#TWELVE THOUSAND????????? DREAM IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR REAL.....................

[stellerssong]

starting the new year off right with some werewolves being fucking unwell

@lucienne-thee-librarian @raspberryjellybrains pspspspspsps

[iviarellereads]

Nona the Ninth, John 19:18(1)

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(No icon) In which someone wishes he hadn't signed up for the cool cow facts newsletter the way he did.

The water keeps rising in the dream. He raises some land that was covered by the sea. She asks him if it's hard, but he says the hard part "was remembering that he could do it, and not just doing things the old difficult way."(2) On the newly exposed land is a concrete building, surrounded by cracked bone.(3) They don't go near it.

He says, there wasn't much time left, but the old financial backers for his project were the most scared of them. They kept trying to say that John was working with this or that country, to prove what he was doing wasn't real. John just kept offering to help.

They all had warrants for arrest from interpol. Sometimes, people would ask to leave the compound, and he let them, whether they were reporting back to the CIA or scared of being caught there. He didn't care, really, because he only really trusted his inner circle anyway.

He tried to bring Ulysses and Titania back from the dead, but couldn't make it work. The nun said their souls were gone, and it took him a long time to listen to her. Both of them were right, but that's a different part of the story.

In the dream, he gets angry, storms off, kicks rocks. Eventually he comes back, and says, they took the ships away and said they'd be focusing on FTL instead, faster-than-light, even though it was never really about light speed. They claimed the cryo plan got shut down because it wasn't safe enough, they'd only got it down to an 8% chance of permanent damage, and they never fixed maternity--

Here he broke off and couldn’t speak for a while. When he spoke again he said, We were the ones who argued them down to 8%. They were ready to go when we were just in the seventies, they were all, ooh, everyone knows it’s a risk, and it’s not like it’s thirty percent fatality, it’s thirty percent chance of damage, what’s that even, ooh. He said, They hadn’t given a fuck about maternity, said people should terminate before they got packed as a rule. When M— had been all, I will not accept those numbers, I will not accept a plan that incorporates reproductive injustice,(4) and we stood beside her, we said that’s not acceptable, they whinged about the money for a while and eventually said fine. And now they were acting like eight percent wasn’t good enough. Like we hadn’t tried.

The trillionaires were acting as though they had made the holy grail, when it was obvious to John that something was wrong, and A- pointed out some flaws in the plan. The trillionaires said they'd send out twelve ships first, a proof of concept to set up beacon frequencies for the others to follow.

He said, We knew how much those ships cost. We couldn’t even imagine how much FTL engines cost, but we could guess. We knew how much each ship could carry. In the cryo cans, we could cram in billions, that was cryo’s saving grace. Whereas they were staffing ships with a living crew, no sleepers, big-ass ships with thousands of live staff. When we pointed that out they kept saying we were crazy, we were kooks, we were monsters. They kept saying cows watched sunsets. At that point I wished I’d used the fucking conspiracy theorists instead of the cows. Nobody would’ve cared if I’d turned people inside-out who think vaccines have nanites in them that mine cryptocurrency.(5) But cows watch sunsets, man!

M- said this was why they took the cryo plan away in the first place. The rich rats wanted to scatter to safety and leave the rest behind. A- agreed, which just made it worse. He wasn't even sure the FTL claim was real. John assured them that no one would fall for it, they'd have to give numbers, they'd have to prove they were making the other ships. Look at the uproar when he "proved magic was real and turned Bidibidi inside out(6) because we didn’t trust the cops." There's no way they could pull it off.(7)

At that moment in the dream he got up off the car, and he said, “Fuck,” in a normal voice, and then he said, “FUCK,” so loudly that it echoed off the crumbling concrete shell and the bones and was carried off into the mist. She watched him walk the field, three times, five times, ten. On the eleventh, he squelched through the mud to her and collapsed in front of the car and he said, They left you, they left you. They saw you suffering on dollar-shop life-support, and they didn’t look back. They didn’t give a fuck about trying to save you. They left. She said, "I don't remember." He said, "I can't forget."

=====

(1) John 19:18 is "Where they crucified him, and with him two others, one on each side, and Jesus in the midst." Not quite as relevant, John isn't exactly crucified here… though, his reputation is. A1Z26 brings us to THETOWERHASR. The tower (or Tower?) has what? Good question, next question. (2) Remembering that he can do this, because it's a lucid dream, and you can control things in those? Or does he have yet more powers we don't know yet? (3) The facility. (4) Makes Mercy's reaction to Wake's use of the samples look just a little different in hindsight, if you go back to Harrow chapter 50. (5) Explicit reference to actual modern conspiracy theory in our actual real world. (6) I can find that Bidibidi is a village in Uganda that became a refugee camp, and that there's a bush by the scientific name of acaena novae-zelandiae that's commonly known as "red bidibid". I don't know why or how something called Bidibidi was turned inside out. Help is once again welcomed! (7) I dunno about you, but I have a funny feeling the trillionaires did not, in fact, end up pulling off this escape.

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die

TITLE: Many More To Die

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: For over a thousand years, necromancy has been forbidden in the Kingdoms, the Necromata--its practitioners--feared, reviled, and punished for a power they never asked to wield. Those Necromata who are not killed in the cradle are taken from their families, stripped of their Name--the core of identity and memory--and imprisoned for the rest of their lives.

Logan was twelve when he entered the palace dungeons. Prince Roman was fourteen when he witnessed the young necromancer being brutalized, imprisoned, and left to suffer.

Roman only wanted to offer the other boy comfort, and perhaps a scrap of dignity. He didn't realize his kindness would follow both of them into adulthood--or that Logan would one day become the only person in all the realms that Roman would be able to trust with his life, his heart, and his very soul.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more...hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1023, A.A.

Necromata.

Sitting in the middle of his cell, twelve year old Logan...Logan choked on tears as his shoulder screamed, his bones ached, and the flickering lights of his cell let his imagination run wild with all manner of monsters and omens of doom lurking within every shadow.

He knew he was lucky—many necromancers were caught in the cradle and killed. Very few survived as long as he had. He could be grateful to his family for that much, that he'd lived long enough to escape a death sentence.

He did have a family. He knew that much—remembered that much. Everything else, they had taken before throwing him into his cell. The prison mage's hand was still a ghost of cold fire against his forehead, worms of icy coal burning through his brain to wipe out every trace of the things that would make him what he was, allow him to be more safely contained.

The name spoken with fear and loathing was all that he had left.

Necromata. The legions of the Animator...the necromancers.

“Psst!”

The hiss echoed off the stone in the corridor, made his heart leap into his chest as he looked around for the source of it.

“Psst! Over here!”

Logan tried to scramble back from the door of his cell, and screamed when he forgot about his dislocated shoulder, collapsing as it gave way under his weight.

“No, don't—please, it's okay. I don't want to hurt you.”

Blinking, Logan squinted into the low light beyond the torches that barely lit his new home. Something bright green flickered there, an outline visible that was vaguely person-shaped.

“Who...who are you?” he asked, curling his injured arm as close to his body as he could so he wouldn't forget again as he got to his feet.

“I...I'm not supposed to say.”

Logan shuffled a little closer to the bars of his cell. “Then how do I know you don't want to hurt me?”

“The prison mage took your Name—you won't understand if I tell you. Just...”

The person-shape on the other side of the bars moved forward, an arm protruding through to set a bowl on the dirt floor of Logan's cell. Inside there was water, and sitting across the rim was a heavy piece of leather.

“I saw what the guard did when you came in. Your shoulder...it happened to me once when I snuck out to hunt for the Lazari.”

“The Lazari don't exist.” Logan replied, reaching up with his good hand to try and wipe some of the tears and snot off his face. “They're a fairy tale, like the Animata.”

“How do you know?”

Logan opened his mouth...then closed it after long moments.

“I...I don't know.” he admitted. “I must have lost it when the prison mage took my Name.”

“Then you could be wrong.” the person-shape insisted, those emerald flecks in the near shadow sparkling with determination. “I'll find a Lazari one day. Just you wait.”

“What does that have to do with my dislocated shoulder?”

“Oh! Sorry—uhm, I did it once. When I snuck out, I fell from a tree and mine popped out. My brother showed me how to use the bars on our window to pop it back in! I threw up, though—and he made me bite a belt so I wouldn't scream.”

The hand appeared between the bars again, nudging the bowl and the leather strap forward a little further.

“I can tell you how to do it.”

Logan shuffled forward a couple more steps, then shifted to kneel in front of the bowl of water.

“I...might know.” He replied, staring at the bowl for a long moment before he peered back into the dark, into the green spark that was his benefactor's eyes. “Thank you.”

The person-shape said nothing for a long moment...

“Berry.”

“What?”

“Berry! The guards called you Logan, right? They took your Name—maybe Berry can be your new one.”

Before Logan could comment, the person-shape grew less distinct, and the flicker of green was gone with the clatter of footsteps scurrying away into the dark.

It was a silly idea—a Name taken could not be restored so easily. Still, the word rattled around in his head along with the one that made his bones ache again.

Necromata. Berry. Necromata. Berry. Berry.

Logan Berry.

Something stirred in the middle of Logan's mind, in his marrow—in the place that magic had scoured out and rubbed raw within the pathways of his brain. Something stirred, settled...

Something slid into place, and all of a sudden the shadows were far less frightening.

Popping his shoulder back into the socket hurt far more than dislocating it had—and yet while he'd sobbed his soul out after being injured, after being robbed of all that made him a person, he shed not a single tear as he put the leather between his teeth, wrenched his joint back into place, and used the fresh water to clean up after he'd emptied his stomach into the corner of his cell.

He even managed to sleep on his pallet of straw, and dreamed of green embers in the dark, drifting into the shadows in his cell and transforming every monster into a friend.

**********

1033, A.A.

“I had the dream again.”

“A kinky one?”

“Sweet leaping gods, Remus!”

The high, strident cackle of his twin brother echoed through Prince Roman's bedchamber, making him wonder yet again why he thought he could talk to the crazy idiot about anything remotely meaningful. Yes, Remus was trustworthy—he gave Roman all manner of hell for the secrets he shared, but had suffered his fair share of indignities to keep his mouth shut—but sometimes he wondered if it was worth the teasing and the laughter to have such a steadfast confidant.

Remus had secrets of his own, after all—the numerous Anima that shared his bed, for one. Like Roman, Remus was fascinated by the Necromata, the true necromancers that all citizens of the Kingdoms were taught to hate and fear. The Anima were little more than pretenders, mages of other disciplines that toyed with the death magic that had been outlawed for over a thousand years.

Still, they had a lot to teach—and made good company, from the way Remus spoke of his dalliances.

“Oh, I'm just yanking your chain, big brother!” Remus assured him, crossing over to drape himself over Roman's back, chin settling on Roman's shoulder to read what his twin was writing as he hunched over his desk. “C'mon now—tell me about the dream, and I'll tell you about the Necromata I fucked last night.”

Roman straightened abruptly at that, unceremoniously sending Remus sprawling to the floor. Turning his chair, he gaped down at his brother and pointed an accusing finger at him.

“You did not sleep with a real necromancer, you lying sack of horse dung!” he hissed. “Why would you even say that in the palace of all places?!?”

“Because the sex was unbelievably good?” Remus offered, shrugging from his place on the floor, flat on his back. “Believe me, Ro Bro, a guy that can't actually feel human contact can keep it up for a nice, long, slow roll in the hay. It's pretty remarkable!”

Roman just huffed, standing from his seat—and promptly sinking to the floor to sprawl out right beside Remus.

“You're lying.” he said simply.

Remus was quiet a long time...then sighed.

“Of course I am. He was just another Animata.”

“Anima. The Animata are a myth, like the Lazari.”

“Since when did you turn into such a brainiac, Roro? We both know I've always been the smart one.”

Roman rolled his eyes with a grin, stretching his leg to kick Remus's ankle—but the truth of the matter was, Remus was right. Between the pair of them, Remus was smarter by leaps and bounds. He was studying the collegiate sciences when he was seventeen, and began his magic training before he'd even reached puberty. The fact that the only part of the sciences he enjoyed were anatomy and mortuary study were entirely besides the point, as was the fact that Remus wasn't actually capable of using magic at all.

He was, as their father lovingly put it, a rogue genius: in possession of an intellect so massive that the rules couldn't restrain him. He either knew too well how to circumnavigate them, or he simply didn't care enough to bother and did what he wanted—what he thought was right, no matter the consequence.

Roman might have been the elder of the twins—by one hour, eleven o'clock of one night where Remus came at midnight the next morning—but he aspired, every single day, to be the maverick that Remus was. He simply lacked the brains...and the courage.

Which was why today, it was Roman their father would be naming as his successor, and not Remus. Roman would be king, would rule by the law and the will of the gods, and Remus would...get to be Remus for the rest of his life, a crown prince without a care in the world.

“Tell me about the dream, Roro.”

Remus's voice was gentle this time, his fingers walking their way along Roman's arm until he could find his hand and weave it into his own.

Roman sighed, staring up at the mural on the ceiling of his bedchamber—a beautifully wrought depiction of the Fall of Death, the final battle between the Animator, the first of the Necromata, and their ancestor, King Thomas Andres, that had saved the Kingdoms over a thousand years ago.

“He was in it.”

“The boy from the dungeons?”

Roman nodded. He could feel Remus watching him...

Just like he could feel the boy from the dungeons watching him every time he had the dream... ********** “He was here again.”

“Jumpin' Jiminy, Lo—are you sure?”

Logan nodded, mostly to himself. Patton couldn't see him, not from the bathtub behind the partition that separated it from the rest of the room, but it hardly mattered—after eight years as cell mates, the two of them had become as close as brothers, as close as twins according to some of the guards that had met the king's identical twin sons.

They had grown so naturally into the relationship, it made Logan wonder sometimes if he'd had a brother before his Name had been taken.

Well...it made him wonder in the early days, at any rate. Logan had stopped wondering many years ago.

Suffice to say, Patton didn't need to see him nod to know that Logan had.

“Well? What'd he do?”

Logan let his mind wander back to the night before—the dream space that he so often occupied, the boy that had come to him in the dark ten years before with a bowl of water, a leather strap, and a name.

The boy he'd come to think of as the Green Man, with those eyes that the dark couldn't fully hide.

“The same thing he always does.” Logan managed to reply, setting down the pen he'd been using in favor of resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers to press against his lips. Among those Necromata imprisoned in the palace dungeons, Logan was quite fortunate: he was allowed a cell mate, access to books and writing implements, even a small window sill garden consisting of plants that couldn't be used for magical purposes.

He was very lucky. Ten years of good behavior had given him an incredible amount of leeway and granted him creature comforts like access to regular bathing privileges. The guards even referred to him by his chosen name.

He was, for all intents and purposes, treated like he was truly human. A prisoner, always, but one the guards and prison mages shared a basic blood connection to, unlike the other Necromata.

“...Lo?...Logan!”

Shaking himself, Logan cleared his throat and tried to beat back the heat he could feel rising in his cheeks, having been caught wool gathering.

“Apologies, I didn't catch that.” he called over his shoulder.

“I said, did he say anything this time?”

Logan shook his head, knowing once again that his actions would be understood rather than seen. Patton asked the same thing every time Logan mentioned the visits, and every time it was the same.

If Patton really knew the content of the Green Man's visitations...

Pressing his fingertips to his mouth again, Logan shut his eyes and let himself remember.

The visits were always in a dream space—for years, before the visitations became more regular, Logan had assumed the Green Man was a guard's son, or the child of some member of the palace staff. Later, when the Green Man came to Logan in his sleep, he figured he was the son of a prison or court mage—who else could manage to dream walk in the mind of even a crippled necromancer like him?

Then again...Logan was different from many prisoners like himself.

In the dream, Logan still cannot see his face. Like those ephemeral dreams from his first few nights in the dungeons, he's little more than shadows with burning points of light the color of fresh shoots just springing from the soil. Over the years, he's become more distinct, but still nothing Logan can give any real definition.

He is a man made of darkness, his eyes reflecting what spark of magic lives within him. They never speak to each other—Logan never dares, secretly apprehensive that disturbing the quiet will somehow end this irregular communion they share.

All the Green Man does is extend a hand, the only part of him Logan can truly see. What was once small and slim fingered has changed over the years into a large hand, broad but lean, tendons standing out below each knuckle and tanned by exposure to the sun. Every time, he reaches out, and every time, Logan takes his hand and just...holds on.

In the dream space, Logan can feel his touch. It's likely a projection, something imagined, but there's strength and warmth in that hand—the pressure of fingers meshing with his own, the heat of palm sealed to palm. There's something under the skin, itchy and trembling, and it makes Logan want to pull away because it's just too much...

The Green Man never lets him. Gradually, the feeling passes, and Logan clings until the feeling returns, crashing over him and sliding back in waves beating the shore of his nervous system.

Logan is always the first to let go. The Green Man makes sure of it—and then he leaves.

“Are you okay, kiddo?”

Logan looked up sharply, twisting to see Patton over his shoulder. His mop of tawny curls is swept back from his face, still dark and wet from his bath, the chill of the cell raising gooseflesh on his bare torso.

He has one hand holding the towel around his waist, and the other resting on Logan's shoulder.

The pressure is barely there, that buzzing awareness of contact easily missed if not expected.

Patton hastily lifts his hand, face screwed up in silent apology. Logan dislikes physical contact, even if he cannot feel it—just like any of the Necromata, so divorced from the living, human populous that they cannot even connect to them through touch.

“Didn't mean to spook you, Lo. Just...you're real quiet. Usually, you got more to say after a visit from You Know Who.”

Logan nodded, then made a point of reaching out to squeeze Patton's hand briefly before letting it go just as quickly.

“Apologies. I suppose I'm just...distracted by today.”

“Yeah—hey, you think the prince'll come down here?” Patton asked hopefully, drawing back to go and find some clothes. “I mean, if he's gonna learn to be king after the ceremony...”

Logan let Patton continue to chatter about the potential for this new ruler to somehow see their plight, somehow be their salvation. He let the words, the hope, wash over him without making contact.

Patton could have hope, because he had no Name. No history, no memory, no past and therefore no future. He was a blank slate, for all intents and purposes, unable to access the power of the Necromata with no life of his own to bind it to.

Unlike Logan. Logan, who no longer wondered if he'd had a brother in his family.

Logan, who could share a dream space, something only mages were capable of.

Logan, who had been given a new name by his benefactor so many years ago, a name that others used daily.

Logan Berry, who even now could feel the essence of every rat behind the dungeon walls, every guard on patrol, every prisoner languishing beneath the lowest floors of the palace...and every noble, every royal, every peasant up above.

Logan Berry, who could not remember his family, but could remember that he once had a brother.

Because, despite the fact that a Name taken could not be restored so easily, Logan had taken a name freely given and made it his own.

A Name, freely given. A life, restored.

Logan could not have hope, because he had the power of the Necromata at his fingertips—and it was only a matter of time before good behavior would no longer be enough to earn him the leeway to stay alive.