#She passed out and Caster carried her to the hospital

[cupcakesmoothie]

Life Together and Alone

CW: Panic attacks, Aftermath of Trauma, PTSD(?)

Caster enters the apartment, it's as quiet and spotless as usual. He breaks the silence, announcing his presence.

"Lavvie, I'm home!"

He waits. Nothing happens. He sighs, putting his things down by the table and knocks on the bedroom door before entering. His little sister stares up at him as he enters. He smiles at her, getting down to her eye level and opening his arms. She runs into his embrace.

-

It's been almost a week since they left the place they used to call home, and Caster was made the sole provider for the both of them. He really didn't like having to leave his 12 year old sister home alone, but he had to do something to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. Plus, the silence was suffocating.

Lavandula had stopped speaking ever since she woke up in the hospital, and he couldn't help feeling responsible. He hated the silence, the circumstances that caused it, and himself. He could have done something, stayed home more, spent more time with her, stopped his mother from pushing her-

Caster took a deep breath. No, he wasn't doing any of them good by plaguing himself with all he could have done. Besides, no matter how much he wished his sister would talk and smile again, he wouldn't force her to do something she wasn't comfortable with doing. She would be alright again, in due time. She had to be.

-

CRASH

Caster whipped his head around at the sound, dropping everything. Lavandula was curled up into a ball, in front of her were pieces of what used to be a cup.

"...Lavvie?" Caster called, but she didn't even acknowledge him. Her chest was going up and down too quickly. She was hyperventilating, a panic attack.

Caster swept away the broken glass pieces with his hands, ignoring the pain, and got down in front of his sister, putting his hands on her shoulders.

"Lam," He said, hoping his voice was steadier than he felt, "Look at me, it's alright. No one's gonna hurt you anymore, ok?"

She looked up at him, eyes filled with tears threatening to fall. Her breath was still unsteady.

"Lam, I need you to breathe for me, can you do that?" He asked, voice gentle. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her. "Come on, deep breaths, you can do it, there we go, you're doing great, deep breaths,"

Slowly, her breath evened out and Caster let out a sigh of relief. He wrapped his arms around her, “You’re alright now. You’re safe. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore. I’ll make sure of it.”

-

“Lavvie, guess what I got you?” Caster says, excitement evident in his voice. Lavandula only stares up at him, not saying a word. He supposes he should have expected that. Caster pulls out a couple books from his bag, passing them to Lavandula, who takes them with mild curiosity. On top of the pile is a book on sign language. Lavandula looks at it, then at her brother. Caster smiles, “Well, I figured it would be a good way to communicate with you, until you’re ok with talking again.” Lavandula stares at the book in her hands, and slowly nods.

-

“So, Lavvie, how was school today?”

“It was fine.”

"Fine?”

Lavandula nods.

“Would you like to visit the library today?”

“After I’ve done my homework.”

“You wanna finish your homework first?”

Another nod.

-

Caster hums while he mixes the pancake batter for their breakfast. Lavandula has already set the table, and stays by her brother as she waits for her pancakes.

The pancakes are shaped into various shapes, and served on wooden plates. Lavandula waits for her brother to finish making his portion and sit at the table before digging in. The only sound is the cutlery.

“...Thank you.” Lavandula says quietly, like no one else is meant to hear.

Caster almost chokes on his food, as he stares at his sister in shock. The apartment is quiet once more, while he tries to find his words.

“...You’re welcome.” He responds, unsure what else to say. Lavandula looks up from her empty plate to observe his reaction.

“I’m gonna do the dishes.” She says, and gets up to leave him to finish his breakfast. Caster stays still as he ponders having heard his sister speak for the first time in months. It feels like confirmation that things are really going to get better. He can’t help but smile as he returns to his breakfast. Pancakes had been never sweeter.

[vulpinmusings]

Letters from Buxcord #7 - A Patch Job

Three sessions in the making, Ash and company go to fix something I broke the last time around.

Samantha,

It’s rather annoying to suffer wounds that I can’t just sleep off, but that fey spider’s acid spit did such a number on me that I’ve had to spend a week in the hospital and deal with skin grafts.  At least it’s not anywhere as bad as the last time I was obliged to go the hospital.  I don’t have to avoid using magic, for one thing.

While I was convalescing, Sheriff Greyson showed up to get an official statement for the spiders-man incident.  I gave him all the key details, naturally, even admitting to accidentally causing a small forest fire.  The Sheriff found the tale a bit beyond belief, but dutifully recorded what I said and then went off to ask Lea about the case.  Presumably after that he tracked down Penn, because the news report that eventually came out referenced three eyewitnesses, and declared all of us so traumatized by the events that our memories were addled.  Also, the police decided that spiders-man was the work of the same guy behind the so-called Razorback copycat killing (aka that time we fought a pig-masked ghost in the slaughterhouse).

 I’ve wondered why Sheriff Ragland wasn’t the one to collect our statements, since he’d been the officer in charge at Bizier’s house and has demonstrated a more open mind about the reality of the world.  Considering the official report, however, I suspect that Ragland’s own sanity has come into question.

I have half a mind to put on a bit of a show in front of the police station if the authorities are going to continue to be pig-headed about magic and mythics.  Skvetch, seems like half the people in this town who are in the know are devoted to keeping up a masquerade of non-magic.  More trouble than its worth, if you ask me.

Lea was discharged several days ahead of me, on account of not needing to replace any skin.  On her way out, she paid me a visit to have a chat about her recent realization that she’s (probably) a Faerie and has magic.  She said that she suspected herself of indirectly causing Bizier to be targeted and converted by the spider.  Back during the Razorback incident, Bizier had been the deputy Lea had tried to heal but accidentally drained.  Later on, she’d visited him in the hospital and managed to reverse what she’d done.  Lea feared that that had marked Bizier somehow, luring the fey spider to him.

I know all about carrying guilt for actions performed in… less than enlightened states of being, and I know the sorts of things to say to someone carrying that weight (search me if I can remember who learned it from, though).  Point is, even if Lea had marked Bizier somehow, she’d done it unconsciously, as she only recently became consciously aware of her mythical nature.  I told her so, and she seemed to accept it.  She then asked if I could help her get a grasp on her magic.  I said I would try, but admitted that I’m not an expert in how Faerie magic works, and I’m unsure if teaching her Weaves would be helpful.

Once I was freed from the hospital, I set to exploring Buxcord to find a Fey Way other than the one out in the bayou.  I’d rather not have to hassle with Bayou Boating every time I have business with the Faerie King or need to drop off some wayward pixie.  I managed to find a mushroom ring in the park, so mission success.  Still haven’t made any progress on restoring my lost memories or finding Nollthep.

Scratch that last bit! Nollthop’s still at large, but Madam Weaver finally came through and found someone who was able to restore my memory of the M’Dales and Carmilla!  I can picture them, recall their names.  Skvetch, I mentioned them in passing in a previous letter and only now remember doing so.

Before I explain the details of this restoration, though, there’s something else big that happened before, a few days after I got out of the hospital.

As I was walking to the local diner for breakfast, I noticed that Buxcord seemed strangely quiet.    Upon arrival, I saw everyone in the diner – customer and employee alike, slumped in a state of extreme lethargy.  The only exception was Mr. Penn, who was glad to see someone else in a normal state.  While Penn investigated someone’s food for unusual elements, I tried to coax words from some of the waiters.  I couldn’t get much from them, but from a glance at the ambient magic around them I got the sense that the lethargy was stemming from a loss of energy down to the very soul.

I called Lea to check on her.  She reported that she was feeling fine, but that she’d witnessed a bartender nearly pass out late last night after she felt a strange pulling sensation at her core.  I hadn’t felt anything of the sort, so it’s likely the draining wasn’t able to penetrate the magical defenses on my apartment.

We agreed to split up and search Buxcord for anyone else who wasn’t lethargic or a possible source of the problem.  Lea took the north side since she was already up that way and found Madam Weaver’s house.  The odd old lady was unaffected, and she and Lea had a productive little introduction.  Mr. Penn’s search took him along the outskirts of Buxcord and at some point came across Piper, who was not affected by the lethargy but rather unhelpful.

As for myself, I was searching through the south side when I came across a young woman in a hoodie.  She was acting nervous, and my bold approach probably didn’t help matters.  I quickly established that I was looking into what was going on, and after coaxing I got her to open up and offer her story.  Her name is Simone and she comes from a magical family with close ties to Buxcord’s history, although she wasn’t entirely convinced about the validity of magic at the time. Still, she’d been spared from the soul-draining and had just finished following a vague hunch that had taken her into the marshlands around the bayou.  There she had discovered an old cottonwood tree that would normally have been fully hidden from view, except there was a big hole in the barrier.

Yes, that same tree with the demonic aura I’d discovered while hunting the fey spider.  In my haste to catch up to the spider, I’d forgotten to close up the hole I’d made and had later assumed that a barrier of that age and strength would have some kind of self-renewal function Woven in.  Either that’s just not how things work in this universe, or the original casters of the barrier didn’t think to include such a function.

In any event, whoops.

Since Simone had prior knowledge of the sealed tree and a magical heritage, and thus was a potential source of very crucial help in fixing the problem I’d caused, I brought her with me when I went to meet up with Penn and Lea at the diner to compare notes. The only thing I learned from the other two is that Madam Weaver already knew the source of the problem and whose fault it was, because of course she did.

Our next order of business was to hike out to the bayou so I could get a good look at the breach and determine if I could just Weave up a patch.  We arrived to find a shadowy figure hovering above the water near the tree.  It looked familiar, although it took me a minute to realize why.  I’d seen this thing only once, shortly after my first little adventure, after that massive ripple of magic rolled through town. The figure didn’t move, although it did engage Lea in a conversation that I could only hear her half of. According to Lea, when Penn asked her about it a bit later, the gist of the conversation was that the figure admitted to stepping out of the barrier for a “snack” but that it was still mostly bound to the tree.  It didn’t offer a name or outright admit to being a demon, but it tried to cut a temptation deal to locate Lea’s human family if she helped it get out.  The barrier I’d ignorantly punched a hole in is the middle of three seals on the creature, with the cottonwood tree as the core and another barrier around the whole town.

As to the hole, it didn’t take me long to determine that the barrier was every bit as thick and complex as you’d expect a seal for an ancient evil to be; not the sort of thing you can just throw a quick patch over and expect it to keep holding.  That’s a lesson I don’t need to learn twice. So, I turned to Simone and asked if she has any old family records that might be of help.  She said maybe and, after I put a simple barrier to prevent the demon from taking another “walk” in the meantime, she led us back into town to her house.

Once we were settled in Simone’s house, she undertook a little search and came back with an old leather-bound book embossed with a mystical brand.  The book had some kind of spell on it to prevent strangers from reading its secrets, but my mental discipline proved enough to resist the effects enough to render the words legible, if slightly wavy.  After skimming about halfway through the book, I found an account of a time when the middle barrier had needed repair, and a description of the ritual involved.  It’s not particularly complex or demanding of material components; all we needed were enough mages to perform the steps, a warding amulet for the ritual’s leader, and “blood of the ancients.”

The first two things were easy to find.  Penn has dabbled in magic enough to be confident in taking part, I’m me, and I was willing to take a chance on Lea’ fey abilities counting once we’d secured the assistance of a couple more mages as back-up.  Simone was untrained but possesses the gift, and Lea was able to talk Rocky into helping as well.  Simone also supplied us with the warding amulet: a sun-shaped necklace given to her by her grandmother and likely the reason the demon hadn’t been able to drain her.

The blood of the ancient was going to be the tricky part, as we had no idea what that term could be referring to.  We decided to split up again and try two avenues of inquiry: Penn and I would check at Professor Thomas’s lab while Lea and Simone consulted with Madam Weaver.  To put it simply, the girls wound up choosing the right path.  The Madam said she could supply us with genuine ancient blood, whereas the lab would only be able to provide a synthetic substitute that wouldn’t last.  The real stuff would produce a proper fix, but getting it would set in motion some other calamity that Madam Weaver wouldn’t elaborate on.  The woman operates under some set of rules I haven’t sussed out yet.

Lea called me to discuss our options, and we decided that being sure of fixing the barrier for good was worth the price of some other trouble down the line.

So, with the materials in hand and personnel recruited, we went back to the cottonwood and got to work.  As the most accomplished mage in the group, I took the warding amulet and led the ritual.  It went smoothly, although the demon tried to distract us with temptations.  It offered to find me a way home, but also called my motives into question.  Although my memory of the core of the Order-naries hadn’t been restored yet, I still recalled enough to be rightly offended at the demon’s intimations that I had no reason to be helping Buxcord’s people.

Nobody bent to the demon’s words and we sealed it away without a hitch, and then went our separate ways.  I escorted Simone home, mostly as an excuse to ask to borrow her book again at some point and study up on Buxcord’s magical past.  Things are going to keep happening, and I’d prefer to be forewarned of anything old that may wake up.

Once I’d gotten Simone home, a letter materialized on the ground in front of me.  It was from Madam Weaver, informing me that the friend she’d asked to help with my memory had finally arrived.  I went straight to her house and met one of the tallest women I have ever seen.  Her name, or at least the name she said I could call her, was Minosity (Pretty sure I spelled that wrong; sounded Hellenic.) Mnemosyne, after a mythical titan of memory.  Fitting.

She was all business, but gentle.  I am normally quite reluctant to let somebody I’d just met mess around in my mind, but I was desperate to get my memories back, so I let all my barriers down as she searched for whatever the block was.  She did it with such ease, I’m almost envious, although she looked concerned about what she’d found. Apparently, Nollthep’s power comes from some sort of “Elder being.” As a bonus, she also put a protection spell on my mind, which I accepted with grace because my own natural defenses against mental influence are demonstrably insufficient in this world.  Or, maybe, my resistance is just wearing out after multiple assaults from exotic sources? That’s not a pleasant thought...

So, it’s starting to feel like I’ve dropped right into the middle of a multi-sided conflict over a relatively small patch of territory.  Between Faeries, sealed demons, at least one and possibly two old orders of protection, and whatever is behind Nollthep, there is a lot I’m going to need to learn about just to survive here.

Not too unlike the old days.

-Ash

[eurydice-khthonios]

Despite it all, Asra always watched. He always did.

Their old friends would pile into Asra’s apartment and sit on the couch in the living room, turn the T.V. on and wait for the livestream to start. They’d watch as the camera panned over the water, whether it was grey and choppy or motion picture perfect waves and a sparkling blue. They listened intently for her name, hands grasping hands. Despite it all they supported her. Asra especially.

They could’ve gone to see it in person, too, of course. But they would never have of done that.

Asra wasn’t ready. But he had to see this. This was the big moment she’d been dreaming of for years, he had to at least see it if he couldn’t be there for her.

They sit packed together like sardines. Blankets thrown over laps and bowls of snacks on the armchairs or on the floor. They lean in towards the screen, watching as she paddles finally towards a wave she thinks is big enough. Watch as the new drone system for filming the competitions takes the viewers all in closer, to get a better look at her as she stands up on the board to ride the wave. The wave curling over her before she rides ahead of it, cutting through the water like a god of the ocean.

The drone moves in, and this is the closest Asra has seen of her face in a long time. Her eyes are still striking and he goes quiet while she’s on screen. She never used to wear her earrings out in the water. But she also used to wear the earrings he gave her. He didn’t recognise those.

The drone seems to stagger in the air, swooping dangerously close to her. Scarcely missing her head. He worries for a moment if it will get caught in her hair, if it’ll hurt her. She looks at the drone, frustration clear in her face. Asra lurches forward as it staggers and swoops again, tumbling through the air and she swats it away before it can collide with her. Just before it hits the water it catches her slipping from the board, the wave crashing over her. Before the line cuts, they see the board go up and collide with the side of her face. The world stops in its tracks for Asra when he sees the board fly up. He knows how bad that injury could potentially turn out, he’s gone with her to hospitals to visit friends who’d been injured out in the water. He’s gone to one or two funerals with her where someone had died due to a surfing accident. Every time he’s prayed that nothing like that ever happened to her. When was the last time he prayed for that?

The water crashes around her and the screen cuts back to the cameras on the shore, the livestream cuts as lifesavers rush out on their own boards towards where she’d been.

“Wait-- Why’d the stream cut? Why’d they cut it?” Asra sounds panicked even to his own ears, he tries to switch the channel to a different take but they all seem to have cut the stream. A few news channels were covering the event, but the sight of them makes Asra’s stomach twist. Like all they could carry is bad news.

“Asra? Asra, she’s going to be fine. There’s no way she got hurt, she’s a professional,” Someone tries to tell him, he can’t tell who. Too focused on the news casters in front of him on the screen.

“-- An ambulance is on the way to recover the surfer Eosphorus Dogmatiko after the new drone live stream system caused her to fall off her board--”

“Oh no,” Someone else says, and almost immediately Asra gets off the couch. He grabs his keys off the table-- six years and he still hadn’t managed to take her spare inhaler off of the keychain-- by the door and is running for the parking lot before anyone can stop him. Julian stands up to go after him, Nadia catches his arm to stop him.

His heart is racing inside of his chest as he books it down the stairs and towards the underground parking lot. How bad could that injury be? He’s seen her with bruises before, with cuts and aches from fighting or accidents. He’s seen her friends with deep cuts from their boards when things go wrong and he’s terrified of the same thing happening to her.

They’d both been clear that they wouldn’t be in each other’s lives again. That they couldn’t, even if they wanted to. There was too much travelling, too much dedication to other more important things.

His hands shook as he tried to get his key into the ignition, missing the mark a few times before he got it in and started the engine.

They hadn’t been angry when they had broken up. By then they’d just been resigned to the fact their lives pulled them away from each other more than it pushed them together. They’d gotten over the anger individually where the other couldn’t see. Maybe that is where they went wrong.

He didn’t want to think on it now.  

The car started up and as he began to reverse out of his park the radio turned on. Already tuned over to one of the local stations. His grip on the steering wheel going tight when he hears Eos’ name again on the lips of someone who could never be as worried as he was about this.

‘The professional surfer appears to have of sustained injuries after a drone died during her heat. There are reports of injuries to the head, back, and legs from the board and impact against the seabed-’

“Shut up,” an angry mutter comes from him as he jerks the volume all the way down.

He didn’t even know where she would be. At the beach still? By the sounds of it they should be taking her to a hospital. What if there was water in her lungs? Or permanent damage to her spine?

What if she died?

When he first met Eos, she seemed like the kind of person who was always out of death’s reach. Out in the water or fresh out of it she exuded confidence as deep as the ocean she loved. They’d been younger when they’d met, still in high school and she wasn’t given the opportunity to surf professionally yet.

They’d barely noticed each other in school before they’d met at the beach. She’d come out of the water, illuminated gold under the sun and he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She’d noticed the staring, laughed at his embarrassment and didn’t go back into the water. Too distracted with conversation, too invested in meeting him.

They’d been inseparable. For a time.

His chest tightened at the memory. Shaking himself out of it and jerking the steering wheel as he almost missed his turn off the main road. He had to stop thinking. He can feel the impact of his tears on his shirt. He hadn’t even realised he’d started crying.

She’s on the other side of the country and he’s wasting time being nostalgic. He needs to get on a plane, he needs to be there now. His phone starts ringing in his pocket but he’s busy, he pulls into the airport’s car park and runs. Not caring what happens to his car. Someone could take it, destroy it, but it wouldn’t matter as long as he reached Eos before it was too late.

His phone keeps ringing. It’s Julian. He runs into the airport, he just needs a last minute ticket. There was always one, always one. He just needs to get onto the plane. The world around him is muted and time doesn’t move right. The phone keeps ringing. It’s Nadia. Then Muriel. He hurries for a desk, any desk. Asks for tickets he’ll pay anything to get on a plane. There’s one in an hour, he has to hurry. It’ll take just over three hours to get there. He has to hurry. The phone keeps ringing until he turns it off and boards his last minute flight.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was this worried, or if he’s ever been this worried at all. It sends pains through his heart and his shoulders start to shake when they’re in the air. His face buried in his hands to hide it away from anyone nearby. Contorting as he tried to hold back all of his tears and his need to scream at the entire situation.

Asra shouldn’t go to her. They weren’t together, they didn’t talk. Surely she had friends who should go see her instead, even her brother might go see her. Eos wouldn’t want to see an ex-boyfriend. There were people who were bothered, and she bothered with.

They’d spent years together before they parted ways, he couldn’t just ignore it. He couldn’t ignore the fact she is hurt, and certainly couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of his head that kept telling him she’d probably already died or gone into a coma she wouldn’t wake up from.

“She’s not dead,” He mutters to himself, hands moving to the back of his head and gripping his hair. “This is Eos, nothing can kill her.” She’d always seemed invincible out in the water. It was her element.

He’d held her as she clutched him and cried, but not once did it seem like she could hold that same weakness when she was out in the water. No one could look at her and guess that she’d been unable to sleep for fear of her constant nightmares and that she could only sleep when she heard his voice on the phone.

He wondered how she dealt with her nightmares now. She’d always wanted to go surfing at night, maybe that’s what she did.

“Hey, are you alright?” A voice startles him out of his thought cycle, whites of his eyes tinged red when he looks up to see a concerned face. His vision is blurry, he can’t tell who it is that’s speaking to him but he talks before his brain can have the chance to tell him to shut up.

“My wi-” Not his wife, he never proposed, why didn’t he? “Girl-” They’re not together anymore and he can’t keep forgetting that. “I…” He takes a deep breath and it shudders through him. He swallows, trying to clear the saliva from his mouth. “Someone dear to me was in an accident today, I- I’m flying to see her.”

The stranger offers a hushed collection of condolences before awkwardly ignoring him. Maybe he prefers it that way. Being left alone would be preferable to spilling the beans on how he was running after an ex he’d left so long ago. That she probably wouldn’t even want him there. Want him at all. Even after all his time, that thought broke his heart.

The last time they’d spoken to each other had been by chance. A coincidence that they ran into each other. They barely said hello before Eos brushed passed him. He’d wanted to reach out, to take her hand. Asra just wanted to know how she was, if she’d been okay because she looked too thin. She was too far when realised he just wanted to hear more of her voice. So he let her leave. He took it as a sign, to move on.

Yet, here he was on a plane heading right for her as soon as she was in trouble.

It seems he hadn’t moved on after all. Always ready to jump right back into the fire for her. If he were to be honest with himself, there was no place he’d rather be if he was just allowed to see her.

He didn’t need anything in return.

It’s three and a half hours of waiting. Of being unable to check for news and of chastising himself for doing this on a whim. ‘She wouldn’t want me there,’ he thinks to himself as the plane begins to land, ‘She’s moved on.’

He doesn’t even know what hospital she’s in. The plane lands and the world is a blur as he rushes out the front, turning his phone back on so he could call a cab or see if there was any news on where she’d been taken. He had plenty of missed calls and texts to open. But all he wanted was to figure out where Eos was.

A news article told him eventually, and it was all he could do to keep himself patient and wait for a taxi as opposed to running there on foot.

Despite it all, he’s a little excited to see Eos again. Perhaps he thinks it’ll be a fairytale reunion, he’ll be there for her in a dark hour and they’ll remember why they loved each other in the first place. Perhaps he will have flashbacks of every time she’s laughed, of her ‘I love you’s, and the way her eyes would light up when she found something she thought he’d like. And she would have her own flashbacks. Of her favourite moments with him, of how he had made her feel. Maybe he just wanted this to be a catalyst to fall in love again. A purely selfish desire.

“Why am I doing this?” He whispers to himself in the back of the taxi. After all these years how can he still love her this much? After knowing that their lives, their schedules, their goals were forcing them apart. How could he keep loving her when for all he knew she had not done the same?

This might not change a thing between them, this might make her think worse of him. He’ll risk that to make sure she’s okay, that she knows she’s loved. For all he knows her family could be with her, in truth he knows how unlikely that is. Her brother, should they be on good terms this month, was probably off doing his own thing. And Eos would rather die than let her parents into the same hospital room as she was. If she’s conscious enough to stop them.

If she’s alive.

The thought stabs through his stomach, slicing at his insides. This was Eos, she had to be alive. She could face down a shark and survive. She could face down a pack of sharks and come out with bruises at worst. That’s what he always thought. Even she wasn’t indestructible it seemed.

He pays the taxi and hurries towards the hospital’s reception. He needs to find out where she is, what room she is in and what is happening to her. His palms getting sweaty as he walks up to the desk. What could he say? That he was an ex-boyfriend who flew across the entire country just to make sure someone he hadn’t spoken to in years was alright? If they were in their right minds they’d call the police.

That leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He’ll have to make something up. A concerned friend, a family friend. Something reasonable.

He puts his hands on the edge of the desk, palms against the side and fingers bent on top of it.

“I’m looking for Eosphorus Dogmatiko’s room, I was told she’d be here?” As he says it, he worries that she isn’t that an online article was just guessing at where she would be. Or that she’s told them of him for some reason so that they wouldn’t let him in.

“Your name and identification?” The receptionist holds out a hand, the other tapping on the computer in front of them. He can only hope it’s the pull up the room number.

“Oh- Asra, I’m her bo-” He pauses, and pretends that it’s so he can dig through his pocket for his driver’s license. He just can’t help himself, can he. He can’t let go. But he’s already committed to saying it. “Boyfriend, sorry, here.” He holds the card out.

“Hm,” The receptionist looks it over and hands it back to him, he holds his breath while he waits. Hoping to pass their inspection. “She’s on the third level, two-eight-five, wing A.”

He books it for the elevator before his mild lie can even have the chance to be called into question. The elevator doesn’t move fast enough. He needs to see her now. She has a room, she can’t be dead and the receptionist hadn’t said she was on death’s door either.

“Please, please, please, please,” He murmurs and taps his fingers impatiently against the wall of the elevator. “Come on, move faster.” He needs her alive and within his sight like he needs air right now. He feels guilty every time he thinks it, but it’s true. She’s still too important. She’s always been too important. He’s been told that.

The elevator opens and he’s out in less than a second, halfway down the hallway looking for signs to indicate where he should go.

When he finds her room, his breath is taken away as he stands in the doorway. Her back is facing away. But he could recognise the black to purple hair anywhere, also the number was on the door which helped tremendously. She’s sitting awkwardly, and he can see through the back of the hospital gown the stitches along her back. They looked bad, just barely centimeters away from where her spine would be. Her ribs showing more than he was used to.

He steps into the room and he sees she’s holding a mirror, sees the slight shake in her shoulders. He can’t see her face. He knows she’s crying.

“Eos?” His voice is soft as he steps closer. He doesn’t know what to say, he didn’t think of it on the way here. Yet, seeing her alive and moving lifted a terrible weight off of his heart. She was alive.

She turns partially towards him, mirror clutched to her chest now. As though she can hide whatever she was looking at. He almost expected her to get angry. He knew she had a temper sometimes. The way her brother and her argued over the smallest of things showed that. When she was angry she had a mouth that could make a sailor blush. He loved it.

She isn’t angry. Nowhere near it. She sees him and he sees her face start to scrunch up into her crying face which she always claimed she hated. He steps closer and she reaches her hand out for him.

He says nothing and keeps his arms low beneath her injuries when he sits down on the bed beside her and hugs her. Keeping her face mostly turned out of his sight. Her fingers clutch at his shirt in a way so familiar it hurts. She’s smaller than he remembers. Or seems that way in this hospital room.

“Asra,” her voice is small, as small as she seems and as small as she feels. There is hurt in her voice, disappointment, heartbreak all aimed at herself. But relief too. Relief in saying his name and holding him. This day was supposed to be her day, the day she got to perform at her utmost best in front of her father and show she never needed him to do any of this. Instead, a new way to film the events had ruined that.

“I’m here, habibti,” He murmurs into her ear through her hair. “I’m here, I’m here.” She shudders and shivers against him. He pulls back from her, and he can feel her unwillingness to let go so he won’t see her. His hand moves up to her chin, holding it gently between his thumb and finger. “Show me, let me see.”

“You don’t want to,” Her own hand moves up to cover half of her face, fingers spread over her eye socket. When she touches her wound, she hisses. Almost retracting her hand before letting it float just above her skin. “You don’t want to see it.”

He lets go of her chin to take hold of her wrist, not pulling or pushing her hand away but just holding it. There’s something she doesn’t want him to see. Obviously, no points for guessing that. Eos has shown him she can be vain when it comes to her own appearance, but scars could heal. How bad was it?

“Eos, please,” He hates seeing her like this. She used to project an energy that made her seem bigger than life, louder than anything. But she’s too small now. The light dimmed. He understands. She spent years working up to this moment, and now she was injured and faced with someone she’d left behind and been left behind by. He shouldn’t have come, but no one else was here.

She looks about ready to cry again, but she takes a deep breath and steels herself. Her hand lowers and she tilts her face towards him.

The original injury, from her board, cut across the left side of her face. The skin discoloured in reds, blues, and purples, the bruising already beginning. Along with some swelling around the wound. The worst part might be the way it cut across her eye. Just barely sparing her from blindness or losing the eye completely. It cuts down her jaw, her neck, her collar bone. It would scar, with the amount of flesh that’d been cut out by the impact. A permanent reminder of today.

“It’s awful isn’t it?” Her voice cuts through his shock with acrid bitterness. Not aimed at him, he knew when it was after more than a few incidents of him purposely eating her food she was saving. “Just what I always wanted, isn’t it?”

“Habibti,” He cups her uninjured cheek in his hand and before he can think about it he kisses her forehead. His heart skipping when he realises what he did. “I-”

“Six years,” She interrupts, pulling back from him and wrapping her arms around herself. Knees coming up to curl slightly, but by the expression on her face the wounds on her legs and back protest that action. “Six years and this is how you get to see me, bruised and bloodied and a fucking failure.”

“Eos, that’s not-”

“Don’t even start, Asra, how many months did we spend apart when we were together for me to even start on my way to get to here, along with those six fucking years without seeing you at fucking all just to end up wiping out?” He sees her fingers tighten and clench. Gripping at herself, nails digging in. He brings his arms around her shoulders and neck, pulling her against him.

Yes, there had been months of barely seeing her and having her main focus be her surfing career. And he’d hated those months. He didn’t need all of her attention, just some of it.

“I fucked it all up. I wasted too much time on this fucking cunt competition shit. I lost my friends, I lost all my other opportunities, I lost you,” She takes a deep breath and her arms unwind from herself. Hands instead just gently pinching the hemline of his shirt. “I lost you and now you’re here or I’ve got a real bad concussion. I have nothing to show for everything I lost. Nothing but some dumbshit scar.” She huffs, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t even know why you’re here, or how you’re here. You’ve got better things to do, Asra.”

He runs his hands through her hair, carefully detangling it before he responds.

“I was watching the livestream of the competition,” He’d been waiting for it the entire week, oddly nervous, excited, and hesitant all at the same time. “I saw what happened and I just- I knew I had to make sure you were alright.” She pulls back from him, and as he speaks he plays with her hair. Unable to not be familiar enough to touch her like this. “I just… Christ, Eos, I thought you might be dead. I got on a plane and flew here, I knew I just couldn’t live with myself if I stayed away after seeing what I did.”

Her expression falls as he talks. Moves on from bitter and anger at herself. For the first time in a very long time, he sees in her eyes the exact look she gave him every time he said he loved her.

“I’m alive,” She says and closes her eyes. When she smiles, he sees the beginning of the light she had start to come back. “You were watching me.”

“I always watch you.”

Six years, and it was too easy to fall back into simple small touches. Her hand rests on his thigh, fingers just creeping on the inside of his leg and he brushes hair away from her face, twisting it around his finger. He should stop touching her, he shouldn’t be so close or even be here at all.

“I always watch you,” He says again, voice soft. “Every single time.”

He doesn’t know who leans forward first, but the kiss they share is soft and chaste. He can taste her blood when he licks his lips after they pull away, but it’s the least of his concerns. They don’t know what to say to each other after that, they just wait in silence.

It’d been six years since they’d last seen each other, both of them knew exactly why it hadn’t worked out the last time they were together. But they still have feelings for each other. Six years and not a sign of life from either one, and they still loved each other.

He walks her out of the hospital when she’s discharged. They don’t hold hands, but her little finger links with his and right now it’s the closest they should get for a while.

“They’re probably worried about you, y’know,” She says finally as they wait for a taxi to arrive. He doesn’t say anything. He knows he should’ve told someone, Muriel or Nadia, that he was going on a spontaneous trip across the country. And judging by the texts and calls he’d gotten they were worried, or pissed, probably both. “You should tell them where you are.”

“I know,” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, guilt building in his stomach. “I’ll get you home first.”

They stand there until the taxi comes. Not daring to say a word more. Afraid that if they do, they’ll commit to something they realistically can’t. Asra doesn’t want to tear Eos away from her surfing. Eos doesn’t want to pin him down when he’d rather be somewhere else. Just like last time.

They keep quiet until they’re at her apartment door, she reaches to open it but she hesitates. Hand shaking slightly.

“Am I going to see you again after this?” She asks, keeping her face bowed and body towards the door.

“What?”

“I- Asra, am I going to see you again after you go? You came here to make sure I didn’t die, and I’m fine. I- I don’t want to think that- I don’t want to think that I’ll have you again just to not see you again when you go back home.” He reaches out, hesitating before he wraps his arms around her waist. Avoiding touching her back but hugging her all the same. When they’d broken up, despite his resignation to it, he was devastated. He wanted to take it all back, but she’d seemed just as sure about it as he thought he’d been. He’d wanted a second chance, and didn’t get one for six years.

Now he got one, but only because she’d gotten hurt. What if she hadn’t? Would he have just watched it like any other competition, looking on from the sidelines and never taking the leap to see her? Or, what if he had taken the chance to go see her, would it have been like this?

He could take another chance right now. To solidify it all, to show that he could put the effort in again. He could let her know right now that he was going to show her that he loved her again. The idea of it frightens him as much as it titillates him.

He retracts an arm and puts his hand on her shoulder before spinning her around. He hasn’t had the chance to kiss her properly in six years, and the one at the hospital hadn’t been enough. Their teeth clash when he kisses her and he shivers when he feels her tongue against his. She’s crying again, he can taste the saltiness of her tears. Her nails dig into his shoulders to keep him close.

He doesn’t know if this will last like he wants it to. But he wants to try loving her again, he wants to do it properly this time.

And she does too.

[thesporkidentity]

Next time i want a dream about kittens and rainbows for once

--------

I grew up in a small, semi-rural southern town with my brother and my father, who remarried to our stepmother when I was six or seven. She was young. Beautiful. The kind of woman you wanted to make smile. She smelled like gardenias, heavy with that extra-sweet scent flowers get when they’re just on the edge of decay. Her magic manifested as herbalism, you see, and she carried that scent with her wherever she went, a mixture of greenhouse and swamp.

It was the summer I turned 8, my brother 13. He’d just come into his own magic. He could See magic, like light, like an extra dimension of color only people with tetrachromacy can distinguish, or those weird killer shrimp that boil their prey alive. He was withdrawn that summer, overwhelmed I think by the extra sensory input. I remember him sitting in stony silence, blinking rapidly as our stepmother fastened a medallion around his neck. St. Lucy. Patron saint of Seers and the blind.

That was also the summer he went missing. One day he was there and then he was just gone, left, no sign of any struggle. He never came home. We tried everything - search parties, dogs, even magic, though no one could get more than a muffled nothing. Most strong casters had long since moved away from our isolated little town. I think our stepmother must have stress-brewed sweet tea for the entire town that summer as we searched. She’d always said a little tea and hospitality made even the worst days a little more bearable. God knows she must have poured a gallon of it into each of us those first 72 hours. People cope in their own ways, I guess.

Eventually there was nothing more we could do. My brother became another unsolved mystery, a votive candle by the altar, a local tragedy. That poor missing Cassidy boy.

——–

Life went on. I grew up. Magic isn’t common, but it’s not exactly rare either, especially in family lines. So it wasn’t a huge surprise when mine manifested in adolescence: sound, most easily focused through melody. My father passed; My stepmother raised me the rest of the way. I tried my best to make her happy now that it was just the two of us. It felt like she grew more distant every year, but she was always there with a shoulder and a hot cup of tea whenever the nightmares returned. I got my degree in forensic magic. I worked to help families like ours find their loved ones, or at least closure. There are a lot of families like ours.

——–

Our little team gets called in for a new case: some state politician’s son gone missing, one of those guys who claims to be a rugged outdoorsman but has never pitched a tent more than a hundred feet from his F-150. You know the type. He’d apparently started a series of summer hiking trips across the state and hadn’t checked in for a few days. I set up my standard trackers and we head out, but the farther we go the hazier my signal gets until it very suddenly disappears into static. The best we can guess is that he’s somewhere near the swamp around where I grew up. There’s no reason for it to be so indistinct, but that area has always made my magic pitchy. Some places are just weird like that; it can be hit or miss. It’s the same problem we had with my brother.

We canvas the neighboring towns to try and narrow the area while the search teams are staging. I tag along. I’m not above leveraging community sentiment, and locals are a lot more eager to help out that Cassidy girl than they would be to help just another dumbass city kid who walked into the swamp alone and got himself dead. It pays off, and he was last seen in my own hometown, asking for directions to the campground. Google maps has always been unreliable over that way, doesn’t much like addresses where the roads are more of a suggestion than anything else. Physical search parties turn up nothing, but the swamp is a big place. My spell may not be able to tell us his exact location, but it’s certain that wherever he is he’s not alive.

The kid’s father is grieving, refusing to believe it was an accident. His kid wouldn’t do something that stupid. Evidence would suggest otherwise. There’s no shortage of idiots in the world, and the swamp has always taken her tithe of those visitors who hadn’t learned well enough to be wary. But the guy calls in a bunch of favors, and we’re stuck on this case until he moves past Denial. So we look. And we dig. Through every wild theory, through every local disappearance.

This kid is just one name on a long list of those lost in the area. My brother’s is another. Most of them never have and never will be found. But there are a few with similarities, enough to make a pattern going back fifteen years. Enough to warrant looking into. Passing through. Young. Low-level casters. Alone. Seventeen people missing. Seventeen people missed.

——–

My magic has been an uneasy distraction since we first identified a pattern, and it’s begun to jangle discordantly whenever I try to track some of those who fit the profile, a Ligeti concerto just for me. A few yielded a vague direction, the usual for cold cases, but on the rest I find nothing. Just a strangely familiar buzzing, empty space. I try multiple times. This isn’t the regular regional intermittent failure, time or location of casting has no effect. I mark down another commonality for these special cases.

Late during another round of failed attempts at poking and prying at whatever is trying to run interference, I add my brother’s name to my narrowed list of twelve. He doesn’t fit the profile. Local kid, son of a town councilman. Well-known, well-liked. Still young, but a much more powerful caster. Much more high-risk than the others. But I’ve been trying to track him since the moment my magic manifested, over and over again, every time I learned a new spell variant, and this case is the only other time I’ve felt that same yawning, echoing nothingness.

And this time I get something. The softest chime in my magic through whatever this dampening barrier was, weakened after weeks of ceaseless prodding.

——–

There’s a greenhouse on the edge of my family’s property. My father built it for our stepmother soon after they married, her pride and joy. I follow the chime there. There’s a frantic clanging in my ears telling me to stop. Nerves? No. Magic? But not mine, not mine. Stop, it says. Don’t.

Inside, I walk. Down. Dig. A glint of light on a small chain, a necklace.

I throw aside the shovel and fall to my hands and knees. I can feel the wet soil under my nails as I dig in the darkness of my stepmother’s greenhouse, panting, the humid air thick in my nose and the back of my throat.  I pick it up and rub my thumb over the face of a medallion, a match for the ones I wear around my own neck: Cecilia, Michael, Faustina, Jude.

Lucy. She’s warm in my hand.

I can See. Over. Down. Tangled in the roots of the old gardenia. Sticks and stone, mud and bone. A finger, a rib. Small. My throat feels raw.

“What are you doing here?”

The overpowering smell of gardenias, cloying and rotten. It’s her. She’ll be upset if I’ve harmed her plants. I can’t upset her. I have to make her happy.

I turn and I see her as my brother must have seen, a spider crouching at the center of a thousand sparkling threads, and at her heart, a putrefying black mass, only the barest gasps of color breaking through. Moss green, pink, gray, orange, the amber of my brother’s eyes. Thirteen magics. Thirteen souls, grafted to herself. Cut off from their living source they are death and decay, a power, yes, but a poison in the well of her own magic. Lady of Sorrows defend me, what has she done to them? What has she done to herself? I reach for the shovel and hold it before me.

“Mom-”

She pulls on a string, the tether running from her finger to my own neck. I want to make her happy.

“Mama-”

She shushes me. I need to be quiet. I need to go with her. I tighten my grip. We can go in the house. She’ll make the special tea and I can forget. Won’t it be better that way? Won’t it be easier?

Michael burns over my heart.

I need to put the shovel down.

The shovel swings back.

I need to make her happy.

The shovel slams into a fragile pane of glass, shattering the silence. I drag those shards of sound around myself and desperately hack at the cord around my neck.

We struggle.

I sharpen the jagged edges of my voice to speak each of their names, carving them free from her chest until all that remains is herself, sickly, weak, and trembling.

My fingers itch. I should pluck out her eyes. I should rip out her throat. I should kill her, bind her, make her suffer for every year she had made him suffer. But I can’t. Death is finality, an ending in the truest sense of the word. Not just of what was and what is, but all that ever could be, cut off in an instant. I don’t get to destroy those possibilities even for her, monster that she is, for forgiveness or condemnation, repentance and atonement, for the families of her other victims to have the chance to look her in the eyes and ask her why.

I’m not the only one who decides what her justice looks like. Faustina hangs heavy around my neck.

I call my team. They’re not happy with me, and they make sure I know that. I should have damn well called them before running off on my own, but I was so frantic, afraid of losing that faint chime after so many years of nothing. We all make our mistakes; if we’re lucky we live to make more.

I step delicately around glass and bones to slump against a wall in exhaustion, keeping watch over my unconscious stepmother, humming softly to myself as I systematically sever each and every strand connecting her to those she had tethered to her will. My brother’s medallion lays light on its chain around my neck.

--------

(For those who were not raised with ultra-catholic relatives and a billion saint books in preparation for confirmation, Lucy is most famous for having her eyes plucked out. Great way to threaten a child into silence lol. Also no she's not actually patron saint of seers in real life but you can't tell me that there wouldn't be one in a world with actual magic. Catholic church has saints for fucking everything, man.

The others mentioned: Cecilia the patron of music. Michael the Archangel the patron of police, protectors and justice. Jude the patron of lost causes. Faustina the patron of divine mercy. Were I to actually write this one out, the catholic church is a fucking goldmine for symbolism let me tell you. Dymphna, the mentally ill. Benedict, those suffering from poison. Julian, repentant murderers. Saints for everything. Catholic church is serious about their patrons, y'all.)

[owlways-and-forever]

Summary: The Marauders are getting older, and that means so many things. Mischief, heartbreak, and trying to figure out who they really are. They’ll face problems within their group, prove their loyalty to each other, and discover the ugliness that is brewing in the wizarding world at large. Welcome to Years 2-4 of the Marauders time at Hogwarts. **This piece is a sequel to Behind the Mango Tree, however, you do not have to have read the first installment to pick this up. It does stand alone, but there is some carry over from the last book, especially with inter-character relationships. Basically, you don’t have to have read BtMT, but it certainly helps. Word Count: (4,052) 26,414 Links: FFnet | ao3 | tumblr: Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7

A/N: Hey, look at that! I got the chapter up on time! Woohoo! This is a pretty long chapter, and there's a lot going on in it. Hopefully you guys think it's well done! Hit me up with thoughts and comments! :)

Warnings: Discussions of violence and descriptions of alcohol/drinking

Chapter 8: Firewhiskey Breath

The end of March was cold and dreary, and brought with it a cold change in the castle. The newspapers were darker, more foreboding, and students seemed to divide themselves, staring at the each other with suspicious eyes. Fault lines in the students and the staff were becoming more clear, and the castle felt like it was waiting on bated breath for something more to happen.

James returned from Quidditch practice soaked to the bone and covered in mud, barely hearing anything as he trudged through the halls of the castle. Before he even made it back to Gryffindor Tower, he was shivering with a feverish chill, and he sniffled every few seconds.

"You should go see Madam Pomfrey for some Pepper Up Potion," Gideon Prewett suggested, looking sideways at the young Chaser. "I can give you a pass so you don't get in trouble in the halls if you like."

"Thanks, but I'll be fine," James said, shaking his head.

"Suit yourself," Gideon replied, returning his gaze to the hall ahead of him. "But you better not be sick on Saturday, we need you to trounce Hufflepuff."

"Don't worry, I wouldn't miss it even if I had dragonpox," James grinned. He was always pleased to hear how much his captain appreciated him.

Gideon chuckled lightly, but didn't say anything, and the unusual pair continued to walk toward the Gryffindor Common Room in silence. Along the route, James thought he could hear a scuffle down a side passage, but he was more focused on the ache filling his bones and the thought of collapsing into his warm, waiting bed.

"Go ahead," Gideon said suddenly, his attention turning toward the faint noise. "Straight back to the Common Room, mind. No detours, Potter, I mean it."

James nodded, and though Gideon's command piqued his curiosity slightly, he felt far too crummy to think about doing anything mischievous. He continued trudging along, almost bumping into the portrait of the Fat Lady as his eyes began to drift shut from exhaustion.

"Puffapod," James mumbled, not even seeing the pitying smile the Fat Lady gave him as he nearly fell through the portrait hole.

The Gryffindor Common Room was a mess of noise, with Gryffindors studying and laughing. Sirius, Remus and Peter were in the corner, with Sirius practically climbing on top of Remus, who was adamantly trying to focus on the essay in front of him, while Peter laughed and tried to snatch the essay away. Lily was seated at one of the tables, looking sombre as she talked to Rosaline, something serious clearly on her mind. Marlene McKinnon was sprawled across the couch, chucking popcorn at Sirius absentmindedly while she talked to Enoch Audley, who had a typically sour expression on his face.

James marched past all of them, the sound suffocating against his stuffed sinuses, and wearily climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitory. He barely managed to pull his robes off and snuggle into his flannel pajamas before he collapsed on his bed, pulling his heavy blankets up to his chin.

When Remus awoke, it was clear that Sirius had not so much as closed his eyes in the night, and he was starting to majorly crash. He knew those nights happened sometimes, where Sirius' demons haunted him and he couldn't bear to see what was waiting in his mind once he fell asleep. It was also clear that James was very ill, and desperately needed to visit the Hospital Wing. He was shaking violently, his teeth chattering together as he shivered, despite having both his and Sirius' heavy comforters on top of him. Remus could feel the warmth of his fever radiating off of him from across the room.

"You put your blanket on him, but it didn't occur to you to call for Professor McGonagall or Madam Pomfrey?" Remus chided Sirius, who looked up at him from tired grey eyes.

"I thought the blanket would be enough," Sirius shrugged, but Remus could see the worry on his face. As nonchalant as he might try to act, James was his absolutely best friend, and Remus knew it frightened Sirius to see him so sick.

"Nevermind, I'll take him to the Hospital Wing before class, you just make sure Peter gets to Transfiguration on time," Remus said, chucking his pillow at Peter's sleeping form.

"No, I'll take James," Sirius objected, rubbing at his eyes. "I could use some Exsomnis Elixir anyway."

"Alright," Remus agreed, taking in the dark circles under Sirius' eyes. He wished he could convince him to sleep instead, but he knew Sirius would never go for it.

Remus dressed quickly, keeping his eye on Sirius, who was trying to get clean pajamas on James, peeling off his sweaty flannels and piling them in a heap by their warming stove. When he and Peter, who had dressed sleepily and as usual buttoned his robes askew, were ready to go to breakfast, Remus grabbed his bag and headed toward the door, casting a backward look at his friends. Sirius was struggling to get an unconscious James out of bed.

"Oi, don't forget, it's up to you now," Sirius called after Remus, somewhat cryptically, but Remus knew exactly what he meant, and rolled his eyes.

He closed the dormitory door behind him, just as he heard Sirius mutter a curse and then a quick Wingardium Leviosa, lifting James into the air magically.

"Come on, let's move," Remus said to Peter, grabbing his arm and hurrying him along. Any second, Sirius would float James down these stairs, knocking them over if they were still standing where they were.

There was only time to grab a quick slice of toast from the Great Hall to get to Transfiguration on time, and Remus was nothing if not punctual. As they filed into their seats, Remus said a silent prayer that Lily wouldn't feel like answering any of Professor McGonagall's questions today. She had seemed rather emotional the night before, talking to Rosaline in hushed voices, and Remus thought she might even have been crying at one point. She took her seat in the row in front of him, offering Remus and Peter a small smile as she sat down.

"Good morning, everyone," Professor McGonagall said, sweeping into the room with a grim face. "Today, we will be beginning our unit on the Lapifors transfiguration. Can anyone tell me what this spell does?"

Remus raised his hand, as did a few others throughout the room. He had read the introductory paragraphs for each chapter in Intermediate Transfiguration so that he knew what each spell did. It had helped him to identify the units that he was most looking forward to, and though he remembered what Lapifors did, he wasn't overly excited about it. As Professor McGonagall looked around the room, deciding who to call on, Lily raised her hand, and Remus sighed deeply.

"I'm sorry," Remus whispered, and Lily turned her head slightly, her eyebrows pulling down in confusion, and Remus swung the hand he had raised down in an arc, connecting sharply with Lily's raised hand.

Lily dropped her reddened hand, turning to stare at Remus with her mouth gaping. He gave her the most apologetic look he could manage, but Lily looked thoroughly betrayed. She rubbed her palm lightly as she turned around to face the front of the classroom again, her expression sullen. Professor McGonagall was looking at Remus with the utmost disapproval, but to his surprise she said nothing to him.

"Miss Fionn?" she said at last, calling on one of her students to answer the question she had posed.

"Lapifors turns objects, ideally small ones, into rabbits," Laoghaire recited, "and allows the caster to control the rabbit after the transfiguration."

"Very good, Miss Fionn," Professor McGonagall replied approvingly. "Five points to Hufflepuff. You all have small statues in front of you -" she waved her wand and a statue about eight inches tall appeared on each desk "- so you may begin attempting to transfigure them using lapifors. Instructions and diagrams are on the chalkboard." Another wave of her wand and her neat scroll appeared across the chalkboard at the front of the class, detailing the precise wand movements of the spell, as well as numerous other technical details. "I have matters to attend to, but be sure that I will be listening."

Professor McGonagall swept back out of the room and all the students exchanged looks with each other. It was unheard of for Professor McGonagall to completely leave her class in order to deal with something else, so it must mean something significant was happening, but Remus had no idea what that might be.

"You are a total jerk, Remus Lupin," Lily said, not bothering to turn around to look at him.

"I'm sorry, Lily, I am, but Sirius would never forgive me if I didn't," Remus answered, and to his surprise, Lily turned around and smiled at him.

"Alright, but next time, could you not high-five me quite so hard, please? My hand is going to be too sore to hold my wand properly for days," she teased, and Remus laughed.

"Deal," he said, before turning his attention to focus on Professor McGonagall's instructions. "Right, so it looks like the wand movement is kind of in the shape of rabbit ears."

Remus and Peter focused on trying to get the spell right, helping each other as much as possible, and by the time Professor McGonagall returned to dismiss them, Remus had managed to make his statue grow a furry pair of ears, while Peter had gotten his to sprout a tiny white fluff of a tail.

As the third years filed out of the classroom, Remus hurried to catch up to Georgiana Laurent, with Peter trailing behind him. Georgiana smiled at the two of them, inviting Remus’ questions with her open gaze.

“Do you know why McGonagall had to leave?” Remus asked her, but Georgiana shook her head, golden curls flying.

“I heard something about a little Ravenclaw girl at breakfast this morning, but I don’t know why people were talking about her,” she answered. “Will you be in the library later?”

“I’m not sure,” Remus said. “We’ll see if James and Sirius are alright.”

Georgiana smiled and nodded, touching Remus’ elbow lightly before turning and descending a staircase to the left, toward the dungeons for Potions class.

When Sirius hadn’t returned to class by lunchtime, Remus started to grow concerned, and suggested to Peter that they use their free period in the afternoon to check up on their friends. Peter happily agreed, eager to spend his free period doing anything other than struggling with homework.

“Mr. Black is sleeping,” Madam Pomfrey said the moment Remus and Peter walked through the door. “A Sleeping Draught, to give him some dreamless rest. However, Mr. Potter is awake. He had a nasty bout of phoenix flu so do be sure to see me for a dose of Pepper Up Potion on your way out. Fourth bed on your left.”

Peter led the way to James’ bed, screened with a quarantine shield to keep his flu from spreading to the other patients in the ward. It was charmed to be either transparent or opaque, depending on James’ desire to interact with those around him, currently mostly transparent. Sirius lay sleeping on the bed next to him, snoring lightly. A few beds down and on the right, an opaque privacy screen shrouded the occupant from view, but Remus could hear sniffling from behind the screen.

“How’re you feeling?” Peter asked James, slipping past the screens around his bed.

“Bit groggy, but the potion’s helping,” James answered, his words loose and slurred.

“I’m sure Madam Pomfrey will have you up and about in no time,” Remus assured him, but his eyes flicked over to where Sirius lay resting. He looked peaceful and most unlike Sirius.

“Sooner, than Morgan in any case,” James mumbled, catching both boys attention.

“What do you mean?” Peter asked, his head cocked to one side.

“Has no one heard?” James replied, astounded, and he struggled to push himself up straighter, his eyes sharpening slightly. He lowered his voice to a hush, looking over at the shrouded bed across the room. “Timothy Morgan was beaten last night, pretty badly, after Quidditch practice. Life threatening type beating. I haven’t seen what he looks like, but I was here when they brought his little sister Edith in, and she hasn’t left his bedside yet. And I heard some professors talking, and... I think... I think they branded him. ‘M’ for mudblood.”

“That’s horrific,” Peter said, his voice cracking, and he looked a little green.

Remus felt bile rising in his throat at the thought of a brand on Timothy Morgan’s skin. He didn’t know Timothy well, being a few years apart and in different houses, but he knew that by all accounts he was a quiet and kind boy. Not that it mattered if he were horrible, nobody deserved that kind of treatment.

“Do they...” Remus’ voice faltered, and he tried again. “Do they know who did it?”

“Not officially, but I think we can all guess who it was,” James answered bitterly.

“Dolohov and Nott,” Peter and Remus said in unison, and James nodded in agreement.

“They’re despicable,” James said, a fit of coughing breaking up his words. “But I heard my parents talking when I was home last, and it sounds like more and more people are thinking like them. My father said there’ll be a reckoning, that things could be worse than Grindelwald soon.”

“He thinks it’ll get worse?” Peter asked, sounding fearful.

“Don’t you think?” James countered, a flush rising on his cheeks as his emotions mounted. “Doesn’t it feel like things are just beginning?”

“I’d rather they were ending,” Remus whispered, pressing the heel of his hand into his brow.

“This country will explode before there’s an ending,” James answered. “Bodies will fall and blood will stain the streets.”

Remus stood abruptly and rushed from James’ bedside, finding an empty bedpan three beds down. He retched, heaving the entire contents of his stomach, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His stomach clenched again, trying to make sure every ounce of bile had been expelled.

“Are you poorly?” a small voice said, and Remus looked up to see a young girl poking her head out from behind a privacy screen.

She had a kind looking face, still a bit pudgy with baby fat, all soft curves, and her dark eyes matched her chestnut waves, a blue ribbon nestled amongst them. But her eyes were sad and red-rimmed, tear tracks staining her skin from hours of crying.

“You must be Edith Morgan,” Remus croaked, his throat raw from vomiting, and she nodded. “I’m sorry about what happened to your brother. Are you scared?”

“I don’t understand why they hurt him,” Edith answered, casting a glance over her shoulder at her brother. “I don’t know if they want to hurt me too.”

“Not everyone in the wizarding world is kind,” Remus said, not quite an answer. “But those of us who are good will help you and keep you safe however we can.”

“Thank you,” she replied, tears springing to her cheeks again.

“I hope your brother gets better soon,” Remus said, nodding to her before returning to James and Peter.

It was Peter’s idea, the next night, to sneak back into the hospital wing with a bottle of firewhiskey Sirius had charmed out of Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks. What happened to Timothy Morgan had shaken all of them, and made them fearful of what might lie ahead.

It was past midnight as Sirius, Remus and Peter left Gryffindor Tower, the firewhiskey tucked carefully under Sirius’ arm. He hoped that they wouldn’t run into any trouble on the way, as they had not bothered to think of an excuse for being out after hours. He supposed they could tell something of the truth, that they were going to visit James, but since he was on the mend, he doubted it would get them far. At best they would be sent back to bed, with no punishment.

They snuck through the corridors as quietly as possible, careful to avoid trick stairs and certain particularly talkative portraits. For a moment, they thought the jig was up when they heard Peeves around the corner from them, but luck was on their side. They made it to the hospital wing without incident, ready to drown their heavy thoughts.

Peter pushed open the door or the infirmary as quiet as a mouse, peering around the corner to check that Madam Pomfrey was not about. She seemed to be asleep in her quarters for the moment, for there was no one in the ward but the patients, all soundly sleeping in their beds. They crept across the white linoleum soundlessly until they reached James’ bed.

With a wicked grin across his face, Sirius reached out and covered James’ mouth with his hand, but Remus rolled his eyes and waved his wand in the direction of Madam Pomfrey’s office, whispering muffliato under his breath. Sirius flicked James on the forehead, and he awoke with a start, a flash of fear passing over his features at the hand covering his mouth, before he recognized his friends huddled around him.

“What are you doing here?” James asked, shoving Sirius away from him and yawning but pushing himself upright. “Has something else happened?”

“Thought we could all use a bit of cheering up,” Sirius answered, pulling the bottle of firewhiskey out with a flourish.

“You’re sure we won’t wake anyone?” James asked, a bit hesitant. He’d never had firewhiskey before, he was pretty sure his friends hadn’t either, and he wasn’t sure the best place to try it for the first time was in the middle of the Hospital Wing.

“I cast muffliato,” Remus said, but he looked around the room anyway, making sure that none of the patients seemed disturbed.

Little Edith Morgan was curled up on the bed next to her brother’s, refusing to return to her dorm until he awoke. She was fast asleep, her fingers twitching around the blanket in her fist as dreams played out in her mind. Next to her, Timothy was as still as ever, still looking more like a corpse than a living boy. The cuts on his face had swollen more, and the hints of bruises that had been there before were now dark and angry looking. Remus had never seen anyone look worse, or less likely to wake up.

Sirius whisked out his wand and conjured up four small tumblers, setting them town on James’ nightstand and uncorking the bottle of firewhiskey. He doled out a healthy measure of the amber liquid for each of them, and handed them each a glass.

“Cheers,” he said, his eyes growing darker and more serious for a minute, before he pasted a mischievous look over it.

The four boys clinked glasses lightly, before bringing the firewhiskey to their lips. Sirius downed the whole thing in one go, shaking his head slightly at the burn. Peter sniffed and wrinkled his nose, but not wanting to be left out, he drank the liquid in two gulps anyway. Following Sirius’ lead, James attempted to swallow the contents of his class in one, but he coughed and spluttered, nearly spraying it across the rest of them. Remus drank more slowly, savouring the taste as much as he could, not altogether hating the burn of the firewhiskey sliding down his throat.

When all of their tumblers were empty, Sirius poured them another serving, and they drank that too. Again and again they downed the firewhiskey in silence, the bottle starting to run low. It wasn’t long until the boys could feel the effects of the firewhiskey, muddling their minds and their movements. They felt like the world was blurring around them, their cares and their worries fading into the haze.

They had been quiet as they drank the first few glasses, the mood still somber after their earlier conversation. But as the alcohol loosened their tongues and clouded their judgment, they began to dissolve into a giggling mess. Somehow, the world became amusing again, instead of scary, and they were able to laugh at the ridiculousness of a wizard calling himself ‘The Dark Lord’.

“Wha’f’s like the Wiz’d’ve Oz,” Peter slurred, practically cackling as the other three boys stared at him with dumbstruck expressions. “Y’know, with the guy like... and the curtain... ‘n’ something ‘bout a horse... a painted horse...”

“Peter, what in Merlin’s name are you on about?” Sirius asked, swaying unsteadily in his chair.

“I think,” Remus snorted, unable to stop laughing, “I think he means the guy on the curtain... the guy... the guy in the curtain? Jus’... poof! Smoke ‘n’ mirrors...”

“Mirrors...” James mused, staring at his hand in fascination as he wiggled his fingers. “Mirrors are weird...”

“Bet Tomothy Mirgin isn’t gon’ wanna look in a mirror any time soon,” Sirius guffawed, leaning back in his chair.

“No, he won’t,” Remus said, suddenly saddened. He looked like he might cry, his eyes shining.

“He’s brave,” Peter added, his tone becoming more somber.

“To Tomothy!” Sirius cheered loudly, hoisting his tumbler into the air.

“Do you think there really could be flying monkeys?” James asked, his mind spinning, his friends all answering in unison.

“No,” Sirius scoffed without hesitation.

“Yes!” Peter shrieked enthusiastically.

“Maybe,” Remus replied, ever the diplomat.

The four of them dissolved into a fit of laughter at the ridiculousness of giving three different answers all at the precise same time. From there, the conversations spiraled, drifting down every stray train of thought, incoherent to anyone but them. They stayed up for hours, fueling themselves with more firewhiskey any time they started to feel tired. Finally, as the sky began to lighten, Peter curled up on the bed with James, Remus leaned forward and rested his head on James’ stomach, and Sirius reclined in his chair, propping his legs up on the bed.

They dozed for half an hour before James sat up abruptly, shoving the others off of him.

“Move! Move!” he hissed, vaulting out of bed.

As the others rubbed sleepily at their eyes, James scurried to the bathroom at the end of the ward. They could hear the sound of retching coming from behind the door, and a few minutes later James emerged, wiping miserably at his mouth.

“Okay, I never want to drink again,” James sulked as he crawled back into bed. “You should get back to Gryffindor Tower before somebody catches you.”

Remus nodded, seeing the sense in James’ words, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. Sirius groaned and wiggled onto his side as much as he could in the chair, tucking his head into his hands.

“Okay,” Peter sighed, though his eyes didn’t open. “Okay, let’s go.”

Peter swung his legs out of the bed, nudging Sirius with his feet. Remus stood, hissing at the amount of light streaming in from the windows. Together, he and Peter hauled Sirius to his feet, and James watched as the three of them struggled out of the Hospital Wing together. With a groan, he rolled over in bed, covering his eyes with one of the pillows. He imagined that as soon as the others got back to the dormitory, they would be doing much the same thing. At least it was Saturday, and they could all spend the day in bed.

[leolair]

[Possessing Me Softly] Chapter 2: His name is Leo

"Whoa-whoa" The demon was holding your body when it went limp in his arms and you almost took him with you; so he had to shift his own weight to support yours. He was rummaging his brain for an explanation of what had just happened, why did you just passed out like that? Even more importantly, what in Hell's prairies was he supposed to do with you now. He should be explaining the details and commands of the contract to you, but... he can't, so... should he... leave and come back later? Well, for the moment he guessed he had to put you down.

The carmine orb fluttering by his side gurgled and he heard an excited voice inside his head. "Leo? How did it go?" Red drops from the bubble stumbled upon the dirt with every word.

Leo picked the honey tar and gave it a sniff. It wasn't completely ruined, he guessed. One could still salvage around half of it. Such a shame, it smelled really good.  "I closed it."

The bubble almost exploded when the voice spoke. "Congratulations! Oh, we have to celebrate. What do you want to eat?"

"Nothing that you cooked"

"It was one time I burnt the food, you have to let it go someday"

Leo didn't answer. There weren't numbers high enough to express how many times it had really been, and even when he didn't burnt it, N seemed to have a talent for striping ingredients out of their flavor. Leo had tried to teach him once or twice, but to no avail. Maybe N had a curse of sorts.

"Talk to me, Leo, how does your caster looks? Is she a girl, she sounded like a girl. Is she pretty? Have you two talked about the contract? Did you give her the bandage like I told you to?" Oh... that. Crap, N was going to nag him if he found out he had let you bleed all this time. He knelled right beside you; retrieving the small bandage from his coat, he started wrapping it around your arm. The cut didn't seem very deep and most of the bleeding had stopped now.

"No, she fainted," and the notion was swarming around Leo's head; he had seen deals being closed before and, although he admits he have been a tad more rough than he had seen N being in the past, he never witnessed a caster even losing his balance when the contract was sealed.

Leo noticed the voice in his head was awfully quiet, although he didn't ponder long if it was any sing of abnormality in your deal. "Maybe she cut too deep," the redhead suggested absent-mindedly. "Bleed too much". As far as he could see and as far as he could smell, there was blood everywhere. It coated the tars, it mixed with the honey, it stained the dirt and it even putted out one of the candles that had previously been knocked off.

He only heard a non-committal sound from his friend.

Time passed in which Leo picked your offerings, inspecting the ones he would take home and the ones he would simply toss out. So far he only had grabbed interest in the honey that had gone untouched by your blood and a small wooden music box. This weren't very common in the underground. He wondered how it would sound.  There was also some wine there that N would appreciate.

He was picking stuff around when he spotted a glimpse of metal in the dirt. He leaned down to pick it up, but...

Fuck. He let it down with a grunt.

"Leo? Everything alright?"

"Silver," the demon looked around for something to grab the blade with, but a caw stopped him. Hugnin, his familiar, was pecking at a black backpack. Maybe it was yours?

"Uh, bad choice. Do you think she knows it hurts us? Does she seem the evil type of woman? Maybe a witch?"

Leo opened the bag refusing to answer. Inside was an old looking book. He flipped through the pages, catching drawings of summoning runes along the paper. It was yours, then. He rummaged a little more until he felt soft cloth touch his fingers. He was looking for something he could wrap around the knife to grab it and not have his hand scorched. A sweater. Good enough.

He was about to reach for the blade when N's voice came back. "Hey, Leo? Try not using your hands to pick it up."

Sigh. Leo shoved the sweater back in the bag, maybe with a little more force than necessary. He squatted by the knife and placed his hands on top of it.

"Come on, you can do it, you just need to-"

Leo tuned him out. He could feel the air crisp around him and the hair in his arms stood up, but the knife remained on the ground. He pushed harder. He could feel something vibrating within his chest, the place where his soul might have been stored in the past. He felt energy in his fingertip and the knife lifted in the air. The sight always reminded Leo of a puppet having its strings pulled.

"I did it."

"Congratulations! Everything is coming together today isn't it? You had your first deal and you finally managed to lift sacred metals." His voice took a dramatically sad tone. "They grow so fast. I can still remember the day we met, you were so-"

"Shut up." Leo shoved the silver blade into your backpack; a little more force and the back of the bag might have been cut through. He felt better now that the thing was out of sight, but he was back on his initial conundrum. What was he supposed to do with you?

As if reading his mind N intervened. "You aren't just gonna leave her there, right?" But couldn't he? Couldn't he just... take off? Sure, the night was chilly but it wasn't all that cold, and he even cleaned around. Maybe if he threw your sweater over you…

"No," N was never going to let him live it down. Leo went to you and cupped your face in his hands. "Hey," he waited for a second, but the demon had to repeat his command a couple of times before getting any sing of awareness in you. "Open your eyes for me, please," your eyes rolled in your sockets and Leo had to fight a sigh. When they finally open, he rushed before you could pass out again. "I just need you to think of home, okay? Just think of your house for a second," It took a while, but he felt the image form in his head. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled at the strings, feeling them take him into his destination.

Chirp.

 Chirp.

 Chirp? Oh for fuck's sake... Those goddamn birds. You swore upon your nana's grave that that if you could go back in time just for a second it would be to stop you mother from planting that damned tree by your window.

Now, there’s a lie.

Ben.

You quickly sat in your bed and peeled the covers away from your body. Your head was killing you and the space over your sternum felt sore and heavy. You massaged the place, trying to sooth the feeling while searching for an injury. You found nothing. No blood, no scratches, not even a bruise. Still... you could clearly remember the star entering your body and the pain… oh the pain. It was like something impossible heavy pushed your insides around and took place in the middle of your chest.

Then, you noticed the bandage wrapped around your forearm. The wound throbbed and you could see some blood splattered in the cloth. You didn't remember bandaging it yourself. Did the demon...?

You got up, shaking the though off. Whatever happened was over and you needed a shower with urgency. Sweat, dirt and dried blood stuck to you like a second skin, your cheeks had crusts of dry tears that you don’t even remember crying. Well... some of them you did.

The ritual in theory was not that complicated, you thought as you striped in the shower, careful to not get the bandage over your arm wet. The blood sacrifice had taken more of your sanity, both mental and physical, that you could’ve predicted, but the rest was quite simple. A chalk drawn circle with an over spiked star, weird runes, candles, an incantation and offerings.

Now that's where it got interesting. Apparently there wasn't any "how-to" when it came to flattering demons, but there were basic offerings that, if the internet was right, pleased a great variety of them. Oh!, because the little fuckers turned out to be picky. Some liked rice grains; some wouldn't present themselves if you offered it; some would drool over raw meat; some would open you in canal if you dared to have it near them during the ritual.

In the end you went with wine, honey, incense, a couple of herbs and a small music box, because apparently, the one thing they all agreed on was that 'tech is neat'.

You wrapped your body in a towel and stepped out of the shower, even when it felt like only you lived in this house now, with your parents always in the hospital. Passing by the sink, you stole a side eyed glace in the mirror, what you saw stole a gasp from your lips. There it was, just like the books had described it; a single black symbol on the skin between your breasts. It was a small cross with two horizontal lines, a hollow circle sat atop the upper one and another more filled one dangled from the one at the bottom.

You ran your fingers over it and reality came crashing down on you, making your head spin. You were marked. You were marked like cattle.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"I sold my soul to a demon."

It was almost ironic that after all that time of researching satanic rituals and their whatabouts, it was now that the gravity of the situation fell upon you.

You were screwed.

You were beyond screwed; you had sold your soul and now it was someone else’s property. Well... not quite yet. Not until Ben was healed. You were going to be around until he could carry on with his own life. The rush of adrenaline made your head spin a little. It brought back memories from last night; the candles, the smoke, the blood, the demon-.

You saw movement out of the corner of your eye. You twisted your head as fast as humanly possible and backed against the wall when you saw... him, in your shower stand. He looked so out of place with his red eyes and ominous clothes. Just now in the bathroom light did you realize that his hair, despite how the candlelight made it seem last night, was actually of an auburn shade. Like old blood. Fuck, he was intimidating. The big black coat he wore didn't helped either.

Thinking about clothes...

The lack of them in your own body fell on you and you gripped the towel around your chest. "What the hell are you doing here?" He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He seemed at a loss for words.

"I... We need to talk. About the contract," he shifted in his feet "I need to teach you-"

"How long have you been in there?" Getting into hysterics was a bad, bad idea, yes, but you were dressed in only a towel, your arm was bleeding and your head was about to explode, so, if your voice had a particularly panicked tone, well... you had motive.

"I just got here, I wasn't... watching" The demon seemed to stumble upon his words.

You cradled your head in between your hands. Jesus Christ, the day had barely started and you already wanted to crawl back in bed. "Can it wait?"

"Yes, but-"

"Please, just... Go downstairs, give me a second"

The demon nodded and disappeared in a bright light and a loud snap that brought a buzz to your ears.

What the-…

When you walked down the stairs a part of you wished the red-haired demon would be gone, but to your despair, he was planted in the middle of your kitchen, his eyes stuck to a brightly coloured cookie jar. Despite his dramatic look what made your heart jump was not him, bu the big bird perched in one of the wooden chairs from the breakfast table. When she heard you enter the room, she twisted her head around and stared at you with... one, two... seven? Seven eyes. Lord. Her companion heard you as well, and in a likewise manner twisted around looking guilty. You wanted to ask him if he would like a treat for the bird, instead you asked him what did he needed you for.

"Leo" Eh? "My name" Oh. You introduced yourself.

Leo took a notebook from a hidden pocket in his black coat. "We need to go over some things" You eyed the clock hanging over the wall. The black tail of the cat ticked in a steady rhythm; it's eyes traveled from side to side, but you had the feeling it was somehow judging your  life decisions. Nevertheless, you still had some time until school started, so you sat down at the kitchen table, motioning Leo to do the same.

"Before we begin, do you have any question?"

"Yeah, why were you in my shower stand?"

"I-... You passed out, so I-"

"Yeah I get that, but how did you got in there?"

"It's..." He was trying to place it with the right words, but seemed unable to.  The silence extended, you thought he was just going to left that hanging, but he proceeded talking "It's easier to show you."  

You wondered what he meant, but a bright light shined and much like the way he did a couple of minutes ago, he vanished into thin air.

"What?" You looked around, but were completely alone in the kitchen. The baby blue walls that your father used to always keep on patrol for any oil or sauce spills, would have given a dramatic contrast with the almost gothic appearance of the demon. You stood up, looking through the windows that gave to the back garden. Your mother's forgotten cops, dried and dead sat unbothered under the early sun, but no trace of a black coat or a red head. Where had he...?

The black bird made a deep noise that sounded an awful lot like human speech. You passed saliva. It's okay. You knew some birds could mimic sounds. It wasn't all that rare. Although, added to the eyes and the way she looked at you, It was creepy as fuck. "What was that?" you spoke with a trembling voice.

"Leo."

"Leo?"

The air in front of you changed and there he was, he was... too close. You breathed in deep, and received a whiff of coffee and something deeper,  far more sinister that complimented the situation perfectly. He was so tall he towered over you; he was close enough for you to feel the heat emanating from his body and his face was… his eyes were...

You took a step back.

"So you appear" Nod. "Whenever I call?"

Leo hesitated. "It works on intent" He passed his hands through the front of his clothes, as if straightening imaginary wrinkles. "You don't need to call me, just..."

"Yeah, I didn't call you upstairs."

"You didn't need to, I was sort of, 'keeping an eye... Ear. Keeping an ear out'"

"And what, you heard me saying the word 'demon' but not the shower running?"

"I didn't hear you I... well I did hear your voice, but I wasn't outside the door or anything"

"Then where-? Oh." It finally fell on you what he was trying to say. "How does that actually work?" You motioned between the two of you. "The books weren't all that clear."

"The contract is inside of you." Leo pointed at the middle of your chest. The star. "That..." He struggled with his words "keeps a door of sorts, open."

You placed a hand over your sternum. Then, a feeling of heaviness around your heart made itself present. As downing as this whole affair seemed... You had a cause. You had a purpose. Last night when you opened your wrist you thought that was going to be it, and the fact that it didn't... well, that changed nothing. "Is there anything else?"

You saw him shift in his chair. He was uneasy and you could almost swear he didn't want to keep going. Regardless, he started reading from his notebook. "The caster, as solicitor, holds complete liberties over the course of action they might prefer to accomplish the given task through, although it is advised to follow the generic methodology presented by the casteé. In addition, the contract enforces the fulfillment of these commands to accelerate the process and to assert the caster wishes are seen trough."

"Wait, what does that mean? I can just boss you around?" Nod. "And you 'have' to do it?" Shrug. "Yikes."

Leo let out a big exhale of air. You had the feeling he was trying to calm himself down. "I need to see your brother soon, but for now, please tell me what exactly is his situation.”

You squirmed in the chair, already familiar with the drowning sensation that swallowed you whenever someone asked about Ben's many afflictions. "My parents were... rather old when they got Ben and the pregnancy was risky," There was a knot forming in the back of your throat, but you pushed it down. "My mom... she went through a lot and Ben was born sooner that we thought."

"How soon?" You noticed the demon was scribbling in the notebook from before.

"Near 28 weeks. He... started to get really sick; had problems breathing and the doctors hooked him to a respirator, but... because of how long he needed the machine, his lungs took some damage. Over the years it escalated, he was diagnosed around a year ago with chronic lung disease. It was supposed to get better over time, but... it hasn't."

"How old is your brother right now?"

"He will turn three in a couple of weeks," which brought to mind that you still had to plan something for his birthday. Last year he had been crazy for butterflies, so you managed to sneak a couple and let them flutter in his hospital room. The smile on his face was worth every second the nurses scolded you. This year, you wondered where on earth you were going to get a dinosaur.

"I see. Is that all?"

"No. He gets infections all the time, even in the hospital's 'sterile' chambers. He also had a very bad anemia that slowed down his growth." Leo was nodding you along, pen dancing over the paper.

>>He has... trouble learning. At the beginning the doctors guessed his brain hadn't developed correctly, but it seems fine in all of the scans," you leaned against the wall, talking about Ben always drained you emotionally. You wondered if anyone will notice if you skipped class today. You considered for a moment, but desisted upon realizing that staying home would just prolong your current conversation. You focused again on your train of thought. "We are just... stumbling in the dark at this point. All the other preemies in his wing stayed in the hospital only a couple of weeks, Ben lives there."

"Is there any chance I could look into his medical records, as well as your family's?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll have to look for them, though."

"I'll need some blood too."

A chill ran down your spine. Last night you had to pay a price in blood, maybe... "You want me to..." your hand gestured towards the kitchen knives.

Leo's eyes bored on you. He seemed strangely amused by your suggestion.  “I mean a sample. From your brother?”

Embarrassment brought the color back to your face. Right.

[ancientbrit]

Natter #04  12/08/2019

Today the long-planned mobile cart, purchased to replace our defunct clinic bookcase arrived without fanfare at the front door in the form of a large and heavy package. I dragged it inside, opened it and removed the components, spreading them out in the living room to check. Yep, all there and all quite massive. They went together quite easily which took about 30 minutes. The casters on this cart are much larger than the roller skate wheels on the old bookcase - which will make for a much easier journey from RIte Aid to the Farmers Market through the car park. In addition, the tires are rubber and pneumatic so the trip will be so much quieter and less destructive of the cart's contents. Being heavier and of more massive construction generally, the cart rides so smoothly that the weight matters not. There is so much space that we will have no trouble carrying our books and boxes. Plenty of room there for the occasional passenger too I wouldn't wonder. 2020 here we come! The recent "50 years a Master Gardener honoree, Pat Roome, had a fall a few weeks ago, suffering a compression fracture of her spine. She had been using a garden fork as a 'stick' to help in getting around her garden for a while, but this fall took place indoors. She was carrying a glass of wine and somehow started to fall. Having her priorities in the right place, the wine was not spilled, nor was the glass broken, only her back took the brunt. She spent a few days in hospital, which went over like a lead balloon, and has been at home recovering now for about five weeks with an expected one more week to go. For those who have seen Pat's garden, you will know what a wonderful selection of unusual plants she grows. Pat is concerned that if she eventually has to move, her house will be torn down and replaced by the usual Mega-Mansion, but more to the point, her marvelous garden plants are likely to be bulldozed and years of work lost. Alison and I have talked about getting a propagation day organized but hadn't yet got around to doing it, but both of us and Colleen have already started to take off cuttings and seeds. Expect to see notice of such a Propagation day being announced in the Spring. There is a new tomato on the scene. It is easy to grow, It won't bruise in shipping. It is resistant to many of the major diseases that regularly decimate tomato crops and it is a flesh producing machine, regularly turning out 22 lb per plant. It has one big thing going for it that supermarket tomatoes don't - FLAVOR and lots of it, but Big Tomato has little interest in flavor and supermarkets don't care, so it will never appear on supermarket shelves. A big grower has said that he never lost a sale because his tomatoes had no flavor! Incredible. The breeder of this conventionally bred variety joined the University of Florida in 1995 and worked on the flavor problem for 20 + years, even using a gas chromatograph to plumb the depths of what makes for a great flavored tomato, resulting in this fruit, but the seed is not available in stores. The only way you can get it, is to make a small (or large) donation to the breeder at the U of Florida for additional research. If anybody is interested I can pass on the information. I am going to give it a try. I was just reading yet another article by James Wong regarding small fruits and he recommends planting them in December as the best time. Of all home grown crops, they provide the biggest reward in return for effort involved. Not only is the fruit expensive to buy compared to the modest price of the plant, but they come in all sorts of weird and wonderful varieties that would never pass the shelf life and standardised appearance requirements of supermarket buyers. This means that flavor can be be placed right at the top of your list! Not only that, but if you pick your species choice right, they can blend seamlessly with ornamentals, meaning hat you don't have to pick between two opposing garden looks. Blueberries are one of his top picks, given their ease of culture in a sunny spot in ericaceous soil and the fact that not only do you get the benefit of the luscious berries, but a blaze of color in the Autumn. Purple Raspberry "Glen Coe" is next up. although technically not a raspberry, but a complex hybrid of bramble species. The fruit offers a sensational flavored fruit amid it's beautiful silvery , glaucous foliage. It also offers the blessing of being thornless, although it will need to be watched as it is a vigorous grower, but enthusiastic Summer pruning will take care of that. It is certainly worth the effort. Finally in this region he implores us to give Chilean Guavas a try. Coming from the temperate rain forests of Patagonia, they are one of the few fruits to perform significantly better in shade. This blueberry relative can kick out more than a couple of pounds of dusky pink, highly aromatic fruit per plant in the Summer. It was said to be Queen Victoria's favorite fruit and look like wild strawberries crossed with candy floss. In the garden the shrubs look like box plants with small glossy, evergreen leaves. They have scented white flowers, un-buyable fruit (have you ever seen them in the shops?) and total immunity to the dreaded box blight! Today, Jean and I visited the Phinney Ridge Christmas Arts Fair - the first time in about eight years. It used to be one of the local Christmas Art Fairs at which we had a stand, selling Jean's made-from-scratch soaps and a marvellous range of hand knitted scarves and shawls she used to pump out. We used to find these events tiring but so exciting, but whether that was because we usually made a lot of money at them or if it was seeing old friends from years before I don't know, probably a mixture of both. This time it was so disappointing. No old friends, most of what was on offer wasn't really great and of the three soap stands there, only one was offering soap made from scratch. The other two made their product from kits. The prices were double what we used to charge too. It would probably have been better to remember the old days. One more item of note. I have just bought yet another book on Plant Propagation - making it number 29. 'Have to keep up you know. it is a 'Newly revised edition' containing intimate details of over 1500 plants apparently, So far I haven't been able to stump it, but I am working my way through. This is like;ly to be my last effort this year so I will take the opportunity to wish you all a very merry Christmas and healthy, happy and garden productive New Year. Gordon

[kusunokihime-mobile]

Suigin Reiji

INFO

Full Name: Suigin Reiji Nickname: N/A Age: 6-14 (default) Date of Birth: September 21st Ethnicity: Native of Hi no Kuni Orientation: Biromantic / Bisexual Gender: Cisgender Male Residence: Konoha; Kusunokizan Occupation: Assistant in Konoha Hospital Kekkei Genkai: White Hands of Healing; River of Vitality; Sharingan Chakra Natures: Yin; Yang; Yin/Yang Blood Type: A- Location associations: Hi no Kuni; Konoha; Kusunokizan Team: N/A

BIOGRAPHY

Born several years after the end of the Fourth Shinobi War, Reiji is part of the golden generation, a member of the age group that includes the children of Naruto's class. Son of Ryū and Obito, he is the first boy born to the Suigin line.

Just like his mother, Reiji inherits nearly all facets of the Suigin bloodline, from appearance to kekkei genkai. He does his best to juggle the expectations of both his parents, studying hard to become a medic like his mother, but also training to use shinobi techniques like his father. Endeavoring to do both, however, leaves him often fatigued and burnt out. (Though not yet written, it's a possibility Reiji may, at some point, unlock the Sharingan. Otherwise, neither he nor his parents are aware he carries it)

Though a bit shy, Reiji took to his learning quickly, eager to follow in his parents' footsteps. With his diligent studying and friendly nature, he became a full-fledged part of the hospital staff at age fourteen, and also helped lead the way for a specialty school for those wanting to become medics, but not shinobi.

After passing his classes, Reiji was taken back to Kusunokizan for his advanced training, where he remained for four years. Upon his return, he took up a teaching position in the medic's academy, while also devoting time to helping out within the hospital proper.

For the most part, Reiji's only work is in the village, but he is occasionally sent out for missions involving aid work or ill/injured dignitaries from their allies.

PERSONALITY

When very young, Reiji was very shy and a little unsure of himself, tending to cling to his parents rather ardently. But as he was introduced to new people and began his training, he mellowed out considerably. By the time he was a typical genin's age, he was a very calm, laid-back kid with a good sense of humor like his dad (and also Obito's occasional rambunctiousness and easily-flustered nature).

APPEARANCE

A bit of a mix of his parents, Reiji possesses darker grey eyes than his mother. And all hair on his body - scalp, brows, lashes, and even body hair - is white, except for a fringe of black hair that forms a 'halo' around the outer edges of his hair: along the nape of his neck, and along his temples. He keeps his hair a bit on the shaggy side, taking to hiding behind his fringe. He's got a lithe, limber build, ending up a bit taller than average as he grows. He tends to wear mostly light grey or white clothing with black or purple accents: usually loose and casual.

TECHNIQUES

Focusing almost entirely on healing and defense like his mother, Reiji's skillset revolves mostly around the same techniques and methods. During his training in Kusunokizan, he too learns defensive-based jutsu and taijutsu: utilizing barriers, and also hand-to-hand that redirects his enemy's attacks while using little energy, and letting them burn out their own. When taken to get a summon, he deviated from getting an owl, and instead found a white fox named Suzume. His father, however, also does his best to teach him some of his family's own techniques, mostly those in the katon category. Though he excels in offensive jutsu, he ultimately ends up preferring those of his mother's bloodline, using his father's only when pressed to defend.

ABILITIES

Sage Mode

(Sennin Mōdo)

Sage mode taught to him by his line's teacher, Suigin. He stays in Kusunokizan to learn it for four years.

White Hands of Healing

(Iyashino Shiroi Te)

Kekkei genkai. Allows for faster, more efficient healing. Chakra can be guided through user’s own keirakukei to heal injuries directly. Has a calming effect, and can be used to sedate/calm patients.

River of Vitality

(Katsuryoku no Kawa)

Minor kekkei genkai. While in Sennin Mōdo, can passively gather Nature chakra, though at a slower rate than meditation.

Sharingan

Kekkei genkai. Allows the user to see chakra (including its color), cast genjutsu, and copy ninjutsu and taijutsu through enhanced visual perception.

TRIVIA

Reiji is named to somewhat match his maternal grandmother: Reiji (麗司, “lovely, rule”) from Reika (麗夏, “beautiful summer”).

His adopted theme is Gentle Hands.

Hobbies include meditation, playing the shakuhachi (flute), and painting with watercolors.

He has no desired fights, but if he had to, probably against his dad (as a spar, or course).

Reiji's favorite food are riceballs with nori. He dislikes spicy foods.

He only has a handful of aid missions: 5 C-Rank, 2 B-Rank, and one A-Rank he went on with his mother.

His favorite word is "diligence", 勉強 (benkyō)

JUTSU

Wall of Defense

(Bōei no Kabe)

(Sennin jutsu)

Barrier that repels anything physical; not genjutsu or sound.

Wall of Incineration

(Shōkyaku no Kabe)

(Sennin jutsu)

Barrier that incinerates anything physical with highly-condensed chakra.

Wall of Mirrors

(Kagami no Kabe)

(Sennin jutsu)

Barrier that reflects light, and renders anything beneath it unseen.

Snare

(Shikake-sen)

(Sennin jutsu)

Makes nature-based chakra tripwires that can alert her to physical movement. Is affected by distance - the further she is from the set lines, the weaker the signal until it disappears completely.

Gōkakyū no Jutsu

(Great Fireball technique)

Chakra is molded and given form in fire, expelled from the mouth with power equal to the caster's skill.

STATS

NINJUTSU     4/5

TAIJUTSU      3/5

GENJUTSU     1/5

INTELLIGENCE     4/5

STRENGTH     3/5

SPEED     2/5

STAMINA     3/5

SEALS      3/5

TOTAL     23/40

RANK: MEDICAL ASSISTANT

REGISTRATION: N/A

[ image ]

[inkstainedhan]

The Two Princes

[[ cyne has a chat with the high priestess. and shows off his stuff ]]

In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been so bad for Pin to have forced him to stop and say a proper farewell. At the very least, it’d given him a moment to calm down and think about where he was teleporting to - he’d originally planned to go directly to the High Priestess’s office, but the brief interruption had changed that. Not that he’d ever tell Pin that she’d been helpful by trying to annoy him. Instead, he had arrived in the temple’s royal suites and terrified a poor maid who’d been dusting the place. After he’d finished apologising, he’d sent her to alert the Priestess to his presence with a short letter asking for a meeting later that evening. The delay would, in theory, let him figure out what he needed to ask.

Barely ten minutes later, as he lounged on a plush sofa with pages of hastily written notes before him, he received a response. He ignored the formalities, scanning for the time. “Seven in the evening... an hour,” he murmured, watching the room’s clock slowly tick past six. “Plenty of time to write.”

One of the perks of being a nobleman was the impeccable education. He’d grown up among the finest minds and libraries in the lands, and had taken full advantage, meaning that he wasn’t unfamiliar with the stories of prior Champions. They weren’t common, and now that he reviewed his memories, they generally didn’t lead to anything good. But usually, hadn’t they been chosen individually? It wasn’t hard to remember legends of previous heroes, stories of how their god bestowed them with championship as a reward for great deeds in service to their deity. Hell, as a child he’d loved the story of an ancient champion of Nethys, who’d channelled the arcane god’s destructive power into literally tearing the nation of Magyka Majoris from the earth and turning it into a mass of floating islands to defeat a colossal aberration that had dominated the minds of its people. It was no wonder nobody knew how to react when Ashlyn’s group of wanderers showed off their tattoos. This was.. unheard of. It had to be.

Yet that cleric had seemed to know otherwise. He’d recognised her symbol, that of Torag, but her style of clothing wasn’t too far changed from what his clergy still wore today, and there wasn’t a true way of telling how old the spirit was. Ghosts were notoriously bad at remembering years in his experience. Sighing, he pulled up his sleeve and removed the leather bracer that covered his mark. He certainly didn’t feel as heroic as the legends had always painted champions. And if there had ever been a champion of an Eldest before, he’d never heard of them. Hopefully Lady Tinuval could elucidate. Shooting another look at the clock, he slid the bracer back on and stood up, wincing at the pain that shot through his chest as he did so. He hoped he’d at least helped Kraia by absorbing part of that hit, but the sudden pain had nearly knocked him over when it’d happened. He’d at least been able to bandage the wound before it bled too much, but... perhaps he should ask Lady Tinuval to assist with that matter, too. It’d be better than leaving the wound to scar for his sister to then panic over. Gods forbid he have scars. He smirked at the memory of Alysia first catching him lazing around instead of heading to the infirmary. She’d been more upset over the marks than anything else. Anyway. It was nearing seven already. He glanced once more at the notes he’d written, knowing he couldn’t bring them, and teleported.

The High Priestess’s office was always stunning to behold. The floating silver orbs were mesmerising if one looked at them for too long, and the mixture of marble, glass, silver and gold made the entire room feel almost heavenly... which was the entire point, really. He’d asked her once about the orbs. She’d explained that each held something of each god worshipped at the temple, whether it be a holy symbol or something more, and had demonstrated by calling down one containing an ornate miniature harp bearing Shelyn’s symbol. Apparently, they represented the temple’s unity and allegiance to each god. The High Priestess herself was a typical elf - tall, slender and incredibly beautiful, her pale hair cascading down the back of the white and gold robes she always wore. Her sharp purple eyes caught his arrival immediately, and she rose from her chair to bow deeply. Mentally sighing at the formalities, he gave her a shallow bow in return, before indicating she was to sit as he took the room’s other chair, hiding the wince. Or so he thought, as she raised a brow at him.

“It is an honour to meet with you, my lord. Does something ail you? You seem pained.” Her voice was cool, crisp and carried a genuine undertone of concern. She was always so observant. Bloody clerics. He nodded, smiling sheepishly.

“You have a good eye. I had hoped to ask later, but yes. I was assisting Princess Ashlyn in her assault on Fort Kildaine earlier today and received a slight injury. Would you mind?” As she rounded the desk, he undid his shirt and dispelled the shadowy bandages he’d created to reveal the deep slash across his chest, watching to see how she reacted. Her eyes widened in concern, snapping from his chest to meet his in a stern glare.

“Your highness, I understand that it was a battlefield, but you of all people should know better than to leave such a wound virtually untreated.” she chided gently, resting her hands above the wound as they began to glow gold with healing power. He grimaced, feeling the magic rush through his body. “It would be shameful for our heir apparent to pass from sheer stubborn dislike of hospitals.”

He grinned ruefully as she withdrew, taking the opportunity to fix his clothing. “Thank you, but the circumstances were such that I felt it more important to seek your counsel first.” Predicting a retort, he rested his arm on the table almost casually and cut her off with a question, carefully studying her reaction. “What do you know of this emergence of champions?”

He was glad he’d watched for it - her reaction was slight, but immediate, glancing between the leather bracer and him with a calculating expression. Closing her eyes for a moment, the High Priestess leaned back in her chair. “...Gods typically choose champions when they have performed near-legendary feats, and it is unspeakably rare for multiple to be chosen at once. From my understanding, Princess Ashlyn and her associates were marked before, not after, their slaying of the Ilendran corruption. Even had they begged their gods for power, for multiple champions to be chosen is almost completely unheard of.”

“When the princess succeeded in taking the fort, her companions uncovered a ghostly cleric of Torag who spoke of it being a sign of the end times. When you say ‘almost’... the only apocalypse-level event I can recall easily is the Worldrend.” A chill ran through him as he considered the implications of that, causing him to lose concentration for a moment, missing her reaction. Her voice snapped him back to reality.

“Yes. That is the only recorded occurrence has been confirmed to contain a more numerous amount of the champions as we know them today. Of course, divine power was carefully given in those days, and common parlance speaks of every caster involved as a champion of their god. However, the day’s scriptures speak of specific favoured in addition to these, marked with tattoos that seemed to spread across their entire bodies as channels for divine power. Being so long ago, we have little solid information. I had assigned a research group to the champions after Princess Ashlyn’s appearance, but I believe you may wish to study the information yourself.” She looked meaningfully at his still-covered arm. He gave her a tired smile, pulling it back to himself.

“Thank you, it’s very much appreciated. Still, if this signifies an apocalypse of some sort, have the Celesthem oracles foreseen any signs? Neither my sister nor any of the cursed that I’ve been travelling with have received any visions of such a thing.”

“I will consult with them, but none of my recent conversations with them have gleaned anything of the sort. If I might be so plain, which of the gods has blessed--” He held up a hand, stopping her, and removed the bracer, worry gracing his brow. After allowing her to gaze at it for a moment, recognition and curiosity sparked in her expression, he leaned forward and took her hand before she could react.

Switching to Celestial, his golden eyes glowed softly as his crown’s illusion deactivated. “High Priestess Aetha Tinuval, and any who may spy on this meeting. By my right as the Crown Prince of this land, I command thy silence on mine status as Champion, mine religion, and mine person’s relationship to any future events connected to the Champions. Thou may speak of these only to me, and to those whom I give thee leave. If thy fail to heed these words, whether it be thine intent or not, thou shalt be found Guilty of High Treason by the holy blood that runs between through mine veins. In the name of Aletheia, I command this be done.” A flash of gold surrounded the two, sealing the command, and he dropped her hand. “...My apologies, but absolute secrecy in this matter is paramount.”

The High Priestess nodded contemplatively, seeming to spend a moment of time considering her next words. “I understand, my lord. I shall not fail you.” She gestured at his wrist, still exposed. “This is the symbol of the Lost Prince, is it not? An Eldest, of the First World?” He nodded, allowing her to continue. “I have not, personally, ever heard of an individual being named champion of the fey. This is especially odd, considering that you yourself are not fey - yet - and that you spend the majority of your time on the Material Plane.”

“Yet?”

“...Past champions have had their bodies altered to better suit their gods. I recall one scroll recovered from the Underdark that spoke of a drow serving Lord Kostchtchie who swelled in size, becoming more akin to a dark giant than a drow, and developed armour of ice as he cut swathes through the abominations lurking beneath Iskaldhal. It is not implausible that the Lost Prince might alter you to better fit your role.”

Sliding the bracer back on, Cyne frowned deeply. That wasn’t good. Being an outsider was a hard requirement to taking the crown of Aletheia, and were he no longer compatible.. it would fall to Alysia. Which, again, he would not allow to happen. “I’m very thankful for your information and time, my lady. I have much to think on. How soon will I be able to study that aforementioned research?” 

Instead of an immediate reply, she retrieved a map from beneath her desk, spreading it over the table and indicating a room. “It is currently here. Would you be able to teleport there when you wish to study it, or should we have it relocated to your quarters?”

“There is fine, thank you. I believe, then, that this meeting is concluded. I will let you know if I discover anything of interest; in turn, please do the same for me.”

“Of course, my lord. Fare thee well.”

“Good evening, High Priestess.” With that, he teleported directly back to his room, and, checking for any maids that were present, stepped into his demiplane. He needed to pray. He desperately needed to pray.

[ancientbrit]

Natter # ?  12/08/2019

Today the long-planned mobile cart, purchased to replace our defunct clinic bookcase arrived without fanfare at the front door in the form of a large and heavy package. I dragged it inside, opened it and removed the components, spreading them out in the living room to check. Yep, all there and all quite massive. They went together quite easily which took about 30 minutes. The casters on this cart are much larger than the roller skate wheels on the old bookcase - which will make for a much easier journey from RIte Aid to the Farmers Market through the car park. In addition, the tires are rubber and pneumatic so the trip will be so much quieter and less destructive of the cart's contents. Being heavier and of more massive construction generally, the cart rides so smoothly that the weight matters not. There is so much space that we will have no trouble carrying our books and boxes. Plenty of room there too for the occasional passenger too I wouldn't wonder. 2020 here we come! The recent "50 years a Master Gardener honoree, Pat Roome, had a fall a few weeks ago, suffering a compression fracture of her spine. She had been using a garden fork as a 'stick' to help in getting around her garden for a while, but this fall took place indoors. She was carrying a glass of wine and somehow started to fall. Having her priorities in the right place, the wine was not spilled, nor was the glass broken, only her back took the brunt. She spent a few days in hospital, which went over like a lead balloon, and has been at home recovering now for about five weeks with an expected one more week to go. For those who have seen Pat's garden, you will know what a wonderful selection of unusual plants she grows. Pat is concerned that if she eventually has to move, her house will be torn down and replaced by the usual Mega-Mansion, but more to the point, her marvelous garden plants are likely to be bulldozed and years of work lost. Alison and I have talked about getting a propagation day organized but hadn't yet got around to doing it, but both of us and Colleen have already started to take off cuttings and seeds. Expect to see notice of such a Propagation day being announced in the Spring. There is a new tomato on the scene. It is easy to grow, It won't bruise in shipping. It is resistant to many of the major diseases that regularly decimate tomato crops and it is a flesh producing machine, regularly turning out 22 lb per plant. It has one big thing going for it that supermarket tomatoes don't - FLAVOR and lots of it, but Big Tomato has little interest in flavor and supermarkets don't care, so it will never appear on supermarket shelves. A big grower has said that he never lost a sale because his tomatoes had no flavor! Incredible. The breeder of this conventionally bred variety joined the University of Florida in 1995 and worked on the flavor problem for 20 + years, even using a gas chromatograph to plumb the depths of what makes for a great flavored tomato, resulting in this fruit, but the seed is not available in stores. The only way you can get it, is to make a small (or large) donation to the breeder at the U of Florida for additional research. If anybody is interested I can pass on the information. I am going to give it a try. I was just reading yet another article by James Wong regarding small fruits and he recommends planting them in December as the best time. Of all home grown crops, they provide the biggest reward in return for effort involved. Not only is the fruit expensive to buy compared to the modest price of the plant, but they come in all sorts of weird and wonderful varieties that would never pass the shelf life and standardised appearance requirements of supermarket buyers. This means that flavor can be be placed right at the top of your list! Not only that, but if you pick your species choice right, they can blend seamlessly with ornamentals, meaning hat you don't have to pick between two opposing garden looks. Blueberries are one of his top picks, given their ease of culture in a sunny spot in ericaceous soil and the fact that not only do you get the benefit of the luscious berries, but a blaze of color in the Autumn. Purple Raspberry "Glen Coe" is next up. although technically not a raspberry, but a complex hybrid of bramble species. The fruit offers a sensational flavored fruit amid it's beautiful silvery , glaucous foliage. It also offers the blessing of being thornless, although it will need to be watched as it is a vigorous grower, but enthusiastic Summer pruning will take care of that. It is certainly worth the effort. Finally in this region he implores us to give Chilean Guavas a try. Coming from the temperate rain forests of Patagonia, they are one of the few fruits to perform significantly better in shade. This blueberry relative can kick out more than a couple of pounds of dusky pink, highly aromatic fruit per plant in the Summer. It was said to be Queen Victoria's favorite fruit and look like wild strawberries crossed with candy floss. In the garden the shrubs look like box plants with small glossy, evergreen leaves. They have scented white flowers, un-buyable fruit (have you ever seen them in the shops?) and total immunity to the dreaded box blight! Today, Jean and I visited the Phinney Ridge Christmas Arts Fair - the first time in about eight years. It used to be one of the local Christmas Art Fairs at which we had a stand, selling Jean's made-from-scratch soaps and a marvellous range of hand knitted scarves and shawls she used to pump out. We used to find these events tiring but so exciting, but whether that was because we usually made a lot of money at them or if it was seeing old friends from years before I don't know, probably a mixture of both. This time it was so disappointing. No old friends, most of what was on offer wasn't really great and of the three soap stands there, only one was offering soap made from scratch. The other two made their product from kits. The prices were double what we used to charge too. It would probably have been better to remember the old days. One more item of note. I have just bought yet another book on Plant Propagation - making it number 29. 'Have to keep up you know. it is a 'Newly revised edition' containing intimate details of over 1500 plants apparently, So far I haven't been able to stump it, but I am working my way through. This is like;ly to be my last effort this year so I will take the opportunity to wish you all a very merry Christmas and healthy, happy and garden productive New Year. Gordon