alright son?" he asked.

"Uh huh!" Varian threw his arms around Quirin's neck in a big hug. Just then, a feeble chitter was heard. The pair looked behind themselves. The tiny racoon walked slowly up the Quirin and collapsed at his feet.

"Dad. He's hurt. Can we take care of him?"

Quirin sighed. "Oh Varian. You know we can't keep pests around the farm."

"But he's hurt. If I was hurt and bleeding, would you leave me outside in the cold?"

Quirin looked at the kit. Then at the storm clouds. They were just upon them now. Then he looked at Varian. Varian gave him the biggest puppy dog eyes ever.

"Please?"

Quirin was silent for a moment. Before sighing again and then smiling. Varian had convinced him. Who could say "No" to those eyes. "Alright." he said. Quirin reached down and gently picked up the kit. He handed it to Varian. "But he's your responsibility."

"Okay!" said Varian. He was already wrapping his bandana around the kit's leg. Quirin smiled. Varian was always so compassionate. He loved that. "Now let's get you and your friend inside." said Quirin, as he walked toward the house. "You've had a long day."

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Quirin walked into the house and shut the door. He was soaking wet. But the crops were secure. Night had fallen and it was storming outside. He walked into the living room and sat by the fireplace. It was warm and inviting. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The sound of the rain hitting the roof calmed his soul. While he was resting, he heard something coming from upstairs. It was Varian's voice. The house was so quiet, he could hear the little boy's gently singing an old lullaby his mother used to sing.

Quirin quietly made his way up the stairs and peeked into Varian's room. Varian was in bed, wrapped cozily up in his blankets. He had the kit wrapped up in a towel and was holding him in arms. A plate of half finished apple slices was on the night stand. The kit was sleeping quietly as Varian sang the lullaby to him. Quirin smiled softly. He hadn't heard that song in years. He tapped lightly on the doorframe. Varian stopped and looked at him. "Can I come in?" he whispered.

"Sure!" Varian whispered back. Quirin came in and sat down on the bed. "How is he?" Quirin asked.

"A lot better!" Varian replied. "He ate a lot of apple slices. Then got sleepy. I'm gonna name him Ruddigar!"

"Ruddigar?"

Yep! I saw the name in a book. We're gonna be best friends! We can play together. And he can be my lab partner. And..." Varian stopped to yawn. His eyes were getting heavy.

"Are you sleepy?" Quirin asked with smirk.

"Nope!" Varian said.

"Are you sure?" Quirin began stroking Varian's head.

"Yep! Not at *Yawn* all..." Varian closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep. Quirin sat up and pulled the covers around the little boy. As he pulled his hand away, Ruddigar subconsciously grabbed ahold of one of his fingers and nuzzled against it. Quirin didn't want to admit it, but the kit was growing on him. And he made Varian happy. The happiest he'd seen him since Ulla disappeared. Maybe Varian could keep him. Quirin stroked Ruddigar's soft head. The raccoon made a purring noise, then nestled closer to Varian. Quirin blew out the candle.

"Good night son." he said as he walked out the door. Leaving the boy and his raccoon in peaceful slumber.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

"And that's how it happened!" Varian finished. "What do you think?" Jacky was staring at him.

"Are... You okay Jacky?"

Jacky sniffed. "Wow. I think I'm gonna cry. That was so touching." Varian tried not to laugh. Jacky was very soft hearted. Belle rolled her eyes and smirked.

"Oh brother." she said.

"Great story Goggles." Hugo said as he tosseled Varian's hair. Varian laughed and pushed his hand away. "Thanks!" he replied.

"It's amazing that Ruddigar has stuck around for so long." Belle said. Varian snorted "Yeah. Well, you have an endless apple supply what else is a raccoon going to do?" Suddenly, Varian saw an apple fall from the tree.

"Oop!" Varian caught it in his hands. "Nice." But before he can even bite it, Ruddigar scrambled over Varian and swiped the apple. "Huh? Hey!" Ruddigar ran a distance away before aggressively stuffing the apple in his mouth. The siblings laughed.

"Don't ever change buddy." said Hugo. Ruddigar grinned and scarfed the last bite of apple. Varian picked him up and hugged him.

"Yeah. Don't ever change Ruddigar." The raccoon nuzzled Varian's cheek. Both felt like the luckiest person on Earth.

The End.

[khali-shabd]

Sunshine Boy

a collaboration with @ksorii

Sunshine boy, with your honey-gold eyes;

Make me feel warm in your embrace again. It is still monsoon, and it is so cold. Like ice cubes under my skin. Like snow in my breath. Like that early Sunday morning when we first kissed. You melt the cold out of me till the marrow of my bones runs as hot as the sun. Give me one of your radiant smiles, sweet boy, and make my jaded heart beat a little faster again.

These days, I miss your presence like a drug I've been clean of for years. I am weary of the wanting I deny myself of. It is better this way, I know, without your heat searing my skin in the summer. The summer, when I cast you off like a mango skin stripped of its flesh. Like a scalded finger retracted in reflex. A sweatshirt soaked in sweat; uncomfortable and heavy and sour. As you walked away, I saw in your eyes a reversal of the winds; I saw monsoon. I saw the longing and hope darken and crumble, like bougainvillea blossoms under the rain.

Sunshine boy, with your dazzling smile;

I miss your nails slowly raking down my back. Your radiating heat, the sun's corona. Your molten mouth, the core. Your tender words, a solar flare. Your riveting gaze holding me in compelling gravity. You pull me further in your orbit the more I try to forget you.

I, the Earth, aching to draw closer to you as the summer fades. Craving your presence as soon as it is gone. My love for you is an ellipse, a cycle of dancing towards and away, of wanting and waning; of missing and then hating your joy.

Now as I walk home, rain drenched; I want, more than anything, just one more molten kiss. I want just one more embrace, just one more honey-kissed, honey-dipped, honey-drowned morning- I want you, sunshine boy, for yet another season. This time, I do not resist. My feet have memorized the dance to your apartment, the elated music of the rain against the footpath- as if nature herself were celebrating when I walk up the staircase to your flat. Your doorbell sings with fervent joy as it does every year, when I decide to finally ring it. The oaken doors creak open, a flash of tanned skin behind them. And then! And then, you are there, glowing, welcoming me into your arms once again. I dissolve into your freckled skin, and you into mine. I swear I will love you so warmly this time, until the summer sears it out of me.