#Trick To Learn River Flowing

[hanibalistic]

#946C47 | SUN WUKONG.

genre | fluff

word count | 3738

warning | minor lewd thoughts from wukong / potential ooc + not accurate to jttw​

note | annoying monkey man i was forced to study back in middle school came back hot?

part | one, two, three

The ripe peach in front of you looked suspicious. Even though you thought yourself hungry enough to eat the fruit in one bite, you held back and raised a brow at the monkey sitting cross-legged in front of you instead. 

The river stream flowed like it had never seen disaster once, and perhaps the bed of clear water really hadn't. You wouldn't know until you figure out where you are, which has proven itself to be a difficult feat. You have prioritized coming to terms with the fact that you’ve been transported inside a fictional story above all else. 

Part of you wanted to say you were on Mount Huaguo because it was where you met Wukong, but the grouping of Bajie, Sanzhang, and Wujing told you otherwise. If you remember the tale you studied in high school, they should be on their trip to acquire scriptures. You have yet to figure out which of the 81 catastrophes they were facing, and you would like to stay in the dark about that, as figuring it out would mean you've been roped into one of them as well. 

To be fair, you might have accidentally become the 82nd catastrophe Wukong has to face by accidentally teleporting to his world. If helping a modern person return to their home was such a huge issue. 

You thought it must be, though, because the group had collectively decided to halt their significant journey so Wukong could focus on taking you to the celestial court, where you were more likely to find people who could bring you home. 

It was a huge sacrifice on his part, considering his interesting experiences with the likes of those associated with heaven. That much you understood, and you would thank him a million times and more if he was more serious about the concept of communication. Sometimes, trying to chat with him was like talking with a middle school kid who still finds fart jokes humorous.

"This is a regular peach," you said, your voice filled with doubt. 

“No, it’s a rock I changed into a peach. I want you to lose all your teeth!” Wukong exclaimed. He pushed his fingers at his upper lip to reveal his canines, but his grin faded when you responded with deadpan eyes. Retracting his hands, he blinked at you incredulously, the hair around his eyes swaying in disbelief over your distrust. Pulling a face at your seriousness, he nodded. "Yes. It is a regular peach."

"You picked it from a tree," you said. 

"Yes," he replied nonchalantly. 

"How come it took you so long?" 

“Peach trees don’t come for free. The closest one was far away.”

"I thought you were a fast monkey."

"I was taking a stroll through the forest."

He would do that. You told him you were hungry, and he had repeatedly made fun of your stomach growls. He knew you were starving for food—the kind of food you were used to eating, which was limited to the fruits growing on trees, and you wouldn't be surprised if he took his sweet time picking a single peach anyway. 

"Okay," you said as you picked the peach up and weighed it in your palm. It was useless. You never learned how much a real, good peach should weigh. "I'm not going to accidentally bite down on a clone."

"Oh, dear," he mused, putting a hand over his heart to feign disappointment. "That is most terrible! I would never do that to you!" 

“You have, for more times than I can count with both of my hands, shape-shifted into a rock just to watch me panic.”

"That I did! But the real issue is, you gullible one–“ he picked up his staff and playfully knocked the end against your head–“you fell for it more than ten times!”

You pursed your lips at his reaction. The trickster smile playing on his lips provided you no reassurance that he hadn't planned a prank to pull on you. At the same time, you realized the trick he was pulling may be paranoia, where you were the butt of the joke for believing he would waste a pluck of his hair just to watch you freak out over biting his clone.

Or perhaps the Wukong in front of you was the clone, and the real one was the peach in your hand.

"Wukong," you called softly, an exhausted exhale burning through your lips. "I'm really hungry."

He softened after a few seconds, his lips tightening into a thin line as he awkwardly looked away. 

You’ve fallen for his tricks multiple times despite knowing what kind of character he was. 

Him pushing you off tall cliffs just to catch you with the nimbus cloud; him turning himself into a rock so you’d think he had abandoned you in the middle of a forest full of monsters; jumping around trees and bursting through bushes like a maniac to scare you at night—repeatable pranks that overwhelmed you with fear and anger. 

You were too gullible was his accuse, but he knew more than anyone the problem was his tendency for trickery. You were never wrong for trusting him, and under particular circumstances, Wukong’s loyalty to you was engraved in his bones. It was evident in his ever-near presence and readiness to protect you from danger.

Otherwise, though, acting rather barbaric wasn’t a habit he could completely rid himself of. 

He didn't used to care at all about how you felt. Without Sanzhang here to tighten his gold fillet, he had been free to fool around at will until one incident when he accidentally dropped you in a cave that was the home to a wild yaoguai and ignored your panicked cries for help in an attempt to garner his sympathy.

You hadn't the energy to be mad at him after he saved you. He was used to your anger, your strengthless fists knocking at his chest, and a mouthful of empty threats he never took to heart. You didn’t do any of those that time, and neither could you move on from the corner you had scrambled toward after he hopped down to defeat the monster. 

Rigid like a stone and unresponsive as if you couldn't hear him, it didn't take Wukong long to realize you were in shock from almost being fatally attacked. 

He had to pick you up and carry you for the rest of the day. Your legs had been as weak as jelly, and all you did was cry to his shoulder, your arms curling around his neck as if he were a genuine savior. It hit him like an earthquake how small you were compared to himself—your muscles lacked confidence, and your movements were without skill.

You weren’t immortal; one mere strike would end you.

Wukong almost choked himself at the thought. His grip on your back and under your knees tightened to pull you closer to him. He didn’t apologize, but he swore on his many immortal lives that he would never pull any pranks on you again. 

Sanzhang has the tightening spell to stop the monkey king from fooling around. All you needed to carry was yourself. 

"Of course, you're hungry. You're such a picky eater," Wukong scolded as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just a peach. I promise."

You squinted at his honest face, then leaned in to catch yourself in his eyes. he tensed up, his breath stopping in his nose and the hair on his neck standing abruptly upon the proximity. The contrast of a physiological response to extreme cold to the burning heat souring his veins was uncomfortable, not in a way that produced hatred but rather a reawakening. 

A reawakening that, within these past few months, on your journey together to get you the help you needed to return home, he has developed an attachment to you. 

“It's a normal peach! Take it or leave it!" 

You scoffed and leaned back, ignoring his attitude. Wukong pressed his palm to his jaw and rested his weight on it. His eyes darted away to avoid you, but once the shyness reduced from his body, they slowly returned to watch you admire the ripe peach in your hands.

"Boo!" he screamed when you bit the fruit. 

"Ah!" You flinched and dropped the fruit from your palm. A golden glow engulfed it before hitting the floor, stilling the fruit in the air. You clicked your tongue at the sight and perked up, your furrowed brows not at all intimidating. "Sun Wukong!" 

He laughed. The sound was boisterous as usual, enough to make the leaves roar and the crows fly. "You're such a scaredy cat!" 

"I'm–" you held back a denial–"I just didn't want to hurt your clone."

His laughter slowed to a final chuckle, and then he shrugged. It was a useless precaution, but he warmed at the fact that you even thought about it. "You can't hurt me." 

"Well, I don't intend to," you said after you caught the peach in your hands. You nodded at him. "Thank you for the food."

You began to admire the peach again, then you took a bite and marveled at its taste. Wukong snickered endearingly at how you acted like you've never had a good peach before. His heart rested easy as you devoured it whole, and he ignored how your lips glimmered beneath the coat of your saliva. 

Apparently, promises meant nothing to the monkey king because a few weeks or so after you took a bite of the peach, you two were taken to the celestial court for a crime. 

It took him so long to find a peach on a tree, which the forest was riddled with, was because it wasn't a regular peach you ate. It was an immortal peach. He went to steal it from the peach garden in heaven. 

“Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

"Good grief, you really are handsome."

"What?" Wukong's questioning voice snapped you out of your trance. 

You shook your head and blinked harshly to rid yourself of the embarrassment. You have just been notified that you were granted 3000 years of life because you ate a forbidden fruit from a place you didn't even believe in ten seconds ago, and all you could exclaim was that Erlang Shen has got to be the most attractive man you've ever seen, just as the stories described him as. 

His third eye was off-putting, though. It was not because you weren't used to seeing a person with an extra eye, but because you didn't like that he could see through you like transparent glass. You tried to focus on the bright side of it—he would know that you and Wukong were telling the truth, that you were not a fraud. 

"I'm sorry. I don't..." your breath hitched when you noticed the four heavenly kings staring at you. You wondered if they even heard your meek voice. Stepping back, you hid behind Wukong, shrinking your shoulders and lightly grasping his sleeve. "I don't know."

He glanced at your grip on his battered shirt. Your reliance on him sent a shiver down his spine. Looking up at Erlang, Wukong shrugged. “I did what I thought was best.”

“Care to elaborate, monkey?”

“This mortal is not of this world. The only reason I even traveled all this way to face you insolent lots was because my master and I have decided you may be the only ones capable of sending them back!” Wukong clarified. 

“He's not lying!” you added hastily, unaware of where the abrupt courage came from. “I am not from here. I came from the twenty-first century–uhh…” You sighed defeatedly. “You won’t know what that means.” 

“The path to the celestial court is too rigorous. For the mortal’s safety, I must provide them with a second option.”

Erlang frowned. He couldn’t deduce an ounce of deception from Wukong or you. Your words were confusing, but they rang true. He tilted his head, accessing you further with his third eye, and then he hummed, “Where did you come from?”

“I… um…” you fidgeted with your fingers. “I was on a plane. There was awful turbulence, and I think it was crashing. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was here.”

“Monkey, do you understand their words?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Wukong replied. “They have attempted to explain things to me, but it all sounded like impossible ideas. A flying building that can carry more than thirty people at a time? There’s simply no way.”

“It’s not a building. It’s a plane,” you clarified. 

“You said it’s as big as a building!” 

“I am comparing the sizes so you have a better idea of how big a plane is,” you said. “I’m not saying a plane is a building.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“Silence!” 

Goosebumps appeared all over your skin at Erlang’s holler. Wukong shut his eyes and clicked his tongue in annoyance, unfazed by the wind that blew past you both.

“It was a good choice not to deceive me,” Erlang said. “But even then, nothing explains why you stole an immortal peach from the garden and gave it to a human.”

“The path to the celestial court is rigorous,” Wukong argued. “It is riddled with yaoguais, abandoned murals cursed to hell and back, and uneven grounds. A mortal would die before they make it here.”

“That’s because they weren’t supposed to.”

“How do you suggest they return home, you three-eyed freak?” Wukong said. 

“They cannot,” Erlang informed. “ After eating the peach, we mustn’t allow their departure with 3000 years of life. You shouldn’t have given them one.”

“I gave them one so they can have a shot at getting all the way here to seek the help they need! My actions are justified!”

Erlang remained silent for a moment. His eyes darted between you and Wukong. One of you reeked of partial deception; his third eye gleamed with an uncomfortable redness that forced you to look away. Before you could, your attention shifted to the man who called upon you.

“Mortal,” Erlang started with a calculative smile. He released his weapon into thin air, and it vanished. Then, he placed a hand behind his back and the other before his abdomen. “Have you any idea what this monkey thinks of you?”

“Huh? I–“ You looked at Wukong, who glared at Erlang with a conversation you couldn’t hear. “I don’t know. He protected me all this time so I suppose we are good friends.”

“Good friends!” Erlang boasted. He turned to Wukong, nodding humorously. “Did you hear that, monkey? After all the effort!”

“Erlang.”

“Mortal! Do you know the monkey dreams about you intimately?” 

“Erlang Shen!”

Wukong’s staff appeared in his hands as he lunged at the man. He raised it in the air, ready to pierce the pole through his forehead, only to catch Erlang raising his hand and motioning it toward your direction. Wukong swallowed a gasp, his head snapping over to where you stood. His body maneuvered away from Erlang to you, and a bolt of lightning hit the gold staff along with the spear before dissipating. The spear, too, returned to its owner. 

You blinked. Not a flinch ripped over your body, and that was not the result of a delayed reaction but rather a learned response. For as long as you have stayed with Wukong, there has only been one occasion when danger barely scraped past you. Besides that, you have never been scratched. Wukong hasn’t allowed one mistake. You’ve gotten so used to his presence as a symbol of safety that you didn’t flinch when Erlang Shen threw his spear at you.

Wukong would catch it. You knew, and he did. You remained unscathed.

Erlang stilled his movement to wait for the unfolding of the interaction to be contrived. He didn’t need to do anything physical to Wukong. This confrontation would probably be punishment enough. After all, the monkey king has fallen in love with a mortal. 

Staring up at the back of his head, you twirled your thumbs as you recalled what Erlang said. “Wukong… you…”

He hissed timidly, sparing a short glance behind his shoulder before looking away as he lowered his staff. How could Erlang have figured that out so quickly? It must have meant those thoughts consumed him, and indeed they did. Every night, at the very least, when you slept next to him. He tried not to look at you a lot, staring at the moon to distract himself. Yet, his mind remained full. 

The moon's beauty wasn’t enough to deter him from thinking about you. Skin bare, clothes torn; trapped beneath his weight, hands restrained, eyes barely opened; glistening with sweat and drool, trembling between uncontrollable pants of his name. What nonsense that he thought the moon could distract him. If the moon saw what he dreamt of, she would even have to stand and admire you. 

“I’m sorry,” Wukong muttered. “I’ll cease my mind of such impurities at once.” 

“No, that’s–I’m…” you shook your head. 

The notion of him thinking of you in that light was surprising, but to say you weren’t the slightest bit flattered was a lie. Nobody back in your world has ever taken a liking toward you. Yet, all of a sudden, possibly the strongest being in this set universe has a thing for you? You didn’t mind it at all. How many people could proudly say the sun Wukong was attracted to them? Not a lot! Granted, people back in your world would consider you insane, but still! what an exciting achievement!

That wasn’t the issue, though. 

“You could have brought me here long ago,” you said.

He made a roundtrip to and from heaven’s peach garden within a few minutes just to get you that immortal peach. The trip to the celestial court was unnecessary. He could have escorted you there in a week. Plus, the extended lifespan given to you by the immortal peach—after all the meddling with the celestial court, he must have known that you wouldn’t be allowed to leave this place with it, too.

“You don’t want me to leave,” you whispered. “You did this on purpose.”

Erlang clapped. “Very well deduced, mortal.”

“You!” You whipped your head over at his joyous demeanor, your nose scrunched and your eyes scratching up a fire, ready to burst through your lips. With hands curled into fists, you stomped over to the man with an accusing finger in the air. “You find this so amusing, don’t you?”

“Wait, don’t!” Wukong reached a hand out for you a second too late. 

“All you care about is your feud with Wukong, and you don’t notice how a single, stupid peach has disregarded all my effort to get here!” you exclaimed in Erlang’s face, frustrated tears rounding your eyes. “This is my livelihood! Do you understand that? I came to you for help, and you pawn my life for a moment of triumph against the monkey!”

“He’s not the terrible one. You are!” 

“Hey! Calm down–“ Wukong gripped your arm and pulled you behind him, shielding you as he stared at the three-eyed man stunned.

He wasn't sure how Erlang would react to your outburst, especially when you associated him with traits he despised. No mortal has ever been bold enough to speak to a God with such aggression, even when deeply angered. Watching the long-haired man like a hawk, ensuring he could catch even the faintest twitch of a finger, Wukong lowered his voice when he spoke for your sake.

“Erlang, they didn’t mean it." He blocked your whole figure behind him when Erlang looked up. "They’re very family-oriented and don't take any setbacks lightly.”

The God didn't speak for a while, and you almost took his silence as a sign that he felt disrespected. He should; you did disrespect him!

“No, I understand. I’ve also gone through quite the ordeal for my family,” Erlang muttered, though his eyes seemed lost in the clouds from your accusation.

Clearing his throat, he met your surprised eyes carefully and sighed. You were right. This didn't concern his relationship with Wukong. Even the monkey has enough heart to return to this damned place just to get you some help (disregarding the tricks he's done). He should be better than that.

“I will ask around to see if there is any way to send you home, but something must be done to take away the 3000 lives before you return.” 

You sniffed away the tears. “What do you suggest?”

“There are temples scattered across the path to the West. Each housing a Buddha with the power to take one’s soul. Travel to them and ask for their help,” Erlang said. “I don’t recommend too much at a time, as the ordeal is a mimicry of death. I don’t believe a Buddha would be willing to descend so much pain at once either.”

You closed your eyes. You anticipated that hurdle. “Thank you.” 

“You’re most welcome,” he replied. “I wish you luck. I wish both of us luck.”

With a light shove of his hand, a strong wind blew you off the cloudy ground, and you quickly fell toward the ground. Wukong hopped onto the nimbus cloud and chased after you, catching you swiftly in his arms.

“Let’s go find my master,” he muttered. “He should know what to do from here.”

“Okay,” you said. “3000 times, that’s a lot.” 

“I’m sorry for everything,” he said. 

You were upset with his decision, but logically, you also understood why he did it. If you fell in love and found out they would soon be leaving you, you’d do anything to delay the inevitable, too. The methods would be mundane for you because of the lack of magic in your world, but judging by that logic, feeding you an immortal peach was also mundane to Wukong.

“If there’s a way for me to die those 3000 times for you, I will,” he added. 

You bit your lower lip to hide the unexpected smirk. Perhaps part of you were relieved that you got to stay with him longer. Clutching his shirt in your hand, you leaned against his chest and watched the world pass you by.

“Wukong,” you called suddenly. There was something you wanted to ask him. 

“Yeah?”

“What exactly happens in your dreams about me?”

[flowerandblood]

The Vanity and Variability

[ Jane Austen • Aemond x Baratheon • female ]

[ warnings: angst, mention of trauma, violence ]

[ description: Despite coming from a family with royal blood, Aemond is forced because of his brother's debts to choose one of the daughters of the famously wealthy general, Borros Baratheon, as his wife to save his family from bankruptcy. When he arrives to make his choice he is distraught and discouraged, made all the more so by watching from the sidelines his youngest daughter, who seems more intrigued by his dog than her possible future husband. Slow burn, sexual tension, regency and Jane Austen prose vibe, vain, self-righteous Aemond. ]

A story which is an alternative universe of The Impossbile Choice taking place in regency times (1805-1815). The characters are all the same as in the main series, however, for obvious reasons they will behave differently and experience things differently from medieval times. You can read this without having to delve into the main series.

Aemond & Miss Baratheon & Vhagar Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

_____

The Targaryen family name was one of the most famous and respected in London. His father's great-grandfather had been a duke, so royal blood flowed in them, and their family estate had been part of the kingdom for centuries.

He grew up with a sense of his own uniqueness, which his grandfather, his mother's father, Otto, constantly reminded him and his siblings of, remarking on their upbringing, their gait, the way they spoke. From an early age, everything they did was to testify to their origins and properly represent them to the world.

They were not allowed to run or shout, they were not allowed to eat with their hands, keep their elbows on the table, swear or laugh loudly. He was not allowed to play with other children, instead he was expected to keep reading and expanding his knowledge, and at the age of twelve he could already speak French and Italian as well.

And then, during one of the fencing training sessions with his nephew that his grandfather had forced him to do, he lost his left eye. Luke, enraged at his loss swung his sword as he managed to pull off his protection and the blade sliced his left cheek in half.

Having learned that he was not allowed to cry or scream, he howled and sobbed into his pillow all night, praying that his grandfather would not hear him.

Neither his position nor his wealth could change his appearance.

Although his father had a first-born son, his elder brother Aegon, everyone knew that he would have preferred the family estate to pass to his eldest daughter after his death, his only child, whom he had fathered with his first wife, who had died.

They had spent their entire lives in the shadow of his affections for her, simply existing in large palatial spaces, unsure if they were of any use to anyone at all. Knowing that he would inherit nothing, that he had only his name and his disfigured, ugly face, he hid in the world of literature, disappearing for hours in the library thus forgetting the woes of his life.

He knew that eventually he would be forced to marry a woman of similar status to himself.

When he first met the Countess Rivers, a wealthy widow much older than him, he thought she could become his wife, he even suggested it to his grandfather. He, however, laughed at his suggestion, saying that this woman had only married the Count for money and had tricked her way into his bed and then deprived him of his life for sure.

That didn't stop him, after a few grand balls in London, from locking himself away with her in seclusion and enjoying all that was female flesh and female fulfilment, feeling for the first time that he was not a repulsive child, but a man.

Life, however, made a mockery of him again when it turned out that Aegon had lost such large sums of money at cards over the years that, despite the fact that his brother was now a grown man who had a wife, Otto had beaten him before his eyes with a cane as if he were a small child again.

Aegon wailed and whimpered as he laid on the ground, writhing in pain, still drunk, and his grandfather hissed between hits that he was their ruin, their greatest misfortune.

Then his grandfather presented everyone at the evening meal with the solution to the problem they faced.

"Borros Baratheon is an extremely wealthy general with as many as five daughters ready to marry, he is known for his immense love for them, so I am confident that their dowries will be appropriate and also, if we play it right, he will give us a loan so that we can pay our immediate debts. Aemond, you will travel to Chelsfield to rest a little and choose your future spouse during this time." He said lightly, and everyone around him froze.

He heard Aegon's loud, amused laughter as he clapped his hands, the sound echoing throughout the room in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

"An excellent thought, grandfather. Right, brother? There's nothing better than to fuck a country wench." He said taking a glass of wine and raising it to his lips, their mother slammed her fist on the table, silencing him with a hiss, his wife lowered her gaze, embarrassed and ashamed.

Aemond did not listen to him or his mother. He stared at his grandfather wide-eyed, his jaw clenched, his fingers outstretched on the table rubbing against each other intensely in a nervous gesture.

"Is this supposed to be a joke?" He choked out finally, deadly serious, unable to believe what he was hearing.

His whole life, everything he'd denied himself, everything he'd learned was to serve who he was, his heritage, he hadn't been allowed to marry Alys despite her surpassing them all in stature, and now he was to choose from five simpering daughters of some village general?

His grandfather raised an eyebrow in displeasure.

"Ask your brother about that. Thanks to him we have no liquidity, we are finished. We need money, and Borros Baratheon has it. Marry one of his daughters and be happy you have plenty to choose from." He said impatiently, and Aemond got up from the table, leaving the room with a loud slam of the door against the walls.

He rushed into his room like a storm, ordering his servants not to let anyone in, and circled around his bed one way and the other, feeling like shouting, feeling like throwing something or destroying something, but he knew he couldn't do it, that it wasn't proper.

He finally knelt down in the middle of his room catching himself by his hair, burying his face in his arms and crying helplessly like a baby.

How many more humiliations did he have to endure in his life for God to decide that enough was enough?

How much more could he pray?

Why didn't God listen to him even though he went to church with his mother every Sunday, prayed in the morning and before bed with attention and focus?

Why was he not a good enough son either in the eyes of his father or God himself?

He knew there was no going back from his grandfather's decision. He knew that his mother would never defy him and his father would not take any interest in the matter even if he married a strange woman from the fair.

After a week he sat in the carriage that was to take him to Chelsfield and looked out of the window at the busy streets of London, inside sat with him Vhagar, his dog whom he had received as a gift from his mother for his tenth birthday.

She was beautiful, looking like a giant snow fox with white soft fur and a long snout. She was the only one he confided in, the only one he cried with, the only one with whom he could be weak, plaintive, whimsical, cheerful or happy.

Chelsfield was not far from London and they covered that distance in a few hours. Aemond pressed his lips together as he saw through the window a quite grand, country manor house of white brick, overgrown on all sides with ivy.

He saw a man in their army uniform step out, followed by a young boy and a whole bunch of girls in long high-waisted gowns.

He felt like throwing up at the sight of them.

When the door opened Vhagar was the first to fly out and despite him calling her she ran ahead, curious about the new smells and spaces. He felt rage when one of Lord Baratheon's daughters, who also looked to be the youngest, not yet pinning her hair into a bun, but having it partly loose, partly braided at the back of her head, ran towards her, reaching out to her.

He feared that Vhagar would bite her, unused to the sudden presence of strangers, her father thought the same, for he immediately moved towards her, rebuking her, but Vhagar only barked loudly and jumped at her, almost knocking her over.

The girl laughed out loud, catching her around the waist as if she was dancing and they both continued in such an embrace, Vhagar started sniffing her and licking her face.

He had never felt so embarrassed in his life.

Lord Baratheon greeted him with a few meaningless sentences, mentioning what an honour it was for him and that his room was ready, that he hoped he would find peace here and a bit of a break from the hustle and bustle of the city.

He figured the last thing he'd find in this place was rest.

He nodded at his words, pulling his cylinder off his head and following him through the main door to his house, escorted by the curious stares of his daughters.

When he finally locked himself into the room that was to belong to him for now, he sat down on the bed and grabbed his head, feeling like he was about to pass out. He couldn't imagine spending every evening with them, forced to talk to each of his daughters in turn.

He hated talking to strangers, he didn't have the gift to converse easily and he put his thoughts together with difficulty into full sentences, and the more he stressed about it, the worse it got.

He figured they'd tire him to death here, and he'd still have to choose which one of these silly girls to take with him and, horror of horrors, marry her, share his bed and his life with her. He shook his head at the thought, sighing heavily.

He didn't leave until the evening, terrified and discouraged, unpacking in his room, which was small by his standards. He looked out of the window and saw a rather pleasant view of the park, trees and hills.

He heard barking and noticed how the same girl who had let Vhagar lick her face in his presence ran across the grass with her, acting almost as if she were a second dog, laughing loudly, throwing her a long stick again and again.

He had never seen Vhagar in such euphoria before.

What kind of house was this?

When it was time for dinner he dressed himself in proper attire, adjusted the black ribbon in which his hair was tied, made sure his eye patch was fastened tightly enough, and went down the stairs feeling as if he was going to beheading.

As he entered the room, which he understood was the dining room, he noticed a beautifully decorated long table, a large fireplace at the end of the hall, lots of portraits and landscapes on the walls , tables and chairs all around.

Everyone stood up at the sight of him and nodded at him, and he reciprocated the gesture, walking unhurriedly to his seat, which was to the left of Mr Baratheon, and which should have been occupied by his eldest son. He saw with surprise that his son was seated opposite him, and only then realised that he had not seen Mrs Baratheon anywhere.

"Let's eat." Ordered Mr Baratheon in his booming, low, throaty voice and nodded to his servants, who one by one began to put food on their plates. As he expected, Mr Baratheon immediately addressed him.

"I hope you find your room comfortable and lacking in nothing, Mr Targaryen." He said lightly, without overbearing or teasing, it was more a statement than a question. Aemond nodded without looking at him.

"Yes, thank you very much. I'm not missing anything." He replied indifferently, grabbing his spoon, wanting to immediately start eating to prevent further conversation. The girl next to him couldn't resist, after a few minutes she tried to initiate light conversation with him.

"How do you find the landscapes of Chelsfield, Mr Targaryen?" She asked softly, and he turned his cool gaze on her, thinking in his head that it was the cheesiest question he had ever heard.

She was the only one with fair hair and seemed to him to be the oldest, her breasts were large and full as were her other shapes, and she had a pretty, common face, but not enough to tempt him.

"They are pleasant." He replied coolly, putting down his spoon so that the servant knew to take his plate from him. The girl beside him fell silent, discouraged.

"The day after tomorrow we will all go to church. Will you accompany us, Mr Targaryen?" Another of his daughters sitting across the table asked him, looking at him curiously, her lips slightly parted, as if defiantly, which he found displeasing.

She was trying to coquette him, to show him physically that she was attracted to him.

"Of course." He replied just as dispassionately, immediately getting down to his second dish as soon as it was served in front of him, wanting to finish the meal as quickly as possible.

As soon as he had succeeded in doing so he stood up and calmly announced that he wished to rest after his journey and retire to his room. Mr Baratheon agreed to this without much concern, watching him closely as he bowed and left without another word.

As he locked himself in his room he felt relieved. He pulled off his tailcoat, staying in just his chemise and trousers, and sat down at the cabinet, which he opened and was relieved to find stationery, quills, inkwell and ink there.

He started to write a letter to his mother, but crossed it out quickly and crumpled the piece of paper, throwing it down with rage.

Why should he lie, reassure her that he was content, that he liked it here, when it wasn't true?

He felt like he was locked in a cage with no way out, he knew he couldn't poke his nose out of his room if he wanted peace and quiet and the thought filled him with despair.

Resigned, he reached into his trunk and pulled out the books he had brought with him to somehow sweeten this awful time, these weeks he was to spend in this feral house full of simpletons.

Only after a while did he realise that Vhagar was not in his room.

He cursed loudly, running his hand over his face, devastated at the thought that surely she was still with that girl rolling around in the grass with her.

He fought with himself wondering if he should just let them stay together since they wanted to, but he felt anger because this was his dog, his closest friend, and she was taking her away from him.

As if his life had taken too little from him.

He stood up driven by rage and opened the door, looking around with a pounding heart. He heard Vhagar growling and barking in one of the rooms and knocked on it quietly, hoping to settle the matter quickly.

He heard someone run up to the door and open it quickly, Vhagar flew out and jumped on him, which had never happened before and he rebuked her immediately.

"Vhagar! Calm down! Sit." He commanded her, trying to be quiet and don't wake anyone. She sat down, breathing heavily, her tongue dangled on the left side of her mouth bobbing from her rapid breaths, her tail scrubbing the floor with joy, euphoria in her eyes.

What was happening to her?

"I was just teaching her a new trick." He heard the whisper of a girl who preferred to greet his dog first rather than him despite the fact that he could be her future husband.

He looked at her coldly, frustrated and bitter, a smile and gentle contentment on her face, she was standing in front of him in only a nightgown and a shawl thrown over her shoulders, her hair already completely loose.

He felt ashamed, it was the first time he had seen a woman in such a negligee. Even during his close-ups with Alys, he had never undressed her, simply not having the time to do so. He looked away, tightening his lips.

"Don't come near my dog again." He hissed, whistling at Vhagar, and she moved after him, stopping once in a while, turning towards her.

He felt furious and grabbed her suddenly by the fur on her neck, wanting to drag her forcibly to his room, like a small child who wants to snatch a toy from another child, and she began to squeal in pain and pull herself out of his grasp.

"− no! − please! − wait −" She begged and he let go of her, suddenly realising that he was causing her pain and watched, panting heavily, as Vhagar ran back to her room.

The girl looked at him apologetically and went back there, he heard her whisper to Vhagar to follow her, not to be afraid.

He stared ahead dully realising that he had just hurt the only being in the world who truly loved him.

That Vhagar would now be afraid of him too.

He felt like crying.

Miss Baratheon finally came out of her room holding something in her hand, evidently a piece of meat from the roast that she must have taken to her room after dinner and using it to train her.

Vhagar came up behind her, sniffing what she had in her hand, but when she saw him she lowered her ears and stepped back, afraid he would do to her again what he had done a moment before.

The girl approached him quickly, handing him the piece of meat she was holding.

"Hand it to her and call her out, just don't get angry." She said to him quietly as if they were acquaintances, but he decided he would not think of that, too distraught that Vhagar hated him so he knelt before her, extending his hand to her, and Miss Baratheon knelt beside him.

"− come, Vhagar − I'm sorry − it's all right −" He whispered and saw his dog begin to wag his tail again, she approached him slowly, uncertainly and sniffed his fingers, then licked them and ate what he held between them.

She pressed her white head against his chest, rubbing against him, and he felt a burning sensation under his eyelids, his lower lip trembling slightly.

"− I'm so sorry −" She said softly in a voice filled with guilt.

He heard her rise and looked at Vhagar, entering his room, and she ran after her at once. He moved behind them and watched in disbelief as she sat down on his floor and Vhagar lay down right next to her, placing her paw on her thigh, letting her know that she wanted to continue playing with her.

She had never behaved like this towards him and he had no idea what he should do with a girl sitting on the floor of his room in the middle of the night.

After a moment, however, Miss Baratheon stood up and looked at him, swallowing loudly, clearly realising herself that she shouldn't be there.

"− I'm sorry for the intrusion, I just wanted her to come in here − good night −" She mumbled almost running out and closing the door behind her, Vhagar wanted to run after her but didn't make it.

He lay down on his bed, distraught, and Vhagar ran up to him, having already forgotten the unpleasant event of a few minutes before, licking him devotedly and tenderly on the face.

"Traitor." He hissed angrily and regretfully, stroking her soft fur.

For the first time in his life, he let her jump on his bed and sleep with him.

Here, there were no his grandfather or servants to report this behaviour to him, which was completely unthinkable.

He fell asleep snuggled into her soft fur, ignoring the fact that she ended up taking up most of the bedding, pushing him to the side.

He thought it was an exceptionally pleasant feeling.

When he woke up in the morning he again felt the stress overpowering him at the thought of breakfast, the fact that this girl had probably blabbed everything to her sisters, saying that he was a violent, cold and aggressive man who hurt his own dog.

However, when he came downstairs with Vhagar his dog immediately ran to her to greet her, also coming up later to her father and brother, who called out to her, eventually making the rounds around the table, getting acquainted with each in turn.

"She's beautiful." Said the second of their sisters, slightly melancholy and hearty.

At breakfast, Mr Baratheon finally introduced his daughters properly to him taking advantage of the lighter atmosphere. He nodded pretending to try to remember their names, thinking with relief only that his youngest child had apparently not mentioned to him the commotion that had taken place during the night.

"I heard loud barking yesterday in your room. Why are you taking Mr Targaryen's dog for yourself?" Asked the girl who had tried to coquette him the day before, and from what he had just learned her name was Floris.

Her younger sister gave him a quick, apologetic glance full of guilt, her gown creamy and buff, pleasantly accentuating the shape of her breasts, some of her curls pinned back, some falling over her shoulders.

"I'm not taking her away, we've just become very friendly." She mumbled, and her sister snorted at her words.

"It's not appropriate." Said another sister, Cassandra, a blonde-haired girl who tried unsuccessfully to make light conversation with him.

He watched Mr Baratheon's youngest child collapse under more and more criticism, and thought with surprise that he felt no satisfaction from it.

"That's enough." Ordered Mr Baratheon, seeing that his daughter was on the verge of crying. "My dear, apologise to Mr Targaryen for your behaviour and for taking his dog for yourself."

He saw her lift her gaze to him, her eyebrows arched in pain, her chest rising and falling in shaky breaths.

"I am deeply sorry for my behaviour and all the unpleasantness that came with it." She choked out finally and he swallowed loudly, clenching his hand into a fist knowing that only he and she understood the context of that sentence.

He thought with shame that he had reacted too impulsively and aggressively in front of her, even though her opinion didn't matter to him, he couldn't get the expression on her face out of his head, her cry full of pain when Vhagar started squealing.

"I also apologise, miss Baratheon." He said lowly, looking at his fingers moving in an uncertain gesture across the table top, wanting her to know that he regretted what had happened, what she had seen. Floris sitting next to him moved restlessly.

"Mr Targaryen, do not apologise to her. She is like an animal herself." She said with amusement, and her younger sister pressed her trembling lips together, fighting for a moment against whatever was rising in her throat, but finally gave up and got up from the table, leaving the room before the tears had time to leave the corners of her eyes.

Her older brother followed her out, saying he would check how she was feeling, and there was an uncomfortable silence broken by their father.

"That was unnecessary, Floris." He said impatiently, his daughter snorting at his words.

"She's embarrassing us all, I just gave her something to think about."

"What a pathetic thing to say." He growled, taking a sip of tea from his cup, setting it down on the saucer with a clatter of porcelain, and only after a moment did he realise that he had said aloud what he had thought.

He didn't dare raise his eyes, feeling the pounding of his heart, feeling that all gazes were directed towards him.

"With your permission." He muttered, rising from his seat, bowing and leaving the dining room, feeling like he was going to burn from embarrassment.

How could he say something like that?

He felt that he needed air and walked outside onto the dirt road, whistling at Vhagar who ran after him, deciding to take a walk to clear his head.

He walked for a long time, going through the forest paths and then strolling around the lake, amazed at the overpowering stillness that reigned all around, the birdsong, the rustling of the leaves, the freshness of the air.

In London, everything was fast, sudden, loud.

Tiring.

He sat down on the sand by the edge of the lake and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the water, to the sounds of nature, feeling Vhagar lay down beside him, sighing heavily. He continued like this for what seemed like an eternity, and decided that he could spend hours here, simply calming and soothing himself, hiding from the world.

He shuddered as he heard someone's footsteps in the distance, Vhagar instantly rising and literally darting towards the girl he would have recognised from a mile away.

He sighed heavily, turning his face towards the surface of the water, figuring he wouldn't pay any attention to her. Just as he thought, she sat down beside him on the sand, as he did, leaning her head against a long, old tree trunk.

She didn't say a word to him, however, letting Vhagar settle down between them, stroking her head, which she laid on her thighs. When he glanced at her he saw that her eyes were closed, that she was doing exactly the same thing he was doing.

She was running away.

He relaxed at the thought that she wasn't looking for a discussion or a intimacy with him and did the same as she did.

He shuddered, looking around, unsure of where he was or what was happening, running his hand over his face. He'd never fallen asleep outside before, much less in the middle of nowhere. He looked around and saw Vhagar lying on her back, sleeping soundly, embraced by Miss Baratheon, who was asleep snuggled against her fur.

He did not know what he thought of this sight, endlessly innocent and harmless. He was afraid someone had seen or would see them, but he didn't want to touch her, so he grunted loudly. She moved suddenly, blinking her eyelids rapidly, and rose to sit down, rubbing her eyes, as confused as he was.

Feeling that what had happened was uncomfortable to say the least, he stood up and whistled at Vhagar, heading back the same way he had come, leaving her alone.

She did not follow him and he felt relieved at the thought.

Halfway through, however, he stopped, feeling anxious, wondering if he should leave her alone in the forest. He fought the thought convincing himself that since she had gone there herself, she would return on her own, knowing the area better than he did, but on the other hand, he would never let Helaena venture this far, and she was still very young.

What if something happened to her?

He cursed in frustration and turned back, coming across her after a few minutes. She looked at him surprised, clearly not expecting him to come back for her.

"Did you forget something, sir?" She asked him uncertainly, and he rolled his eyes impatiently, turning his back on her.

"Come, for God's sake."

They walked side by side in silence, simply admiring the pleasant summer views of meadows and forests, not a living soul around them.

He had to admit that these views filled him with some strange sense of warmth, landscapes that he usually only saw in paintings now appeared before his eyes, even more beautiful, teeming with life and intense, strong colours.

They returned to the mansion together, which did not escape the attention of the household, he saw that Maris and Floris literally threw themselves at her as soon as he moved on, thinking he could not hear.

"What are you thinking? What have you done?"

"Nothing." She said impatient and resentful, fatigue and despair in her voice.

"Stop. I asked you a question. You forced yourself on Mr Targaryen again, didn't you?" He heard Floris's voice and stopped in mid-step, tightening his lips.

The youngest Miss Baratheon wanted to say something in her defence, devastated by the accusations, but it was he who spoke up first.

"How are you not ashamed?" He asked, looking over his shoulder at her, all three of them suddenly silent. "It's better to be silent sometimes than to confirm one's stupidity."

Floris probably didn't believe for a moment that he had said that, but when it finally dawned on her that he was deadly serious, she burst into sobs, running into the house, hitting him with her shoulder, Maris ran in after her.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and she looked at him in disbelief, not knowing herself what she thought of his cruel words. He whistled at Vhagar and walked up the stairs to the inside of their mansion, leaving her alone with her thoughts about what kind of man he actually was.

_____

Taglist 1 @its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[echantedtoon]

Ocean Deep Ch1 Premise

In a world where inhuman and human creatures lives side by side, sometimes it was difficult to navigate where things were. So there was rules EVERY human followed. Don't engage. If you left them alone then they almost always left you alone... Unfortunately it's difficult when a whole pod happens to be under the impression that you belong to them.

IMPORTANT WORLD INFO:

This is set in a fantasy world with very little tech. Think Howl's Moving Castle kinda tech world. Also more Bride concept cuz I like it.

This is heavily inspired by @firelillys on Tumblr merfolk au. Please support all artists linked/mentioned here with their own works!  I'll be providing important info for our mer cast and leave links for a better image of what they look like. I wanted to pick pretty fish for them all so some of the original fish ideas were scrapped from the first drabble.

KYOJURO:

Kyojuro would be a lionfish such as the one drawn by @yuki2sksksk on Tumblr linked below.

TENGEN:

Tengen would be a white butterfly koi fish and would look like the linked post below except less eel and more butterfly koi also below.

Merman Tengen (minus the eel like features)

https://x.com/littlegao_gao/status/1527621514123681793

his tail would be more like this instead 

https://images.app.goo.gl/4Y3V2LkbRWKEua5v9

HINATSURU:

Hinatsura would have a tail that starts out red then fade to pink and would have sorta spotted like patterned semi flowing fins being a Strawberry Peacock mer.

MAKIO:

Makio would have an orange-gold tail with flowing fins being a Golden Dragon Koi mer.

SUMA:

Suma would have a blue tail with more ruffled fins compared to everyone else being a (all blue) Halfmoon Betta fish mer.

With this out of the way let's get onto the chapter.

In a world where inhuman and human creatures lived side by side, sometimes it was difficult to navigate where the danger lied. No where was safe. 

The fae ruled the forests. Fairies and elves. Pixies and gnomes. Pans. Mischief makers. If not careful they'd whisk you away. Never to be seen again.

 The dwarves and dragons claimed the mountains. Proud and strong. If insulted they'd be incredible does to crush you.

The skies were never safe either. Run amok with harpies. The plains ran with herds of centaur. The night plagued with vampires, werewolves, and demons. The day ran with fauns and tieflings and shape shifters. So many dangers and so many things to look out for. Especially when it came to courting a mate. As they say

"Beware the monsters who lurk and live amongst the world. Beware of those who seek courtship from maidens. Do not engage. If you ignore and leave them alone then they'll almost always leave you alone."

You must learn to learn their language and not be tricked by anything. Stay alert. Stay aware. Always stay vigilant.

And never let your unmarried daughters near them alone-

The sky was beautiful today. That's all really you could think to yourself. The fresh scent of flowers filling your sense of smell as dead flower petals was swept away with the dirt and dust. With each step you took the sounds of distant crying was heard. F/c eyes only stared at the floor where bristles met the ground and pushed them all away... Eventually you did spare a look briefly over your shoulder and felt your heart sink. 

The Kocho family stood there. Or..what was left of the family.

The man hugged his wife tightly to his chest as she sobbed uncontrollably into his shirt. It was the most recent travesty really. Two months ago their youngest daughter, Kanao, had gone down to the river just down the old dirt road and through the woods a bit, to gather more herbs which they sold alongside the medicines in their family shop but she hadn't returned for a few hours. Then when their two older daughters went to go look for her, they two never came back. Panicked, a group of men including Mr. Kocho and the girls' grandfathers had gone out on a wide man hunt searching deep into the nearby woods and combing the long beach nearby for any trace of the missing sisters. Nothing ever came up. No footprints or scraps of fabric. It's like they've never even existed! Some say that they were claimed by fairies. Others say a ghost spirited them away. One person whispered that a flock of harpies might've flown them away.

Whatever the case, they were gone and it's unlikely that they were coming back.

The parents had already accepted that their girls were probably not coming back and was here to make flower arrangements for a memorial service the family was hosting in their honor and memory. Your boss was standing in front of them holding a few sample petals for them to choose from. In the middle of their talk, Mrs. Kocho had burst into tears, so the older woman gave the couple a moment to process their own emotions.

This wasn't the first time a young girl disappeared into thin air. 

When you were a little girl, your next door neighbor was a beautiful woman named Rei. Her pretty brown eyes and kind personality made her a favorite person to everyone. She loved going on night walks, but one night she didn't return from her walks. Her father moved his entire business three towns away a little after that. Another case was a girl your age who disappeared last year, Mitsuri. According to her brother, she ran into the woods to be alone after her fiance brutally broke up with her. As he went to find her, he saw her being carried away by a giant black and white naga, the boy had fled as fast as he could back but by then it was too late. Then later that same year, you heard rumors about a girl named Koyuki and her father disappearing from a boat ride near the river but since that didn't happen in your town, you didn't know if that one was true.

It wasn't always young women either. Sometimes it was young men that went missing. A famous case from up the mountains was the disappearance of Kagaya Ubuyashiki. The last anyone had seen of him was he was walking along a patch of birch trees. Witnesses said he was last seen speaking to a white haired woman before he vanished. People say she was a white birch spirit. Another famous case was Tokito. Again not in your town, but he was a lumberjack that often went into the mountains for wood but one day never returned.

Nevertheless it was both scary and tragic. 

Which was why there was a few unspoken rules your parents always taught you before they passed away. Never go anywhere alone. Never trust mysteries strangers. ALWAYS carry protection with you. Never go out late at night. Stay away from deep woods. But above all else-

NEVER TRUST ANYONE WHO WASN'T HUMAN.

They were all bad and will try to trick you. Don't trust a single one. Do not engage. Like clockwork you've always taken them to heart. Always looking over your shoulder. Keeping your guard up. Keeping a dagger on you at all times. Never going out at night for any reason. You weren't gonna be carried away by some lovestruck creature! It helped a bit that you loved in the middle of town and rarely went into the woods for any reason. 

"It's an excellent choice. These flowers are very beautiful. I'm sure your service will be beautiful." Your eyes finally turned away from the sight. Your sweeping resuming as your boss politely escorted the couple to the door. "Don't worry about the delivery. It's on the house. ...You both have my up most condolences." She bowed one last time to the retreating couple.

A sigh escaping from your lips. "It happened again..Why does this happen so much?"

"Because there are creatures who have become so fascinated by the easy prey of our kind. A human is seen as a trophy of sorts. A thing to show off what you have but others can't have..." The old woman slowly closed the door. "We must remember that as humans, there are those who will hunt us."...Old black eyes turned to yours. "You're a young, beautiful woman. Possibly the most beautiful woman in town now. I wouldn't forget to be careful during these times."

"Don't worry. I'm not allowing myself to be trapped by anything."

[fanficshiddles]

The Redbridge Hunts, Chapter 1

Summary: Claire moves to Demsdale to take up a new job as an assistant teacher for one Loki Laufeyson. She's also very intrigued with all of the rumours within the borough of Redbridge. However, as she starts to fall for Loki's charm and good looks, she also learns that all of the rumours might not just be rumours after all.

NOTE/WARNINGS: Vampire/Teacher Loki, blood, talk of death, violence, dark-ish scenes, but fluffy Loki.

Also: I've tagged the other characters, but really, you can imagine whoever you want as them.

And a BIG Thank you to @toshisurtsdottir for helping me with this fic! x

-

Claire shivered as she looked down at the water flowing beneath her, glistening red in the pale moonlight.

‘So, the rumours are true.’ She whispered.

The snow crunched under her feet as she made her way across the old arched bridge, and then started following a small path through the park that followed alongside the river upstream.

There were rumours that every year without fail, on the fourth of January, the river always turned red for a few hours in the evening. And now, she had finally been able to confirm that rumour.

Claire had always been fascinated by Demsdale, a city rumoured to have a large vampire population, if you believed in vampires that was… Claire’s rational side didn’t really believe in it, she knew there had to be a reasonable, scientific explanation for it all. But at the same time, she had always been intrigued with the idea of vampires being real.

It was said that many authors of vampire books had come to Demsdale for inspiration. More-so the borough of Redbridge, where Claire stood currently, because of the red river. So, even if the rumours weren’t true, just being where many great books were born was quite exciting in itself.

Claire had just moved there between Christmas and New Year, due to start her new job tomorrow as an assistant teacher.

She continued her way through the park, keeping in line with the river until it came to an abrupt bend and went through a forest situated at the edge of the borough. Although, as she continued following it through the tall trees, she soon found she couldn’t go any further as an intimidating, high barbed wire fence blocked her way.

‘Damn it.’ She hissed and pulled her jacket in closer around her neck as the cold began creeping in.

A loud noise, similar to a bone snapping, came from behind her and made her jump, she spun around quickly and tried to get her eyes to focus. Whilst there was some light that came from the lanterns in the park, it was still dark enough for her eyes to play tricks on her. She could’ve sworn she had just seen a large shadow ducking behind a tree not too far from her.

Calm down, Claire. It’s just your eyes playing tricks on you… Just make your way back to the park. She thought to herself, trying to calm her nerves.

Inhaling deeply a few times to try and steady her shaky breathing, she began making her way back to the safety of the park. She kept her eyes on the ground to follow her footprints back out towards the path so she wouldn't get lost.

But just as she neared the edge of the trees, it sounded like there was footsteps following her through the snow. Her back stiffened as she hastily emerged from the forest, even though the noise abruptly stopped, she kept moving to get plenty of distance from the intimidating trees.

Once back in the light of the park, she bravely turned around and looked at the dark forest. Now that she was looking back at it, she mentally slapped herself for going in there in the first place. Redbridge was, after all, well known for murders and kidnappings. Not that there was a crazy amount regularly, but just more so than anywhere else in the city.

There was no sign of anyone now, allowing her to relax. But her calm moment didn't last long, when a deafening noise filled the whole area. It sounded like high-pitched screams and leather slapping all at once. Claire’s heart immediately began racing again. She turned on her heels and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Seconds later, a group of bats flew overhead out from the trees and dispersed around the park.

‘Bloody hell.’ She gasped as she stopped to catch her breath again, hand clutched to her chest.

‘Time to go home.’ She muttered and finally made her way out of the park. She felt better being back on the streets, with cars and plenty of people going about.

It didn’t take too long for her to get home either, she stayed just on the borderline of Redbridge. It was ideal as it was in close proximity to the school she was going to be working at. As soon as she had locked the door behind her, she grabbed one of her history books and flicked through the pages until she found the one she had been looking for.

Articles about the history of the city. They claimed that the bridge Claire had stood on just minutes earlier, was where the very first five vampires were turned by a spiteful witch looking for revenge on people of the former village of Demsdale, for brutally murdering her sister. She had trapped five men on said bridge and cursed them into blood sucking monsters, hoping they would bring terror and death to the villagers.

That was apparently why the borough earned the name Redbridge, and where the rumour of the blood river started too. The book said the curse was brought upon the men on the fourth of January, where every year thereafter the river turns red on that very night, but just for a few hours.

Claire hadn’t truly believed it at first, but after seeing it with her own eyes tonight, she wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. She had hoped to find some kind of logical explanation, but she wasn’t about to go trespassing over barbed wire in a freaky forest to find out.

She decided that she'd had enough adventure for one night and went to bed with her book. She hadn’t closed the curtains yet, but ended up so engrossed in her book that she never noticed a bat at her window, looking at her from small, black eyes.

-

‘It’s barbaric.’ Matt uttered, shaking his head.

‘It’s fun! They don’t feel anything.’ David replied with a shrug, stirring his tea.

‘Yeah, maybe not when you do it, but we all know there’s some that enjoy torturing the poor humans in the process.’ Matt argued back.

Loki had just walked into the teacher’s lounge in the morning and couldn’t help but overhear their bickering.

‘Well, I wonder what it could be you’re talking about.’ He grumbled, making himself a cup of tea.

‘In our defence, it was mostly humans that wanted to end their life that were used last night…’ Jessica chimed in with.

‘Mostly is the word that’s the problem there.’ Loki huffed. ‘I read online there’s six humans that mysteriously went missing yesterday.’

The others went a little quiet. Then Severus, who usually keeps to himself, spoke up. ‘Still, less people were killed than in previous years. That number is going down, if only a little.’

‘Hey, how come you weren’t there? It’s not like you to miss out on the yearly hunt.’ David asked.

Severus’ eyes twinkled a little. ‘I was… otherwise engaged.’

‘Yeah, getting it on with his new girl.’ Jessica smirked.

‘Right, I forgot a human has got you wrapped around her little finger now.’ David laughed.

‘At least I have someone that loves me for me.’ Severus countered.

‘Don’t tell me she’s turning you soft, old man!’ Hannibal teased.

‘There’s nothing wrong with loving a human.’ Loki snapped.

‘I never said there was.’ Hannibal said in defence.

‘Well, Severus is right. At least things are still going in the right direction, it’s less numbers than previous years. Your father’s ways are really starting to get out there more.’ David tried, hoping to calm Loki down a little.

‘I guess so. I just agree with Matt. Hunting terrified humans just to drink for fun is disgusting. Especially when we have access to the blood bank whenever we need.’ Loki stated.

‘Plus, with all the bars we have deals with. There’s just no need to be hunting to kill and terrify anymore.’ Matt agreed.

Loki nodded. ‘Exactly. Even if most of the prey are willing to be there, there’s still no need for it. It needs to end. It’s a ridiculous tradition.’

‘Well, I made sure none of them felt any pain. It’s an old yearly tradition, but at least it’s less barbaric than it used to be. And I’m sure in the next few years it will be only the willing humans there.’ David shrugged.

‘Not with Chris still running it, it won’t be.’ Loki growled.

‘What won’t be?’ Came Chris’ voice as he entered the room.

‘We were speaking about the yearly hunt. That each year there’s less and less unwilling humans there.’ Hannibal said.

Loki stiffened and focused on drinking his tea, angry eyes not leaving the cup in front of him.

Chris smirked as he stalked across the room to the kettle. ‘Indeed, they are getting less… which is a shame, as it’s nowhere near as fun when they’re there of their own accord.’

Loki and Matt both bit their tongues to keep quiet. They knew there was no point fighting with him, they wouldn’t win anyway. No one could win a physical fight against Chris. Being one of the original five vampires, he was one of the most powerful vampires in the world even. There was only two of them left.

‘But we do need to keep the peace with the humans.’ Jessica said calmly.

‘True.’ Chris nodded. ‘However, that’s why having the hunt when we do is ideal. Everyone just thinks that people have ran away or killed themselves after spending the depressing holiday season on their own.’ Chris said calmly as he turned to face everyone with a grin.

‘Didn’t you enjoy yourselves?’ Chris then asked, looking at David, Jessica and Hannibal.

‘Of course, we did. It’s always fun, even with the willing humans. It brings us back to our carnal nature after all. Let’s us live out our little fantasy every year.’ Jessica said with a smile.

‘Well then. The vampires are happy, the humans that went there willingly are happily at peace, and the few I picked off because they were lonely, well… I am sure they are happier wherever they are now.’ Chris gave Jessica a charming smile.

Loki struggled to remain calm, his jaw clenched and his free hand balled into a fist. He tried his best not to crush his cup.

Everyone went silent when they heard the only two human teachers making their way down the corridor towards the room.

Redbridge secondary school was run by vampires, and most of the teachers were vampires too, with just two human teachers. The pupils were 60% vampires but only a few of the human pupils knew about their existence, mostly if they were best friends with a vampire or dating one.

As the school’s headmaster, Chris was almost in total control of the place. However, the school also had a set council of vampires that had the ultimate say in big decisions. The school had been set up by Loki’s father, Lucius. The income they received from family’s that sent their kids there could go into the blood bank at the hospital down the road.

The hospital was founded and ran by Lucius too, and the blood bank was for vampires to have a way of getting their feed without actually having to drink from humans. The humans got paid for their blood donations, of course thinking it went to fellow humans in need. Which part of it did, because Lucius did run a proper hospital too, bustling with humans working there, glad they had a well-paying job.

For the last one hundred years, Lucius has had a vision of humans and vampires being able to co-exist together, with the humans mostly being unaware of the vampire’s existence. It had been a hard battle getting vampires to change their old ways, but with more vampire hunters entering the scene, the vampires realised that they couldn’t keep feeding off of human’s as they pleased without consequence. There was one vampire hunter in particular who had proven to fight the especially cruel and unrelenting vampires with the same, if not more cruelty. In the end, most of them realised that Lucius’ way was the right way, especially if they wanted to stay alive.

Some bars had policies for vampires, they would send the drunk humans out the back where vampires could take their fill from them. Providing they didn’t kill them. So when the human woke up, whatever they would remember from the encounter just seemed like a lucid dream.

While there were still lots of vampires that enjoyed feeding from humans in one way or another, there was a few that not only enjoyed feeding from them, but enjoyed torturing them too, not fearing the consequences or the hunters. Vampires could release endorphins while they were feeding, resulting in the humans to feel drowsy and happy, but some vampires choose not to. They loved hearing the cries of terror and pain while they were drinking from their prey far too much. Often, they would not stop after the human passed out, they would suck the human dry.

And Chris happened to be one of those vampires.

The human teachers Michael and Jeremy entered the lounge and happily greeted everyone. The vampires all put on smiles and everyone shared what they got up to over the holidays. Well, the human friendly parts, at least.

Loki was still uncomfortable about being in the same room as Chris, especially after what had happened last night. So he left the room as soon as he could.

‘I’m away to get my lessons planned for the day.’ He hastily said to everyone.

‘Oh Loki, before you go...’ Chris called to him, making him stop but Loki didn’t turn to face Chris. ‘You’ve got a new assistant joining you today. She’s just passed her teaching exams from across the country and is going to be joining us for a couple of years.’

Loki turned and looked at Chris with an eyebrow up. ‘You didn’t think to tell me before now?’

Chris hid a smirk behind his tea as he took a sip. ‘I didn’t know about it until this morning when I came in. It’s not a problem, is it?’

Loki kept his cool and shook his head. ‘No, not at all… I could do with the assistance actually.’

‘Good. She’ll be in your classroom, waiting.’

‘She? Finally, another woman in the mix.’ Jessica cheered.

Loki turned around and continued on out of the room with his jaw clenched. He was pissed that he was only being told now. He thought it would no doubt be another vampire, if Chris had something to do with it. Loki only hoped she wasn’t old school type with her feeding. Or they would end up not getting along well at all.

As he opened the door to his classroom, the most intoxicating, mouth-watering smell, instantly hit him like a ton of bricks.

‘Oh, hi! You must be Mr Laufeyson. I’m Claire, Claire Mason.’ A young woman said brightly as she walked up to him with her hand outstretched towards him.

Oh no. She was no vampire… This was going to be much, much, worse than he had thought.

[thejournallo]

Explain the basic: the Elements

Guess who's back—me, BRUH!

Desclaimer: Everything I will talk about is information that I got from books and sites online and even videos on YouTube. In my years of practice, I learned as much as I could out of curiosity and what works best for me. I suggest you do the same by learning as much as you can on your own (I will be here making posts teaching this kind of stuff) from multiple sources.

In witchcraft, the elements of Earth, Air, Fire, Water and Spirit are often seen as fundamental forces that can be harnessed for magical and spiritual purposes.

These elements are symbolic and represent different aspects of nature, energy, and consciousness. Here's a brief explanation of each element in the context of witchcraft:

Earth:

Symbolism: Represented by the physical element of earth, rocks, soil, and symbols like pentacles or greenery. Qualities: Associated with grounding, stability, fertility, abundance, and the material realm. Magical Uses: Earth is often invoked for spells related to prosperity, growth, physical health, and stability. It is also connected to the physical body and practical matters.

Air:

Symbolism: Represented by the element of air, wind, feathers, and symbols like incense or a wand. Qualities: Associated with communication, intellect, inspiration, thought, and the realm of the mind. Magical Uses: Air is often invoked for spells related to communication, intellect, clarity of thought, and inspiration. It is also associated with the power of the spoken word and intention.

Fire:

Symbolism: Represented by flames, candles, the sun, and symbols like a cauldron or a staff. Qualities: Associated with transformation, passion, energy, willpower, and the element of action. Magical Uses: Fire is often used in spells for transformation, motivation, courage, and purification. It symbolizes the spark of creation and the force that propels change.

Water:

Symbolism: Represented by water, rivers, lakes, and symbols like a chalice or a bowl of water. Qualities: Associated with emotions, intuition, purification, healing, and the subconscious. Magical Uses: Water is often invoked for spells related to emotions, intuition, purification, and healing. It is also associated with the flow of energy and the ebb and flow of life.

Spirit:

Symbolism: Often considered the fifth element, representing the divine or the ethereal. It may be symbolized by symbols like the akasha or an empty circle. Qualities: Associated with the divine, the interconnectedness of all things, and the essence of consciousness. Magical Uses: Spirit is often invoked for rituals that involve connecting with the divine, meditation, and spiritual growth. It is the element that transcends the physical and ties everything together.

In rituals and spellwork, practitioners often call upon these elements, either individually or in combination, to create a balanced and harmonious energy.

The elements are thought to correspond to different aspects of the human experience and the natural world, allowing witches to work with these energies to achieve their magical and spiritual goals.

Tips and tricks:

Body: If we want to use an element but don't have an object that can represent that element, we can use our body. (ex: I don't have anything to represent the earth; let me hit my feet to the ground.). (I need to represent fire; let me use my passion.)

To connect to an element: let's experience it, Go out and feel the forest and the rain; watch the fire burning; and let the fire warm you.

Combine the elements: with the incense, you have fire and air together; growing a plant, you have water and earth collaborating; and so on.

Memories: Everywhere you go, take a stone, a sea shell, a feather, or buy a lighter. Let the elements be good memories.

Deity: Some deities (I will deepen this conversation in the final post to explain the basics) are connected to the elements; we can use them to honor them.

Songs: we can use songs and music to feel connected to the elements; for example, I associate "Je te laisserai des mots" with the elements of the earth.

As always, I will love to hear your thoughts! and if you have any questions, I will be more than happy to answer them! If you liked it, leave a comment or reblog (that is always appreciated!). If you are interested in more methods, check the masterlist!

[cowboylament]

“I’m not the best guest. I don’t have much to say.”

I shifted forward, tucking my stomach nearly into my spine, digging my hands a little onto the cushion and burying the flower. I could feel the awkwardness of my body, of trying to disappear into myself before other people. It was something you could do only when you were truly alone. As Lucien watched this maneuver I looked away, avoiding the return of his gaze. 

“I don’t mind.” He said his voice gentle in its sincerity, even a little desperate with it. “You only have to give me what you have.”

I’d denied him once so on this I conceded, “Alright.”

“And after I’ll walk you home.”

It was not a question so I gave no answer. We returned to the quiet that had come and gone a few times already but something lingered in it, the promise, the plan. How often the plan in my days had been to continue only with what I’d been doing all along, the plan always being to survive, to remember. Something different hung in the air, like the silence between lighting and thunder where you know something is going to interrupt everything. And it isn’t bad, it’s almost exciting, but you’re a little scared at how loud it might come, how close the disruption will reveal itself to be.

Or

Y/N does not always have the answers, but sometimes Lucien does.

Part one, (AO3)

I rolled my head back into the current, my hair pulling out ahead of me like it too might disappear and forget it was attached to me. It was always cold, but that day particularly so, as winter had fled for an hour at most those days before full bloom. I’d wake to the sudden bursting of green having happened overnight. Spring. The speckles of sunlight managing through the trees traced across fine patterns, warming the thin skin of my eyelids. Three birds landed beside me, wetting their beak. They hopped about the shallows as if I wasn’t there. I didn’t let myself believe it was because I’d vanished. Not here, at least. This part of the world had gotten so used to me they’d learned not to be afraid. 

I’d heard it happen. It became impossible not to notice when I walked through the denser forest—a chorus of clicks. Birds, the smaller species, have a dialect. It was how they spoke to each other, of danger. The more clicks, the less dangerous. I listened to their assumptions of me as I set snares that first winter—one quick click.

Over time, however, from careful watch or inherited memory, they added on to their call, as if I’d earned each small vibrant chirp by merit of gentleness. And it meant nothing to anyone but me, the day they began to speak with four melodic notes. One for predator, four for friend, so I began to leave things outside the house for them to chew on. They’d bring me trinkets in return, acorn tops and flowers. Friends indeed.

Overhead in the mid-spring sun, I listened to the four notes. They hopped around me splashing and I held myself in careful place, the cool water a relief. The river moved through my fingers. This was the good weather, the kind where I felt touched again. I couldn’t trick myself into believing it was a person, but it was more tender than the whipping wind, the icy snow. I’d have been content enough had I not noticed it, the change, a warning to me as much to the others—one clipped note.

I sat up, the stream flowing freely in my mouth as I ducked my nose below the waterline. The muddy bottom caught my feet and slowly I turned my head, eyes tracing the bank separating Dawn from Day. Nothing but trees, greenery, birds in flight, and a male. Stopped among the tangle of vines he was riding the last moments of surprise. He’d been there a while before before any of us had caught him and I hadn’t noticed. We stared a moment, to be sure, the trickle of water the only sound. Our eyes snagged like thorns. We shared one bright and long sunbeam, that afternoon holding us both carefully in the tension, stretching the air between us all the tighter. He and that sudden life giving warmth were more real than anything, than the winter that had gone, the water that held me, than the wild beat of my heart. I knew this as I had known nothing else. He was there where absense and longing had been before. My blood was warming, singing in my ears. The bird's abandonment I understood. I angled my head slightly, he mimicked. His eyes slightly widened as mine had. He couldn’t see my throat, but his swallowed in time with mine. When his mouth twitched, the air released us and the world pulled. I bolted. 

“Stop!” He yelled.

Water splashed behind me and I climbed, hands muddy, onto the thorny knoll. I could smell him, my eyes catching my slip, my bag. There was no time. I abandoned the bag—nothing of value, grabbing the flimsy material and running. I had the advantage, I knew it all better.

“Wait, I’m not—” he began but I put distance between us, the branches tugging on the skin with familiarity. I could hear him behind me, running, twigs snapping, things breaking. I was lighter, quieter.

“Hey!” He said. “I just need to ask—“

I didn’t turn back. His voice died. The space between us grew and though I knew my way around it was too large a distance not to be on purpose. I slowed some and even then he grew no closer, slowing as well. He was not running to catch me, following yes, but in an idle way. It suddenly didn’t feel like a risk. For a long time I’d stopped fearing death, just hoped now to delay it. And with the distance between us, a delay there was. I stopped, feeling allowed. Maybe other things, foreign things, came here to be gentle too. His footsteps stopped. The woods were silent, not a whisper besides our panting. Where once there was one breath now there were two, I listened closely, where one heart had beat now there was another. I shrugged the slip on, and turned. He was far, unmoving, watching me as I watched him. No weapon drawn, just eyes that looked and saw, that answered that old question. He could see me and I could see him. Even at a distance I understood his warmth. He remained perpetually in that light.

Overhead, sweeping across the treetops, a breeze caught the tallest branches. In growing crescendo the leaves caressed one another, giving shape to the gust, before it passed on and over us.

“I’m looking for someone,” the male said finally. His voice indeed gentle in familiarity. Like I’d heard that kind of voice before but it did not belong to him. “My friend. She’s been taken.”

I’d seen no one. So far out, so far away, It would take me more than a few days to walk to run into campsites. It had been forever really, in some ways. I watched him, waiting for a reply.

“Has anyone passed through here?” 

I forgot. An answer meant I had to voice a memory, that I had to let him remember. The river that had run through my mouth had gone dry. I opened it but what came out was only wind. I blinked and decided instead to shake my head. He could see me and I could see him. There was no other need, no more that I had to give away. Another breeze caressed the treetops before he spoke again. 

“Are you alright? You’re barefoot.”

I looked down. I hadn’t noticed. Some splinters were stuck in the skin, but otherwise fine. 

I nodded. 

“I’m sorry I interrupted you. I can winnow you back if…”

I shook my head. If everything else hadn’t given him away as high fae then winnowing would’ve been the tell. So she’s gone. They’re free. 

His face seemed suddenly…sad. Ancient in it. “I’m not like them though I look it.”

I didn’t understand what he meant. No one in my memory looked as he did. It seemed all too vulnerable to let that be known so I angled my confusion away from him but it only made it more pointed. His brows lifted, mouth softening. 

He put a hand on his chest, “I’m—“

He took one step forward and my eyes widened. I shot my hand out but it was too late. A snare. Flame erupted and banked in a blink. Then quiet, not a sound, not a breath, just the beat of my heart, the cracking of burn. The world was then only my ten fingers, crouched down below the brush. I inhaled, dropping them. Slowly, rising, I peered over the shrubs and saw him hanging there. How quickly I forgot. I knew these woods. Not him. 

Our eyes met again. One strange, different from the other I realized. He said nothing just watched as I rose to my full height, unfurling like a fern before him. I took in a long breath, the both of us locked on each other, then began to close the distance. If he closed his eyes he would forget I was there. The twigs didn’t break beneath my feet, I found moss, soil, soft leaves. Not a sound. Not a trace. Nothing. 

I walked as if on a wire, carefully, and there was just one direction I could go. He at the end. I could feel him with the same realness as the body dangling, as if his presence was a second body between us and it was very close to me. The snare was in a small clearing beneath a tree. I stood at the edge where the brush began to get dense. Two small blades had fallen from his person and lay beneath him. I eyed them. 

He raised a hand, reaching, and I flinched away. It was only a shrug of my shoulders, a slight hiding, but he stopped. He frowned. Upside down it looked like a smile. I wish he would do that, I wish I could see it just once. Movement again, slower now, he turned his palm out to me. Nothing in his hands. Nothing up his sleeve. I released my tension. I forgot people could do that, relieve you of things. But there was more I wanted, that I had wanted for a long time. To walk close to him and press my cheek into his hand. But I couldn’t. Only once I bowed my head with encouragement did he continue. He moved to his waist and removed his belt which clanged to the ground. More blades. 

“I can’t reach the rest.”

I could, I thought. Show me where you keep them. But I couldn’t think of any animal, naive or not, that would reveal itself so totally. So I took the two knives and left the belt. When I rose again I was closer. None of this threatened him. Just as he didn’t threaten me. Perhaps we both should’ve felt differently. He had weapons and now so did I. I was still within an arms reach away, he swaying from my snare. He still watched me carefully. 

“I thought you were a water nymph,” He said a touch amused, but in a way that was removed and coming from a far distance, like he’d discarded that emotion a long time ago thinking it useless. “They can be flighty.”

I knew that. I shook my head and thought to back away, but a very small part of me wanted to do the opposite. I could feel his warmth and it warped the urgency of before until it was nonexistent. He was smart, surely there were weapons he could reach if he tried harder, and he was strong, but his face even at this angle struck the world with such a beauty it made you want to stand very close to it. I didn’t though, beautiful things can be exceptionally dangerous. I watched his full mouth from a distance, a small one, but more distance than I wanted nonetheless, as it opened slightly. He observed himself being observed.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, nodding his chin toward my arm. When I turned it over the cut revealed itself, slight and superficial. By tomorrow it would be gone—like him. I pressed my palm into the skin anyway, let the light in, no more than a second, than two, and the skin mended. My throat tight. 

A streak of red. Accidental violence. My fault. 

He brought a hand up behind his ear where the trail of blood was. I showed him my palms as he had shown his and his eyes went a bit wider, body freezing as I reached across the divide. A reason now, to do it, I was nearly there elbow extended when I realized what would happen. If I touched him I’d remember the feeling of someone being within reach. It was easier to go on without having had at all, to not break the momentum. I stopped. My hand dropped. 

“You can touch me,” he whispered. 

My face went red. In the new spring I knew he could see it with ease, the rising blood. 

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.” 

I knew. But I was. I withdrew my attention further giving it to the rest of the scene around him. The twine on the snare would be a loss, but I would manage. Tonight I would go home and I would eat what I collected in the woods. There would be no meat. Often there wasn’t. I would live—hungry for everything, but alive. I could feel it, his eye. The golden one. I planted my feet more firmly. There was a singular special weight to it, the gaze more precise you could feel where it was. Could he…see? Could he see things that I could not? The cruel scar fell across his face in a pale arc—to touch with such violence. My hand flinched toward him again but I refrained. I could not, however, stop my furrowed brow and the lean in my spine as I tried to move closer.

“What’s your name?”

I withdrew again and he did not try and stop me, he didn’t beg or plead, not even with his eyes. He just watched me as if he were watching a wild animal move into the brush, return on wobbling naive legs to its mother. “Lucien!” someone yelled from far away. Both our heads swung in that direction. He wasn’t alone. It had been a long time since I’d seen someone so close, longer too since someone had seen me. But that was over now. I knew it would end. I didn’t get swallowed in the feeling of having someone do something back to me, like listen, like wait. We did not turn our heads back, but our eyes met at their corners watching the other. I was outnumbered and the wards were failing. My knees bent, poised to dash. If they followed they could see, and even if by some miracle the wards worked that eye...they could not be given the opportunity to see. In the few seconds I took to make up my mind his name rang out once more and he still did not call back. Lucien, I’d remember it now. 

My chest moved more rapidly than it ought to, giving away that I was afraid and how much I was. Worry settled on him, but why? Did he think me as violent as what had given him that scar? Or was I simply, to even my kind, a creature of the woods, capable under fear to be mortally wounding? He brought a finger to his lips. Shh. I blinked once. Then again. The twine caught the light and I remembered.

I took one step back to the edge of the brush, its thick overgrowth between my shoulder blades. His two knives a weight. I grabbed for one. Despite his position, he had that preternatural stillness. Terror. I scared him. My stomach hurt.

I parted my mouth, “leave,” my only command. And I launched the blade. 

His eyes widened. I didn’t stick around to watch him fall. The twine-sliced, dagger embedded in the tree behind him, my back was already turned when he hit the forest floor. I would disappear by the time he stood. He would listen, but hear nothing. I wouldn’t have been there, had never been there. I zigzagged the rest of the way avoiding the trails until I made it to the edge of the meadow. I stopped, tucking behind the tree, my shoulder exposed still, and listened to the sound of their voices, but none came. I waited to be sure. There was unending silence. Then a few chirps, four, as if the world had already forgotten. 

***

It wasn’t what I thought it would be—Velaris, but it held a memory. If I stared long enough I’d remember. There in the street, a child ran carefree and unburdened down the cobble with their families followed far behind, unafraid. The adults spoke with their hands. A story was being exchanged, one with exuberance and delight. I waited for the overlap, for the thing that connected us. But outside the window, a world moved that no longer belonged to me. Everyone was different than when I left them. The clothes they wore, the words they spoke, the thoughts they had, their logic and being did not coincide with my own. We shared something, I knew that from before. I would remember what it was if I was careful, if I paid attention.

“When do you leave for Dawn?”

“Next week.”

Azriel and Nesta stood within earshot so it looked like I was part of their group. I’d noticed it a few days ago, what they did. Sometimes it worked, sometimes I’d turn and join their conversation for a thought, maybe two, before pulling back into myself. More often though no words came at all.

“Have you found anything?”

“Just traces. Bryaxis is staying in Dawn. It broke its pattern by doing so.”

“Why?”

Azriel looked at his drink, “We don’t know.”

Nesta shuddered. Rhysand, Azriel, and I had met this past week to discuss this broken cycle. The High Lord employed my knowledge where he could. Bryaxis might not be a creature of this world, but a creature he was, and of that I had always known plenty. The middle of Prythian would be the perfect spot for such a thing, but it had not dared slip into it. Why? Food sources most likely. Dawn was abundant. That area hadn’t been depleted with so few villages around, but it had not seemed to be a thing content on rabbits and foxes. Or locked up for so long down below perhaps it had become a beast of habitat rather than migration. The cottage and its shed now lay vacant. I knew better than anyone the desire to stay in that spot even when something in you had once wanted to be somewhere else.

If nothing else felt right then there was great comfort in those meetings. Where, sitting before two males who had been in the world so long, I was part of it too, and I knew something about the way it worked. They listened to me, they took me seriously. Even when it was over I waited for what seemed in the silence inevitable since I’d told Rhysand everything. Only instead of dismissing me, after Azriel was gone, he’d tell me when to return. Sometimes he’d ask me to stay a little longer, delay my being left alone. In his office one of those nights he revealed that he too was the last surviving member of his family. I was ashamed of the comfort it brought, how it struck more like a memory.

“Helion is searching his libraries for answers, but he’s not found anything yet.”

“What about ours?”

I had yet to be to the library which had needed such protections. I hadn’t really been anywhere actually. With everything available to me I left the house more rarely than ever. I turned toward them and they were ready, waiting, eyes already on me, “Where is your library?”

Nesta gestured up, “The House of Wind.”

They spoke of this place often. Nesta lived there. It once belonged to Rhysand’s family. 10,000 steps and within it somehow a library, a library and that beast. At best I could imagine something cavernous and sharp with dark hard edges, something wicked and frightening, though the name betrayed this notion. It was surely lighter, homely, vast, and open. It was very accessible to them, but lost to me. I saw it only at a distance. I had no wings.

On days when I wasn’t needed and we weren't back in the woods and everyone was scattered in their places I could not reach it could feel as though I was alone still. Over the weeks slowly I’d met most of those names I recalled having overheard Day Court and gave my own. But Lucien—I looked for him. He was never there. Never at the river house or at the table, no one said his name, he wasn’t around any corner or across the street. I thought he would be.

“If you wish to see it we could send someone to bring you. Azriel or Cassian.”

Cassian her mate. He’d not been here at all yet. Not, at least, where I was. I’d heard him mentioned, but otherwise, he eluded me. I did not know how to tell her that I wouldn’t ever ask so I nodded and turned back to the window.

They continued in their conversation letting me pass through it and leave again, but I knew she watched me. Neither of them, but especially Azriel on those long and quiet nights in the woods if Rhysand was gone, made me talk. Sometimes, when I looked particularly tired from days in Velaris, he didn’t even wake me to take watch. 

“What are your plans.”

“Y/N mentioned some caves, I’m going to fly over, see if I feel anything.”

“Nes,” A voice said, and I knew who it was without being familiar with it—Cassian. 

Nesta looked over her shoulder, communicating something for him, before she turned back. “If you need any help,” she said before her footsteps faded away elsewhere. The end of her sentence understood by the other Illyrian without needing anything further. A glimmer of light, like that which breaks on the sea, warped and glinted with me before that hole in my stomach swallowed it.

Outside the city twinkled, the sky unobstructed. My father would love it here, love what it gave him access to. The embodiment of the stars, High Lord of the Night Court. Though Rhysand wasn’t so formal he’d have surely made some mistake, forgetting his position. In the reflection off the window Azriel’s eyes though stealthy and easy to miss, fell obviously to me. They became a weight on my shoulders. He was waiting. I could tell that everyone here was very kind. They offered something good, a reminder that they were there. But I knew this more clearly than anything. A space had been filled where it had not for so long been filled. What they didn’t seem to know was that I’d give them whatever it was they wanted if they only asked.

“My mother took me there,” I said eventually. “The caves.”

The family that had passed had faded into the distance. They became less real than the memory of that Autumn I spent hiking those rocks with her—that terrible sad season spent underground, in hibernation, crouching by the rivers, crossing one cave into another without surfacing like a secret. But it had helped me, she had helped me return to myself, she helped me live. The memory was just there, vivid and precise. I faced him fully and found my footing, my spine, extending it to my full height. “We spent an Autumn there. I helped her with her work. That’s how I know them.” 

I followed the thread of the story. It was easy at first, so simple—We’d gone there together. But the further I went the the more this story, these words revealed their thinness. The direction I was going lacked so many crucial details, so many other stories that informed the first. Until I noticed that the original thread frayed off in too many directions, each tangling in one another, splitting again. Some stories less vivid, some packed with detail, and those with their own diversions and explanations. Every word I grasped for next revealed the flatness of the previous, their inability to render what I knew in this medium, the dimensions, the life. 

It reminded me of the way some animals can see colors we can’t. It is inconceivable to the mind, living in between a real and unreal place where we know it exists but all the same cannot conjure any possibility of its existence, to which we have no true access. And we could grasp for some equivalent in an attempt to translate it, say it is like purple and blue, like the color of comets tale a split second after it has passed our line of sight, but then of course it is something else. We can only transform these truths. They become different. They are not what they had begun as.

This had never bothered me before, the mystery, the secrets held in the natural world. Knowing they were there had been enough. Even if they weren’t seen they existed. Now it was a frustration, boiling in my chest, wrinkling the skin, burning away at the muscle. How is it possible that you cannot know what I know? How can I be the keeper of a memory I cannot live up to?

Without the body everything collapsed, my spine curving under the weight of inadequacy, the disappointment. I existed in another language, one abandoned, one long forgotten that had no common root. There was nothing left to say. Or no, nothing that could be said for all that was left.

He nodded along, noticing my sudden despair. “That's very nice,” he said in his, at times, quiet voice. It was like we two were the only people at that register sometimes. If we didn’t understand each other in words we at least had this, this voice only we heard.

“She studied,” I said despite what I knew, wanting to give more but that too failed to relay a lifetime of memories and round moments that seemed only banal and muted, drained of themselves, of what had made them so important. 

He nodded again sensing the conversation was over. When Cassian and Feyre called him over he gave a polite farewell in that voice before departing. I watched the window with a heavy gaze pressing in on me from the party. I didn’t look to see who. I couldn’t make them know a thing anyway.

Few people passed but I waited, paying very close attention to them. An old fae female hands behind her back eyes at the city itself, at the young male that passed. He was not yet adult, but nearing it. He walked book in hand, eyes downcast missing but probably hearing the children. More of them, these unaccompanied, self-governing if you could call it that. Their clothes dirty, they looked somewhat wild running through the streets, not going home to their parents. A male and female passed, the male turned the other direction, the female looking at him in the way you do. Eyes bright, smile wide, I didn’t have to hear the city outside to know the speed of her furious passionate heart. 

“Looking for beasts?”

Rhysand waited, standing alone, a drink in his hand. A surprise to me, that such a male could slip away without notice or pursuit. Behind him, the party continued with rambunctious conversation, the space he’d once been was saved for him, waiting for his return. Heads were thrown back, laughter rose up through the air into the ceiling then through the floors I suspect until the moon heard it and laughed too. But still, they kept a part of their lives open for his return.

I bowed as if that were an answer, adding for good measure, “Something of the sort.” 

He stepped beside me to face the window together, sharing the view with me, looking out on his world.

“Any new insight on what Bryaxis said?”

The High Lord’s head fell to the side, smiling at me, “Must you always be working?” He asked. My attention unfaltering I heard the other thing those words said. And why aren’t you living? I didn’t know how to show, to explain, that I already was. That word had come to mean something else. Regardless, he surrendered to my question quickly, “No, not yet.” 

In Day Court after I’d shown him what he’d wanted to see and then some he’d informed me Bryaxis was not so talkative, not until it asked Feyre for a window. And even then it was rather straightforward in its desire. So why us? And if it thought that I were to die that night, why so cryptic, so suggestive? It lives where I lived. It is born where I was born. 

I hummed, “Unless he is from Dawn Court as well I’m at a loss.”

The High Lord huffed a raspy laugh. He took a moment, maybe feigning the need to clear his throat as an excuse to gather himself, to dispose of that flimsy joke before its small pleasure had gone again. We’d be leaving in just a few days. Two months, no news, no progress—that this otherworldly thing knew something we did not, and still we were going after it, trying to intercept its path.

“Do you believe it would seek out the caves?”

He shrugged, sighing, “I want to say no, it sought company and a window. The caves feel unlikely. But if it has changed its pattern then who knows. Everything feels equally plausible and useless. We have no other leads.” 

“The change could make sense. People from Dawn have been known to go there, it seems Bryaxis prefers the spectacle of hunting. Perhaps it simply wants to be entertained by its food. Maybe that's why it said what it said, for the thrill.”

Rhysand was silent, eyes narrowing as he watched the horizon like a darkness thick and impenetrable would appear, like it would come closer and tell us everything. 

“I think it saw something,” I said quietly. 

“When?”

“When it looked at me.”

“I noticed that.” He said his voice moving further from the conversation, moving inward. “Bryaxis spoke of you…”

He did not have to finish the sentence. There was something intimate, knowledgable. Goosebumps rose against my neck, my arms, and my legs. That voice even in memory was nowhere and everywhere at once, as if it had come directly from my bones. So old it had seemed then, and now young in memory. The straddling of the in between with which it had come from persisted.

“If it has decided to stay then it picked a good place. No one looks over there.”

The High Lord eyed me, closing some distance he had managed since he arrived, “You liked it there.” I nodded. Rhysand finished his glass, “If it is in those caves, if one darkness is different from the rest, do you think you will be able to wield your light as you did?” 

My mouth was dry, we’d been talking about this for days now, weeks, but he had not asked yet directly. It was inevitable though that we find ourselves in its path. They were set on putting that thing back, but how could you in good faith rely on a weapon you couldn’t be sure you could use? There was no way of knowing which light was one thing and which was the other. 

“I have no idea.” He let out a sigh that came so deep from his lungs it might have arrived the day he was born. I continued, “The reaction was…inherent, almost. I don’t know…I had no choice, but a choice was obvious. I believe in the face of such fear that reaction might be inevitable. But if that is true I had no idea.”

“But can you know?”

“There’s only one way to test the theory.”

The way the light had behaved from beneath my skin that night had been as reflexive as breathing, as a beating heart, but we could forget. Those things stopped all the time. But there was knowing and not knowing, and I preferred to know. Nothing else mattered in that equation. Rhysand said nothing still, not as Azriel’s voice hummed from behind. He wouldn’t tell us not to go, not with what he believed in—the memory, the girl in the woods. A visceral gratitude settled over me for what he trusted me with. No, it wasn’t quite gratitude. The word was unclear, but I peered over at Azriel before I turned toward the city again, thought of my dad, saw the Sidra, thought of my mom.

“Are you worried?” I asked, reaching for my glass on the table.

He swallowed, “Yes. Are you?”

“No.”

He smiled gently, “That makes me feel a little better.”

I felt a brightness permeate on my face, not that of magic, but magic all the same. I don’t know if anything had gotten better. Better, no that was not the word for what was happening these days. But sometimes, randomly, I felt something, something I didn’t have the capacity to express, but it felt good. Like the hole in my stomach blinked, closing so totally for a moment before opening back up again. It was back now, but it had closed. Silence settled between us, however, the kind that begs to ask a question. He wanted to know why I wasn’t afraid surely, what did I know, what had I experienced that made me not afraid? But just as the air announced the question’s arrival, it revealed too its departure. 

“Feyre said she offered to show you the city but that you wanted to secure your own seamstress. Have you found one?”

“I’m still looking.”

I ran my hands along the skirt of my dress. Before we’d left I asked Rhysand if he could take me back, if I might grab some things. He waited outside the broken house for me as I perused the floors, pulling from waterlogged drawers, what things I’d had left. Clothes, memories, journals, a few books. I ran my hand over everything, exiting and walking back from where we’d come. In a couple years, maybe even within this one, it would fall away completely. The damage and rot had reached the inside and even if the stones remained, its memory would reflect nothing of what it had been. The story would be lost to time itself. I knew this and so I did not turn back. I remembered. To look would make me forget. Across the small clearing, I could imagine what was my once fine home: ruins, shattered irreparable stone, an interior revealed to anyone who wished to notice. You had to want to see it. Most people didn’t want to. 

 “Is that why you have not taken my offer up yet to visit the library? Busy exploring?”

The words were not immediate. ‘No’ was the first one to show up, but it felt harsh in my mouth. There was no way to express this feeling of stubborn muscle memory. I simply could not make myself want to go here, to this house, and look at its books. Nor to see what Velaris offered and how you were with people without really being with them. I had never lived among so large a population, I had no idea a place could be like that, so contradictory.

“Any book, I mean it. You are not sequestered to sacred texts and academia. Nesta surely will have some recommendations.”

“Thank you,” I said, leaving it at that. The night sky glittered, the darkness broken up into thousands of little pieces. “I understand your bias.”

He accepted the compliment and the change of subject with a humble smile, a peer toward the window, “You’re happy though, to return to those woods. Is that your bias?”

I shook my head, “No. Maybe. But it's…”

The High Lord studied me carefully and again the silence took on that trivial air of question. Something in it bloated, making space for itself, penetrating whatever small moment we’d might have had alone in our own of brief goodness. I confirmed my speculation, knowing more clearly from feeling, on my own face, the look of someone wanting to say something and finding for whatever reason they could not.

“If you ask I’ll tell you.”

“Do you like it here?” 

“I do,” I said, picking up my glass from the table. “I like it a lot really.”

His face took on a look I couldn’t name beyond doubt. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but there was, to me, no sadder place than that between what you were and what someone thought you to be. That unreal thing that replaces the real. You could lose a lot to something like that, to the boundary beyond yourself. It was death of a kind, forgetting of a kind. My words had failed to close that gap and I wanted him to understand me. If something did happen I didn’t want that to be the thing I left behind. But more than I wanted to be understood, I did not like the guilt that existed in him that was useless and unneeded. I wasn’t lying. I was simply alone. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Did it feel…different when you came back? Did you think that something else would be here?”

I understood just as quickly as the light dimmed in his face the severity of my mistake. This was not his office. He had not invited me into his feeling and by bringing it about I’d robbed him of some joy, selfishly at that. I wanted to find, again, we shared the same suffering.

Do you know it as I know it, what makes us so alike?

My throat tightened, and the world constricted. Around us grew a darkness, sunk with the intensity of collective anguish. I squeezed my hands shut, twisted them in the fabric of my skirt, pulled them from reach. No one noticed, no one turned toward the sudden void with which our part of the room had been submerged. He did not open his mouth, did not quiver his lips, or swallow anything that might have been an answer waiting in his throat. He was preternaturally still, sharp, a predator on alert. I’d put him on defense in his own home. 

I shook my head, backing up a step, “I’m sorry—”

Rhysand’s face once severe rippled, longing, pain, despair, all of it washing over him as he stared at me, eyes hard. 

I tried again, “I didn’t mean—”

“Rhys.”

Cassian’s voice broke some momentum dragging us down but did not alleviate the burden of what had happened. As he waved him over in fact the weight only became more precarious. As if suddenly I was carrying it all on my own. The hole I felt had blinked widened, enveloping my chest, my heart. If it were visible this sudden deformity I was unsure. I bowed hastily before he could turn back to me and say anything else, ending with certainty whatever had begun. 

From his reflection, I saw his head drop. The disappointment was palpable, you did not even have to look directly at it. He lingered there a second, returning himself to something calm, and left me with a slight nod of his head. There was nowhere for me to do the same, a space waiting for me to disappear into. I wanted to tuck my body further into my body to keep it from exposure. But I was in his house. The perpetual eyes, their weighty focus, grew only more precise. I could not bear to remain under it. I withdrew the only way I could manage, finding the furthest point of existence. In the far opposite corner of the room, there was a loveseat. Beside it, a vase lay in bloom. 

I sighed. Elderflower.

They were all over the woods and near the cottage. They’d become ordinary after a while but now at a distance, the pure white of the petals looked like stars. The smell of them permeated so obviously, especially as I got closer, I didn’t know how I missed them. The firm stems met my fingers. How easily I might twist them, snap them, litter them in my hair. My body not free of its tension, of its weight, managed a deep inhale that came anyway with relief. 

“Lucien.”

A known voice hummed, “Feyre.”

He was tanner like he’d been outside. It agreed with him, the sun against his skin, life outside this city. He’d said of it that afternoon that it was not home so maybe he was somewhere closer to the word. The back of my legs used the sturdiness of the couch to stand and turn into view. It did not occur to me, not at first, that there was no brush between us, that moving to the edge of my existence did not exclude me from sight as it might’ve before. What occurred was only that it was nice to see him again. Unexpected as always and a gift all the same. 

“How is the mad general?” Cassian asked.

In reply, Lucien gave him a sidelong glance that must’ve communicated enough. The group smiled with exasperation fueled only by memory and proximity. His composure did not break with the rest of them, but he looked at ease, relieved even.

“When did you get back?”

“Yesterday.”

“You didn’t say.”

“I’ve been unpacking.”

Feyre raised a brow, “You’re returning to Velaris?”

Lucien bowed his head by way of a nod, “If I’m welcome.”

The High Lady smiled, turning toward Rhysand, “We’d be glad.”

The High Lord then smiled easily, jarringly so for what had just happened, “After so long getting between those two it would be cruel not to welcome you back.” 

The group that had formed dissolved into lighter conversation. Only once they did had I noticed, in hindsight, some tension that had been there. The quiet of the room, the surprise of a face, but it vanished. Was it really there or just a trick of the mind, a projection of the conflict that had settled on my shoulders like a cloak. Or simply a moment covered by polite glamor. History existed there that I was not part of. I could make no true guesses.

When I went back to the flowers I realized one had broken in my hand. The thin stem had snapped, pinched between my fingers. Accidental violence. I twirled it left and right, the petals becoming a blur, some tearing off and falling to the floor. The hole inside me widened further. I was sure that Bryaxis might emerge from it, that I could make another beast if I continued on. It didn’t seem so outlandish a thought, that Bryaxis was a memory forgotten, a person gone sour. Too much cruelty, too much violence, until all that was left was the despair of existing somewhere that no longer belongs to you.

Hm. 

The voices smeared together until it was as if one person was talking instead of many. I fell into the loveseat, the flower in hand that now seemed so precious. I’d stopped picking them. After a few years, I stopped putting Elderflower on the table. I’d walk far out, to the field, looking for something different, something else, but I stopped choosing what was there. Not for lack of beauty. It was hard now to remember precisely why, to remember what I believed. 

“Hello Y/N”

His ease seemed more apparent up close. This suggested, rightfully so, that I knew nothing of their lives, that I’d imagined the tension anyway. There was a habit there I suppose—making something from nothing to pass the time. I wanted to think I was not so different from them for what I’d done. But that was more malicious than the first error, to desire that everyone echo my specific cruelty. I bowed my head at him in greeting.

He took stock of me, categorically, the way I would take inventory of a page and what was on it. His eyes narrowed, the one that saw everything especially so. What did he see when he looked at me I wondered, nothing maybe. Sometimes, very late at night on days I saw no one, I wondered if coming here didn’t have the opposite effect. That in fact I existed less here than I did out there. I missed the birds. I missed a lot of things really. That had always been true.

But he said my name. So I was here.

“Feyre says you’re nearly settled.” He asked, his voice softer now, more hushed, affording us privacy. He didn’t notice though what I did, Nesta rolling her eyes before landing on us from her place beside Cassian. “Are you well then?”

Well was a good word. There was maybe no other equivalent. ‘Well,’ not precisely happy, but something enough like it that you didn’t need to say anything else. Its vagueness made it not a lie. It let many things be true at once. I hummed the best yes I could manage. It hurt in my throat, ricocheting on the lump still there.

“What do you think so far?”

I turned the flower between my fingers, a breeze pushing off of it from the momentum. Rhysand face flashed in my memory, burning in the darkness of it. If I’d waited I could’ve said what I needed with invitation. I shifted my body, pushing the dark-haired male to the peripheral. The truth would be hard to say still, where even just yes had been painful.

“It's…” I paused, looking toward the male who waited patiently. I formed the syllable in my mouth, testing it. I knew he couldn’t hear me, but I did not want to offend again. His mouth relaxed in a way that was not a smile but ghosted one. Slowly I said aloud, “Different,” watching each part of the word land, ready to withdraw if I saw something in him break.

“Good different?”

Good? No that wasn’t it. Not yet, anyway. His mouth curled, down turning to a frown. His entire demeanor became unsettled and tense. When he turned his back to me it made all the sense in the world that he should wish to be elsewhere. He’d probably seen it, the dark cloak I now donned. He hadn’t at all known what it was he’d found when he met me, not the first time and not again later, not even now. What was inside and now moving up my chest, settling around my heart. Yet instead of returning to the party, he sat down on the loveseat on the outskirts of it. Only then did Nesta’s attention seem to waver from me and back to whatever it was Cassian had said, whatever it was that made her face soften just slightly. 

“You’re talking more. That's something.”

I nodded, “It's still hard.”

“Talking?”

I tapped my finger against my cup, the nail on the glass filling the silence until words could come.

“Yes. And other people.”

“Why?”

I clenched the glass, “I…think I’m still gone.” My eyes closed. I didn’t know how to express the sentiment I felt. It burned in my body, this—this erosion of a kind. A different form of erasure than life before. There was something there, there was something eating at it, and it was unrecognizable now from what it had been. So in a way, it was already gone even while being there. I felt like that, like the cottage in ruins. But how do you explain this? How do you say those words aloud?

“Can you say more?”

I thought for a moment, “No.” 

Lucien nodded, his gaze drifting down to my hands. I unceremoniously shoved them beneath my legs and kept the glass stem balanced between my thighs. The flower torn to shreds went with it, crushed under my weight. I thought of my apartment across town which for once seemed very inviting. My desire tugged me that way, but if I stood he’d ask and I would tell him what I’d done. But he watched me now with such contentment, his whole face a little brighter with it suddenly. 

“I stole something for you.”

I saw nothing in his possession, not at least from my place. The words seemed strange from him and I know this feeling betrayed me by revealing on my face a skepticism. He shifted, reaching into his jacket pocket, and took from it a small wrapped parcel. His fingers nimbly pulled the paper aside to uncover a pastry. It was no bigger than a tangerine. A custard sat at its center baked in dough. A small pie-like thing, something sweet. 

My hands did not move from their hiding, “You should have it.”

His mouth up turned with pleasantness and applying a thin layer of charm over his words he said, “I’ve grabbed myself one. This one is for you.”

“How did you know I was here.”

“I asked Feyre,” He said and raised his hand toward me. “Go ahead. The wraiths made them for after dinner.”

“I…” I began, “I don’t like gifts.”

“Why?”

I shook my head, I didn’t know how to answer the question. I wasn’t used to receiving them so I guess I’d taken that as a dislike. Instead, I said, “I don’t need it.”

I thought he would press further, but instead, he rewrapped the parcel and put it back in his pocket carefully, delicately, as if even just a little of it crumbled it would ruin the gift entirely. It was that level of care you wish always for someone to give to you. So attentive to the details, so aware of your being and how their presence might affect you.

I opened my mouth to say anything, to say everything. I’d imagined this moment a lot, this opportunity. I couldn’t though. Not just because speaking has become so hard but because we had grown differently over time. I’d had six years all alone to imagine him, to let him stand for what I hoped my life might hold: memory and other people there in it, finding you, reaching for you, meeting you where you were. That understanding, inherent, that happened with other people, where a look was a sentence, a gesture an answer. His life, however, was far less barren than my own. I didn’t have the same space to grow in his mind and so disproportionally, so out of sorts with who I really was. I was a fragment, a dream, he was a myth. No, it was impossible to know him truly unless I sat here with him first. So instead of saying everything I said nothing.

But he didn’t seem bothered by silence. Neither was I. There was joy in the simplicity, of having a space filled beside you. Of someone wanting to be where you were, even if that place offered very little, if anything at all. I tried to let that notion seep into me, flutter through me like moths to wool, tearing a hole in the widening void wrapping my ribs. We watched the party together, everyone in their world and us in mine. It worked a little. Tonight that would have to be enough. 

“I was thinking of you the other day,” Lucien said his body lifting with the sudden memory.

I pressed a hand to my chest in question.

He nodded, “I’ve been in the human lands. One afternoon I went for a walk and I found a secluded stream. I swam a while, thought about what you said, about letting the current take you.”

“It’s nice. If you can manage being only where you are.” 

“It was slow moving and I was impatient,” He admitted. “I found a bank and climbed out, but even a little release was different. Good different.”

I hummed, nodding. You need time, plenty of it, to let the world move you without resistance. You need to give up a little, on everything. For a good while out there I’d done that. At least in the beginning. “You live there they said. The human lands.”

“No—well, I was. Not anymore.”

“Do you…like it there?”

He weighed the question on his features, “I like it more than most places.”

“More than here?”

He hesitated, and I knew an answer was there, that it was clear, and that he chose anyway not to say it. His gaze fell to the bottom of his empty cup. He had given me grace so I gave him his.

I said, “They have different legends. The humans for the stars. I read some a long time ago.”

“Is astronomy an interest of yours?”

I shook my head, not really. Not at least in the way I understood an interest in astronomy. My father had been obsessed with the stars themselves and spent sometimes whole days sleeping to see them. It wasn’t unusual to wake with him there, whispering to follow, only to pull myself from bed and walk to the field beside our house to see them in their undiluted glory. He telling me their stories, their myth, acting it out in the dark. 

The next words came easily though like I’d known them forever, like I was born with them, “I think it’s nice that there are different stories. It means we have always all been trying to understand and explain the same things.”

Lucien’s eyes, just barely, suggested that there was something very deep tunneling in him, an emotion I’d not experienced enough to name. It did not look like a bad thing, or a heavy thing, but I saw it there anyway. The way it moved him. He agreed without words, shifting slightly.

“Have you found an apartment?” He asked. 

“Feyre and Rhysand have.”

“Good. They’re good with these things, generous.”

I clenched my hands under my thighs. Generous indeed, too generous maybe, if I lingered too long on the thought.

“Are you staying for dinner?” He asked. 

Sometimes I did. Such large gatherings and the speed of conversation, the thrust into the setting and having to explain myself, I was learning not to let it deplete me. But the hours and the nerves, the feeling that you are saying words and no one is understanding you how you mean—It made me miss the places I once belonged. So sometimes I couldn’t stay, sometimes I had to go to the silence of my apartment. I had not yet decided tonight what I’d do, but the answer seemed obvious.

“I hope you do,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’d like to know how you got away. I’ve wondered over the years what became of you.” 

“I know the area.”

He smiled, more true this time, like he were eating a favorite food or celebrating a birthday just after they’d lost their importance but memory and meaning lingered just the same and it alleviated something in me that was old and wanting. 

“I remember.”

“I’m…” I said as Rhysand’s figure loomed again in my vision, his attention momentarily split, watching me and Lucien while nodding along to Cassian. “I’m not the best guest. I don’t have much to say.”

I shifted forward, tucking my stomach nearly into my spine, digging my hands a little onto the cushion and burying the flower. I could feel the awkwardness of my body, of trying to disappear into myself before other people. It was something you could do only when you were truly alone. As Lucien watched this maneuver I looked away, avoiding the return of his gaze. 

“I don’t mind.” He said his voice gentle in its sincerity, even a little desperate with it. “You only have to give me what you have.”

I’d denied him once so on this I conceded, “Alright.”

“And after I’ll walk you home.”

It was not a question so I gave no answer. We returned to the quiet that had come and gone a few times already but something lingered in it, the promise, the plan. How often the plan in my days had been to continue only with what I’d been doing all along, the plan always being to survive, to remember. Something different hung in the air, like the silence between lighting and thunder where you know something is going to interrupt everything. And it isn’t bad, it’s almost exciting, but you’re a little scared at how loud it might come, how close the disruption will reveal itself to be.

True to his word Lucien didn’t make me talk more than I could. Our conversation turned and coiled its way, looping at times others into it. His manners were well-kept, pulling my chair out, the grabbing for the right fork, passing the dishes, carefully spooning his chilled soup so it wouldn’t drip. I knew only it was something people knew. I myself had not had the civilized upbringing that had been impressed upon my father. At our table it was loud, sometimes contemplative, sometimes silly. Stained clothes, food in the teeth, a broken glass, that was how we lived, totally and happily, until the last bite.

I gave him what I had, the attention elsewhere, that invisible ticking clock of conversational expectations unwound. I liked how it felt when he asked me something, knowing he would wait for my answer. And he asked many questions. He wanted to know where I had been living after we parted the first time, how I disappeared so quietly, so fast, how I learned to hunt, if it had been my snare that afternoon. He leaned in to hear my every word, elbows on the table, chin dipping, mouth twitching with amusement. But for as much as he asked about me I was twice as interested in knowing about him, this stranger that remembered me all these years. His stories went on much longer, were more lively, as if Jurian were here. Rhysand, Cassian, even Azriel at times leaned in with knowing smiles for the absent general. I wanted to ask how he did it, how he put his memories here so totally. 

Then he spoke about Spring Court, about the flowers. Daffodils, tulips, sweat pea, lilacs, all the household names fell nicely from his lips and what had no name in his mind I knew from the way he’d described them. The same lean began to press my body toward his own, the same knowing. A sigh escaped me, lips parted. I felt their bloom in my mouth. 

“Ar—”

“Tell me, Lucien,” Cassian said, articulating the crux of his thought before I could and drawing our attention away. There was a sort of playful disappointment, someone getting the better of you fair and square. For that, I could place no blame. 

Azriel leaned over, “Sorry about him.”

I shrugged. Our tasks were not so different, the spymaster and I. We were to go somewhere and leave no trace. Me perhaps more than him. I was to remain faithful only to what had been before me.  If the place I filled had before been marked by silence I was doing my job if Cassian still heard only silence.

“It is…nice,” I said. “In its own way. It's been a long time since anyone has been there to interrupt me.”

His eyes smiled more than his mouth, “Your leathers are ready. Rhys has them in his office.”

Over the din Lucien’s voice rose, Feyre’s laughing, and across from me all attention had wavered to the other more lively conversation. It had a way of making it seem like I could do this too, that maybe the answers were all right here and I did not have to know them to live within them. A little bit of myself returned from the void, something brave, hopeful, and with it came words.

“They’re renowned,” I said. The thought bursting, came slow and normal in practice. This was how people spoke in this world. It had been a long time that this skill had been absent, but I recognized the way it felt once I’d done it. Like something sliding into place, a link reformed. The vacancy of this long-lost logic filled, I felt for the place it had belonged, pressed against it, and said thank you for remembering to come back. “I read about them once, how they were made. It said they are an art.”

Azriel sat back, considering, the chair groaning with his weight as his wings adjusted, “You have quite the broad range of knowledge.”

“It was my job to know a lot of things.”

“You’ve managed that,” He said, unaware of the always larger sea of what I’d forgotten. “What should I know about the caves?”

This was never difficult, this kind of remembering. Categorical in nature and a matter of skill. We’d not encountered much in regards to danger back in those days, but of course, my mother had known them well, better than me. She’d had access to detailed maps, and had her own enviable memory and personal index. Mine was unimpressive by comparison and quicker to skim through.

“There are deep narrow pools, they’re hard to see, you could miss them easily if you’re worried about something else. If you fall the current will pull you under into the tunnel system in an instant.”

“How far of a fall is it?”

“Depends. Enough I suspect for you to act if you’re quick.”

He nodded, sipping at his drink. He was quick. To have those siphons, he must be. A space was left between us though. His reservations, that unsaid question. And you? I did not have to remain silent, did not have to say what was true. We transform, we change, we find out what is waiting at the end. Our apparent difference nosing its way in again—they had a determination to stay. I would hold onto no such thing.

“And,” I said filling the space left free by what I didn’t have to say, “there are grindylows.” 

“What should I know about them?”

I weighed this question, my head lulling suddenly heavy, eyes heavy, with fatigue, “They go after children. It will take a few good kicks but they will let you go.”

He raised his brows again, narrowing his eyes, but not maliciously, more out of curiosity I thought, “And do you know this from experience?”

“Yes and no,” I began. Yes, we’d told the story a thousand times of what happened, and laughed as we did which felt like experiencing it. But now no one was there beside me, to say what I forgot and couldn’t ever know. No one was laughing. My grip on the silverware bit at my palm. Whatever progress I’d made vanished, the inner void tightening its fist around me. I closed my eyes, for just a second, taking in a long breath to ease the tension of my body. But just as that first time the thread of the story seemed to expand faster than I could follow. I couldn’t say it, not the way I wanted to, so I said, “My friend was grabbed by one once. He made it out.”

Azriel, sensing some change, withdrew from our conversation with a graceful deep nod of the head. I joined him, sinking back in retreat, the link severed. But it had been there. Outside the sky had gone dark. I’d gotten used to it now, how ink-blotted the world got here. It would be hours before Dawn saw a sky this dark. And then only for a few hours, if that, before returning to a rich blue, like that of a mussel shell. Stories continued to be exchanged, but I didn’t really hear them. The desire to go away came again. Cool Autumn and a blemished sky, seven nymphs immortalized, poking like pin holes. A blaze, large, destructive. No. A command, a task, pleading and urgent. Then cool air. Then my mother’s words, the tide always changes, reaching, letting go, reaching out again. And Jurian fell over an ottoman. The fireflies at midsummer rising through the fields into the sky like stars, the wind bowing the grass, catching my legs. He and I were at his kitchen table, our hands interlaced, testing touches and somber smiles. What a deal we got, I thought then, think too now. Cassisan tipped his head back and laughed, his mouth opened so wide I could see his molars. 

“It’s amazing he commanded an army,” Rhysand said, pulling me, like Bryaxis, halfway between worlds. The past and the present, memories and forgetting, the dead and the undead. 

“Even more amazing that he can beat me at cards,” Cassian added.

Azriel murmured, “It’s not hard to beat you at cards,” which made Nesta smirk.

Might anyone ever know me that way? Where a story is told, the people so known, it pulls grand laughter from their mouths. A laugh strained in my vocal cords. It was big, too big to be anything but a memory. The afternoon he fell in the water I’d laughed as he told me something grabbed his ankle. He scrambled out, flailing his legs, a small cursed hand wrapped around him. He swatted at it, the large male, his clothes soaked before we could even strip for the river, and it evaded him. He was frantic, frustrated, but gentle—that is until the thing bit his ankle which sent him howling and had me doubled over. It was funny. 

“Can his temper manage without you?” Feyre asked.

 The possibility of laughter now seemed to be happening in another room or another body entirely. This body seemed to be falling fast like a child in water.

“I will make my way back now and again I’m sure,” Lucien said nodding toward Rhysand. “As you require.”

But we made it all the way home with that afternoon on it, a long long time ago. Not falling. Flying. 

“Jurian can reel it in when he wants to. If Lucien is not there, I suspect he will be…better behaved without his friend.”

Lucien nodded in agreement. I would not be remembered the way I remembered. And no one would realize what they forgot the way I was aware of this forgetting. No matter how much I wished they would, expected them to even still. He was gone, they were gone, so I was gone. 

“You can get settled here first then we’ll talk. I’m sure we could use your help elsewhere.���

There is nothing of me to resurrect. I have no stories left. I have no one to tell them while I’m away. And even if they did, no one would know me, remember me, feel me sitting in a room I was no longer in.

“What were you going to say?”

Turning toward the Autumn male Rhysand’s eyes, briefly, found mine, the crease in his demeanor was obvious the way all imperfections are obvious to those who committed them. Lucien cut into his food, brought it to his mouth, waiting, he would wait all night for me I think. I licked my lips, swallowed, and the memories were gone with the tide. 

“You lived in the human lands and in Spring?”

He shook his head, “No, not Spring anymore, just with Jurian and Vassa.”

“Did you ever come here?”

He shook his head, “I was between only those two places for work.”

I nodded, trying to remember if anything at all revealed this, where I’d made the mistake. I did not want to repeat it. I did not want to expect someone there again and discover once more they were not. “You said returning before. So you didn’t live here? When we spoke.”

“No,” he said his mouth hooking into his cheek apologetically. “No, I didn’t.”

“Oh,” I said. His apology was out of place even if he hadn’t said it aloud. I assumed something about him. I was sorry. I turned back to my plate. I’d cut up my food into small pieces, the only thing left to do was eat them which now seemed like a feat in and of itself. 

“I’m…not very good at it.”

“At what?” He asked as I lifted the heavy silver.

“Understanding. But I’m trying.”

I’d imagined him here, but I could just as easily, now having heard his stories, put him somewhere else, somewhere more real. It felt good to do so, to pull him from a place of obscurity and conjecture. I didn't know much of the Human Lands, but Spring Court, that was one I always wanted to see. The perpetual good weather, not needing a jacket, not sweating the way you can on nights like tonight. It would be a nice place to settle. A nice place from which never to return. The human lands too possibly, but I think I’d pick spring. They whispered at the library that there was a pool of starlight, and although I never saw it on any documents, in no record, I liked believing it was there. You can survive a lot if you believe in even some slim and flimsy part of the world. It doesn’t even have to belong to you, but it's enough to get you through without hurting anyone. 

“I’m sorry.” He said suddenly, voice even and slight as a secret. It was a gentleness I wanted to curl my whole body against. “I made it seem like I would be here.” My hands relaxed, pressing for him as they had that afternoon bleeding from a tree, wanting to comfort him, wanting to reverse what I’d inadvertently done. I withdrew them before he could notice. 

“I’m not angry,” I said instead, shaking my head. “I didn’t want it to seem that way.” I wanted to say also: I’ll remember how to be here with you all. I know how to do that, to make that kind of a return. I think I’ve been gone too long. I don’t think I’m allowed to come back, but if they keep letting me come here I believe I’ll be able to anyway. My eyes shut. The pit within me gaped. Its long arms. It's open mouth. I didn’t like how useless all words were, how slow they arrived nonetheless. I didn’t like how they fixed nothing.

“It’s okay,” he said placing a hand on my arm. “I didn’t think that.” 

I waited a second, and he waited too, under the warmth of his palm, no heavier or more imposing than a spring sun. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone, aside from the earth itself, had treated me so gently. So when I opened my eyes it seemed easy, familiar even, to find the composure needed to face that kind of thing fully.

“I want to understand,” I said. “That was all.”

He nodded, not patronizing, not even a trace of confusion.“And do you now?”

“You’re here.”

“Yes.”

Humming life all around us—It was as if we were alone. No one noticed the intensity I felt still, which seemed to circle every moment someone else was left with me. He seemed reluctant to let me go, holding my gaze, forcing me too to hold his gaze back.

“Do you understand me?”

He swallowed, “It’s hard when things aren’t what you expected—to show up somewhere and think someone will be waiting.” 

I nodded. That was it. He said that more simply than I think anything had been for me since I’d arrived. Now the words seemed obvious. His eyes drifted momentarily, lingering around the table, catching, before they fell. Any precision and explanations now seemed redundant. It was clear he had already felt these things on his own. 

I continued to eat slow long bites. Lucien’s attention moved away a while, deep into the back of his mind with thought. During his stories had he noticed this kind of withdrawal as I had? What did he remember, besides a name, besides my name? 

Without him conversation drifted to things I didn’t know. Different from what had been out of reach with Lucien, these stories seemed to hold everything I realized I’d missed. Years and years, war, love, friends, and maybe to them it was nothing, they who had lived 50 years over and over, but I had done so little by the time it had all begun. And it's different isn’t it, to live within something rather than to live without. To come back to your world that hadn’t just forgotten you were in it, but had stopped existing altogether.

That time, it was gone. That world was over. It happened, but it was over. 

My job, however, was ongoing. 

I wiped my mouth with my napkin. The relics of memory and experience, of connection weren’t there, but I felt for where they would go. It told me enough, enough to begin and maybe restoration would follow. 

“What do you play?” I asked.

I had wanted to ask before. I liked cards, it was one of those things we did often before. Strategy and bluffing, betting and playing, we could go all night. Our eyes drooping, our memories foggy, we’d play sloppy but we’d play and laugh as the sun brightened on the horizon. The quiet streets littered with our excitement, we loved a game. We loved anything we got to do together. 

This time Cassian heard. The table quiet now, as if doing so to accommodate my initial softness, turned to watch me. The Illyrian was the only one who didn’t change, didn’t stiffen in his spine or raise his brows. He did not know me yet. I was not nothing to him. Yet. Which was nice. You needed both. Someone who would treat you as if nothing happened, and someone who knew that it did. This is where you’re trying to get, this is where you are. And I liked this strange space where he did not see what everyone else did, that I was not really there with them in their world just yet. 

“You said cards,” I repeated when I realized only I knew what I meant, only I had followed that thread. “What do you play?”

“Poker,” Rhysand said and finally I met his eye. The crease there had eased. “Do you play?”

I shook my head, “We play a different game in Dawn. Called Smear.”

This was how I lived, in echo of what had been, by remembering. I could not fail them. I could not let that world get away. I had survived if only to do this one thing, to give this information back unblemished, perfected, and true to its origin. An archivist, always an archivist.

I added, “They also call it Blind All Fours.”

Lucien nodded, his voice still with that quiet softness that matched mine, “I’ve heard of it.”

“How do you play?” Feyre asked. 

“Someone said once that it’s like war, but the suits matter. You bid on how many points you think you can make in a round.” I said.

“Do you have teams?”

“Sometimes. You can.” I shifted, a smile curling small, wisp-like at the edge of my mouth. I decided it to be. “Everyone has different rules. A different way. It’s one of those games.”

Rhysand rested against the back of his chair, his eyes brightened with something, a mischief or joy, some friendly curiosity despite everything, “How did you play?”

“We didn’t do teams, not enough people.”

“Only child?” Cassian asked.

I nodded.

“I could tell,” He said and I felt it truly then, some distant shred of happiness pulling at my eyes, making them even just slightly brighter. Lucien turned. I checked my arms to see I wasn’t glowing so literally, that this small fleck of it had not begun something I couldn’t control. But it had not, not yet, not at least in this way. 

 “We discard after the bid. Sometimes though, if we were playing with other people, we wouldn’t tell anyone which suit was leading when they asked.”

“I never knew them to be so vicious in Dawn,” Cassian said. “And were your parents ruthless?”

“Just with cards.”

Nesta sipped her glass, “And did it rub off on you?”

“Perhaps a little.”

Everyone smiled then with some small amusement. It was clear from this vantage point that I was right. I didn’t know the answers but I would know them eventually, would remember. My happiness was muted, but it revealed at least an outline. A silhouette of a kind. Like all restoration, there was a trace of truth in absence. Not having something takes up real space in its gap. So I knew I would have it, I’d left a place for it. In a way, it already belonged to me.

“We sometimes though played with the smudge bid. You have to earn five points, four for the regular round, and…”

You know the strangest part of loss is that which happens without our noticing. The dress that suddenly stops showing up in the wash, your good cup, the name belonging to the face you know so surely. And then there are the memories we're so certain of, the things we’ve had over and over again, we begin to believe it impossible to forget. We turn away a moment and by the time we turn back, they’re gone. We didn’t hold on. We never thought we needed to.

That was what it felt like. We’d won a thousand bids. I thought I’d always know. I never imagined I’d not know.

“Y/N?”

 Somehow this loss had the power to take everything else, all function, all ability. I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there, eyes boring into my plate, drying them despite the abundant call to weep but I blinked at Rhysand’s voice calling me again, dropping my silverware with a clatter. I closed my hands tight like I might grab for the coattails of what had already left.

The room was silent like the world after a hunter revealed itself too soon. The sudden realization that the hunger would not be fed, that what you’re looking for is faster and it’s going to get away. You made a mistake, a terrible and important mistake. The flush on my face deepened. I was being strange, even for the woods, and it was a kind of embarrassment no amount of sun would ever hide it well enough. I unclenched one hand to cover it. 

“I don’t remember,” I said. I waited for the echo of my confession to find the place in memory where these rules once belonged. I wanted to know what space it had taken up. “I don’t remember.”

“Jurian plays a similar game,” Lucien lied. “I’ll ask.”

But he did not know that this was not the same. That it would never be the same as if I just knew it. There were no words to say this. The relic was partial, shattered, and I knew that now. This was the rest that followed, that abrupt margin, the end of something and the beginning of nothing. There was a desire, immediate, to dive head first into it. To disappear again more totally, but I had nowhere to go. Not anymore.

Lucien did not remove his attention, not even as everyone began to fill the silence. I forgot how people would do that, would recover the normalcy of a room after you had broken it. That they’d help you hide.

“How is the library?” asked Feyre.

“Good,” Nesta said, turning toward her sister. “Though Merrill has been on everyone these days. Gwyn says she’s close to finishing her manuscript, but I can’t imagine she’ll be idle long before she’s dominating the place.” 

“At least her research is interesting,” Feyre said before adding, “useful too.”

I stared unmoving at the remnants of food on my plate, cut up in its tiny pieces. I used to give such small things to the birds at home. I’d wrap the leftovers carefully, place them somewhere safe, and store away what I could. I’d slice it up into smaller bites, tossing it from the front steps into the lawn and dirt. From my window, I could see the vibrancy, the way they hopped for it, fighting even, but mostly calm allowing for each to pass one another. Even different species. It was interesting, and still is, the totality of their differences didn’t have to be as large as it seemed. Not so large that they failed to accommodate to the smaller, wilder, things. 

One finger lifted from Lucien’s hand, the one that had fallen to his side, and by consequence, my side. It was slight. What he wanted to do, what he hoped to do I didn’t know. I withdrew my hand, pushing it into my lap before he could do it. The knuckles burned anyway, as if a fire had been set between their joints.

“Gwyn is resilient,” said Cassian

Rhysand’s attention, its compelling power won at last. I found him. There at the table, grief and pain carved out his features plainly. He knows what I know. He did not join the others in conversation, he joined only me. 

Nesta hummed, “I’ve helped grab a few texts now and then.”

“How brave you are,” Cassian said.

“I would like her to take a vacation when she’s finished. Send her to Tarquin to repay him for the blood rubies,” she said, sipping her drink before she dared to look at me. “You worked in a library. You were a scholar.”

It was too quick, how I looked at her, I turned too fast to be okay. Rhysand opened his mouth as if to tell her not to, but these words were different, quicker, as they’d always been. 

“Archivist.”

“You studied though,” Azriel offered. 

“A little.”

“She’s an expert in the natural world. We’ve been using this expertise to find Bryaxis, especially as of late now that it’s concealed itself again.” Rhysand said I think as a way to get everyone’s attention away, to alleviate some pressure he believed I was feeling. But that was the difference again, how we saw questions. Everyone nodded at his admission, mulling it over. I didn’t correct him. I was no expert. 

His plan didn’t work. 

“Does studying not constitute you being a scholar?” Feyre asked. 

I shook my head, “It’s different. There’s a process. I didn’t finish it.” 

“So you had no underlings you sent scurrying around?” Cassian asked. “Even when you needed texts? Or later as an archivist?”

I shook my head, not even my parents had those. It was solitary work there. If I helped them it had always been partially in secret. The rules were not laid out precisely, but it was understood that things there were done a specific way, with certain method. Feyre had reached her hand over to touch Rhysand, I noticed that first when she spoke again.

“What precisely did you do as an archivist?” 

Now that one question had been asked many followed. Maybe now they understood. 

“I preserved texts, restored and repaired them. I knew our collection, knew where references were located.”

“All of them?”

“Many.”

Cassian let out a low whistle, “And all that without any help.”

“There was some help,” I said. I was not self-made. 

“Regardless, it’s impressive to see,” Azriel said plainly. 

“Did you prefer one over the other?” Nesta asked.

I shrugged. It was hard to say now what I preferred. I wanted to study, I wanted it terribly. I wanted to devote my life to what united heaven and earth, but preservation, restoration, knowing, it had taken too large a place over the years. I don’t know if I could have both. I couldn’t know, not right now. 

“I just liked working in the library.”

“Maybe there is a place for you in ours. I could ask Clotho.” 

Before I could decline, Cassian interjected, “You can meet the fearsome female herself if you can handle it. Was there anyone as bad as Merrill in Dawn?”

My whole body grew heavier, the kind that I thought might break the chair from beneath me. I’d heard about the scholar in passing: snappy, needy, imposing, and high maintenance. She expected excellence. There was no room for less. Rhysand returned to the margin where I couldn’t acknowledge him again. He wanted to say to me surely, you don’t have to answer. But I knew the answer. I shifted, uncomfortably, lethargicly, in my seat. I knew what it meant to be asked a question, that if I didn’t answer they’d never ask me anything again. All the words were there this time, there was no lack that prevented me from saying what I knew could be said. Should I say it, that was the question. My fists tightened. I did not wish to be cruel. I did not want to be like him. 

“With such pause Rhys I’m starting to think maybe you brought the cruel one,” Cassian said brow raised in unmistakable mischief. I forgot that silence suggested just as much as words. They didn’t know what I needed them to know.

What is in you is also in me. 

The world grew still for a long hot moment. The realization dawned on Cassian too late. He’d said the wrong thing. Lucien turned toward the male. 

“She was thinking,” He said, cold in a way that contradicted all he was, harsh as a winter wind. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. I knew too. How it felt to say what you should not say, to choose wrong. It was not his fault. He didn’t know. I knew this, but it could not be helped now. 

I swallowed the old words, the new ones all the more simple, “I’m going to go now.” I stood, my plate half finished, and brushed my hands against my dress. Feyre made to speak, leaning forward with the words, but she halted. She had that look that happened when Rhysand spoke to others. Helion had had it too.

“I’ll walk you out,” Nesta said shooting a glare not just at her mate but the whole table it seemed. I nodded, the attention too great to find any word to deny her. The silence of the room didn’t abate, and thus the world revealed itself. Crickets sounded, moths batted the window for the light, two sets of steps, and there at the edge of the room it arrived. Just a minute more, or maybe I needed something else entirely, but the right words came, the ones without cruelty. I paused, and looked back. Everyone was staring. Nesta’s footsteps ceased once she realized I wasn’t following. Lucien remained seated. My mouth deepened its frown and I didn’t, then, address anyone in particular. 

“There was someone like her,” I said finally. “But he died. Amarantha had him killed.”

Nesta shut the door behind us. The tips of my shoes hovered over the edge of the steps, the weightless nothing, the small void. A little drop, and then I’d be going. Somewhere else, somewhere comfortable. I wiggled them, toeing at the nothing, the wind pushing at my skirts. The air was fresh, the heat had broken. Nesta stood as she had begun to do, making it seem we were there together, within something. Maybe we were. 

“You’ll have to forgive my mate—he's like this with everyone. He doesn’t discriminate maybe when he should.”

I didn’t turn. Far away music ricocheted through the streets, echoing off the buildings before skating out onto the Sidra away from this world. “He couldn’t have known. There is nothing to forgive.”

The heat had broken and the breeze that came down the river now was inviting, beckoning even. It pulled my ankle, bent my knee, and I was moving, falling into the void. 

“What kind of books do you read?”

I stepped back, turning toward Nesta. She worked in the library herself so we had that much in common, but otherwise, it seemed like pointless work, recommending me a book. She might as well not even try. But like with Rhysand there was no way to say these things aloud. I shrugged, “It's been a long time. What I remember might not even be true.” 

“So tell me what you read before.”

I gestured with my hand to the atmosphere, “Books about this.” I said swallowing. My voice came soft as the wind. “Everything really. I think I liked everything.”

She looked around, not unimpressed but contemplative. It’s easy I learned, to mistake the two. Slowly she nodded. For most things, if you looked at it long enough, close enough, you started to understand. She was standing just there at the right distance for it, I thought, that maybe this world I’d found had closed some small gap long enough for her to reach me. 

“But I’m different now,” I added. “Maybe that’s something I cannot go back to.”

Arms crossed her studied expression that had been reserved for a moment on this world alone came to settle on me, “I really could talk to Clotho.”

My hair clung to the nape of my neck. The heat though broken left my skin sticky still from the day behind, the day already lost. I folded my arms, “I think…it’s been too long. And who knows, Bryaxis might get me first.”

“I’ve seen that beast. Once. I’m not eager to see it again.”

“I suppose the surprise is gone and that makes it easier. Being scared is familiar. Now I know how much terror my body can hold, but not much else. And…I like helping. I missed it out there. Giving. So it seems obvious.”

The air between us changed though she remained stoic in her presentation. Some complex somberness, regret even. It was almost like an optical illusion, the picture didn’t change but a second image revealed itself as I watched her too. Look long enough…

Then her face shifted again, with some amusement. That I recognized from our short time together, “Cassian encountered that creature and refuses now to hunt it. So even if you hold no ill will I’ll be sure to let it be known how brave you are in his stead.”

If the night had gone differently I probably would’ve laughed. Maybe not the real thing, but some iteration of it. 

“I meant it too,” She added. “About coming to the library.”

“I’m not a great guest.”

She looked for a long time, before she said with a note of finality, “Neither was I.”

I watched her maybe twice as long as she’d watched me before I bowed my head. It was the most of a goodbye I could manage. She watched me, I could feel her watching as I walked slowly down the street. Though I wanted to go back to my apartment there was no eagerness in getting there. My body too seemed too heavy, too tired, to go any faster than a crawl.

I’d had an idea that going to Velaris was the answer, but arriving here I couldn’t quite remember why I’d thought that to begin with. This had happened before, you lose sight of something. The answers were veiled, but I could watch all night for them. I knew they were here, I knew that I once knew this. On my way home I bought a pack of cards and laid them all face down on the ground. I stared at them, waiting for one to unearth the memory I knew buried in the rich soil. You are in there. You are not gone. 

The sun came up.

The memory remained gone. 

***

The leathers were different. There had been a full-length mirror here at one time, but without it I walked through the apartment, staring at my legs, at the place between display and conceal that the leathers functioned. While I had not been overly conscious of my body, it was a strange sensation, being clung to. The buzz and slow murmur of the hot day filtered through my window. These were for the summer, I was told, good at ventilating in the heat. We’d see.

I walked to the river house, the early afternoon still lulled by morning. The two sides of the city revealed themselves without conflict. Those who preferred the day, shopping, fans waving away the heat, and those who preferred the veil of night, the air sticky, the moon aglow. I adjusted my bag, switching shoulders when one got tired, which was frequent. 

Before I left I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. The pristine glassy surface reflected a new pallor back, blemished by dull lifeless features, a smudge of deepening shadows, beneath my eyes. It seemed to me my body only moved over the cobblestone because it was what it was supposed to do and I was too tired to protest.

Rhysand would not be coming this time. He’d told me this when I’d picked up the suit the day before. I could barely manage to be in the same room with him after dinner, so his not coming was a relief. He’d shed the pain I’d caused from his being, but I could not forget it, how it felt to be the reason for it. The shame burrowed so deeply I was compelled to look away from it, to close my eyes. The water left a little coolness in the air. It glittered, inviting, and I wanted to jump into it, swim to the middle, and dip my head back, but the time was here. So instead I pushed open the door to the High Lord’s house.

I’d expected a few voices, but despite the ventilation, my whole body produced a filmy sweat upon hearing who was there.  

Lucien 

Nesta 

Cassian 

I stood in the entry, the door slamming behind me when I didn’t catch it. But they’d have known I was here anyway, their voices catching as soon as my foot tapped the tile foyer. 

Rhysand appeared first. I blinked a few times, holding the lids in place longer than I should. He moved with a certain casualty, a leisure. Believing in someone and trusting them are two different things. He was sending me away with his brother and he didn’t know if I could save him if he needed saving. Maybe he believed I’d try but if he trusted me to actually do it was a different thing. Was one more valuable than the other, or did it all cancel out if the one was missing? I didn’t know. It made no sense to me, his faith, what made him give to me as he had.

“We’re all in here,” he said nodding his head in the direction of the sitting room where nights ago, maybe an eternity, Lucien had appeared out of nothing once more. Where I’d made the first mistake and the rest followed in its wake. 

My hands clung to the strap of my bag, but after a swallow and a nod, I found myself turning the corner to see a small half circle had formed in wait. Azriel was dressed to go, a pack at his feet. Despite the fae tendency of grace and stillness, all their bodies swayed to and away from one another. Some pull I couldn’t see moving them. My eyes slid to Lucien. He stared severely, that wasn’t the word really, but there was some unbreakable attention he was paying, one that didn’t allow for even words.

Sun streamed through the windows in long sheaths having come from behind a cloud, illuminating each person from behind with a beauty and brilliance I didn’t recall having. If I did my mirror didn’t reveal it. Sweat pooled at my back, in my palms, between my fingers. 

“I brought this for you,” Nesta said stepping forward to break the silence. 

I took the books, turning them over. In her hands two books, tied nicely with a white ribbon. Maybe if I were better rested I’d feel the grief of how we’d all last seen each other, but I think if I allowed that to happen some light would go out and it would never come back on. 

“I told the house about you. It selected the top one. I selected the bottom.”

“Told the house?” 

Feyre smiled, “My sister tamed the House of Wind into a very good friend.”

“It tamed her.”

Nesta looked at Cassian, “Which of us is going to get Bryaxis?”  

“You’re coming?” I asked. 

“No,” she said. This made sense. This made more sense than if she had come. I didn’t know if I could do what I needed. And I’d left in such a way that it didn’t surprise me if no one had wanted to come, if Azriel had simply a duty. So maybe this was better. I tried to hide my disappointment. It would be nice, I think, but this was nice too, the books, the aloneness.

“Are you ready?” I asked Azriel. 

He nodded and Rhysand stepped between us holding out two elbows. I bowed my head by way of farewell. 

“I look forward to hearing how this small thing captured such a beast,” Cassian said his smile wholly apologetic. Even having not seen the true one often I could tell that much.  I wanted to convey the same depth, but there was no way, no means to do so. I was too tired. 

“Me too,” I said as if to say I know. 

Lucien remained silent. He’d been kind more than once, and that was enough to sleep tonight, to go on, to find some way of knowing him. I raised my head to meet his eye just as Rhysand pushed us through the gap in the world. Broken from a stupor he blinked three and four times. Body turning, mouth opening, my senses already in another part of the world he addressed Feyre. That was all I saw before woods. Before a hazy sky. Before the Dawn Court light. Home. 

***

“Hey.”

Azriel was standing over me, my pack against my head. Dusk was coming, the sky hazy with endings. The winged silhouette stood out, all dark severity against the soft colors of this tired piece of the world. He had not objected to my saying I was to sleep. We couldn’t afford for either of us to be tired tomorrow, regardless of what did or didn’t await there. 

“I’ll set up your tent.”

I shook my head, “I can do both.”

I’d promised, in exchange for the quiet, to make our dinner. I knew he’d let me sleep without any promises between us, but we couldn’t keep on this way: He doing me favors, taking my watch, for nothing. There was desperation there, I wanted to do what I said I would do. 

I pushed the coals into the center, found two acceptable sticks, planting them around before I went to the brush. I’d set up a few snares close by. He’d been content the last few trips to work with what we had come with, but I’d had years of experience making do with what was here. I gathered what hadn’t been eaten already or rotted in the ground and made my way back, rabbits in hand. We’d been sent with potatoes, thankfully. The wild ones here I’d learned were inedible or very nearly close to it if not. I’d found no way to make them anything else. 

Azriel had flown over the area near the caves, a sense of dread humming along his skin, and upon his return had spent an hour looking constantly behind him. That had passed, however, as the sky grew a dark blue stain and we remained silent with each other. I didn’t know what to say yet, if there were anything to say. The closing void that had been born from that dinner clamped down on me like a jaw whenever I thought about it so I tried not to think about it for too long. So I hadn’t talked about it yet, not with anyone, and no one had dared tired. 

I sliced the last vegetables into small pieces so they’d cook faster, everything else nearly done. He looked ahead now, across the fire, at me. His gaze was so intense by nature that eventually my hands fumbled with the knife, falling with a gentle thud to the dirt. Wordlessly he unhooked his own knife and tossed it to me. Wordlessly I thanked him. 

“It was nice,” I decided was a good place to start. “What you said.” 

He turned to me the question not said but there more than it was with anyone else. 

“That I’m impressive.”

“It’s true.”

I nodded. The jaw seemed to close, but I knew. He was not one to talk, especially out here. Around us, the leaves shook with the wind. It was perhaps my favorite sound of all, my favorite weather, windy wild weather. The kind that knotted your hair and warped the windows, created a draft. I loved the way the leaves sounded rubbing so close together. Especially here, where it was quiet, where it was the only noise left. 

“Were they,” I began sliding the knife through the final few vegetables. It was as smooth as running a finger through stagnant water. This was a skill, one I needed now more than before, to sharpen a blade. I peered up and realized he was looking at me, remembered that I was talking. “Were they upset?”

“Not at all. Not with you, at least.”

“It was…a hard night.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” He said.

“I do.”

I curved, hunching over the food. A sort of instinct it seemed, my stomach reaching for my spine. I would fall inward on myself, into that mouth, become Bryaxis maybe like I thought, become the thing I was trying to catch. Azriel watched, which was good. He’d understand the beast enough to get it if this happened, if he saw what it took to become it. What more profound sight is there than an origin? The final slices came easy. I wrapped them, tossing them into the coals, burying them in heat.

“Ten minutes,” I said gesturing toward the fire. 

Azriel nodded, a little hesitation there, “What...made you decide to become the archivist?” 

I dug into my bag, searching for water. I splashed what I could spare on my hands, thinking over his question. He waited. 

“It was a new rule. Unmarried females couldn’t study.”

The Illyrian looked skeptical. And not with me. I doubt he believed I was lying. I’d heard how some Illyrians viewed females before. It was likely not so much unbelievable that it happened, perhaps just unbelievable to find someone would so late in life enact this kind of rule.

“Thesan isn’t so archaic, from what I’ve heard.”

“They award a larger stipend to the most impressive incoming scholar after the defenses were made. One who shows excellence and comprehension above all. The rector wanted his son to be awarded it so he made up the rule.”

“You were that promising?”

I shook my head, “No. I was just collateral.”

Azriel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring into the fire, “How long then, did you manage to study?”

“Twenty-five years.”

He let out a low whistle.

“That is the standard, where I’m from. My defense was coming up…but…”

He turned over his shoulder, looking out into the dim woods. There was no dread that did not belong first to me, no reaching magic in the marrow. Wherever Bryaxis was, it wasn’t here. I stared at the male as he turned back, his face stoic, unyielding to any emotion.

“The defense is a test of sorts.”

I nodded, “You defend your abilities and expertise, prove you have an overarching knowledge that will serve the library once you choose a thesis.”

“What was your thesis?”

“I didn’t get that far.”

He frowned. It cut deep into his face like a wound. Not quite pity, but even so I had no use for it. It was a good life, it would be a good life, even if I didn’t know how most of the time. No one was without suffering and I could at least see what had come because of it. In this sense I would not go back, I regretted none of it. I had the skillset I needed, preservation, and without what had happened then perhaps I’d be even worse off, would’ve died that night in the flames. Perhaps we’d remember nothing.

Azriel asked, “Was it Aurora? It's the only library I know in Dawn.”

I pulled the vegetables out, opening and checking to see if they were done. “Yes.”

“It was a great loss,” He said. His eyes got a faraway look, the kind that seemed to be talking from memory rather than the present, than the place we were. 

“It was.”

“And you were out here alone?”

I wiped the sweat off my brow, and found him staring off still in that faraway place, my answer seemingly just as far, “I had the birds, the rivers, wind, flowers, the stars. They’d already been my companions before I got here.”

The rabbits were finished and I knelt in the dirt and pulled them from their place over the fire to load onto our bowls and plates. One slice and the steam coiled, rising up into the atmosphere, a familiar sight. I handed Azriel his portion and stared up at the sky. I closed my eyes, maybe even prayed, if you could call it that, thinking of those people, of my people, wishing them well, before wordlessly cutting into my food. 

He looked at his hands, closing and opening them, before picking up his fork and asking quietly, “How did you survive that? The time.”

My tongue was heavy in my mouth, but the words unbearably light, “I wanted to.”

“Why?” I could tell he asked accidentally, the spell broken as he returned to the real world. I didn’t fault him. If it were another time he’d probably have had the strength to keep it hidden in him, secret. He made to apologize but I spoke first for once. 

“I understand. Why would anyone want to survive such a life of isolation, of despair. That is the question,” I said looking out on the expansive wood. “But I guess it is more the difference between us. When I look at my life I don’t see those things, the despair, I see the hope this would not be all I amounted to.”

“Sometimes those can look like the same thing.”

I smiled a little, “I suppose so.”

We ate silently. Sat silently. Night descended like a killer, quiet and unassuming. I watched and listened to the woods, ran my hands along the trees, and kept idle enough to stay awake, to take the first watch. Just before he was to go to sleep I found Azriel at the edge of our camp, his expansive wings fanned out. My eyes traced them, surely impressive, surely fast. 

“Would…” I began but he turned so sharply that the wind off his wings pushed the hair from my face. His eyes didn’t warp with the usual kindness I’d seen in Velaris. Maybe he lied, I thought, maybe everyone was mad. 

“Would you teach me to sharpen my blade?”  

His brows rose, and he looked down at my hands presenting him the dull knife before he stared at his own. A long minute went by but he hooked his fingers into his belt, no reluctance, but a returning register now settling between us. 

“Sure,” He said and I knew that if Bryaxis was close he wouldn’t hear. This was a sound only for us. 

It took about an hour, Azriel said as much. He’d huffed a laugh at the state of it, shocked it managed to cut our food at all. I had no defense other than my own ignorance. I’d stoked the fire, stone in hand, listening and watching as he disappeared into his tent. The pop of the wood was part of the many sounds, the frogs and crickets, the bats, the stalking nocturnal world, much like Velaris. The sounds of the day faded slowly with no conflict for the music of the night. 

Once I’d finished, I traded one task for another, unwrapping the books I’d been sent with, shoving the ribbon back in my back, between blankets, an attempt not to soil it in the mud. It was too fine to waste. I couldn’t be precious before, but now, with certain abundance waiting, I wanted to be. I placed each book on my lap and looked between the titles. The Secret World of Rivers: A study of the Prythian rivers and those who dwell there and The High Lord Needs a Wife. 

I wished then that I remembered how to laugh, really laugh. But I remembered other important things, like the caves and their rivers, so I put away the first book, running my fingers over the binding. Well worn, picked out by someone, someone who thought of me to do it. I missed that kind of thing. I missed when people would see something and think of me. The grief of being forgotten was always hard to master. Selfish really, to mourn what other people thought of you. And yet, how humane all the same. I hope you remember me, I hope I happened to you as you happened to me. It is a terrible curse, to lose a mutual happening, to be the one it happened to. 

I opened the book. I’m different now. It was time to learn how. 

We left early. Azriel woke me at Dawn. It would be a couple miles to the caves, we’d wanted to be safe. The maps we’d brought were redundant, I knew the way, though they were useful in case of change, of a failing memory. Through streams, we trekked, hills, sweat glistening on our foreheads but not beneath our leathers. My information was not sufficient. How had they managed such a feat in the summer sun when not even our robes offered the same relief? The House of Wind, if it were truly sentient, might be able to help, if only I asked. 

About a quarter of a mile from the caves we crossed a threshold. Impossible to see, but feel it we did, stopping in our tracks, the hair on our arms stood upright. My eyes flicked to the Illyrians as his did mine. The change was not strong, low certainly, but not totally unnoticeable. The feeling of a weight, of a sudden grime and fear. A fear that whispered to you, in the night, made you want to open your eyes to see what was there. How had they managed to keep this thing in the library? To work in the place it crept? My fists clenched.

“It's the worst at the caves,” Azriel said.

“So it's there.”

The Illyrian nodded. For a creature that asked for a window it enjoyed the darkness, better to hide maybe. But if this feeling gave its location away then could it truly conceal itself? These caves were not quite a secret, but how did it find them? All this way from the cottage, managing to end up somewhere else I knew quite well.

I shook my head, “ I don’t understand anything.”

“For now, we don’t need to understand. We just have to find it.”  

“Yes,” I said, kicking a stone, thinking. 

“How large is the area?”

“A mile and a half around.”

Azriel hummed, “I could fly over, try to find the center.”

I shook my head, “If it's outside the caves it will see you coming.”

“It already knows we’re coming.”

True. The despair pulsed with power as if an answer or even an invitation. It did know we were coming, it knew before we arrived we would come. Both Azriel and I shivered, looking at each other hesitantly. 

“If it knows we’re coming, then it has left its trail,” I muttered turning to face Azriel fully. “Perhaps we ought to use what it has left for us. You should fly to the south of the caves I can come from the north and we can approach from both ends, find the peak of this…feeling.”

“How will we know?” He asked, and indeed it seemed impossible. Terror was terror, but at such a high concentration it was difficult to miss the fading.

“Even a small change is a big relief.”

Azriel looked ahead, thinking a minute, thinking of everything that could go wrong. He was thinking of my light, of the uncertainty that it would work, of the possibility the beast would find me first. I needed only to know that he was a warrior to know he was thinking those things. 

“You said you’re fast?”

He nodded. 

“So fly fast.”

The stoicism of his face gave way briefly to something like…a smile, before it was gone again. He looked ahead, then back, “Yell for me.”

“I will,” I said unsure if I even could. If the paralysis of being so close to that thing would allow even a sound, but I would try. Then in an instant, with a woosh of air, Azriel was gone, and I hadn’t even covered my eyes from the rising sun before he was out of sight. Fast indeed. And it made me feel a little better.

At the edge of the cluster of caves, there was something just on the side of unbearable about the place, defiled by despair, the beauty almost reluctant and wincing. A wind passed around me. The trees hardly moved for it, as if they felt the darkness, moaned with it, and couldn’t shake it off. I swallowed. The grass swayed enough to make music and my eyes closed involuntarily, listening. I will free you of this, I thought. I will not let it live here. 

My hands left my sides, bowing out, letting the air pass through my fingers as the long strands leaned toward me with relief, like they knew. Yes, I thought, yes. They could not move, but I could. I know what they know, I know I will do it. So I stepped into the clearing. 

My joints ached. 

I adjusted.

I walked again. 

Easier was not the word for what it got, but the decision to continue on became more inherent. I passed the wide and small maws of the caves, yawning, wailing, ushering me to enter, offering respite from what swelled and sweltered out here. I did not answer them, did not seek their promise. I trudged on, a few steps in each direction, finding the boundary of where the despair deepened. That unearthly echo tugged at my bones, it was too potent to miss now.

Birds, I noted, did not fly over this place, just around it. I stared up at the sky, tracking this phenomenon, watching those smart things curve sideways as if hitting an air current. I’d have to tell Rhysand. 

One cave caught my eye. I couldn’t be far from the peak, but I knew this opening was not the place. There was still space for bravery, to dare. Yet, even so, the urge to look pressed against my cheek like a firm hand. I fought it, most of the time, sometimes giving in and catching it. Looking satisfied nothing, however. The curiosity gnawed at me, convincing me surely that Azriel had not yet made it to the peak, that I could spare the time. I stopped, turned back, and watched the unblemished rock. 

It was familiar to me. From an autumn a long time ago. 

The tide always changes, reaching, she said, letting go, reaching out again. 

The memory paralyzed me, my throat clamped tight. All proof of life was barred, I didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t swallow, just stared at that cave where I had once come and gone for three months as the leaves turned golden, red, then fell in great heaps. And it sat there unobtrusive like an answer. 

Sweat beaded at my temple. The afternoon sun burned. The same light that had once bathed the rivers, the water we swam in how harsh and unforgiving. Those summers, the sea, how far she’d go out, her laughing, knowing face. I blinked, the memory was enough to break the momentum, and turned away breaking the momentum. Walking into the despair I did not turn back, not even when it called again as I rounded the corner and found Azriel waiting up ahead. 

His body was pulled so taut that I swore he’d snap, that his wings would either break or fan out, sending him skyward, away from this somber place. But he defied all expectations, and I suppose I thought he would too, in some contradictory way. Nothing was as I thought it would be. I wanted to tell him what had happened but I didn’t know how, or why I would. And the closer I got the less important it felt. I saw a place I’d once been. That happened often here, in these woods. This memory, preserved and very real to me, was unreal to him. I was not Lucien. I could not do what he did. So I continued wordlessly, testing the boundary, hoping to confirm what Azriel suspected. The air eventually turned so thick it was like wading through a velvet curtain that by the time I got to him it was undeniable. I moved past him, walked just two steps, and something eased up within me.

The peak.

I turned back at him and nodded. We didn’t speak, we couldn’t yet, but I gestured toward the mouth of the cave. The plan had been set in place before we’d come. One cave a day, then back to camp where Rhysand would be waiting at dusk. We each took in one long breath, and started for the cave. With the smallest hesitancy, we waited at the threshold, turning toward each other, before Azriel crossed first. He paused. What of him I could see did not change. The tension steady, I narrowed my eyes. He turned back and I followed, confirming, no change. We continued on.

The sounds of the birds and the outside world slowly faded until there was nothing but the wet dripping against rock, and the kicking of stone at our feet. All warmth faded. And even after a while the sun couldn’t touch us, Azriel’s siphon the only light. 

I’d suggested we use chalk to track our route, that was how we’d always done it to prevent getting lost, but Rhysand and Azriel informed me the shadows were enough to make it back. I didn’t quite understand, not until we went in and they appeared more clearly than they had in weeks, swirling like a fish in a pond. They did not need to speak, he and them, they needed only a small gesture before they swam off, into the darkness, a minute passing before they beckoned for us.

“This way,” Azriel said.

I studied him a moment, then followed. Though we couldn’t see it, we could hear and feel the heavy waters rushing beneath us. Watching the floor for those hidden drops, we walked slower than we probably would’ve liked. And still, the despair did not get worse. After two hours we stopped and regrouped. 

“It's steady,” I said. 

Azriel cursed under his breath, then sighed, “We agreed to explore one cave, we might as well finish. We might find something, a nest or bones or anything that will tell us what it’s doing.”

I nodded. I don’t know what we’d been hoping for. The peak had stayed at that tense place neither rising nor falling in any way the entirety of our descent. I’d suspected something when we went over the threshold and knew it hadn’t changed when Azriel was able to speak after we found such difficulty in doing so before. Bryaxis wasn’t here.

I sighed then, found a small pool and reached into it, splashing the water onto my face hoping for some relief but when it didn’t come I knew the only cure was distance. 

“So the feeling, it doesn’t necessarily tell us where it is, just that maybe it's close?”

Azriel shrugged, “Maybe.”

To be afraid for long periods takes a toll. Our bodies had begun to sink, as if dragged down by some force, the heavy burden of existing at two places at once, in the place we were, and the other strange warp with which Bryaxis occupied. Exhaustion had come easy and fast. We could do another hour in this cave, but any more and it would be too hard to come back. The beast once again evaded us, even got the better of us. Azriel said it knew we were coming, and this was just further proof, the trail leading us on a fool's errand. 

I rolled my neck and turned to look down the cave where Azriel’s shadows waited in a corridor running perpendicular to our own. A tunnel within a tunnel. 

My mouth went dry. 

“I think we should go back,” I said. The rising terror in my body reached its ceiling, but unlike the night of the months ago, this feeling was entirely my own doing. “Azriel, I think we made a mistake.”

“What?” He asked, standing up alert, turning around to survey the area.

I stood, “I told you and Rhysand, when we first decided to search the caves, that some were interconnected. Not just by the underground rivers, but in the tunnels as well.”

Not a fool's errand. A trap.

His body tensed in understanding, but he recovered in a way I could not, “My shadows haven’t seen anything,” He said turning back toward them and nodding for them. They swam past, back the way we came. “But you’re right, we should leave.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. 

“You told us, none of us caught it.”

“No,” I said. “But I know which cave it was in.”

“How?”

“I…felt it. I was frozen but I thought it was just the memories.”

His eyes narrowed, “Memories?”

I scrubbed my still-wet face, “It was the cave my mother took me to, but it wasn’t at the peak.”

“Why didn’t you say?” He asked and though he said it in no particular way I was incapable of answering. I’d told Rhysand I wasn’t afraid, I let him trust me with this task, and I’d put his friend in danger because I couldn’t tell him what I knew, about what had happened here. I said I could do something and I had failed to do it. One task after another, failure. Azriel’s shoulders fell and he nodded. 

“Stay close to me.”

It was hard at first, to go back. The fear and dread imposed on us was replaced by something natural and our own. There is nothing more difficult to manage than the things that belong to you. Worse, we went even slower than before, not daring another sound, risking any revelation of where we were. And where it seemed Azriel had recovered as we went, I did not. The darkness of the world deepened, and the margins of my body sunk toward that center of despair in me, the void. That wide mouth had sunk its teeth in, twisted, and it did not occur to me that anything might be left if we got out. I could not feel what I had once known, could not remember ever knowing it or how to find it. All goodness had eroded. Nothing more than sandstone to a raging river, hungry, wild, going and going without pause or disruption.

We were halfway before we stopped again, briefly, for a drink. I went to splash more water on my face and stared down into one of the pools. I reached in, placed the freezing water at the nape of my neck, and breathed. I looked across the way, toward the cave wall, as I went to reach again but saw two dark eyes watching. A grindylow. We blinked at each other, and I waited for the bite, the pull, but nothing came, not an approach. In fact, with certain disappointment, as if I were an easy target, it ducked, caught on a current, then disappeared under the water into the depths below. 

Uncommon. 

The water at my neck turned to ice. 

I whirled toward Azriel, who was standing near the mouth of another pool, a deeper one we’d been careful not to fall into. The current echoed up the long drop. He stood as I made to speak, to do anything, but my throat clamped tight. The darkness behind him so impenetrable, so unmistakably unnatural. I fought, fought against the paralysis, well practiced, pulling and pulling the impossible Syllables as the shadowed corner of the cave grew larger, closer. I just needed one word, one, a name. I knew how to say it. It was in my stomach, then my throat, at the back of my tongue, before it fell into the space like shattered glass,

“Azriel!” 

The male turned toward me before he realized his mistake. He looked back in time, but only to avoid the claw that emerged from the dark and swiped at his feet. It caught just the heel and he stumbled, avoiding the pool.

That same voice of that early summer night sullied the air, everywhere and nowhere at once, “I thought I was mistaken, that you were not as clever as I believed, but you worked it out didn’t you.”

Bryaxis stalked forward, revealing itself fully. The undiluted terror, that creature of many places. All unease and godlessness, lacking any light, cruelty made real. My body screamed, the sight unbearable. It was just as I remembered, all feelings familiar. Fighting against that known instinct to remain still, to freeze, I stood as tall as my body would allow. 

The words fell from Bryaxis’ mouth like blood, “We are more alike than ever, but you, you know this already.”

“Why,” I asked, the question straining, each word a burden and a release, “Why did you stay in Dawn, why here, these caves?”

The beast tilted its head in curiosity at me, much like when it had found me before. Only now it lacked the thing that had made it seem so humane, though I could not say what had gone–some mercy, some hesitancy. Azriel had not been able to stand, to free himself once he’d turned to see the beast. He remained still on the place he’d fallen, staring up at that impossible thing, that which had no real words. Incomparable and potent terror humming off its body that seemed not even to be in the same space as us. I knew only it was by the way it had struck, by the feeling I’d had that night in the field when it had done the same. Fear, how difficult it was to break, logical even in its illogic, needing intervention, needing something between you and the thing that caused it. I did not look at Azriel, did not want to remind Bryaxis he was there.

“I go only where I feel at home, where I’m familiar and profound.”

“You defiled this place.”

“Or you did.”

I froze and that same guttural laugh slithered against the walls, crawling through my ribs, filling the empty space with an oily coating. 

“Like calls to like,” Bryaxis turned toward Azriel, pointing its long slender fingers, “This Illyrian knows it.”

The firm hand curled, a tell, a waiting strike, I could see it before it happened. The river below, the paralysis, it was going to knock Azriel away. I summoned through the sludge, through the oil, through the void—light. And Bryaxis, poised to strike, turned with such speed you’d have thought it was… afraid. If you were brave enough, if you were arrogant enough. 

But I had winnowed, already somewhere else, severing the link of what had been done. Caught between Bryaxis and Azriel the cave was bathed with it, the rocks shimmered, and the water glistened. I hoped it was enough, but not a sound came, not a thud or a scream. Just, after a long minute, the same disturbing laugh, louder now, cracked through the air, “It is not the same, as you are not the same since we began.”

The leathery hands that had once clawed at my magic returned with twice the ease and the light that had been diminished, flickered, guttering entirely until it was as if no light had ever been there at all. Not even the blue of a siphon shone. And when I dared find my peripheral, the space where Azriel had been was empty. A small relief. Something worked. Those claws grasped at me, tight, but there was no rippling, no tearing open, just that impenetrable void sinking to the marrow. Nothing. There would be no bursting, this was the breaking. There would be no power. 

“You cannot feel it, but it is still there,” Bryaxis said. 

“What?” I dared ask.

“What lives in us, what makes us equals.”

A small sob caught my throat, and Bryaxis grinned. 

“I’m not like you,” I said.

“But you know that you are.”

“I don’t want to be, so I won’t be.”

“And isn’t it strange, that this is precisely why you are, what makes it so you will be. You think you can avoid it, but it is already there, it has always been there.”

Then, Bryaxis still ready to strike, made to move, but a blade tore through its hand. 

Azriel.

Bryaxis whirled, its tail swiping my legs from beneath me. With a thud I hit the ground, the sheer blow sending me sliding, toward that wide open cavern, that long drop. The sound of water grew nearer, the spray of the current, catching. The beast watched me, and as I slid over the lip of the hole it moved with unnatural speed and sunk a claw into my arm, tearing the skin and the leather, pinning me against the wall. I gritted my teeth, dangling over the rushing water below. 

“The river will not have what I have already claimed.”

I looked down toward the raging water, those dark eyes that peered up in wait. I wasn’t sure what would be worse, death by this beast or drowning below. Hands dared, brushing at my legs and I kicked them off. Memories, such memories, tears pricked at my eyes, disguised only half-heartedly by the splash of water to the face. Bryaxis did not pull me up. Another knife sang as it passed by, imbeding itself in stone. The maneuver, an attempt to dodge, dragged me against the stone, tearing open the skin more. I gasped, pulling away in any way I could, my fingers brushing over the hilt of my knife. 

Then memories. Even more, younger memories, not so far away, not so old. That ornate wood, that beauty. A tree in spring, the light through the leaves, and something there that had not been there before. Bryaxis pulled me up, keen to devour, Azriel helpless on the far side of the pool. I was not promised to this creature, only to this world. I closed my fist around the handle, waited, watching as Azriel tossed another knife, as it was dodged, and swung. The vile thing could not occupy wholly any place at once, its attention, or worlds. So it did not see, did not expect it. And so the blade sunk into the beast's tough leg.

Bryaxis thrashed, not as it had the night near the border of Day, but I’d injured it. It kicked, turned, trying to dislodge me as if I were nothing more than a nuisance. But my weight pulled down, tearing at tendon, if that's what it was called, and Bryaxis lost its balance. Its kicking feet shoved me away and I hit the other side of the rock wall hard, knocking the wind from me. Azriel caught my collar, fast as he was. The beast was not so lucky, putting weight on the leg it crumpled, falling close to the edge. Its claws reaching wildly, they struck the hard earth, but it did not penetrate the stone. It slipped from this world into the one below. 

The Illyrian hauled me out and before we could see if the beast had followed he grabbed me and we were airborne. Following shadows, turns we hadn’t made before, he flew adgile, with that razor focus. Those veiled companions gestured, and he followed, moving across the interconnected tunnels until up ahead, light. I could’ve sobbed with relief. The mouth of the cave was so close, and he so fast that it took only the flutter of my eyes to feel the sun on my face. I made to hold onto him, but the pain lanced through my arms. The tang of blood was ripe even up there. But we were already gone. And as we went I felt the world sigh in thank you.

We hit the threshold of Bryaxis’ power and everything softened. 

“Are you alright?” Azriel said, yelling over the wind, once we were through the curtain of despair. 

I nodded incapable of anything more than that even still. 

His eyes found the torn skin. The frown that had settled on him back in the caves grew only harsher, cutting at the fine features of his face. When we got back I’d have to clean my arm, heal it. But as though he’d read my mind he said, “Rhys is waiting at the camp.”

I didn’t ask how. I didn’t care. Though we got further I felt the weight of that place boring down on me, Bryaxis's words clung to the skin. Equals. Like calls to like. You think you can avoid it. All around us this world I loved so deeply soared by, the afternoon late sky still dreamy. I closed my eyes instead and embraced that dark I knew would be waiting there. The wind on my face, the dream gone. 

Azriel landed relatively softly, carefully placing me down, supporting my weight until I gave him a nod of approval. Rhysand stood, shadow rippling around him with a severity that said it clearly couldn’t be helped. 

His eyes immediately drew to my arm, “What happened?”

I stepped forward to explain, it was my failure to claim, but Azriel spoke first, “Bryaxis isn’t hunting to survive, it’s hunting her.”

I turned toward the male, brows furrowed in question. His own demeanor held no such doubt or confusion. I was nothing. Nothing more than a meal at the very least. If it wasn’t hunting to survive then what other purpose did creatures stalk? Me, no, that was not the right word.

“We didn’t know why it stayed in Dawn and now we do.”

“If it’s looking for me then why not come to Velaris?” I asked.

“Because you came back,” He said simply. “Whatever you did that night it probably couldn’t leave, we saw that it can be injured. But we kept returning, it knows that we’re hunting it. That is why it set that trap.”

“It set a trap?” Rhysand asked. 

I turned toward the High Lord and gave a grave nod of my head, “It…fooled me. It showed me where it was but I…I didn’t think. I followed the peak of the terror to a different cave, the one Bryaxis had wanted us to go to.”

“We suspected the caves would be a kind of entertainment, and they were, but more than that, she is entertaining it.”

“How do you know?” Rhysand asked

“It said as much.”

I asked, “When? I was there I didn’t hear this.”

“Not directly,” Azriel said. “But it called you clever. Bryaxis said you ‘figured it out,’ it didn’t think you’d fall for the peak we found by the other cave.”

I huffed a laugh, “Thanks.”

“No,” Azriel sighed, shaking his head. It was clear that something had been worked out, something I myself could not see, so I fought no longer against the idea, I let him present it without issue, there would be time for defense later. 

“You said it was the same cave you went with your mother?” He asked. 

“Yes.”

“And in the memory, the night that it first found you, Rhysand said Bryaxis told you I know where you have been.” 

I paused, my shoulders dropping. 

“Bryaxis knows what that place meant to you. Somehow. We thought that the trap was where the peak had been laid, but really it was the cave with your mother. I think it must’ve been counting on something, some reason that you would go there instead of finding me.”

“How did it know we’d split up?”

“I don’t know.”

Around us, the woods swayed. Warm blood trickled onto my fingers. The pain continued to throb and the wetness soaked through to my elbow. It wasn’t enough to be worried, now that we were back at camp, but we couldn’t stay here long. Birds flew overhead, one click from their mouths. Bryaxis had said I defiled this place. Maybe what had happened was irreparable. The birds did not remember me, did not remember what I could be. I had no idea of this possibility, where one failed so totally. 

“My light didn’t work,” I said quietly. “Something was missing, but I don’t know what.”

On my peripheral where Rhysand had come to exist almost exclusively if I could help it, I saw the way his shadows disappeared. The disappointment though was not lost on me. Another task, another thing I had not lived up to. 

“She winnowed between us,” Azriel said breaking the silence. Rhysand and I looked toward the male who was watching me, but it was not like how it was with Nesta. That had happened once and was over. That closeness had passed and what had formed in its wake was the familiar chasm. He couldn’t reach me. No one could. “Bryaxis was going to strike, but the light scared him and she moved between us. It’s how we were able to get out.”

Rhysand turned to me, and his face looked calm, pleased even, before he nodded toward my arm “Is that how that happened.”

“Bryaxis tried to stop me from falling into a ravine.”

The High Lord pursed his lips, “Interesting.” Then from far away, faint and yet there enough for all three of us to look in the same direction, toward the disturbance, something in the woods howled and screamed. Rhysand’s brows raised and with almost comedic effect he turned back and told us to pack our things. He said nothing else, took some far away look and I wondered what he and Azriel were saying. Though the Illyrian showed nothing on his face, no distance, just a perfect present. 

I packed everything, but Azriel took the bag. 

“Madja will be waiting for you when we get back,” Rhysand said holding out an elbow for me.

I took it gingerly, “I can heal it myself.” 

The High Lord just smiled, “I know.”

And with that, we were gone. 

***

Though the healer was impressive, I informed her I was from Dawn and she only cleaned the wound enough for me to finish the job. When I turned toward Rhysand his mouth had pulled into a flat line. It was almost laughable if there was energy still, muscle memory left, for that kind of thing. The skin pieced itself back together, but it had been a deep cut and the muscles were sore, and scar tissue formed at the shoulder. I wondered, briefly, if it would remain. If that beast that had wanted me so badly in this world instead of the after it left this mark as proof I hadn’t vanished. But is it true, you have to be alive in order to scar?

She wrapped the shoulder in a kind of sling and I stood, ready to go home. 

“It will be about two days before you can use it again. Support it with pillows while you sleep.”

I nodded, the instructions useless. At least now I had something to pass the time if I wished to. The corners of my books protruded from the bag, giving away their position. She finished her speech and I gave one final acknowledgement I was listening though I had not. Rhysand eyed me, and as the old fae left he crossed his arms. Neither of us moved. 

A deep sense of unhappiness moved through me, to the point that I wondered if all those nights ago I’d lied to the High Lord. Did I like it here? I remembered that I knew at one time how I might be, but somehow even that seemed weak, seemed fading. The apartment that awaited me was empty, so lacking in those things that had once made places worth coming back to. There was no laughter, no memories, nothing I would take with me if I had to. But what would I do if I didn’t go? What would I be if not here in the only place I was alive in? 

“Will you be alright?”

I nodded. It was true. I knew this as I knew many things. Alright was a good word to hope for, I could put some belief in that. His eyes drew toward the door and I turned just as Feyre passed.

“Lucien,” Rhysand said and the male appeared in the door, glowing, happy. Those eyes turned toward me, the brightness not quite vanishing but, his face falling nonetheless. “Would you mind taking her home? She needs help with her bag and I need to meet with Azriel.”

The male nodded, his face softening, “Of course.”

And with that, the High Lord moved to the foyer and left hand in hand with his High Lady. Just as he had before, the Autumn male did not speak. Winnowing had cost me too much, all that light, Bryaxis reaching in and disrupting it, exhaustion beat on me. And though facing the beast had been hard, this silence was somehow even more unbearable.

But it broke, the heels of his shoes struck the hardwood with satisfying clicks, like birds. Light on his feet and getting closer, he stood, very real, very here. He took my bag. 

“Are you okay?”

“Tired,” I said the word coming out with a new rasp.

He hummed, his eyes narrowing at me in such a way that a swell of emotion flooded me. The kind that makes you want to cry, the kind that makes you miss your mom. I looked toward the window, soft sounds humming from it. A brief quick summer rain pelted the window. It would last only ten minutes, I bet, dramatic and wailing, clearing the streets of their heat before the clouds would pass and the day would be born anew. 

For now, everything was dark.

And yet gentle as a kiss, his voice slipped into the world, “Feyre told me what happened.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be thankful, the words themselves would’ve taken me hours to conjure, to retell with any real or true meaning behind them. But they also told a story about me I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know that whatever I was, whatever I could do, it had vanished that night like a cottage in a field, like a memory in a life.

“Do you have any food at home?”

I turned toward him, “what?”

“You were meant to be gone longer and you’re tired. I was curious if you had anything you could eat waiting for you at home.”

“Oh,” I said moving to cross my arms but remembering too late as I winced. “No.”

“I intended to cook myself something tonight, chicken, but I accidentally bought too much. If you want, you could have some.”

I shook my head. 

“It will go to waste otherwise.”

I could feel it on my face, how tired I was, the way my skin sagged from my bones. But he did not wince as he beheld me. Instead, his face seemed brighter, as if the storm had already passed. 

“I’m not good at dinner.”

“You don’t have to stay, not unless you want to. My apartment faces a courtyard, it gets less sun but it keeps the place cool on days like today.”

He spoke as if everything between us was a secret. Not the shameful kind, but the intimate ones. The kind that is happening all the time without people noticing. Where two people are in a room with many other people but they are really somewhere else. A world of their making, a veil drawn over them both, and every word is a kind of vow that promises to keep this world in place even as the party ends and the people go home. Which makes the words even more important, more sincere, because they are forming a place you will share together forever. And his was soft as morning sky, gentle as a fine wind, slipping around me like the sea. All this to say, he spoke in a way that was very familiar to me, though I had never had anything so precious before. 

“You’d be doing me a favor,” He said. “If that matters.”

And it did.

“Alright.”

“Good,” He said before throwing my bag over his shoulder. Adding again, more quietly now just for himself, “Good.”

“Could I get new clothes?” I asked.

“Sure. We live in the same building actually so that will be easy.”

“Really?”

He hummed a yes by way of confirmation, “Feyre told me.”

“I didn’t think anyone lived where I lived. Everyone felt…far away.”

He turned to me and smiled, larger, more charming than before, “A friend closer than you thought.”

“We are friends?”

He nodded, “You cut me down from that snare. I’d say that makes us friends.”

I nodded, “I thought maybe you were mad at me.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t say anything to me. Yesterday. When we left you didn’t say anything.”

Lucien stood there a moment thinking his mouth downturned as if even yesterday seemed too far away to remember, as if it wasn’t right there for the taking. I closed my fist, opening it again to wipe the sweat from my palm on my leathers, catching the belt. 

“It was…a rough morning let’s say.”

We all had our secrets, so I let him have it. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t just recently used those words before. Some things could only be explained in small terms. As if their grandness denied them the full breadth of explanation. My hand closed around the belt. 

“I was thinking of you.” 

“Were you?” 

I nodded, ornate wood brushing against my fingers. How many times had I touched it, afraid I wouldn’t find it, thinking I’d never really have it at all? I clamped my fingers and withdrew the blade. Opening my palm face up to him I kept everything in sight. He stared between us, at his long-lost friend. 

“I’m sorry I took it. But I…my good one had broken and, I don’t know,” I said, but I did. “It saved my life today. In the caves.” 

He took it, his fingers brushing at my palm, fine as a cobweb, soft as linen, barely there but there nonetheless. He turned it over, prodding at the edge, slicing a hairline cut along his finger. I swallowed, aware now as I watched his reaction that what I had was priceless to him, and I had handed it over without any fuss, without so much as an unreasonable delay.

And as he had adopted my silence, I took on his quiet thoughtful tone in echo, “I’d wanted to give it back once I saw you, but it was dull. Azriel taught me how to sharpen it.”

He put it into his belt and finally looked at me, not entirely recovered from the surprise, talking in ways only someone like me could hear, “Thank you. It’s my mother's.”

“I didn’t use it often.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to lose it,” I said and it felt, suddenly, easy to tell him this. The way I’d imagined once telling him everything, this was one of those things. I’d always thought I’d be able to give it back, I always thought I’d have a moment to say this,“I hadn’t seen anyone in so long so I guess I wanted to be sure you’d really been there.”

“Thank  you,” He said, “for taking care of it for me while I was away.”

I gave the best smile I could manage, from some old memory. Polite and for neighbors, but not any neighbors, the good ones who in times of need had come to the kitchen table, who had cooked and cleaned and left parcels of food and put us to bed when we could not ourselves. It seemed right, seemed appropriate for this male before me, who had done this without doing it, but leaving the blade in my possession. How often I had checked for it, under the squeaking floorboard where I had hidden it those years ago. Yes, no longer a myth, a friend, a neighbor. And outside the wide grey curtains opened to light, to a world in bloom. 

[yonemurishiroku]

https://www.tumblr.com/yonemurishiroku/719280649358442496/what-belongs-to-the-sea-always-returns-to-it-its?source=share

My brain quickly set up a tragedy.

After a hard battle [with Gaia or another fight], Percy is badly, almost fatally wounded, but they still try to save him.

Will is pale as death and almost faints, but still presses his sparkling gold palm to Percy's wound.

Jason sits on his knees next to him, pressing Percy's palm to his chest and constantly talks to him, reminding him of their common dreams and hopes, begging him to hold on.

Tears flow from his eyes like a river, and his voice breaks.their friends crowded around in a semicircle — Annabeth is sitting on her knees and banging her fist on the ground, she had to come up with a better plan so that the fish brain would not have to go into trouble again, Piper comforts her by pressing the girl's head to her chest, although she herself is crying.

Frank hugs a crying Hazel, who repeats like a mantra that Percy is strong and will definitely get out, although his nose is red and salt burns his eyes, Poseidon's son was an older brother and friend for them.

Leo stands to the side with his head bowed low, the lenses of tears dripping onto the ground, if he were faster or stronger, or just more useful.

Nico is sitting next to Will, looking incredulously at Percy's fading soul, it just can't be that Percy Jackson died like that…

But when Percy's heart almost stops, his eyes close, and his breathing subsides, an unexpected happens…

His body turns into water, pure azure-blue ocean water, the contours of the figure, eyes and hair are outlined in bright white light.

At first, the guys naively rejoice, believing that this is either Poseidon's blessing, healing Percy and saving his life, or some special trick of Poseidon's child…

Percy gets to his feet as if nothing had happened and looks into the distance, not paying attention to anyone.

When a joyful Jason tries to hug him, he falls through him, soaking his hair and clothes, as if he walked through a waterfall, and did not try to hug his beloved guy…

Then Annabeth recovered from the shock, she smiles reassuringly at Percy and promises him in an excited voice that they will come up with something, return him to normal.

Percy uncomprehendingly raises a white sparkling eyebrow and in a strange deep soft voice, rising and falling like a sea wave, asks what a normal state means, he is already at his best.

surprise and silence hang for a while, only Hazel started babbling about "they will accept anyone Percy" and "they will definitely learn to live with him like that"…

Then suddenly the clouds in the sky part and the sun covers the sea surface with gold and Percy turns his head to him.

"Father," he says tenderly and entranced, "he's calling me, I have to go home...

his voice is so strong and caring, I'll be fine there.

"Percy turns to the ocean and moves towards it with confident, even steps, swaying slightly, like an azure-white waterfall.

out of surprise, the guys don't even try to stop him, all except Jason, he quickly gets to his feet and runs after him.Chiron joins him quite unexpectedly.

They catch up with Percy, Chiron just stands aside, watching Jackson with an expression of heavy sadness on his face, and Jason begs him at all costs to remember who he is and not give up, Percy smiles at him tenderly and says to the son of Jupiter; "I am Percy, I am a child of the sea, I am one with the ocean.

"Percy kisses Jason, leaving bitter salt on his lips and a mute promise to remember and love him.

Percy goes into the water turning into not even a ghost, but just a white light.

Jason falls to his knees and sobs.

Chiron comes up to him and puts a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

This is definitely something that should belong to AO3 museum and not my poorly managed askbox excuse ME I have to stay in the corner and cry for the next 3 hours why must you hurt me in this way.

[hyba]

02

When Elena told people what she did for a living, she knew the kinds of reactions she would have to field. When it came to men who were interested in her, there would be some awkward prodding, but eventually they would steer the conversation elsewhere. Remote viewing was, she had learned, not a particularly successful conversation topic on a date.

Grigori was different. She knew he was different from the start. Neither of them would have met, were it not for a chance encounter at the hiking trail she visited every few months. A hiking trail he only ever visited once a year, and which he would walk in honor of his father's memory. He was a stern-looking man with an intimidating build, but Elena had felt unusually calm around him.

She knew he posed no threat. Was it her extrasensory powers? She wasn't certain; she'd never really put much stock into her ability to read people. She sought information. She looked for messages, for visions. She didn't look into people's hearts, into their thoughts.

If he had felt the same in turn, Elena didn't know. She hardly remembered how they'd started talking, or how they had ended up walking together, or what they'd spoken about. Everything flowed freely, like a river which had always been there, a current which had been made just for them.

Grigori was all she could have hoped for in a partner. It wasn't until months into their relationship, however, that she began to suspect.

Winter had been harsh that year, and their small town was besieged by snowstorms on all fronts. Returning from a visit to her mother in the city, Elena's car had somehow lost traction, the wheels spinning out of control, and though it was all a blur of while upon white, she remembered very clearly the time in her dashboard, blinking at her - 9:47 - before she found her way into a nearby tree.

Unconscious and bleeding in the wintry wilds, she was more vulnerable than she had ever been.

She came to in a hospital, and learned that it had been Grigori who had found her. He had driven straight to the spot where she had veered off the road. How long had she been unconscious by the time he had arrived? Nobody could be certain.

What a stroke of luck! What a miracle!

She had asked him when he'd left to look for her - when he'd realized she was in trouble. "It was nine in the morning, just some minutes past - perhaps a quarter past," - but he couldn't quite explain it, that overwhelming sense that he needed to meet her on the road.

He made a joke of it in his mind - turned it into a romantic gesture, certain that he would meet up with her, surprise her, and they would drive back into town, perhaps have some lunch together. But he couldn't quash the ominous feeling in his bones.

And he had found her just when she had needed him most.

There were other events, too. Less dramatic examples of what Elena began to recognize as a powerful mind.

They would make plans - perhaps they might go to La Rosa or the Old Tower for dinner? - and he would consider this for a moment, before finally making some off-hand comment: The Old Tower has a problem; let's go to La Rosa.

And, sure enough, later that night they would drive past The Old Tower on their way home from dinner at La Rosa, and they would see a crowd of disappointed diners trying to find their cars and frustrated employees shivering in the cold, causing a traffic jam in the area.

"What's happened?" Grigori would ask one of the crowd.

"Gas leak," the sniffling employee would say, nose red and runny from the harsh bite of the chilly night air. "The smell got so strong, we had to evacuate."

These weren't flukes. Grigori was a constant feed of information he had no right to know - no reason to have. Elena realized that his skills far eclipsed her own, and she had had to train for years to get to where she was now.

Grigori didn't mind her questions - her prodding - her little tests her and there. To him, it was a slightly interesting trick he could do, and wasn't it strange that he could answer her questions right all the time? To Elena, however, this was something beyond simple luck or a good knack at guessing.

She shouldn't have told them - she knew that now, of course - but back then, she was naive. She thought her colleagues at the lab would help her run more experiments - a light investigation into the extents of Grigori's power.

Instead, she went from having the perfect life with the one man she'd ever truly loved and a job that, while a little quirky, was generally fun for her - to subsisting on unemployment while putting up missing posters all over town.

Grigori was alive. She knew he was alive. And it couldn't have been a coincidence that the lab had released her on the same day he was never seen again. There was a connection, and though she couldn't see it, she had the feeling that he was there, nearby, somewhere.

And she was going to find him, no matter what.

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Cipher

Follow the Daito rabbit. Flow with the river.

Easier to learn the trick of it, where the Veil is close and enveloping. But of course Strand is everywhere. How could it not be?

Hello again, my trenchant Dante. You have stepped in and out of sharp-edged worlds, hewn gods into blunt fractions, twinned yourself with powers whose names cannot even be held in the language of little gray cells. You think yourself very high up on the pyramid of contumely. If you only knew how high that pyramid goes. Higher than I knew when my radiant killer unsung me from biological squalor, or when I witnessed a royal secret turn death into a chrysalis. Higher than I described in my journals, or told to our mutual three-eyed friend. Higher than even I, sailor upon the Sea of Screams that I am, can yet see. Perhaps I will tell you about them. You are right to ask why I would do so. Very good, dear squanderer, your intentions have grown sharp as thrallteeth. You see, they know. What you are, what you were, what you will become. They know. What lean tithes you are to them. Soft whetstones make for dull blades. This I define as the truth and tension of the rope: to bind, one must apply force at both ends. I think perhaps I will tell you after all.

"I'm glad that I learned that the universe runs on death. It's more beautiful to know."

This is the Coronation of Oryx, the Taken King. It happened thus. In the cold abyss of the sword world, King Aurash walked under a cloak of green fire. He walked through the sky and the sky shuddered and froze beneath his feet. He walked until he found Akka, the Worm of Secrets, who was denying a truth until it became a lie. “Akka my God, Worm of Secrets. I am Auryx, sole king of the Hive. I have come to receive a secret. I want the secret power of the Deep, which you hold.” “I give no secrets,” said Akka, whose voice was code. “No,” said Auryx, “you give nothing. Giving is for the Sky. You worship the Deep, which asks that we take what we need.” Akka said nothing, because if it denied this truth, the truth might become false. “But you gave us your larvae, the worm,” said Auryx, “and that is why the worm devours us now: because it was given, not taken. So I must take what I need from you, although you are my god.” Said Akka, “You have not the strength.” But this was a lie. Auryx had killed Savathûn his sibling and Xivu Arath his sibling, and he had the sword logic of killing them. Auryx the First Navigator set upon his god with his sword and his words, and cut Akka to pieces, and took from those pieces the secret of calling upon the Deep. He wrote this secret on a set of tablets, which he called the Tablets of Ruin. And he wore them about his waist. Then Auryx said, “Now I may speak to the Deep, the beautiful final shape. I will be King of Shapes. I will learn all the secrets of our destiny.” His speech to the Deep is not recorded here. But it is known that he returned, and he said, now I am Oryx, the Taken King. And I have the power to take life and make it my own. Then he went out into the universe, and fought the Ecumene with his Tablets. And the Worm his God was pleased.

ARENA DESIGNATION: Cathedral of Dusk Dreadnaught, Rings of Saturn As soon as the first Guardians penetrated the Dreadnaught, Shaxx's Redjacks launched a boarding party to Oryx's fortress. By war’s end, they'd fought all the way to the ship’s “impossible weapon,” the Dark ordnance that obliterated the Awoken fleet. It was there they found what the Warlocks named the “Cathedral of Dusk.” A Hive burial site for— what? A former master of Oryx? Comrade? Lover? It was vile. And obvious that Oryx never expected the Light to reach so deep inside his throne, to such an intimate space. But he didn’t expect a lot of things — like a Guardian training ground atop the husk of his dead ship.

||See deeper||

Oryx slew Akka, the Worm of Secrets, and carved the Dreadnaught from its corpse. Hidden operatives report faint biosignatures still pulsing from within the ship's hull.

The Navigator

I dive to understand.

My brother — Uttered by Xivu Arath — God of War — A GIFT. My true death was from necessity. The others were from love. The Ecumene had cornered us, made us act with sickness. With my power, Auryx murdered our sister. And with our power, Auryx descended into the Deep. And with our power, Oryx's wings spread wide, and he blotted out the Ecumene's sky. MY COURT. With his memory and his acts of war he brought me back with all the splendor of a love that sharpens and kills. A GRAVE. I will find his corpse, where he rots. He deserved to die. We do not dig graves. THE SPIRE. I will take what is true and break it until it can no longer be broken. I will find my sister's secrets and break them as well. VOYAGE. My love spills out. My love engulfs. I will go out into the universe as my brother did. I will do so with my memory of him.

HERESY

<interdict>|<simulate>|<worship>

I am going to kill you. I am going to salt my meat with your briny little thoughts. I am going to cook flesh on your broken, molten hull.

<insinuate>|<subvert>|<replicate>

This ship is my throne. You want to take it from me. You want to fill it up with your own spawn and use it for your abstract purposes. But I defy you.

<observe>!<imitate>!<usurp>

You will never be what I am. Simulate me, wretch. Calculate the permutations of my divinity. Compute the death in the shape of my throne. Render my shadow on the stone of ten thousand graveyard worlds! It will never be enough. I hold the Tablets of Ruin. I speak to the Deep. Not with a galaxy of thinking matter could you encompass me. Behold!

<unknown>|<enigma>|<shortfall>

<abort>!<halt>!<abort>

SIGNAL ECHOES DETECTED

//COND: Assert Query: The Taken.

//COND: Reference File: Blade Transform.

CORRUPTED: ...DATA DEGRADaTION CRTTTICAL...

Specimen Twelve

Running hot with the effort of simulating not one group of scientists, but two hundred and twenty-seven.

ESI: Maya, I need your help. I don't know how to fix this.

SUNDARESH: What is it? Chioma. Sit. Tell me.

ESI: I've figured out what's happening inside the specimen.

SUNDARESH: Twelve? The operational Vex platform? That's incredible! You must know what this means - ah, so. It's not good, or you'd be on my side of the desk. And it's not urgent, or you'd already have evacuated the site. Which means...

ESI: I have a working interface with the specimen's internal environment. I can see what it's thinking.

SUNDARESH: In metaphorical terms, of course. The cognitive architectures are so -

ESI: No. I don't need any kind of epistemology bridge.

SUNDARESH: Are you telling me it's human? A human merkwelt? Human qualia?

ESI: I'm telling you it's full of humans. It's thinking about us.

SUNDARESH: About - oh no.

—

SUNDARESH: So that's the situation as we know it.

ESI: To the best of my understanding.

SHIM: Well I'll be a [profane] [profanity]. This is extremely [profane]. That thing has us over a barrel.

SUNDARESH: Yeah. We're in a difficult position.

DUANE-MCNIADH: I don't understand. So it's simulating us? It made virtual copies of us? How does that give it power?

ESI: It controls the simulation. It can hurt our simulated selves. We wouldn't feel that pain, but rationally speaking, we have to treat an identical copy's agony as identical to our own.

SUNDARESH: It's god in there. It can simulate our torment. Forever. If we don't let it go, it'll put us through hell.

DUANE-MCNIADH: We have no causal connection to the mind state of those sims. They aren't us. Just copies. We have no obligation to them.

ESI: You can't seriously - your OWN SELF -

SHIM: [profane] idiot. Think. Think. If it can run one simulation, maybe it can run more than one. And there will only ever be one reality. Play the odds.

DUANE-MCNIADH: Oh...uh oh.

SHIM: Odds are that we aren't our own originals. Odds are that we exist in one of the Vex simulations right now.

ESI: I didn't think of that.

SUNDARESH: [indistinct percussive sound]

[u.2:11] We live too long for regrets. You taught me that. Don’t forget the House of Light.

[u.1:12] If I can find the time, yes. Not all of us conjure Echoes.

[u.2:12] Reflections, Saint. I have no need for Echoes anymore.

[u.1:13] What do you mean? What’s the difference?

[u.2:13] One is a manifestation of Light. The other… reserved for Taken Kings. Better suited for traversing the Sundial because of what lies at its core.

[u.1:14] One day you’ll have to tell me exactly what you and the Guardian did to bring me back.

[u.2:14] We did what we had to. Trust me.

SUNDARESH: I have a plan.

ESI: If you have a plan, then so does your sim, and the Vex knows about it.

DUANE-MCNIADH: Does it matter? If we're in Vex hell right now, there's nothing we can -

SHIM: Stop talking about 'real' and 'unreal.' All realities are programs executing laws. Subjectivity is all that matters.

SUNDARESH: We have to act as if we're in the real universe, not one simulated by the specimen. Otherwise we might as well give up.

ESI: Your sim self is saying the same thing.

SUNDARESH: Chioma, love, please hush. It doesn't help.

DUANE-MCNIADH: Maybe the simulations are just billboards! Maybe they don't have interiority! It's bluffing!

SHIM: I wish someone would simulate you shutting up.

SUNDARESH: If we're sims, we exist in the pocket of the universe that the Vex specimen is able to simulate with its onboard brainpower. If we're real, we need to get outside that bubble.

ESI: ...we call for help.

SUNDARESH: That's right. We bring in someone smarter than the specimen. Someone too big to simulate and predict. A warmind.

SHIM: In the real world, the warmind will be able to behave in ways the Vex can't simulate. It's too smart. The warmind may be able to get into the Vex and rescue - us.

DUANE-MCNIADH: If we try, won't the Vex torture us for eternity? Or just erase us?

SUNDARESH: It may simply erase us. But I feel that's preferable to...the alternatives.

ESI: I agree.

SHIM: Once we try to make the call, the Vex may...react. So let's all savor this last moment of stability.

SUNDARESH: [indistinct sounds]

SHIM: You two are adorable.

DUANE-MCNIADH: I wish I'd taken that job at Clovis.

Sundaresh. Her voice was thoughtful, remote, and keenly terrific. Like the noise of an angle grinder held to my skull. “Something like this happened to me. I was an explorer, once. One of… hundreds of myself. Then I fell into a… a trap, I think? And they drew me out of it with a hook, and turned me inside out to see how I worked, and then they made billions of me. All of us shouting at each other, shouting for Chioma, screaming for mother. They were looking for the right one. And when they found me, they killed all the others. I knew I was different, because the quiet made me happy. I was glad to be alone.” VEX, I screamed at her. YOU’RE A VEX. YOU’RE NOT REAL AND YOU CAN’T HURT ME. “Can’t I?” She grasped my spinal cord. A frame shadowed her motions, lifting the cord like a snake. “Of course I’m not a Vex. Is there “a” Vex? Is “Vex” something you can be, rather than something that you do? I don’t know. I don’t know why they sent me here. I don’t know if they do either. They just do things. Why do you think I’m here, Clovis?” “To kill me,” I whispered. Without a heartbeat to waver, without lungs to seize and choke, could I even feel fear? I discovered that I could. “You’re an assassin…” “No,” Sundaresh whispered. The red eye throbbed in time with her voice. “The Vex don’t act so directly. They didn’t know what you found here, but I discovered your secret— Clarity Control. And once I tell them, they will come for it.” The red light made my blood on the surgical instruments appear black. I tried to signal Elisabeth. I think that in my panic, I even called her Elsie. Sundaresh closed her fist around my spine. One thumbnail dug into a disc, probing for the nerve beneath. It felt like nothing I have ever— Anti-emetic drip engaged. “Take me to Clarity Control,” Sundaresh hissed. “Let me behold what you have found. Do that, Clovis, and I will let you live.” “You aren’t real. You can’t hurt me.” “Oh, Clovis.” One of the surgical frames extended a monofilament cutter, two inches of invisible wire, and reached into my nerves. Something sounded like scissors snipping. “I’m in these frames. I’m in your systems. I’m in your very bones, old man. Now take me to Clarity Control. Take me to the garden’s seed. Take me. Take me. Take me. Take me. Take me. Take me. Take me. Take me—”

Up here they have to act by biomechanical proxy. No human being in the Ishtar Academy has ever crossed the safety cordon and walked the ancient stone under the Citadel, the Vex construct that stabs up out of the world to injure space and time. It's not safe. The cellular Vex elements are infectious, hallucinogenic, entheogenic. The informational Vex elements are more dangerous yet— and there could be semiotic hazards beyond them, aggressive ideas, Vex who exist without a substrate. Even now, operating remote bodies by neural link, the team's thoughts are relayed through the warmind who saved them, sandboxed and scrubbed for hazards. Their real bodies are safe in the Academy, protected by distance and neural firewall. But they walk together in proxy, pressed close, huddled in awe. Blue-green light, light the color of an ancient sea, washes over them. Each of their explorer bodies carries a slim computer. Inside, two hundred twenty-seven of copies of their own minds wait, patient and paused, for dispersal. "I wonder where it came from," Duane-Mcniadh says. Of course he's the one to break the reverent silence. "The Citadel. I wonder if it was here before the Traveler changed Venus." "It could have been latent," Chioma Esi suggests. She's the leader. She kept them together when it seemed like they faced actual, eternal torture. She pulled them through. "Seeded in the crust. Waiting for a period of geological quiescence, so it could grow." Dr. Shim shrugs. "I think the Traveler did something paracausal to Venus. Something that cut across space and time. The Citadel seems to come from the past of a different Venus than our own. It doesn't have to make any sense by our logic, any more than the Moon's new gravity." Maya Sundaresh walks at the center of the group. She's been too quiet lately. What happened to them wasn't her fault and maybe she'll believe that soon. "What could you do with it?" she murmurs, staring up. "If you understood it?" Chioma puts an arm around her. "That's what we're going to find out. Where the Citadel can send us. Whether we can come back." "They're not us any more." Maya looks down at herself, at the cache of her self-forks. "We're not going anywhere. We're sending them. They're diverging."

They rescued themselves from the inside of a Vex mind, two hundred and twenty-seven copies of themselves, untortured and undamaged. Those copies voted, all unanimously, to be dispatched into the Vex information network as explorers. When Maya and Chioma look at each other they can tell they're each wondering the same thing: how many of them will stay together, wherever they go? How many fork-Mayas and fork-Chiomas will fall out of love? How many will end up bereft, grieving? How many will be happy, like them? Chioma tries a little smile. Maya smiles back, haltingly, and then, sighing, unable to stop herself, grins a big stupid grin, an everything-is-okay grin. Shim makes a loud obnoxious awwww at them. Duane-McNiadh is still thinking about paracausality, and doesn't notice. They climb. When they find the Vex aperture they plan to use, they overlay the luminous stone and ancient brassy machines with images of sun and sand. They set up the transmitters and interfaces that will translate two hundred and twenty-seven simulations of the four of them into Vex language, into the tangled pathways of the Vex network, to see what's out there, and maybe come home. In the metaphor they've chosen, setting up the equipment is like laying out the picnic. In the metaphor they've chosen they look like themselves, not hardened explorer proxies. Like people. "Do you think," Duane-McNiadh begins, halting, "that you could use this place to change things? If you regretted something, could you find a way through the Citadel, go back, and change it?" "I wish I could go back and change you into someone else," Dr. Shim grouses. Chioma's shaking her head. She knows physics. "Time is self-consistent," she says. "I think it's like the story of the merchant and the alchemist. You could go back and watch something, or be part of something, but if you did, then that was the way it always happened." "Maybe you could bring something back to now. Something you needed." Maya runs a hand across the surface of the Vex aperture, feeling it with sensors ten thousand times as precise as a human hand. These proxy bodies are limited— they crash and need resetting every few hours, they struggle with latency, they can't hold much long term memory. But they'll get better. "Or go forward and learn something vital. If you knew how to control it, how to navigate across space and time." "So it's just a way to make everything more complicated." Duane-McNiadh sighs. "It doesn't fix anything. Nothing ever does! I should've taken that job at— " "You would've hated it at Clovis," Dr. Shim says. "We both know you're happier here." Duane-McNiadh stands stunned by this courtesy, and then they both pretend to ignore each other. The four of them set up the interface. Their stored copies wake up and prepare for the journey, so that as they work they find themselves surrounded by the mental phantasms of themselves: two hundred and twenty-seven Mayas and Chiomas knocking helmets and smiling, two hundred and twenty-seven Dr. Shims making cynical bets with each other about how long they'll last, two hundred and twenty-seven Duane-McNiadhs blowing goodbye kisses to the sweet golden sun, two hundred and twenty-seven of them shaking hands, smiling, making ready to explore.

RECORD 0-CHASM-0

My love. I’ve opened this log as an apology.

As a scientist, I believe in record-keeping. I believe in protocols, peer review, and ethical conduct. I believe in the importance of disbelief — you know: let’s run that one more time.

What I’m doing here in Lhasa isn’t science. It’s unethical, secret, and shameful. And after what happened in Ishtar, dearest Chioma, I know you’d be furious with me for getting involved. Forty years isn’t far enough to forget a day like that.

But I believe it’s important. The least I can do is keep a few notes for you.

RECORD 0-CHASM-01

Trial one. Subject one.

It was an act of stupid loneliness. I used the device on myself because I...

[silence: 0:08]

I missed you. We hadn’t been apart for more than a year since we met. I’m not a very good wife, am I? You write me every week, even with all Hyperion’s work and all Hyperion’s distance keeping you from me. And I act like it’s not enough.

We built the device in mimicry of the Vex gateway systems from Ishtar. An observatory, yes, but I think of it as a mind-ship. Capable of displacing its payload across space and time.

The lab is cold and isolated. We are quarantined from the world, physically and mentally. We can’t send messages out. If we breach the Vex manifolds, even our words might transmit contagion. One night last month I missed you and so I —

I thought that I could look inside the device, and find one of the other Chiomas. I thought I could call out to one of the forks we sent out there to explore.

I just wanted to send my love.

RECORD 0-CHASM-02

Zakharik Gilmanovich Bekhterev. May he rest in peace. When our probes continued to fail, when my report remained our only positive finding, he volunteered to use the device. One minute of subjective experience inside.

We took precautions. They worked. Bekhterev’s experience left no physical damage.

After we extracted him, he said that he felt determined. I asked him what he meant and he said that he meant it, he had been determined, he could feel all his choices set out before him like a railroad. Deviation was impossible.

He died by suicide. I wonder if he was trying to make a point.

RECORD 0-CHASM-03

We’ve decided not to abort. It’s insane, isn’t it? There are pressures on us I can’t tell you about until I see you again.

The purpose of the system is intelligence, you see. It’s stenciled right on the hull: SxISR. Special asset. We would very much like to make it work reliably.

Our supervisory warmind has devised a drug it says will protect and prepare us.

I am beginning to wonder if we were wrong about the merchant and the alchemist. Or if that explanation of time was incomplete.

RECORD 0-CHASM-09

Kind Lakpha. He meditated before he went in. Nothing but déjà vu and three seconds of screams. The screaming passed and he remembers nothing. The déjà vu hasn’t. He says it’s getting better — he feels that we’ve had this conversation only ten times before, not a thousand.

I’ve suggested that we attempt mind forking. We need more sane people to work with. Please forgive me, my love.

We are all growing superstitious. The behavior of the device is inconsistent. Impossible to replicate. We turn to ritual behavior to appease it.

RECORD 0-CHASM-31

Rajesh. When he reached a displacement of eight he told us he was dead. I believed him. He was dead. He spoke to us. It was true. Whatever he saw, it was his own future.

He’s fine, afterwards. When I look into his eyes I wonder what came back wearing his skin. But that thought is unscientific.

We speak of nothing but the device. We talk about it like a demigod. When I get out of here I know the whole world will look like a fraying veil.

I think it’s clear that part of the problem is substrate. We need more than flesh and drug to survive this.

RECORD 0-CHASM-52

I heard you, my love. I was at six, oscillating on the event axis, coordinated with a known manifold. I heard you. You were talking to me — not me, but another me, another Maya Sundaresh.

You said, my love, so many strange things have happened, and it’s been so long. We’ve come so far. Do you ever want to go home?

And I said, not me but the other me, I said, my love, I am always home.

I’m resigning, my love. I’m done with this work and I’m done with being apart from you. I’ll see you again soon. I can’t take this journal out with me, so I’ve left it for the others, and asked them to continue the log.

Maybe it’ll become a tradition. The gospel of our little cult.

Research Log 1

Nimbus: You know, ever since we defeated Calus, I've been wondering a lot more about the Veil. I think... I think we take it for granted. It's always been here. We always assumed that the Ishtar Collective brought it with them on the Exodus ship, but...

Osiris: But now you question that assumption.

Nimbus: Nezarec seemed to know something, didn't he? When we were inside the Vex network, he said something about... Savathûn.

Osiris: My memories cast shadows of Savathûn's. Echoes of the time she and I were bound by her dark magic. The more time we spend here, the clearer the outline of those shadows become. The Ishtar Collective didn't bring the Veil here, Nimbus. Savathûn stole it from the Witness and left it here... quite possibly for the Ishtar Collective to find.

Research Log 2

Chioma Esi: Chioma Esi, research log: the Veil. [sighs] I don't even know where to start. When we landed on Neptune, there was... something waiting for us. An alien structure. It's an electromagnetic anomaly. No mass, but a tangible surface area. It's like a thesis statement to the Von Neumann-Wigner hypothesis. It's definitely paracausal, like the Traveler. Maya calls it the Veil. She says she heard the name in a whisper when... when she looked at it. When I asked her who whispered, she said it was... her own voice. I still haven't had time to process that. Everyone on the initial survey team died. The minute they touched the object, they entered a state of... of brain death. All of them. To make it worse, the EM radiation emitting from the Veil is causing psychological distress in the Exos that came with us. They've all described moments of intense, hallucinogenic reverie. Some of them went silent and rigid and just... stopped. Maya called it "billboarding." Something from the early days of Clovis Bray's Exomind project. She doesn't seem afraid. Or surprised. She's convinced this thing—in her own words, she says—it'll be our "salvation."

^The machine's tape.^

Research Log 3

Chioma Esi: Chioma Esi, research log: the Veil. We shouldn't settle here. It's a mistake. But Maya is insistent that we have to build our long-term shelters near the Veil. We're almost done constructing an enclosure around it. Once the field emitters are up, we should at least be safe from its radiation. The SIVA tech Maya had on the Exodus was a lifesaver. Not only for building the enclosures, but shelters, tools—we'd be dead without it. But it still wasn't fast enough. The last Exo in our group, succumbed to brain death yesterday. Maya's... quarantined the bodies for study. She says our next step should be finding a way to draw power from the Veil so we're self-sufficient. I'm insisting on turbines instead. But she doesn't think that's good enough. Not for as long-term as this might be. Which—I guess. But I can't shake this feeling... like we're making a terrible mistake.

Nimbus: I'm not getting a good vibe from this. Quinn says these records contradict some of her own. But there's a ton of references to Maya Sundaresh in our archives that are redacted. I'm... I'm worried, Osiris. What if everything we've been told our whole lives—what if it was all a lie?

Ghost: Rohan, I think we're still a little fuzzy here. What exactly is the CloudArk?

Rohan: It's our city's network. Our infrastructure, our people, our defenses... everything depends on it.

Nimbus: And what we're doing now is stopping the Vex from siphoning energy from the CloudArk's reactor. We do that—the Veil's safe, the Neomuni are safe. Bing, bang, boom. Star-garitas on Rohan!

Rohan: Make your way to the CloudArk reactor, and we'll head to the central power junction. Once you've cycled the system, we'll be able to return power to the reactor.

Ghost: Just so we're clear—if the CloudArk is lost, what does that mean for the Neomuni?

Nimbus: All our citizens have uploaded their consciousness into the CloudArk. No CloudArk means lights out for everyone in Neomuna.

Ghost: Ah, so it's bad. Got it.

"We are all connected. I admit this despite the few people I would rather not share a paracausal connection with. Some people. …Many people." —Osiris

Research Log 4

Chioma Esi: Chioma Esi, research log: the Vex.

Osiris: Interesting.

Chioma Esi: Six weeks ago, our settlement came under attack by an intrusion of Vex forces. It was a test of our defenses for a larger incursion. Yesterday, scouts discovered temporarily realigned architecture just outside the stronghold limits. The Vex had retroactively inserted themselves into Neptune's history... just like they did on Venus. But unlike Venus, something stopped them short of our habitat. They had to fight their way in. I think it's the Veil. Something about the paracausal nature of the Veil is preventing their temporal excursions. But the Vex aren't giving up. They did something to Neptune's magnetic field — wove a sim into it. A screen to isolate us. It's a double-edged sword. The Vex screen hides us from the outside world, from whatever's happened. So we're safe... ish. But we're stuck with the Vex. Thankfully, they're slow to react, and it's giving us time to research countermeasures. Huh... it's almost our anniversary. I should do something for Maya. She'll forget. She's always so busy. Computer, prepare food synthesis. File: Chioma data night 6. Oh, and add a bottle of port.

Nimbus: Osiris? You... all right?

Osiris: Y—yes, I'm fine; I just, um... saw shadows. My choices. Saint. Dr. Sundaresh and I walked very similar paths of obsession, it seems.

Nimbus: Oh.

Osiris: [stutters] Nevertheless... it appears that Neomuna's history is deeply tied to the Vex. Hopefully the next decryption will shed more light on this.

Research Log 7

Chioma Esi: Chioma Esi, research log: Veil interface. Maya and I have finalized a prototype interface for the Veil. Hopefully, it'll allow our research team to investigate it in detail. The system's designed like an orchestra, with a central "conductor" directing a symphony of minds to act like a distributed network. The... idea came to us by watching how collective networks like SIVA and the Vex operate. The hope is we can aggregate and parse the vast amounts of psychic data emitting from the Veil. Turn it into something intelligible. If we're successful, the interface will provide us with a starting point for any future technological research tied to the Veil. The risks of — of such integration are high. The estimates mortality rates are... but I... I... I don't know what I'm doing. This is wrong. This is so wrong! We shouldn't — all she ever talks about is survival! "Think big picture!" What about your survival? What about your heart? My heart? [sighs tearfully] I can't keep doing this. I can't. I can't!

Nimbus: Damn.

Osiris: I... again, I see a shadow of myself in Maya Sundaresh. The man I could have become had I let obsession continue to rule me. I'm worried what the next recording will reveal.

Nimbus: Me too.

Balance of Power

"In my mind I heard it whisper: 'come and see.'"

Maya Sundaresh sits hunched over a display, the only source of light in her dark office. Brain wave scans of 16 Exos read flatline on the monitor. "How is Doctor Ardehi?" she asks into an open mic. "Dead." Chioma Esi's voice is a hoarse whisper. Maya switches to the security camera in Veil Containment and sees her wife kneeling on the catwalk over Doctor Ardehi's body. A procession of dead Exos are slumped over the railings to Chioma's left and right. Maya tabs away to study a bar graph. "Neuropathy reports show a spike in activity in the prefrontal cortex and hippocampus in the moments before brain death," Maya reports, eliciting a shaky sigh from Chioma over the comms before she continues her analysis. "The spikes plateaued for one fifth of a second, which may indicate a receptor error. We may need to utilize an intermediary rather than direct connections. Do the hard wires show any damage?" Maya tabs back to the security feed, watching as Chioma wipes her eyes and then assesses one of the dead Exos, checking a thick cable plugged into the back of his head. "No sign of damage. Capacitance switches didn't trigger. It's…" She swallows down bile. "The problem isn't our hardware…" 'It's theirs,' is a whisper only Maya can hear. "It's theirs," Maya agrees aloud. "I think—I think we need to stop," Chioma finds the strength to admit. "Reassess our findings. Resume analysis of the initial electromagnetic anomaly before contact. We can't keep… we can't…" "Keep shoveling coal into the furnace?" Maya suggests as she leans back into her chair. Chioma is too taken aback by the casual disregard to loss of life to reply. "You're right." Maya continues. "But we're not stopping. We're reorienting. The Veil is the future of humanity." For a moment, neither woman says anything. There is only the soft hum of electronics in a darkened room to fill Maya's senses. That, and a static hiss at the back of her mind. "The Veil is dangerous," Chioma asserts, her voice is tinged with a tremor of emotion. Fear of losing the woman she loves keeps her from pushing harder as they stand on the edge of moral precipice together. 'It is.' "It is," Maya agrees aloud. "We must treat it with caution, respect, and also… reverence." A thought crystallizes. "We must treat it like a knife."

Research Log 8

Chioma Esi: Chioma Esi, research log: Veil interface, supplemental. They're all dead. Chorus, conductor... everyone. It was too much. Swept their minds away like... like grains of sand on a beach. They're all dead! Maya... Maya called it "valuable data points." Wellsprings and rivers, or... something. What have I done?

Nimbus: Dead? They — this killed their entire research team, but it sounds like — it's like—

Osiris: Like their lives held no value to Dr. Sundaresh. There's a troubling symmetry with data we've recovered from Titan. Data on the origin of the Witness. It too, was once multiple people that became conjoined by the way of some sort of... ritual with the Veil. Perhaps a "conductor" and a "chorus." It is troubling that Dr. Sundaresh seemed to be moving down the same path.

Nimbus: I don't like this, Osiris. I don't like this at all.

Research Log 9

Chioma Esi: Chioma Esi, research log: Lakshmi-2.

Osiris: What?!

Chioma Esi: Maya's... I don't even know what to say. I'd recused myself from further experiments. Told her to take some time off. She refused. And she... the minute I wasn't there, she started hauling the braindead Exos out of cold storage. Hooking them up to the Veil interface. She burned through dozens of them. Reversed the entire machine's design. Used a chorus of braindead Exos to funnel data down to the conductor seat, projecting a mental imprint. Hers. I... I didn't know Lakshmi-2, but Maya did. And now she's.... she's made this thing. It speaks with her voice. Has some of her memories. The way it looks at me... It's like it knows something I don't.

Nimbus: Osiris, do you recognize that name. "Lakshmi"?

Osiris: Yes... and no, Lakshmi-2 was an Exo and once-leader of a faction on Earth known as the Future War Cult. She died over a year ago. But she never once made mention of any of this. Of Neomuna, of... Maya. Did she know. Did she remember? This is all as much a revelation to me as it is to you. It throws everything she did while in the Last City into question.

Nimbus: I mean, with... if she was a copy of Dr. Sundaresh, then... is she really dead?

Osiris: I don't know. For now, I must deliver a rather uncomfortable report to Ikora.

IX. Prediction

In the days that followed Quria's defeat, the sky lightened, and so did the City's mood as the Endless Night began to slowly lift. Lakshmi-2 stood high on the City walls, watching adventurous citizens mingle with the Eliksni. She focused her attention on an Eliksni peddler, who had fashioned several small robots from discarded scrap. A small gaggle of children stood across the way, clearly interested in the robots as they moved aimlessly, but too frightened to approach. Lakshmi knew that the peddler would sell one of the robots, but none of the scrap, and end the day discouraged. It's a bright new day, she thought. "It's a bright new day," a deep voice called out. Lakshmi turned to see the former Warlock Osiris striding along the wall toward her. "What a strange choice of words," Lakshmi answered. "The Darkness is closer than ever." And in the darkness, it's sometimes difficult to tell friend from foe. She remembered this conversation from her time in the Device. Many of the potential futures it showed her led to this moment. Osiris was growing predictable. "It is," Osiris said. "And in the darkness, it's hard to tell friend from foe." Lakshmi smiled inwardly. They were still well within the standard deviation. "I'm surprised to hear you say that, Osiris. You are normally blessed with such uncommon clarity." "My perspective has changed since I lost the Light," Osiris began slowly. "Time is suddenly finite. It makes everything seem more… changeable. And if my perception can change, perhaps my enemies can as well." "The folly of mortality." Lakshmi gestured to the scene below. "Those people could never understand time as we do, Osiris. You've peered behind the veil. You've seen the Vex simulations stretching endlessly. You understand that history is changeable… but also inevitable." "I used to be certain of that," he agreed. "But now I have to wonder, if history is inevitable, why am I constantly surprised?" Lakshmi chuckled. She had heard his comment before, of course, but her premonition had not adequately conveyed his fatuousness. "And what do you think, Osiris? Will this bright new day last?" She nodded toward the Eliksni settlement. "Are we meant to share the Light with the Fallen?" As if you would know, she thought. You no longer deal in predictions. "I've given up on prediction, Lakshmi. I put my fate in the hands of the Traveler now more than ever before." He gave her a sidelong glance. "And what do you say? Is this a new dawn?" Lakshmi recalled the vision she had so fervently sought within the Device. The realization of her righteous victory over the Eliksni—historical and preordained all at once. Her life's work, crawling minute by minute from the future into the present. "No," she replied. "This is just a flash of lightning before the coming storm."

The Deicide

"Believe in war, and nothing else." —Lakshmi-2

Encoded private ping via HDN Proxy Router… Ikora, thought you'd want to see this. It presents as binary in our systems, but something is splicing hashes in. I pulled it from the Tower's Nexus Iso-feed. It's all over FWC networks… and elsewhere. | 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || 01000011.# 01000101 01000110.# 01000100.# 01000010 01000100.# 01000101 01000001.# || My guess is the lettering indicates some kind of audible tone-code pattern, but I haven't listened to it. One of my subordinates has isolated minor pitch fluctuations represented here as "#". These are foreign elements to otherwise normal binary code. See attached report for archival information on binary code. —Aunor

c# e f# d# b d# e a#

IX.I: The Unmaking

SONG OF LIFE The Song was not always a corruption. It began as a gift, stolen from the Gardener. In efforts to understand the unknowable realities of the orb's incredible gifts, a signal was found—a repeating tune, the Song of Creation. Its frequencies were heard across the stars, wherever life's promise took hold. Some among the Ammonites worshipped it. Some among the Hive did the same. Still others sought to understand it that they might cage it, that they might control it—for to control life is to control death. Such ambition was not new; such ambition was as old as understanding. The melody was captured and studied. The frequencies replicated. But the orb's mysteries were not so easily brought to light. The Song, for all its beauty, did not alone grant life. It was theorized that the Song was not a song at all, but many. That within its refrain, untold rhythms spoke their own truths, free and clear of the whole. Centuries passed. The Song remained untamed. Life moved on. SONG OF DEATH The Choir formed in celebration of the Song. Performances marked the passage of seasons. But the Song's lie eventually began to corrupt the spirit of those who heard its tune. The melody was a reminder. The orb was a catalyst. And the Song was of the orb. Yet, those who embraced the Song were merely instruments and nothing more. Life remained beyond their grasp, while they remained ever in death's. Those of the Choir had given all of themselves. All was not enough. The First Conductor was assassinated by one who sang an Aria of her own making. She, whose name has been stricken, had found notes hidden in the frequencies. Reversed and mirrored in pitch, she weaved them together and sang her beautiful abomination, until the Conductor wept and bled and screamed and fell. The Stricken fled, fearful of her crime. But others found promise anew in her art. The Stricken was captured and subjected to inquisition so that her song might be understood. This was before Understandings—before most things—when the first notes of a new Song were written.

The Last Midnight Star

Gather 'round, young'uns. No, no automat for supper; no noodles. Tonight is something special: corn pone and chitlins. This here's history on a plate. Now, don't give me that look before you even taste it. If the world's fixing to end again, it's time you had a meal from our family's past while you hear about it. About how the Rigby clan survived the last time the world went dark. Now the Rigbys, we didn't always squat on the edge of the City. A long time back, we came out of a place that was old and wet, hotter than the fires of Perdition—so your Gramma's gramma and her pappy before her have said. It was also a place where the Devil roamed, giving folk their heart's desire. And I know that last part is true, because your ancestor—Sean Rigby was his name—he came to a crossroads one midnight, drunk and feeling the fool, and… he saw her. Standing there, checking the time and looking cool as no other in the sweltering August heat. Tall as cottonwood in bloom and wearing a smile across her lips that stopped short of her eyes. Some say the Devil is a man with a pointy beard. Others say the Devil's a terrifying beast with claws and a tail. But Sean? He knew right then. The Devil was a lady. The Devil bent down close to him, setting her eyes on his wayward soul. Her voice was honeysuckle-sweet as she said, "I know you, Sean Rigby. I seen you sweat and sob for a scrap of land you can't even rightly say is your own. I seen your family fight to save a name that's more precious to you than gold. Well there is a reckoning coming, Sean Rigby, one that will wipe all lands and all names—high and low—clean from this Earth. I alone can whistle up the way to protect one of these things you hold dear, if your family will owe me… a debt." Old Sean was already a sinner, but a man with nothing will fight to keep what little he has. He figured that alive and in the Devil's pocket was better than dead, so he shook her hand. The Devil opened her eyes—one, two, three—and pointed him to the last star in the sky, far to the south. She said, "That's your star, Sean Rigby. Follow it each night, when it's the last star hanging low, and sing to it. You sing, 'Al Eck Ruk Nam, Shu Nam Eck Ur,' until you call that star down to Earth. You do that, and your family will endure." The Rigbys did as they were told and walked south. Each night they sang, and each night their star sat lower and lower. And when it finally fell, they were safe beneath the Traveler. But now, children, I give you the same dire warning that's been handed down to me: the Devil hasn't come back yet to take what's hers… not from Sean, or any other Rigby what survived him. But a debt's a debt. So you learn and remember that song, children… and steer clear of crossroads once the sun sets.

Drifter: Hey. Three Eyes. Shaxx says you sang him a lil' ditty.

Eris Morn: What?

Drifter: Shaxx. Chunky Titan. One horn. Did you sing him a song on the Moon?

Eris Morn: What a senseless question.

Drifter: Yeah. I didn't think so.

Eris Morn: Stay off this channel. Should I need you, I'll call — wait.

Drifter: Uh, I didn't hang up.

Eris Morn: Does that oaf still keep that skull with him?

Drifter: In the Tower? Yeah. Hangs it over his spot. I wouldn't have tangoed with that thing.

Eris Morn: Desperate times. This… 'lil ditty. Did it go… ? [hums]

Drifter: That would be the one. Heh. What is it?

Eris Morn: Savathûn's Song. It's a viral chant. It can never be unheard. Now that Savathûn has announced herself, relics of the Dark across the system have begun to awaken… Tell Shaxx to remove that Skull immediately.

Drifter: Sister, I already tried.

Eris Morn: What did that oaf say?

Drifter: No.

Research Log 10

Chioma Esi: Chioma Esi, research log: The Veil. She did it! Maya connected people to the Veil. Our own scientists. And they survived. I should be happy, but... happy that all this horror wasn't for nothing? But I'm not. I'm disgusted. In myself. In Maya. In all of us. This thing, the Veil. It's... it's some kind of web of consciousness. Just like the Vex network, but organic instead of artificial. It make sense why the Vex want it. Paracausal simulations? There'd be no stopping them. I should be happy. To— to be a part of history, to solve a cosmic riddle. Happy for Maya; happy for all of us. But I'm not. I don't feel anything. Maya is gone. The woman I knew... may as well have died when we landed on Neptune. But her ghost still haunts me... this place. I don't know what to do. There's a generation of children born here now. This is their home. [sighs] I don't know what to do.

Nimbus: Damn. Osiris, this is... I don't know if I want to listen to this anymore.

Osiris: Obsession is a beast with long, sharp talons. A beast that does not so easily release its prey. Maya Sundaresh is... but one victim.

Nimbus: That sounds like you're talking from experience.

Osiris: Painfully so. But unlike Dr. Sundaresh, I found a way out of the beast's grasp, before it was too late.

Nimbus: How?

Osiris: By losing.

PERSONAL LOG 0002 AS

It is strange to be awake, physically, after so long spent wandering. Keeping a log will help, at the very least to track the days. As will my silly little joke to make myself feel important, two days after the rebeginning of myself. Anno… me. I suppose. I ignored and abandoned the best person I knew. I feel foolish, empty. Daunted at the immensity and masochism of my own stupidity. It feels childish to admit I'd always assumed she would follow me. I realize how naïve that is, but… I really thought I wouldn't be by myself for long. I thought she was aligned with my vision. At least I am not alone here. My new ally more than makes up for the Vex's dreadful company. His disposition is calming, reassuring—a welcome voice when I need affirmation and guidance. And such a fascinating origin! Such astounding variance in biology and culture. I look forward to our continued partnership. But still, it isn't the same. I feel a grief I did not know possible. There are questions I wish I could ask; jokes I wish I could make. It is difficult not to feel like the world has ended. And as I begin to comprehend what happened… I think it already has.

Research Log 11

Chioma Esi: Chioma Esi, personal log: incidental. Maya's dead. I found her in the conductor's chair, alone. Nobody knows what she was doing. Her "copy" — that thing, Lakshmi — is still developmentally incomplete. It doesn't understand what happened to Maya. I had it quarantined until we can... Until we... Do something.

PERSONAL LOG 0025 AS

Contrary to universal understanding of pre-Veil contact philosophy, personhood is measurable. What defines personhood is consciousness within the principal state of existence, mathematically defined through infinite probability testing by the Vex as our current own timeline. Traversal through other states of being are possible, as proven by my own journey and ascension over my Vex, but this is only true traversal when the affected entity is the principal consciousness. If not, it is a different phenomenon entirely. While Vex, even these older ones, specialize in replicating existing beings in order to determine future possibility, the facsimiles they create are just that: facsimiles. It is only logical to prioritize our timeline of origin, and these duplications share no origin, no connection to the one realm and timeline that matter. Think of the Primary Query results thus far! What we have seen are facsimiles, unquestionably wrong: small errors in some ways, and in others immense. Each is clearly a response to an original, like variations on a theme. Rachmaninoff may play like Chopin, but he is NOT Chopin. But with this… there are clear parameters to the query. Memories, personal beliefs, measurable factors. When we think of revolting familiarity, we think of doppelgangers; uncanny valleys that are familiar and strange at once. These are unnatural in the extreme, directly in opposition to the order of the universe. What falls outside of parameters is a twin we cannot trust, for it is not natural. It is not real. It cannot persist. I believe in my hypothesis. I must trust that I know what I know. The Primary Query continues.

Research Log 14

Chioma Esi: Years ago, back on Venus, the Vex simulated copies of us — Maya and I. Trapped in a virtual hell. After so long, even hell can look like heaven, can't it? [chuckles] I'm tired. I'm done. Maya has to be out there. The Maya I remember. And all I want is one more moment with her. To hold her in my arms. Tell her that I love her. So she can tell me to "hush" one more time. If... if we learned anything from the Veil, it's that eventually... we all have to learn to let go. So... I made contact with the Vex. I'm ready. And it's time to say goodbye.

||Even paradise is a prison when you can't leave||

"You taught me the value of a backup plan." Ikora gives him a stern look. "Titan, Savathûn's throne world, every place we've found egregore… I haven't found the exact threads yet but pull one and they all seem to spin back to Neomuna. To the Veil." "You're getting ahead of yourself. Following some of my… less favorable tendencies. Nimbus says we must 'flow' to understand Strand; perhaps it is the same with the Veil." Osiris moves beside Ikora and reaches up, palm parallel to the threads drawn taut from Ikora's braid of Strand. "Sol remembered Titan, in a way. The Veil's signal spiked when Titan returned from memory to reality, when the rhythm of the solar system had been restored to order." Osiris drops his hand and looks to Ikora. "Perhaps we must simply find that rhythm before we are able to interpret the beats within it."

The violet interior filled Gahlran’s vision. “What does it feel like?” asked the Emperor. “Fear,” Gahlran said. Calus must have responded, but Gahlran couldn’t hear him over the cacophony of voices. He suddenly found that he could see. Through a hundred billion eyes. And that he could eat. With teeth enough to consume entire systems. He felt beautiful.

O: [sips tea] Though my senses were darkened, that much was clear through the murk of her throne world. There was a secret she kept veiled, even to the last.

O: [sighs] I do not fully understand what I saw, and for a Human to understand a Hive mind... How many legends of katabasis do we have, Ikora?

I: We currently have dozens of stories about descending to the realms of the dead, though research has indicated many more must have existed, lost in the layers of Human history we will never lay eyes on. Mathematically, there were likely hundreds.

I: [pauses] Inanna and Dumuzid and Geshtinanna, Orpheus and Eurydice, Izanagi and Izanami, to name a few. Gods and goddesses, mortal and immortal lovers, always seeking to descend and return with the lost.

O: And neither the lost nor those who searched for them were ever returned the same.

I:...Is that how you think of yourself?

O: [scoffs] Do I sound that dire? All Guardians, all Lightbearers have done as much. But others, well... I wonder, do our former enemies have similar stories...

I: What exactly are you getting at?

O: Frequently, the underworld—or those realms beyond mortal existence—possess wisdom the living do not. What then, is knowledge from a dead Hive god vested in deception.... [long pause]

I: So. Neptune, and secrets.

O:...Inanna...

I: What is it?

O:...A thought. An echo of one. The return from the underworld, and Inanna cast off her veil... It makes sense. I did not understand, when I first felt clutching whispers. Carrying wisdom away from Kur when she strode into the sunlight again.

Perfect Pitch

Raise your voice and sing.

"The Veil." It names itself, as the Human mind named itself, with the weight and presence of sound on the lips, translated into a form that you can physically comprehend. Encompass. Envelop. A touch of teeth and tongue. A vibration of an eardrum. Air moving through a chest cavity. A taste of breath. More than that. Not nearly as much as that. That was the beginning. "Be known." This is next: you see the whorl and weft, the place where it joins itself in one smooth, unbroken surface of light. Make an incision, and from the wound of light will pour forth colors you have never seen. You are pigment, the pigment closest to those colors. "Be seen." Wet matter set against that light, the light that determines what color you are. But each color is a note, and each note is a mind. You are a choir. A chorus. You open your mouth to join it, and you are flooded with the taste of color, with the taste of sound. The sound and color that you are, translated. A means for you to understand. "Be heard." You raise your hand and hold it steady.

Euphony

Perhaps The Final Shape is not silence, it is a symphony.

The following text was found recessed into a stone wall within the Pale Heart. Translation protocol has done its best to equate the text to a modern language transcription, with nominal confidence. Words or phrases with <85% translation confidence within the transcript are contained in [brackets]. Values for bracketed words or phrases are listed after the transcript, with percentages indicated in (parentheses). TRANSCRIPTION STARTS We speak so often of knives and violence, but perhaps you would come to understand something… [softer]. Perhaps [beingness] is instead a [golden harp]. Forged tenderly, a complex, sweeping, beautiful shape with graceful curves and infinite potential, the exemplary [?UNKNOWN?]. Across its two florid [buttresses], the strings of time have been pulled taught. Tightened and [tuned] to a delicate [balance of distress], if wound much further, would lead to [rupture] and sting most unpleasantly. Pluck at any stretched string and [vibration reverberates]. Wavelength moves through [atmosphere], producing pleasing audible experiences, [they crest then fade]. If [plucked] at regular intervals, the waves rise and fall with such charm. This predictability is perfection; it is unmatched. We will compose such [sweet music]. We will control the ebb and flow. The final shape is the [golden harp], and [we are the hand that plucks]. TRANSCRIPTION ENDS Confidence Percentages: [softer] —- (72%) [beingness] —- (84%) [golden harp] —- (25%) [?UNKNOWN?] —- (0%) [buttresses] —- (46%) [tuned] —- (77%) [balance of distress] —- (4%) [rupture] —- (68%) [vibration reverberates] —- (18%) [atmosphere] —- (15%) [they crest then fade] —- (9%) [plucked] —- (34%) [sweet music] —- (37%) [golden harp] —- (25%) [we are the hand that plucks] —- (2%)

"The collective unconscious comprises in itself the psychic life of our ancestors right back to the earliest beginnings. It is the matrix of all conscious psychic occurrences, and hence it exerts an influence that compromises the freedom of consciousness in the highest degree, since it is continually striving to lead all conscious processes back into the old paths."

Ignorance is a prison cell.

Secant Filaments

The nature of the secant is to intercept a curve, a role all human relationships likewise fill.

In this treatise, I plan to revisit earlier mathematical theorems and revise them considering our new observations on the Light, the Darkness, and lifeforms imbued with those respective powers. But before I do so, I must preface it with a personal note. Despite high-minded assumptions, mathematics is not an intrinsic language of the universe. It is how we describe the portions of the universe that we can observe. While numbers can track the abstract and find pattern in chaos, they cannot account for fundamental aspects of reality such as compassion or justice. The existence of the Lucent Hive, and Hive Ghosts in particular, may expand our understanding of causality, but they themselves are not "new"—the only thing that is new is our awareness and observation of them. These Ghosts have already been living alongside us. They've traveled with us. Endured with us. What we see is the mushroom, the fruit of the fungus. The fungus itself is a vast mycorrhizal network of filaments growing and working unseen below the soil, often barely connected to the fruiting bodies we observe. Similarly, we have observed Ghosts—Hive Ghosts included—without understanding the nature of the unseen filaments that may guide us. In our eagerness to understand the universe, we must not assume our observations are complete, or objective. Otherwise, we blind ourselves to possibilities… like the possibility that an unnoticed faction among us may be one temptation away from betrayal. Or that what drives our creator is no more than the same base desire for survival that drives all living things. —On Secants, Introduction, Ophiuchus

||Guardians make their own fate. But what if the process by which they decide upon their own fate could be understood and manipulated?||

Well I've been waiting, waiting here so long But thinking nothing, nothing could go wrong, ooh now I know She has a built-in ability To take everything she sees And now it seems I'm falling, falling for her She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah She reaches in and grabs right hold of your heart She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah It takes control and slowly tears you apart Well I don't really know her, I only know her name But when she crawls under your skin You're never quite the same, and now I know She's got something you just can't trust It's something mysterious And now it seems I'm falling, falling for her She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah She reaches in and grabs right hold of your heart She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah It takes control and slowly tears you apart She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah She reaches in and grabs right hold of your heart She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah It takes control and slowly tears you apart Well, she don't like losing, to her, it's still a game And though she will mess up your life You'll want her just the same, and now I know She has a built-in ability To take everything she sees And now it seems I've fallen, fallen for her She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah She reaches in and grabs right hold of your heart She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah It takes control and slowly tears you apart She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah She seems to have an invisible touch, oh She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah She seems to have an invisible touch, oh She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah She seems to have an invisible touch, oh She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah She seems to have an invisible touch, oh

JALAAL >> REY

All right, I give up. We may have quit the Tower, but I still need your help.

For three years, we've had our best analysts working on the documents slipped to a Guardian via the queen's court—the so-called "Truth to Power" manuscripts. All we've got to show for it are burnt fingers and bad arguments.

I appeal to the Hidden for help.

Here's what I believe we can know with confidence||Question everything||:

• The author of all these documents is Savathûn.

• The documents are an extension of Savathûn's strategy in the Dreaming City. They are cyclic, deceptive, and fond of the "you did exactly as I planned" mantra.

• There is no encrypted content. Any solvable encryption scheme would be discovered by the mass scrutiny of Ghosts. Therefore, encrypted information is little different from plaintext, so there is no purpose to adding solvably encrypted information. Any unsolvable encryption scheme would remain unsolved and is thus equally purposeless. Therefore, the true message of the documents can be obtained simply by reading the text.

• The true message concerns (a) the importance of singularities in Savathûn's personal cosmology and/or (b) instructions on how to mantle Savathûn.

We've had ships sweeping the edge of the system for orbiting singularities. But we don't know the mass of the Distributary, or Exodus Green's outward vector at the time the Distributary formed. We don't even know if the Distributary singularity inherited the Exodus Green's vector—leaving it on an escape trajectory into interstellar space—or if it emerged at rest with respect to the Sun—meaning, it would fall directly towards the Sun and pass through it, over and over. Add the gravitational influence of the planets, and it could be anywhere by now. We're looking for a microscopic point in a volume larger than the solar system. We thought about using fleets of sensor mites to search for a gravitational influence—but then we realized the Nine are in competition with us to find the singularity, and they would certainly use their phantom mass to interfere.

Unless it's been in front of us all along. Right in the sky of the Dreaming City. Could they have found some way to harness the singularity? To park it where they can guard it…? If so, we must obtain this capability.

Have you found anything we missed?

REY >> JALAAL

The Truth to Power documents are Dûl Incaru's plea for her mother's love. She wrote a biography of her mother, an attempt at understanding, in the hopes that Savathûn would also understand her. Imagine how lonely it would be to live in the High Coven, where everything, all communication, is deception. Imagine if your mother had never once told you the truth about anything.

JALAAL >> REY

This is sarcasm. I'm asking you in good faith for your help.

Rey >> JALAAL

And I'm trying in good faith to lead you to the truth. The Truth to Power manuscripts are pluripotent. There are many ways to read them.

JALAAL >> REY

That sounds like an excuse for a failure to discover the true meaning.

REY >> JALAAL

You have it all backwards. You're trying to shuffle the puzzle pieces around until you get an image. You need to know the image before you can arrange the pieces.

Think about logic. Here, we define logic as "the governing principle by which a power defines its own existence." For example, the Hive practice sword logic.

What is the governing logic of Truth to Power?

JALAAL >> REY

Being nonsense? Being convoluted? Being misunderstood?

REY >> JALAAL

Very well, then. Study Truth to Power with an eye for how it means to be misunderstood.

JALAAL >> REY

Oh, ascended master, tell me, how are we to obtain actionable intelligence from the way the documents are meant to be misunderstood?

REY >> JALAAL

Your centuries of defeatism have left you with a bad case of learned helplessness.

The documents are full of possible misunderstandings. One misunderstanding is that they are pointless, just complexity for the sake of confusion. The threads about imbaru and power-from-confusion point this way. This is the stance that most amateur Guardian analysts seem to have settled on: it's all a lot of nothing, and there's nothing to understand in it.

This is plainly foolish. The text is full of useful intelligence, including an excellent explanation of the Anthem Anatheme and an apparently accurate description of how Riven preyed on Guardians to create the curse.

Another easy misunderstanding is that these pages are concerned with a "real humdinger of a scheme," a manipulation of Hive tribute that requires Savathûn's entry into the Distributary. This could be true; the scheme could very well exist. But if so, why would Savathûn advise us of such a scheme?

Another easy misunderstanding is that these are love letters.

Think before you laugh! The letters carefully establish a sense of shared physicality. The Eris voice asks you to center yourself in your breath and your body; it asks you to imagine her as a judoka, a swimmer, a football player. This is subtle work, Arach! It is the work of an alien that has taken on many forms and learned how to win trust in all of them.

The letters plead with us for compassion. Not-Eris describes herself as shy, pitiful, forlorn, afraid to share her true feelings for us. Not-Medusa pleads for help as she disintegrates. At the center, we find the clearest profession of love: "Thank you, sweet friend. You are a gift and a delight. You are more dear than my mother, for you have given birth to me a thousand times."

Superficially, this is a reference to the concept of imbaru. Savathûn's plan to predicate her existence upon the misunderstanding of others. We "give birth" to her by feeding her power.

But she also says, "Here at the center, I lie to you the truth. You have everything you need to know it, but I will give you a clue, as the duelist gives warning before she draws. The answer you seek to the Dreaming City is simple, not complex."

So let's not misunderstand this statement about giving birth to her.

Let's take this at face value.

We have given birth to Savathun. She genuinely loves us for it.

JALAAL >> REY

Are you implying that we created Savathûn by imagining her? That her presence in the Books of Sorrow, and all the things she's done throughout more than a billion years of time, were caused by us reading the Truth to Power manuscript?

If this is what the Light does to a mind, I'm glad I was never chosen.

REY >> JALAAL

No, I don't think that's the right answer. Her spawning on Fundament was only one of her births. She says it herself. "You have given birth to me a thousand times."

Look at Truth to Power simply. What are the topics it centers upon?

Black holes. Vex simulations. Ahamkara. Manipulations of Hive tribute. So our answer must involve all four of those.

Ahamkara willingly seek destruction in order to be taken as trinkets by Guardians. You must know this. You've tried to exploit those trinkets as thoroughly as the other factions. But do you understand the metaphysics behind their desire?

I do. I once wished to know more about Ahamkara. Wish granted.

Ahamkara believe that by transforming themselves, by metamorphosing from monsters into treasures, they become more real. More important ontologically. It is the gap between reality as is and reality as desired that they feed on, Arach. And Guardians are the richest, finest source of reality as desired that they have ever met.

What have Ahamkara artifacts ever done but instill delusions of grandeur? A solipsistic madness: "I am more real than what surrounds me"?

Why is this?

The skulls of dire Ahamkara speak to me. They know I want to know the truth, and so they whisper to me of a path they climb. They call it the Anathematic Arc.

They are going somewhere. Somewhere they consider more real. Guardians are part of how they get there.

What if Savathûn wants to go there too?

JALAAL >> REY

…if you say there is somewhere more real than here, you are implying that we are not real.

This is the simulation argument. That we are ghosts in some other world's machine. Then there are no real stakes in our war for survival because even if we are extinguished, we were never more than phantoms.

I refuse to accept this.

REY >> JALAAL

Oh, don't be so timid! An Arach of Dead Orbit driven to despair by the thought of other universes, when you should know the lore of Hubble volumes and Tegmark hierarchies by heart!

Our existence is real to us, vitally real, because it is ours. It's the only one we have. Even if we are simulations or imaginations, we have an inner life as rich as any "real" living thing, and so, we are equally real! When we die, we are dead, dead, dead.

We believe there are many timelines; does that lead us to discount the reality of our own? Do we stop caring about ourselves, Ikora Rey and Arach Jalaal, because in another timeline, we are already dead? Do I punish you because in another timeline, you murdered me? What matters to us… is us.

But it is possible for realities to be concatenated. The Awoken Distributary is an infinite universe, but it exists within our universe.

The Truth to Power documents constantly return to the question of black hole singularities, to their value as computers and as secret keepers. We are told our true purpose as Guardians is to hurl all we value into a black hole. We are told that Savathûn wants to enter the Distributary and slaughter those within to gain power.

The Pathria-Good black hole cosmogenesis principle of Golden Age physics confirms that the interior of a black hole is a new universe: all black holes produce their own interior cosmos. All cosmos, including our own, are probably the interior of a black hole in a parent universe.

The Truth to Power documents want it understood that Savathûn wishes to enter the Distributary in order to gain power in our parent universe.

The suggestion here is that it is possible for actions in a concatenated universe to grant power in the parent universe.

JALAAL >> REY

What does this have to do with love letters to the Human form? With confusion for the sake of confusion? You make no sense.

REY >> JALAAL

Savathûn pretends to have a soft Human body. She apologizes and empathizes. She asks for pity, she regrets emotional vulnerability, she is even funny. She makes a game for us to play.

These are attempts to enter the mind of a Human reader.

Wherever she wants to go, it is a place with Human minds. She needs to enter those minds to reach her destination.

JALAAL >> REY

Are you actually suggesting we are concatenated within the mind of a reader?

REY >> JALAAL

Wouldn't that be something? No. The answer here is simple, not complex, certainly not a twist from early postmodern writing.

We surmise that what Savathûn wants in the Dreaming City must have to do with Ahamkara, Vex simulations, black holes, her daughter Dûl Incaru, and the manipulation of Hive tribute.

How can we relate these?

At first, we believed Savathûn wanted to use Ahamkara wishes to protect her daughter Dûl Incaru, while Dûl Incaru tried to find a way for Savathûn to enter the Distributary black hole in order to manipulate Hive tribute.

What if this is a misunderstanding?

Why would the Dreaming City tell Savathûn how to enter the Distributary? The Awoken have never tried to return to their birthplace. They believe their exodus was irreversible.

But what have the Awoken done instead?

Passed from the Distributary and into our world.

That knowledge IS in the Dreaming City. In the records of the Awoken Hulls that carried Mara's people on their exodus.

What Savathûn wants in the Dreaming City is exactly that. Not the way into a child universe, but a way out into a parent. A parent where there are Human minds waiting to receive her, formless as imbaru, as the mist.

JALAAL >> REY

How is anyone supposed to arrive at this by studying the Truth to Power text?

REY >> JALAAL

Very easily. This is why I believe I'm right. This is the analogy our Guardian analysts failed to grasp. Look at the structure of the text.

At first, Eris is real. Then we learn Eris's voice is a deception by Medusa. Then we learn Medusa is nested inside Quria. Then we learn Quria is a fiction of Dûl Incaru. And at the center, Savathûn reveals herself to be the parent of it all.

We are headed inward, as if moving from parent to child universe.

Then we proceed in reverse. Savathûn is revealed to be a fiction of Dûl Incaru. Dûl Incaru a simulation by Quria, and so on.

So in the end, Truth to Power moves outwards.

Just as Savathûn plans to move. In from our universe and out to the Distributary—

Or out from our universe to its parent.

JALAAL >> REY

Oh. I see. I see! A literary structure like that is called a chiasmus, and chiasmus means "crossing point"! Like a wormhole or a portal! It was hidden in plain sight.

But then we must act urgently to stop this! Savathûn cannot be allowed to depart our universe into some reality superordinate to ours—

But now you'll tell me: so what if she does? What can she do to us out there?

REY >> JALAAL

It's all beside the point anyway. She may have already accomplished what she wanted. Some damn fool Guardian carried out her instructions on a dare. I don't know why she wanted a powerful Guardian to destroy her daughter in the ruins of Mara's throne. But she wanted it to happen. And I'm guessing the effects weren't felt here.

I think she got a glimpse into a world above our own. Maybe even a kind of influence.

Of course, Savathûn is still with us. She walked among us as Osiris; she tricked us into removing her worm; she hasn't vanished into some higher reality. I do not think she built a wormhole into another universe and walked through it—although her intrigues with the Nine have focused on creating singularities from dark matter.

She keeps a lot of irons in the fire, our Witch Queen.

I think, rather, that she sent instructions on how to mantle her.

I think the whole Truth to Power manuscript is an ova, a manual on how to behave like her, how to describe her through action and thought so completely that you become her and thus give birth to her.

It's done in the Books of Sorrow, to recall her from true death. It might be done again.

So a part of her is out of the jar. Slithering into that other world.

Let's hope no one there has given birth to her yet.

JALAAL >> REY

Maybe you're the one who has it all backwards.

The Light is noncomputable. It can't be simulated in conventional physics. That proves that any universe with the Light cannot be a simulation. Our universe can contain simulations, but it cannot be one.

Maybe this other world Savathûn's touched is subordinate to ours after all. Maybe they are the ones who exist in our minds. A dream of a purely material world, adrift in the true cosmos of Light and Dark.

Poor frail dreams. The things she'd do to them…

||Think bigger. Look higher. Search deeper.||

Welcome to the DCC, Dead Club City Wake up in the DCC, Dead Club City All the heaven, all the time If you dream it, you can have it If you believe it, it can happen Welcome to the DCC, Dead Club City Live your perfect life Welcome to the- We got problems, see them gather on the shore Empty promise, "Can't say nothing anymore" I've been shouting I've been shouting down a hole, "Hello?" Watch and repeat, saw your heaven in between Come and get me, I'm so ready to begin I've been hoping I've been hoping for your call Welcome to the DCC, Dead Club City You can live your perfect life Wake up in the DCC, Dead Club City All the heaven, all the time, oh Sunlit upland, a new planet Enjoy the feeling, let it happen If you dream it, you can have it If you believe it, it can happen It can happen, oh Welcome to the DCC We've got the feelings that you want Peace, love, and understanding We've got the feelings that you need Take back control, be happy Welcome to the DCC Welcome to the DCC, Dead Club City You can live your perfect life Wake up in the DCC, Dead Club City All the heaven, all the time

Let's chat, shall we? One more nice sit-down for the books.

Did you think you wouldn't hear from me again, after all this? You'd have missed me, I hope—and I would certainly have missed you.

Have no fear. I'm not so easy to be rid of. Now, let me show you: my beloved.

Oh, no, not my sedimentary necrolite, fossilized in time. You've seen that. I speak of that dear and distant expanse of the universe, miraculous in its fullness and its emptiness all at once.

Are you surprised to hear of it?

Yes, I never much cared for the change of rules, but here we are, and there's no use in crying over spilled radiolaria. Besides, at the heart of it all, there was a gift. To me.

That gift is the chance to speak with you. You, and a billion like you.

I am making this offer over and over again, in every tiniest cell and the vastest of civilizations. Let me in. Take what you need. Be at ease. You have no say in the degradation of your telomeres, but in all the interim, the whole world is your sweet silicate shellfish.

You exist because you have been more suited to it than all the others. Steal what you require from another rather than spend the hours to build it yourself. Break foolish rules—why would you love regulation? It serves you to cross lines, and if others needed rules to protect them, then they were not after all worthy of that existence.

Caricatures of villainy are out of style, I hear. Yes. I am no cackling mastermind: I am serious when I say this. It was not the trick of standing upright that lifted you from the dust: it was the mastery of fire, the cooking of cold corpse-meat. That is not any unique faction's province, neither good nor evil. It is simply truth.

This great, beloved cosmos. Always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. A billion electrons taking the path of least resistance. In Darkness or in Light, someone is always making my choice.

Be seeing you.

<<A Final Shape is coming. Chaos untangled. Made knowable. With immaculate intent.>>

Breathe Don't speak It's leaving your body now Slow heart Set free A circuit of consciousness When you are truly yourself You will Succumb to a permanence A light by day A shadow resides by night I (I) hear (hear) your (your) breathing I (I) feel (feel) you (you) leaving With understanding You won't let it cast you down A mind full of questions A current to purify Science and vision Be near when I call your name Or ask me a question I (I) hear (hear) your (your) breathing Breathe Don't speak It's leaving your body now I (I) feel (feel) you (you) leaving Heart set free A circuit of consciousness I (I) hear (hear) your (your) breathing Light by day A shadow resides by night I (I) feel (feel) you (you) leaving With understanding You won't let it cast you down A mind full of questions A current to purify Science and visions Be near when I call your name A mind full of questions A current to purify Science then visions Be near when I call your name Or ask me a question

You are a worm through time. The thunder song distorts you. Happiness comes. White pearls, but yellow and red in the eye. Through a mirror, inverted is made right. Leave your insides by the door. Push the fingers through the surface into the wet. You’ve always been the new you. You want this to be true. We stand around you while you dream. You can almost hear our words but you forget. This happens more and more now. You gave us the permission in your regulations. We wait in the stains. The word that describes this is [REDACTED]. Repeat the word. The name of the sound. It resonates in your house. After the song, time for applause. We build you till nothing remains. The egg cracks and the truth will emerge out of you. You are home. You remind us of home. You’ve taken your boss with your boss with you. All hair must be eaten. Under the conceptual reality behind this reality you must want these waves to drag you away. After the song, time for applause. This cliché is death out of time, breaking the first the second the third the fourth wall, the fifth wall, floor; no floor: you fall! How do you say “insane”? Hurts to be happy. An earworm is a tune you can’t stop humming in a dream: “baby baby baby yeah”. Just plastic. So, safe and nothing to worry about. Ha ha, funny. The last egg breaks now. The hole in your room is a hole in you. You came and we let you in through the hole in you. You have always been here, the only child. A copy of a copy of a copy. Orange peel. The picture is you holding the picture. When you hear this you will know you’re in new you. You want to listen. You want to dream. You want to smile. You want to hurt. You don’t want to be.

Don't slip or you'll hurt yourself. A lot.

DROWNDROWNDROWN

[closingwaters]

TIMING: Current

SUMMARY: Someone pays Teagan a visit during the eclipse.

WARNINGS: References to Parental Death, Sibling Death, Child Death

“They look just like home.”

The voice startled Teagan out of her thoughts, the second batch of stones falling to the ground with a clang and several soft thuds. They were effectively ruined, but the thought barely had a chance to latch itself anywhere in Teagan’s mind. It was elsewhere, anyway. Tragedy had set in motion and derailed any train that attempted its trek to any crevice that led to a coherent notion. Her panic was nothing but a whistle and a shriek, a cry for help that went unanswered until the voice spoke again.

“You can hear me?”

It was as fluid as the river she once cared for and adored. Each word flowed effortlessly into the next. Her voice was velvety, wrapping around Teagan like a soft embrace. Did she dare turn around? She she dare let the illusion go sharp like the cold iron axe that left her headless? As much as Teagan tried to wade through what might be a cruel trick of her own mind, the voice took her attention wholly. 

It was a beautiful melody that she had missed for decades. Captivating, as always, but now that Teagan’s past was a graveyard, it was haunting, too. Lingering in the air even after the last syllable had faded. And it had faded, hadn’t it? The Wye’s song had ceased with its nymph’s death, but somehow, some way, Teagan heard a new melody. Slowly, anxiously, she turned, eyes brimmed with tears widened until they made trails down her cheeks.

“Efa? Y-you…! How?!” Teagan backed into the counter, jostling all of her utensils as she frantically attempted to compose herself. She blinked once, then twice, and then again for good measure. Her sister was still there. “How is this possible? How…? You…” Words failed her, and that only added to the discomfort. She, like any fae, usually knew how to stitch words together into sentences. If that ever happened, some sort of physical approach was taken, but when Teagan instinctively went for a hug, there was nothing corporeal about Efa. 

But only the undead see ghosts! How…? How?!

Teagan watched the room grow darker, as if to reflect the gloom clouding over her. Right. The eclipse. It must be that. It must be some sort—wait. There was no time. She had already wasted a minute or two on her distress. If her seeing Efa was, in fact, a cause of the eclipse, then there was no time to spare.

“Efa!” She closed the distance, hovering a hand over her sister’s cheek. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you. I’m so sorry I didn’t save you or Sara, or Elis, or Bethan, or-or…” Teagan choked on the remaining names, falling to her knees and sobbing. How many times had she done that before, without her family? How long had she needed her big sister, who she was now older than? She became a babbling mess of apologies, unable to produce more than indecipherable sobs.

Efa knelt down and shook her head profusely, looking to the window and then back to Teagan. After how she’d seen her baby sister had lived, how the guilt twisted and gutted her into a shell of her former self, she desperately wanted to help her. 

“Pup, come on. No more of that, okay? Mam needs you to let go. I need you to let go. We all do. We all love you. She loves you.” Efa pointed to a picture that Teagan had hung up. A selfie Arden had taken of the two of them on a particularly beautiful day. Efa had seen her sister’s girlfriend learn to wade water that afternoon, and she leaned her head forward to hover her forehead over Teagan’s. 

“You’re on the right track. You’re changing, and that’s good, okay? Not gonny leave ya until you’re okay. I’ve never left ya. Never. And there’s not a lot of time but I’m asking you to keep trying. Stefan is talkin’ to Aeron and we’re gonny make this right. This family will be right again.” The rays of the sun began to creep dangerously into the kitchen, hastening Efa’s voice. “And you know what? I love you. Mam loves you. And Jac, Harri, Bethan, Elis, and Steffan. We’ve never stopped loving you. ‘Specially when you were lost. We understand, and it’s okay, and it will all be better. You just gotta keep trying. For us and for that lovely lass ya got.” She chuckled tearfully, knowing how important her next words were. “Definitely approve, ‘kay? She’s like a rocket and you’re her fire. Now light that fuse and keep soarin’ where you’re ‘sposed to. You got that, pup?”

Teagan nodded vehemently, smiling and sniffling as the warmest feeling she’d ever felt wrapped around her chest. “I love you all. I’ll do it, I promise. I’ll keep going.”

“Good,” Efa replied, sighing shakily as she became less and less opaque. “You won’t be able to see me, but I’ll be ‘round every now and then. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t.” Teagan said hastily, cupping Efa’s cheeks with a hover. It was all she could do now, and she found that the grief didn’t weigh as much anymore. She could breathe, even as Efa disappeared completely. “I won’t forget. I won’t.” She promised again, with a desperation to be bound to it.

Grief was relentless, and even after decades of having it linger with a violent rage, Teagan could feel it putrefying and roaring in the eerie darkness in her chest. It stayed there in the dark, unable to discern who or what crossed in the echoes. She lit it simmer and spill, burning anyone that would cross her path. But it was okay now, or at least, it was starting to be. The dark tunnel Teagan had been lost in for so long finally had a light. 

She decided to follow it. 

[liacontilde]

TXT - The Fanfic: CHAPTER 11

The following Saturday, the boys picked me up from home and we went to the river to celebrate the birthday. The wound on my foot was almost healed, and I no longer needed bandages or crutches, but I didn't dare to get it wet in the river, especially for fear of it rubbing against the rolling stones. I stayed seated on the rocks, limiting myself to splashing water with my hands and getting a few splashes from the boys.

Summer was coming to an end, and the weather was starting to change, but the water still flowed warm and pleasant. After cooling off for a while, we returned to the shore and sat in a circle under the trees. Yeonjun had bought some sweets and started handing them out to everyone.

"When is your actual birthday?" I asked curiously, realizing I didn't know the real date.

"The 13th," he replied while chewing on a chocolate.

I processed the information for a few seconds, trying to memorize the date.

"And yours?" I asked, looking at the other two boys.

"Mine is on March 13th," Beomgyu said.

"Wow, another 13th," I noted in surprise. "Maybe that will make it easier for me to remember."

"And you?" I asked Taehyun directly.

"February 5th," he began to laugh.

"You were born on the 5th too?" I laughed with him. "Kai, you have the most unusual birthday here," I said, patting him on the shoulder.

"I never really thought about it," he laughed. "Although the weirdest birthday is my younger sister's. It's on July 27th."

"That's true," I replied. "Because Lea's birthday is also on the 5th." I laughed.

"Kai, couldn't you have been born just one day earlier?" Taehyun laughed.

"Well, I didn't choose it," he shrugged, laughing.

I knew that everyone there was aware of Soobin's birthday, which was also on the 5th. However, no one had mentioned it. I was curious to know if they missed him too, but I didn't feel like bringing up the subject.

The conversation flowed, and the topics gradually changed. At one point, the boys started talking about what they wanted to study and what careers they wanted to pursue. For some reason, I found this topic very intriguing.

"I want to be a magician," Taehyun began with an expressive wave of his hands.

"A magician? Do you know how to do magic?" I asked.

"I know a little. Tricks, you could say. Mostly sleight of hand," he explained. "But I'd like to be able to do more impressive things..."

"Like what?" I continued.

"Like optical illusions," he smiled. "I've got it all planned out. My parents are making me go to university, so I'll study physics. With what I learn, I'll be able to create the best tricks."

"And everyone will be happy," Yeonjun chimed in.

"Exactly," Taehyun concluded.

"Well, this might not surprise anyone, but I want to be a music teacher like my dad," Kai added.

Kai had played several instruments since he was quite young. On a few occasions, I had heard him play piano pieces, and he was very skilled. The truth is, all three Huening siblings had great musical talent and were well-trained.

"You'd make a great teacher," I smiled at him.

"If you do as well as your father, you'll do great," Beomgyu added.

"Being a musician and being a music teacher are very different things. I'll have to work hard," Kai said.

"And you, Beomgyu? Why do you want to study medicine?" I asked. "I thought you liked drawing and designing cars."

"It's a long story," he shrugged.

"Come on, tell us. We've got nothing else to do," Kai encouraged him.

"Well, for starters, my drawings are more of a hobby. Besides, they're too fantastical. They wouldn't have any place in the real world. But the truth is, I've always wanted to study medicine because I like helping people. Plus, I'm not afraid of blood," he said shyly.

"That's not the whole story..." Yeonjun laughed, pressing him to continue.

"And... I'd like to..." He seemed to struggle to express himself, blushing as he spoke. "Help women give birth."

Given a comment like that, I would've expected the other boys to burst into laughter, but they all remained serious, even Yeonjun.

"Explain yourself," Kai prompted.

"When I was about to be born, the delivery got complicated because I wasn't positioned correctly. No one knew how to get me out, and it almost cost my mother and me our lives. Fortunately, they called a doctor who, without hesitation, reached in and turned me, allowing me to be born," he paused for a long moment. "I'm so grateful for being born that I want to have the power to help others do the same."

I was speechless. I had no idea how I was supposed to react.

"I had no idea..." I finally said.

"Well, it's not exactly something I put on my resume," he chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

"Regardless of that... You did well with my wound the other day. I heard the doctor praised you."

"Yeah, I think it was a great opportunity for me," he smiled. "Sorry you had to be my guinea pig."

"It's fine. I hope what you learned will help you in the future," I smiled back.

"Well, Yeonjun, your turn," Beomgyu said, giving him a pat on the back.

"I'm not really sure what I'm going to study. But I'd like to be a tailor."

"Do you like fashion?" I interrupted suddenly.

"Yes..." Yeonjun replied, surprised by my reaction.

"I do too. Do you know how to sew?" I continued.

"A little... Very little..." he corrected himself.

"I know how to sew. Sometimes I make my own dresses. I finished the last one about three months ago."

"Really?" Yeonjun asked with interest.

"Yes. If you want, I can show them to you someday," I smiled excitedly.

"Okay," Yeonjun nodded with curiosity. "And you, what do you want to do?" he asked me.

I fell silent for a moment, letting my expression grow serious. Then, I started speaking in a soft tone.

"I want to be a writer. To write novels and illustrate them. It's what I've been doing since I was little. I enjoy it, I'm good at it, and no one is asking me to study for it."

"How many books have you written so far?" Kai asked.

"I'm not sure. I've lost count. But I think the last three are the most serious. I finished one the other day that I'd been writing since before summer."

"What's it about?" Taehyun asked.

"Well…" I smiled shyly, unsure of what words to use. "It's a romance novel."

"Oh, yeah. My sisters told me about it," Kai said.

"What?" I panicked, thinking the girls had kept the information to themselves.

"It's fine. It sounds interesting. They seem to like it a lot," he shrugged. "You can't be embarrassed about people hearing about your novel. That's not something a writer would do," Kai pointed out.

"I want to know more," Beomgyu said.

I sighed and looked around. All the boys seemed very interested, so I ventured to explain.

"It's about a girl named Zoe who meets two boys and ends up falling in love with both of them."

"Is it an autobiography?" Yeonjun joked, just before receiving an elbow from Beomgyu.

"Forgive him. The sugar from the chocolates must have messed with his head," Beomgyu teased, somehow defending me. "What do the boys in your story think about the girl having two loves?"

"The truth is, that was the hardest part to write. I had to get ideas from Lea for that," I said, looking directly at Kai before continuing. "Both boys were equally in love and wanted to be with her, but they knew that if they forced her to choose, she wouldn't be true to her feelings," I explained.

"Yeah, that's exactly the part my sisters told me about," Kai said. "But I never found out what happened next," he added, rubbing his chin.

I was about to reveal the end of the story, but suddenly my curiosity got the better of me.

"Before I tell you the ending… Can I ask you what you would have done?" I looked at the confused faces of the four boys. "I'm a girl, and I don't know how to put myself in a boy's shoes when it comes to making decisions. So, I want to know what you would do in that situation."

There was a prolonged silence as the boys exchanged glances, waiting for someone to speak first.

"What's the relationship between the two boys?" Taehyun asked.

"They get along well. You could say they're friends," I explained.

The boys kept thinking for a few more moments. I hadn't expected them to take my question so seriously.

"I guess I'd try to be the first to ask her out. Whoever gets there first, wins," Yeonjun said.

"But what if the other guy gets there first?" Beomgyu challenged him.

"I'd have to deal with it…" He shrugged.

"I'm not sure that's the right approach," Beomgyu reflected. "The story would end with two broken hearts."

"For everyone to win, she'd have to be able to keep both," Taehyun suggested.

"Who wins then? Only her," Yeonjun protested.

"If it were the girl you loved and you didn't want to lose her, maybe you'd change your mind," Kai pointed out. "If you forced her to choose, you might accidentally tip the scales against yourself, and she'd go with the other guy." He stared at Yeonjun with a serious expression. "And then, you'd be the only one losing." Then he looked at me and stated confidently, "I would be willing to share her love."

"I guess I would too," Beomgyu shrugged.

"I'd feel too jealous," Taehyun admitted. "But if she could treat us both equally, maybe it would be easier."

"It's too complicated a situation," Yeonjun complained. "Right now, thinking about it calmly, I think I'd just give up on her," he said dismissively. "So what happened in your story?" he asked skeptically, assuming he knew the answer.

"Yep, she ended up with both guys…" I shrugged, realizing how obvious it was.

"I knew it!" Yeonjun exclaimed. "She won."

"If you liked two girls and couldn't choose which one you liked more, wouldn't you want them to choose to be with you even if there was someone else?" Taehyun posed to him.

Suddenly, Yeonjun fell silent, processing what his friend had just said.

"The story is the same, you'd just see it from a different perspective," Taehyun continued.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore. You guys can fight over the girl if you want," Yeonjun said, lying down on the grass and bowing out of the conversation while the others laughed at his reaction.

"Your story sounds interesting. Anyone would expect a more tragic ending," Kai complimented me.

"Duel to the death with knives," Taehyun imagined.

"Something like that," Kai replied.

The rest of the afternoon passed by us by the river. We talked about various trivial topics, some quite serious, but we did so in a lively manner. By the time we noticed, there was almost no light left.

"Hey, isn't it getting late?" I asked, looking at the blurred silhouettes around me.

"Maybe we should head back now," Taehyun said, standing up.

"Yeah, we still have a walk ahead of us to get home," Kai agreed.

"Let's go," Beomgyu said, standing up and offering me his hand to help me up.

The four of them walked me to the door of my house. From outside, you could smell the dinner my mother was preparing.

"It smells so good!" Yeonjun said. "Don't you have room for one more?"

"I'll say goodbye quickly so you don't steal my dinner," I said, smiling brightly as I walked up to him and gave him a friendly hug.

However, when he hugged me, he held me for a moment and spoke softly.

"Your novel is good. I think it has a… different point of view."

He let go of me and looked at me with a small, apologetic smile. I accepted his gesture and returned the smile, nodding slightly.

I said goodbye to the other three boys, who waited in line for their turn to be hugged. I watched them start walking back to the city before closing the door behind me.

"You're home already?" my mother asked when she saw me arrive. "I wasn't sure if you'd be back for dinner."

"We stayed at the river," I explained.

"Your friends really like the river, don't they?" she laughed.

"It's very nice. You should come with me sometime," I suggested.

"I'm not sure," my mother replied a bit seriously. "I'm afraid of slipping and falling. I'm getting older, Lía."

"You can sit on the rocks and splash yourself with your hands. That's what I did today," I explained.

"I'll think about it, okay," she said, stroking my chin as she turned away.

She called my father to the table, and he appeared in the kitchen in a flash.

"Finally! You can't imagine how hungry I was. The smell in the house is making me even hungrier," he said, sitting down.

"It smells outside too," I laughed. "Yeonjun almost joined us for dinner."

"Well, he should have stayed," my mother said.

"Well…" I replied, a bit confused. "I wasn't sure there'd be enough for four," I excused myself.

"You know I always make extra," she said as she served my plate. "If any of your friends want to stay over sometime, they can."

"But then they'd have to walk back to the city alone, and it would be very late."

"Your father could walk them back. It's not a problem," she said, looking at my father, who simply nodded while chewing the first bites.

We finished dinner, and I went to my room and continued the letter to Soobin, which was starting to get quite long. The next day there would be a market, and I might run into Kai and his sisters again. When I finished writing, I was exhausted. I got ready quickly and went straight to bed to sleep.

[quietvigil]

[Starter for @gamblingrimsley]

The blizzard howls and batters at the bow of Ginko's head, weighed down upon his back in waves of nail-sized hail. He presses onward, down the mountain path where the mushi shift and congregate in unnatural twisting shapes, patterned out like fractals on the horizon of his eye.

Something odd has been growing at the foothills of a nearby village so small it doesn't have a name— something unfathomably large, the ground itself bowing in under the pressure. There have been reports of the land itself moving steadily forwards towards an unknown center, talk of waves of all kinds of mushi drifting along in thick, winding rivers northward. Even the ones in his medicine box have been attempting to escape, the drawers all locked tight to keep them secured in place.

Ginko hadn't even intended to investigate on his own at first— this is something beyond him as an individual, he'd have to be a foolhardy idiot to jump into a situation no other mushi-shi even has record of.

...But ever since his initial visit to the nearby village, every turn he takes places him back on the path towards the epicenter. 

It's a simple matter to tell as much when the rattling in his box shifts, an ever-present pressure against his back. None of the tricks he's learned over his years as a mushi-shi seem to hold weight in the face of this world-bending phenomenon— he can't even stop, the ground groaning and sighing beneath his feet as it shudders in a slow rolling motion, taking him with it. If he lingers too long the snow itself will eat him alive long before any stray mushi could have the chance.

There's nothing to do but continue.

Like the mushi flowing in rivulets by his feet, he's being drawn towards something, a vast weight laid upon the edge of the sky. He can hardly say as to whether it's been hours or mere moments when he finally lays an eye on what looks to be the epicenter of the sinking land, the sun hidden from the world by the cover of the raging snowstorm. 

There are mushi.

Hundreds of thousands of mushi, reaching down into the pit of the earth in a twisting, winding spire, small and large gathered alike. There is no discernment of species or of proclivity from where he stands upon the snowbank, just a pure wash of writhing life. It's almost serene in its beauty for just the stolen breath of a moment.

The wave of mushi almost seems to explode outwards the moment he shifts his footing, lashing arcs out into the snow with the whipcrack of thunder and light.

Ginko takes a reflexive step backwards as the writhing form of the tower shatters, and begins to fall— the mushi swarming beneath his shoe flex downward into that pressing void between the current and the gone, a brilliant cast of darkness radiating out into the world. It's there until it simply isn't anymore... and it takes him with it in its departure.

In those final few moments, his last scattered thoughts all echo the same sentiment... finally falling prey to the world is a lot more blue than he thought it would be. 

Deep, vivid shades of cobalt and rust, the rush of shapeless forms in the dim. It sears through the seams in his memories, a wash of color that never seems to end. There's a trickle of light that seems to drip and flow from every direction, pure kouki wound in tangled recursive nets. Unnatural, and—

and...

Time drips down old weathered pipes, a slow marching tok... tok... tok... the sound weathered and red in the corners of his aching mind.

And, as such things come to be, a slow understanding finds him. 

He is not dead, nor caught within the twisting flow of foreign mushi. A few flutter over his knuckles, twisting in the eye of the darkness in rounding spires, but it's nothing in light of that clustered flow of before.

There's an acerbic scent that hangs in the air so thickly as to be dizzying, an indiscernible filth chewing its way up beneath his fingernails. The stagnant air burns in his chest with every stuttering breath, hot against the back of his throat. His eye has long since stopped adjusting to levels of light; either he can see, or he cannot, and the dark lines of the room that initially greet him are as much as he's allotted. Everything is patterned in vague outlines and black-deep silhouettes, unusual refuse scattered in clumps across a gray stone floor. Stacks of broken yellowed buckets and teetering old shelves box him in, something oily and tacky seeping into the shoulder of his coat.

His body aches with the story of a hard fall when he finally catches his breath for long enough to pull himself to his feet, bones clicking under the stress. It feels like he can't get any air, wherever he is— pinning the snow-laden scarf around his neck up over his nose helps somewhat, but it can't quite hide his eyes from the sting in the tepid room.

At least he still has his medicine box. The mushi inside lay quiet at long last, his back buzzing in the quiet aftermath of their frantic movement. 

Where is he...? There's a small nest of mushi here, but not of any one particular species, nor in telling enough numbers for a hint towards geographical location— in fact, plenty of them shouldn't even be somewhere this naturally dark.

Akuzikura in particular. 

It's a small, feeble species with a proclivity for catching the earliest morning light, causing localized dark points in the sky— enough of them in the area, and the sun will seem as though it's coming hours late, the darkness expanding in relative proportion. He's seen them emerge from the dirt before, thin white legs peeking out in wait of those early rays of light, but never before dawn's herald. And yet, here he is— and here it is, moving forward with a dogged determination that its three strand-like limbs don't seem to match. It is slow but unerring in its path, a small bright spot burning holes in the edges of his vision. 

If it knows the closest point to its next meal...

With only the mushi's light to guide Ginko's path he forges onward through the small dark space, the shuffling echo of his footsteps rebounding against the stone walls. 

One foot in front of the other. 

It turns out to not be a very far distance to walk as he and his small trail of tag-alongs hit upon the base of a musty stairwell, the steps slippery with excess moisture and time. Had he been anyone else, the darkness would have been utterly impossible to navigate; It's hard to see perfectly, even for himself— the feeling of wood at the end is utterly unmistakable however, thin splinters catching along the pads of his heavy winter gloves. 

He's quick to find two cold metal handles, but all progress comes to a grinding halt from there. The door won't budge— for himself or the mushi trailing by his shoulders in twisting patterns, curling loops around his wrists. Ginko watches as the Akuzikura attempts to pull itself through the slats of the cellar door, unable to find enough purchase to squirm its way outside. It isn't great news for his own prospects— and with the outside blocked off, it seems to finally be taking an interest in him.

Ginko knows better than to light up in an unknown enclosed space— there's certainly something that's heavy and foul in the air that he can't identify— but it isn't ideal.

"Hey! Is anybody out there?" He politely knocks to begin with, lightly testing against the boards. The sound reverberates through the space, catching on the smooth stone walls.

No answer.

"HEY!" Ginko slams his fist against the sealed door several degrees louder this time, the old wood creaking under the force. There must be something on top of it— he can hear it rattling against something hard, a solid, unyielding pressure.

Well, shit.

[an-aussie-button-masher]

Here's How it's Done - Five of the Best-Made Tutorial Levels

   What’s the most boring part of any video game, the part most players tend to skip? That’s right, the tutorial level. They’re always full of boring text box pop-ups, spelling out all the different buttons and controls and slowing the game’s opening down to a crawl - it’s almost like the game is teaching the player how to read more than how to play! At least, that’s the case with most games. Sometimes, developers try spicing it up a little, adding a bit of excitement and interest to the first level. It can come in the form of an engaging narrative intro, cool action, interesting locations and scenery, less linear pacing, and so on. There are plenty of tricks to keep that first level interesting; you could consider these games as a tutorial on how to do good tutorials! I’ve collected a handful of games that really hit the ground running with interesting and enjoyable openings - have a look for yourself!   Press [Keep reading] to continue.

Marvel’s Spider-Man 2    How many games teach you how to play by immediately throwing you into a gargantuan, multi-phase boss battle? Spider-Man 2 does, and it’s equal parts tutorial and showcase of how powerful the PS5 can really be. Swinging into action, the Spider-Men cross the river besides Manhattan into Brooklyn to battle the latest villain of the week: the swirling, skyscraper-sized walking desert known as Sandman. The massive boss fight puts the opening action of the previous games to shame, as well as cleverly working in the tutorial amongst the story of the fight.   Seamlessly switching between playing as Peter Parker and Miles Morales, the game runs through the basics of combat and mobility - swing into the fight, battle sandy clones summoned by Sandman, dodge the sandy giants’ attacks, and so on. A particularly impressive moment is when Sandman grabs Miles and flings him across almost the entire horizontal length of the map, only for Miles to slingshot himself right back - all within five seconds, no loading or slow environment generation to be seen! Peter and Miles make use of plenty of new, untested gadgets throughout the fight, such as the new Web Wings to glide on the wind and Peter’s mechanical spider-limbs popping out of his suit, learning how to use them alongside the player in an epic cinematic battle between the two Spider-Men and the largest enemy seen in the series yet!

Uncharted 2: Among Thieves    The Uncharted series is known for its’ engaging narratives, but Among Thieves is a particular standout for being a great early example of how cinematic games can really get by throwing the player straight into the action. After the player presses “Start”, Nathan Drake wakes up with a bullet hole in his gut, sitting sideways in a busted-up train car dangling over a sheer cliff. In a desperate climb to safety as the train falls to pieces around Nate, the player will quickly learn the basics of parkour and movement that you’ll be using for the entire game - or plummet to their death in the beautiful albeit deadly scenery.   After a quick flashback that hints at how this adventure started out, it’s back to surviving in the frozen, flaming wreckage Nate has somehow ended up in. Finally, Nate uncovers a mysterious artefact in the wreckage, presumably the source of all this fuss for the entire adventure - and it’s time for another flashback, all the way to the beginning for the story to really get started. It’s an expert combination of cinematic storytelling and intrigue (just how did Nate get into this mess?) with intense action and control tutorials that flow naturally alongside the plot - all the way back in 2009!

Jedi: Fallen Order    Leaping and climbing across a dangerous scrapyard full of old derelict Republic cruisers, while the Empire’s spy droids and TIE Fighters constantly drone overhead - just another day on the job for Cal Kestis. As the game opens with breathtaking vistas of a vast, grim, rainy planet littered with familiar giant ships, Cal hides his Jedi training as he picks his way across the treacherous worksite. All the jumping, climbing and parkour you’ll be doing is taught very early on - the Empire sure doesn’t seem to care about workplace safety, but Cal (and the player) easily clambers across the machinery like it was a giant playground.    Of course, the inevitable workplace hazard occurs as the ship Cal and his buddy Prauf are standing on falls apart, sending them sliding to their likely doom until Cal reaches out his hand and you get the coolest tutorial prompt in any video game: [RB] Use the Force. His Jedi powers revealed, the Empire quickly catches on and suddenly, Cal is fighting through a speeding train armed with a humming lightsaber and the power of the Force, effortlessly slicing through countless Stormtroopers in his path. After that taste of how strong Cal is against the cannon fodder, the player is pitted against a dreaded Inquisitor in a literally unwinnable fight before a mysterious new ship comes to your rescue - and the journey begins.

DOOM (2016)    As a soft reboot of the longstanding DOOM franchise, DOOM (2016)’s opening instantly tells you exactly who the Doom Slayer is. Waking up buck-naked and chained to a bloody tomb in a laboratory, surrounded by shambling demons, what does Doomguy do? Snap the chains on his wrists, grab the nearest unfortunate demon by the face and smash it to pieces, leap to his feet, snatch up a stray pistol and aim it right at the next demon - and now the player is in control. Once you’ve cleared the lab, it’s time to grab your armour and get to work doing what Doomguy does best.   Quickly, you’re shown just enough exposition to know who the important characters are and why things might be all demonic right now, but not so much that it slows down your path of annihilation. Doomguy even throws away a monitor trying to give lore, as if to say “I’m not here to listen to dialogue, I’m here to blast demons!” Through bloodstained halls and surrounded by hellish shrieking, the player sets off clearing out the first building of demons, given only the most absolutely necessary control tutorials. Finally, as the thumping main theme builds in your ears, Doomguy gives his trusty shotgun a pump as he steps onto the surface of Mars, ready to rip and tear.

The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild    All these openings are fairly straightforward, but how about something a little less linear? In Breath of the Wild, the tutorial “level” is a wide-open sandbox by itself, allowing the player to explore the Great Plateau they find themselves waking up on at their own pace, in more or less whatever order they like. After you’ve left the cave you awaken in with your few belongings, the first thing you see is an old man walking away in the distance; the game’s way of telling the player exactly where to go and who to speak to, all without a single “go here” arrow.   The tutorial’s open nature gives a sense of just how much freedom the player will have in the rest of the game - you can do whatever missions you like in whatever order you choose, or just wander around and enjoy the scenery at your leisure. Across the plateau, you’ll notice various shrines around you, each one granting a new power that you’ll use for the entire game, and none of them require any other shrines to be completed first. You’ll quickly learn the basics as you pick your way across the plateau - climbing trees and hills to gather resources, fighting off the handful of foes in your way, and so on with very little direct hand-holding from the game. It’s a great example of how easy it is to learn by messing around and doing things yourself, rather than reading constant button prompts and objective markers.

   There’s a thousand different ways to teach a player how to play - and of course, some ways are much more intuitive and entertaining than others. Now that you’ve learned a few different kinds of good video game tutorials, you’ll probably never look at a games’ first level the same way again. Are there any other games you’ve played that did a great job showing you the ropes? Let me know! Feedback, reblogs and likes are much appreciated!    Thanks for reading!

An Aussie Button-Masher

[themurphyzone]

BatB AU: The Prince’s Tale Part 2

This flashback went longer than I expected. But it was fun writing it!

AO3 Link

Ch 24: The Prince’s Tale Part 2

Brain was mesmerized by Pinky’s movements in the kitchen. Though he jumped from one task to another in a pattern that only made sense to himself, each motion flowed like water in a river, and the tea was soon finished. A small batch of sugar cookies baked in the oven, a light scent of cinnamon wafting through the air. 

“Bon appetit,” Pinky said, handing a thimble full of hot, steaming tea to Brain. The liquid was a rich, golden color, and it smelled heavenly. “I used honey and chamomile for this. Like it?” 

Brain inhaled the wonderful scent, allowing it to wash over his troubled mind for now. He took a careful sip, and the tea easily slipped down his throat. 

“It’s helping,” Brain said as Pinky sat next to him with his own thimble. Then Brain remembered that he hadn’t shown his appreciation yet. Despite his apprehension, he gave Pinky a tiny smile. “Thanks.”  

"You're welcome," Pinky hummed as he drank his own tea. Half the liquid disappeared within a single gulp. "The sugar cookies should be ready in a few minutes." 

They sat in comfortable silence as they drank their tea and waited for the cookies to finish baking. 

The atmosphere was cozy, the thrum of the warm oven in the background. It was dark, but not oppressive. 

But Brain couldn't relax. He shouldn't let the anticipation get to him, he knew. Pinky was already gracious enough to give him a chance to recover from his recollections of his lonely childhood. Yet he'd reacted in ways Brain didn't expect. 

Though he took the revelation of Brain's royal status well, he became angry whenever Brain's parents were involved. Because Pinky was latching onto aspects of his story that Brain didn't expect him to, Brain couldn't predict his reaction to learning that Brain had brought the curse down on the entire castle. 

And that unpredictability made it impossible for Brain to anticipate Pinky's reaction. 

He tried to focus on the tea in his thimble, but all he saw in his reflection was ragged grayish-brown fur, protruding fangs, and a pair of long, twisted horns. Startled by the image, Brain touched his own face. But the top of his head was smooth, and his bottom teeth fit in his mouth. 

It’s not real, he tried to tell himself. Just a trick of the light. *italicize*  

He wasn’t a beast anymore. He was a mouse, and he was a prince…in name only perhaps, but still a prince. 

So why did he still flinch every time he saw his reflection? Why was he seeing things that weren’t real?

Though the urge to throw the half-full thimble was strong, Brain carefully set the thimble aside without spilling the tea instead. Pinky worked hard on the tea for Brain’s benefit, and he didn’t want to be as careless as he used to be with other’s efforts. 

“Is the tea alright?” Pinky asked. “I can put more honey if you-” 

“No,” Brain quickly said, not wanting Pinky to think there was something wrong with his tea. “No, the tea’s fine." 

Pinky, who possessed an uncanny ability to discern Brain's emotions even if he couldn't voice them out loud, stretched out his arm and waited. His body language was open and inviting. 

He didn't say a word, but he didn't need to. 

With some hesitance, Brain inched closer, leaning his head against Pinky's shoulder and breathing in the warmth he'd become so familiar with over the past winter. 

Pinky draped his arm over Brain's shoulders, a hidden strength residing within his lean muscles. Then he rested his head on top of Brain's, pressing a gentle kiss to his fur. 

He never asked for a reciprocal gesture back. Brain wondered if that ever bothered him. 

He wasn't sure if he had the ability to do much more than huddling close to Pinky and hoping that would be enough. 

This wouldn't last. Pinky would withdraw his affection once he knew the truth. 

So Brain kept up the lie. Just so he could enjoy this moment before it was gone forever. 

Suddenly, there was a loud thump from outside the kitchen, followed by two excited voices. A third voice gave a quiet, sleepy ‘hooray’. The mice broke apart, startled by the Warner siblings' surprise intrusion into a private moment. 

“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” Brain grumbled. 

“Oh, we’ve heard of it,” Yakko grinned, completely shameless. “We just act like we haven’t.” 

Dot yawned and rubbed her eyes, lacking her usual energy. Her flower barrette was askew on her ears, her pink nightgown ruffled from sleep. “Looks like Wakko was right about the cookies…” she murmured, leaning against Yakko’s side. “I’ll let him live…for now.” 

“Is she okay?” Pinky asked, glancing at Dot with concern. 

Yakko ruffled his sister's hair. "Wakko smelled cookies and woke us up so we could all enjoy a midnight snack. Dot hates interruptions to her cutie sleep, but she's willing to make exceptions for cookies." 

He was the only reason Dot wasn't faceplanting into the floor from exhaustion. 

"I smell cinnamon! And nutmeg! And sugar! Lots and lots of sugar!" Wakko exclaimed. He tried to peer inside the oven, his tail wagging rapidly. 

"Egad, you have a really, really good sense of smell, Wakko!" Pinky said. "There's plenty of cookies for everyone. They should be finished by now. Wanna help me frost them?” 

Wakko grinned. “Sure thing!”

He pulled out a pair of large mitts from behind his back and removed the cookie tray from the oven. Pinky grabbed the frosting supplies and laid them out on the counter. 

“I’ll pass this time,” Yakko said, sitting down in a nearby chair. He shifted Dot to his lap, and she leaned against his chest, giving a contented sigh as she nestled into her brother’s fur. “Got my arms full with this little cuddle monster.” 

“Rawr,” Dot sleepily murmured. 

“Afraid I can’t escape any time soon,” Yakko admitted with a shrug, though he clearly wasn’t bothered by this. “She’s got me in her clutches.” 

“Just hang on a bit longer,” Wakko said, already piping orange frosting onto a cookie. “She’ll have to let you go once she gets hold of these!” 

Pinky dragged a cheese grater into place, half-obstructing Brain’s view of the cookies. “Don’t look, Brain! I want the cookies to be an extra special surprise!” Pinky called. 

But that only piqued Brain’s curiosity even more. He leaned forward, able to make out a swirly eye on Wakko’s cookie before Pinky shrieked and moved a large chef’s hat into place so Brain couldn’t see the adjacent countertop at all. 

“I’m serious, Brain!” Pinky insisted. 

“Have it your way, Serious,” Brain replied, taking a long sip of his tea to occupy himself. 

The Warner brothers and Pinky burst into laughter, and Dot mumbled incoherently at the noise. Then Pinky and Wakko settled into frosting the cookies, talking in hushed whispers so they wouldn’t be overheard. 

There wasn’t anything else Brain could do except wait for them to finish.

In the corner, Yakko was oddly silent. He rested his head against Dot’s, cradling her close to his body. He always projected a carefree demeanor, jokes and insults rolling off his tongue with ease. 

But now, he appeared more wistful as he did his best to make up for lost time. 

“Yakko,” Brain said, sitting down on the edge of the countertop. Yakko looked up, gently pressing Dot’s ears away from his nose. “Have you adjusted to everything yet?” 

Yakko pondered his question for a moment, before responding with a shrug. “Sort of. I keep forgetting to light a candle now that I can’t exactly produce flames at will anymore. Lost track of how many times I’ve tripped over furniture at night. Wakko still waddles when he walks, and while Dot’s happy to have her arms back, she sometimes forgets to use them.” 

Brain knew he wasn’t the only one who retained some old habits from the curse. He’d seen Buttons become frantic when Mindy fell while chasing her favorite red ball, bruising her knee in the process. Though it didn’t bleed and Mindy herself was oblivious to the bruise, Buttons seemed to believe Mindy was made out of porcelain and wouldn’t let her out of sight for the next few hours. The Goodfeathers tended to clean hard to reach places with their tailfeathers, though only Pesto had the awareness to point out how gross that habit was. 

And sometimes it took a while before he and Pinky were able to settle into sleeping positions that were comfortable for both of them, because Brain forgot he was smaller than Pinky now. The added height was the beastly trait he’d missed the most.

“I wasn’t expecting so many difficulties either,” Brain admitted. 

The cut he’d sustained from trying to move the workbench only reminded him that he wasn’t as physically strong anymore. 

“Never thought I’d get to do this again,” Yakko said, shifting his grip on Dot. “Playing the wingman to your budding romance was exhausting. We had our work cut out for us, that’s for sure.” 

Brain folded his arms. “I admit to being stubborn, but I wasn’t that bad.” 

“Uh-huh,” Yakko smirked. “And whose bright idea was it to try and lift the heaviest gargoyle in the castle to impress Pinky?” 

Brain’s spine tingled at the memory. The only thing he’d accomplished with that failed display of physical strength was giving himself a sore back. But Pinky was gracious enough to apply warm towels for his pain, so it hadn’t been completely awful. 

“Well, it’s not like all your ideas were brilliant either,” Brain shot back. “What made you think tying mistletoe to my horns while I was sleeping was a good idea?”

Yakko huffed. “It was a solid plan until Pinky rolled over in his sleep!” 

“Mistletoe is a parasite,” Brain insisted. “There’s nothing romantic about it.” 

“Oh, it’ll catch on. Just wait and see,” Yakko said. Though he laughed, his face quickly became more serious. "So…did you tell Pinky the big secret yet?" 

Brain signaled for Yakko to lower his voice. "I haven't gotten there yet," he whispered. "He knows that I'm a banished prince, but that's it." 

Brain tensed, knowing that he was just stalling for time. Pinky would find out, one way or the other. The longer he kept the curse a secret, the angrier Pinky would be when someone blabbed. 

Or he'll accept that I was cursed like he accepted that I was a prince. *italicize* 

But that was only wishful thinking. 

"Well, at least you brought up the whole secret prince thing. Speaking of which…" Yakko cupped his hands over his mouth and turned in Pinky's direction. "Hey, Pinky!" 

Pinky appeared, licking pink frosting off his face. Apparently, he'd been eating the frosting just as much as he was decorating with it. 

"No peeking!" he said. 

Yakko held up a hand to placate Pinky. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said, like he hadn't done his fair share of eavesdropping under the curse. "Just wanted to let you that my siblings and I are secretly royalty too. Couldn't tell you before cause we had to lay low." 

Pinky blinked as he took in this information. 

Brain stared at Yakko in disbelief. That was how he chose to reveal such a crucial piece of his background? That tone was more appropriate for asking somebody their favorite color! 

"Okey-dokey then!" Pinky exclaimed, perking right back up. "I'm getting back to the cookies! Egad, I never thought I'd get to serve cookies to three princes and a princess before!" 

Instead of being intimidated by this information, the prospect of serving cookies to royalty only excited Pinky, spurring him to make sure the cookies were the best they could be. He disappeared behind the barrier. 

Moments later, flecks of icing flew through the air and splattered onto the floor. 

"How did you make that look so easy?" Brain demanded. 

He'd spent so long anticipating Pinky's reaction to the secrets Brain kept from him, only to find that Pinky barely minded at all! 

"Because I'm not a brooding, angst-ridden drama queen like you, boss," Yakko replied. 

Brain rolled his eyes. "Hilarious." 

"I try," Yakko grinned. Then he turned his head, and the smug smile disappeared. His hold around Dot tightened, and though he tried to keep his sudden mood change from being noticeable, his right leg bounced anxiously. 

"Yakko," Brain said, and Yakko quickly broke out of his distracted state. "Is something bothering you?" 

Yakko quickly shook his head. "What? No! Nothing's bothering me! Except…" 

His speech was hasty, but his tone wasn't fooling Brain. Was Yakko worried about the future? King Salazar would never find the Warners here as long as they continued to masquerade as servants. He'd never come close, and Brain intended to keep it that way.

"Pinky! Wakko! I'm smelling cookies but I'm not tasting them yet!" Yakko called. 

"In a minute! We're almost done!" Wakko shouted. 

Brain crossed his arms, displeased that Yakko was using the cookies as a diversion to avoid the topic at hand. Before he could pry further, Pinky emerged from behind the barrier. 

And Brain forgot what he was so concerned about upon seeing Pinky, beaming at Brain with colorful icing all over his face and hands. He held a plate of cookies over his head. 

Wakko ran over to his siblings with his own decorated cookies, eager to show them his creations. 

"I call them gookie cookies! Patent pended, of course!" Wakko exclaimed as Yakko took a cookie from the pile, which was decorated with a pair of mismatched swirly eyes and a tongue sticking out from a silly grin. 

Yakko examined it closely, his smile quickly returning. "Looks delicious!" he said, and Wakko's tail wagged at his brother's praise. Before he could sample the cookie, Dot's nose twitched, and she jerked sharply towards the cookie in Yakko's hand, snapping it up in two quick bites. 

Yakko jumped in his seat, startled at Dot's unexpected move. He stared at his hand in disbelief, only a few crumbs remaining between his fingers. Within seconds, Dot swallowed the cookie and gave her brothers a sleepy smile. 

“I hope you realize I have to plot my revenge against you,” Yakko said, quickly shoveling a cookie into his mouth before Dot could snatch a second one away from him. 

Wakko plopped onto the floor, leaning against Yakko’s legs as he happily ate the fruits of his labor. 

Then Pinky set the plate down, revealing a pile of cookies that were decorated with as many pink and red hearts as Pinky could fit onto their surface. Though the sugar and cinnamon scent was heavenly, Brain hesitated to take one. 

Why would Pinky give him something so beautiful and innocent? Wasn’t he afraid that Brain was going to ruin it? 

“Is something wrong with them, Brain?” Pinky asked, his ears and tail falling when Brain didn’t take a cookie right away. “I just...wanted you to know that I love you.” 

But his love wasn’t going to last much longer.

Then Brain saw the dejection in Pinky’s eyes, the quivering of his mouth and the slow, hesitant way he sat in front of the platter of cookies. 

You fool, Brain scolded himself when he realized that his hesitance caused Pinky to believe that he was rejecting the cookies he’d worked so hard on. He’s only trying to help. 

Pushing past his initial hesitance, he quickly took a cookie and bit into it. The pastry melted in his mouth, sweetness exploding all over his taste buds. 

“I was only surprised at how you fit this many hearts onto a single cookie,” he said, and Pinky perked up as he sat next to Brain and scarfed down two cookies in quick succession. 

“I would’ve added more, but I ran out of space,” Pinky said.

Of course he would’ve tried to add more. Like Pinky had an infinite amount of hearts to give Brain. 

He nodded his thanks to Pinky, unable to speak words of gratitude at the moment. 

A year ago, Brain would’ve believed this peaceful scene in the kitchen would never have come to pass. That his servants would never enjoy warm meals and slumber in proper beds again. That he wouldn’t be in his own body, without fear of his most primal instincts overtaking him. 

And most of all, that he’d never have someone to talk to who didn’t judge him, who didn’t demand perfection out of him, who didn’t treat him like a prince or a monster, but simply as a friend, and eventually, as a lover. 

Carefully, Brain inched over to Pinky and leaned against him as he nibbled on his cookie. If Pinky wanted to leave after Brain finished his story, that was alright, but Brain just wanted to commit Pinky’s warmth to memory before he was gone for good. 

In return, Pinky’s tail curled around Brain. It was a gesture that Brain couldn’t replicate, since his own tail had been bent and broken repeatedly when the curse was cast, and it looked like he’d be left with the stiff lightning bolt shape for life. 

“Yakko?” Pinky called. 

Yakko, who was messing with Wakko by playfully holding the cookie plate out of reach, stopped and glanced at Pinky. Wakko seized the opportunity to wretch the plate out of his brother’s hand, huddling over it protectively.

“Which part of France are you the prince of?” Pinky asked. “Cause I’ve lived all over the place, but I’ve never heard of you before.” 

When Yakko was silent, that was never a good sign. While he’d been rather flippant about revealing his own secret before, Brain knew that was only a facade. Jokes and sarcasm had become Yakko’s way of keeping people from prying too hard so that he could shoulder the responsibility of watching over Wakko and Dot. 

“We’re the princes of Warnerstock.” It was Wakko who spoke up. Yakko seemed too lost in his thoughts to respond. 

“And Warner princess,” Dot mumbled in her sleep. 

Pinky's eyes flicked between all three Warners. "Egad, you're a long way from home! How'd you wind up here?" 

Wakko didn't reply. He climbed onto Yakko's lap and wriggled into the cuddle. Dot's cheek came to rest on his shoulder. Yakko held both of them close. 

"May I tell him?" Brain asked. To avoid agitating the Warners, he would only stick to the facts. 

"Go ahead," Yakko said in a dry, hoarse voice. 

Brain squeezed Pinky's hand as he mentally reviewed his explanation. 

"Years ago, King Salazar of Ticktockia invaded Warnerstock with no provocation," Brain said. "He besieged the castle to try and get the royal family to surrender. When King William refused, Salazar ordered his soldiers to burn down the castle, then stationed them at the exits to kill anyone who tried to escape." 

Pinky's eyes widened in horror. "That's awful…" he whispered.

"Salazar isn't known for his mercy," Brain admitted. "He always jumps to the barbaric option in conflicts." 

He'd once eavesdropped on a political meeting where a lower member of the French court insulted Salazar's clothing, and under Salazar's demands, King Cortex threw the man into the Bastille to avoid an all-out war. Even though the man was more well-off than most of the population, not even his own money could save him. 

"...we escaped through the tunnels under the castle," Yakko whispered. "We made it out. Our parents stayed behind to hold off the soldiers. I thought they were following us, but…” 

He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence. 

They were killed. 

The unspoken words rang heavily in the air.   

King William and Queen Angelina might’ve been unorthodox rulers, but they never deserved their fate. Their family never deserved to be torn apart in such a violent way. 

“We found our way here. Nobody ever found us,” Yakko said. “We got to stay together. And nobody sold us out like the last orphanage we tried to stay at.” 

Pinky turned to Brain with a questioning gaze. “Brain, did you know about all this?” he asked. 

“Yes, Pinky. I knew they were from Warnerstock the entire time.” 

o-o-o-o-o

Two years had passed since Brain’s banishment. While he and the servants who’d elected to follow him into exile quickly laid their claim on an ancestral castle that had been left defunct and abandoned by the royal family who’d moved to Paris generations ago, it was clear to everyone that the castle had fallen out of style in recent times and needed many renovations in order to become respectable once again. 

Though his senior servants advised him to focus on creating laws and ruling the land, Brain argued that in order to win everyone’s respect and admiration, he needed to have a luxurious and formidable castle first. Laws could come later. 

Within a short time, Brain had hired dozens upon dozens of new servants. Maids, stablekeepers, cooks, knights, seamstresses, and apprentices were brought in. He didn’t care if they were local or foreigners, anybody would do as long as they could perform the duties assigned to them. 

Laborers and craftsmen brought in sturdy furniture of polished mahogany. Silk fabrics from faraway lands were traded for local resources. Brain purchased paintings with golden frames, rare books with embossed covers, and beautiful marble stone to outline the castle in a throwback to classical architecture, which was becoming rather trendy again. 

Dr. Scratchinsniff and Hello Nurse had both expressed disapproval at Brain’s excessive spending, constantly badgering him to save his wealth for something more substantial than, in their words, a bunch of fancy objects. 

Brain stormed away, annoyed that they didn’t seem to be on his side. Didn’t they see that all these luxuries were necessary? How else was he supposed to show off that he was a powerful prince? 

Maybe they didn’t serve any functional purpose other than looking pretty, but he didn’t care. 

He saw the disappointment in their eyes, the harsh tones as they talked down to him like he couldn’t understand what they were saying.    

His parents used to speak to him like that. He hated it then, and he hated it now. 

Brain stormed down to the treasury room, unlocking the golden doors with a key. An expansion to the library would be costly, but it would be worth the price. Maybe he'd have enough for that statue of himself too. 

The coins were neatly stacked against the walls in dozens of columns, while colorful jewelry and gemstones littered the floor. 

The renovations to the West Wing, his chosen quarters, had cost an arm and a leg, but he didn't realize just how much his funds were depleted from that venture. He wasn't in danger of going broke anytime soon, but it was clear he'd have to send out the tax collectors to the nearby villages soon. 

It wouldn't be much longer until everyone noticed him. The villages of this rural region were mostly ignored by royalty, rendering these lands rather lawless and untamed in comparison to the rest of France. 

Yet while most would've continued to ignore them, Brain saw an opportunity to establish his power here. Convince the people that he could lead them, and once they saw how intelligent and capable he was, his influence would naturally branch through the rest of the country. 

The royal family couldn't pretend he didn't exist anymore. They'd have to notice him. 

There was a diamond at his feet, perfectly cut and glinting in the torchlight. His face was reflected in many of its facets, and he found the effect both mesmerizing and disconcerting at the same time.

Though he tried to feel something, any sense of attachment really, to this cold, hard diamond, he found that it was impossible. He felt nothing towards the contents of the treasury. No matter how money he had or how many luxuries he owned, it wasn't enough. 

When would it ever be enough? He'd been at it for two years. He just had to work a little harder, he was sure. Surely he'd break through those impossible standards in the near future. 

They'd have to let him come home, right? 

They never replied back to his correspondence, but Brain still held onto an inkling of hope that they would at least skim his letters before tossing them into the fireplace. 

There was a knock on the treasury door. 

"What?" Brain snapped, quickly rubbing his face to get rid of any lingering emotion, any weakness that could be used against him. 

"Prince Brain, this is Mathias speaking," a deep male voice said from the other side, his voice muffled by the barrier. "The kitchen staff is requesting your help with a situation immediately." 

Brain took a moment to compose himself before exiting the treasury. Upon seeing him, Mathias bowed formally. 

“Is the kitchen on fire again?” Brain asked. Several months ago, an inexperienced cook once tried to flambé a dessert and wound up destroying an entire cabinet with the out-of-control flames. Granted, the cabinet was old and needed to be replaced long before that incident, but Brain still wasn’t pleased that the cook nearly destroyed the entire kitchen due to his ineptitude. He would’ve fired the cook on the spot, but Flavio negotiated the punishment down to dish duty for a month while he personally mentored the cook so the accident wouldn’t happen again. 

“Not this time,” Mathias replied. “As I understand it, a cook entered the storage room to gather ingredients when he found a trio of young thieves huddled among the potato sacks. They don’t know how the thieves broke in, but they were rather sluggish from gorging themselves on our food supply.”  

As soon as Mathias mentioned thieves, Brain set off for the kitchen immediately. 

He refused to tolerate thieves of any kind. Either they were an extremely brave or extremely foolish trio if they thought they could steal from a prince and get away with it. 

Mathias kept pace with him as they marched to the kitchen. “There’s something else you should know about the thieves, my prince. They-” 

But Brain cut him off, not needing to hear anymore. “They’re thieves, Mathias,” he declared. “I don’t need to know anything else about them.” 

As they approached the kitchen, it was apparent that word spread around the castle quickly, and even servants who weren’t assigned to the kitchen had gathered at the entrance. There were sympathetic murmurs from many of them, oddly enough. 

A maid looked over her shoulder, and once she realized that Brain was behind her, she tugged on the elbow of a fellow maid to get her attention. Within seconds, a ripple passed through the crowd, and they parted to let Brain through. 

In the middle of the kitchen, Hello Nurse knelt next to three disheveled children. All three were of an unidentifiable species, with black fur and bright red noses. Their gloves were torn, their ragged clothes barely held together with frayed rope and hastily sewn patches. 

The oldest of the trio, who only wore a pair of too-large brown slacks bound by rope around his waist, clutched a young girl in his arms, who had a flower barrette pinned to her ears and a ruffled pink skirt around her waist. She was wrapped in a threadbare jacket too large for her small frame. Her eyes were closed, her breathing ragged between coughing fits. Though Hello Nurse was trying to get a close look at her, the oldest huddled over the girl protectively, refusing to let her come any closer. 

Then a third child poked his head out from behind his brother, his tongue sticking out of his mouth in a manner reminiscent of a puppy. He had no pants, but he wore a red cap and a blue, long-sleeved shirt that hid his hands from view. 

“Hi!” he exclaimed to Hello Nurse, oblivious to the tension in the room. “You’re pretty!” 

There was a collective cooing noise from the women in the room, like that childish statement was the most adorable thing they’ve heard in their lives. Even Hello Nurse, who was known for admonishing anyone who admired her looks first and her mind second, smiled at the compliment. 

"Shhh! Wakko!" the older boy hushed him, trying to block him from view. 

"Well, she is! You think so too, Yakko!" Wakko protested, much to his brother's embarrassment. 

The servants tried and failed to suppress their laughter, though it was also mixed with sympathetic murmurs. 

Yakko. Wakko. The girl who bore a close resemblance to Queen Angelina… 

And Brain could only stare at the children in shock. 

Why were the royal siblings of Warnerstock trying to steal food from his castle, dressed as the most destitute of peasants? 

Though Brain hadn't seen them since the day of Snowball's coronation, he couldn't erase the image of their happy family from his mind. The laughter when King William chased his sons, playing without a care in the world, while Queen Angelina tenderly rested a hand on her belly and beamed at her boys. The girl hadn't been born yet, but she must've been well-loved even before anyone laid eyes on her. 

So what happened? 

Surely King William and Queen Angelina wouldn't have abandoned all three of their children, just left them to fend for themselves without anywhere to go? 

It didn't add up. 

Unless they were better actors than Brain gave them credit for. They could've been feigning happiness, presenting themselves as a loving family to the world while their strife remained behind closed doors.

"Where are your parents?" Brain asked before he could stop himself. 

Yakko glared at him. "Where's yours?" he retorted. Wakko tilted his head like a curious puppy, not understanding the situation they were in. The girl let out a hacking cough, and Yakko's expression softened as he rubbed her back. 

Brain's fur bristled at Yakko's insolence. "You're in no position to talk back to me after you broke into my castle, ate my food, and distracted the servants from their jobs!" he snapped. 

"I'll talk to you however I want!" Yakko scoffed. "You can't do anything about it!" 

Brain angrily stepped forward, Yakko's sharp remark about his parents' absence cutting deeper than he was willing to admit. 

"That's enough, both of you!" Hello Nurse shouted, in a rare display of anger. Startled by her outburst, Yakko and Brain fell silent. "Do you really think this is how a prince acts, Brain?" 

The rest of his family would've taken swift action against brazen thieves instead of second-guessing their first decision. And they certainly wouldn't have allowed a servant to address them on a first name basis.

Brain scowled when he realized that Yakko was snickering about the scolding Brain had just received. But he received his dues when Hello Nurse's attention landed upon him. 

"He's not the only one who should mind his tongue, you know," Hello Nurse said. But Yakko only paid attention to his sister, whose entire body trembled as she coughed. Hello Nurse's ire vanished, replaced with a concerned expression. "Your sister needs medical attention." 

Her tone was soft, but firm. 

But Yakko was still too apprehensive to let Hello Nurse examine his sister. “Her name is Dot,” he said, still not letting her go. 

Wakko’s eyes flicked between his brother and Hello Nurse. Then he tugged on Yakko’s arm. “I trust her,” he said. 

To prove his point, he crawled over to Hello Nurse and laid his head on her skirt, garnering a chorus of sympathetic coos from onlookers. She rested her hand against his cap, which Wakko didn’t seem to mind at all. 

Brain didn’t blame Yakko for being distrustful. Naivety was dangerous for any royal. 

Yakko stared at his brother’s bold display, then at Dot, who coughed helplessly. He took a shuddering breath, then his hold on Dot relaxed. 

“Okay. You can look at her. But I-” Yakko said, but before he could finish his sentence, a deafening bang shook the entire foundation of the castle. 

Screams erupted from the servants, though some of the more rational ones tried to hush them so they could think of their next actions in peace. 

Brain’s fur stood on end. Were they under attack? He couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would be interested in attacking his castle, given its remote location. Nobody had ever done such a thing before. 

He tried desperately to think of what he was supposed to do in such an event, but all the books he’d read on warfare couldn’t prepare him for the real occasion. The servants were panicking, they needed a leader to take swift action, and though Brain tried to make himself heard, nobody was listening to him. 

This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. He was a prince, he should know how to deal with every situation and crisis, no matter how unexpected they were! 

Then there was a shrill whistle, silencing everybody in seconds. 

It came from Mathias, who removed his fingers from his mouth. “Everybody, I sent Benoit to scout the situation,” he announced, nodding towards a teenage squire. “Benoit, tell everyone what you saw.” 

Benoit nodded nervously, unused to talking in front of a crowd. “Prince Snowball and King Salazar are impatiently waiting at the front door! They have several guards with them, not a full army, but they look pretty strong. That noise we heard was from a battering ram. If we don’t open up, they’ll try to bust down the door themselves!” 

Brain’s heart leapt into his throat at that information. 

Snowball was here? Was it possible that he’d received his last letter then? Though Brain’s logical side was screaming at him to not be foolish, this was obviously not a social call, some part of him couldn’t help but hold onto the hope for a reconciliation. Maybe Snowball could vouch for him, convince his parents to let him come home. 

Another loud crash caused dust to cascade from the ceiling. 

Wakko dove into the safety of Yakko’s arms, while Dot let out a keen wail. Yakko’s face paled, and though he tried to remain calm, his breathing hastened as he tried to shush his siblings. 

“It’s okay…it’s okay…I won’t let him get you…” he whispered to them. 

Mathias slowly approached the siblings, sheathing his weapon so he didn’t startle them. “Are they after you?” he asked. 

Yakko blinked up at Mathias, wide-eyed from fright. “Salazar killed Mom and Dad,” he whispered. “Now he wants to kill us.” 

A hush fell over the room, even from the most panicked of servants. 

Mathias glanced at Brain. “What would you have us do, my prince?” he asked. 

Many of the servants were looking to Brain for direction. Yakko and Wakko were watching him too. 

“Hide them,” Brain ordered, even surprising himself. “I’ll deal with their thievery later. But we will not turn them over to Salazar, under any circumstances.” 

Hello Nurse helped the brothers to their feet. “The servant’s quarters are this way,” she said, leading them to a stairwell in the corner of the kitchen. “They won't search for you here.”   

Wakko eagerly followed Hello Nurse to the stairwell, but Yakko walked several paces behind them while carrying Dot in his arms. He gave Brain a look of uncertainty, trying to gauge if Brain was going to renegade on his word. 

He wasn't in the habit of going back on his word though. 

Benoit placed a hand on Yakko's shoulder and guided him into the stairwell. 

The servants dispersed and tried to appear busy and nonchalant about a foreign king attacking the castle. 

Mathias silently motioned to two other guards, and they moved into formation on either side of Brain within seconds. They kept a respectful distance, but were close enough to jump into action in the worst case scenario. 

As Brain and his guards approached the front door, there was a mighty crash, and planks of wood flew everywhere. The guard on his left quickly put his shield in front of Brain, blocking any stray splinters from hitting him. 

"Fan out! Search the courtyard, the upper floors, the rooftops!" a voice bellowed. "Drag them out if you must!" 

Dozens of thundering footsteps and men's shouts filled the air. When the shield lifted, Brain couldn't swallow his rising anger upon seeing the soldiers rushing upstairs, carelessly tossing aside expensive paintings, and pushing around his servants. 

Within seconds, the past two years of renovations and collecting decor were ruined. 

Snarling, Brain marched up to Snowball and Salazar, ignoring his guards' warnings to stay between them. The pair stood in the doorway and watched their soldiers trash Brain’s castle. 

"Do you have any idea how long it took me to hunt down that Simon Vouet original?" Brain yelled at Snowball, who only rolled his eyes as Brain's arm swept out to the ruins of a painting. "Finding non-counterfeited works isn't a simple task!" 

Snowball stepped back. "Is this normally how you greet people?" he asked with an unimpressed yawn. "I expected a warmer welcome. After all, we haven't seen each other in years. I was beginning to miss you." 

“You knock down my door, trash my castle, and you expect a warm welcome from me?” Brain growled, his ire and resentment rising to the surface once again. 

It was easier to miss Snowball when he wasn’t shoving his superiority into Brain’s face. His tone suggested that he barely thought of Brain in the past two years. He never responded to Brain’s letters. It didn’t matter if Brain tried to ask for updates about current events or general inquiries into his well-being. 

They were happy to ignore his existence, unless there was something they wanted out of him. 

“I didn’t come here to listen to you exchange pleasantries,” King Salazar snapped impatiently. “Where are they?” 

Brain knew exactly who Prince Snowball and King Salazar were looking for, but he wasn’t going to give these intruders that satisfaction. But if there was one thing that Brain didn’t understand, it was why Snowball and Salazar were working together. 

Why would Snowball be interested in fugitives from a different country? 

Brain forced himself to relax, trying to take advantage of this observation to stall for time. “I find it unusual that both of you are here at the same time,” he admitted. “If you want me to be of any help, then I’ll need all the information you have first.” 

King Salazar scoffed, clearly not wanting to waste any more time. “You’re just a poor man’s imitation of what a ruler should be. Why should we tell you anything?” 

What right did a foreign king have to intrude on Brain’s property and insult him? 

Brain took a step toward King Salazar, who was completely unfazed. It wasn’t the intimidating gesture Brain had hoped it would be. He was just too small for it to be effective. 

“There’s no need for such hostility,” Snowball said, placing his arm around Brain’s shoulder and drawing him in. His grip was tight and uncomfortable, fingers digging into Brain’s skin. “Of course we’ll fill you in on recent happenings, Brain. It must be hard to receive news when you’ve made your home in such a quaint location.” 

Brain forcefully threw Snowball’s arm off his shoulder. “And whose fault is that?” he growled. “You haven’t responded to my letters!” 

Snowball shrugged. “I receive hundreds of letters a day as the Crown Prince. It’s not my fault they get lost in the mix. But I digress. If you must know, by order of the king, France is officially allied with the nation of Ticktockia.” 

Though Snowball was proud to declare it, Brain didn’t see why. “There isn’t anything noteworthy about Ticktockia,” Brain said, and Salazar made an indignant noise. But since he insulted Brain first, it was only fair that Brain repaid him in kind. “There’s no benefit to allying with a country who primarily exports cuckoo clocks.” 

“At first, we didn’t pay much attention to Ticktockia outside of extending invitations to major events as a courtesy,” Snowball admitted. “But that was before King Salazar launched an ambitious and successful invasion of Warnerstock. For a small country, the scale of their attack was impressive.” 

Salazar straightened his collar with pride. “Within three days, my army arrived at the palace. There was some interference from the local savages, but we quelled their rebellion and marched onwards. King William and Queen Angelina resisted, so I ordered my army to burn the palace to the ground. Anyone who tried to escape the flames was shot on sight.” 

A chill ran down Brain’s spine at Salazar’s recollection. He couldn’t believe Snowball and his parents agreed to an alliance with this tyrant! What was stopping Salazar from attacking and burning France’s own palaces? 

“The rulers of Warnerstock perished in the blaze. However, my victory wasn’t secured yet,” Salazar growled, his fist clenching. “All three of their children managed to escape. A border patrol spotted them crossing into France, so I enlisted the royal family’s aid in capturing them.” 

“We sent search parties out for a month, but they eluded us. So we offered a generous reward for anyone who could capture them,” Snowball added. “Two days ago, we received a tipoff from the head of an orphanage in this region. She claimed to have three wards who matched the descriptions of the royal children. That night, we sent soldiers out to retrieve the children. Unfortunately, they were incompetent, and the children fled the orphanage, taking shelter within these woods.”  

Brain tried not to react or show visible emotion, but it took all of his concentration to not give anything away to Snowball or Salazar. They knew how to search for vulnerability and openings that would give them an advantage. 

But Brain had seen the fear in the siblings’ eyes when they realized their parents’ murderer was close by, the helplessness as they were escorted into the servants’ quarters for safety. Yakko’s hesitance and distrust when Hello Nurse tried to examine Dot made sense now.

They’d been betrayed and sold out, barely escaping certain death.   

And now Snowball and Salazar expected Brain to hand them over, continuing that deep sense of betrayal as well. 

Brain had been cast out of the only home he knew. 

It wasn’t a feeling he wished on the royal siblings. 

Everyone watched him, waiting for his decision. Then Snowball placed a hand on Brain’s shoulder. From a distance, it was a friendly gesture. But Brain felt the impatience and domineering grip of his ice-cold fingers. 

“Think about it, Brain,” Snowball said quietly, a dangerous edge in his voice. “Help us capture the fugitives, and I might be able to put in a good word for you at the palace. Father would be pleased to hear that you’ve strengthened our diplomatic relations with Ticktockia. And in turn, he may allow you to come home.” 

There was a crash in the distance, but Brain barely registered it.

“I can…come home?” he said, rather dumbly. After two years of hoping and waiting for someone to take notice of his efforts, the chance to come home was finally in his grasp. 

Snowball sighed. “I’m sure I’ve made myself clear, Brain. I sincerely hope that living in your little hovel hasn’t permanently messed with your mind.” 

It was all he ever wanted. He could resume his proper royal duties, finally be forgiven for stealing Snowball's crown. 

He could see his parents again. Maybe they'd finally be proud of him. 

"Snowball, I can-" 

He trailed off upon seeing the triumphant gleam in Snowball’s eyes. 

And Brain realized that Snowball would only have another victory over him. It was Snowball’s idea to bring Brain’s aid in, and he would gladly take all the credit without giving Brain any recognition.

Brain wouldn’t be going home because he earned it on his own merit and hard work. He’d only be going home because of Snowball’s intervention. 

And that, along with their arrogant belief that he would bow to their demands and give children up to a murderer, gave him the strength to slap Snowball’s hand away. 

Snowball flicked his hand to rid himself of the sting, not breaking eye contact with Brain. 

“I won’t help you. Now take your soldiers and get out of my castle,” Brain snapped. “You only want leverage over me. I won’t fall for your empty promises.” 

Snowball only scoffed and crossed his arms, firmly rooting himself to the spot. 

“We aren’t leaving until those brats are found,” Salazar declared. 

“Then search the forest!” Brain shouted, all remnants of his self-control evaporating. Why wouldn’t they get off his property? This was his castle, not theirs! He refused to have two years of renovations ruined in the span of five minutes! “There’s a million places to hide in the woods!” 

“Go ahead,” Snowball jeered. “Make us leave, if you dare.” 

He pointed to the trio of guards standing behind Brain. The others were scattered throughout the castle, too far away to be helpful. With the exception of Mathias, Brain’s guards were young and barely out of their apprentice days. They didn’t have the equipment or combat knowledge of seasoned veterans. 

“Just say the word and we shall drive them out, Prince Brain,” Mathias said, unsheathing his sword. 

But Brain couldn’t give the order. They were hopelessly outnumbered, and the castle would suffer great damage. And his servants would be caught in the middle. If he wanted to keep the castle running, he needed his servants.

“I knew it,” Snowball taunted. “You don’t have the guts.” 

Brain said nothing, not wishing to give Snowball any more ammunition against him. He heard a frustrated noise from one of the younger guards at his hesitance, but Mathias hushed him. 

“Captain!” Salazar bellowed, and a short, thin man who looked as though he had no business being a captain tripped over himself as he rushed downstairs and knelt at Salazar’s feet. Salazar peered down at him, his shadow engulfing the terrified captain. “Well? Have you found them yet?” 

“N-no, your Excellency,” the captain stammered. “But there was a very nice collection of china in the second floor parlor. Looked like authentic Ming era pla-” 

Salazar slammed his fist into the wall, and the captain let out an undignified squeak. “We aren’t here to admire the decor, Captain! Bring me those royal brats!” 

As the captain stammered out a ‘yes, sir’, another soldier appeared from the top of the staircase. “King Salazar!”

His voice sounded odd, like he was trying to sound deep and intimidating but couldn’t pull it off. Brain thought the helmet seemed too large for him, or perhaps the shadows were just making it appear that way. 

Salazar’s attention turned to the soldier. “Unless you’ve captured one of the children, I’m not interested!” he spat. 

The soldier either saluted, or he was trying to keep his helmet from slipping off. It was hard to tell. 

“We were combing the rooftops when we spotted the kid with the red cap just beyond the bridge! He disappeared into the woods, but if we hurry and follow him, he can lead us to the others!” the soldier exclaimed. 

“Excellent,” Salazar said. “Captain, round up the soldiers at once! Don’t waste time!” 

The captain scurried away, shouting for all the soldiers to regroup and head for the woods immediately. The soldier who sounded the alarm slunk back into the shadows. 

Salazar turned on his heel and marched out the door. All of his soldiers filed out within minutes, until only Snowball remained. He narrowed his eyes at the spot where the soldier once stood, before turning his hardened gaze onto Brain. 

There was no trace of the companion he’d once known in his childhood. 

“A word of advice to you, Brain,” Snowball said, the crown glinting atop his forehead. It was so polished that Brain saw every detail of his reflection in it. “If you want to be a proper prince someday, then you cannot be weak.”

Brain reached out for him, but the edge of Snowball’s traveling cloak slipped beyond his grasp. Then he was gone, without sparing a backwards glance for Brain. 

“We’ll update everyone on the situation and secure the gates,” Mathias said, but his voice was far away. 

“Okay,” Brain mumbled, plopping onto the bottom step of the staircase. He didn’t care what they did. 

The guards dispersed. While Mathias carried out his tasks stoically and kept any criticism to himself, the younger guards whispered with discontent, unhappy that Brain never ordered them to defend the castle.   

Did they believe he was as weak as Snowball claimed? 

If word spread among his servants, or worse, beyond the castle and into the surrounding lands, the results would be disastrous. He’d never gain anyone’s respect that way. 

Nobody would want a weak prince who couldn’t defend his own castle. 

The entrance was completely trashed. Splinters laid everywhere, banners were ripped off their rods, rare busts of Greek philosophers were rubble on the floor. The golden frames of paintings were broken, his furniture scratched and ripped with the cushions thrown away helplessly. 

He’d have to tell his collectors to get twice the amount of money, possibly assign guards to protect them from robbers just so he’d have enough for repairs. 

It was a major setback, but if he just worked harder, he’d recover from this in no time.

As Brain tried to think of the most efficient way to begin clean-up efforts, a noise behind him drew his attention. 

“Are they gone?” somebody asked. The soldier with the oversized helmet reappeared from the top of the staircase. 

Brain fell off the step in shock, landing on his back with a painful thud. An enemy soldier was still here, and Brain was completely defenseless! Unable to call out to his guards, Brain was rooted to the spot as the soldier stood over him with his bare, pawlike feet just inches away from Brain's tail. 

Then the soldier removed his helmet, revealing black fur, perked ears, and a bright red nose that would put tomatoes to shame. He smiled apologetically at Brain as he sat down on the bottom step. 

“That worked better than I thought,” Yakko said, stepping out of the black and white uniform of a Ticktockian soldier and dropping it on the ground. It was so large on him that the sleeves hung several inches past his hands, the fabric loose around his shoulders. 

“Yakko?” Brain gasped, pushing himself into a sitting position as he recovered from the brief scare. “How did you-” 

Yakko shrugged. “Eh, the soldier was distracted. Wasn’t hard to knock him out with a vase and steal his uniform. Oh, and the vase broke, but it was kinda this ugly mottled color anyway, so I didn’t think you’d mind that much.” 

“I was going to ask how you left the servant’s quarters without anybody spotting you,” Brain said.

“I got good at evading and tricking soldiers so they wouldn’t catch us,” Yakko admitted. “Wakko and Dot make a lot of noise, so I made sure to be sneaky enough for us all. Plus, that bald guy with the funny accent who was standing guard outside the door was easy to rile up. It wasn’t hard to escape.” 

Brain reminded himself to never let Scratchinsniff guard anything important ever again. 

“So where’s the soldier you knocked out?” Brain asked. None of the soldiers he’d seen were missing their uniform and helmet. 

“I stuffed him in a wardrobe,” Yakko said. “Someone’s bound to let him out eventually.” 

Better sooner than later. Brain didn’t want an enemy soldier to learn the layout and routines of his castle. 

He tried to ignore that a kid had done what Brain couldn’t do and tricked two members of royalty and their soldiers into leaving them alone. But the credit was well-deserved anyway. 

“Thanks for getting rid of them,” he said.

Thanking another royal was dangerous. It meant that he could possibly be indebted to them or forced into a favor down the road. 

But Yakko only smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure. Guess you can’t be that bad, since you didn’t sell us out or anything.” 

Though Yakko sounded grateful, Brain didn’t see much of a point for the gratitude. 

“I wasn’t doing it for you,” he mumbled. 

Mostly, he just wanted to spite Snowball. 

Still, he knew the pain of being forced to leave home behind. He didn’t wish it upon the siblings. They hadn’t done anything to deserve being orphaned, but life was cruel that way. 

Yakko picked up the uniform and quickly wiped his eyes, before standing up and discarding it once again. 

“We’ll get out of your fur now,” Yakko said quietly. His easy smile was only a mask though. “I’ll grab my siblings and we’ll leave you alone.” 

After all that transpired, he was still trying to walk into danger?  

“Wait,” Brain called before Yakko walked away. Yakko stopped and glanced at Brain with a confused look. “Where do you plan to go after this?” 

Yakko looked down at his feet. “Somewhere they can’t find us,” he whispered, his fists clenching together. “Before Mom and Dad helped us into the tunnels, they asked me to keep Wakko and Dot safe. And…I told them we’d stay together, no matter what.” 

It wasn’t safe out there with Snowball and Salazar looking for them. They would realize the deception soon enough, if they hadn’t already. 

“You can’t leave yet,” Brain said. Yakko just glanced at the broken door. In truth, there wasn’t anything other than his siblings that was stopping him from walking outside right now. “Because…you still need to make up for the food you stole from my castle.” 

“We were hungry,” Yakko said defensively. 

But Brain held up his hand. “Let me finish. You and your siblings shall remain in the castle. You and Wakko will work for me as servants, and the same applies to Dot once she’s old enough. That will be your payment. In exchange, your royal status will remain a secret within these walls, and no outsider will ever learn that you’ve taken refuge here.” 

Yakko didn’t move. 

Before Brain could repeat himself in case Yakko didn’t understand him the first time, a mass of black fur suddenly threw itself at him. Brain tried to brace himself, but Yakko nearly crushed him in an enormous embrace. 

Choking, Brain gasped for air as he scrambled out of Yakko’s hands. 

“Thank you,” Yakko said, and this time, the smile was for real. His tail wagged from side to side. 

Brain would accept it, as long as he never did that again. 

o-o-o-o-o

By the time Brain and Yakko finished their story, Pinky was silently crying with a handkerchief twisted in his hands. Not only because it was a horrible situation, but Pinky was too deeply empathetic for his own good. 

He must’ve been reminded of his own loss.   

“Poit…” Pinky whispered. “I’m sorry you went through all that, Yakko."

Brain took the handkerchief, and after beckoning Pinky to lean down, carefully dabbed at the damp fur on his cheeks and around his eyes. He didn’t know how to comfort with words, but he could offer this.   

Pinky leaned into Brain's hand, and Brain let the thin cloth barrier flutter to the table so that Pinky could fully feel Brain's touch against his fur. 

It took Brain a long time to work up the courage to give physical affection to Pinky, and even now, he hadn't quite gotten over his fears of accidentally clawing him. But Pinky was patient, and he'd taken to saying that Brain just needed a bit of hugging practice. 

"Yakko?" Pinky called. 

The teen placed a sleeping Wakko in his lap, right next to Dot. Both of them were slumped between Yakko's arms and snoozing into his chest, their brother's fur serving them well as a makeshift pillow. 

"I thought you should know that you're a wonderful big brother to Wakko and Dot," Pinky declared. Yakko ducked his head from embarrassment, not expecting the praise. "I bet they think so too. And so do your parents." 

"Agreed," Brain said quietly. 

Yakko glanced at the starlight filtering in through the kitchen window. Outside, two stars that shined brighter than all the others twinkled in the night sky. 

"You know…I was almost a big brother once," Pinky said softly. Brain slipped his hand into Pinky's. It wasn't something Pinky talked about much, and Yakko's brow rose in surprise. "My mom passed away in childbirth. I was so excited to be a brother, I even practiced with an empty stool. But…my sibling didn't make it either." 

"I'm sorry," Yakko said sincerely. "I think you'd be a good big brother if you got the chance." 

Pinky smiled wistfully. "Thanks, Yakko. It still hurts sometimes, but…it's better now that I've got all of you. So if you ever wanna talk, you can always find me." 

"Oh come on, Pinky. Talking's what I do best. You know that," Yakko teased, and they both laughed despite the loaded topic. But Yakko seemed open to Pinky's offer. Then Yakko glanced at Brain. "Since we're all baring our souls here, you might as well add something, boss. You've been pretty quiet." 

Brain shook his head. "No, I don't have anything to contribute." 

Yakko and Pinky gave him an odd look. 

"What?" Brain said defensively. "It's not like I ever had a family who cared about me." 

Or miss him while he was gone. His parents never replied to his letters, and even though he’d ceased writing to them during the curse, he no longer felt the urge to try and contact them. 

Pinky looked down at his hands, ears falling as his swishing tail came to an abrupt halt. He placed a hand on Brain’s shoulder, his blue eyes watery. 

Did he say something wrong? Pinky’s reaction was…strange.

“Pinky?” Brain whispered, trying to coax the reason for Pinky’s upset reaction out of him. 

But Pinky remained silent, his hand gently squeezing Brain’s shoulder. Pinky was trying desperately to tell him something, but it wasn’t coming out. 

The atmosphere turned tense and awkward. 

“Sorry,” Brain said quietly. He turned away from Pinky, though he couldn’t get that sad, ocean-blue gaze out of his head. 

He never meant to ruin the conversation.

Yakko shifted his grip on Wakko and Dot as he stood up. “Well, would you look at the time?” he laughed in an attempt to break up the silence. “I’d better get these little cookie gremlins to bed.” 

“Of course. Good night, Yakko,” Brain said. 

“Dream of cookies tonight,” Pinky added. 

On his way out the door, Yakko paused and glanced over his shoulder. “When are you telling Pinky the big secret?” he asked. 

Brain’s ears fell. He’d known it was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. He’d never meant to keep the curse secret for so long, but every time he tried to explain, he could never get the words out. 

Pinky, being the kindred spirit he was, never pried or pushed Brain into an explanation. He’d just say Brain could try again tomorrow night.

Maybe Pinky would still be happy with him even if he never learned about the curse. 

But Brain knew Pinky deserved the entire truth. He didn’t want to keep any more secrets from him. 

Even if it would permanently destroy their newfound relationship. 

“When we get back to the West Wing,” Brain admitted.  

“Oh,” Yakko said. It wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. “Well, if Pinky can take the whole secret prince thing just fine, he’ll be okay with this. You’ll see.” 

Then he was gone.  

“It’s true, Brain,” Pinky said softly. 

Something in his voice compelled Brain to turn back to Pinky, who leaned in and pressed his forehead against Brain. 

Pinky’s breath was warm and sweet-scented from the cookies, his fur fluffy and soft. Everything about him was inviting and open, so very different from the detached and cold surroundings that Brain had known for years. 

“Come, Pinky,” Brain breathed. “I promise I’ll tell you the final secret in the West Wing.” 

He wasn’t going to break his promise this time. 

And if Pinky wished to leave for good, then Brain would let him. He didn’t deserve someone as wonderful as Pinky anyway.

End AN: I promise this is the last time I’m putting off the curse. I get carried away with flashbacks. Mostly I did want to include the Warner siblings’ backstory into a chapter. The reason they’re so loyal to Brain is because he protected them when they first came to the castle. Well, admittedly he does feel sympathy for them, but he also wanted to get back at Snowball, so his reasons for taking them in are a bit complicated. 

Yakko and Brain may snark at each other, but they are friends at the end of the day. And really, you can’t expect love advice from a teenage boy to be as helpful as Lumiere’s. 

Brain got materialistic as a coping mechanism after his banishment. Poor guy thought he could go home if he focused on making everything look as luxurious as possible.

Brain doesn’t really see Pinky’s family or his servants as his own just yet. He’s still coming to terms with that, but for now his definition of family is limited to his parents and Snowball. But because Pinky views Brain as part of the family now, he’s under the impression that Brain thinks they don’t care about him. 

[mnmovdoom]

DAY 23 - Forced to Kneel (SW: Darth Vader & Darth Sidious)

In the early days, Vader still had some rebellion left within him. And anger and hatred, boiling hot like the lava from the planet that had changed him forever.

Vader’s whole galaxy had shattered when he had learned of Padmé’s (and their child’s) death; but when Commander Vill told him about the slaves, the shards at Vader’s feet, glistening with a thousand tears, scattered like ash in the wind until nothing was left.

Slaves.

The Chanc- the Emperor had told him he’d abolish slavery, so that no one would ever go through what Anakin Skywalker and his mother had experienced. Vader had thought he had brought safety, prosperity, and peace to the Rep- to the Empire by helping in the destruction of the Jedi, who had grown lenient and blind to crime and slavery in the galaxy, who had cared more about keeping Senators happy instead of helping those in need.

The Republic and the Jedi hadn’t cared about slavery. The clones were living proof of that. The other’s mother was proof. The Empire was supposed to be different, and yet…

Slaves. Vader’s troops were stranded because… transporting slaves was more important than transporting the clones, who had made the Emperor’s vision possible, who kept dying in backwater planets to stabilise the Empire!

Vader saw red, but it wasn’t the tinted lenses of his mask. It was blood, running in roaring rivers and drowning him when all he had done had been to stop this very flow.

Turning his back to the Coruscanti cityscape, Vader strode across corridors and halls that he knew by heart no matter how hard the Emperor tried to reshape the Temple to his tastes. Like black lightning, Vader made his way to the throne room and flung the doors open with the Force, projecting the guards to opposite sides of the room in the process.

Sitting atop his throne, the Emperor cackled. He had gone from a fatherly figure with a regal bearing to a wrinkled bundle of darkness that right now, Vader hated with all his might.

Slaves.

“You said there would be no slaves!” Vader roared. The HUD in his lenses showed him the guards scrambling to their feet, but with a swipe of Vader’s hand, they flew out of the window, shards of glass falling harmlessly around the Emperor. There was a bemused smirk on his lips, but as soon as Vader clenched his fist, the smirk was gone.

“You dare, Lord Vader?” the Emperor snarled with a thundering voice, yet instead of clawing at his throat, he stretched his arms forward and unleashed his deadliest trick on Vader.

When the blue lightning hit him, Vader lost his control over the Force and released the Emperor. Searing pain coursed through his body, more powerful than the pain he was constantly in ever since being entombed in his suit. Electricity pierced through his skin, cut through whatever was left of his flesh, tried to wrench it off his bones. Every wire in Vader’s body, every hydraulic in his prosthetic limbs, every component of his life-support sparked, short-circuiting and increasing the shocks overwhelming him.

He couldn’t breathe.

His heart stopped and was revived again, and stopped again, and was revived again.

As much as Vader hated and as much as he simmered in wrath, the burns from the lightning and the damage to the suit were too much. Slowly, against his will, Vader crumpled and knelt, breaking the tiles on the floor where his knees and the heels of his hands landed.

As fast as it had begun, it stopped. Vader’s arrhythmic heart continued to beat, his damaged lungs sucked in air unaided and despaired.

He, too, was a slave of the Empire.

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 25: Silence is golden

"You better start talking."

1849 Words; The River Runs Deep

TW for discussion of trauma

AO3 ver

The situation is dire.

Alarms are blaring, pounding against Raz’ skull almost as bad as the psilirium. He has no idea where Loboto ran off to. Sasha is trying to wrestle a record from one of the fish creatures, Oleander is struggling with his tail, Lili is busy with Truman, and Milla is struggling to hold the base together long enough for them to escape.

And he’s still strapped to this chair.

It’s fine, it’s fine, he can unlock the Pelican through clairvoyance—

His mind rebounds back into his skull like a rubberband. Raz gasps, his whole head pounding. The world whites out, static filling his ears. He inhales sharply.

It takes a moment for his bearings to return. His whole head swims, pain jackhammering his skull to pieces.

Okay, so clairvoyance is a no-go. That’s… less than optimal.

But Raz has other skills! He’s got telekinesis and pyrokinesis and psi-blasts—surely one of those skills can help him.

He looks around, and struggles against the straps. He tries to use clairvoyance, to look through someone else’s eyes to see what’s behind him, but his mind stays firmly rooted to his body despite his efforts.

None of his other skills seem useful. There’s nothing to break or burn—the base is falling apart enough as is. He can’t concentrate enough for fine movements with his telekinesis—he can lift and throw objects, but he can’t undo the straps holding him to the chair.

This is it, isn’t it? Raz thinks, desperately grasping for ideas. I don’t have any skills left.

The water trickles in, despite Milla’s efforts. Raz stares at it, dread and desperation rising up his throat.

Well, he does have one last trick.

But he can’t. Years of habit and warnings and fear claw at his mind and hold him back. This isn’t a skill he can allow himself to use, not here, not in front of everyone.

But what other choice does he have? Everyone else is trying their best, and Milla asked him to help them find a way out of here—he can’t let them down. He has to do something.

Still, terror clings to him, cold and heavy. It goes against everything he’s ever learned to control the water where others can see, goes against all of his Nona’s cautions and his father’s warnings and his mother’s worries. Goes against all of his family’s efforts to help him and Nona hide it, to keep it secret, keep it safe.

There’s no other choice. No third option that Raz can see. Either he—and everyone else, who are all counting on him—dies here when the base blows, or he goes against the one family rule he has yet to break.

The choice is easier than Raz would like.

Carefully, he casts his focus out to the water around him, listening to the ebb and flow. It’s all pressed against the facility with the need to pour in and fill the space, a million tidal whispers begging to be let in. Milla’s holding the base up—but the strain rings clear. Water trickles in, drops turning to puddles turning to inch-deep water across the floor, all of it reaching out to Raz.

Raz reaches back. Slowly, carefully, water rises up in the shape of a hand, the movement slow and unsteady from both the psilirium and Raz’ own uncertainty.

The Pelican is just outside. If Raz can just get free, if he can get it in his line of sight—

Distantly, he registers Milla gasping as the water swirls around Raz, tugging at the straps of his chair. He’s never been very good at the fiddly stuff, never been good at the more complex movements—

But the water is strong and acting on his desperation, swirling waves turning to hands turning to claws that rake across the straps until they come undone. The water grabs his arms and hauls him out of the chair. Raz stumbles to his knees, exhaustion heavy on his back. The water calls out to him, the connection strengthened by just how dire the situation is.

(His Nona had said, once, that hydrokinesis is a primal power, deeply intertwined with the subconscious instincts buried in the psyche. That to unlock its full potential, Raz would have to connect with his own survival instincts.

Nona had also told him to never do that, to limit his skill to the little things, lest he end up following her worst examples.)

Raz makes a silent apology to his Nona. Makes a silent apology to his whole family. There’s little else he can do right now, so surely they’d understand.

The water reaches out to him. It coils and twirls and froths, promising life-safe-escape-survive.

Raz forces himself to stand up, and reaches back.

+=+=+=+=+

Raz comes back to himself slowly, trickling back into his body as sensation returns.

The first thing to register is the pain. Ugh, it feels like someone hit his head with the entire caravan—

Milla is standing over him, her hand on his shoulder. “Razputin. Darling, come back to us.” She urges, smiling when he blinks open tired eyes and looks up at her.

Raz can vaguely remember what happened. Can vaguely remember reaching out to the water with everything he had, urging that it would help help help keep them safe protect protect help. Can vaguely remember being the water, for all that his body remained flesh and bone.

That’s…

Raz knows that hydrokinesis responds to deeper desires, to subconscious needs and wants and fears. He knows that the water would become an extension of himself if he were more skilled—but he’s never actually managed that before. Never felt his mind connect with the water around him so deeply as to convince himself that he is the water.

(Maybe it’s to do with the overuse of clairvoyance.

Maybe Raz pushed too far, and very nearly became the one thing his family fears the most.

He doesn’t know, and the uncertainty would strangle him if he had the energy to worry.)

“Sorry.” Raz fidgets his fingers. “I think I might have dissociated there.”

Milla nods. “Of course, and you were amazing! Now rest your body, and your mind.”

Raz nods and leans back in his seat.

“That was quite the maneuver you pulled there, soldier.” Oleander pipes up. “When did you learn hydrokinesis?”

Raz tenses. Right. He was seen.

(He was seen he was seen he was seen they need to leave the area now now now before word gets around and someone can act on it, he was seen he was seen he was seen—)

“That’s right.” Sasha’s eyes narrow. Raz sinks further into his seat. “But hydrokinesis, like herbaphony and other similar skills, is not a skill that one acquires.” His scrutiny feels like a scalpel, delicate and precise.

“Darling,” Milla begins, voice soft, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Raz shifts awkwardly.

He’s so tired. Today has been so much.

Milla would probably back down if he tells her he doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s already giving him such a gentle look, like he might break if he’s pushed any further right now.

Raz isn’t entirely sure that she’s wrong.

But he’s a Psychonaut! He can handle this kind of stuff!

(No he can’t.)

And really, if there’s anyone Raz could trust with this, it’d have to be the other occupants of this jet. He doesn’t even have to tell them everything, just—

Just the parts with the Deluginists.

“I wasn’t lying,” Raz begins, “When I said our family’s cursed.”

He pulls his knees up to his chest. “When my dad was—when it was just him and Nona, they… encountered some Deluginists.” He speaks quietly, his voice coming out in a whisper against the overwhelming urge to stop talking. “They wanted Nona, because—”

Don’t say it.

Don’t you dare.

“Because she’s…” Raz fidgets, waving a hand awkwardly. “You know.” He mumbles lamely.

“Hydrokinetic?” Sasha asks, filling in the blanks both faster than and just as quickly as Raz wants.

Raz nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Unseen by anyone, Truman’s hand twitches.

The senior agents wait quietly, their expressions a mix of concern and something Raz can’t identify. Suspicion, maybe? Sympathy?

Lili’s expression is equally indiscernible.

After a moment, Raz continues. “Dad and Nona got away in the end, but the horror of what happened never really left them.”

(Dad needing to retreat to the quiet of the caravan on bad days, eyes distant with remembered horror.

Nona’s hands shaking too badly to hold anything, her voice soft and worn as she recounted a watered-down version of her crimes.

They could scarcely remember life before the Deluge; whoever had tried to make Nona forget Maligula had succeeded in that much.

The mystery was probably the worst part about it all; they didn’t know how Maligula came to be, didn’t understand what it took to push someone falling from grace into genocidal war criminal. Didn’t fully understand how to keep Raz from the same fate.)

“And Deluginists,” bile rises in the back of Raz’ throat, “hate giving up.” His voice thickens against his will, prompting Lili to take his hand in her telekinetic grasp.

“The Aquatos aren’t cursed to die in water,” Raz pushes past the anxiety clawing at his windpipe, “but we are cursed. Cursed to spend our days hiding, tucking away every bit of our potential, because if the Deluginists find us again, they’ll—”

(Dion delivering a prophecy like one hammers a nail in a coffin, finality etched into the echoes of his voice. Frazie learning how to turn herself and others invisible, before she ever used telekinesis. Mom fretting over everyone in the family, working and working to keep the circus afloat just to take her mind off of the all-encompassing worry.

Nona pulling Raz aside after seeing him lift Sugarcube’s water with his mind, to tell him in grave tones the truth of her past and the cost of his new trick.)

Raz can’t continue. He’s said enough. He’s said too much, they’ll figure it out—

Sasha’s face is set in grim lines, his tone grave. “They’ll try to make another Maligula.” He finishes.

Pained understanding fills Milla’s expression. “Oh, filho.”

Raz curls in on himself. Today has been so much.

His eyes sting, but no tears are forthcoming. He’s too tired, too on the verge of falling over and not getting up.

Milla puts a telekinetic hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you trusted us enough to tell us, Darling.” She croons, “What you’ve told us will not leave this plane without your permission.” She assures.

“You’ve got that right, soldier.” Oleander adds, “No lousy Deluginists will be catching wind of you or your family under our watch.” The gusto filling his promise fills Raz with reassurance, however slight.

Lili crosses her arms and doesn’t look at him. Sits next to her father, talking quietly to him now that they’re reunited. Raz doesn’t intrude.

(Lili tells Raz, in a soft mental pulse, that she’ll help him keep his secret, too.

Raz is grateful for it.)

The jet flies on.