#although I have myself to blame as well since I brought up the ritual

[crystalartsandanimation]

Meanwhile in another part of the Animator vs. Animation Fandom...

This is literally the Endermango cult right now

Pro tip: if you're part of / are planning to join the Endermango cult, don't kill off either Jacob the Enderman or King Orange / Mango Tango, because most likely, there will be rituals that will have a chance of spiraling out of control.

@shye-eclipse

You said you wanted chaos...

[writing-frenzy]

Plz let Airplane be EVEN MORE Awesome - Fic Rec Part Duo

*Stares at all the notes my last post got* Nice to know we are all just as Thirsty for the good boi as Mobei-Jun is.

So Thus, I have decided to make another! (Smashes the post button) Since there was a lot, I just decided to make another post.

here we go kids, more of that good Airplane love... alongside that good quality Moshang because I am biased~ 

(Plz share if you find more!)

a cup of vinegar, a spoon of sugar by Shamelesscooper - “Your timing certainly is impeccable, my lord,” Wei Wuxian groans, rubbing his back. “What brings you here for the second time in as many nights…?” “I left my cloak,” Mobei-Jun says, shooting Wei-Wuxian a dirty look as the bird demon shrugs his robe back on.“You certainly did!” Shang Qinghua exclaims, crossing his arms quite crossly. “You can’t just leave your things everywhere, my king!” Mobei-Jun’s hard stare refocuses on Shang Qinghua, and he can’t help but shrink back, hurriedly rummaging around in his qiankun pouch for the offending garment. As soon as Shang Qinghua finds it, Mobei-Jun takes it from his hands and throws it over his shoulders, breathing in a deep sigh as if it relieved him to have it there again. If you miss it so much, why did you even leave it behind?! Shang Qinghua almost wants to say, but he is quite fond of his head, actually, and would rather Mobei-Jun not take it off his shoulders, thankyouverymuch. 

--Shang Qinghua is tasked with escorting the leader of the Yiling Carrion Tribe to Gusu, and it'd be fine if only Mobei-Jun would stop poking his (gorgeous, beautiful, drop-dead handsome) head in!

*Evil grin* here we have a delicious rare side of Jealous Mobei, Shang Qinghua doing something that most MDZS fans dream of doing once, and a side of shamelessness from our favorite ‘Lovebirds’ XD Not to mention how steamy it gets~

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You Will Never Step Lightly In The Dark by Janusoverlord - Shang Qinghua wakes up in the aftermath of Tianlang-Jun's rampage on Cang Qiong Mountain and has to navigate the delicate political situation he now finds himself in. Luo Binghe is building a harem with Shen Qingqiu as his first, and honestly most terrifying, husband. Yet, Luo Binghe seems to be turning his eyes to Shang Qinghua as a possibility as well. Excuse you? What is this? He didn't sign up for this!

Okay, make sure you read the tags kiddies because uhhh, this has some themes to it. It is also part of a series as well, but I read it stand alone and it does good with how it explains things; as it is...

Let me just say, Luo Binghe does not know what he just got into; all mortals will bow to the might of our lord Airplane! I really did like this and I am tentatively on the fence about reading the rest of the series, because the writing is so damn good but we will see how my ship cravings twist.

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With Ink and Sword by xnemone - Shang Qinghua is appropriately nervous when he passes the Imperial Exams only to be assigned not to the Emperor’s palace, but to the barren lands ruled by a lord known to be as ruthless as he is cold. Although his friend and confidant Shen Qingqiu gives him a sympathetic smile and a mountain of furs before he sets off, Shang Qinghua feels less than reassured.He expects ridicule, a harsh regime, even rejection. What he does not expect is for Mobei-Jun to take one look at him among all the scholars and servants of his palace, and proclaim him his.

Now, this is such a good story, I love it, is makes me feel happy and squishy inside with the good Moshang, and you know what? It has my new favorite thing in the world!

Shang Qinghua calls Cucumber bro out! AND IT IS GLORIOUS!!! (Seriously, why does this not happen more often?)

-

Good Vibrations by Feynite -  In Shang Qinghua’s defense, this whole trope was originally something he’d only ever written in for Sha Hualing, for precisely one scene.

In which I actually feel ashamed for forgetting such a treasure. Like, Feynite is a wonderful wordsmith, invoking so many thoughts and good shit with their words and characters, and by god do I end up just loving them even more then before.

This story passes the Vibe Check! (Luo Binghe also gets a Vibe Check~)

-

From Your Perspective by cozycitywitch - It was nothing more than a curse, probably, and surly the witch doctor could fix it? So what else was Shang Qinghua to do inside Mobei Jun's body until the end of the night? He couldn't be blamed for his curiosity! He was only a man! Or the one where Moshang switch bodies and Shang Qinghua can't help himself.

Now, this is a lovely, spicy lime where while there is no big action or technical awesomeness going on, it does have some wonderful images; Shang Qinghua’s hamster body with the aura of a king, him showing off being intimating which means Shang Qinghua can indeed be scary, it is something that could happen if he has the motivation for it.

Not to mention this is just a hot story all around~ (My kingdom’s for My King’s POV on this~)

-

ham hunt by jets_adjacent - There's a wolf at Shang Qinghua's heels and his only thought is: Northern mating rituals are a pain in the ass.

This is a really, really good A/B/O fic; it also shows just how tricky and sneaky our Shang Qinghua can be, as well as a mischievous side I just love seeing in our favorite Peak Lord. And let’s not forget the spicy goodness of this fic, which is really tasty~ (And can I get a shout out for consent and negotiated kinks!)

-

In which healthy relationship skills are forcibly brought into Proud Immortal Demon Way by two bros by Rafaela271412421 -  Look, if no one is going to give these people friends and healthy relationships then by GOD, I WILL do it myself! It's about two bros bringing healthy relationships into PIDW both intentionally and not. Gods and deities, accidental and not, will also be included. Also, it's in bullet point format, so you’ve been warned.

ahahahahaahhahahahaahaha! I love this fucking outline/bullet points presentation, it is something I always end up going back to and giggling like an idiot. The is really a healing piece, my crops have been watered, my face is clear, and Airplane and Cucumber Bros go completely feral~ I love it, I want to propose marriage~

-

trinkets for a king by jets_adjacent - Shang Qinghua gives many extraordinary gifts to his King. His King finally catches on. --aka: Mobei Jun has never been courted by a human before.

So, this is a wonderful subversion of the ‘Mobei-Jun courts/plans his wedding to Shang Qinghua all the while said man is unaware’. like, it is so cute and I love jelly Airplane; it gives me life. Also, one of the few we see Airplane taking full advantage of all his author knowledge and using it for the devious plans~

-

The Southern King and The North Star by Luuplup - A series of meetings between the Southern King and a cultivator. The happy moments, the romantic moments, the sad moments.  

Another really cute Role Reversal I find I greatly enjoy, with a very competent, beloved Lord Demon!Airplane :D it makes me happy when I read it, I end up wanting to hug something~ It seems like it will be a slow burn, what with our favorite moronsexuals, but oh is it delicious seeing the buildup~ 

-

under a wicked star by tagteamme - Caught unaware, Mobei Jun is kidnapped for leverage. On the eighth day, Mobei Jun is broken out of his trance by the sound of something being tossed into his pit. It’s a lot lighter than what they throw food down in. He realizes that today, he is not tied down.When he moves off the bed, he does not need the canopy post to support his weight as he stands up. The object on the floor glints in the firelight, and Mobei Jun crouches to pick it up. His face is immoving; slowly, he turns the An Ding peak lord crown in his hand, looking at the blood-soaked metal through the light.

SQH to the rescue! Alongside some good old fashioned angsty Moshang miscommunication but with Mobei-Jun’s POV this time, and some absolutely good steamy good times for all XD 

-

we seal our fate by ketolic (corrose) - All things considered, it really was sort of obvious. Hey! Anyone can be a genius in retrospect. Hindsight is 20/20! Besides, who can blame him! He'd never written about this facet of Mobei Jun's life before! Still...considering all the times he'd gotten his hands on Mobei Jun's sealskin, he's sort of shocked that it took him so long to figure it out.

:D This story makes me giggle uncontrollably, and still finds ways to unexpectedly stab me in the heart. I love it! Not to mention we get to see SQH be awesome! Sure, he flails around as he does it, but busts out the fighting moves and even fits a rescue in there! So good, so in character, I love every watery moment of this fic... good thing I’m so thirsty- (Is shot)

-----

But yeah! These are some more good stories I found, some a bit more- urrrr- thirstier then others~ you can find the first thing of Fic Recs Here! And Plz, share more awesome Airplane whenever you have a chance~

[raitrolling]

Calm, After the Storm

[Easy Reading Version on Toyhou.se]

The clean-up for Vernrot Harbour had been slower going than Lusien expected. There was no structural damage to the town, no residents had been harmed as far as he was aware of, and the organisation that’d moved in to defeat the ‘threat’ were able to manage the situation quite cleanly. He had numerous encounters with members of Gaia since the incident: first on the night of the event when he was prevented from getting anywhere close to the shoreline, no matter how many times he insisted he knew the person causing all the trouble; again the night after when a member of the hospital wing knocked on his door to check him for signs of eldritch mental corruption, due to his close contact with a horrorterror (supposedly the results were normal… For this town’s standards); and then at least once a night after that as more people were brought in for clean-up duty.

The clean-up duty, of course, being restoring the balance between the numerous other entities inhabiting the town.

Lusien has always been familiar with the supernatural, and this familiarity has made him attuned to the state of the town. Those Who Slumber In The Deep are placid for a collective of horrorterrors living in the depths of Vernrot Harbour’s, well, harbour. Their influence is subtle, altering the weather patterns to their liking, and infecting the minds of the residents as the eldritch are wont to do. Some are more susceptible to their influence, typically those who live closer to their abode or spend much longer in the ocean than the average troll. But only he, gifted with the power to see the unseen and comprehend the incomprehensible, are aware of just what they’re doing to the residents. The scientist who lives by the shoreline doesn’t know why he feels lonely when he is unable to hear the whispers in the back of his mind, the author further towards the centre of town doesn’t think about why they’re always so drawn to the ocean whenever they feel troubled. And Lusien cannot tell them, the horrorterrors don’t allow them to believe him.

It is the other entities that are of most concern. The shadow beings were more restless than usual, and their home invasions became more frequent. The spirits residing in the lighthouse required more favours to pacify, feeling extra capricious out of spite for their ‘territory’ being infringed upon. Mostly they just required food or a small sacrifice, and while Lusien didn’t enjoy whenever they sought out something more from him, he was still compelled to carry out their wishes. Every other supernatural being that made their home in the town had their own sets of rules to follow, an invisible checklist of tasks and favours that once completed will make them consider not acting out again for an unspecified amount of time. No one else in the town was aware of their existence, and thus it became Lusien’s duty to tend to each and every one of their needs for the sake of the livelihoods of others. No one but him would notice if a resident was spirited away to another realm or possessed by a cranky entity who was rudely awoken by the songs of The Choir, and no one would be grateful for his efforts, but he still felt it was important to help them.

The staff at Gaia had been more than helpful. The trolls they sent were all well-equipped to handle the supernatural in a non-violent manner, although Lusien would often be called over to guide them through the more unpredictable whims of the entities. “Look for the blueblood with the starry eye” became a phrase often spoken by members of the organisation, and it was not uncommon for someone to come running over to the lighthouse to seek him out for an emergency. He would ask about what happened to Thri- The horrorterror they captured that caused all of this, but no one had an answer for him. They probably wouldn’t have an answer if he used his actual name either, given their tendency for codenames and classifications. The best he’d heard is that ‘the creature’ had returned to its troll form, and was currently detained. Lusien didn’t particularly enjoy the way they spoke of his friend, but he’d given up on correcting every single person he asked.

He was at the pier again, fishing up some more flounders to harvest their skeletons for a ritual as his nightly routine had been for the past couple of nights, when he heard the sound of heeled boots stomping on the wooden boardwalk approaching him. 

“Ugh… No one told me there were gonna be some fucked up toads here.”

Lusien turned to face the Gaia employee whining about the wildlife they must have come across, a tall indigblood wearing a white, slightly-translucent coat. They had a company umbrella in their hand that was most likely issued to them as part of their excursion to the rainy town, and they’d pulled up the hood of their coat over their head for extra protection against the wet weather. Through their scrunched-up expression of disgust, Lusien had noticed their eyes were rather striking: He’d never seen heterochromia as intense as their pale purple and reddish-pink eyes. Before he can make a comment about how the ‘toad’ they mentioned was most likely a mutated variation of the juvenile fishmen that plague the waters of the harbour, they’re quick to continue.

“You’re Lusien, right? The guy everyone’s been going on about?” There’s a nice, casual tone to their voice, which contrasts greatly against the horrendous vibes Lusien can see latching onto them. They’ve been deeply tainted by something he cannot quite figure out, but just like all the other residents of this town they seem completely unbothered by it. 

He nods in response to their question, and cannot help but wonder if they’re genuinely unaware of whatever magical influence has poisoned their mind or if they’re simply choosing to ignore it. They smile, in a way that makes Lusien’s hypothesis favour towards the latter.

“Pog. Yeah so I’m guessing you’re used to us coming up to you to give progress reports on the state of the town, but I got nothing. The reports I’ve been getting seem to suggest it’s getting better, so we’ll be outta here in a couple nights once we’re certain it’s all back to your usual level of fucked up.” They shrug. “If it was still out of control, I wouldn’t be here. I’m like a canary in a mineshaft, I’m not assigning myself to check out certain towns if there’s a risk of Shitbrains Syndrome. I already got enough of that.”

Yep, definitely aware of it but choosing to ignore it. Somehow even more off-putting than if they were just as clueless as the residents of the town. Despite feeling disconcerted, Lusien nods again. He’s always polite, no matter how disturbing his conversational partner may be.

“Okay. Thank you for the update.” It wasn’t his place to pry into anything else they had implied, and they probably appreciate that. It’s hard to get a read on what they’re thinking.

“Oh yeah, also. Update from the Starfish himself. I’m not a messenger but he’d probs appreciate it if I told you this-”

Lusien’s ears twitch at the mention of the ‘starfish’. He thinks he recalls Thrixe once mentioning his lusus, in a conversation a long time ago about stargazing. 

“He’s like, legit crushed about the whole horrorterror thing. He asked a couple times if you were alright, but psychological records are confidential and all that so I just told him yeah. Don’t really blame him that much about being kinda emo about the whole ordeal. And no one really wanted to give him any updates cuz, y’know, that’s a wholeass horrorterror we got locked up, but I knew the guy already so it kinda became my job to deliver the goods. I didn’t even get a bonus added to my pay for that...” They mutter that last part as they look away, glancing down towards the shoreline where Thrixe turned. “Anyway. I’m sure he’d probs wanna tell you to your face if the town’s ever gonna want him back here, but. Just thought you should know.”

For the first time in nights, Lusien felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. That feeling of relief with almost as much intensity to that of whenever he sees Anirus’ ship float into the harbour. He was okay. Thrixe was okay. 

“I’m glad to hear that.” The blueblood smiles. “And thank you for being so kind to him.”

The indigoblood was right. It probably won’t be likely that Thrixe would be able to return here for a long time given the whims of the entities, but Lusien would look forward to that night, whenever it may be.

[yuvon-writes-letters]

[The first part the the letter is scribbled, but still readable. It’s basically a bunch of attempts to start the letter that were eventually trashed, at the half-way point is when the letter finally starts.]

Yu, and Jake apparently

First and foremost, hello Jake, welcome to the danger zone.

So I guess we now know to not mess with the blood ritual, or at least, not mess with it at the current moment. Although, I can’t ignore the potential of it. The instructions didn’t say “we’ll bring a friend” it said “we’ll give you something you’ll like”. We could totally capitalize on that, so long as we research the limits, if there’s any at all.

Also, don’t blame yourself Yu :(, I’d probably wish for friends too if I were isolated in a forest between dimensions, filled with death symbols and blood rituals and shit.

I’m writing this at 1 in the morning, because it occurred to me that we haven’t talked about your Duskwood Buddies, Yu and Lis. How are they? Because I’m thinking that we’ve been so caught in our own issues that we forgot that people can become suspicious.

I realized that, because it happened to me, just now.

I actually haven’t opened the Messenger in awhile, and the moment I did just heaps of private and public messages from both the Duskwood Gang and my unrelated family and friends asking if I was ok. It took hours just to respond to everyone, and I’m pretty sure Jessy and Skie aren’t buying any of my shit too. (Skie is, an unrelated friend btw.)

I have to wrap this up now, I need to wake up in three hours for my shift, I have so much more to say, but I don’t have the time right now.

I’ll say it when I’m free.

Rai

Rai,

The ritual does have potential, yes. But "a result you'll like" seems to use a fairly vague definition of "like". Do I like being able to talk to Jake? Yes. Do I like having him trapped in here with me? Hell no. There's nothing to say that the next time we try the ritual won't be worse. I'd really just rather not, if possible. Still, I'll take a look into it. We might not have much of a choice, when it comes down to it.

I mean, rituals are sort of like magical equations, right? Or cooking. You have a formula, you plug in materials and/or actions, and you get a result. If I can figure out if there are variables, then maybe we'll have an advantage.

Hmm. Are you implying you think I brought Jake here out of an underlying desire to have someone here with me? That's actually not a half-bad theory. If that's the variable, I might be able to edit that if I focus exclusively on one thing I want.

I think Lis' Crow Crew are all still in stasis, so they'd have a hard time getting suspicious. Though, since Jake is now free of the stasis, it might be good to double-check that they're still in stasis too. I don't know about her family and friends, though. Lis, maybe you should check that.

I haven't talked to my Crow Crew in a while either, but I suspect I won't find anything when I chat with them. They're in a lesser stasis too, after all. I'll still check, though. Oh, and you probably shouldn't worry about my non-Crow Crew friends and family. They all forgot I exist, so there's no reason for them to worry about me. I hope that clears up once I leave this place

Oh shit.

(The handwriting changes to Jake's.) I do not know what precisely happened, but given the number of curses (blacked out) Yuvon is shouting, and glancing at the previous paragraphs, I think we can safely assume that the "stasis" we have been relying on is not quite as effective as we had previously thought.

I should likely check if Lilly or any of the others has messaged me, as well. I will do that at the end of this letter, I think, so I do not risk leaving off halfway through as well.

Back to the top, then.

Your implied theory about the subconscious desire is intriguing. I am not sure how we would affect that "variable" (as Yuvon put it), however. I believe I will leave that part in her capable hands. She is the one who has taken a class in psychology, after all, not myself. While she is not an expert by any means, she knows quite a bit more than I.

Asking Yuvon to not feel guilty, however, could be easily compared to asking a stone pillar to bend. I am doing what I can. Hopefully, with time, I will get through to her.

You are writing this letter at one in the morning, and you need to be awake in three hours for your shift? I am beginning to see the extent of your problems. Do what you must to survive, but please try not to neglect your personal health as much as possible. You are one of the precious few people who has shown themself capable of talking sense into Yuvon, after all. Your input is invaluable.

I will check my messages now. In case I need to abruptly end the letter to deal with interpersonal drama, I will sign off now, and if I have time will add my results as a post-script.

Sincerely,

Jake & Yuvon

P.S.: Jessica, of all people, did indeed text me fairly recently. She demonstrated concern for Yuvon and requested to know if Yuvon was in danger. I told her that I did not believe Yuvon was in any more danger than was normal for her area, and Jessica accepted it.

Lilly also texted me, concerned about my recent absences and wondering if I was in danger myself. I assured her that I was not on the run nor in active danger, and then we had small talk. I was quite glad I'd had some practice with Yuvon, but I believe I may have still come off slightly awkwardly.

Yuvon seems to be busy, so I think I will wait to

(The handwriting changes to Yuvon's.) Rai you are a fucking life saver fucking hell this is a nightmare

So apparently when I talked to them all on Father's Day that somehow jiggled something. Either it lessened the stasis massively or it just flat-out ended it. Dan was the only one still in stasis for a while but then the group noticed him acting weird(er than he was at least) and snapped him out of it. Also apparently Dan is now out of the hospital? And he's getting some physical therapy because of some of the injuries he got. That's why he's been missing recently.

Anyhow they thought that was weird, but obviously no one drew any supernatural conclusions but Jessy, and Jessy sort of went completely the wrong direction. But they were all really, really worried. Like, thought the MWAF had kidnapped me worried.

I assured them all I was okay, but I'm not sure if they actually believe me, because Cleo wanted me to take a picture to show them I was alright and obviously I can't do that, because then they'll ask why I'm in a forest with a bunch of sheets of paper and envelopes on the ground. And what the hell do I tell them then?

So, yeah, they all think I'm kidnapped and there's a sixty percent chance they think Jake did it (99 on Dan's side.) I'm going to dedicate time to catching up with them and hopefully dissuading their concerns somewhat. That ritual project's going to have to wait.

Also, I think I need to try to find Jake some coffee. I think I wake up too early for him XD He's basically made himself into a blanket monster with the one blanket that doesn't feel like sandpaper to him (though he had to rip off the tag) and is yawning every two seconds. I'm going to try to convince him to go back to sleep for a while.

—Yu and Jake

(The letter tucks itself into the paper clip with the others.)

[talldarkandroguesome]

17th of First Seed, Middas

The letter swapping has been going well so far.

I have been learning the handwriting for Urtisa’s contact and have made several forgeries now. I have even attempted a few draft letters. They look passable except for the quality of the parchment, I will need Nabine to steal a couple sheets of parchment when she has the chance. I have gotten the same type of quill and ink, but the parchment is so far the only difference.

I have also gotten word that uncle Urnel has given his word that he approves of the consent for Kuna’s recognition and that the decision is being brought before the Council to give their opinions before the finalization of things.

Word has also been given to me that Kuna’s name will be added to the family registry as my child and we have been asked if she is to be put down with the Indoril family name or under Mossbrook for her mother.

Nabine and I discussed it over the course of dinner. Of course, I had assumed that Nabine would like to keep her family name, since record of the matriarchal line is so important. She asked how it would change things if Kuna was to carry my name.

So I had to explain that when you enter any of the great Houses, you are given that House’s name to be put before your personal and family names, so that you are immediately recognized as being a part of the House. That Kuna could certainly be Indoril Kuna Mossbrook, retaining Nabine’s family name as her family name and just being taken as a part of the House. In that case, however, people would assume from the name that Kuna was accepted into the House, but that there would be no indication that she was part of the Indoril bloodline, since only those with Indoril blood are allowed to take Indoril as their family name. Having Kuna take the name would prove to any from the moment her name was announced, that she was blood linked to the House, affording her more respect instantly. Although once her parentage became more widely known that might improve, having the name would open doors more quickly.

Nabine actually considered the matter more than I expected.

After some time of asking for the finer details and implications, Nabine asked me if there were any precedents for having more than one last name.

I told her that I was unsure of times outside of when there are two Great Houses joining,  and so I sent a request by messenger to the Chancellor of Precedent.

Before the end of the evening we were informed that most typical it was for cases of marriages between Houses. Though, given that Kuna is part of a different culture, we could certainly attempt a similar argument with the Family Registry Office.

In typical cases, the order of family name is determined by the House that the child was being raised by, placing it in the final position, that of greatest importance.

As an example, Sildras’s official name is Indoril Sildras Hlaalu Indoril. If he were to also join House Hlaalu, he would be known as Indoril Hlaalu Sildras Hlaalu Indoril. House naming order, of course, is determined in the reverse, so that the one which is your primary loyalty is placed first. Of course, membership to more than one House is so very rare that it is only granted in the most selected circumstances, since membership to one House usually is seen as a conflict of interest in joining another. After all, there is so much in-fighting it would be difficult to truly follow the directives of more than one House objectively.

When presented with this naming option, Nabine said she would like to petition to see if, given Kuna’s mixed parentage, she would still be allowed to take both names.

I made sure in drawing up the request for the House Registry Office, to cite the precedent number given by the Chancellor, along with an overview of Bosmeri naming rituals and the fact that it was important to the Mossbrook family, in order for Kuna to remain a recognized part of the family, to keep their surname name. So the proposition is that, until she undergo the joining and recognition ceremony, Kuna be added to my family registry as Kuna Mossbrook Indoril. Upon the completion of her joining and recognition, she will then be known as Indoril Kuna Mossbrook Indoril.

Before I set my seal and sent the request off, Nabine and I sat Kuna down and discussed the matter with her as well. We wanted to make sure that she understood that it would afford her more, while also expecting more of her. There would be more lessons and more responsibilities in the future. And while we were aware that she was very young to be making such a decision, it needed to be done now and could not be undone once it was completed.

Of course, she was very enthusiastic, her wild dreams of godhood clouding her judgement.

It is unfair to make a child choose at this age, I know. But there is no other option given the cultural traditions of my people.

So I made sure to go over, once more, all the things she would be expected to do. That she may, in future, be asked to prove her loyalty, to fight, to send others to fight, that she might be expected to choose the path of other people’s lives, and that her decisions would determine the lives and deaths of people.

That did make her seem to think more. She had a few questions and I did my best to answer them. I even told her that she could talk to Mother about all her questions if she wished to wait before deciding.

She shook her head and said that she would not become a god if she did not have the ability to make good decisions  on her own. I told her that there was much wisdom in seeking the knowledge and experience of others and that even Almsivi counciled with one another and with other people before making much of their decisions. I reminded her that even queens and emproresses had councils to help them make the decision that was in the best interests of everyone.

Kuna said that she would like to speak with Mother before deciding and asked if we could send the request after she spoke to Mother about it and her tutors.

I said she was most wise for her age to do so.

Nabine laughed at me. I did not mind. It is a big decision and it is hardly a bad skill for Kuna to get accustomed to discussing her choices with others before making them. If she ever does become a part of the House in a greater capacity, she will need to do so.

After the girls were in bed, Nabine gave me a long, silent look.

I asked her if I  had something on my face or if she was simply struck by how handsome I was again.

She threw a cushion at me and we laughed.

Nabine explained that she had not known why it was that I had given up everything and risked being poor, even if it meant leaving a cage. But seeing now what it was like, she understood. And that she was amazed that I would go to such effort to see that Kuna had as much choice as possible.

I laughed, expecting her to be jesting, but she placed a hand on my shoulder and told me she was serious.

I told her that I had not been given any choice and that I was forced on a path that I ultimately was unable to take in the way presented. That I was given only one choice and then told it was my fault that I was unable to meet those impossible goals. There was nothing I wanted less than for any child of mine to have to go through the same hurt. Especially since I could do little to help prevent Sildras from having started his life with the same fate. My one consolation was that he was a gifted mage with a love of knowledge and learning, and so would be able to fulfill that which I had not been able to. The House would be able to easily find a myriad of uses for his skills and eventual knowledge. 

Nabine pulled me close and stroked my hair and told me that I was not to blame. I told her that I knew, but she just pulled me closer and kept saying to me that I was not the reason for that hurt, that the system and the adults involved were responsible, no matter how they loved me, that they had let that hurt come to me.

When I tried to speak against it, Nabine threatened to bite off my tongue and told me to just listen.

She spent a long while telling me how amazingly I had grown into an adult and that given all that had happened, I had done well for myself. I had managed what many could not. And that she loved me, soul or no, always. That no matter what was to come, she would always love me.

I kissed her and told her I felt the same. My emotions were welling up and threatened to spill out like a fountain in the pouring rain. And as she spoke of things that had passed, my eyes, ever so slightly, let out a couple of tears.

Nabine and I made love afterwards in a way that felt as though my old wounds were being healed. Not fully, it was not enough for that, but they were soothed, as if by a cooling salve.

Thank the Three for delivering to me not one, but two, amazing people into my life who love me in the ways that I need most. I feel your blessings and see them as reward for having proved my character in overcoming challenges and facing one of the Four Corners.

Should there be any other task which you require of me, I will gladly take it.

[filthysweetie]

James Bond drabble

Prompt: “Dear Diary...” 

missed a day >.< this one is begging to be a longer story, but i had to cut it so i can finish packing...note that there’s a brief description of torture in this one.

Edit: This now has a sequel here if anyone wants to read it :) 

———

Dear Diary,

Let it be known this is done under duress. Apparently, not being a bloody field agent does not get you out of psych evaluations and ‘recommended’ methods to cope with ‘high stress levels’ and ‘worrying tendency to identify job performance as self-worth’. I bet they didn’t make Boothyard do this. You get kidnapped once and then everyone suddenly thinks you’re a delicate flower. 

Hell, Bond got kidnapped (I guess it’s just called captured when they’re agents…which actually is now making me quite offended that when I was taken it was called kidnapping) on 7 of his last 15 missions. I don’t see him writing a damn diary about it! (Although god, imagine that.) Besides, what’s the point of keeping a diary if it’s mandated and also!! Your psychiatrist will be reading it? Maybe I should start writing in code. 01000110 01110101 01100011 01101011 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01000100 01110010 00101110 00100000 01011001 01100101 01101110 00101110 ——— “What is…that?”

Q turned, not the least bit surprised to see James standing there behind him. He had a mission coming up and was obviously ready for his kit. Q did a little ritual over the case, always so sad to see the fine pieces of machinery go when the chance of them returning was so dismal. Instead of focusing on the kit, though…Q followed his eyes to the little journal on his desk. It was covered in stickers (most of them shiny, some of them hello kitty gifted by a little one on the tube who got three on before he or her mother noticed) and attached in the pen holder was a pen with a fuzzy feather top. It was rainbow. 

Can’t blame the man for noticing it, it was a rather stark deviation from the normal color pallet and maturity level of Q’s desk.

“Oh, that old thing?” Q pat the top with a little more force than necessary, “my psych assigned diary. I figure if they choose to treat me like a child I may as well oblige.”

James took a moment before speaking, “And what, pray tell, made them think you need it?”

Q blinked, “Does that mean you’ve done it too?” That was a bit of a surprise. The double-o agents seems to thrive on their disregard of ‘normal’ coping, of medical, and of psych all together.

“Answer the question, Q.” James had the audacity to roll his eyes.

“Now I’m very curious,” Q can’t help it, “what do you write in it? About the girls you like? About more interesting ways to destroy my tech?”

“Mostly survivors guilt.” James says, nonchalant.

Well, that answers that, “Oh…” damn it, now he’s obliged to answer James’ question regardless of if this is an interrogation tactic or not. He gives a half shrug, “Dr. Yen assigned it after the kidnapping.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know, I thought it was all very much over the top as well.” Q fights a sigh, “Now your kit—”

James shakes his head, “No, wait, you were kidnapped?”

Q blinks, ignores the chill that goes down his spine; “I knew they didn’t release that on the official channels but I assumed you’d know none the less.” Q clears his throat, “Now, your kit.”

James quiets then, but there are a lot of questions behind his eyes. Who’s to say if Q focuses on his tech a bit more than he normally would. ——— Dear diary, 

I didn’t realize it had been kept quite so secret. I should have known, we are a spy organization. But I was {Q hesitates over the word, crossing out kidn and captu wishing suddenly that he was using his standard pencil instead of this purple inked mess of a pen} gone for 11 days. I guess I figured they would have told the double-os at least, maybe brought them in to help find me. Not that I needed anyone’s help, of course, I mean I got out of there myself, didn’t need anyone rescuing this damsel.

But the fact that {Ja is scribbled over fully; must remember that this will be read} there were agents I’m the primary handler of that didn’t notice at all. What excuse were they told when I wasn’t on the comms? Would they have just kept been given excuses until the forgot to keep asking?

My cats were fed, at least. Moneypenny thought I would come back, or at least held out enough hope to not sell my apartment and put my cats in a shelter after 11 bloody days. 

R had been searching non-stop—bless her, I think she needs this exercise more than me. Poor girl looked like she hadn’t slept since I’d left; keeping all the missions on track while searching for me. It was her and Riley and Sunil that found me on the security footage after I got out of that place and got me a pickup. It’s not like I was forgotten or anything. {Why do I feel forgotten? Q stares at the line in it’s stark purple ink for a long moment before crossing it out. He doesn’t want to talk about that with himself, let alone Dr. Yen.}

Regardless. R has finished debriefing me on all active missions that I’d missed some portion on, and overall everything is going well. Testing of the new laser pen fell behind during my absence but it’s to be expected. It will give me something to do tomorrow when most of my active agents are in transit. ——— “Q, Sir, we really need you in the pit.” Laila said, standing at the threshold of his office, seeming a bit more frazzled than normal. There are no alarms (auditory or silent) going off around her, so the attitude was a bit perplexing.

Q puts the soldering iron down on it’s stand and takes off the magnification glasses, replacing them with his own, already getting up and heading towards her, “What’s the matter?”

“Sir, one of the agents is being belligerent; requesting to speak only to you before moving forward with his mission.”

That’s a new one; “Alright then, transfer the secure line to my station please, Laila.”

It’s always nice, walking out to the floor, seeing his people working away. Standing at the center of it is like being cocooned within the greatest minds of London. It’s safe. 

“Yes?”

“Q”Jame’s voice is instantly recognizable, “I’ve arrived in Paraguay and will be rendezvousing with the contact at 1430.”

Q waited. Nothing.

“And?”

“That is all.”

Q blinked, glad that James couldn’t see the confusion that must certainly be coving his face, “You called me away from my prototypes to give me a standard mission update that you could have given to any one of my people?”

“Had to make sure you were still around, Q”

“Still—” it clicks, “Oh. Well. Yes, I am very much still around.

“Good.” Is that a smile in his voice or is Q projecting? “I’ll check in again after the rendezvous.”

Q’s throat clicks, dry; “I’ll be here.” ———— Dear Diary, 

When will this little experiment be over? It’s been a half month! I haven’t got much free time at all, and wasting it in this damn book isn’t helping anyone. Least of all me. ————— “I notice you haven’t actually written anything about the kidnapping?” Dr. Yen asks, looking through his entries with a clinical eye.

“I much prefer to call it capture.” Q says in leu of an answer. The sticker covered mess looks silly in her hands, but she seemed to have enjoyed his take on ‘making it his own’ even if he’d been doing the antithesis of that. Granted, some of his minions have added stickers to it too—so next to hello kitty is a ‘back it the fuck up’ sticker in fancy script with an old school desktop monitor showing the phrase, and a sparkly unicorn that Trevor insists is from his kids but Q has his doubts. If he leaves it on his desk unattended, when he comes back there are always new stickers. No one ever opens it, respecting some privacy that doesn’t really need respecting (it’s not like there’s anything of substance in there), but it’s a nice gesture none the less.

Dr. Yen smiles, “Of course,” Q wishes she were a bit more of a dick like Dr. Reynard had been—it was easier to dismiss someone when they were being an ass, “I notice you haven’t written about your capture—or escape for that matter—at all. There are some references to it, but no detail. Do you have any thoughts on why that is?”

Q takes a sip of tea. It is nice that these meetings are uninterrupted tea time—though he could do without the conversation. 

“There’s nothing important to say about it.” Q set the mug down, making sure to be gentle about it, “it’s all done, and I don’t exactly plan to get kidna—captured again.”

Dr. Yen gives an amused smile, “no one really plans to get captured at all.” Then, “Sometimes the act of writing down an experience”—she stopped using ‘traumatizing experience’ a while ago, Q did not have a traumatizing experience, thank you—“can solidify it in our reality. It may be difficult to do that at first, but once it is solidified, we can begin to process it in a healthy way.”

“It’s already written up in the after-action report.”

“Yes, but that was what happened, not how it felt to be going through those things.”

Q rolls his eyes, “do you want me to write a soliloquy on how sad and lonely it was and how I felt abandoned by MI6 and made peace with my death? Or maybe how it transformed me in ineffable ways and I have a new lease on life?”

It was so annoying to lay on that perfect level of sarcasm to have it disregarded so thoroughly, “If that’s how you feel, yes.” God she’s so earnest. 

“Well it wasn’t” Q snapped out. He picked up the mug again and took another sip. Setting it down extra soft, with barely a ‘clink’ on the glass table, “Excuse me, I must be more tired than I thought.”

“Not to worry,” Dr. Yen smiled, “your job is stressful any given day of the week, it’s certainly understandable. Please do give it a thought though as you go through this week. Sometimes putting things to paper allows our minds to ‘get it out of our system’ instead of having it linger in our subconscious.”

“Very well. I will give it some thought.” ———— Dear Diary, 

Lets give it the old college try, shall we?

I admire James Bond. He’s one of our best field agents, though his record for returning his tech is abysmal. He seems to come back from the brink of death more times than a cat and never seems to let it affect him. Always ready for the next mission.

I want to be like that. He’s been through so much, the loss of M, the burning of his home, the burning of so many false starts at a normal life, and he comes back and he may be battered but he’s still whole. Undoubtedly whole. I get kidnapped once and now I can’t even get a good nights sleep unless I’m folded awkwardly on the little couch in my office, and of course that sleep is poorer for other reasons. 

I know I’m capable, I know I can destroy countries and get myself out of most any situation that I find myself in, but I didn’t realize exactly how that situation would affect me. I haven’t lost confidence in my abilities, but maybe loss of confidence in my security? Is it just a waiting game to see when I’ll next be thrown into the back of a van, drugged, and then wake up in a windowless room, IV in my arm strapped to a chair with no fucking idea how much time has passed? When will I next find myself threatened and beaten? The soles of my feet slashed, so dehydrated that I can’t put my head up without feeling dizzy? 

Obviously I can survive it. I have. 

The thought of it happening again…it’s terrifying. And it can happen at any time. And I thought I admired James because he looked like a good lay. Maybe it’s because he seems unbreakable and I worry I’m already broken. ———— Q stared at the pages for a long time. Was he supposed to feel hollow?

He tore them out, crumpled them like a secret and then lit them on fire. This was a spy organization after all, no point in letting that level of weakness get out. ———— Dear Diary, 

Laila got a new corgi puppy. Despite being a cat person, I have to admit it’s quite cute.

[our-deamon2-blr]

Chapter 100: FAITH HEALERS

I still had my faith and I would give myself over to God, just to heal me. I wondered who was leading me in this life, Satan or God. The obvious answer was Satan. Since my diagnosis, I would ask myself over and over whether I have trusted God enough to heal me. After years when my prayers were not answered by God, I stopped asking and slowly starting to lose faith. My friend, who was religious, quoted these words to me. “God allows the path to be difficult because He intends on refining us and preparing us for our place of promise” What did that mean? He is playing around with me until he decides it is time to heal me? I held onto my faith but how could I trust GOD after what he did to my life. All my dreams were starting to shatter.

Adjusting to life with a disability is never easy, I didn’t want to be a victim that was caught in a body I had no control over. I wanted to be an active mom with my children. Although I was still physically able to walk, I could not run with my children that were one of the activities that a mom needed to be a “whole” mom. All I wanted out of life was to be normal again. Be the person I used to be, with faith and a zest for life. I was young and slowly killing myself emotionally. I was caught in a place I did not want to be. I did not belong there. I was young, and my life felt like it was stuck in this small space and being held down. Most of the time I had a positive attitude and my disability was placed far away to interfere with my life. I slowly adjusted my life to having a disability. I could not really complain. All I could not do is run; walk fast, stand-up in a weird way and sometimes when needed walk with a crutch. There were much worse conditions than mine.

Living in a small town, there was always information spreading around that could not be missed. One event that caught my eye that was of a church assembly organized by the church and a faith “healer” would be present. I have to admit that I saw hope, not that there was a faith healer/ Prophet but the fact that this happened so close by me losing my faith. I felt like it was a sign. I had nothing to lose. Maybe there was a small sign of hope for me.

Clyde would not accompany me as he took care of Jade. I got dressed in jeans and a blouse, grabbed my cane and hoped for the best. As I approach the church there was a huge tent set-up for the sermon. There were cars surrounding the tent as well as car guards directing cars to parking spaces. I was so nervous, my heart was beating that my body was giving me a "fight or flight” response. My adrenaline made my heartbeat at such a rate I have to inhale oxygen just to breathe. I grabbed my crutch and again I to convince myself that it would be ok and that I should not have any expectations.

As I entered that were people seated all over the tent. I noticed blind people, deaf people, people in wheelchairs, people on crutches, and people with a multitude of disabilities just from the onset.

There were a few people lined in the front that I assumed were requested healing. I could not see properly but I didn’t want to be in the front view and sat at the back of the tent. I secluded myself not to be noticed until I was ready. In the centre of the tents was a small stage or podium with surrounding floodlights but not that bright to see properly.

Suddenly there was a roar in the crowd and this well-dressed man entered the tent and was introduced as Nemha. (I will always remember this name due to my experience) and was given a microphone. He stepped onto a podium and presented himself as a man of God whom anyone might approach for deliverance, salvation, and miracles. He was joined on stage by a few men that looked like his bodyguards, also dress in suits. He started his sermon with an introduction as he was saved and his past and just about his upbringing and how he started having faith to this point where he was today. The sermon started out normal and then all of a sudden he started speaking louder and louder up to a point that he was shouting. It was like watching a movie, but this was just live. Everyone started yelling, “Amen, Hallelujah”, and “Praise God.” He continued preaching that the devil used some people and the devil brought them to their church to destroy the Demon in them.

All of a sudden he started speaking in tongue, walking back and forth. Some people in the front were bending down, so he could cast their demon out of them. I stood up to see what he was doing. He started putting his hands on these people, still speaking in tongue. He also did the ‘slaying of the spirit’ demonstration. His helpers would pick up a “disabled body” to be saved. He stood before him and two huge ‘catchers’ stood at his sides. He placed one hand at the small of his back, pressed the other to his forehead and easily pushed the man over. It seemed that this man decided to resist, and though Nemha pushed him hard three times. The man remained firmly standing. He then pushed the guy so hard and the helpers pushed him down to show he was being healed. Was this the demon resisting, fighting to be present and not give in?

I had seen these healings on TV documentaries and had heard much debate about whether someone should fall forward or backward when the Holy Spirit touched them, in a "slaying of the spirit" The audience started shouting so loud it became annoying. The louder the audience got, the louder Nemha spoke into his microphone until he started shouting to raise his voice over the audience chanting.

There was a section of the room that was set aside for people in wheelchairs. A contribution plate was held out for them to pay for the chance to be healed. He started the healing ceremony, encouraging people to stand up from their wheelchairs and so on. The prophets “bodyguards” were going around, pushing wheelchairs towards the prophet, trying to get people to stand up and walk. Mostly, the people would try but then sit right back down in disappointment, a few were crying.  He took his bible slapping the Jesus into a woman, well it didn’t work. He would then announce their failure and blame the people for a ‘lack of faith’ when it became clear that the healing would not work. A woman walked up to the 'prophet' and claimed to be healed. It appeared as if it was staged. The healing could be legit but it seemed very suspicious. He then began waving his magic finger at people, and they were falling down, supposedly slain in the spirit. One of the evil spirits was cast out and those set free by the Prophet writhed in the dirt while vomiting out the demons. One of these rituals I saw was a strong demonic presence over this man. His head was contorting and looked to me like it would almost twist, as well as his jaw, face and hands contorting; it seemed every muscle was at an extreme strain in his body.

He was jerking and twitching severely. Nemha wasted no time responding. He rushed over to this man; put his hand on his chest and forehead, starting to binding demonic powers and commanding his body to be released in Jesus’ name. I didn’t believe what I was seeing. Was it real or not? Weeks later confirmed that this man had suffered an epileptic seizure which often can display similar signs of someone being “possessed” being held by a “demon”, and then when the epileptic seizure passes, he would be “healed”.

He prayed for every person in the line and declared them all healed. He claimed that he could also transfer power to an ordinary person and that the person would be able to perform healing. During healing hours, he would touch any person in the congregation and tell that person to come forward and be healed. I sat at the back, out of sight, and did not even think of standing in line to be healed. Ironically, I wanted this to be real. I was hoping it would work for me.

I asked God, whilst I was sitting there, to please remove this demon from my body so that I could become normal again. I used to think that it was all bullshit, but here I was, sitting with a small bit of faith, clutching and holding on to hope. I am a fairly intelligent and alert person, and I kept my eyes, and ears open to everything that was going on. I am not somebody that can have the wool pulled over my eyes easily.

I thought it was a joke and got up to leave. It was extremely noticeable that I had a problem standing and somehow, one of his helpers saw me and guided me to faith healer/ Prophet to where I was standing. I clearly walk with a limp and using a cane. He sat me down, said something and touched my head, and pushed it backward. I thought: “What the …? F...k off, do not touch my face.” He was shouting over the microphone that he saw me healed, and announced that my leg had started growing longer. “What the hell are you talking about?” I asked him.

He ignored my question and again, touched my head and said: “You are now healed.” Then this person came with a plate so that I could reward the Prophet for his connection with God. I looked at this person, got up and shouted: “You are a fu...ing fake. You are not a healer; my one leg is not shorter than the other.” He turned his back on me and started 'healing' other people. His helper held out a plate for a contribution. I smacked the plate out of the man's hand that the change went flying and stormed out. The Prophet asked for a weekly donation that would be the same as having healthcare. Good people will go down in financial flames for trusting those con men and thieves. It also came to view that the congregants would write their fears and problems down on a prayer card "for God" before each meeting. The prophet would read them in secret, and then repeat their prayers back to them word for word while he laid hands on them. I wondered if he was a psychic before this was revealed.

That day, my faith in god disappeared. There is no god. I had been taken for a fool, believing in a god who does not exist and people should open their eyes. The song with the words: “I think that god has a sick sense of humour,” (Depeche Mode - "Blasphemous Rumours") were the exact thoughts I had at that point.

I had just experienced the rejection of a god that could tear you apart from the inside and leave your life in what seems to be an unending torture. It was a complete collapse of my entire belief system. It was like learning the truth about Santa Claus. It seemed obvious that god was completely fabricated. I came to the starkest of conclusions … god did not actually exist. I got into the car and banged my fists against the steering wheel.

Shouting at the demon to get the f...k out of my body. I punched my legs so hard that I cried out in pain. I needed to vent so badly but only tears came out. I blamed myself that I had taken this path and had made choices that I had believed to be my own. I cried out in anger and disgust at the extent of the deception, and it caused a deep-seated headache.

“You did this to me,” I cried in anger. “Get out of my body now!” I had a battle with this demon in my body; I sat there for what felt like hours. My eyes were swollen so badly from the tears. I was shaking and I had to drive home. I looked at my watch and it was just past 22h00. I tried my best to pull myself together because I did not want Clyde to see me like this. I could not face him and hear him say anything negative right then. I did not have the strength to talk, and I did not want to argue either.

I got home and composed myself. Clyde was sitting in the lounge. “You were gone for a while,” he said. “How was it?” not sounding as if he really cared. “The guy is a total fake and ridiculous,” I replied with the anger still inside me. “I’m tired. I’m going to take a bath and go to bed.” I walked to the bathroom and let the bathwater run, calming myself. I heard him switching off the TV, opened the bathroom door slightly asking me if I am ok because he is off to bed. “I’m fine, I will be done soon” I try to speak these words without anger. To sound cam

I bathed longer than usual, waiting for him to be asleep when I got out. I went to Jade’s room, and he was sleeping soundly. “Sorry I failed” I whispered to him. By the time I got to the bedroom, Clyde was already fast asleep in bed. Although I was with my husband, I felt very isolated and extremely alone. I turned my face towards the pillow and softly cried myself to sleep that night. I buried myself into the pillow so my sobs will not wake Clyde. I wanted to take his arm and wrap it around me. I needed comfort but could not ask for it.

I kept this experience/nightmare/secret buried for years and never mentioned it to anyone or indicated how it affected my life.

[faveficarchive]

The Search For Amphipolis: Part 4

By Bat Morda

Pairing: Mel/Janice, Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Explicit

Synopsis: Mel and Janice head to Amphipolis on a secret mission to save Xena, Gabrielle, the Amazon Nation, and the world.

Personal Note: If you haven’t seen Hackers(1995), the epilogue might be a little out of left field for you. I  H I G H L Y  recommend watching it; 10/10. There’s also some clear author inserts among the early fandom writers, which is both hilarious and expected. Hilarious because I can see in my mind’s eye the IRC channel/forum chat as Bat Morda brainstorms with her circle on this story. Expected because honestly there are so many uber!fics out there that are literally exclusively author inserts and group fics. The homage to Bat’s friends here is great, though, as well as the homage to Hackers. 

In a way, the understanding I reached with Cyrene was prophetic. While I made one or two more attempts to maintain some sort of bond with my birth-family, each time it seemed more tenuous and fragile. The summer I broke my leg was the final blow, both mentally and physically.

It took many years to realize it, but ultimately the rape wasn't the worst part of that fateful visit to Potidea. No, the wound that cut much deeper and took the longest to heal was the betrayal of my family. Erasmus violated my body, but the others, they violated my soul. For a time, I wondered if I'd ever be able to see any of them again. Nothing positive came from the rejection of my own flesh and blood. At least something positive came from the rape; Lyceus.

Xena and I felt such devotion to our children. I didn't see how any one could divorce themselves emotionally from their own offspring. One day I said as much to Cyrene. The silence that met my ears brought tears to my eyes instantly.

"I'm so sorry, mother," I said, turning around.

"It's alright, Gabrielle," she finally reassured me. "But I'm here to tell you it can happen. While I don't think the actions of your family was warranted, I had my own reasons for letting Xena go."

I nodded, rushing over for a hug. "I wonder what I'll say should I ever see them again," I wondered aloud from the warmth of her embrace.

"That is for your heart to decide, little one," she whispered back.

That day came sooner than I might have expected. It was our first family trip to Thebes. It had been ages since Hercules or Iolas had seen the children, and we decided they were old enough for the trip. While we'd visited the Amazons from time to time since Lyceus' birth, this was different. For one, it was our last trip with Argo, and I'm glad the children had a chance to see what life on the road had been like for me and Xena.

Xe was seven, and like her grandmother in almost every way. She was fearless, precocious and stubborn. Handling responsibilities seemed second nature to her. As soon as she came to live with us, she'd adopted Argo as her own personal charge. I'd watch for hours as Xena taught her how to handle and care for the mare. Now, the only input Xena seemed to have was lifting things that were, for now, too heavy for the child.

Lyceus was a different story. Argo, or Ego, as he called her, made him nervous, and he'd only ride the mare in the company of someone else. I didn't blame him. He was only five, so what if Xe was riding alone by then? Lyceus was a talker, I don't think that surprised anyone, but he was also a listener, and to my occasional embarrassment, he remembered everything.

The children enjoyed our time on the road. Sleeping with us under the stars was a novelty, and they made a game of finding pictures in the bright patterns. Both pitched in with camp chores. Xena taught both to hunt, although I never really developed the stomach for that task. I taught both children to cook, and over time even my lover picked up a few things.

There is nothing quite like the sight of a big city through the eyes of a child. I don't think I ever forgot the squeals of delight that came from Xe and Ly as they sat together astride Argo as Xena and I approached Thebes. It was all so new to them. While Amphipolis is not a small town by any stretch of the imagination, it was one they were used to. They knew almost everyone and considered all of the Inn's regular patrons assorted uncles and aunts.

With Cyrene's Inn in mind, our first stop was to a purveyor of exotic beverages. There would be Hades to pay if we came home with out a cask or two of Cyrene's favorite port. Daxen's Obsession was the only tavern that carried it.

"Xena, if you can take care of this, I'll take the children over there," I suggested nodding in the direction of stalls selling a variety of fabrics. "They need some new clothes."

"I suppose they spend enough time in taverns at home," she agreed, helping Lyceus climb down from Argo.

"We could get some sweet meats," Xe offered helpfully.

"And candy," Ly supplied.

Xena grinned at the two faces gazing at her hopefully. "You'll have to work on mama for that one," she said giving each child a warm hug and a kiss. "I'll meet you over there as soon as I finish here."

"Hurry, Na," Xe suggested.

"Love you Nana," Ly added.

"Where did they learn this stuff?" Xena asked me with feigned embarrassment.

"Only from the best," I replied, puffing up with pride. "Don't take all day, Xena, I love you too."

She smiled wryly before giving me a quick kiss and disappearing into Daxen's tavern. My mission clear, I took Lyceus' hand in my left and grabbed my staff with my right. Xe held Ly's other hand and three of us were on our way.

"I'd like blue," Lyceus chatted as we crossed the square.

"I want black," Xe added.

"Anything but green," they both chimed in unison. I don't know what it was, but both children hated the color green. Xena found it terribly amusing, but it only served to puzzle me. It was a shame though. Lyceus had hair that was more blond than mine, but still had copper highlights. He would have looked quite handsome in green. Xe's choice was no surprise. She tried to emulate Xena whenever she could. More than once I'd seen her cutting off the flow of blood to a doll's brain when it needed the surgery of restuffing.

As I'd hoped, the dry goods dealer had a wonderful selection of cloth. I was able to find several colors for the children, as well as pick out something for Xena. I didn't often get the chance to surprise my love, and I indulged myself whenever the opportunity presented itself.

At Ly and Xe's constant prodding we headed over to the area where racks of meat strips were smoking over a low fire. "We'll have a clear view of the tavern from our new location," Xe pointed out helpfully. I was counting out my dinars to get a treat for the children when Ly tugged at Xe's hand. They'd developed the habit of only turning to Xena or myself when they couldn't handle a problem on their own. I well knew I'd eventually have to deal with obsolescence, but with children ages seven and five, it was a little earlier than I expected.

"Why is that lady staring at mama?" Lyceus asked his sister.

"I don't know," she replied.

Picking up Lyceus, I asked him directly. "Who is staring at mama?"

With all the discretion of a five year old, he stuck his arm straight out and pointed to a pregnant woman nearby. "She is."

I had to do a double take. Then I realized that the pregnant woman was Lila. She looked ready to flee when I called to her. Realizing she'd been spotted she froze. Sweet meats purchased, the three of us walked over.

"Gabrielle," she said quietly.

"Lila," I replied, noting the advanced stage of her pregnancy. "When are you due?"

"Three weeks," she said taking a seat on an available bench.

"Who are you?" Lyceus asked curious.

Lila smiled at him, so I decided I might as well do introductions. "This is my sister Lila."

"Who's children are you watching?" Lila asked, plainly enough.

I bristled at that, but quickly reminded myself it had been my choice not to inform my parents or sister of my pregnancy.

"They're mine," I explained, watching her eyes widen in surprise. "This is Lyceus, and this is Xena." The children nodded and smiled, looking at her extended belly curiously.

"I'm sorry, Gabrielle," she said in a rush. "I didn't know you married." I was trying to think up a suitable retort when Lila's mouth dropped open in wonder.

"Everything okay?" Xena asked softly from behind me.

The children turned around in surprise, not having heard her walk up either. "Na!" Lyceus shouted and leapt into her waiting arms.

"But how?" Lila wondered aloud, staring at little Xena and Lyceus in amazement.

"I have many skills," my lover replied flatly, turning to go.

***

Seven years later we received word that Perdicus' father had died. As the widow of his oldest son I was, naturally, expected to attend the services. Since Argo was no longer with us, we packed our belongings onto Idgie, Argo's successor, and as a family made the trip.

We attended the ritual fire apart from the other mourners. I'd always liked Hector, he was a very kind man. Xena quietly sang a hymn for the ears of her family alone. I saw mother and father standing with Lila and Erasmus and their child. Lila, I noted, was pregnant again. I made a point to keep Xena as far away from Erasmus as possible. Understandably, the anger was still there. I felt it too. We'd already explained to Lyceus who his father was and what the circumstances of his conception had been. I had hoped to wait until he was older, but he came in with all sorts of questions one day about why Xena and he didn't look more alike. We decided that if he was old enough to ask the questions, he was old enough to hear the answers. Little Xena knew about her parentage, it had never been a mystery. Still, it was hard for her to hear that she and Lyceus didn't share blood since they were so close.

After the funeral fires burned low, we decided to get a bit to eat before heading out of town. To my surprise, father sought us out. We were eating our meal in silence, well aware of the curious and hostile stares that were cast in our direction. This was not new to the children. On occasion they'd been taunted or teased and knew that after some persuading from Xena, they'd be apologized to and left alone. This time one farmer in particular was a little drunker and louder than the others.

"How do you think she did that?" he muttered to his friend.

Both Xenas leveled their steely blue gaze in his direction.

"I mean the girl is a spitting image, and the boy looks just like the bard," he continued with a laugh.

Xena was about to stand, only to find fourteen year old Xe already on her feet and walking toward the group of inebriated farmers. We all tensed, watching our child calmly walk into trouble.

They abruptly quieted when they realized the subject of their comments was in their midst. "Is there something you'd like to know about my family?" she asked sensibly.

The drunk man didn't back down. "Yeah, how did the Warrior Princess sire you?"

Xe flashed a grin. "Because she's more of a man than you'll ever be and twice the woman you'll ever have. She has many skills." The farmer slammed his drink down on the counter and was about to stand when Xe grabbed his ear, keeping him in his seat. "I'd think very carefully if I were you," she said conversationally, looking at the whole group. "Is Xena of Amphipolis someone you really want to anger?" They all looked nervously over to my lover who sat with her arms crossed, beaming with pride at our daughter. They slowly shook their heads. "Good," she continued with a nod to her grandmother. "But I wasn't talking about her."

"She's a smart lady." A new voice I recognized as my father's came from the tavern doorway. "Any affront to Gabrielle, or her family can be taken up with me." He sternly looked at the men as he walked over to Xe. "May I join you at your table?" he asked softly.

Xe looked at us for an accepting nod, then led father to our table. He'd aged a lot in the past dozen years, it hurt me see him so old.

He didn't take a seat, only stood there looking at me. It took a while, but I noticed tears in his eyes. "Gabrielle, can you forgive a foolish old man? I was wrong. I thought you weren't the daughter I'd tried to raise, but seeing you at the funeral and now, with your children..." he stammered, looking for the right words. Taking a breath he began again. "I know you didn't learn it from me, but somewhere you learned the important things, and you've raised fine children. I wasn't there for you... when it happened. I'll carry that regret with me to my own fire. I just want you to know I'm proud of what you've become. Of who you are."

I couldn't keep my own tears back as I cried in my father's arms. He was the last person in the world I would have expected to try to reconcile with me, and he surprised me beyond words. We spent three or four hours with him in that tavern. He got to know Xe and Ly, and I know that meant a lot to him. Xena was happy for me, and I was beyond happiness. I had something back I thought I'd lost forever. My father had returned.

Chapter 8: Hereditary Heroes

Mel carefully climbed down the rock face, forcing herself not to look at the crashing surf below. At one point she slipped, and would have fallen into the pounding waters were it not for the vise like grip she had on the rope, her lifeline. After what seemed like an eternity, she saw the outer rim of the cave opening. Moving like a spider along the slick stone, she finally positioned herself to drop down to into the cave mouth. She landed lightly on her feet, not making a sound. She clung to the shadows and was surprised to see another man besides Byron in the cave. Before she could move, he spoke. The familiarity of his voice kept her riveted in place.

"Byron, old boy," Tildus offered cheerfully. "You're cheating."

"What are you doing here?" the Egyptologist screamed, his voice taking on a hysterical feminine edge.

"I'm watching, as required by the ancient texts," Tildus replied. His eyes traveled upward as he scanned the ceiling of the cave. "You know the insect thing isn't allowed," he said with mild reproach.

"And just what to you plan to do about it?" Byron asked, cocky.

Tildus grinned, and lightly blew a puff of air toward the ceiling. Byron watched, amused, until he noticed the bats that covered the cave ceiling waking up. One by one, then in groups, they descended from their sleeping perches as they began to swoop down and consume the insect feast that carpeted the floor of their cave. The flapping of leathery wings could be heard in the far tunnels of the cave as more bats continued to wake.

"If you're going to beat Janice," Tildus scolded the seething man. "You're going to have to do it on your own."

"You'll pay for this, Hephaestus!" Byron growled menacingly.

"We shall see," the elderly man allowed with a smile.

Without another word, Byron turned and picked the six shooter up off the cave floor. Gun in hand he headed back toward the tunnel, towards Janice Covington.

"No!" Mel shouted as she ran from the concealing shadows.

Calmly, Byron turned, aimed the gun at her head and fired.

Mel blinked, expecting to feel the sting of lead as life fled from her body. After a moment, realizing that she was still very much alive, she opened her eyes. There, floating mere inches from her forehead, was a stationary bullet.

"Come, come, Velasca," Tildus chided as he walked over to Mel and plucked the bullet from where it levitated. "You made an agreement with Callisto, remember? You leave Xena and her descendants alone, and in turn she leaves Gabrielle and her progeny to you. Don't renege, it's bad form."

With a fuming scowl, Byron turned and continued back to the tunnel once again. Mel was about to race after him when a gentle hand on her shoulder stopped her where she stood. "No, child," Tildus said softly. "The battle with Ares was yours, this one is hers. Let her fulfill her destiny."

"But she'll die," Mel sobbed. Imploringly, she gazed into the face of the kindly old man. "Don't let her die."

Sadly, Tildus shook his head. "I'm sorry, Melinda, but that isn't for me to decide. Janice will live or die based on her own actions. Still, she doesn't strike me as the sort finished with life, now does she?" Mel nodded in reluctant agreement.

Mel Pappas was not the only one in the cave who had difficulty with Tildus' instructions. Argo crept from the cover of the bolder where she'd been hiding to slink toward the back of the cave. "Not so fast," Tildus continued with mild reproach. "You've done your part too, Argo, this last isn't for you." With a guilty expression, the dog returned to the cave mouth and sat at Mel's side.

"She'll be okay," Mel assured the dog, hoping with every fiber of her being she was right.

Janice heard the unusual sounds just as she felt a light weight settle on her thigh. She opened her unswollen eye and, after a moment focused on a tiny bat picking a centipede off of her leg. An instant later, it took flight with its meal. Staring in amazement, she looked around as bats everywhere went after the tide of insects. More landed on her, gently touching down, grabbing a bug, then taking flight. With a renewed sense of hope she shook the sleep from her mind and with determination borne out of that hope leaned forward for the torch. Before pain claimed her anew, she had to get this done.

"Got any last words?" Byron's voice taunted from down the tunnel. He was getting close Janice realized. It was now or never. She cried out as the pain of movement surged up through her body. Bending her broken leg, she reached the torch, lighting the dynamite fuse just as the sputtering flame went out and Byron's form appeared down the tunnel.

His eyes went wide at the sight of the sputtering fuse, then wider still as the stone sarcophagus started to tip. Put off balance by Janice's lunge for the flame, it rocked slightly, then tipped off its ledge, sliding down the track like a bobsled. "Oh shit!" Janice gasped as she realized what she'd done. She originally moved the coffin onto the track so she could haul it to the cave mouth before blowing up the contents. Riding it down was hardly her plan.

Byron looked equally surprised as Janice sped towards him. There wasn't anywhere to go in the narrow tunnel. Before being able to fire a single shot, he was knocked into the coffin on top of Janice.

Neither passenger had time to get their bearings. The tunnel twisted and turned, the ride bumpy in places where the tracks had disappeared completely. Still, it was steep enough, and the sarcophagus smooth enough, that nothing short of hitting a wall would stop its progress. Hitting the last descending slope, they picked up speed and sped into the mouth of the main cave.

In an instant the sarcophagus appeared at one end of the cave, each passenger struggling for balance, the next moment they were shooting out the cave mouth, flying through sky over the brilliant blue ocean below.

"Oh my God!" Mel screamed and took off out of the cave mouth, climbing down as fast as she could.

Argo tried to follow, but was stopped by Tildus' hand around her bandanna. "This is not for you to see," he said gently, picking up the ninety-five pound dog in one arm and climbing up the cliff to the top.

Janice regained her wits as the cold air hit her in the face like a slap. She grabbed the gun from Byron's hand and threw it away from the airborne coffin. He struggled, clearly disoriented. Grabbing for another stick of dynamite, she lit another fuse from the now almost expired one. "Hold this," she screamed at Byron. Then, with a shove she rolled her body out of the falling tomb.

"Wha..." he stammered, confused. He looked at his hands to see what Janice had given him.

As soon as his eyes registered the lit stick of dynamite, it exploded. He didn't have time to scream. Janice felt the impact of the explosion as she plummeted to the ocean floor one hundred feet below. She doubted she'd live, but at least she took Xena, Gabrielle and Velasca with her. As the blue of the Aegean Sea rushed up to greet her, she instinctively stretched her body out into a dive position. Seconds later she hit the water with tremendous force.

Mel watched as the sarcophagus soared over the ocean. Pausing for an instant in its arc, it angled downward and fell. Janice's form could be clearly seen launching away from the stone coffin seconds before the whole thing blew up. The rapid sound of explosions, one after the other rang in her ears as dust and rock rained down into the sea.

Mel had made her way part way down the cliff face. Standing on an outcrop perhaps fifty feet above the water, it took a moment for her to spot Janice's body. There wasn't much in the way of debris, but the lingering smoke made vision difficult. Without stopping to consider the safety of her actions, Mel leapt from the cliff. The water was a cold shock as it rushed up around her, making her clothes heavy and cumbersome.

"Janice!" Mel shouted looking around frantically for her lover. From her vantage point it was impossible to see the archeologist. Mel listened intently for any response, but was rewarded with only the sounds of water lapping against her body. Not deterred, quickly discarded her heavy boots then swam with powerful strokes in the direction she'd last seen her love.

Janice hit the water hard, its stinging chill alerting her mind even as the impact made her leg scream in agony. She felt the pressure on her ears increase painfully as her body continued downward, propelled by its hundred-foot fall. Angling her body slightly, she used what momentum she could to carry her back to the surface.

With lungs burning from exertion, she finally broke the water's surface, expelling spent air and taking in fresh oxygen greedily. The clear air made her head swim. She felt dizzy, exhausted, spent and giddy all at once. "So what if I die right now?" she thought. "I kept my word to my ancestors." She readied herself to slip below the surface one last time, absently regretting the need to leave Mel and Argo.

"Oh, no you don't," a stern voice said as a strong arm reached around her chest.

"Mel?" Janice asked groggily as she tried to open her eyes. Was she dreaming?

"Damn right it's me. With all the trouble I went to get y'all housebroken, I'm not about to let you drown," Mel replied as she carefully kept Janice's head above water. Inwardly she cringed. Janice was a mess. Her eye was still swollen and she had several bug bites. Her hand hung limp at her side, severely burned. Peering into the clear water, Mel could also see the bloodied disfigurement of her left shin. She was bleeding profusely and the Southerner wondered how long before the blood attracted any variety of ocean predators.

"I'm tired, Mel," Janice whispered. "Really tired."

"Well, you can't give up yet," Mel urged. "I love you, Janice. Me and Argo need you, you're not leaving us without a fight."

"Kiss me," Janice breathed, barely audible.

"Now is a funny time to get friendly," Mel said gently before tenderly claiming soft lips with her own. At the contact she could feel Janice's body relax in her grip as she slowly slipped away.

"Love you, Melinda," she whispered softly before closing her eyes once more.

Mel fought against the urge to panic when she noted the shallow movement of her lover's continued breathing. She was alive for now, but wouldn't be much longer if she didn't get out of the cold salt water. Treading water for both of them, she held Janice tightly, determined to keep her lover alive, by sheer force of will if necessary.

She didn't know how long she'd been treading water, continuing to kick her strong legs in spite of the exhaustion and cramping of her muscles. She heard an odd noise that didn't match the sounds of the sea. Distracted, she looked around, breaking out a huge grin as she saw the familiar hull of The Charmer approaching.

***

The final trip I made to Potidea was for the funeral of my father. Once again the four of us made the trip. Lyceus was sixteen, the only thing that surpassed his good looks was the gentleness of his heart. Xe was eighteen and resembled Xena more every day. In a way Cyrene got her wish and was able to envision a Xena and Lyceus without Cortese's raid on Amphipolis. Lila had a total of four children, two boys and two girls. Erasmus was no longer in the picture. I didn't know all the details, but understood that he'd been a troubled soul since they married. Like Meleager, he took to drink to wash away what ever pain he suffered, only serving to create more. Lila told me she was pregnant for the third time when he took off for good.

We were at mother's house. I was surprised she'd invited us over after the lighting of the funeral pyre, but accepted nonetheless. Lyceus and Xe were immediately adopted by Lila's two eldest, Daphne and Ulysses, and taken outside to play. I swear she named her son that just to annoy me. As for the other two, they were twins; a boy and a girl. Lila tried to balance them on her lap as I helped mother prepare dinner. I felt so bad for my sister. It was bad enough what she'd had to endure with Erasmus, what we'd all had to endure. But to be left, two months before giving birth to twins, then facing the monumental task of raising four children alone...life was not going to be easy for my sister.

Xena came in from tending to Idgie, and noting Lila's distress, offered to take one of the babies. Shyly, Lila handed the girl over, since the boy was finishing up his latest meal.

"What's her name?" Xena asked as she shifted the child in her arms. I smiled to myself. Xena was an expert with children and it showed.

"Gabrielle," Lila answered softly. My eyes shot over to my sister in wonder.

Xena only smiled. Without taking her eyes from the infant's face she smiled. "Well, hello then Gabrielle," she said.

"This is Xenos," Lila announced as she handed me the other infant. Now it was my turn to grin as Xena looked over, amazed.

"Lila, you didn't have to do that," I said, my voice thick with emotion.

"It was your father's idea," mother said as she brought a steaming roast to the table. "Lila has a chance raising her children to undo a lot of mistakes we've both made," mother explained.

"I don't want to lose sight of that," Lila finished.

"It was your father's final wish," mother finished.

The only thing that prevented me from crying my eyes out was Xe and Ly bursting through the door, each with a small child clinging to their back. I don't know how, but both children inherited my appetite.

"Dinner ready?" Lyceus asked.

"We're starved," Xe added with a chorus of laughter from Daphne and Ulysses.

Shortly after returning to Amphipolis we were paid a visit by Xenan Gabris Phantes, my Centaur nephew. Ares was on the move to the north. He spoke hurriedly about the battle for the first age.

"Slow down," I finally asked. "What battle?"

"The Oracle," he replied, rushed. "Mother said to mention the Oracle's predictions. The old myths." He looked at Xena imploringly. "I came because I can run faster than any of the Amazons. Mother said that you would understand."

"I do," Xena assured them.

"Well, I don't," I interjected.

"Gabrielle," Xena said gently turning to look at me. "I told you before about the oracle that made the predictions about mother." I nodded. I'd heard those stories several times, and had even written them down. "The oracle also told her of a battle that would be fought in three different ages. I have to go fight Ares..."

"Then what?" I interrupted. "Our children will have to fight him? Xena, we need you here."

"Shhhh," she said placing gentle fingers on my mouth. "It'll be okay. I know I'm needed here, which is why I have every intention of coming back. I have to do this. Trust me, my heart."

There wasn't much I could do. Xena's mind was made up and that was final. Did I mention she can be stubborn? I managed to persuade her to take a satchel of my scrolls for luck. It was going to be a long trip and it would give her some distraction all those nights until the inevitable. The month that we waited for her return was the longest I'd ever endured. She did come back though. Exhausted, bruised and bleeding, but came back she did. The children were asleep, as was Cyrene. I was up writing, waiting as I had been each night. The door opened silently, but I felt the breeze and the presence that made my pulse race. "Xena," I whispered as I ran to her.

"I'm home, Gabrielle," she said, wrapping me in those wonderful strong arms. "For good." It took a moment to realize what she'd just said. Then I noticed that her sword and chakram were missing. "They're gone, Gabrielle," she explained. "As are your scrolls. I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Xena," I assured her. "I can always write more. You're back and that's all that matters. Is there anything you can't do?" I wondered aloud.

"Making you happy, Gabrielle, is the only goal I've got left," she replied with a kiss.

Xena did make me happy. And I her, for many, many years. Eventually we lost Cyrene, which was hard, but our family continued to thrive in spite of our loss. Lyceus was the first of our children to marry. He met a poet who'd studied under the great Sappho and was smitten from the moment she'd entered the Inn. He was seventeen at the time and it took him three years to convince her to have him. Xe was another matter. For a time it seemed unlikely that she would marry or commit to anyone for longer than a season or two. For several years it seemed as if her interest didn't extend beyond women. There wasn't an attractive woman who came through Amphipolis that our entire family didn't appreciate. After breaking the hearts of both sexes for so long, I think even Xe began to wonder if she'd ever meet her match. Naturally, as Fate would have it, she did. She was won over by a young philosopher. They'd argue for hours about philosophy and ethics. Finally, she agreed to marry him. As she said, put up with him on a permanent basis. Xena and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Lyceus and his wife had two children, Lila and Cyrene. Xe and her husband had a son, Marcus. We enjoyed our grandchildren immensely, even though technically Marcus was Xena's great-grandson. We were sorry that Cyrene never had the opportunity to enjoy them, but sadly, that is how life works sometimes. To my surprise, Lyceus kept in contact with my birth family. While I'd essentially come to an understanding with mother and Lila, the closeness that had existed before was irretrievable. On his own, Ly forged a new bond with his aunt and grandmother, occasionally taking his family to Potidea for visits.

Sadly, as the Fates command, life can not endure forever. My world came crashing in around me on a bright summer morning. After more than six decades Xena could still leave me breathless and sated. To the very end we were fiercely in love with each other. Living with a passion that could not be curbed, we indulged ourselves and each other as often as our aging bodies would allow. Xena told me she wanted to go for a ride. "Gabrielle, you ignite me," she said. "I've got to do something with this pent up energy or I'll wear you out."

"I'd like to see you try," I replied with a grin.

Still the day was warm, and she was feeling her oats, so I kissed her good-bye and wished her a nice ride.

"You know I love you more each day, don't you?" she asked, as she mounted the roan stallion.

"As I do you, my heart," I replied. "Be careful."

Around noon, Lyceus and Xe went to look for their Na. She'd not come back yet and I was a little worried. Xe's expression when she returned was all I needed to see. With an anguished cry I ran outside as Lyceus was lowering Xena's body from his horse. Both children were sobbing, but I scarcely noticed as I cradled my love in my arms one last time.

Later, when the grieving had begun, something that would take until my own death to finish, Lyceus explained what had happened.

"The roan threw a shoe and stumbled," he said his voice raw from sobbing. "They were on a steep incline, and the horse fell. Na broke her neck when she was thrown. She didn't feel a thing." I nodded absently. At least I had that.

Xena was put to rest in a sarcophagus between Lyceus and Cyrene. I contacted the Amazons and explained why I would not be committing her body to the fire they'd wanted so many years ago.

"Gabrielle," Ephiny said gently. "We don't want you to. Now that the battle of the first age has happened, it changes things." Although I was hurting beyond belief at my loss, I listened attentively as Ephiny relayed the last of the Amazon legends I would need to know.

I lived eight years after Xena left. They weren't bad years, but too much of me was missing to fully enjoy them. I continued to live at the Inn. Lyceus had taken over running it. While I loved Xe dearly, it was harder to see her than my son. She was so like her grandmother. She looked then as Xena did in her prime. Her voice, the smile...I had to remind myself that it wasn't Xena.

I continued to write some. When I'd decided I'd penned my last tale, I had the scrolls carefully wrapped and sent to Solari. I knew she'd take good care of them. My own children already knew my stories, they wouldn't need them on parchment. When my last day arrived, I knew it was so. I didn't feel particularly bad, I just felt ready. In a way, I was looking forward to crossing over, to being reunited with my love. Since my health had been slipping, the children came by each day to visit. As the Amazons had asked, I sent for them as well when I knew my time was near. They kept a respectful distance, providing what support they could for my family. I kissed each grandchild goodbye before saying my final farewells to Xe and Lyceus. "I'm proud of you both," I told them, "and love you with all my heart. You've learned, and passed on the important things. A greater gift you could not have given Xena and me." The blue of Xe's eyes was the last thing I saw on this earth, until I saw the blue eyes beyond.

Chapter 9: New Beginnings

"Is she alright?" a gentle Southern voice asked, the worried edge unmistakable.

"Yes, Mel," another voice replied patiently. "Same as yesterday. She's been through a lot. She'll wake up when she's ready."

"Mel?" Janice gasped weakly, her throat dry and tight.

"Janice, you're awake," the Southerner replied, relieved.

"Maybe," Janice whispered as she thought about opening her eyes. Then, feeling a vaguely familiar, softness against the skin of her breast, she opened her eyes and looked down. She was back on board the Lovely Lunacy, nestled in a bed and wrapped in black satin sheets.

"I thought those might wake you up," Mel teased with a knowing gleam in her eye.

"How did I get here?" Janice asked, taking in the faces of the concerned Amazons gathered around the bed. "Where's Ar..." Before she could get the dog's name past her lips the Golden Retriever/Alsatian jumped up on the bed. Janice flinched, expecting the jolt of the bed to hurt her broken leg. Looking down, she could clearly see a cast outlined by the satin. She checked her hand, noting that it was bandaged as well. "What happened?"

"You pulled it off, that's what happened," Emily said, beaming from the foot of the bed. "Xena and Gabrielle are ashes as they should be, and Velasca, or rather Byron, is no more. We found chunks of him floating all over the place.

"Small chunks," Quest added for clarification.

Mel frowned at the grisly tone the conversation had taken. "The Charmer came and picked us up. Quest and the others managed to fend off Leesto's thugs."

"Picked us up?" Janice asked confused.

"You should have seen it," Tory continued, picking up the story. "After you hit the water, Mel jumps off this fifty foot cliff after you. I saw it with the binoculars. Once we got rid of Leesto's thugs we came right over."

"Yeah," Stacey added. "Debby fixed your leg and wrapped up your hand. You've been unconscious for two days."

"How did Argo get here?" the archeologist asked, finally beginning to wake up.

"That's the strange part," Emily replied. "Someone had delivered her to the crew of the Lunacy. She had our coordinates tucked into her bandanna. They arrived only a couple of hours after we picked you and Mel out of the water."

Mel looked over at Emily, her surprise evident. "You didn't tell me that. Did y'all get a description of whoever it was who dropped her off?"

The blond woman nodded. "The Captain said it was an old guy with glasses."

Mel smiled, sending a silent thank you to Tildus. "What about Leesto?" Janice asked.

"She was picked up at the top of the cliff. She's in custody, in connection with the Athens museum theft," Kit supplied, passing Janice a glass of water.

"I doubt it'll stick, but I'm glad she's out of the way for now," the archeologist replied thoughtfully. "What about the marbles?"

"From the temple frieze?" Mel asked to clarify. "Why, they're only the most recent amazing discovery of one, Dr. Janice Covington. The authorities have secured the sight and I'm sure teams will be assembled in no time to retrieve them."

"That might not be so good, Mel," Janice warned.

"Why ever not?"

"Because the sarcophagus lid is still in the cave. When word gets out I destroyed the remains..."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Emily assured her. "After all, none of us saw you blow up the coffin. Did we, Tory?" she asked, looking at the younger Amazon.

"See it? Why, no, of course not. It isn't your fault, Dr. Covington, if you discovered the cave but the remains were already gone."

For the first time in a long while, Janice smiled, a relaxed grin that threatened to stay on her face for days.

Later, when Janice had convinced everyone that she was indeed on the mend, she and Mel were left alone in their cabin. Propped up against Mel's side, her head resting against a soft breast with Argo curled up at her feet, Janice Covington was the picture of contentment.

"They'd like us to stay in the vicinity for a day or two, to make sure you're okay," Mel explained, stroking Janice's hair softly.

"Fine by me," Janice agreed with a sigh. "Now that the crisis is over, it'd be nice to spend some time with the family. Maybe I'll even find the time to get seasick."

"I can hardly wait," Mel replied snuggling closer and resting her chin on top of Janice's head. "But I'm glad you think seeing family is a good idea. I was thinking..."

"Yes?" Janice asked rolling over. Her left leg was clumsy but after a couple of tries she got it out of the way. With Mel stretched out beneath her, she rested her head on the Southerner's chest, sighing with contentment at the sound of the familiar heartbeat.

"I was thinking that for summer break," Mel continued, lightly touching her lover's back, "we might meet some more relatives, head to Scotland, perhaps?"

"The MacGabbers?" Janice asked, her left hand roaming over familiar skin.

"Exactly," Mel agreed.

"Good, because I've been thinking, too," Janice continued. "I don't think the scrolls we found are all of them. Who knows, maybe we'll find something new in Scotland." Janice continued her ministrations, nipping at soft flesh beneath Mel's satin slip.

"Ah, Janice, what do you think you're doing?" she asked concerned.

"You mean you can't tell?" Janice replied, stunned.

"What about your leg?' her lover inquired gently.

"I've got news for you, Mel, I don't use my leg for that. Having my right hand bandaged is going to be a problem, but I'm willing to improvise."

"You're incorrigible, Janice Covington," Mel breathed, her voice throaty and warm. "And I hope to God you stay that way for a long, long time."

"With you, Melinda Pappas, I don't doubt it," Janice replied claiming hungry lips. Passion ebbed and flowed as two hearts beat in tandem. Souls bound together beyond the confines of time and space pulsated with the devotion of their union. With a love to rival that of their ancestors before them, Janice Covington and Melinda Pappas were connected, as they would remain forever.

Epilogue: The Year 2042

Xero smiled as her fingers moved across the sensory input pad. Arctic blue eyes watched lines of data scrolling across the top and bottom of her screen. It was a new security protocol by Hybrid Systems Inc. Running an absent hand through her long black hair, she studied the data carefully. Xero was at work. Paid to compromise and steal intellectual property, Xero was one of the best in the business. At age twenty eight, she already had fifteen years experience as a professional hacker, a nettie, cyber thief, and virtual thug. Watching the two data streams simultaneously, she keyed the sequence to launch one of her own encryption programs. It would take a few moments to insinuate itself within the data stream, so Xero reached for her glass of water and took a long decadent sip.

There was nothing quite like the taste of natural water, and Xero sighed as the cool liquid spilled down her throat. Sadly, she knew that her bottle was almost empty. It had been a gift from her roommate and occasional business partner after a tricky job well done. Never taking her eyes from the screen she saw the green flash as her program launched into operation. Xero proceeded with the next phase of her theft. After defining her search parameters, she let the retrieval program go and checked its progress with her watch as well as the on screen chronometer.

As the seconds ticked down something at the top of the screen caught her eye. Almost imperceptible, there had been a slight lag in the data reading across the security field. Keeping her input strokes on the sensory pad consistent, Xero keyed the sequence to her personal trace/counterseek program. It was doubtful she'd been tapped by a syscop; it'd never happened before. But Xero knew all too well that there was a first time for everything.

There it was again, someone was definitely on her channel observing. Carefully, she continued her work. So far she could only be hit with snooping charges since she hadn't downloaded any data, yet. Keeping a steady hand she relaxed. If it was local security, they might just think she was with an MIS company or an overworked employee doing routine maintenance. Her cyber-retriever flashed orange, it had the data. She could set it aside to download later, or continue with her theft. She was spared the decision when the watching entity made it's presence known.

Nice work Xero, the greeting flashed on her screen, gold text on a black background. Automatically Xero keyed the sequence to launch a tracer program.

Who are you? she replied, stalling for time.

An admirer, possibly an employer, came the immediate response.

Xero's blue eyes flashed in surprise. The tracer error message was unmistakable. Whoever was at the other end of the data line had heavy duty encryption. She read a few lines into the error subroutine and froze. The encryption had syscop data nodes. She'd been spotted by a net cop.

As you've no doubt discovered by now, I've got syscop access, the message flashed. But I'm not interested in arresting you. Xero, I need your help. My keyword is Amphipolis. I'll meet you at--

Xero launched her scrambler and cut the connection cutting off the data stream mid flow. Letting out a controlled breath, she launched her sanitation program and shut down the system. It was possible if she'd been tapped, she'd also been given a worm. Virtual tapeworms were an effective tool cybercops used to identify the hardware used in the theft and compromise of intellectual property. A tiny data code, it was impossible to find unless you knew what to look for, but when activated could shut down entire systems as well as forward transcripts of all net activity to the authorities.

"Hey, Xero. I'm back," Bat called from the doorway. Xero could hear the distinctive sound of groceries being put away as various cupboards were opened and closed.

"Bat, get in here," she called, "I've got a job for you."

"What's the problem?" Bat asked, navigating the various cables and link lines that littered the floor of the tiny living room.

"I just got tapped by a syscop. I need your eye to check out the system," Xero said with a glance to the woman who had taken a seat next to her.

The most unusual thing about Bat was a black eye patch worn over her left eye. The result of a botched lens implant job, she'd decided on practicality over vanity. She'd gone to a gray market surgeon for a mechanical eye. Revolting to look at, it gave her an edge hacking. In a business where every edge counted, this was a decided advantage. "A syscop?" Bat echoed, impressed. "No shit. Must've been a good one."

"Not that good, I spotted them," Xero replied. "I hope you didn't have any plans tonight. I need you to go through my system, check for tapeworms. I still need to get this job done, cop or no cop."

Bat nodded, understanding. She had no illusions about her role under Xero's roof. She worked for the enigmatic woman, simple as that. Until her debt was paid off, Xero, for all intents and purposes, owned her. "No problem. Like I've ever got a date," she muttered. "Why don't you give me some space. If I'm going to disassemble the system, you'll only be in the way. Go down to the 'Horn. Get something to eat, relax - get laid."

Xero watched as Bat pulled her long brown hair into a ponytail. Already she could see the shorter woman planning which backup systems to use, what tools she'd need. "I thought that was what you were for?" she shot back good-naturedly.

Bat frowned. "What? I don't kick you out of my bed the two or three times you end up there drunk, and now I'm gay? Spare me."

"You didn't have any complaints at the time..." Xero stopped herself. She knew exactly why the other woman hadn't complained. Bat was afraid of her. As one of the few former corporate systems managers, Bat had a price on her head. People who worked corporate and then got out didn't have long life expectancies. That was, in fact, how they'd met. On a rainy night, with two corporate security thugs at her heels, Bat had wandered into the Saddlehorn Pub & Grill. Desperate for a cover, she'd foolishly made a play for Xero and ended up in an entirely new line of work. Since then, she'd enjoyed the protection of Xero's association, but also responded to the taller woman's demands unflinchingly. "Sorry," Xero mumbled, thinking she may have pushed the other woman too far.

"Shit, don't worry about it," Bat replied with a grin. "You know our deal. I worry about your hardware, you take care of your own software, so for chrissakes, go get some, will ya? You've been edgy as hell all week." Xero grinned at that. The other woman got up and began to set up some diagnostic equipment. "Xero," she continued as she worked, "I'd consider you a friend if I thought for a millisecond that you had any. This thing has obviously gotten you spooked. So take the night off and chill. Say hi to everyone at the 'Horn for me and by the time you get back, this rig will be running in top form." Xero nodded, grabbing her leather jacket from the couch.

"Here," Bat said, picking up a small mobile communications unit. "Take the mobie." From a compartment on the bottom she extracted two tiny ear pieces. "Wear the wire, and if I've got any questions, I'll let you know."

"Sure," Xero agreed, slipping the tiny receiver into her ear.

"Oh, and do me a favor, will ya?" Bat finished as Xero headed for the door. "If you see some good looking Bobs tonight, for god's sake get their number. It's been so long since I've had a guy, I'm forgetting what being straight is all about."

"I'll see what I can do," Xero replied with a grin, pocketing the mobie unit and clipping the tiny phone to her jacket.

The Saddlehorn was unique even though it was only one of several hangouts frequented by hackers. Versus was a well known hacker bar as was Fire Circle, but they didn't have the mystique of the 'Horn. The Saddlehorn Pub & Grill was exclusive. The word was out that only the invited and initiated could congregate there, those who ignored the warning usually found corrupted net accounts soon after an unwelcome visit. The clientele was also exclusively women, not that it was a lesbian hacker bar per se, although at first blush that was what most people assumed. The usual crowd of hackers also included those buyers who would procure their services. Only the most serious and determined buyers ended up at the 'Horn. Simply put, it was the place adopted by the best of the best. Even the managers of other bars spent time at the 'Horn. If you were a woman and good on the nets, you had to be there.

It wasn't an easy place to find, but Xero knew the route by heart. The 'Horn was more of a home for her than her apartment. Nodding to the bouncer, Bandit, she stepped through the door. The security light glowed green. She wasn't packing any weapons. Several unfortunate incidents with flamethrowers had made the precautions necessary, but Bandit did her job with unobtrusive efficiency. Quickly, her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The ancient battered saddle that hung over the bar was bathed in soft blue light today, reflecting the mood of the patrons gathered. It was a little on the early side, only nine thirty. The lights would be changed over to red when the prowlers were out. A place to relax, make business deals, have a decent meal and cruise, the 'Horn was something different to everyone.

Xero made her way to a table in the back. Lady Delirium and Addict, the bartenders nodded and sent the Pirate over to take her order. "A little early for you isn't it, Xero?" Pirate Ska Mayhem asked conversationally.

"I'll have a beer, make it a Buckner. Maybe dinner later, ask me then," Xero replied as she looked around. The small dance floor was vacant. Several women played darts at one end of the room. Credit codes exchanged hands after a decisive throw won the game. At a corner booth, Wordee sat with several other women. She recognized MaryD, but the other two she couldn't place.

"Where's your sidekick?" Ska asked, putting a dark bottle down in front of Xero.

"Working," Xero answered as she keyed in her payment and a tip. "Who's the newbies?"

"Just that, newbies. Both after Wordee, the one on the right is a potential employer, the one on the left is a suitor." After a moment's reflection she continued, "I guess it's your fault."

"How do you figure?" Xero asked, taking a sip of the smooth beer.

"You nailed Bat, one of the few straight women who hang out here. That makes it hard on the rest of 'em. Not that I'm going to cry them any rivers anytime soon."

"I heard that," Lani remarked from a table behind Xero's. "Pirate's picking on the straight chicks again," she continued, only louder this time.

"Oh, look who's talking," Ska shot back sarcastically.

All eyes turned to a table in the center of the room. Blue, the Arbitrator who had been trying to enjoy a peaceful dinner with Jenbob, was suddenly the center of attention. "So make her buy the straight chicks a drink," she finally decided. Sentence passed, everyone returned to their individual business.

"There go my tips for tonight," Ska muttered wandering off.

Xero enjoyed her beer. Left alone to observe the interactions around her, she felt herself finally unwind. The big winner at darts, Trillbaby, bought the next round for the house. Halfway through her second beer, the receiver in her ear clicked on.

"I've got something for you, can you talk?" Bat's disembodied voice asked softly in her ear.

"Yeah, what do you have," Xero asked after another sip.

"I'm off the nets, running a closed loop system to check out your files. You've got a tapeworm all right, but it isn't a tracker."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she sent over a shitload of files, but nothing to track you. It's all stuff so you can get ahold of her. She may be a psycho."

"How do you know she’s a she?" Xero wondered.

"That's what I'm telling you. She sent over personnel files; all kinds of shit. Her name is Rielle MacGab, I've got a picture - she's cute...I mean if you're interested in women, that sort of thing."

"I get your point, Bat, go on," Xero pressed.

"According to this, she's a syscop for the Archives Corp. But she's on a leave of absence. She had a medical leave a couple of months ago, now she's just taking vacation." Xero could picture Bat as she went through the files. Shoes off, curled up on the couch fidgeting with a pen in one hand. She was talking fast. That meant she was scanning files as she spoke, struggling to keep up with her mechanical eye.

"So why do you think she's a psycho?" Xero asked.

"All this other stuff she sent you. Xero, buddy, she must have been waiting for you to log into that data stream. She was watching you the whole time. She's downloaded a book, The Adventure of a Lifetime, a Memoir by Melinda Pappas. Provided links to a television database for an old '90s show, her own records and the message that you tried to cut off. Be careful, Xero, she's planning to meet you at the 'Horn."

"You unlocked all this with the keyword Amphipolis?" Xero asked, scanning the inhabitants of the club once again.

"Yeah, just like her greeting said. I'm running a buffer system, so I'm not worried about getting zapped. But it was just a simple keyword. No traps or homing beacons. If this picture is an accurate one, you're looking for a twenty six year old red head with green eyes and," she paused to read further "according to her psych files, a sunny disposition." Xero didn't answer right away and Bat laughed. "Yeah, I know. Just your type. Still, why not have a go? The 'Horn regulars are too intimidated to actually sleep with you. Did I mention you being annoyingly tense all week?"

"If that's all the news you've got," Xero cut her off. "Why don't you reassemble the system and get it back on the nets. Put all this new stuff on an isolated drive and I'll look at it later."

"Okay, will do," Bat assured the hacker. "Logging off now."

The 'Horn was beginning to fill up as more women came in after their mid-day shifts. Few of the women who frequented the place had regular jobs, but a number of hackers kept regular hours too. Especially the women who worked for hacking companies. They had shifts and benefits like legitimate workers. Xero considered ordering dinner when a tense hush settled around the club. A couple of men, Bobs as they were known at the 'Horn, stepped through the security markers and were making their way to the bar. Both were tall, about Xero's height and good looking. Their sun bleached hair and bronzed skin screamed 'surfer'.

Xero noticed Lady Delirium step away from Addict, who was pouring drinks for the Bobs. Retrieving the mobie unit from her pocket, she keyed in the secured frequency and turned on her communications unit.

"Bobs at the 'Horn, Shadow. See what you can do." Lady Delirium said quietly.

"They been here before?" Xero asked quietly.

"Xero, that you?" Lady D asked as she looked over. Seeing the dark haired woman's affirming nod, she continued. "No, they're newbies, not trolls. They just told Addict that they're in construction and retrofit. They're here on vacation. Too tan to be hackers."

"I'm in their net accounts now," Shadow offered.

"Then take it easy on them, Shadow," Xero asked. "When you screw with their files, don't mess 'em up too bad."

"Bat send you out to find her dates?" Shadow asked with a wry laugh.

"Yeah, so give 'em her locator file. Then they'll know who to contact to clean up the mess."

"Okay, will do," Shadow agreed. "They should be out of there as soon as they try to pay."

As if on cue, one of the men looked up alarmed as he swiped his account card through the reader a second time. The other man tried his card but with the same lack of success. Both men left abruptly when they'd logged on to their accounts only to find garbled text instead of account information. Once they were out the door and down the block, their drinks were raffled off, the two women who won raising their glasses in silent toast to their now absent benefactors.

Bat carefully adjusted her baseball cap before connecting the final system wire to the net brainbox. If a trap or other aggressive program had slipped past her careful examination, this was often enough to trigger it. She held her breath for a couple seconds, and when nothing happened she readjusted her hat and relaxed. No matter how many years went by, every system connection took her back to the day five years ago when she'd earned the name Bat and lost an eye in the process. She should have seen the trap but didn't. As a result her client's brain box blew up in her face, damaging the lens of her left eye beyond repair. Convinced she'd be blind, her friends started calling her 'Bat'. Her eye recovered, with the aid of a mechanical replacement, but the name stuck anyway.

System initialized, she keyed in Xero's general use account. If someone was after her boss, logging into the system as herself would serve little purpose. She started with routine housekeeping. Xero's preferences were pretty straightforward, and Bat knew the subroutines as if they were her own. She logged in the day's messages and took note of the net account balances. Everything was in order there as well.

Satisfied that the system was operating as it should, she launched the program that would fling her onto the nets. Cruising Xero's regular haunts, she began to notice a few familiar faces, identified by their screen icons, as well as several new ones. She'd cloaked Xero's own icon, making her invisible to the other passersby unless they were using a high-end detection program. Even then, the detector would only be able to tell that another entity was logged on, not that it was Xero. Unfortunately, such programs caused more trouble than they were worth while hacking, so they were only used for sightseeing or other legitimate net business only.

Things were slow, but Bat noted that it was still early. She was about to make her way to the node for the 'Horn when she was stopped by a greeting.

We meet again, Xero, the message said.

"Holy shit," Bat gasped, her good eye wide in surprise staring at the screen.

Or should I say, Xena? the message continued.

"It's her psycho," Bat whispered as she touched the control of her mobie unit. "Xero, you there?" she asked, worried. There was no response. Either Xero was on another channel, or the mobile communications system had been jammed. Bat glanced back at the screen. The message was waiting for a response. "What would Xero say?" she wondered. She'd been spotted and tagged, it was no good to try to pretend otherwise. Finally she keyed in her response. Who the fuck is Xena?

Could it be that you don't know yet? This gets better all the time, the message flashed, red letters on black. I'm going to enjoy killing you, Xena, I only hope it's as good for you as it will be for me.

Who are you? Bat asked, trying to fight her growing fear, and losing.

I'm sorry, it's been such a long time. Xena, my dear, my name is Ares.

Xero decided it was time to leave. There wouldn't be anything happening here for her tonight. She pushed away from her table, and stood as a third Buckner was put down in front of her. The hacker looked up into lovely green eyes she'd never seen before. "Mind if I buy you a drink?" a soft voice asked.

Towering over the shorter woman, Xero smiled. It could only be the syscop Bat had warned her about. Strawberry blond, petite, beautiful. Her one-eyed associate did have a gift for understatement. Xero wrapped her long fingers around the neck of the beer bottle. "You don't mind if I take it with me?" she asked. Beautiful as this woman was, she was still a syscop.

A smaller hand wrapped around her own, holding the bottle onto the table. "As a matter of fact, I do," the young woman said evenly. "When I buy a beautiful woman a drink, I expect her to finish it in my company."

Xero flashed her a grin, displaying a mouthful of perfect white teeth. There might be something here worth the risk after all, she decided. "That's rather butch of you," she commented sitting down again. The other woman took the seat opposite her and let go of her hand but didn't say anything. "Use that line a lot do you?" Xero asked, after taking a sip of the beer.

"On occasion," the other woman replied with false bravado. Xero laughed and the other woman frowned. "I say something funny?"

"You don't lie very well," the hacker replied. "No, I'd bet a bottle of spring water that I'm the first woman you've hit on in a bar. Isn't that so, Rielle?"

Her companion looked at the table as her cheeks flushed crimson before making eye contact again. "I'm glad you took the time to look at my files at least," she finally said, changing the subject. "Xero, I need to talk to you."

"Too bad, I don't talk to syscops," the older woman replied flatly.

"Can I buy you dinner? Give me that much time at least?" Rielle asked.

"Fine," Xero replied with an artful shrug. She nodded to the Pirate who came over to take her order. "Kitchen have fresh produce?" she asked.

Ska blinked, naturally grown fruits and vegetables were very expensive delicacies. "Yeah, some," she replied.

"I'll have a salad with the works," Xero requested.

"For two," Rielle added, handing over her account card.

When the waitress was gone she turned to her companion once again. "Xero, I'm going to tell you a story, you're going to think its fantastic, but I want you to hear me out anyway."

"Until I'm done eating, I'm all yours," she replied.

Feeling warm, Xena? The message on the screen taunted.

Bat tried again in vain to break eye contact with the data code that scrolled past her eyes at blinding speed. If she'd had two natural eyes, all she'd see was a mesmerizing blur, unfortunately with her mechanical eye she could make out some of what she was reading. The repetitive, hypnotic code was sending signals to her body. Her brain, unable to filter out the harmful instructions, could only wait and experience the body's self destruction. Like subliminal advertising on steroids, Bat was helpless against the onslaught of information. Sweating and dizzy, she guessed her fever must be well over one hundred three degrees by now.

I'm not Xena, she finally managed to send.

Sure you are, the message came back. You just don't remember yet. I really didn't know the battle for the third age would be this easy. Even Melinda Pappas was more of a challenge than you. So, wanna race?

Bat's heart started beating faster, her heated blood pulsing through her system. Then her lungs collapsed, cutting off her air as the hacker tried desperately not to panic. If she was going to die, as now seemed likely, she wanted someone to know why and how. Eyes still riveted on the scrolling text, in the periphery of her vision she could see the isolated drive sitting on top of the brainbox. After yanking a wire from an unused diagnostic unit, she plugged the drive in and keyed in a record sequence. Just then her chest expanded, air finally filling her lungs. The racing of her pulse continued. Whatever was killing her intended to do it slowly.

You don't know how long I've waited for this, Xena. I've had thousands of years to plot your destruction. I never doubted that as long as I got to you before that irritating blond did, I'd have you. I hope you're able to fully appreciate what you could have had all those millennia ago, when a simple 'yes' from you would have given you immortality.

Feeling something wet on her leg, the hacker noted that her hands had broken out in blisters that were popping soon after forming. Clear plasma ran down her hands onto the input pad and finally and dripping on her thigh. Her eminent death looking messy, Bat took the battered baseball cap off her head and tossed it aside. A remembrance of her mother who had died in the Plague, she wasn't about to let her own demise ruin Mickey Mouse.

Her lungs collapsed again, this time she hoped for good. Her vision changed and she absently noticed it was from her natural eye giving out. The moisture and soft tissues burned. Were it not for her implant, she'd be blissfully blind.

Well, Xena, it's been fun. Give my regards to Callisto, Velasca and Hades when you see them.

She could smell charring flesh now and would have screamed had she been able to get the air, to do so. Instead she winced as she felt her heart finally explode in her chest cavity. After that, everything slowed down until life itself mercifully ended.

"Let me get this straight," Xero said dubiously. "You're saying this bar was originally funded by the Pappas Foundation. That saddle hanging over there bought at the big auction the Smithsonian had when their funding was cut?" Rielle nodded and let the other woman continue. "And this Melinda Pappas fought the battle of the second age." Rielle nodded again. "And I'm related to her, how?" Xero asked.

"That's just it. You aren't," Rielle explained. "Melinda Pappas was related to Xena and Janice Covington was related to Gabrielle. You and I are the reincarnated souls of Xena and Gabrielle."

"That's right," Xero amended, not believing a word of it. "Which one am I again?"

"You're Xena," Rielle said loosing her patience.

"Of course, the 'X's, I should have known. Okay, I'm Xena and I'm going to fight the battle of the third age. Against who?"

"Against Ares," the syscop continued clearly annoyed. "And believe me, if you don't start taking this a bit more seriously, you're going to loose."

"Well I wouldn't want that," Xero shot back with a smirk.

"Didn't you read any of the material I sent over?" Rielle asked. "I was hoping it'd jog your memory."

"You've said that Xena and Gabrielle were lovers," Xero offered. "Don't you think that would jog my memory?"

An unreadable look crossed the younger woman's face. "I'm willing to try anything," she said quietly.

"Well, don't make it sound like such a chore," Xero shot back miffed.

"It's not that, Xero, it's just that obviously I can remember things at this point that you can't." She shook her head sadly. "It'd be a lot different for me than for you, I suspect."

Xero was tempted to tell the young woman to forget the whole thing and just leave. Still, there was something about her company she found intriguing and wasn't ready to part ways just yet. If nothing else, she could take the woman home and let the terrified newbie off the hook then. "Fine then," Xero said as she stood. "Let's go."

All eyes in the Saddlehorn Pub & Grill watched the newbie leave with Xero. The only puzzling thing was why she didn't appear pleased about it.

"So when did you first realize that you were the reincarnated essence of an Ancient Amphipolean Bard?" Xero asked as they stepped off the lift at her floor.

"Potidea, Gabrielle was from Potidea," Rielle corrected her.

"Whatever."

"I started having vivid dreams a couple of months ago. Unusual at first, but they wouldn't go away. Then I started to do some research. The more I learned, the more things fit into place," the syscop explained as they walked down the hall to the older woman's apartment.

"I still don't see how it's possible to be reincarnated from a television show," Xero insisted.

"Not from a show, you big dumb hacker," she snapped. "The show was based on a collection of scrolls Janice Covington discovered in 1942, then later in 1961. The '42 Scrolls were hidden away until the '90s when they were used for the show."

Xero nodded as she ran her thumb over the door's ID patch. It unlocked and upon opening it her senses were immediately assaulted by the acrid smell of burnt hair and flesh. "What the fuck!" she gasped and ran inside.

Bat, or rather her charred remains, rigidly sat on the couch. Small tendrils of smoke still drifted off of her body. A flaming sword could clearly be seen rotating on the screen in front of her with the words Goodbye Xena below them. A green light was blinking on the portable drive indicating that it had just been backed up.

"That's Ares' symbol," Rielle said, pointing to the screen.

"What happened to her?" Xero whispered realizing her roommate was beyond dead. "She's grounded," the hacker noted the grounding wire trailing from band wrapped around the dead woman's wrist. "How could she have been zapped?"

"That is what I'm trying to explain," Rielle said softly. "Ares must have thought she was you, or he's just practicing. Xero, this is a god we're talking about. He's powerful."

Xero turned to her companion, her blue eyes flashing in sorrow and anger. "So now you're a Fundie?" she demanded. "Did you orchestrate this?" she growled as she advanced on the smaller woman. Wisely, Rielle backed up. "Rig the equipment? A syscop who works for Archive Corporation, maybe, is that it?" Backed against the wall, Rielle looked up into the face of her aggressor. She was much shorter than the hacker, her head only reaching just past the taller woman's shoulder. Craning her neck back she tried to remain calm as cold blue eyes bore into her. "I'll ask one more time, 'cop. Are you or are you not a bounty hunter?"

"Xero, you know I'm not," she said carefully. "You can see for yourself she's still smoking. She's only been dead a matter of minutes. I was with you. Do you honestly think I could construct a remote program that your friend wouldn't be able to disable?"

"She wasn't my friend," Xero muttered turning away.

Rielle looked again from the charred body to the woman who once was Xena. "What was she then?" she asked quietly.

"A good acquaintance," Xero answered with a shrug.

Walking over to where the taller woman stood, she put a comforting hand on her arm. "Even so, it isn't safe for you to stay here. Even if you don't believe what I've told you about Ares, surely a corpse in your apartment isn't something a hacker would care to explain, now is it?" Rielle asked seriously. "Why don't you come to my place. You can crash there tonight. Maybe in the morning you'll listen to some of what I have to say."

Xero nodded absently. The syscop was right. Bat's body would have to be tended to and there were too many unanswered questions for her to remain. She'd probably be implicated in the murder, although the authorities didn't worry too much about the death of a hacker. She would find whoever it was who did this, syscop or no syscop. Shaking her head, Xero grabbed a small bag and began to collect a few things.

First she picked up her portable system. After that she picked up the isolated drive that had been blinking. She grabbed a second pair of jeans and a shirt and some loose credit slips. When she'd added her wallet and mini discs, she was ready to go. "I should take Argo," she said as an afterthought.

"Argo?" Rielle asked, eyes wide.

"Yeah, Bat's iguana."

The syscop looked at the dead woman in wonder. Could she have been mistaken and contacted the wrong one? "This woman has a pet named Argo?" she asked to be sure. "Where did she get the name?"

"I don't know," Xero replied with a shrug as she headed for the bedroom that led off from the main living room. "I think she said she heard me mumble it in my sleep." She returned several minutes later with a large bright green reptile perched on her shoulder. The animal's body was about forty centimeters long, Rielle guessed, with a tail almost as long. "I don't know why, but Bat had a soft spot for lost causes," Xero explained as she put a container of food into her pocket.

"Is that why she lived with you?" Rielle asked.

Xero glared at her. "She lived with me because she worked for me. She put in long hours keeping my rig in shape. Besides, here she had some measure of protection against corporate thugs." Xero looked once again at the dead woman's body. "Apparently it wasn't enough." She made her way towards the door when she paused at the couch. Picking up Bat's antique baseball hat, she put it on and smiled sadly. "I'm going to find the thugs that did this," she whispered. "And when I do, they won't end up looking half as good as you." Cold blue eyes taking a final sweep around the small apartment, Xero realized that there was nothing else she needed, nothing else she could take with her. "Let's go," she muttered tightly to her companion.

"Here we are," Rielle said as she pushed open the heavy front door to her apartment. Xero already impressed by the prime location of the building. She was speechless at the spaciousness of the dwelling.

"How many people live here?" she asked, putting her heavy bag down on the overstuffed couch.

"I live alone," Rielle answered.

"I didn't know syscops did so well," Xero quipped, trying to mask her amazement. No one lived alone save the extremely wealthy. The fact that she only lived with one person spoke volumes about how well she did as a hacker.

"Yeah, well it belonged to my parents," Rielle explained, answering Xero's unasked question. "They both died a few years ago. The flat was already paid for."

Xero nodded and looked around. The place even had windows. Unable to resist, she strolled over and looked outside. At night the city lights sparkled brightly, making the South California skyline pulsate with glowing beauty. "Would you like something to drink?" Rielle called from the kitchen.

"Sure," Xero called back. "Whatever you've got." After moments spent in rapt fascination at the window, she was joined by the syscop.

"You mentioned spring water earlier, so I thought this would be okay," Rielle explained, handing her a glass of iced water.

"You seem to have everything here," Xero commented after long sip.

"I guess," Rielle replied, uncomfortable. "But I stand to lose it all. Everyone stands to lose everything if you don't get your memory back and battle Ares."

"Are we on that again?" Xero asked, exasperated. "Look, kid. If this is a clever line you're using to get me in the sack, trust me you're trying way too hard."

"Is that what you think this is about? Fucking you?" Rielle stormed away from the window. "Xena must have looked long and hard to fine the densest, dumbest... most clueless body she could. Your friend is sitting burned to a crisp on your couch and you think I'm making a pass at you?"

"I'd be careful if I were you," Xero growled. "I'm in no mood to be taunted by some spoiled syscop who thinks she's bringing in the catch of the day. You don't play this game very well do you, Rielle? You pick me up in a dyke bar, give me this bullshit about past lives, throw in New Age Fundie crap with the god Ares and tell me I'm going to suddenly remember being a reformed warlord from Amphipolis!" As she turned she winced. Argo, losing his balance from her shoulder grabbed with a foreclaw, sharp nails digging into her exposed skin above the collar of the leather jacket.

"Here," Rielle offered moving to take the lizard from the taller woman's shoulder. "Why don't we put Argo down." Gently as she could, she put the big reptile down on the floor. The lizard was heavier than he looked.

"Thanks," Xero muttered.

"I'm sorry," Rielle replied. "Why don't you take some time. I'm sure there's someone you should notify about your fri... associate's death. I wish you'd trust me, but I realize that you think you can't. Still, I have to tell you that I've no intention of arresting you or turning you in. You're welcome to stay; the couch is yours. Make yourself at home. We can talk more about Xena and the other stuff in the morning." She turned away and walked toward the bedroom. "If you were serious about what you said earlier," she added turning back around. "About needing to jog your memory, I'll be in here."

Xero watched her go. The other woman made it clear that she was up for sex but didn't want it. No matter, Xero decided, she wasn't in the mood anyway. She wandered into the kitchen, opening up cupboards until she found a small bowl. She poured some of the spring water from her glass into the bowl and put it on the floor near the lizard. Pulling out her mobie unit, she keyed in the satellite codes for maximum encryption and called the 'Horn.

Wandering back to the window, she waited for the connection to link up. "IQ? This is Xero, put me through to Shadow." After a moment's pause she was connected. "Yeah, Shadow, it's Xero. Look, I've got bad news. Bat is dead. She was fried about an hour ago. I found her when I went home... No, I'm not there now. I'm... elsewhere. If she's got any family or anything, you need to let them know. I'm uploading the codes to my place. Security would just dump the body. She deserves better than that...Thanks, Shadow, I appreciate it. Keep my place secure if you can. I'm going to track down whoever did this. I might need to go back and get some things...Okay, I will. Thanks again." Feeling numb, she broke the connection and put the mobie away. She looked around the stylishly decorated apartment, then headed for the couch. If the syscop was set on taking her in, Xero decided it was one way to see how good the young woman really was. She took off her boots, casually tossing them under the low table near the couch. Next she removed her jacket. While she was at it, she pulled out the small container of food pellets and put a few down on the floor for the lizard. She also extracted her small hand held flame thrower from a concealed pocket and put it on the table as well. Finally she took off her hat. She gazed at the faded picture of a cartoon mouse for long minutes, reverently tracing its outline with her finger. Shaking off the pensive reflection, she put the hat on the table as well. She laid down, stretching her long legs, flame thrower concealed in her right hand. With that, and easy access to two knives, Xero realized that she was as safe as she could be under the circumstances. When she closed her eyes, sleep was almost instant.

***

Xero looked around disoriented. She was standing in a board room dressed in her jeans and t-shirt with nothing on her feet.

"So glad you could make it," a firm voice said in greeting.

Looking up, Xero was startled to see two women sitting behind a polished black table. Both were dressed in old fashioned tuxedos, one of them looked a lot like her, the other looked like Rielle, the syscop.

"I must be dreaming," Xero said trying to make sense of her surroundings.

"The hacker catches on fast," the strawberry-blond continued. "We decided on formal wear for our first meeting, I hope that's okay with you. I am Janice Covington, and the ravishing creature next to me is Melinda Pappas."

"It's nice to meet you, Xero," Melinda said with a Southern accent.

"I never dream," Xero stated bluntly, wondering why she wasn't simply waking up.

"Believe me, that's been a major problem for us," Janice replied. "Fact is, this isn't going to be fun. The stuff Rielle is telling you is true. If you can stop thinking with your libido and refrain from bullying her you might learn something. Why don't you try listening for a change?"

"I don't have to take this crap from you," Xero growled deciding she liked the syscop's look alike even less than the syscop.

"Actually , Xero you do," Janice replied with a grin.

"What she means," Mel interjected, "is that you have to sleep. Now that we've reached you, we're going to keep at it."

"Look kid," Janice continued. "Ares is on the move, he offed that friend of yours. With our help we're going to see to it that you blow his sorry ass to kingdom-come."

"Janice!" Mel implored at her companion's harsh language.

"Relax, Mel!" Janice soothed. "I'm just trying to get through to the Warrior Princess over here. Xena, we need you to remember. We're going to do whatever it takes to see that you do remember. We didn't risk life and limb to have you forfeit the battle of the third age."

"Battle of the third age?" Xero mumbled.

"Gods she's slow," Janice groaned in frustration.

"Janice, please!" Mel implored. "She's been through a lot. It was hard getting through to Gabrielle too if you remember. Give her some time to get her bearings, get to know Rielle. At least let her say goodbye to her friend."

"I don't have any friends," Xero replied automatically.

"I never thought I'd meet someone who made Xena look well adjusted," Janice quipped. After getting an icy glare from Mel she continued in a rush, "Alright, you've been through a lot. We won't get started right now. Rest up some, but start thinking. Search your feelings. You are more than you imagine. Get in touch with what's beyond you. We can't help you if you don't help us."

"Whaaa..." Xero looked around the dimly lit room. The lights had dimmed automatically with her inactivity. Something felt odd but she couldn't quite describe it. She checked her watch, she'd been asleep for three hours. Mildly surprised that the syscop had not in fact tried to arrest her, she sat up and stretched. Absently she considered that the young woman may have been telling the truth after all, far fetched as it sounded. Putting her weapons on the coffee table with the baseball hat, she silently walked over to the bedroom door.

Rielle was sleeping on her side, facing the door on the far side of the bed. Staying as far away as possible from me, no doubt. Xero considered. When she crossed the room and picked up the bed cover the other woman's eyes flew open with a start.

"What is it?" Rielle asked worried, frightened.

"Relax, Rielle. I'm not after your virtue. I think the couch is uncomfortable, it made me have a weird dream. I'm sleeping here," the hacker mumbled as she slid under the covers.

"Weird dream you say?" Rielle asked, the hint of a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Yeah," Xero muttered. "These two women in tuxedos. It's nothing. Lemme sleep."

Rielle's smile broadened as she watched her companion slip into slumber. Realizing that things might just work out after all, the smile remained as she too drifted off to sleep.

The end.

[peanutbuttercreamjelly]

Red Wine: Pillow Talk - Conor Maynard

Another part of the Red Wine Series! I am not going to write this series in a chronological order, so don’t be surprised, they have been dating for a longer time in this one.

This is actually the first part that I had written for this series. To be continued...

Warning: Mentions of NSFW

Word Count: 1.320

Their ragged breath mingled when he finally collapsed on her. Their skin was sticky and hot, but Conor didn’t mind. He lazily kissed her on her boob, for it was the closest that he could reach without having to move his head. She lightly giggled at that. He loved how he could hear her heart beat, still very fast from their previous action.

“That was… something else”, Vee summed it up as they had eventually caught their breaths. Her hands had found their way in Conor’s hair, making him hum in content.

“Yeah”, he agreed a little sleepily. “Wait here, ‘m gonna get you cleaned up, love”, he said and went to the bathroom to get a wet washcloth, cleaning her up from the mess they had made.

“Thanks baby”, she said and cupped his cheek, pulling him in for another tender kiss on the lip. Conor quickly brought the cloth back to the bathroom, throwing one of his shirts and a pair of fresh knickers at her as he returned. She caught it with ease and slipped it on. He pouted a little since the material now deprived him of one of his favourite views: her naked body. But seeing her wear his clothes, especially in this fucked out state with her face all flushed and her hair a mess, no doubt created by his own hands, made up for it. Almost.

Vee lifted up the duvet a little so he could easily slip beneath it after he had put on his boxers as well. The both of them didn’t like sleeping naked in hotel beds, although they loved it at home.

She wrapped her arms around him as soon as his back hit the mattress. Conor chuckled lightly. “Someone’s clingy”, he said before he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She hummed and burried her head even deeper in his chest, making him embrace her, too.

“Telly?”, he asked.

“Sure. Maybe that award show’s still on”, she said. “If we don’t show up in person we could watch it at least.” She repositioned herself so she could see the screen, while Conor turned on the telly.

“Best decision to stay in”, he mumbled. They might have ditched the award show for some rather urgent business they had to finish. The show was indeed still on, the category where Conor had been nominated but didn’t win were already through, but now Vee’s categories were on.

“And the best female single goes to… Ariana Grande”, the presenter said.

“Well, no luck for me today”, Vee said, shrugging her shoulders, as the ‘best female vlogger’ was also not her.

“Never actually understood the point of going to a show when you already know you didn’t win”, Conor said.

“True. And then they tell you to act suprised and all. I think our evening was way more enjoyable than theirs”, Vee said before she stole another peck from Conor’s lips.

Conor turned the TV off as they know showed part of the interviews with nominees and winners. Vee was already half-asleep, but he couldn’t blame her, she had only arrived yesterday and her flight back home to London was leaving in about nine hours. So he cuddled close to her, holding her tight for as long as he could, before their busy lives would separate them for another couple of weeks.

“Conor?”, she said, the lack of sleep clearly evident in her voice.

“Yes baby?”

“I miss us making love”, she said, stirring a bit to readjust her position against him.

“But we just did, didn’t we?”, Conor asked confused.

“Hmm… we just had sex. But we didn’t actually made love. Do you remember how, when we both had a month off in London, we could actually take our time because we knew we’d have each other for a whole month?”

Conor slowly understood what she was getting at. They barely saw each other these days, and when they actually did meet in person and not via facetime or the phone, their need for each other was so big, so unbearable that they could barely make it to their hotel room before their clothes were scattered all over the place. Round two was a bit more gentle, but still they both knew that they only had a few hours before one of them had to leave for a concert, or an interview, or to the studio, or fly to the other side of the world. It was still desperate, clingy sex, chasing their high because they wouldn’t have the chance to make the other feel this good in a few weeks.

However, when they were both at the same place for a few weeks, which didn’t happen that often these days because of both their careers, they knew they could do it whenever they wanted. There was no need to rush things, there was no flight to catch, they could just enjoy each other or they could just choose to cuddle, since this couldn’t be considered a wasted opportunity. The more he thought about it, the more he missed it too.

“Don’t get me wrong”, Vee said as Conor had been silent for a little while, “I love having sex with you either way. Really, you make me feel so damn good, but… God, I just miss having you all to myself for a little while without having to leave in a few hours. You know, when it doesn’t matter if we don’t get off because we have plenty of time for it.”

“Nevermind, I shouldn’t have said anything”, she added, when Conor still didn’t answer, clearly misinterpreting his silence.

“No baby”, he quickly said, “it’s just… I was just thinking about it.”  

He wouldn’t tell her, but he was surprised that she even told him. She usually wasn’t one to talk about sex. She was really into having sex, but she was still uncomfortable talking about it, even after the year that they had been dating. So he was doing everything that he could to encourage her, when she did talk about it.

“I guess you’re right. Don’t even remember when I ran you the last bath”, he continued, referring to their ritual when they were both at home. Every sunday morning, they’d share a bath, most likely having that end up in having sex or at least making out and then have a nice homemade breakfast. Conor let his hand run up and down her back in slow strokes.

“Must have been ages ago”, she giggled. “Miss that, too.” She snuggled herself even closer to him.

“ ‘s gonna be the first thing we’ll do when we’re both home again, I promise”, he mumbled before kissing her hairline.

“And then we’re gonna be making love”, Vee mumbled into his chest, her words a bit mushed together both because Conor’s chest muffled the sound and because she was getting really tired.

“Yes”, he mumbled in content as he watched his love drift off to a much needed slumber.

He really needed to figure something out. Talking about all those lazy times they had spent with each other really got him to miss out on those, and although he had Vee right here in his arms, peacefully asleep, he felt like it had been a long time since he had seen her fully relaxed and totally at ease. He missed having her laugh in the most carefree way, he missed having her completely comfortable in their own house, in their own bed.

He carefully reached over to get his phone from the nightstand without shuffling too much, but Vee was still fast asleep when he had finally got hold of it. He typed in a quick text to his manager, saying that he had to talk to him about something important the next morning, so he wouldn’t forget. He was sure that his and Vee’s manager would be able to figure something out.

View all parts of the series HERE or view all of my posts HERE

[queandrue]

Interlude, Ea and Talnah: Months

A/N: So here’s a little thing Que and I did together. We wanted to set up the (mildly fucked up) relationship between Ea and her new nephew (Talnah’s son). We hope you guys like it!~Rue

Word Count: 2917

It had been a while since Ea had seen Talnah.

Not because she didn’t want to persay, but fate was almost never kind and her life continued to march along its usual, treacherous path.

She felt, after their adventure, that she’d traded one set of chains for another— just as heavy and toxic and leaden as the last.

At the end of it all, the Disasters had moved on with their lives. And Ea, more often than not, did her very best to hide what her’s had become.

Maybe it was shame or maybe it was her way of trying to forget. But in the rare times when she saw Robin and Talnah, it was clear to her she was doing it to protect them. It was the only thing she had left to do.

That, and watch her sisters grow up from painfully far away.   

Talnah had taken over her family’s business and sent lengthy letters at least once a month. Ea rarely found it in herself to respond, but the clear, sweeping cursive print reminded her of better, freer days. It was a nice reprieve, although she could never have answered any of the inquiries truthfully.

Family’s didn’t lie.

So Ea chose to say nothing at all.

It was in one of these letters that Ea found the invitation. Really, it was more of a strange amalgamation of pleasantries and ominous implication. But the message was clear: Come to Moonbright.

And so she did.

The manor with its large, shining gates was a familiar and nostalgic sight. She was instantly taken back to younger times. Candles and pine and smiling. The corners of her mouth tugged up involuntarily. It had been so long since she could recall such a feeling of lightness in her chest—comforting, but incongruent.  

The gates yielded easily under her palms and no sooner had Ea stepped inside when she felt her back collide with the gravel.

Instinct took over before she could register the body pinning her to the ground. There was a blade in her palm, poised to strike when—

“Oh, Ea!”

The voice was sweet and high and lilting; the scent of old tomes and lavender tea flooded over her.

Her sister, how could she have ever forgotten.

Talnah.

Ea’s face immediately found its way back to her old glare.

Talnah was beaming—even more than usual. Her sunshine yellow eyes crinkled at the corners and tumbling locks of white hair framed her face. Ea lifted a hand to tuck a stray curl behind her pointed ears.

“Hey, Tal.”

Her voice felt raspy from disuse but Talnah only smiled wider.

Movement behind them drew her ever watching eyes away though, and Robin waved at her from as she approached from the house, “Long time, no see, ‘sis.”

When she grew closer, Ea took stock of the odd look on her face.  Two parts happiness, one part pity, and something else entirely foreign. The gaze didn’t sit well in her stomach.

“Too long, I suppose.”

It was then that she noticed Talnah’s unusual silence. She hadn’t been this quiet since Ea’s fight with Kairon.

But, the moment passed as quickly as it had come and Talnah stood, offering her hand, “Ea, I’m so sorry. I… I just couldn’t help myself.”

She wouldn’t meet her eye. There was a nervousness about her—the way she squeezed Ea’s palm in both of her’s, her gaze trained resolutely on the ground, she seemed as if she wasn’t even breathing.

Ea brought her other hand to Talnah’s chin, and forcing her to look up.

“What’s wrong?”

There was a long pause, but then Talnah took a deep breath and met Ea’s gaze: two parts excitement, one part nerves.

“Ea,” the words came out quietly, “I’m pregnant.”

**********

That was three months ago.

Now she was sitting across from Talnah in the study, trying desperately not to say what she’d been thinking since coming to Moonbright.

Ea should be happy for her—wanted to be happy for her—but fate was almost never kind, and her life continued to march along its usual, treacherous path

She found it harder and harder to look at this bouncing, star of girl who had become her sister and was now following down the same road Ea had watched countless women before her travel.

It was hard not to be disgusted—too harsh of a word but the only one that fit.

Whenever she saw Talnah, now all she could think about was the toxic, poisonous thing taking over her body.

And that she’d wanted it.  

“Ea, you haven’t touched your tea,” Talnah said, looking up from a document she’d been glancing over.  She was bigger now than before, the flowing fabric of her robe hid some of her figure, but it wouldn’t for much longer.

Ea kept her eyes on the mug in her hands, it hurt too much to meet Talnah’s eyes.

“I don’t drink it much anymore,” she said, swirling a finger around in the cup. “I suppose I’ve lost my taste for it.”

There was a soft hum from across the room as Talnah shifted in her chair, “What’s wrong?”

“Just thinking,” she said, hoping to leave it at that, but hoping to end a conversation with Talnah was almost always in vain.

“About?”

Silence. But only for a moment.

“Why would you do this to yourself?”

Talnah nodded, but no words came out. Instead a sigh left her lips and she set down her papers, letting Ea continue, “Have you even thought about what the consequences could be?”

She just stared at Ea for a few moments, her eyes had that glassy look they often got just before she started crying, “Yes Ea, I’ve thought about it for a long time.”

It was hard to see the way Talnah looked at her, so sad, so...betrayed. But she didn’t know, and she hadn’t seen. Fate was almost never kind and hellfire licks at everyone’s feet. Even through their travels, Talnah’s eyes had largely been closed.

Ea couldn’t bear to lose anymore.

So she met her sisters gaze without flinching and spoke, “I don’t understand.”

Talnah took a shaky breath, her arms crossing defensively over her middle, “I thought you would be happy for me…”

But Ea couldn’t relent.

“Why would you have ever thought that?”

Sunshine yellow eyes bored painfully into hers, a few tears slipped down lavender cheeks, “Because he’s mine!” she quick nearly hissed the words, “because he’s mine and I thought you would love anything that was a part of me.”

Ea stayed silent for a moment, before standing and setting her mug on the coffee table.

“No,” she said softly, “just you and nothing else.”

“Ea,” Talnah’s voice cracked as she called after her, but it didn’t stop her as she slipped from the door.

“Your tea is getting cold.”

*******

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Ea watched as Talnah’s arm froze.

Her fingers slowly drew back from the tiny flame that now danced in the room. Admittedly, she had done well with the nursery, Ea shouldn’t have expected anything less, but the thought of what would occupy the room soured its beauty.

It was not like any child’s room she’d seen before, all soft edges and safety rails, nothing to test the little creatures will to live.

There’s no use in coddling a parasite. They have to be forced to survive on their own or they never stop sucking your blood.

If it wasn’t strong enough, it didn’t deserve to live. That was that.

But Talnah had put so much effort into making this room so special. Little light-filled bubbles floated around the room, slowly changing direction whenever they bumped into some other piece of child-proofed furniture.

“It’s not perfect yet,” Talnah murmured, still transfixed on the light in front of her, “It’s almost done, I swear.”

Ea couldn’t help but let out a snort.

Everyone in the mansion had been hearing that at least once a day for the past month. Robin chastised Talnah regularly for heavy lifting or magic use more and more often. It seemed amusing to everyone but Talnah who, like every other pregnant woman Ea had known, grew more frustrated with each new task she wasn’t allowed to perform.

That’s what happened when parasites took over:

You lose all your freedom as they eat you from the inside out.

“Any more bubbles and no one will be able to set foot in here,” Ea said, moving towards Talnah’s side. “It won’t be able to use half of these things for years.”

It was true. What little parasite could read upon entering the world? Ea certainly didn’t know of any, and yet a tiny bookshelf occupied a space in the corner.

Talnah opened her mouth to argue the point, but quickly shut it. A few fingers went to her mouth, her other hand went to her middle. A few seconds passed and turned to minutes, until finally the hand at her mouth dropped to join the one at her stomach.

That's what happened when she overworked herself. Talnah fidgeted with her wedding band. It had become a habit.

“Ea… It needs to be perfect,” she said softly, “I want it to be perfect.”

One would think the room was rickety, old, and unfurnished by the way she spoke. Ea placed a hand on her shoulder and took her to sit. She was an odd sight. The thing protruding from her abdomen made her thin frame look even frailer.

“Tal, if you really want to do something, I may have a few ideas.” Ea watched as her ears twitched, she knew she had her attention, “There are some rituals that I know of from Hellfire.”

*********

Most of the rituals Ea had been talking about didn’t seem to go over to well with really anybody. She should have figured as much, they could be a little much for most people.

But it was her way to try and accept the situation, so the judgement she received from people who couldn’t even see the danger lurking within her friend didn’t do much to help with the anger.

That wasn’t the root cause of her horrible mood, but it was always easier to blame someone else, and so she did.

And now everyone in the estate watched Ea like a hawk. It was almost like they couldn’t see what she was trying to do. She wanted to save Talnah, and do what was best for her even if she didn’t realize it.

She was losing time, and soon it would be up entirely.

Ea hated what she was feeling now. It was something far past disgust now—dark, deep, and festering— but she kept quiet. Talnah wasn’t going to budge, not on this.

And yet, how many times had Ea been right during their travels? How many times had Talnah and Robin ignored her? How many times had it ended in disaster? How many times had they narrowly missed making it to the end?

These were all things running through Ea’s mind as she braided Talnah’s hair. She looked so tired, like all the light was being drained from her.

Ea hated it.

Talnah still glowed,  but not as much as she had before. She still lilted and twirled, but lazily, as if in a trance; an undead shell of her former self.

She held her stomach, as Ea worked on her hair. Every now again she would laugh or hum.

This wasn’t how the other women she watched in Hellfire reacted.

Having a child was not a happy thing.

“He moves a lot,” Talnah whispered, “It’s going to happen soon, I can feel it.”

Ea heard her voice waver, “Are you afraid?”

“Of course I am, who wouldn’t be?” Talnah wrung her hands and shifted in her seat, “There’s so much to be worried about, especially when he’s finally here….”

Those are only things to worry about if you make it.

She finished the braid and tied it off.

Talnah smiled and let out a small sigh, “Thank you Ea.” Then she went quiet. She’d been doing that quite a lot in the  passed month.

“Ea… You’ll stay with me, right? You won’t leave?” she asked.

“Only if you want me to,” Ea replied.

No sooner had the words left her mouth than she felt Talnah squeeze her hand. That was answer enough.

“Ea?”

Ea remained stayed silent as she tugged at the braids, letting a curl or two fall to soften Talnah’s face

“Do you know any good names?”

Well, that certainly wasn’t on the list of questions she thought anyone would ask her. She didn’t say anything for a long time.

Names were powerful things. Naming something made it real. Ea didn’t know if she could be the one to bring a nightmare to life.

“It’s completely fine if you don’t! I just figured-”

“Cascius.”

Prideful.

It felt right on her tongue, if anything was going to survive her, it would need its fair share of arrogance.

Talnah stopped talking and stared at Ea.

Slowly, she turned her head. “Cascius,” she repeated softly.

Talnah never moved her hand from Ea’s.

********

Ea knew one thing, and one thing only: If Talnah died that horrid, pathetic little parasite wouldn’t live to see even an hour in this realm before she sent him back to whatever saw fit to let him exist on this plane.

She tried to warn her sister. She tried to warn all of them.

She’d seen so many women in Hellfire die. Those women were bigger and stronger and they knew what they were doing. How was Talnah meant to survive?

To make matters worse, no one would allow her to get the sacrificial goat.

(Part of Ea always wondered if the goat made any difference, but she didn’t want to test that out now. She wasn’t about to put Talnah’s life on the line.)

She could have cared less about the crying baby that everyone else seemed to be crowding. Talnah was small, and that thing was so big.

She appeared to be breathing evenly, but Ea knew how deceiving things like that could be. She went to Talnah’s side looked her over.

“How are you feeling? Are you alright?”

Talnah looked up at her, she seemed dazed, but she nodded slowly, “Of course I’m alright, why do you ask?”

Almost immediately her head turned back to the crowd around the creature. “Do you think that he’s okay? Will I be able to hold him soon? How much more do they have to do?”

Ea didn’t get to answer. Before she could, the whimpering, squirming creature was being carried back and placed into her sister’s arms.

She watched as Talnah’s body froze. Silence pervaded in the small room, only the crackle of a fire to soften it.

Then Ea heard the sob.

Talnah’s body shook  and she kept the creature close to her body.

“He’s perfect, oh he’s more than perfect,” she sniffled. “Hello my little Cascius, hello.”

Ea watched the interaction.

The women in Hellfire had reacted quite differently. Then again, children in Hellfire were different. Hellfire was just… different.

She was different too.

Robin along with the others crowded around to coo at the slimy little thing, and Ea slipped quietly from the room.

**********

Talnah and the creature would be in the room for a while. That wasn’t too surprising, after all, birth was taxing.

Ea had never experienced it first hand, but she new enough from second hand experience.

Later, when her sister had fallen asleep, she stood over the thing as it slept and was taken back to her times in Hellfire when she was younger.

She’d seen so many of them killed, been the one to snap their tiny necks in the dark wasteland on the outskirts of Waterdeep. She knew how easy it was. Their bones were barely there. It would be so quick. So easy.

“Ea.”

She jumped and turned to see two large yellow eyes peering at her. Talnah’s face was expressionless, she just stared at her from across the room. Ea straightened herself and stared back.

“How long have you been awake.”

“Long enough. I couldn’t fall asleep as easily as I thought I would.” She patted the bed, inviting Ea to sit. It seemed as if she had something she to say, and if not now, Ea would most certainly hear about it later.

“What’s on your mind?”

Talnah went back to playing with her wedding band, collecting her thoughts before speaking.

“Ea,You know I asked you all to come here for a reason right? I thought about it carefully,” she started.

Ea couldn’t help but let out an audible sigh, but Talnah kept going, “I know how you feel about this Ea… but I want you in his life. I want both you and Robin in it. You’re my sisters, and that makes you his aunts. If not for him, for me.”

She paused.

Honestly, part of her was surprised and the other half wasn’t. Talnah’s gaze never once wavered despite the silence. Ea knew how she was when she set her mind to things, and it almost made her laugh.

Some things never change, do they?

“Only for you,” Ea said quietly, “ Nothing that I do will be for him.”

Talnah smiled, “I didn’t expect much else.”

Ea leveled her sister with her signature, mischievous glare, “Do you understand what you’re getting yourself into?”

“No, but have we ever?”

[ratmor]

Fairytale Lies Along

Well, my fan-story is not complete yet and not translated as well. That kinda sucks, but I’m working on it, even if I know that probably it would be next winter when I finish it, because I’m a slowpoke. 21 chapters already written and no sign of happy (or unhappy) ending. *sigh* Well, I’m posting the second part here, just for luck or something like that. The hero, I remind you, is a shitty person with shitty motivation, because he’s lost, so just you wait and you won’t get bored. If you’re interested that is. 

2. Family Matters

Emma and I had fun in the company of a cake, sparkling wine and a pleasant, non-binding girl, in short - Becky. This type of girl could be picked up only in bars, clubs or by lucky chance somewhere in the art gallery, but in our case it was obviously not an accident, because my dear mistress could not bear to calmly walk around museums and other similar "dullness" as she aptly expressed each time I dragged her there. Certainly, the only thing to blame was my insatiable enthusiasm in exploring this world, so my girl visited that kind of places enough for a lifetime. And while we had fun, I still couldn’t suspect anything about the approaching bearer, so to speak, of all my hopes and dreams for this boring, almost non-magical world. Therefore, we enjoyed the company of a half-naked beauty, I must admit quite successfully enjoyed, and she was already ready to spend the night with us. “With us” meant - I felt and saw everything, despite the fact that I’m removed from direct control of what’s happening.

Well, I don’t know how Emma felt deep inside, but some time ago I was nauseated by the greedy glances that idiot debtor was throwing at us. He tried to escape us so ridiculously, that Emma, who, due to my significant presence in her head and the equally significant presence of my rather gloating humor, learned how to manage her face at a decent level, still couldn’t handle the situation without sincere laughter. And she laughed on the way back to our apartment, when the face grimace and the convulsive actions of the jerk resurfaced in our dialogue. And in order to dispel this filthy feeling after unpleasant words, though they came from a complete stranger, I offered to call a friend who showed interest in Emma and they already have enough dates to have hours of sexual activity, as I call it, trying not to look and make myself jealous.

Swan was not too amorous, and it always seemed to me that I didn't play a very important role in that quality of her character. I was the only adult who had been with her throughout her life, even though I told myself not to give her any extra advice or help just because it’s a good thing to do. After the death of Cleo Fox, a woman who was chasing my careless Swan, I stopped giving advice at all and stopped saying anything other than "Decide for yourself, Emma Swan." "Why didn't you talk me out?" - It was the first thing she constantly told me when she didn’t listen to my advice, especially when it was about that woman’ death. Although it didn’t come to a quarrel, because Emma knew very well from my tales, which I rashly told her as a child, that I could not heal the dead. For this you need the Death Water and The Living Water, both. But in this world there were absolutely no such thing, and she didn’t want to give me control over the body to create the ritual. Cold blood, indeed. Throughout my entire stay in her body, I was like: “I’m the only one who understand you!” or “Oh, these modern dishonourable people,” or “You deserve more!” and, that one is the most used: “Try not to trust my ass-based feeling again when I say this person is sketchy!" Yes, yes, I am an evil freak, a manipulative pig, and, in general, I’m extremely aggressively defend my property from the encroachments of all kinds of other freaks, yes!

Well, I still feel everything that Emma feels, and her ignorance of my words about this Neal, who left her soul with disturbing wound, was based on the fact that I constantly grumbled about any guy looking obliquely at my beautiful girl, Emma. It seems, that I already considered this body my own to some extent, and that’s why I had such an attitude - Emma had to shut me up every now and then until she grew out of her teenage surges and began to listen to me more often.

The question arises - why I never moved into her body, taking advantage of childhood and the deplorable situation? It's just because I never do that! Children are inviolable, and the child can not, should not be absorbed by me. I didn’t think about the original reason for that decision, but I never had many problems with little Emma. I soothed her, sang songs when she asked, told her about my life in the guise of rhymed legends or tales, forced her to read, and that last one was for avoiding the horrible death from boredom in these many years. I would even associate myself with her parent, I had to educate her so much and so much to invest in her, but I would never trade my own undivided and indivisible, of course if you don’t take into account the possible dismemberment, body for her friendship. I could tell myself that only thing for sure even when Emma was an incredibly touching lost being, close to me in spirit and literally brought up by me from her very self-awareness of herself as a person.

Emma Swan, by the way, could be not only touching. She often pleased me with flashes of anger, which gave me a microscopic opportunity to pick up the drops of magic that emanated from her during that display of emotions, and it sparkled with such a bright flash when the doorbell interrupted the removal of the panties of our excited girlfriend.

“Oh, fuck this late guest!” - I growled and moaned with doom. - “Emma, your birthday and it’s eve are too full with surprises.”

Emma irritably pushed the beautiful girl away and went to open the door.

First, my ass-based feeling howled even more than when I met Neil or that strange girl, Lily.

Second, the boy said that Emma is his mother. The boy looked like someone else, but not Emma - I thought so at first glance at him. At his age Emma was much less self-confident, she never had this deceit and manipulation, which he showed later when we tried to expel him, and I personally suggested just throwing him out the door by the scruff. At the same time, I sent to the devil my non-quite-immutable rule-on-advice, again. And in spite of my old age extremes like paranoia and grumbling, I can't help but remember Emma when she was ten years old - this is exactly about the time when I finally and fully showed up, making a course of action with this active kid without a tsar in her head, really, and that means she was “flaky” and “rudderless”. The boy was dark-haired and quite puny. He definitely was not from a poor or especially unhappy family. Emma and I have always noticed these - their eyes were different, they were too incredulous for the age of the child, but this boy's eyes were alive. He smiled quite sincerely, didn’t try to hide and shrink under the stern look that Emma gave him for the interrupted party. And these are the signs from which I drew a conclusion - parents rarely shout at the boy, spoil him well and love him with high quality, I’d say.

“He seems to be lucky with his family,” I said to Emma as she walked off to the door with Becky, who was looking at the child with undisguised interest. - “Well dressed, taught independence, not intimidated, not clogged. For example, my father sold me before I was born to the Queen of the Sea because he couldn’t drink from the Living Creek asking for permission first, as everyone does. The King, for fuck’s sake, unable to just ask for the cure. At least, that’s why I met my future wife, yes... And since I was the firstborn, and very foolish as my father thought, it…”

“Listen, old man, stop nostalgia! I have already heard this story about the Queen of the Sea five times!”

In fact, I felt Emma’s panic and focused my attention on what was happening.

“A child came to me, I have no right to even see him, after what I did to him!”

“Then your foolishness is enough! Let's get the boy back!” - I snapped back and looked at the situation closer, trying to understand what Emma feels right now. - “I understand everything, you do not want to remember your oh not the best choice in life, but the result of this choice now stands before you, my darling!”

“Enough with this "my darling"! I constantly ask you to stop because it is contagious, and I repeat after you this mocking "my darling" without any need for it!”

“Emma, if there was no need, then throw at me ... Well, take what you can throw at me, then throw it!”

I laughed, forcing Swan to roll her eyes, and the boy, her son, took the grimace at his expense and put an extremely discouraging remark at the end of his speech.

“And if you won’t agree, I will tell the police that you kidnapped me!”

Emma couldn’t stand it and laughed, as if echoing me, and I literally just finished laughing in our inner world.

“Kid, you are very clever for your age and independent, yes!” - she trustingly patted him on the back - he sat on a bar stool and drank orange juice from the bottle throat. - “But you should know that the testimony of two adults that you yourself found this apartment and that address would beat your babble on this. Study the laws, kid! And please, if you come to stranger’s house, could you still ask permission or at least drink from a cup?”

Emma sighed, took the juice out of his hands and twisted the lid.

“And now, kid, we take my cake and... now completely your juice - after all, you drooled into it - and we go to your family. Would you like a sandwich? I’ve got with tuna and egg. Ok?”

He looked incredulously into our eyes, as if surprised at such an easy agreement on his request, but Emma — I knew — understood that she had no special choice, because she had a criminal record even if it was appealed and kind of amnestied, and that stopped her from any calls to the police. Emma didn’t wait for an immediate response from the child and asked.

- So, where to go?

- Storybrooke, Maine.

***

"Fairy tales?" - Emma repeated my thoughts, looking mistrustfully at the book that the boy was holding in his hands. - “Is this a fairytale book?”

“This is not just a fairy tale!” - the boy answered without any hesitation and I was somehow immediately alerted, after all, he was ten years old, not five. At this age, not everyone believes in Santa. - “It's true! Every story in this book actually happened!”

“Of course it did…”

I am quite sure that Emma did not argue with the kid, not because she was sorry to debunk the boy’s illusions. She was screaming at me now, panicking again, although in the real world she was simply frowning.

“Are you kidding me?! Is it contagious? Is it transmitted genetically? Is this some mutation? He thinks that fairy tales are real, and a relic of one of these fairy tales lives in my head!”

“Not these!” - I would have shook my head if I could. - “These are yours,” - I emphasized this word especially, - “fairy tales. Not ours, Emma. Not the ones I come from. We don’t tell tales of the Queen and the Snow White. We have other heroes, you know.”

“And how do you know that the book says about the Queen and Snow White?” - she was surprised, but didn’t forget to follow the road - we turned onto the highway.

“I read briefly just now”, - I answered and gave a laugh. “If you don’t see something, it doesn’t mean that I don’t see it, Emma. I need one glance to remember.”

“And why haven't I graduated the University with this ability yet?” - Emma sighed, but her sarcastic question didn’t require an answer, and I knew how much I would infuriate her if I answer it.

“Of course, because you're a stupid lazy bird,” - I drawled with pleasure. - “And not a swan, but a penguin. If you don’t kick it, it won’t fly!”

“Did you believe me?” - Henry decided to ask after a long silence and reached for a bag of juice and sandwiches. - “May I...”

“It’s much better when you remember to ask,” - Emma nodded but stopped short that parenting attempt. - “So what were you saying about fairy tales? What’s that about?”

“They are about you. You are there.”

The child shrugged and, putting the book aside, dug into a sandwich with indescribable pleasure written on his face, despite the fact that just couple of seconds ago the car was slightly inclined aside because Emma was a bit dumbfounded.

“It seems you have problems, kid…”

Emma sighed, straightening the steering wheel, and was hardly surprised when she heard the boy’s answer.

“Yeah. And you fix them.”

***

“Thus, the Sandwich Eater, I have a task for you!” - said Emma, when we moved into this Storybrooke of his and drove up to the clock tower. - “You must make your parents finish my cake with me on board. Judging by your ability of whining and persuasion, you are quite capable of it. It is going to melt to hell, and the holiday is already ruined enough. Though we will talk over a cup of tea about your behavior…"

We discussed Emma's further behavior strategy, and in the end she decided to ask kid’s parents why the boy ran away from home - Emma herself had similar runaways, and the reason of those wasn’t the great love of the adoptive family, for sure. But there was something obviously wrong in all that, and how he could find Emma was an unsolved mystery yet. I felt something strange somewhere on the border of Yavi, the Reality, but it could be just an ancient burial ground of some Indians, or a nasty cemetery, so for now I decided not to tell my mistress that I was slightly shaken by the thin Border in this terrain.

“I have no parents, I only have a mother,” - our little jerk replied. - “And she is evil!”

“Evil?” - Emma slowed down in the middle of the main square of the town and got out of the car. - “Get out!”

He obeyed, and I murmured to Emma, not to dare to hurt that little asshole, but she waved it off and sat down in front of the child so as to see his lowered eyes, shyly in search of a way out of the situation.

“Do you even think what you say? She is not evil! She is the person who became your family, when I - hear me - I was the very first evil in your life! And, you know, boy, life is not a damn collection of fairy tales - you are very lucky at least with the fact that you do not have to climb out of your skin just to eat enough.”

“My name is Henry!” - he exclaimed and looked us straight in the eyes. - “She doesn't love me. She only pretends to love. And you can help break the curse!”

“What other curse?” - Emma lowered the tone, during the interrogation of the little boy, asking me an extremely urgent question. Urgent for me, mostly.

“Old man, do you think he is talking about you? You yourself told me that this is your curse and you don’t know how to remove it ... Maybe it’s not by chance that everything's happening now? The kid fell into the hands of this book or… oh, backwards, and you always said that there are legends about you in our world, which definitely correspond to reality you lived in.”

I want to take your body, and you want to help me. Ironic, really. I would grin if I could. There’s too much inaccessible things to me that I would like to feel, that’s why I’ve long been thinking about how to finally seize that receptacle. And I'll pretend to be who you want as long as it is needed. I won’t repay good with good, no, that would be a mistake. Although, I wonder what Vasilisa would say on how exactly and how much I changed during this time? And does she know that I am alive, if finally I got lucky and came across the reality that’s parallel to mine?

“Emma, my darling, do you even know how to experience brain activity? I told you there was something about Snow White and the Queen in the book. Read it - and you would never find either Ivan, the son of tsar Vseslav, nor the daughters of Koschei, nor himself with his Sea Queen wifey. Although, on the other hand, no one knows what’s on the other side of the Infinity Forest…”

My mocking words were not particularly important to Emma, in any case, that was clearly unnoticeable. She didn't respond, continuing dialogue with the boy. He explained her exactly what kind of curse we are talking about. And it was clearly not mine.

“Look at the clock,” - the boy pointed to the tower, where the clock should've been hitting something around midnight long ago. - “Time is frozen here. The Evil Queen did it with her curse. She sent all of the Enchanted Forest here.”

“So, now I understand” - Emma put her hands on her hips and paraphrased. “The Evil Queen sent all the heroes of fairy tales that you told me about to this place?”

“Yeah, and now they are trapped.”

“Stuck in time and locked up in Storybrooke of Maine? Urban fantasy looks cool only in big cities, you know.”

Sarcasm obvious feel I in the Force... but she is right - I haven’t heard of such spells. My wife could, knew and practiced to transform the dead into a living, to unwind time, or with the help of mavka-navka, little magical fairy creatures, to collect magic and use it for whatever she wished to built. She also was quite good with fire and learned from her grandmother how to pick up soul-skulls and use them for magical purposes. But to clear the memory of all that people, not even for forever, when the cure is possible…

This is either hopeless stupidity, or such conditions were written into the curse, that wasn’t written by the Queen. So, the point is - it was the writing of someone else but that Evil Queen. Approximately and apparently she’s called like that as I was called the Terrible once upon a time, yet never Dark, this is a slightly different level. There was no other choice, and if there was, then the achievement of the goal was more important. Although I can’t even imagine how much you must not want to kill your enemies, the Queen... Instead of simply turning the whole reality into Stone or something like that, as the Stone Princess once wanted to do, and she was the blood of Yagg’s blood, who have protect the Reality because of that blood... That Queen bothered herself too much for petty avenge. Although, I think, the same thing guided the one who planted my soul into this semblance of the Underworld.

That Queen had not only the desire to make her enemies suffer, but had the desire to rule and entertain her Ego. After all, I cannot be compared to a large number of people to fit in the kingdom.

“It’s true!”

“So why don't they all just leave?” - Emma tried to appeal to reason, while I was silent, thinking about what is happening.

“They can not! If they try, bad things happen!”

Henry also seemed to appeal to reason, but for Emma it was clearly not an argument, and the boy was not allowed to explain more. We were interrupted.

“Henry!’ - slightly bald ginger man with a dalmatian on a leash approached. - “What are you doing here?” - he looked at us with a worried look and asked Emma. - “Everything is good?”

“I'm fine, Archie,” - the boy immediately started to stroke the dog, that showed his close acquaintance with a man who smiled uncertainly in the direction between Emma and Henry.

“And who are you?”

“I’m just bringing him home.”

Obviously Emma didn’t want to make new acquaintances here, as well as I really wouldn’t want to, if it’s not so suspicious and not connected to fairy tales. Once I asked Emma to look for something from the history of the Russian lands. The search ended in folklore, and most of the adventures from fairy tales named folk or based on them were true, but incredibly distorted, and that probably happened with…

Do I even believe it?!

“She is my mother, Archie” - said the kid, solding out my darling Emma for nothing.

“Not really,” - Emma clarified and asked Archie. - “Do you know about adoption?”

“Ah, yes,” - he let the dog off the leash and it came up to us, sniffed Emma's knee, and Swan immediately began patting it on withers. - “He goes to therapy. I had to find out.”

“Therapy? Kid, it gets harder for you to convince me, honestly!”

“Convince you?” - Archie looked at Emma inquisitively.

“No worries, we both know what I mean!”

Emma smiled awkwardly, winked at Henry, who wanted to answer, but realized that his mother had finally behaved like an adult who had learned a bitter experience and understood that the voice in her head was almost as serious as believing in a fairytale world, and very few of the “caring adults” will like it to such an extent that they decide not to do anything about it.

“Oh, he told you too!” - Archie's face lit up. - “So, what are you doing here?”

“I am searching for his mother's house,” - she shrugged and added. - “I think you could tell me the address, or maybe you want to take him there yourself…”

“Oh, no, no,” - Archie’s smile became tense, as if he definitely didn’t want to meet that woman. - It’s on Mifflin Street, the mayor’s house is the largest. You’ll recognize.”

“No matter who Henry’s mother is”, - I told Emma in a casual tone, - “she’s clearly no less annoying than her son.”

“Mayor! His mom is a fucking mayor! She will put me in jail!” - Emma panicked. She loves to panic in her own brain, especially when there is such a wonderful me, ready to listen, understand and forgive. For the time being, of course, but ... Sometimes I even like it.

“That’s why we come bearing the cake!”

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #152: NIGHTMARE in New Orleans!

October, 1976

It’s a shame sometimes when timing just doesn’t work out. I was lucky enough with a bit of double time that I got the first Mantis appearance out in time for her screen debut. But here we have what would have been a perfect Halloween issue (it was even published in October!) and I got to it a week too early!

I could just put the blog on hiatus and post it in a timely fashion but what Avengers-related content will people read in the meantime? I couldn’t deprive them of that.

So lets get to this book that features Wonder Man being pretty blase about being an unliving slave.

And never wonder how far down that inverted cross goes.

So.

Last time: After many trials and tribulations and some drama and bad decision making, the Avengers selected a new roster. Its a pretty typical Avengers roster. Really only missing Thor. We have Iron Man, Captain America, the Vision, Scarlet Witch, Yellowjacket, Wasp, and Beast.

Oh and when they announced the new roster, a giant crate that was shipped to them burst open to reveal the not-quite-dead Wonder Man who accused Vision of being a mind-taker. WeeeeeeEEEEEEoooooooooo mind taker.

And forty-two seconds has passed between issues and undead Wonder Man is still repeating the same accusation.

Cap is worried that for some reason, this will drive the crowd to become a hysterical mob but before that can happen, Wonder Man collapses.

The Avengers act fast, picking up the collapsed dead superherovillain and frenemy.

Sam Reuther tries to get in their way to interview them but Iron Man and Cap tell him to fuck off.

How dare he try to do his job right now? Although in fairness, he really shouldn’t be getting in the way.

Iron Man muses that the Avengers have been under a lot of stress going through one crisis after another since... hell probably since the Celestial Madonna Saga.

Anyway, Wonder Man is brought inside to the Laboratory of Hanks. Where Hank and Hank examine him. And here’s the weird thing Hank (Pym) discovers. He’s not actually undead. He’s alive. Dun dun dun?

Meanwhile, outside, Sam Reuther casts suspicions on the Avengers for their secrecy, alluding to Watergate-era White House.

So Jarvis kicks him off the property. Cast your suspicions from outside the gate, newsman.

Meanwhile, inside, the Hanks brief the others on what they discovered. Wonder Man has all the biometrics of a living person who is alive and not dead. Except one weird thing. His brain has been wiped clean of all memories except that one sentence he kept repeating.

It’s pretty chilling.

Vision decides to feel the human emotion of guilt over all of this. He has decided that Wonder Man’s accusation is true. What right does he have to the mind that was rightfully Wonder Man’s?

Nobody asks to be born, Vision. They literally can’t. And you’re not to blame for your asshole dad. But, eh, emotions are frequently irrational.

Scarlet Witch calls shenanigans on Vision’s self-loathing. Whoever sent Wonder Man to sort of spook the Avengers is the one responsible for his condition. Not the Avengers and definitely not Vision!

So she heads outside, blows the lookie-loos away with a localized hurricane, and goes to investigate the crate Wonder Man came in.

Maybe there’s a return address or... clumps of dirt.

What is this, a Batman story?

Instead of a Bat-Computer, Scarlet Wanda has her new witchery and she uses the witchery to psychometrize the dirt. She gets an image of men performing a ritual around a fire and of a place. A big easy place. A New Orleans place!

Oh boy, the Avengers are going to New Orleans! Maybe they’ll team up with Monica Rambeau oh she doesn’t exist yet. Dammit.

Yeah. So she tells the rest of the Avengers what their precious science with all of its chemicals and instruments couldn’t. WONDER MAN HAS BEEN TURNED INTO A ZUVEMBIE!

Which is a made-up word that Marvel uses to not get in trouble with the comics code for saying the zed-word.

I imagine that Marvel Zuvembies would not have sold as well. What a world that would be.

So the Avengers pack up some stuff, including Wonder Man’s not-deceased body, into a Quinjet and blast off.

And the trip is long enough (and the Avengers are outgoing enough, which I guess is the expected default in the superheroing biz) that we get some character moments.

Wasp apologizes for pressuring Yellowjacket into rejoining the Avengers. He was just so grim recently that she thought it might be good for him to get back into the action-adventure life. And forcing him into things for his own dubious good is the only tactic she has for helping him.

He apologizes for being grim but says that he’s grown out of trying to be a swashbuckler. He feels kind of silly in the superhero life.

Wasp insists that he’s just insecure because being insecure is basically Hank Pym in a nutshell.

Meanwhile also, Beast is grappling the absurdity of the situation, I guess? One would think he saw weirder things when he was an X-Man. Like an island that walked like a man? But whatever.

Cap tells him that when you’ve seen the things he’s seen, nothing is really strange anymore. True story: he fought a Nazi vampire (now there’s a mashup: Captain America/Hellsing). So voodoo hoodoo ain’t a big to do.

Iron Man chimes in that he teamed up with a werewolf recently, perhaps being that guy who always has to one-up any stories. And then he very insensitively points out that when you come down to it, Beast himself looks like a monster.

Which isn’t exactly a thing that Beast was thrilled to here. So he spends the next hour and forty-eight minutes exactly brooding.

The Avengers land their very boat looking Quinjet at an abandoned Algiers airport and then get a quick ferry ride across the Mississippi.

Because fording would have been far too dangerous with Iron Man along. He’d sink like a stone.

In New Orleans, Scarlet Witch spots one of the people she saw in her dirt vision and the Avengers immediately start running at him screaming because nonchalantly walking up isn’t an option when you’re dressed in bright colors.

Everyone in the bar goes running because uh yeah a bunch of superheroes just starting running at them and they all have some petty crimes on their conscience but the man in the borsalino hat knows they’re after him.

He must escape to warn the Master! But not that one! I think!

Wasp and Yellowjacket give chase, in tiny size. And Wasp is gratified that Hank is sounding more like his old self, cracking jokes and such. And as much as he won’t admit it, she knows that the superhero life is in his blood.

Anyway. Yeah. Yellowjacket ties the man’s shoelaces together and this superpowered application of a childish prank sends the man down long enough for the Avengers to catch up with him.

But he refuses to tell them anything so Scarlet Witch steps up.

And she casts a spell. And in a voice inaudible to the Avengers but audible to the perp, she says something so terrible that it makes him crumble with fear and spill the beans.

Le Mort Bayou.

So that’s where the Avengers go next.

And the trudge through the swamp is long enough for a character moment! I love when there’s enough transit time for some character moments.

Although its an unhappy character moment. Beast tries to reassure Vision that they’ll know who was behind this zuvembie stuff soon and then Vision can relax.

Vision: “No matter what the outcome today, certain doors have been opened, which before this were closed. There are questions which require answers, questions I must ask myself -- concerning my ‘immortal soul.’”

But Vision realizes time and place and quits bumming everyone out.

Scarlet Witch hears a silent calling which makes Wonder Man stir. A zuvembie master’s summoning!

So they set him down and follow the shambling plot element from 140-some issues ago. They let zuvembie Wonder Man go ahead and watch from the... trees or something.

And watch in apparent mute horror at the voodoo ritual they discovered. It has everything you might expect a hollywood comic voodoo ritual to have. Zombies Zuvembies pulling themselves out of the ground, drums, people dancing with snakes.

Wonder Man joins the other zuvembies in front of the ringleader. The man in the chicken suit. Black Talon. Because, he’s black. If he didn’t have black in his name, someone might think he was not in fact black.

But Black Talon is surprised and alarmed to see Wonder Man. He should be in New York. Zuvembies can’t catch a plane back to New Orleans. What’s going on here??

But rather than really question it, he decides to just destroy Wonder Man.

So the Avengers jump out and start punching.

And apparently punching a voodoo cult is just what everyone needed after all the craziness in their lives recently to get them back in rare form.

Except Vision.

He’s doing the thing where he lets people jump through him but only in a very bitter way. Scarlet Witch is worried about him, not taking any joy out of people bonking heads while trying to double team him.

Wasp and Yellowjacket dismiss Black Talon as inconsequential to go fight some of the cultists. Which turns out to be a mistake.

Black Talon can apparently summon the spirits of the loa and a nasty sounding fellow called the serpent god Damballah.

And something enters the clearing shrouded in shadows and the Avengers all fall. The cultists and zuvembies too.

Its a huge, oppressive force that feels like being stepped on and crushed by a giant.

But there is one person unaffected.

The Scarlet Witch.

She’s getting a real good showing today, huh?

Her role as a sorceress apparently protects her from the being-stepped-on effect. But Black Talon just tries to strike her down with magical bolts of possibly lightning.

And while Scarlet Witch’s power comes from within, Black Talon’s might is the might of the dark god Damballah.

And after getting blasted some more, Scarlet Witch has an epiphany.

Dark god. Lurking shadowed.

So she throws a burning branch at the dark god, exorcising him.

Good job, Wanda.

And then she uses her witchery to pelt Black Talon with wood until he gives up.

It was a good showing for Scarlet Witch. Unfortunately, Black Talon doesn’t know anything.

Wonder Man was brought to Black Talon by his servants already “alive” with a message from someone known only as “the one whose will we serve.”

So the mystery has unpeeled into another mystery. Like an enigmatic onion.

And also, Wanda is quitting the team.

Whaaaaaaaaat?

She beat Black Talon and Damballah but what if she hadn’t? It’s possible that she could have maybe possibly lost the fight due to her incomplete self-knowledge! She needs to go on a journey of discovery!

Vision doesn’t even argue. Just wishes for god to give with her. Even though she’s decided to have her ‘I must go off alone’ journey right in the middle of the nowhere bayou.

Couldn’t it have waited until they got back to New Orleans?

Also: Damballah is apparently an actual loa under vodou and doesn’t seem to be an evil shadow god of evilness. Good job respecting other cultures, Marvel!

Also x2: next time the Living Laser again? But that guy was the worst! He’s probably the one who was whining about Wasp not loving him in the previous issue.

Ugh.

Well at least I’ll get to see him get his ass kicked again.

Hey. Why not follow @essential-avengers? Its the dedicated sideblog just for these posts and also I accept questions. Like. About Avengers stuff.

[snickerl]

Elixir Vitae

AU fanfic set around the time of IWTB.

A/N: I've always loved Margaret Scully and hate Chris Carter for giving her just one single line in season 10.

Find previous chapters here: Chapter I / Chapter II / Chapter III

Chapter IV

Now that she knows who she is - she knows, she does not remember - Dr. Pratt sees no reason to keep her family away from her any longer. So I have Maggie and Bill Jr. with me today when I gently knock at the door to her room.

I tried to prepare her mother. I told her to brace herself for looking into a pair of unresponsive eyes, that it was possible Dana would not remember her own mother. Margaret Scully listened to me like she always listened to me when I was giving her the facts about her daughter’s medical condition. There were times I had to do it on a monthly basis almost. Her son, of course, not really a fan of mine, didn’t spare me anything. He told me for the umpteenth time that this was all my fault, that I messed up his sister’s life and brought so much sorrow upon his family in my pathetic pursuit of little green men that he’d like to see me rot in hell.

Before I open the door, I throw Maggie an encouraging look, avoiding Bill’s eyes.

“Hey, Scully, it’s me,” I greet her and the familiar words warm my soul. “Here’s someone who wants to see you.”

I argued with Dr. Pratt whether or not to tell her in advance that her folks would be coming. He deemed it wiser not to, hoping it would give her memory a boost. I’m not so sure about it but doctor’s orders are doctor’s orders, and he’s the specialist. Specialist in the field of amnesia that is, not in the mystery that is Dana Scully. In this field, I am the specialist, and I fear that if she becomes aware that she doesn’t even recognize her own mother, and chances are uncomfortably high she won’t, Dr. Pratt’s plan backfires and sends her into an even deeper state of hopelessness than she’s already in.

She turns around when she hears my voice and her face lightens up when she sees me. My heart jumps a little.

“Fox!” she cheers, and I can hear her mother gasp at the unfamiliar name coming out of her mouth.

I go over to her and place a quick peck on her cheek, the greeting ritual we’ve established ever since she found out we were married. Then I turn around to motion for Maggie and Bill, who are still glued to the threshold, to step into the room.

“Scully, I don’t want you to get fed up with me as your only visitor, so I brought you two new ones,” I try to take the pressure off the situation and ease the atmosphere a bit.

Her eyes wander from me to her mother and brother and my darkest forebodings are coming to fulfillment.

She looks at them, she looks at me, then back at them. When her eyes meet mine again, I see plain horror in them. She realizes that she’s supposed to know these people, probably understanding that the elderly woman looking at her so affectionately can’t be anyone but her mother and that the man, who’s of a similar age and has the same facial features as her, very probably is her brother. She silently pleads with me to help her out, and I silently curse myself for not having stood up to Dr. Pratt and his stupid idea of confronting her with her family unprepared.

I put my hand on the small of her back to let her feel I’m right there behind her before I tell her, “Scully, these are your mother Margaret and your older brother Bill.”

“Oh.”

Maggie is struggling to keep her composure. My heart aches for her. How many more times does this woman have to visit her daughter in a medical institution? How many more times does she have to fear for her daughter’s wellbeing?

“Dana, Sweetheart,” Maggie greets her.

“I’m sorry,” Scully only says. “I…I don’t…”

“It’s alright,” her mother soothes her, her voice so gentle, it’d put anyone at ease. “It’s perfectly alright, dear. You’re well, that’s all that matters right now. Can I give you hug?”

Scully briefly checks with me, and although it feels good to be her confidant, I am so sorry for Maggie who considers it advisable to ask her daughter for permission to hug her.

“Sure,” Scully says somewhat shyly.

Maggie closes the distance between them, cups Scully’s face with one hand, and looks at her with so much motherly love in her eyes, it makes my knees wobbly. She pulls her daughter to her chest and folds her arms around her. I’m sure she tried to prevent it, but a tear rolls down her cheek when she closes her eyes.

Scully’s initial stiff reaction, a clear sign that she’s overwhelmed by the situation, softens that much that in the end, she hugs her mother back.

“Please excuse an old woman’s soppiness,” Maggie says when she pulls back.

The Scully women are compassionate and empathetic; like mother, like daughter. Scully senses that the person in front of her loves her from the bottom of her heart, even though she doesn’t recognize her.

“That’s alright,” she says with a warm smile on her face and wipes the tear off Maggie’s cheek. “Mother? Mama, mommy, mom?”

“Mom,” Maggie sobs, “you call me mom.”

Bill Jr. groans.

“I’m really sorry to make you cry. Did Fox tell you about the amnesia?”

“Yes, he did. He said your memory will come back eventually, that we simply have to give it some time.”

“Hopefully, yes. It’s also called amnestic syndrome,” Scully replies, unable to shed her doctor’s skin.

Maggie takes both of Scully’s hands in hers and squeezes them tenderly.

“I will pray for you, Dana.”

“Thank you…mom.”

When her hands are released, Scully turns to Bill.

“And you are my brother?”

Bill clears his throat. “Uhm, yes. My name’s William, but I go by Bill. Bill Jr.,” he introduces himself awkwardly, before being asked what he used to be called by her.

Scully tilts her head and looks at me questioningly. “Our son isn’t the only William in our family?”

“Uh, no. There are quite a few Williams in our two families,” I supply.

Bill turns his head and throws angry daggers at me. “You told her about William? How could you?” he spits out.

“Bill! Please!” his mother intervenes sharply, and Scully explains, “I asked. Fox didn’t want to at first and he didn’t tell me really much. I know it’s a sad story. We agreed to talk about him some other time.”

“Tsk,” is all Bill has to say about it.

I can’t blame him for loathing me. I used to have a little sister myself and protected her the best I could. I failed once, and it has darkened my life forever.

Scully looks at me with a quizzical expression on her face. Her brother’s hostility is so apparent, she must feel it. She’s sensitive and hasn’t lost her observing skills and insight into the human nature just because she can’t recall who she is.

I shrug, trying to tell her non-verbally that I’d explain later. It’s her mother, the wonderful, warm-hearted, and good-natured Margaret Scully, who eases the tension in the room.

“Sweetheart…” she starts but then hesitates a second, “may I call you sweetheart?”

“Of course,” Scully answers, taking her mother’s hands in hers. “I may not recognize you, but I can read in your eyes that we have a strong connection. You look very worried, but there’s no need to be worried. I’m fine. I’m perfectly healthy except for having no access to certain parts of my brain. I just have to be patient until the memories come back.”

I have to give her kudos for trying to soothe her mother. What she just said is what the doctors keep telling her, and I know there are days she can no longer believe them. That she’s now assuaging her mother’s sorrow with the scenario spelt out for her like a mantra by the medical staff gives me hope that she’s still willing to believe that eventually, she’ll heal, that the bad days she’s having, the days filled with hopelessness and pessimism, are just part of the usual ups and downs every patient goes through during a serious illness. It was the same when she fought against her cancer, and she pulled through that one eventually. She’s going to pull through this as well.

She has to!

Maggie strokes Scully’s cheek in a comforting gesture and smiles at her so warmly for Scully’s heart to melt. It must be melting. Mine would. I was never looked at that compassionately by my mother. I wished I was.

“Remember you’re not alone, Dana. You have a family that loves you and cares about you immensely. Whenever you have the feeling you want me to be here, don’t hesitate to call. Please! Can you promise me to do that?”

Scully nods, visibly touched by her mother’s words.

“It’s like I told you when I found you here, Scully,” I interject. “Most certainly, people were looking for you. How could you ever believe you weren’t loved and sadly missed?”

Maggie throws me a gentle look and mouths a silent ‘thank you’. Bill is pacing the room, not even trying to hide how disgruntled he is. I feel he’s got something on the tip of his tongue he has difficulties keeping inside his mouth, and I bet it’s nothing very flattering for me. I don’t have to wait long for it to sputter out of him.

“If you had stopped dragging her into those ridiculous cases of yours, Mulder, like I asked you over and over again, none of this would’ve have happened and there would’ve been no need for you to tell her she had a family,” he pants, his contempt for me filling the entire room.

I’m not surprised. That’s exactly what I expected from him, although I hoped he’d be able to keep his dislike of me at bay for just this one afternoon. Not because I can’t take his accusations. I can. I’m so used to them I mostly just don’t listen, but for Scully, the unfriendly vibes between her brother and me must be somewhat disconcerting, and for that, I’m angry at him. In his sister’s interest, he could’ve bitten his tongue once. Just once.

“Bill,” Maggie says, in a conciliating tone this time, “it’s not Fox’s fault. He found Dana here, and for that, we should be grateful.”

Thankfulness is not a sentiment he’s willing to bestow on me, so he counters his mother’s generous words with a dismissive snort.

Scully’s eyes are flying back and forth between the three of us. I can imagine her discomfort at the exchange of these rather harsh and unfriendly remarks among us.

“Fox said you were my older brother, Bill. I take it we have at least one more, younger brother?”

“Yes,” Bill answers her, his face contorted. “Charlie. But he’s estranged. He’s the youngest of us four.”

As soon as the words have tumbled out of his mouth, I want to shake him for his insensitivity. He solved one mystery for Scully but simultaneously brought up two new ones.

“Four of us?” she hence asks.

As both Maggie and Bill fall silent, seemingly overwhelmed by the situation unfolding itself in front of us, I step in to answer the question.

“You’re number three in the line-up, Scully. Bill’s the first-born, then there’s your sister Melissa, you, and Charlie, the youngest.”

“I see. Charlie isn’t here because he’s estranged with the family, like you said, Bill, but what about Melissa? Why hasn’t she come with you? Don’t we get along well?”

I can see that Maggie is fighting with her emotions, trying badly to keep tears from forming in her eyes. As I don’t want Bill to spit out another inconsiderate explanation, I hurry to give Scully the information she deserves, mentally slapping myself in the face for having her go through this ordeal. I could’ve prepared her for this, sparing her having to cope with one painful detail about her family after another. If I hadn’t listened to Dr. Pratt, I would’ve told her the family story beforehand and mother and daughter could’ve used their time to bond instead of walking on eggshells around each other.

“You and Melissa got along very well, Scully. You weren’t apart much and shared a room as kids. The reason that she’s not here today is that she’s not around anymore. She died more than a decade ago in an accident.”

I know I’m bending the truth a little, but under no circumstances am I going to tell her now that her sister was shot in her apartment and that she herself had actually been the target.

“And my father is also dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes, dear,” Maggie answers this one. “We lost him in 1994. He was a Navy captain and called you Starbuck.”

Scully’s hearty chuckle fills the room, a rare and therefore uplifting sound but also a bit out of place at this particular moment.

“Starbuck, huh? And I guess I called him Ahab,” she says, still chuckling and looking at us innocently with a smile on her face, only to be stared at by three sets of flabbergasted eyes. The room has fallen so silent from one moment to the next, one would hear a needle drop to the floor. Maggie puts her hand over her mouth, but a startled gasp escapes anyway.

“What? It was a joke! I’ve been reading Moby Dick,” Scully explains, pointing to the bedside table where the mentioned book lies face up.

“Dana,” Maggie whispers, “you did indeed call your father Ahab. We all did. Was that a memory? Do you remember him? You had such a strong bond to your father, above all, it would be understandable for you to remember him.” Her voice is wavering a little.

“I d-don’t know,” Scully stammers. She frowns and one can literally see her racking her brain. Then, she shakes her head and casts her eyes down. “No, I don’t think it was a memory, more likely a coincidence because of what I read in the book.”

Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe not. Though I refuse to believe that it was a simple coincidence she picked Moby Dick from the clinic library. How high are the chances she’d choose exactly that particular copy out of a variety of hundreds of books? Not very! She was guided by something, and the same something let her make what she thought was a joke about her father’s nickname. What we’ve just seen is the first little step in the right direction.

I know it!

I feel a glint of hope flaring in my chest. And I’m relieved that Scully’s alleged joke has distracted everyone from Melissa’s absence.

Scully closes her eyes and massages her temples. This conversation has clearly taken its toll on her her.

I know that Maggie is sensitive enough to notice her daughter’s need for rest, but I’m not so sure about Bill, therefore I suggest, “I think we could all use a break. Why don’t we defer the rest of the family history to some other time?”

“Are you throwing us out, Mulder? Who do you think you are? Her guard?” Bill bellows.

I grit my teeth so hard to keep myself from replying something impolite, my jaws ache.

“No, I’m not. I’m just saying that it’s been a lot of information, and I want Scully to take her time to let it all sink in.”

“Oh! You want her to-” Bill launches into another verbal attack but is cut off by his mother.

“Bill! Fox is right, it’s been enough for today!” Maggie’s tone is so authoritative, even Bill gets that his mother does not tolerate any dissent in this matter. She shoots him a severe look, then continues, her worried eyes resting on her daughter’s face, “I hope we didn’t overwhelm you, sweetheart. I’d hate myself if we made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine. Thanks for coming and being so kind to me.”

Maggie’s can’t suppress a sob.

“You’re my daughter, Dana, I’d do everything for you.”

“I realize that, mom. Just…give me some time, okay?”

Maggie nods, pressing her lips together to keep another endearment from slipping out, I suppose.

My heart breaks seeing mother and daughter so much in distress, but I’m glad that the word 'mom’ rolling so effortlessly off Scully’s tongue had the capacity to ease Maggie’s emotional pain. A splinter of joy has lit up in her face when she heard her daughter call her mom and the troubled lines on her forehead have receded a little.

“All the time in the world,” Maggie whispers, “I’m just so happy to have you back.”

Her shoulders are trembling now and I’m afraid she’s about to break down.

Scully has the same feeling evidently because she takes a step toward her and slides her hands up and down both her mother’s arms a few times.

“I’m here, and I won’t go anywhere,” she assures her. “Fox is keeping an eye on me.”

I hear Bill huff somewhere behind me, but I don’t give a damn. What’s more important is Margaret Scully recomposing herself. Her eyes are radiant, her smile is genuine, and that’s enough for me to relax.

We arrange to meet again in about two weeks time. Scully promises to call her mother in the meantime to let her know how she’s doing. Maggie caresses Scully’s cheek and squeezes my hand when she says her goodbye. Bill smiles affectionately at his sister and hugs her but doesn’t deign to look at me on his way out. I couldn’t care less.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Scully turns around, crosses her arms in front of her chest, and throws me a challenging look. She doesn’t need to phrase the question which I’m convinced is burning on her tongue.

“Your brother and I…we aren’t exactly best friends,” I tell her without beating about the bush.

“No kidding? I wouldn’t have noticed,” she replies, sarcasm inking her voice, “but why?”

Of course, I could write a book about my screwed up relationship with Bill Scully Jr., but I try to keep the story short. I don’t want to disturb her any further than she already is.

“You were my partner and I got you involved in some pretty dangerous cases, during the course of which you got hurt more than once and he blamed me for it.”

“Couldn’t I have asked for a transfer if I hadn’t wanted to remain your partner?”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t.”

“No.”

It’s still a mystery to me and my greatest fortune that she stayed with me and the X-Files despite all the horrible things that happened to her in the wake of our work.

“So, I guess I accepted danger as part of my life, hence it wasn’t your fault I got hurt. My brother has no right to blame you for my decisions.”

I can’t believe she’s defending me. She hardly knows anything about the dynamics between us but she draws all the right conclusions. Either this is all so obvious and self-explaining, which I doubt, or her unprejudiced attitude and relentless aspiration for self-determination are so deeply rooted within her that they guide her even in her current state of lacking an understanding of who exactly she is.

One way or another, Bill only adds some extra pounds on my shoulders which are already loaded with the guilt I put there myself.

“He’s your older brother, Scully. Older brothers have to protect their little sisters. And in a way he’s right. If you had never met me…”

I can’t finish the sentence because the mere imagination that she never entered my life makes my stomach turn.

“I fell in love with you, so the relationship was satisfactory for both sides, I guess,” she says with a sheepish grin.

I’m glad she’s seeing it this way. I’m so relieved she’s gotten used to the idea that we’re lovers. She still doesn’t feel it, is still immune to the chemistry between us, but she embraces the concept. The scientist in her won’t stop gathering information about us and her life with me. I hope that one day she’ll not only know she’s my wife but also remember what it was like. And, of course, I pray she’ll still want to be with me when she does.

Today’s been a good day, tough. One step further into the right direction. Learning she’s a daughter and a sister gave her two more benchmarks to redraw the map of her life. There are still many blank areas on it, but I’m determined to continue helping her fill these blind spots. If necessary, one after the other, as long as it takes until she knows how to navigate through her past, present, and future. I want to be her beacon, her anchor, the person who leads her when she veers off course and who steadies her whenever she falters.

I am your rock, Scully! Lean on me!

to be continued

[ahighwaychild]

Under the Willows

‘Death is certain for the one who is born, and birth is certain for the one who dies. Therefore grieve not for what is inevitable.’ (Bhagvad Gita 2:27)

I was hesitant to sit on his bench, I hadn’t been here since he died, I spared a few minutes to read the engraving and thinking back to that epoch. Fifteen years on, it still looked relatively new and clean, which I was pleased about, I liked the idea of people unknowingly sitting on it, enjoying moments in time, reading his memorial and questioning what kind of person he was. He was gifted a bench in death, I would have given him something more, if I could. It served its purpose, I suppose, it was a sign that he was here, on this earth once, sand in his toes, guitar riffs ringing in his ears, life in his breath, his footsteps had certainly been here.

It was an extremely confusing time, I think my family tried to hide the severity of his illness from me, I suppose they wouldn’t want to worry a ten year old, only tell her what she needs to know, they probably agreed and I don’t blame them. I knew something was wrong, he was in and out of hospital, he became frail - skeleton like, our house was a cry for help then one day everything just became still. Screams of pain then nothing. 

Over a hundred people came to his funeral, I couldn’t believe it, myriads of sad faces but no heart as sad as mine, I thought. The wake was filled with unfamiliarity, strangers giving me their condolences, some just smiled, unsure how to comfort a child - they were temperamental at the best of times. I remember thinking my mum and brothers had done a standing ovation job of speaking to the masses, they looked after everyone that day but themselves and after everybody wept we swept up the mess.

My heightened anxiety was an instantaneous by-product of his untimely demise, much to the concern of my earth walking family. I had become an overthinker, prone to ruminating, his death enforced to me the transience of life, the fragility of it all, the loss of love had been excruciatingly painful but we all have our crosses to bear - at some point. I was fearful of my mother dying, then I would be an orphan, I never wanted her to leave the house - unjustifiable thoughts clouded my brain so there was no room for reasoning. I thought about the age difference between my older brothers and I, surely they would die before me, how would I cope with losing them? It was a plague of irrational emotions but they dwindled as I got into my teens, they hadn’t completely vanished into the ether, so to speak, they were still in my psyche and would resurface from time to time.

The bench was situated in a picturesque garden, it currently personified summer and beauty. Children were feeding the quacking ducks and poised swans by the small lilypad filled pond in the distance while their parents watched them closely, marvelling at their child’s youth. The clouds must have been on vacation as the sky was of the clearest blue, dragonflies hovered high above, seemingly unsure of what direction to take and a multitude of colourful butterflies paid me a visit from time to time. I held a long stem of lavender in my hand comfortingly, its blissful aroma working its way through my senses occasionally.  The windy willow trees lit up a memory in my mind of being at The Harrow park, falling terribly from my bicycle, my knees violently cut  - the blood seeping through within seconds (which would form a small scar that lived on my knee cap - well into my teenage years,) my left elbow sore and grazed. I welcomed his big arms as they scooped me up under the weeping willows to safety.  Nursing my cry, wiping neverending tears from my red flushed cheeks, with tissues that he always had in his pockets. It’s sadly the only memory I can remember vividly.

*

‘Tell me about him?’ My therapist had asked me.

‘He was a wise soul... Very knowledgeable, it was like he knew everything about every subject.’ It felt weird talking about him in the past tense, even after so long. ‘Well, he worked in the British Library, an archetypal librarian, our house was overflowing with books, mainly philosophy, the occult and classic fiction - he was a prolific Tolkien collector. I take after him, my brothers are more philistines.’ It was something I prided myself on, my love of the arts.

‘Tell me, Natasha, is there anything else you can tell me about him?’ My therapist insisted, looking for his biography from me.

‘I don’t know...’ I thought about what I should say. ‘He loved music, reggae, jazz and rock, Jimi Hendrix in particular, Along the Watchtower played at his funeral... He played the electric guitar, we still have like, five, at my mum’s house. I guess she wants to keep them. He enjoyed films - foreign - obscure types.’

‘Is that what you remember about him?’ She tilted her head to the side, probing. 

‘I don’t actually remember any of that, that’s what I’ve been told.’ My memories of him were scarce, blurred and dreamlike sometimes I questioned whether he had even been here, if he was an illusion, a fictional character. The bicycle episode was the only palpable memory which strangely I was thankful for, at least it was something. Maybe I had blocked them out, locked them away, it was harder to miss something you didn’t remember. ‘I remember his accent.’ I smiled fondly, recounting his gentle voice. I hadn’t even realised he had an accent until a kid at school had pointed it out, only then I noticed his tone was different to my mums. ‘He was Indo-Guyanese, he was tall and had curly black hair, that’s why I don’t look fully English, or maybe I do, I don’t know. When he died, I remember thinking about my culture… and how it had died with him... But, it soon came knocking at my door and like an old friend - I invited it in...’

*

My mum is English, your quintessential cockney from Bethnal Green and he was from Berbice, Guyana. It sounds like an incredible pairing when I think of it in that context and they were to be fair, if there is such a thing as soul mates, they were the blueprint. He had arrived, fresh off the - aeroplane, at fourteen years of age and met my mum three years later, they evidently, hit it off and were together ever since. Three children and twenty-five years of marriage, although it should have been fifty more. 

While he was here, there was no real fuss ever made about him being from Guyana, not that there should have been. I was so oblivious to my heritage, it was a quotidian reality, that I thought nothing of. As I grew more into my looks, more like him, I was frequently asked, ‘Where are you really from?’ which I didn’t actually find offensive, London is a multicultural city and I, equally curious about other people’s racially ambiguous aesthetics. 

Our town was a suburban demographically British-white area, I would have bet all the money in my ten year old self’s piggy bank that we were the only Guyanese in town. All of his family lived in Queens, New York, in an area nicknamed Little Guyana, meaning there wasn’t any West Indian influence in our household once he’d left earth. I had more cousins than I could count, some of them I had met before but it’s hard to remember meeting family when you’re under five years old. 

My mum had agreed that we could visit them in New York for my ‘Sweet Sixteenth’ birthday after I had been incessantly pleading for years. My family in NYC paid for our flights (they wouldn’t allow us to put a penny towards it) and we spent two life changing weeks in Little Guyana. They held a family reunion at my Auntie Shivanie’s house and I was overwhelmed with joy to see my ‘new’ family members - all here for me. I was showered with love, I had really not felt anything so euphoric before, it was as though we’d never been apart. My Auntie Shanti told me stories about my dads childhood, some which made me laugh and some made me cry. My mum and I looked at each other knowing what the other was thinking, ‘I wish he could be here’ but I knew he was there in a way.

Sitting at the front of the house was a common ritual in Richmond Hill, red cups, loud music and Guyanese food I’d never heard of or even tasted before - cook up rice (a sticky kind of rice with beans and other vegetables thrown in), katahar (jackfruit curry) , hassa curry (a tropical fish curry, it has the most unique taste.) I wasn’t keen on all their delicacies but hassa curry was now my favourite dish of all time which led my cousins to confirm ‘she ah true coolie white gyal.’ When my elders spoke, it was in such a thick broken English accent that I couldn’t decipher their words to anything understandable. To fit in, I would nod and smile politely, laugh when they laughed, it didn’t really matter to me. My cousins enjoyed mocking my English accent, I retaliated with my impression of their Guyanese accent (which admittedly sounded outrageous), this had them laughing all the way back to Kaieteur Falls.

There was no real resemblance between my cousins and I, you certainly couldn’t tell we were related. They introduced me to their friends, who were shocked at our revelation, ‘No way! You have a white cousin! From Eng-land, that’s dope!’ ‘Yo, she’s coolie too? No way?’ My cousins presented new genres of music to me - Soca, Dancehall, Chutney,  Sundar Popo’s ‘Don’t Fall In Love’ was a song I had on repeat for a long while. Two weeks flew by too quickly. Two big jeeps filled with family came to wish us farewell at JFK airport, so many tears and so much love. I told them I would see them again soon.

*

‘D’you mind if I sit here?’ An elderly man asked me, pointing at the space next to me on the bench, The Times newspaper folded in his other arm. He was about six foot but had a thin frame, glasses sitting on the tip of his sharp pointy nose and mostly grey hair, well, what was left of it. 

‘Of course not, be my guest.’ I smiled at him, budging over ever so slightly to create more room, it almost brought me back to reality as my thoughts had spun me into another universe altogether. 

My trip down a very winding memory lane had been undeniably cathartic and overdue. A journey complete with introspection, contemplation on the effects of his death to now being still in the present moment as the author of my tale.  His death didn’t define me, my race didn’t either nor my religion, I was defined by my spirit and everything else were merely influences on this life’s path.

The old man abruptly swivelled in his position, making me jump slightly at his sudden movement. He pushed his thin silver framed oval glasses up towards his small brown eyes and carefully read the words inscribed on the bench, ‘Ronald eh?’ He nodded at me. ‘I have to pay my respects to those who have left us, I always take notice of these things, I do.’ He put his hands together in a praying motion towards the sky then casually returned to his paper.

I looked at him shocked that he had acknowledged the subject of my visit, he noticed me staring conspicuously at him.

‘Yes?’ He turned towards me.

‘He was my dad.’ I smiled.

[automatismoateo]

Being an atheist in a traditional family via /r/atheism

Submitted April 04, 2018 at 03:11AM by oh_my_josh_im_so_dun (Via reddit https://ift.tt/2uJqKgN) Being an atheist in a traditional family

I wasn't brought up with religion as a main aspect of my life from the start, if anything my cultural traditions is what was taught to me. I'm half Navajo and half Apache, so I was taught stuff about spirits and the good and evil. My family was so superstitious about a lot of things, and prayer and ceremonies were the main aspect of my childhood. I believed it all and at the same time it all kind of scared me. It wasn't until I around 4th grade I was starting to go to church often because my mom married a Christian guy. So I basically blindly believed that stuff, then I started to question it more once I was in high school. During college I had a way more open mind and I started to hate religion more and more. Also it was pretty awesome how my 3 closest friends that I've had since 6th grade were atheist as well so I didn't feel so alone.

I'm currently 20 now, and I've told my mother that I'm an atheist and we had a long heated talk, but she still loves me. Although she can be sort of pushy with religious talk. I try to avoid talking about it as much as I can.

We recently went on a trip to Arizona to meet her new fiance (she got divorced to the other guy years ago), and before we left we went to my grandmas to visit. She basically tricked me into being a part of a traditional prayer with a medicine man at my grandma's house. So I sat on the floor for almost 2 hours with a guy asking if my head hurts because he "sensed something evil", then he went on and on about how someone some how sent me a curse or whatever. I told him my head was fine, and my grandparents started to butt into the conversation saying how I took a semester off of college and saying I'm not as "bright" as I used to be and that I' confused with my major and what I want. But really most people my age have that problem and it's really not a because someone cursed me. So I was pretty livid during this whole thing because it talking so long, but it gets worse! the medicine man bites and sucks the back of my neck so hard so he can "take out the evil flowing in my veins" and after he does it he stumbles to the door acting like what he bit into was so "powerful" he couldn't walk normally then he plays his flute and "casts it away" to send it back to whoever cursed me. I felt to trapped because I was in front of my family and I knew if I got up and walked out they'd judge me and treat me differently and they'd probably think I'm evil or been poisoned and that's why I'm refusing to go on with the rituals and the fortune telling.

So after that stuff I tried to hold back my tears, and went to the bathroom to pull myself together. I tried so hard not to look hurt. Eventually I said goodbye to my grandparents, and my grandpa told be "now you're going to be alright" and I said "I was doing fine before be did this prayer" and he responded saying "well you're even better now". Like that broke me, they though they where helping me like I needed to be fixed or something was wrong with me. If anything I felt worse after all of that, physically and emotionally hurt really. The back of my neck was red and sore, I was getting a headache and I just wasn't in to mood to speak to anyone.

So during the long car ride to Arizona I was mostly quite and upset with my mom, I listened to my music and read my book to avoid talking to her. Then once my younger brother fell asleep in the back seat, I decided to talk to her and tell her I felt uncomfortable and I never wanted to do this again. She took it well.

Then after a few days in Arizona I thought we where going to find a few places from my brother I to ride our bikes but she ended up taking me to see another medicine man about the same subject and about a few things that happened at one of my ceremonies I did in my Apache culture for girls becoming of age sort of thing. But that was like ages ago. I don't know why she brings it up now. So he tells me some more bullshit, saying I escaped tragedy and I was supposed to die but some other family member died in my place. He went on and said that's why my brother is so mean to me, this life wasn't for me, I wasn't supposed to live is what he kept saying. I was saying I desire to be left alone and other vague shit. I was literally standing face to face with this guy outside facing east because that means something to them and I was trying not to just be disrespectful and talk back to him. I just agreed with whatever so I can hurry and get out of there. Then at the end he said he needs to do two more sessions later in life to deal with my "blood line" and something other thing I forgot but I know I'm never going to participate in it again so it doesn't matter.

Sorry this was such a long post but I just feel sort of empty because I can't even enjoy most things in my culture and I feel less native. Like I can't exactly tell everyone I don't believe in any of that stuff because I know it's going to divide me with my family and I'd be looked at like some witch. It's kind of hard because I'm no longer who I used to be, I used to have fun with certain ceremonies as a kid and now I want nothing to do with it because it all doesn't make sense. And I'm more doing it now because I'm trying to make them happy, other wise they'll be disappointed with how I turned out. I'm so glad I didn't turn out believing in any of that stuff though, I feel sort of bad for all the people wanting their life to be better and blaming it on someone else constantly and paying some medicine man to pray for them and thinking that'll solve their problems. I just try to use this for motivation to make myself work hard for my dreams so I can say I did that all without the help of prayers and a god. It will be me who put in the hours of hard work, not some god who chose to bless me because he had mercy. I won't give him any credit to my success. I just needed to vent and wanted to know how I deal with the family aspect and what type of tactics others use to be civil and yet still connected to family and at least a little bit of their culture. Honestly don't get why most natives are Christians in the first place too...

[trendingnewsb]

Why do we feel so guilty all the time?

The long read: Food, sex, money, work, family, friends, health, politics: theres nothing we cant feel guilty about, including our own feelings of guilt

I feel guilty about everything. Already today Ive felt guilty about having saidthe wrong thing to a friend. Then Ifeltguilty about avoiding that friend because of the wrong thing Id said. Plus, I havent called my mother yet today: guilty. And I really should have organised something special for my husbands birthday: guilty. I gave the wrong kind of food to my child: guilty. Ive been cutting corners at work lately: guilty. I skipped breakfast: guilty. I snacked instead: double guilty. Im taking up all this space in a world with not enough space in it: guilty, guilty, guilty.

Nor am I feeling good about feeling bad. Not whensophisticated friends never fail toremind me how selfinvolved, self-aggrandising, politically conservative and morally stunted the guilty are. Poor me. Guilty about guilty. Filial guilt, fraternal guilt, spousal guilt, maternal guilt, peer guilt, work guilt, middle-class guilt, whiteguilt, liberal guilt, historical guilt, Jewish guilt: Im guilty of them all.

Thankfully, there are those who say they can save us from guilt. According to the popular motivational speaker Denise Duffield-Thomas, author of Get Rich, Lucky Bitch!, guilt is one of the most common feelings women suffer. Guilty women, lured by guilt into obstructing their own paths to increased wealth, power, prestige and happiness, just cant seem to take advantage of their advantages.

You might feel guilty, Duffield-Thomas writes, for wanting more, or for spending money on yourself, or for taking time out of your busy family life to work on improving yourself. You might feel guilty that other people are poor, thatyour friend is jealous, that there are starving people in theworld. Sure enough, I do feel guilty for those things. So,itis something of a relief to hear that I can be helped thatI can be self-helped. But, for that to happen, what I must first understand is that a) Im worth it, and b) none of these structures of global inequality, predicated on historical injustices, are my fault.

My guilt, in other words, is a sign not of my guilt but of myinnocence even my victimhood. Its only by forgiving myself for the wrongs for which I bear no direct responsibility that I can learn to release my money blocks and live afirstclass life, according to Duffield-Thomas.

Imagine that: a first-class life. This sort of advice, which frames guilt as our most fundamentally inhibiting emotion, takes insights from psychoanalytic and feminist thinking and transforms them into the language of business motivation. The promise is that our guilt can be expiated by making money.

Its an idea that might resonate especially in the German language, where guilt and debt arethe same word, schuld. One thinks, for example, of Max Webers thesis about how the spirit of capitalism conflates our worldly and heavenly riches, on the basis that what you earn in this world also serves as a measure of your spiritual virtue, since it depends on your capacity for hard work, discipline and self-denial.

But what Weber calls salvation anxiety within the Protestant work ethic has the opposite effect to the self-help manuals promise to liberate entrepreneurs from their guilt. For Weber, in fact, the capitalist pursuit of profit does not reduce ones guilt, but actively exacerbates it for, in an economy that admonishes stagnation, there can be no rest forthe wicked.

So, the guilt that blocks and inhibits us also propels us to work, work, work, to become relentlessly productive in the hope that we might by our good works rid ourselves of guilt. Guilt thus renders us productive and unproductive, workaholic and workphobic a conflict that might explain theextreme and even violent lengths to which people sometimes will go, whether by scapegoating others or sacrificing themselves, to be rid of what many people considerthe mostunbearable emotion.

What is the potency of guilt? With its inflationary logic, guiltlooks, if anything, to have accumulated over time. Although we tend to blame religion for condemning man tolife as a sinner, the guilt that may once have attached tospecific vices vices for which religious communities couldprescribe appropriate penance now seems, in a more secular era, to surface in relation to just about anything: food, sex, money, work, unemployment, leisure, health, fitness, politics, family, friends, colleagues, strangers, entertainment, travel, the environment, you name it.

Equally, whoever has been tempted to suppose that rituals of public humiliation area macabre relic of the medieval past clearly hasnt been paying much attention to our life online. You cant expect to get away for long on social media without someone pointing an accusatory finger at you. Yet its hard to imagine that the presiding spirit of our age, the envious and resentful troll, would have such easy pickings if he could not already sense awhiff of guilt-susceptibility emanating from his prey.

It wasnt meant to be like this. The great crusaders of modernity were supposed to uproot our guilt. The subject ofcountless high-minded critiques, guilt was accused by modern thinkers of sapping the life out of us and causing ourpsychological deterioration. It was said to make us weak(Nietzsche), neurotic (Freud), inauthentic (Sartre).

In thelatter part of the 20th century, various critical theories gained academic credibility, particularly within the humanities. These were theories that sought to show whether with reference to class relations, race relations, gender relations how we are all cogs in a larger system ofpower. We may play our parts in regimes of oppression, but we are also at the mercy of forces larger than us.

But this raises questions about personal responsibility: if its true that our particular situation is underpinned by a complex network of social and economic relations, how can any individual really claim to bein control or entirely responsible for her own life? Viewed in such an impersonal light, guilt can seem an unhelpful hangover fromless selfaware times.

As a teacher of critical theory, I know how crucial and revelatory its insights can be. But Ive occasionally also suspected that our desire for systematic and structural formsof explanation may be fuelled by our anxiety at the prospect of discovering were on the wrong side of history.When wielded indelicately, explanatory theories can offer their adherents afoolproof system for knowing exactly what view to hold, with impunity, about pretty much everything as if one could take out an insurance policy to be sure of always being right. Often, too, thats as far as such criticism takes you into a right-thinking that doesnt necessarily organise itself into right-acting.

The notion that our intellectual frameworks might be as much a reaction to our guilt as a remedy for it might sound familiar to a religious person. In the biblical story, after all, man falls when hes tempted by fruit from the tree of knowledge. Its knowledge that leads him out of the Gardenof Eden into an exile that has yet to end. His guilt isaconstant, nagging reminder that he has taken this wrongturn.

Illustration: A Richard Allen

Yet even within that source we see how mans guilt can bedeceptive as slippery and seductive as the serpent who led him astray. For if man has sinned by tasting of knowledge, the guilt that punishes him repeats his crime: with all its finger-wagging and tenor of I told you so, guilt itself comes over as awfully knowing. It keeps us, as the psychoanalyst Adam Phillips has written, in thrall to that boring and repetitive voice inside our head that endlessly corrects, criticises, censors, judges and finds fault with us, but never brings usany news about ourselves. In our feelings of guilt, we seemalready to have the measure of who it is we are and whatit is were capable of.

Could that be the reason for our guilt? Not our lack of knowledge but rather our presumption of it? Our desperate need to be sure of ourselves, even when what we think of ourselves is that were worthless, useless, the pits? When we feel guilty we at least have the comfort of being certain ofsomething of knowing, finally, the right way to feel, whichis bad.

This may be why were addicted to crime dramas: they satisfy our wish for certainty, no matter how grim that certainty is. At the beginning of a detective story, were conscious of a crime, but we dont know who did it. By the end of the story, ithas been discovered which culprit is guilty: case closed. Thus guilt, inits popular rendering, is what converts our ignorance intoknowledge.

For a psychoanalyst, however, feelings of guilt dont necessarily have any connection tobeing guiltyin the eyes of the law.Our feelings of guilt may be a confession, but they usually precede the accusation of any crime the details ofwhich not even the guilty person can be sure.

So, while the stories we prefer may be the ones that uncover guilt, its equally possible that our own guilt is a cover story forsomething else.

Although the fall is originally a biblical story, forget religion for a moment. One can just as well recount a more recent and assuredly secular story of the fall of man. Its a story that has had countless narrators, perhaps none finer or more emphatic than the German Jewish postwar critic Theodor Adorno. Writing in the wake of the Holocaust, Adorno argued famously that whoever survives in a world that could produce Auschwitz is guilty, at least insofar as theyre still party to the same civilisation that created the conditions for Auschwitz.

Inother words, guilt is our unassailable historical condition. Its our contract as modern people. As such, says Adorno, we all have a shared responsibility after Auschwitz to be vigilant,lest we collapse once more into the ways of thinking, believing and behaving that brought down this guilty verdict upon us. To make sense after Auschwitz is to risk complicity with its barbarism.

For Adorno too, then, our knowledge renders us guilty, rather than keeping us safe. For a modern mind, this could well seem shocking. That said, perhaps the more surprising feature of Adornos representation of guilt is the idea expressed in his question whether after Auschwitz you cango on living especially whether one who escaped by accident, one who by rights should have been killed, may go on living. His mere survival calls for the coldness, the basic principle of bourgeois subjectivity, without which there couldhave been no Auschwitz; this is the drastic guilt of himwho was spared.

For Adorno, the guilt of Auschwitz belongs to all of western civilisation, but its a guilt he assumed would be felt most keenly by one who escaped by accident, one who by rights should have been killed the Jewish survivor of the second world war.

Adorno, who had left Europe for New York in early 1938, was probably attesting to his own sense of guilt. Yet his insight is one we alsoget from psychologists who worked with concentration camp survivors after the war; they found that feelings of guiltaccompanied by shame, self-condemnatory tendencies and self-accusations are experienced by the victims of the persecution and apparently much less (if at all) bythe perpetrators of it.

What can it mean if victims feel guilty and perpetrators areguilt-free? Are objective guilt (being guilty) and subjective guilt (feeling guilty) completely at odds with each other?

In the years after the war, the concept of survival guilt tended to be viewed as the byproduct of the victims identification with their aggressor. The survivor who may subsequently find it hard to forgive herself because others have diedin her place why am I still here when they are not? may also feel guilty because of what she was forced to collude withfor the sake of her survival. This need not imply any incriminating action on her part; her guilt may simply be anunconscious way of registering her past preference that others suffer instead of her.

On this basis, then, it may be possible to think of survivors guilt as a special case of the guilt we all bear when, aware or unaware, were glad when others, rather than ourselves, suffer. Obviously, thats not a pleasant feeling, but neither is ita hard one to understand. Still, there remains something deeply uncomfortable about accepting that survivors of the worst atrocities should feel any guilt for their own survival. Instead, shouldnt we be trying to save the survivor from her (in our view) mistaken feelings of guilt andthus establish, without smirch or quibble, her absolute innocence?

This understandable impulse, according to the intellectual historian Ruth Leys, saw the figure of the survivor emerge in the period after the second world war, alongside a shift in focus from the victims feelings of guilt toward an insistence on the victims innocence. This transformation, Leys argues, involved replacing the concept of guilt with its close cousin, shame.

The difference is crucial. The victim who feels guilt evidently has an inner life, with intentions and desires while the victim who feels shame seems to have had it bestowed from outside. The victims of trauma consequently appear to be the objects rather than the subjects ofhistory.

Shame, then, tells us something about what one is, not what one does or would like to do. And so the effect of this well-intentioned shift in emphasis may have been to rob the survivor of agency.

It may be tempting to assume that survival guilt is an extraordinary case, given the abject powerlessness of the victims of such traumas. But, as we will see, attempts to deny the validity of the guilt of others often have the similar effect of denying their intentions as well. Consider the case of liberal guilt, the guilt we all love to hate.

Liberal guilt has become a shorthand for describing those who feel keenly a lack of social, political and economic justice, but are not the ones who suffer thebrunt of it. According to the cultural critic Julie Ellison, it first took hold in the US in the 1990s, on the back of a post-cold-war fragmentation of theleft, and a loss of faith in the utopian politics of collective action that had characterised an earlier generation of radicals. The liberal who feels guilty has given up on the collective and recognises herself to be acting out of self-interest. Her guilt is thus a sign of the gap between what she feels for the others suffering and what she will do actively to alleviate it which isnot, it turns out, a great deal.

As such, her guilt incites much hostility in others, not least in the person who feels himself the object of the liberals guilt. This person, AKA the victim, understands only too well how seldom the pity he elicits in the guilty liberal is likely to lead toany significant structural or political changes for him.

Rather, the only power to be redirected his way is not political power, but the moral or affective power to make those more fortunate than he is feel even more guilty about the privileges they are nonetheless not inclined to give up.

But just how in control of her feelings is the guilty liberal? Not very, thinks Ellison. Since feelings arent easily confected, her guilt tends to assail her unbidden, rendering her highly performative, exhibitionist, even hysterical. In her guilt, she experiences a loss of control, although she remains conscious at all times of an audience, before whom she feels she must show how spectacularly sorry she is. Her guilt, then, is her way of acting out, marking a disturbance in the liberal who doesnt know herself quite as well as her guilt would haveher think.

The idea of guilt as aninhibiting emotion corroborates the common critique of liberal guilt: that, for all the suffering it produces, it fails completely to motivate the guilty subject tobring about meaningful political change.

But what if the liberals guilt actually has another purpose, to allow the liberal respite from the thing she may (unconsciously) feel even worse about: the lack of a fixed identity that tells her who she is, what her responsibilities are and where these come to an end.

If anything can be said to characterise the notoriously woolly liberal, guilt may be it. Liberal guilt suggests a certain class (middle), race (white) and geopolitical (developed world) situation. As such, despite the torment it brings to those who suffer it, it might, paradoxically (and, again, unconsciously), be reassuring for someone whose real neurosis is that she feels her identity is so mobile and shiftingthat she can never quite be surewhere she stands.

If this is what chiefly concerns her, then one might envisage her guilt as a feeling that tells her who she is, by virtue of telling her who she is failing to be for others. Who is the liberal? She who suffers on account of those who suffer morethan she. (I know whereof I speak.)

This may suggest why, in recent years, there has been mounting criticism of the liberals sensibilities. To her critics, the liberal really is guilty. Shes guilty of a) secretly resenting victims for how their sufferings make her feel, b) drawing attention away from them and back towards her, c) having theaudacity to make an exhibition out of her self-lacerations and d) doing practically nothing to challenge the status quo.

For critics of the guilty liberal, in other words, feeling guiltyis part of the problem, rather than the solution. And yetthis criticism is itself subject to the same accusation. Giventhat criticising someone for feeling guilty is only going to make them feel guiltier, guilt has, asweve seen, proved atricky opponent one that its various modern combatants have yetto defeat.

Once again, therefore, in the case of liberal guilt, we encounter a feeling so devilishly slippery that it repeats the problem in the course of confessing it. Because there is, of course, aform of guilt that does not inspire us to act, but prevents us from acting. This type of guilt takes the uncertainty of our relations with others (and our responsibility for others) and turns them into an object of certainty and knowledge.

But since the object in this case is our own self, we can see how liberal guilt, too, mutates guilt into a version of shame.Shame, infact, could well be a more accurate appellation for what motivates the guilty liberal in her public and private self-condemnations.

However, before we declare the liberal guilty as charged as in guilty of the wrong kind of guilt its worth reminding ourselves of the survival guilt that has likewise been viewed by many as guilt of the wrong kind. For as we observed in that case, in seeking to save the victim from her guilt, the victim becomes deprived of the very thing that might distinguish herfrom the objectifying aggression that has assailed her: asense of her own intentions and wishes, however aggressive, perverse or thwarted these might be.

For this reason, then, its vital to preserve the notion of survivors guilt (and, despite obvious differences, liberal guilt) as that which could yet return to the survivor (or the liberal) apower of agency such as must be absolutely necessary if sheis to have a future that isnt bound, by the resolving or absolving of her guilt, to repeat the past ad infinitum.

If religion often gets the blame for framing man as sinner, thesecular effort to release man from his guilt hasnt offered much relief. The Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben suggests that subjective innocence belongs to a bygone age, the age of the tragic hero. Oedipus, for example, is someone whose objective guilt (parricide, incest) is matched by the subjective innocence of the man who acts before he knows. Today, however, says Agamben, we find the opposing situation: modern man is objectively innocent (for he has not, like Oedipus, murdered with his own hands), but subjectively guilty (he knows that his comforts and securities have been paid for by someone, somewhere, probably in blood).

By falsely promising a tabula rasa bound to his historical and intellectual emancipation, modernity may not only have failed to obliterate mans subjective guilt, but may even have exacerbated it. For what many a modern man is guilty of is less his actions than his addiction to a version of knowledge that seems to have inhibited his capacity for action. As such, the religious assignation of man as sinner a fallen, abject, endlessly compromised, but also active, effective andchangeable creature begins to look comforting bycomparison.

Such a view also shares much in common with a certain psychoanalytic conception of guilt as a blocked form of aggression or anger toward those we need and love (God, parents, guardians, whomever we depend on for our own survival). But if guilt is the feeling that typically blocks all other (buried, repressed, unconscious) feelings, that is not initself areason to block feelings of guilt. Feelings, after all, are what you must be prepared to feel if they are to move you,or if you are to feel something else.

Main illustration by A Richard Allen

Adapted from Feeling Jewish (A Book for Just About Anyone) by Devorah Baum, which will be published by Yale University Press on 19 October at 18.99. To buy it for 16.15, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over 10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of 1.99.

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