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senju-sekhmet · 4 years

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The Leash (Part 1)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death ~6800 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Disclaimer below the cut!

DISCLAIMER! This is a purely self-indulgent work I didn’t think I’d publish anywhere - but ultimately, if just one other person enjoyed this, it’d be worth it, right?. However, all of this is catering entirely to what I was feeling at the time of writing this (I’m the biggest sucker for hurt/comfort). It’s fairly possible the plot seems short on breath at times and even confusing because to me it just… made sense. I had a string of scenes I wanted to write and so I did, if that makes sense.

Now for a more technical thing - I took a fair amount of liberty with all the ‘lore’ that is offered in the original work. I’m a huge high/fantasy fan and I believe you’ll notice with how chakra is used here. Also my personal headcanons for Tobirama, uh-huh. There is gonna be SCIENCE… and science-y work… uh-huuuuh... _______________ He practically flew past the trees. His heart pounded in his ears, but it wasn't exhaustion. What fuelled his movements was sheer desperation. And ire. Ice-cold fury burning against those that had taken from him what was amongst the most precious beings in his life. How could he have allowed for this to happen? If only he had paid closer attention. If only he had been there with you, he'd have prevented this, he'd have protected you - such thoughts were futile now. He wouldn't dwell on them anyhow, he was too consumed with ending the increasingly despairing search for you. They would come back at him later no doubt, but Tobirama would devote every single fiber of his very being to bringing you back to safety. Though he tried not to think of it - he knew, they hardly kept you in a cell only. It only made his blood boil more. The news of your MIA-status had hit him nearly like the death of his brothers had, many years ago. Beneath his feet, the floor had been ripped away for a moment, a punch to the gut that left him breathless. His love, in the hands of an enemy village that was not known for treating prisoners kindly. Your high status in Konoha no doubt aggravated the situation. A woke mind like Tobirama's would paint a gruesome picture of the fate that might befall you, and his stomach roiled. The cruel logic behind the action, the tactical approach - something he himself might have thought of. That made it worse. "We will find her," Hashirama had assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. His gaze had fixated on his brother. He clenched his teeth. "Of course we will - I will not rest until she's back here, anija," he had replied, no, growled. A fierce promise which he intended to keep, no matter what. Hashirama was unfazed by the sincerity of the statement. "Neither will I," he promised. Then his brows had knitted in a way Tobirama did not like at all. His brother was about to say something of which he thought Tobirama might not appreciate it. "She is strong, Tobira-", "I know she is," he snapped back at him, "But she will not suffer for a second longer than she has to." Hashirama closed his eyes. "No, she will not." That had been weeks ago, now. Weeks in which Tobirama's desperation had grown by each passing day. Silently he had wondered if he had ever been in more distress to accomplish a mission before. He'd have to go with no. And progress was agonizingly slow. The enemy knew well to hide their traces, and even for his superior sensor skills, the trail was faint. Barely a whisper in the lush forests of the north-west parts Fire country. The sheer difficulty of the task made him almost balk. Almost. The truth was it worried him. He never found himself deteriorating himself in any way before, even when his own life had hung in the balance. The higher the stakes, the more collected he was. But now? Now he felt he was racing against a clock. And time was running out. For even your beautifully strong mind might break eventually. And he knew what happens to enemies that have no use anymore. The thought choked him at night. To never hold your warm body against his anymore - No. He would succeed. They had picked up on their trail, finally. He clenched his teeth. They would not get away. Tobirama just needed a single thread to unravel this knot and then follow it through the labyrinth, back to you. He rose a hand to bring the squad to a halt - composed of his brother and a couple of experienced jonin of the village, all long-standing comrades. Some even from the warring states period. He closed his eyes to touch the ground and send a pulse of chakra through the area, letting his sensor abilities give him an overview of the signatures in the area. Besides the overwhelming presence of his brother right next to him as well as the far more mute team members around, all he found was animals. Except - "To the east." His voice was devoid of anything except steely urgency.He didn't even look back to check if everyone kept in formation as they followed him. Finely tuned sensory skills had locked in on his target; an unknown chakra signature. Humanoid. In an area where no travellers should pass for there were no connecting roads, no villages to visit. It was what had led them here initially: traces of chakra where there should be none. You were here. Tobirama just knew. If only he had branded you with the hiraishin seal. A regret that festered in his heart in a most painful way. How careless. How stupid. He shoved it aside for later. It was useless now. They enclosed around the signature that soon proved to be not just humanoid, but human indeed. Naturally, they wouldn't give up on the element of surprise. And there still was a slight chance this might just be a civilian. A child, even. Tobirama didn't believe that. Maybe he didn't want to. But as soon as they had a line of sight on the target, walking on a narrow path in the woods - he just knew. This was a Hidden Stone Village Spy. No doubt scouting for any intruders near their hideout. Where they kept you. Tobirama bristled with white-hot rage as soon as the target was in viewing range. Almost, he directly lunged for the man dressed in inconspicuous, earthen-colored clothes. Almost. The team had spread around, hidden in the trees. Hashirama beat him to hailing the stranger. "Greetings," he announced amicably, arms spread, trademark smile. How he was still like this was beyond Tobirama. As gingerly as the First approached, as stormy his brother followed - scowling in such a condemning way the man flinched away. "G-greetings," he stuttered, eyes trained on Tobirama who was well aware of what he looked like now. Good. Let that man be scared. He well should be. His armor clanked as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyes narrowed to slits, assessing. "May I ask, what brings a man such as yourself to this remote area of the Fire country?", Hashirama inquired, ever friendly, slowly enclosing. "H-herbs," the man was quick to answer, still not looking away from Tobirama. Damn, that answer was sensible - almost. "Is that so? Then where are your gathering utensils? Bag? Or did you intend to rip it all out with your bare hands and stuff your pants full of it all?", Tobirama spat back, the undertone of his voice a perfectly fine, icy growl. Hashirama turned around to give his brother an incredulous gaze. Tobirama snorted. As if that was the worst he had ever said. The logic of his argument was sound nonetheless."I-I-I h-h-have t-t-them o-o-o-ver t-t-there," the man stammered, backing off slowly, lip quivering. He pointed to the trees - where some of the team hid. Perfect, Tobirama figured. Hashirama threw both hands up immediately in an apologetic manner. "Oh, don't worry, please! You must excuse my brother," he approached the man slowly, much like a one would a startled animal. The stranger wasn't swayed. He kept backing off. Then, he started to make a run. That was all the confirmation he needed. Immediately, Tobirama snatched a branded kunai from his satchel and threw it after the man with full force, uncaring if it might hit him - and a second later, the world lurched and he landed right beside him, where the weapon had buried itself in the ground. Swiftly, he tackled the man into the side, sending him off balance and into the ground. Another few finger signals later, a shadow clone of his had picked his target up, restraining his arms behind his back with one hand and securing the head with the other. "Tobirama!", Hashirama called out, no longer bothering to hide his fury. Already, he began to run over. Tobirama ignored him. "Search the area he pointed at for gathering utensils!", he shouted, seemingly at nowhere. Then his scarlet gaze was back on the man in front of him, arms crossing in front of his chest again. "Pray they find them," he spat. With a deep sigh and a shake of his head, Hashirama came to a halt next to him. "There was no need to-" "Shut up!", Tobirama didn't even spare him a glance. His brother sighed again, now in full kicked-puppy mode. Tobirama's anger flared again. He had no time for these antics. They needed to interrogate this man, now, and then continue with the information. "Lord Hokage!", a call echoed through the forest. Tobirama's head snapped around. One of the jonin returned. Kaori held up a satchel - but her mien was grave. A chill ran down Tobirama's spine. Had he made a mistake? His gaze swayed to the man who started to squirm against his clone's vice hold, earning him only a more bruising treatment. "What's in there?", he demanded immediately, ignoring the fact she had addressed Hashirama, actually. She turned the bag upside down, pouring the contents on the ground. Kunai, flares, paper bombs. Tobirama's heartbeat thrummed in his ears. He took a decisive step towards the man who suddenly had become very still. Hashirama backed off. Wisely. "Start talking. Now." A dangerous undercurrent leaked into his icy tone. The man stared back, defiantly. "Fine." Tobirama's patience had worn out. He was by no means a master of interrogation techniques - but he knew ways to amplify the intensity of a mental assault. He'd have no qualms using every bit of his ability on this person. Already, his clone was moving the man towards one of the trees. Brutally, he wrestled both arms above his head while pinning him against the trunk. Tobirama meanwhile had picked up the branded kunai he had thrown after the stranger earlier. When his clone had both palms aligned over one another he rammed the blade through the flesh. A scream accompanied the sickening crunch as steel forced itself past the metacarpal bones. Blood trickled down the arms of the man whose eyes were wide now. Behind Tobirama, his brother and the squad had gathered at a respectable distance. They didn't say a word. Either they didn't dare, or they had accepted one of them had to take up the tainting burden of the acts that were to follow. Tobirama didn't care at all for that. His mien was ice-cold, his glare as threatening as his intent towards the poor victim. He let his clone disappear. His hand slapped down on the man's scalp, closing his eyes. His chakra wound through the man's network like a snake in prey's den. Viciously, the man fought back, but the pain he had inflicted disrupted his focus. Good. Tobirama focused his own chakra to assault the vault with the information he desperately needed - the mind. Distantly, he heard a loud, anguished scream. A shudder went through the whole of the network, another attempt to buck the intruder off and out of his mind. Tobirama clenched his teeth. Already, he knew the man's chakra reserve was far inferior to his own - he might as well be able to simply overpower him much in a way that might best be described as metaphorical curb stomping. But that bore the risk of impairing the information stored in his mind. Very well, then. He reached into his satchel, procuring a second kunai. The man barely had time to register what Tobirama was doing before the weapon buried itself in his right forearm, hailed by another anguished scream that rang through an eerily calm forest. Tobirama stared him dead in the eye with a glance devoid of any emotion as he gave the weapon, nicely lodged between radius and ulna, a twist. A snap was heard. The scream intensified - then it broke off. The man huffed. "I won't tell you anything!", he shouted, panting, face red by the blood that was dripping down. "How very wrong you are." Tobirama sounded perfectly dejected, raising his hand again to once more assault the man's mind. Who laughed in reply."You think that will make me break?", he spat, "You'll never get that bitch back!" He threw his head back, laughing. Tobirama closed his eyes. His head was swimming with white-hot rage. In a moment of weakness, his mind painted deliciously cruel ways in which he might harm this man, kill him even - ways so despicable that for a moment, he was disgusted by himself, even. Distantly, surprised he’d stoop so low. They were just thoughts, anyway. Yet his body became numb besides ire and every fiber of his being felt like bellowing his rage at this man while he mangled his body beyond recognition for the sheer mention of you. "What you're doing to me is a joke compared to what we do to her, day in, day out," he continued then, finishing with the audacity to spit at Tobirama's white fur collar. "Oh, shit," he heard Kaori mumble behind him. Not a second later, Tobirama raised his leg and kicked with full force against the left thigh of the man, aiming for the femur. The snap was audible, the pain amplified by the way he sacked against the impaling hold of the kunai above his head. The scream was harrowing. But Tobirama wasn't finished. He raised his leg again. The right femur snapped just like the left one had, the howls of the man becoming incoherent screams of anguish, paused only by gasping for breath. Cruelly, the kunai had begun to further cut open his palms and his forearm as his legs wouldn't hold his body's weight anymore due to sheer pain. "Tobirama," a voice called out to him. Hashirama. His tone carried a warning. He didn't have the information yet. He needed the information first. He needed to know where you were. Now. With his heart hammering in his chest, he raised his arm again and grabbed the man's scalp again. This time, his assault was different than the first time. Not a pointed stab of chakra after winding his way through his network - this time, Tobirama let his presence suffocate the man from the inside. His network was a mess anyway - the pain was heavily impairing his control of his chakra now and Tobirama's own gargantuan chakra moved over his like a cruel invader, sparing no mercy for how mentally painful this was to him, how he must feel like being suffocated from the inside out by someone else. Distantly, the screams had picked up again. Tobirama let his chakra encircle around the man's mind; the brain - then he pulled closer. And closer. The man must have felt like someone was sawing his skull open. A few more seconds - then it was over. The fight inside stilled completely, and his victim had given in and him free reign to access every memory of the man. A millisecond later, Tobirama halted his assault and began to assess the information. Instantly, Tobirama knew this man's name was Akio, he was the youngest member of the newly formed Hidden Stone village's espionage team. He tossed that aside quickly to rip open the figurative drawer that held all the information about this mission. He knew, then. He knew it all. Where you were kept - what they had done to you. Well, all that Akio knew of. He wasn't one of the interrogators. Through his memories, he saw your face. Anguished, gaunt. But defiant. Alive. There was time, yet. Even though these memories made Tobirama tremble. It hit him with a force that nearly knocked the air out of his lungs simply for how heart-wrenching it was. He opened his eyes again to find the man limp against the bloodied tree. He gazed at his own palm, balling it to a fist. It shook. His heartbeat was all he heard. All of himself was entirely stiff and still from the sheer, utter rage that had completely become him. Again and again, the Akio's memories thrummed through Tobirama's skull, and with them, your screams of pain, your anguish, your whimpers of pain. Slowly, the scarlet eyes settled on the sorry excuse of an enemy in front of him. He didn't feel a shred of pity- "Tobirama!", a stern voice ripped him out of the tunnel of his emotions. His head turned to find Hashirama next to him now. "Enough, brother," he said - no, commanded. His hand had gripped Tobirama's wrist. Slowly, the fires of ire within were simmering down if just by the calming presence of his brother. Objectivity returned to Tobirama's mind, piece by piece. But no shred of regret. Or disgust. Objective accomplished. That he knew. "You have the information, no?", Hashirama pushed again, not letting up on the unmistakable sternness of his own tone. "I do." Tobirama's own voice was calm, collected. In a grotesque contrast to the atrocity he had just committed. In fact, clarity was settling in - his focus restored, though haunted. Perfectly in control, but still driven by desperate urgency. If anything, said urgency had kicked up a notch now.He had his target now. "Kaori, Daichi," Hashirama called, nodding for Akio. "Stabilise him and take him as prisoner back to Konoha." They confirmed their order and began their work. Tobirama turned around, not sparing the man another look. Luckily he also knew the enemy's numbers and their capabilities, roughly, from Akio's memories. They'd be no match for him and his brother, let alone with their jonin as backup. Soon, you'd be safe again. __________ The hideout was - befitting for shinobi of the Hidden Stone village - underground. Concealed so well that without the information coerced out of Akio, it would have been impossible to find. Tobirama had to give them that. But now they did not just know where it was located, but also how to get in without setting one of the deadly traps they had laced each of the two entries with. Smart. Akio had also been so generous to provide them with a mental map of the place, of course - functional it was, a narrow corridor, just a couple of rooms. Sleeping and living quarters, a weapons and supply chamber which also seemed to serve as a tactical planning room - and finally, the place Tobirama felt physically drawn to. The interrogation chamber. Adjoined, a holding cell fitted to be bereft of any chakra. Just another form of sensory deprivation. He could barely restrain himself from rushing in there full force and eliminate any obstacle in his way. He knew in this very moment, this very second, you were down there, suffering - and the thought wound around his chest and squeezed until his breaths came uneven and his heart stuttered. Until he believed to be in physical pain. But Tobirama also knew how precarious the situation was. The team had gathered at a respectful distance to discuss their plan. Time was running short. They soon would search for Akio, and if they so much as caught a whiff of their presence, you'd slip from his grasp again as they’d flee. Or worse, they might kill you. Tobirama would sooner die himself than allow for that to happen - the mere notion let the blood freeze in his veins. At the very least, it did well to reign himself in. Still, his mind, one thing about the course of action was clear. No mercy. At the very least, they were enemies to the village. "We can easily overpower them. Use the element of surprise, and be fast in and out. I know their numbers and capabilities, roughly." Tobirama crossed his arms in front of his chest. His face was drawn in a deep frown. "That is correct," Hashirama answered evenly, holding his brother's icy glare. Probably the only person around here to do so with ease, Tobirama found. His patience for more faint-hearted had been long gone. "But you mustn't forget that Y/n is down here too-" "I assure you, anija, I am not," Tobirama spat back, knuckles white from how hard he gripped the fabric of his undergarment on his arms. His nostrils flared from the sharp breath he took, offended his brother might even think he’d forget this. "They could use her as a living shield." Hashirama was completely unfazed by Tobirama's hostility. He probably had gotten used to it at this point, in a pitiful way - his brother's predicament pained him as much as your fate did, Tobirama knew. After all, Hashirama was the gentle soul out of the two of them. That wouldn't extend Tobirama's patience, but still. "And you seriously think I don't consider that?", Tobirama huffed, through clenched teeth. Desperation was leaking into his voice more than anger did. The team held a respectful distance at this point. "There is no other way, Hashirama." "There is," he replied far too quickly for Tobirama's liking. "Enlighten me then, please." He took a deep breath, seemingly well aware his next words will not sit well with his younger brother. "We offer them to leave for their home if they release Y/n without a fight." Tobirama's eyes widened. "You must be joking." The mere notion - "After what they did-" he scowled - his voice low, dangerous. The all too familiar rage was roaring within him again, his heart pounding high in his chest. "You haven't seen what I've seen!" his voice bordered a shout, as much as secrecy would allow for right now. Without ever having wanted to, he had taken a step towards his brother, arms outstretched. They were trembling again. He balled his fist. What on earth was Hashirama thinking? "It would be safest for her," he replied evenly, not backing off a single inch. His calmness was unnerving Tobirama even more. He actually seemed to consider this a good plan - "Safest? Safest? What if they slit her throat before my very eyes to let her see me fail her ultimately? Did you consider that in your clever approach?!" Tobirama's voice had risen in volume, but even now, he was aware they were to be hidden still. But the mental image was burned into his mind, now. Your eyes - panicked first, then growing dull as the realisation of being forsaken kicked in. And then, lifelessly gazing at him. That was almost too much for Tobirama to take and the white-hot rage burned so intensely, it felt as unbearable as the thought of losing you while being so close to getting you back. The thought of all the agony you had gone through. Hashirama took a decisive step forward then, placing a hand on Tobirama's shoulderguard. "We won't lose her, Tobirama," he spoke with such conviction, Tobirama was glad to latch onto it if just to escape the dark place his mind was at now. He needed to focus. For you. He shook his head as though to free himself of emotional turmoil, momentarily. "They're still enemies to the village, trespassing in our protected country and guilty of torturing our own. We cannot let them go unpunished." His baritone voice nearly shook towards the end. Hashirama pondered before he sighed deeply. "Very well." Tobirama took a deep breath, then crossed his arms again. "We will use what means of surveillance we have at hand to locate each of them before entering. Preferably when," he cleared his throat uncomfortably and forced himself to speak the next select words neutrally and calmly, "Y/n isn't being tortured. They won't be as close to her. Then we incapacitate them swiftly before they can get to her. The hideout is small. It should be easy to corner them before they can get to her." He needed to take a few more deep breaths, closing his eyes. A hand rubbed over his forehead and happuri absent-mindedly. This plan had to work. It just had. Tobirama wouldn't compromise more, anyway. Hashirama nodded then, turning towards the squad. "Everyone heard him. Let's go." Surveillance proved to be more difficult than they had expected. With Akio's information, they knew how to approach, but the hideout was secured from sensory scanning, of course. Which meant Tobirama was as good as blind, unless he got inside. That was out of question. It turned out their only means of getting inside views were the bugs of Hoshiko Aburame, who was more than eager to show off her newly joined clan's capabilities. And amazing they were, Tobirama found. Not half an hour later, they knew the enemy currently kept to the living quarters of the underground hideout, and the interrogation chamber was empty. You were in the cell, just as expected. The news made Tobirama's heart stutter again, but he reigned himself in quickly now. His focus was required now, even though he itched to rush in there like he never had before. You were right there, alive, breathing. Alone, suffering. He wanted nothing more than to save you from all that, posthaste. Frankly the timing was just too perfect. They had to act now. And they did. Swiftly, and without mercy. They split in two groups to enter the hideout from each entrance, dancing around the traps like only a member of the Hidden Stone shinobi team could. When Tobirama heard their voices, their laughter from the chamber - he saw red. But much more than to punish them, he wanted to take the other turn - through the interrogation chamber, to your cell. Hashirama had explicitly forbidden him to. Tobirama knew, too - the enemy needed to be subdued first. You were not being tortured right now. He needed to be calm and logical now; his help was needed in the fight - you just needed to hang on a little longer. Just a tiny bit. He was almost there, with you again. The battle inside the chamber was atrocious as one might expect from such close quarters and a force such as their own. Tobirama's water release mowed through their earthen defenses as they tried to use the surroundings to their advantage with their expert knowledge of Earth jutsu - though quickly, he had to give way to his brother's wood release lest he'd flood the chamber completely. The squad each had engaged with an enemy personally, the clashes of blades echoed through the room, incantations were shouted, chakra released left and right. No matter, he figured, he was still lethal enough without his water release. With his ice-cold burning ire, he lunged for a very particular enemy: the shinobi he knew had been responsible for your torture, mostly. He just needed to recall Akio's memories of you: what they had done to you, what you looked like. Tobirama's precision was meticulous and deadly, in every way. Later, those who bore witness to the fight uttered words of fright for how the First's brother had been back then - a stern reminder never to cross this man. Tobirama's precision to kill was ruthless, chilling. Parrying maneuvers of his target where punished not just with a clash of metal but the slicing of muscles and nerves. Undeniably he did not just fight the torture master - his target was punished for every mistake in this fight. As soon as the opening for a kill offered itself, Tobirama struck without mercy. The blind rage started boiling inside him more, numbing his body to a point he was sure he wouldn't feel anything despite ire anymore. And the deep desire to get back to you. This battle was taking too long. All throughout it, Tobirama kept his sensory skills trained on the whole underground complex - and especially so on the door that led outside, to you. He would not allow for a single person to leave this room and make a run for you, or outside for that manner. Not that anyone got the chance. Soon, the Stone shinobi were decimated to a number far smaller than the Konoha team, and they realised they were being overpowered - swiftly. But there was no escaping any more. Briefly, Hashirama had entertained taking them prisoner prior to starting their assault - much to Tobirama’s annoyance. Lethal force would be simpler and faster, he argued. Another team member, Taro, had made a more sensible objection then - he doubted they'd surrender and it was questionable if they would manage to subdue them if they didn't. Well, trust Hashirama to make it possible anyway. With his wood release, he managed to ensnare them, an unmistakable sign to the rest of the squad. Fine, then. They might hold valuable information, anyway. Tobirama turned around on his heel to do what he had been wanting to do from the start. He broke down the door towards the interrogation chamber with no grace, clenching his teeth when he laid eyes on the inside. There was a table fitted with restrains - and blood. Dried blood. Your blood. His throat went dry. A flickering gaze wandered over the walls where various tools were stored, all of them kept in neat shape. Drills, saws, irons - he closed his eyes. He couldn't - he didn't want to see that anymore, now. His heart hurt, his body trembled again with sheer rage. How could he allow for this to happen in the first place? He opened his eyes again, bearing the ache the sight brought him. Briefly, his scarlet eyes wandered left and right to find more utensils: drugs. More refined tools, possibly to inflict damage to the chakra network of the victim. Various vials filled with substances, very possibly used to alter perception of reality and make a person more susceptible to torture. Bile rose in his throat. Enough of that. With a few decisive steps, he rounded the table to finally find himself in front of your door. He stared down at his shaking hand before he opened it. He was sure his heart would jump out of his chest at any moment now. The door swung open inaudibly. The room beyond was just illuminated by the dim lights coming from behind Tobirama. When his gaze found you again for the first time in weeks, he nearly fell to his knees. You were curled up in the far corner of the tiny cell, dressed in rags. Your form looked far too delicate - far too gaunt. You were shivering, your hands covered your face and your head. There were bruises on your pale skin. Tobirama swallowed a heavy lump down his throat. A prickling sensation formed in his eyes. He blinked. Wetness rolled down his cheeks. He wiped swiftly at it with his sleeve. "Y/n," he spoke, incredibly softly, entering slowly, as though you might disappear if he were too hasty. He, who was covered in blood - his fine fur collar ruffled, sprayed red. The epitome of violence. You stirred. Flailed. Slow at first, as though you had to work through a haze. To hear a voice beside that of your tormentor - it must frighten you, or so Tobirama thought. Your gaze - your gaze was the worst. It was wide-eyed, devoid of your lively spark. Haunted. Tormented. The ache inside his heart was a physically painful sensation now within his chest. Tears rolled down his cheeks again, but he did not sob. All that ran through him was the fine tremor of despair; of having finally gotten you back and yet being confronted with the reality of your capture. Tobirama knelt down near your side very slowly, just in arms reach but at a respectful distance yet. Frankly he wanted to sweep you up in his arms, kiss you and never let go of you again - but he knew better than that. Recognition had not yet settled into your gaze again. There was fear in them. It continued to feed into the ache inside his chest. It was them - they had done this to you. "Y/n," he whispered your name again, tenderly, in a desperate hope of waking your memory. Your gaze was wild as you straightened yourself against the corner, boney knees tucked towards your body as quivering hands steadied yourself. "N-No...", your raspy, quiet voice stuttered. The abuse it had suffered was evident - for quite some time, you had done nothing with it but scream, Tobirama concluded. His teeth clenched down so hard, his jaw hurt. More tears smeared his facial paint. "I'm here, my love," he finally stammered out. Your eyes glistened. More violent shivers ran through your body. Tobirama subconsciously shifted closer. He needed to comfort you, to hold you - to do anything to ease your discomfort. To help you out of wherever your mind was right now. "I- I've broken, have I?", you suddenly croaked, "They gotten into me, now they're using you to torture me-" - you threw your head back against the stone wall with an audible thud. The sound made Tobirama shudder - that must have hurt you. But it was nothing compared to your words - he understood now. You thought he was part of a genjutsu. The cruel, cruel logic behind that - his eyes wandered downwards momentarily, and he couldn't stop the broken huff that snuffed out any sob he might have made. In his crouched stance, he wiped his palm over his face. You, his beautiful woman, the love of his life - in shambles, all due to his incompetence to keep you safe. He drew a ragged breath. All he now could do was to make up for it by getting you away from here - making you realise he really was here - and keep you safe now. Ensure you'd heal. "No, my love," he answered finally, letting his own agony break into his voice that had become a husky whisper while two scarlet eyes gave you a sad, sad look. "This is real. I'm here, you're safe now. It's over. You're safe now." Signing the genjutsu release in here was pointless - the room was designed to be void of chakra. In fact, Tobirama had not even noticed when he entered - he had been too concerned with you. That realisation now was disturbing - how careless of him - but he very much felt deaf in here for his sensory skills were blocked. No chakra would leave his body, at all. It was an oppressive feeling. To think you had been in here for weeks - You kept staring at him with wide eyes. Uncertainty had settled into your gaze. Tobirama knew he needed to keep leading you out of the darkness now. He inched closer, very slowly. His glance he kept locked with yours, attentive of any sign of fear or hesitation. The last thing he wanted to do was overstep your boundaries now. You remained still. Finally, he was right beside you, kneeling. He was shaking again. As were you. "T-Tobirama...", your abused voice whimpered, the question in your tone tormented him. The magnitude of anguish the whole situation brought him pushed him to a point where wondered how he could handle it - bear it - other than soldier through and simply ignore it for now. What he knew was he had to get you out now and start to move things along. "I'm here," he repeated, "I'm real. You're safe, now. All right?", he raised his shaking hand slowly to lay it on your far too bony shoulder. Your body was agonizingly cold under his palm. "Y/n," he downright whimpered, relieved for a brief second when you did not flinch. Your gaze drifted down onto the hand he had put on your shoulder. Incredulous. The first gentle touch you had received - in weeks. "Tobirama...", you whispered again, now laced with more than uncertainty. There was pain in it. Not the physical kind - the emotional kind. The despair of your struggle to believe all this, to allow yourself to know this to be true was showing. And Tobirama grew increasingly desperate alongside to make you believe this - to end your suffering as fast as he could. His own pain would endure far longer, he knew. That didn't matter, though - his aching heart could wait, if it only meant you were safe. "I will get you out, okay? May I carry you, Y/n?", he asked in a hushed voice, as gentle as he could. When you didn't reply but also showed no sign of refusal, he let his hand slide over your neck slowly to grasp around your shoulder while his other arm reached out to tuck under your knees. He never broke eye contact again. Yours, however wandered to your own body. It shook again - a mixture of temperature and quite possibly the same reason Tobirama himself shook, he deduced. His protectiveness flared even more. It was only when you felt gravity shift towards him and up from the ground that you whimpered - and flailed slightly. "N-no-", you suddenly whispered, shaking your head and the unkempt hair on it. But Tobirama didn't want to ease up now. He just needed you out of this terrible room to make you see he was real and end this nightmare. "Please, Y/n," Tobirama countered immediately, "Trust me." He practically implored you at this point. Your flailing increased. "D-don't," you whispered, your eyes wide again, lip quivering. "I can't," you wheezed, "No more, please!" Your thin arms pawed at his chest armor as he rose to his full height slowly. Your body was far too light in his arms. Your gaze shifted to the open door slowly, the fear becoming painfully apparent, but Tobirama's eyes would never leave you. Realisation dawned on Tobirama then. And once more, he felt as though he nearly doubled over by the implication of it - what your real issue now was. "I'm not going to hurt you, Y/n, nobody is anymore," Tobirama choked instantly. "We just need to get out here, I can't use my chakra here, neither can you." he tried to reason, unsure of how much that would get through to you. He took a slow step towards the door, though the pain inside his chest made it difficult when he saw your reaction. "Please," you croaked, the fight becoming stronger. He had to close his arms around you more firmly just so you wouldn't wind out of his hold. "Nothing bad is going to happen anymore, Y/n, I promise," Tobirama whispered over your sobs. Then, he opted to take the two steps out of the cell into the damned interrogation chamber - back to where chakra could be used. You were near screaming frightened pleas for mercy then, a sound that would haunt Tobirama. But it was over the second he carried you into the other room. In that very moment, Tobirama let his chakra graze over your network already. But not before he muttered: "Release." His voice bore some relief - the crooked, defeated kind. You stilled completely then. Your eyes were back at his face, he held your gaze evenly while his chakra wrapped around yours, much like a blanket on a cold winter's night. The familiarity of the sensation - to hold you and to feel you in such an intimate way at the same time - Tobirama nearly had thought he might have never have gotten another chance to. For all his determination of the past weeks - the danger had been near suffocating him. But you were here now, in his arms. "You're safe, Y/n," he repeated, over and over. "I'm here." His eyes were glistening again, as were yours. Stray tears fell on the rags they had dressed you in. Tobirama pulled you closer to let your forehead rest against his happuri for a moment. He closed his eyes to drink in the sensation of your chakra intertwining more, feeling you. Stilling the ache in his heart, quenching the rage that had roared in him for weeks. The both of you feeling one another. "Tobirama... I thought -", you finally began, your voice finally more than a hush or a whimper. Still raspy of course. But... more yourself. You had begun to come out of the proverbial darkness back to him, again. The relief Tobirama felt made his knees weak. "I thought I'd never see you again," you finally whispered. Slowly, he pulled his head back. He swallowed. "I'm so sorry," he choked out. It was all he could say right now. But there was so much more he wanted to say. Your head slipped from his forehead to the side of his neck. Exhaustion seemed to be getting to you, too. "I'll keep you safe, Y/n," he let his arms wrap around even tighter, for a moment worrying if he might bruise you. You didn't protest though. Tobirama felt you couldn't be close enough to him now. Your frail hand reached up for his fur collar, fingers winding through it, gripping it, then sliding to the side of his neck. You didn't speak anymore. He shuddered for how cold it felt again, but it only served to make him feel more determined to take care of you now. It was Hashirama who disturbed the moment. The relief was written over his face, though his eyes were wide when they first settled on you, then on Tobirama. "Let's go home," Tobirama then announced, sighing.

#tobirama #tobirama senju #tobirama x reader #tobirama senju x reader #sekhmet writes

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miserable-pile-of-lies · 3 years

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The Sleeping Prince of Wallachia Ch. 2 (Full)

Here's the entirety of chapter two in all of its glory, I hope you guys enjoy the small lore that I created regarding Greta!

Summary: Wallachia is in great peril at the behest of Death himself; all those who have attempted to battle the creature have swiftly been executed and made an example of. The key to defeating the beast lies in Dracula's castle, located twenty odd miles out from a small village by the name of Danesti. In this village, the headwoman Greta must act quickly to save her people from the onslaught of attacks by night creatures and other ungodly minions who have sworn their loyalty to Death. Will she alone be able to stop Death or will she require additional aid to save her people and those in Wallachia?

Roasted walnuts indecorously bestrewed the forest floor, being tossed from a perch high above that stretched into the sky. Humming a cheerful tune that foretold the story of Queen Dido, a thirteen-year-old Greta smacked her lips obnoxiously as Marius attempted to scamper away from the branch they sat upon. The young girl hurled an emptied shell of a walnut into the air, given to her by the portly baker Grigore, a Wallachian native that had recently settled in Danesti to toil his goods.

“That isn’t how the founding story of Carthage goes, Queen Dido was bewitched by Cupid’s arrow,” a twelve-year-old Marius moaned wearily at his older friend who crossed her lanky arms unimpressed by the explanation. The Roman boy dug into the pouch that sat between him and his companion, uttering a cry when he felt a pinch twist the doughy skin of his love handles. Offering his finest glare, the adolescent lobbed a walnut at the lass who only ducked backwards in response to the sneak attack with a snigger.

“That cannot be, Prince Aeneas deceptively seduced our founding mother with sweet words only to leave her high and dry in the pursuit of his journey, ultimately courting Princess Lavinia of Italy,” Greta bit out with a scowl as she described the cowardly philanderer that covertly escaped into the night when leaving Carthage at the command of Jupiter. Prince Aeneas went on to become the founding father of Rome, previously recognized as the city of Lavinium when the metropolis was founded by his followers to honor their queen.

Marius merely shrugged at the latter details relayed by Greta, knowing how the rest of the myth went. Queen Dido, in a fitful rage, committed suicide out of spite at the abandonment of Aeneas and sparked the Punic Wars that led to the annexation of Carthage. Presently, both civilizations were relics of the past and the descendants of Aeneas and Dido had long forgotten about the dissension that divided the two to begin with.

“Who cares about any of that, it’s all ancient history anyway; more importantly we should talk about Faiza,” Marius clucked out with a cheeky grin as Greta’s face promptly flushed at the mention of the girl who currently held her affections.

Nimble fingers tapped bashfully against the coarse bark of the tree as she thought of the remarkable Moroccan beauty, two years her senior with an unmatched intellect that could not be found elsewhere in the village. Clearing her throat with a thunderous cough that echoed amongst the thicket of trees, thick chestnut brows quirked up to implore Marius to continue his line of questioning.

Sighing heavily in exasperation, the young man reached across to tug at his closest playmate’s cheek, earning an appalled yelp in reply.

“You vexing little runt, what was that for,” Greta demanded with a scoff, lightly slapping the terracotta toned hand away as Marius held his rib from chuckling harshly at Greta’s indignation. Thoroughly riled by the taunts, the daughter of the headman gracefully descended from the tree, stirring up the emerald leaves that laid in the low grass below. Lips curved upward at the sound of an astonished choke, knowing that Marius would take much longer to get down than Greta.

Leaves crunched in protest, alarming the teenager, who speedily pulled out her short sword to defend both herself and Marius from a potential assailant. Pale green eyes squinted in concentration, rising from the thick branch he sat upon. Marius tactically retrieved his elm bow and arrow to target the source of the commotion hidden by the overgrown shrubbery. Palms were presented in a mock defense manner and soon both sword and bow were lowered without further inquiry; the newcomer was a fellow inhabitant of Danesti who went by the name of Felix. The scrawny queer man looked affright when he saw their weapons drawn, shaking like a white flag in the wind signaling a surrender from a defeated camp of soldiers.

“Greta and Marius, I’ve come to retrieve you both on behalf of Tobias, he says that your mother is nearing the end of labor,” Felix squawked out nervously forcing his hands to his sides while tipping the crooked point of his jaw in the air, an attempt to reinforce his position as an elder among the children who innocently snickered at the poor fellow.

Tobias was the current headman of Danesti, father of Greta and husband of Iman, patiently awaiting the arrival of his second child with the rest of the men in the village. As per custom, Iman was currently being attended by several midwives and parish priests recruited from the capital of Târgoviște; a far journey that took the travelers weeks to make it to the settlement in time for the birth.

The leader of the village had forfeited several family heirlooms to afford the care needed for Iman and adequately compensated those assisting in the birth. Childbirth was an unforgiving ordeal; one could never be too safe to preserve the life of both mother and child even with the aid of experts.

Honeyed eyes crinkled in joy; the youth absolutely thrilled that she would finally meet her younger sibling. The young girl had been praying that it would be a boy so that her father could be at peace and have a successor that would eventually inherit the role of headman. If that occurred, her father would stop stifling her fun with Marius and the other village children, forcing her to sit through tedious meetings with the village council about the daily state of affairs in their community.

Regardless of the gender of the newborn, Greta promised her mother that she would look out for her younger sibling and her mother beamed from ear to ear while affectionately carding her rich brown hands through her daughter’s silken hair. Often wrapped in colorful linens covering her form and adorned with intricately knotted scarves, her mother dressed in the traditional garb that was expected of women hailing from Somalia, a resource rich country found in East Africa. Though it was rare to see out in the open, Greta adored seeing her mother braid her kinky curly hair into the fine thin rows of braids decorated by glassy beads and golden hair cuffs imported from North African traders passing through the area to sell their finery.

The relationship between Tobias and Iman was an anomaly to all onlookers based on the traits of the two; Tobias was a brash man who had no filter and the shortest temper that could set off at a moment’s notice while Iman was quiet spoken yet assertive in her demands, effortlessly carrying herself like a member of royalty. Additionally, Tobias carried the wide frame of a brutish bull, but he was slightly below average in stature while Iman towered over her husband with long slim legs and a slender frame hidden by her garments.

“We need to hurry, I don’t want to miss the birth of my baby brother,” Greta complained impatiently while Marius climbed his way down the birch tree with cautious steps, ensuring that his footing was secured along the way.

“You keep saying that you will have a brother, but how can you be so confident,” the boy queried warily with a suspicious glance, unconvinced that intuition alone could predict such a momentous event. Landing upon the ground, the youngster hollered upon Greta roughly grabbing and shaking him by the shoulders in frustration. Hoping that Felix would lend a helping hand against the rambunctious girl, Marius silently implored the middle-aged man to intervene and separate the two.

“You sound so skeptical my dear Marius, you should know that I’m quite clever when it comes to these matters,” Greta pledged eagerly, forcibly disconnected from the lad by an already fatigued Felix. The old man wished to return to the village before the three lost daylight and encountered the mischievous spirits of the forest.

“Enough out of you two, come along now,” the farmer churned out with difficulty, feeling hoarse at the thought of the journey back to the township.

Nose scrunched with a harrumph, Greta filed behind Felix with a small pout and Marius walked beside her feeling a small pang of jealousy. His friend had spent a great deal of time boasting about the new arrival of her sibling that he could not help the thorns of envy that pierced the entirety of his being. Thick as thieves, just about everyone in the colony had known how close the two were, rarely seen without one another. With the arrival of a newborn, Greta’s responsibilities and chores would increase tremendously as her mother recovered over the span of the next two months.

What if we grow apart Marius mused gloomily, instantly prickled with guilt at the selfishness of his thoughts but was shaken out of his stupor when he felt a hand roughly the same size as his own. Jade orbs welled up with teardrops as a thumb brush against his palm and he gripped the hand back in silence.

“What are you thinking about,” Greta murmured with great care; a tone rarely used in their conversations due to the spitfire personality that defined the young maiden.

Brushing away the tears in his eyes with his available hand, Marius contemplated how much he would be able to disclose without feeling entirely embarrassed by the pettiness of his emotions. Initially shrugging his shoulders in deference, his ample cheeks burned in shame as he slowly treaded along the path hand in hand with Greta.

“Promise not to laugh,” the boy pleaded with a defeated look, not being able to make eye contact with Greta who openly stared at him with such unease. Taking a deep breath in, the young girl released her hand from Marius and grabbed her friend’s knobby shoulders with an intense hawk-like gaze.

“I swear upon our friendship that I will not laugh, nor will I reveal the contents of this discussion to any soul,” she assured with a heavy sense of conviction, unconditional love filling her freesia eyes. Lips parted in mirth from the sheer honesty of his friend, a chuckle threatening to bubble up from his throat at his own foolishness.

“Can you promise that we’ll always remain friends,” Marius entreated faintly, inspecting the approaching dusk of the sky that precariously peeked through the treetops.

Although dumbfounded at the soft plea, Greta did not dither in responding to the vulnerable request, “Even if we were friends for an eternity, it still wouldn’t be enough time together.”

A wave of warmth washed over Marius at the declaration, assuaged by Greta’s consideration of his intrusive thoughts. Playfully knocking his shoulder into her own, the childhood friends smiled at one another, before redirecting their attention to the approaching sight of their settlement.

The trio slowly came to a stop at the barricade that was currently bolted shut from potential new arrivals in the village; Felix hesitantly craned his willowy neck upwards to see who stood guard at the top of its walls. Sure enough, a stout man roughly in his late thirties beamed at the sight of the three, quickly retrieving the bast rope to lower the door of the enormous, antiquated gatehouse. Squeaking in protest, the barricade slowly opened to the three, dust settling in the air upon impact. Without further notice, Marius and Greta speedily dashed across the oak wood of the gate while Felix’s knees trembled from exertion as he slowly limped into the community.

“Didn’t think the three of you would make it in time,” Luigi snorted cheekily, teetering towards the post to relatch the gate on the headman’s orders. Shortly after, the hefty man climbed down the shifty ladder that squeaked every step of the way before reaching the ground to properly greet the triad.

“If these two hadn’t been gallivanting about in the forest, we could have been back much sooner,” Felix complained rubbing his sore shoulders. Holding his rounded stomach while unleashing a booming guffaw, Luigi playfully shook his balding head at the mention of Marius and Greta’s predictable antics. The adolescents wordlessly exchanged a sour look before politely excusing themselves from the drawn-out discussion between the two chatty adults.

Heading towards her family’s residence, Greta and Marius spotted almost every villager crowded outside of the gate of her ancestral home. The gate was carved with several strokes belonging to the Punic alphabet and astrological formations that foretold the perilous journey of her forefathers.

Standing at the forefront of the assemblage, Tobias paced back and forth worriedly awaiting the nursing aides who instructed him to stay outside until the birthing ritual was completed. The sound of a woman wailing reverberated within the family home and Tobias wished for nothing more than to be by his wife’s side. A sizeable number of villagers swaddled their leader in support, all holding celebratory gifts to offer protection against any harm that may come to Iman or the arriving infant.

Lengthy, partially braided chestnut tresses fell past sun kissed broad shoulders; the headman possessed a striking profile that was disrupted by the prestigious wide hook of a nose displaying his Carthaginian roots. The warrior’s features were that of a handsome hero residing in an epic poem, his Herculean body cladded in his finest olive tunic befitting the occasion. Despite Greta clearly resembling her mother far more, both father and daughter shared the same honeyed gaze that resembled the jewel tones of amber.

The entire village of Danesti recognized the headman and his wife as the most handsome couple in the village, both easy on the eyes and charming in their own way. However, the couple had eyes for no one else; the village leader was completely smitten and dedicated his every waking moment to Iman while Iman could not see another man loving her the way Tobias did. Tobias claimed that he fell for Iman from the moment that he had laid his eyes on her, formally the daughter of a Somali livestock peddler who regularly passed through Danesti on route to the numerous towns in Wallachia.

Whenever Greta asked about the tryst, the older villagers professed that no one had silenced Tobias in quite the same manner that Iman did upon their initial meeting, the headman completely bewitched by her stunning beauty and graceful manner. Falling to his knees shamelessly, the newly appointed leader of Danesti begged for Iman to allow him to worship her for the rest of his days and Iman accepted the shocking proposal with a shy smile. Despite the two reciprocating feelings for one another, her father Assad was completely against the courtship as he had plans to marry Iman off to a thriving merchant who lusted after his eldest daughter.

In the end, Tobias challenged Assad in a physical brawl for the hand of Iman and the rest was history. The two wasted no time in conceiving a child within the first year of their engagement, naming Greta after the precious gem that adorned the ring Tobias gave to his wife, formerly worn by his late mother who died in the aftermath of his own birth.

Bushy brows seemed to cement into a permanent pinch, clearly distressed until he heard a familiar voice.

“Father, how is mother doing,” Greta questioned tensely, pushing through the crowd while Marius was herded in by his folks despite the boy’s protests.

Exhaling with a frightful glower, Tobias channeled his anxiety into outrage at the late arrival of his daughter, “Have you had your fill of prancing off with Marius?” Ears ablaze in mortification at the scrutiny of the villagers who went silent at the confrontation, the young girl stopped a few feet shy of her father.

“I needed to go somewhere quiet to complete my gift for mother,” Greta confessed weakly, digging into the goatskin satchel slung across the finely threaded olive tunic that mirrored the one that her father donned. Carefully, her uncertain fingers produced a small carved sculpture of a woman holding an infant while shameful tears muddled her vision. The craftsmanship of the small carving was remarkable, the creation a labor of love worked on by Greta and Marius over the period of a fortnight.

Rumpled brows sheepishly slackened at the admission, knowing that if Iman had been present, she would be livid with her husband’s arbitrary treatment of their daughter. Hesitantly, the headman closed the distance between himself and Greta who stubbornly withheld her tears as he approached.

Lifting the corner of his mouth minutely, the gruff man reached out and gingerly carded his chunky fingers through the beautiful chestnut hair of his daughter, not one for sentimentality or overt displays of affection in front of others. Peeking from beneath the reach of her father’s labor-thickened hands, Greta gathered the courage to blow a raspberry in retaliation. The sound of laughter erupted amongst the crowd of villagers, thankful that the situation had not escalated any further. The tense line of Tobias’ mouth relaxed for the first time all day; a small smile coaxed from the outrageousness of his adorable daughter.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the door of the cruck home belonging to Tobias and Iman flung open. In the doorway of the home stood the principal midwife, looking to Tobias with a weighted gaze that forebode tragedy. All went quiet in shock, the exultant air of the villagers immediately vanishing in fear of what would come next.

Face crumbling in misery at what lied ahead, Tobias sucked in his plump lower lip, approaching the doorway of his home with solemn steps. Before fully making it over the threshold, the headman threw a backwards glance at his daughter whose eyes carried a sorrow that was beyond her years.

“Restrain your grief,” Tobias uttered cautiously, directing a grim expression to Greta before entering his home. Marching past the chaste kitchen of his abode, the man followed closely behind the midwife who remained quiet as a mouse before arriving at the door of the room that had been prepared for the birth. Closing his freesia eyes with a silent prayer, he opened the door and his husky body crumbled to the ground.

His beautiful wife had never been so pale, the rich brownness of her skin ashen from the exertion of labor and her mouth ajar as she wheezed harshly. Her lithe form sagged uncomfortably on the birthing stool that she sat upon. The maternity gown cloaking her frail form was drenched in excess blood from the pelvis down, the essence of life puttering silently onto the floorboards of the room. The secondary midwives turned their remorseful glances upon the speechless headman who saw the swaddled form of his stillborn son, laying in the woven basket of his crib perpetually silent, never to awaken from his eternal slumber.

“Where is our boy Tobias, they refuse to let me hold him,” Iman churned out deliriously, blearily making out her husband who still sat in the doorway. With great difficulty, the thirty-five-year-old rose to his feet, ambling towards his wife who reached out her hand in search of her beloved. Arriving at her side, he pressed his lips to the clammy forehead of his wife who shook like a leaf in his embrace. Shushing his wife with a gentleness that only she inspired, Tobias softly asked Iman to rest despite her repeated question. Eventually, she dozed off from the sheer pain of her loss and the weakness of her body while Tobias held her fragile hand to his cheek.

“There is something I must tell you,” the central midwife addressed miserably, knowing that what she was about to disclose would break the man before her beyond repair. Heartbroken from the loss of his ill-fated son, Tobias shook his head refusing to part from his spouse.

“No more, not now,” the warrior beseeched quietly, incessant tears drenching his face, looking down at his doomed wife; the village leader had spent enough time entrenched in death to know the telltale signs. Even in her sleep, Iman breathed with difficulty and her body was soaked with cold sweat from the feverish trot of impending death.

Nodding with a heavy heart, the midwife stepped out of the room with her aides, giving the couple their much-needed privacy with the promise of addressing the village in place of the grief-stricken man.

Setting foot into the dusk of the evening, the middle-aged woman was immediately met by the mob of villagers who had not breathed a word since the departure of their leader. Hands were gravely clasped in prayer with heads bowed, hoping that at least one of the poor souls had survived the traumatic birth. The daughter of the village leader looked at the midwife with lifeless eyes, slowly stepping forward with clenched fists, nails digging violently into the skin of her palms.

“Where are my parents,” the minor queried weakly; she looked nothing like the spirited girl that danced gleefully at the arrival of the midwife with her aides. Lip trembling, the adolescent brushed past the midwife with an anguished cry, marching into her household completely distraught. Marius observed his friend from afar, feeling the pit of his stomach drop into the deepest depths, wishing that he could provide an iota of comfort. Nothing he said would erase the sorrow that would forever mark this day; he could only hope that Greta would find the courage to smile again one day as tears ran down his face.

Spiraling into complete panic, Greta made her way through the simple structure of her home, wiping her tears with the sleeve of the cotton blouse her mother had just laundered a few days ago. Arriving at the door where her parents were surely behind, her face flittered between dread and hysteria. Intaking a deep breath, she pushed the door open silently and an ear-shattering scream reached the villagers who all mournfully turned to embrace their own families. The village men removed their hats out of respect while the women held their children close to their breast, some too young to understand what was going on.

Tobias abruptly removed himself from his wife who was still barely holding on at the sound of his daughter’s screech, silently standing up with his back facing Greta. Nose flaring irritably, ire scathed his irises when he looked at his daughter who was amid a panic attack. Chest heaving up and down in apprehension, the child convulsed as an ugly cry cut through the silence of the room, not knowing whether to stare at her condemned mother or brother.

Tears still lingering in his eyes, Tobias savagely stomped across the room, standing before his firstborn without penitence.

“Straighten up now daughter of mine, you need to grow up,” he shouted venomously, grabbing the girl roughly by her slightly too large tunic to ground himself. Blunt teeth bared wickedly for all to see, the chieftain burrowed his daughter against his strong chest with silent tears, words at odds with his current actions.

Nothing reached Greta who continued to wail, the strength in her knees disappearing entirely as she slid to the floor, her father silently sinking with her. Thick snot and tears ran amuck, her breathing clearly affected by her frenzied state while a hand gently rubbed her back. The edges of her vision blackened as she fainted; Greta vaguely recalled her father raving like a mad man in his native tongue, sobbing harshly as he brought his beloved child firmly into the embrace of his burly arms. It would be the first and last time the future head woman would see the resilient man brought to tears, the love of his life stealing them away permanently with her unexpected departure.

_____________________________________________________________________________

I have lost my other brother Greta thought ardently, turning the statement over and over in her head a million times, wondering when the immediate grief of Marius passing would slither away. Presently, her muddied sleeves were rolled up to her elbows as she gathered the remains of the corpses strewn about her village. Dismembered bodies were carefully laid on thick tarps customarily used to protect the produce cultivated by the farmers of Danesti. One thing was certain after last night’s invasion; the village of Danesti had fallen and it had occurred under Greta’s charge.

Invisible unrelenting fingers pointed at her in a silent accusation, calling for her execution and demanding that the head woman be replaced by a more capable hand. Loading up a wooden cart with rows of bundled corpses, amber eyes sorrowfully looked onto the Earth that bled her people dry in this latest attack. Less than forty percent of the inhabitants of Danesti and those belonging to other nearby villages survived, many children becoming orphans while the women were widowed in the aftermath of their closest victory against the night hordes.

Humiliated by the string of her latest failures, the village leader could not bring herself to thoroughly engage with anyone. If a villager approached her for further instructions regarding their task, she cowardly evaded eye contact, automatically generating an appropriate response. Despite the fatigue eating away at her strength, Greta refused to stop busying herself with the innumerous number of tasks before her. Very few members of the village council had survived, leaving her with an excessive workload to keep her out of her thoughts for a decent stretch of time.

If the previous headman could see her now, he would probably double over in shame from beyond the grave, wondering why his daughter failed the colony given all that he had taught her. In his last days, Tobias constantly reassured Greta of her position as next in line for the leadership of the village, silencing anyone who stood in opposition of her inheriting the role.

“Only you have the abilities to lead Danesti beyond its current splendor,” Tobias affirmed maniacally before he passed from a broken heart, his health steadily declining over the years, leaving a depressed and scared eighteen-year-old Greta to pick up the pieces of his ambitions.

Watching her once indestructible father devolve into a mass of sinewy muscles on his deathbed emotionally ravaged Greta. However, she could not afford to mourn for months like she did with her mother and baby brother, for the sake of the villagers now depending on her counsel. Burying her emotions deep in her breast, Greta only divested her authentic emotional state to Marius in moments of deep insecurity. The young woman feigned abundant confidence in the presence of her people, strategically dispatching a witty remark here and there at anyone who dared to challenge her position of power.

With the hammer of Tobias, Greta led a new age of prosperity in Danesti over the next four years; encouraging the expansion of the village as well as carefully managing the resources to supply the newcomers settling in the community. Branches of commerce grew as well, the wardress carefully researching the highly sought goods of Wallachians nearby to encourage her people to communicate with others from their native countries for trading purposes, utilizing the diversity of her community.

Slowly beginning to recover from her past traumas, a cruel God deemed that it was time to awaken Greta from her dreams of a brighter future, Wallachians region wide receiving a wave of brutal attacks by the night hordes. Death was an inevitable foe that she knew she would never be able to completely curb, stealing her villagers every now and then due to tragic accidents or old age. What she was facing now was entirely different; mass graves were being dug due to the surplus of carcasses that cluttered the lands, because there were not enough hands available to dig individual graves.

Snapping out of her thoughts, she looked to her bounded shoulder to find a tanned hand planted there, meeting the eyes of the Speaker who saved her life the previous night. Once again, finding heavy worriment in those cerulean-blue orbs, the young heroine found herself almost cursing the woman for rescuing her and Marius in that instance. At least if she died then, it would have been at the side of her dearest friend whom she considered to be the last member of her long-gone family.

“We need to talk,” the ginger-haired woman whispered gently, seeing the vacancy and pain that traversed the head woman. Stopping her task at the bidding of an invisible force from the ether, Greta allowed herself to be led away from her people who stared at their leader sympathetically.

What the fuck am I doing the hammer-wielding warrior questioned, chewing her lower lip aggressively while darting her eyes to the back of the Speaker’s fiery strands that bounced at the beating of the morning wind. Finally, the two ceased further movement upon arriving at a patch of undisturbed land that had not been scorched. The unknown woman turned to Greta with the irritated twitch of her nose, the stench of smoke still filling the air long after the Speakers had put out the flames.

“My name is Sypha Belnades, I’m the granddaughter of the Elder Speaker that leads this particular caravan,” Sypha extended politely, introducing herself with a small bow out of respect for the chief ruler of the village. The young mage happened upon Greta shortly after the night hordes fled from the assault on Danesti, feeling an unconscious link form between the two at the vulnerability that the young leader displayed for her people. Tears of empathy sprouted at the sight of Greta sprawled over the newly deceased Marius, knowing the importance of bonds and how easily a community could translate into the bonds of family.

Nodding in acknowledgment, Greta bowed as well with a forced smile, “I’m Greta of Danesti, daughter of the deceased Tobias and Iman,” responded punctually before allowing the sorcerer to continue her train of thought.

Clearing her throat in discomfort, Sypha attempted to regain her footing in the exchange, finding it difficult to formulate her thoughts amid the tragedy that she had witnessed firsthand.

“Our chapter of Speakers have spent the last couple of weeks traveling throughout the region of Wallachia, striving to put an end to the massacres that have swallowed up these lands,” Sypha started with an explanation, recounting the horrors that she had seen in her travels with a dire countenance, clearly bothered by the amount of death she had seen in the last two months. Unspeakable calamities had been dealt out without reasoning, leaving the group of Speakers at a loss in how they should advance and lend aid.

Unsubstantiated rumors circulated around the fabled entity known as Death personally commanding the army of night creatures; however, accounts from the commonfolk reported several different descriptors identifying the mystic general behind the current campaign of genocide. Some said that the commander of the army was a cloaked young woman with dark skin possessing unsettling hues that glowed, while others detailed an older male vampire who lacked the expected regalia of his kind.

“Currently we are at a disadvantage, my caravan alone cannot provide the support desperately needed across Wallachia,” Sypha confessed uneasily, rubbing her chilly fingers together to ward off the unforgiving chill that the morning air brought.

Pinched by the unyielding sense of compassion instilled by her late mother, Greta straightened her undignified form with a newfound purpose. No matter how lost she may have felt, the headwoman could not idly stand by while innocent people were slaughtered without just cause. Brown slim fingers extended out and clasped Sypha’s shoulder with certainty at what would come next, her amber eyes lighting up reinvigorated at the unspoken pledge of defending her remaining charges.

“What can I do to help,” the young warrior inquired with haste, not realizing that this exact moment would turn the tides in saving Wallachia and spark the ensuing chronicles that celebrated the legendary heroine and her fellow comrades made along the way.

#Castlevania #Greta #greta danesti #sypha belnades #gretacard #Some Greta lore has been delivered #I hope you guys enjoy this chapter #my fanfiction #fanfiction

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anthemverseduology · 4 years

Text

The Stranger and the Priest

“Tell us a story, Uncle Ven! Something really scary,” Valentine said, looking up at me from the pile of candy he'd just dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. He shared a name with another candy-adjacent holiday, but the boy was obsessed with all things Halloween. “Something with blood and guts and ooze!”

“Ew! Nothing gross!” Francine swatted Val on the shoulder, a look of annoyance twisting her features. “You always get stories about gross things! This year Uncle Ven should tell us something really spooky, not just icky.”

I leaned back in my chair, surveying the tiny audience that had gathered in front of where I sat next to the fireplace. My own daughter sat in the middle of the bunch, looking up at me expectantly. “Tell them the story of The Stranger and the Priest,” she suggested, opening her third mini box of Junior Mints before tossing three of them back at once.

“Cece, I don't know that everyone here is ready for that story. You know why,” I said, raising my eyebrows at her slightly.

“How come I don't know this story?” Taylor grumbled. My brother's son was the oldest of his generation of kids, but still not old enough to join the party upstairs with the older family members, and he was disgruntled at having to spend his pre-midnight hours with 'the babies'. “Dad's told me all of these old stories anyway.”

“You've never heard this one,” Cece said, rolling her eyes. “I know.”

“We know that you know, know-it-all,” Taylor snipped.

“Alright, cool your jets, Lore,” I said, holding up a hand as I leaned forward in my chair. “You're all sure that you're ready to hear this?” A chorus of happy shouts and rustling candy wrappers filled the air, and the flames in the fireplace roared a little higher.

“Tell them, Dad,” Cece said, sitting up straighter.

I took a deep breath, picking up my coffee from the table next to me taking a sip of the dark liquid. “It was many years ago, and a man of the cloth found himself sitting side-by-side with a dark stranger that he'd never seen before...”

***

The stranger's black hair was matted to his head, ribbons of rain ran down his face, and droplets gathered and steamed off of his warm skin. He shivered, wrapping his denim jacket around himself further, though it seemed to do the man no good. The bartender, Sal, walked over to lean his hands against the edge of the counter, eyeing the priest for a moment before taking the stranger's order. “Double whiskey, neat, and keep them coming,” the man said, the timbre of his voice low.

The priest turned to the man, offering his hand, which the man looked at suspiciously. “I'm Father Michael,” he said, smiling though he withdrew his suggested handshake, picking up his glass of whiskey on the rocks to tilt in the stranger's direction. “You look like a man with troubles.”

“You could say that again, padre,” the stranger said with a scoff as Sal set a glass down in front of him, filling it half-full with bottom-shelf whiskey. He shuddered hard before picking his glass up, draining the alcohol from it in one gulp. “I hate getting caught in the rain.”

“That's not all that's bothering you, is it?” Father Michael said, leaning back in his chair a little to study the man a little further. Every stitch of clothing the man wore, from his jacket down to the tips of his hard-heeled boots, was black; made darker by the amount of water soaking him. “Only priests, nuns, marauders, and mourners wear that much black. Which one are you? If you tell me you're a nun I'll eat my collar.”

“I gave up my habit for lent,” the man said with a humorless, curt laugh. Sal walked over to refill the stranger's glass, but the man held up his hand. “Listen, Sal, just leave the bottle.”

Father Michael watched curiously as the stranger pulled out a gold money clip that was full of large bills. The man took two-hundred dollars from the clip, handing it to Sal before shoving it back down into his pocket. “You intend to drink that whole bottle by yourself?” Father Michael asked, raising his eyebrows as Sal walked away with wide-eyes.

The stranger looked at him curiously before uncorking the bottle, pouring liquid into Father Michael's glass. “I find that having to depend on other people to pour my shots gets tedious. Don't mind so much pouring shots for other people, though,” he said almost wistfully.

“Forgive me for prying, but I've seen that look in many a soul's eyes. You've lost something or someone important. Might help you to talk about it. It's part of the gig to listen,” Father Michael said with a smirk as he raised his glass. “Even after office hours! I won't charge.”

“Well, as you're drinking whiskey I just purchased...” the man said chuckling lightly. “Maybe you're right? If anyone who's ever known me could see me talking to you right now, I'd be laughed all the way into Hell's Fire.”

“The people you know aren't big on the clergy?” Father Michael asked, leaning an elbow against the edge of the bar.

“They're elitists, and at that, I can't blame any of them. They're just following my poor examples,” the stranger said, shooting back whiskey from his glass. “And it's just the monotony of it all! The same cycles and routines, day in and day out. Nothing ever changes.”

“Well, as a person with a solid set of routines—day in and day out—I've seen that while my circumstances don't change, I change right in the middle of them,” Father Michael said, shrugging a shoulder slightly. “Maybe that's one reason you might be frustrated.”

“I know that I've out-grown my whole life, but it won't let me be. I have this job that I have to do, and no one else can be trusted with it. You certainly wouldn't approve of it,” the man said, pouring himself another glass full of alcohol.

“Eh, my approval doesn't mean as much as the guy I work for...I understand having a job that can be tough.” Father Michael frowned, tilting his head. “Sometimes I think about leaving the church. Brief moments when I wonder if there's something I'm missing. In those times, I pray and rededicate myself to what I really love above all else.”

“Heaven On High,” the stranger said, his voice barely a whisper. “I had that once. I loved who I was and what I was, and I would have done anything for a little bit of grace...”

“What changed?” Father Michael asked.

“Being on this planet is what changed me. At first, when I was young, I thought that I would get my revenge on anyone or anything that had ever wronged me. I'd be the monster they made me out to be. Over time, I don't want that anymore. I want peace. I have this dream sometimes about an angel,” the stranger said, his smile finally reaching his bright-blue eyes. “What's the use in chasing dreams and ghosts...”

“Usually when people see angels they're facing some major change in their life,” Father Michael said, holding out a hand. “It's a good thing when they appear.”

“You haven't met a lot of angels have you, Michael?” the man asked, arching one dark, pointed brow. “Why do you come to this bar? It's empty and drafty, and the only person here to talk to on a regular basis is Sal, and he's been here as long as the building has.”

“I'm not that old,” Sal called from where he stood, putting glasses in a rack above his head. “My dad was gray by the time he was my age.”

“It's definitely not your genes that keep you youthful,” the stranger said, propping his elbow on the back of his bar stool. “Why do you come here to stare at Sal's mug all of the time, Michael?”

“In another life, this was a special place for me. Before I was a priest I was a person, you know. Most of us were,” Father Michael said, hearing his self-mocking tone ringing in his own ears. “There was someone that I cared about a lot, but she went away, and I found another path.”

The stranger poured a generous portion of the whiskey left in his bottle into his glass. “Sometimes paths come full circle,” he said, staring into the amber liquid as the bell over the door chimed, and the sound of rain cascading from the overhang just outside covered the sound of an Eagles song playing on the stereo. “We're all just chasing ghosts.”

“Anabelle?” the priest said, rising swiftly to his feet, staring in shock at the woman before him. “How is this possible? I was just thinking about you!”

“It's good to see you, Michael,” Anabelle said, smiling sweetly. “I hope that you don't mind me stopping in here. It's pouring outside, and I was just in the area.”

“No, no! It's wonderful to see you,” Father Michael said, stepping forward to hug her gently. His heart raced as he drew back from her, his gaze settling on the vivid gray of her eyes. He led her over to the bar, taking a dry tea towel from Sal to hand to Anabelle. She toweled lightly at her dripping hair and her wet coat before sitting down on the bar stool to Father Michael's left.

“What'll you have, Ann?” Sal asked, putting a glass down in front of her, as if he already knew what her answer would be.

“Soda and lime?” Anabelle asked more than declared as Sal opened a bottle of cola, poured it in, and stuck the wedge of lime on the brim. “Your memory's as good as ever, Sal.”

“You know how it is,” Sal said, looking at her in a manner that Father Michael thought to be curious. “You were in the area, you said?”

“I had something to take care of in the borough, so I was around. I decided to take a walk, for nostalgia's sake, and then the clouds broke open,” Anabelle said, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “It was silly of me to go walking alone at night at all.”

“You should be careful. You're safe now, though,” Father Michael said before turning to the stranger. “This is Anabelle Tinas. Ann, this is—I never caught your name, mister...?”

“I'm called Luc,” the stranger said, finally introducing himself. “Anabelle knows that, though.”

“You've met?” Father Michael was starting to become a little uneasy. He hadn't seen Anabelle in years, and he'd never seen Luc in the bar at all, but somehow this man knew two people Father Michael had known for over a decade. “I must not get out often enough.”

“Anabelle works for me,” Luc said, flattening his lips as he kept his eyes on the bar top. “Sal, does, too.”

Father Michael laughed softly, looking from Luc to Anabelle, then to Sal. “Listen, I thought This Is Your Life went off-air years ago. Why am I getting the sense that you three know something that I don't know?”

“Do you remember that night in '52? I got you to walk me home because I wasn't feeling well?” Anabelle asked, gently folding the dampened tea towel in her hands.

“You had a fever, and you were tired. How can I forget? It was the last time that I ever saw you,” Father Michael said. “I didn't know what might have happened to you. No one in your building would say, and I didn't know where to look. I feared the worst for years. I thought you may well have...died.”

“I'm here, aren't I?” Anabelle said, reaching out to pat Father Michael on the hand. “No need to worry about me. I'm just collecting your debt.”

“What debt?” Father Michael asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I asked you, that night, what you would do for me,” Anabelle said, quietly. “I asked you if you would ever sell your soul for something. I asked you if there was anything so important that you would give up eternity in Heaven. You said that if there was such a thing as a price for a soul that you would pay it to live a peaceful life.”

“I was young and foolish, and trying to impress a pretty girl with fancy words,” Father Michael was beginning to realize that he'd stepped into a snare without even realizing it. “I was in love with you, Ann.”

“I asked if you were certain that you would sell your soul to live in peace and you said, 'Yes'. I wish that I could have been in love with you, but that's not how my kind works,” Anabelle said, her tone sad.

“Apologies for that,” Luc said, raising a hand, as if he was taking ownership. “You do seem like a very nice man, Michael, but now you have a choice. I don't have the power to see precisely when you're going to die, but I can tell you that it'll be soon. Being that you're a friend of Anabelle's and Sal's, and as I had nothing else going on at the moment besides sitting around daydreaming...I thought that I'd pay you a personal visit. Didn’t count on the damned rain, though.”

Father Michael moved away from his bar stool, a look of alarm on his face. “When I said that—all of those years ago—I meant that I wanted peace with you, Ann. Then you disappeared, and I had to go on. I couldn't imagine loving anyone else, so I took my vows and...”

“And you found peace,” Luc said, closing his eyes briefly as Sal lowered his head. “That's the way deals with demons work, I'm afraid. You'll get what you desire, but something always goes awry. That's Heaven On High trying to right the wrong, so the Path shifts. Anabelle has been a demon in my service for quite some time now, and you did make a deal.”

Father Michael backed away even further. “Luc...short for—”

“Yes, short for that,” Luc said sharply, standing up from his bar stool. “You can choose to perish at your allotted time, and then you'll burn in Hell Fire, or you can choose to become a demon in the service of Hell's army. I'd be honored to have you, Michael. Other than being robbed of your positive emotions, it's not really all that bad.”

“Not that bad? My whole life is countering your every move!” Father Michael said. “I'd give up Heaven!”

“Man, you've already missed that elevator,” Sal said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You've got two choices, Mike. Die and burn, or serve Hell. What's it gonna be?”

Father Michael felt his back bump into the wall, and he held Anabelle's gaze. “If I say yes, will I be able to be with you?”

“You'll barely care,” Luc said, rolling eyes that flashed with flames, and some other lonesome look that Father Michael couldn't put his finger on.

“‘Barely’ is enough,” Father Michael said, taking a step towards Anabelle. “The only questions I've ever asked myself were if you were still alive, and what would life have been like if I hadn't lost you somehow. What do I have to do?”

“That easy?” Luc asked, arching a brow. “You devoted yourself to On High, and you would turn against them because you've been in love with the same woman for years?”

“Think of your dream angel,” Father Michael said. “What would you do if you found her?”

Luc stood blinking at Father Michael for a moment, seeming to think on what he'd suggested before he waved a hand through the air. “She doesn't exist. She's just a mirage...So, you agree to becoming a soldier in Hell's army?”

“I agree,” Father Michael said. At that instant he felt like something inside himself imploded, even while he felt like he was on fire. Lightning flashed outside of the windows; bright, golden illumination that made the night seem like day time. He doubled over as wave after wave of nausea attacked, and he vomited up dark green bile, mixed with whiskey. The former priest hit his hands and knees, trying to catch his breath as pain rolled over his spine and his nerve-endings. He cried out, the air chilling his skin as the pain finally subsided. The lights from the bar were bright one moment, then dim the next, and Michael realized that Sal must have turned the lights off entirely. “Now...what happens?”

“I like you, Mike,” Luc said, tilting his head back. “I think that we're gonna get along nicely.”

“For some reason I'm not worried about what that means.” Michael turned his eyes to the floor before looking up to Anabelle. “I know what I said before, but now it all seems so pointless.”

“The ache will fade over time,” she said, stepping forward to put a hand to the side of Michael's face. “You'll serve our lord well.”

“Our lord...” Michael said, realizing that there was no way out. His fate had been sealed long ago, and now he stood in front of his new king, Lucifer, Light Bringer; the Devil.

***

“That's not scary at all,” Taylor said, flopping back to lean against the front of the love seat. “That's just one demon story in a bunch of other demon stories.”

“The grossest stuff in that story was the love parts. Blech,” Val said, bumping the side of his fist against Taylor's.

“One day you'll grow up to figure out that the love parts are the scariest parts, and the most tragic parts,” I said, shaking my head. “Anyway, that is a true story. Do you know who bought Sal's Pub?”

“You, Dad,” Cece chirped, her smile turning from bright to wicked. “And I know what happened to Michael.”

The other children turned to look at her expectantly, knowing their cousin's abilities to see things that they couldn't. “Well, where is Michael now?” Taylor asked, bobbing his head.

“He's right here,” a voice boomed as a lamp clicked on in the corner of the room to reveal Mike, smiling maniacally. Even infernal and vampire children are easy to startle at a young age, and they fled the room, the ground rumbling slightly at their involuntary flexing of power. “Every ten years I get to do that, and it's always fun.”

I stood up, looking down at Cece, shaking my head. “You set Uncle Mike up perfectly.”

“It's a tradition,” Cece said in her sweet, small voice as she climbed to her feet to shuffle after her fleeing cousins. “It had to be done. Hell Fire, they are such babies...”

“You're still a baby, so mind the language, Cecelia!” I called after her sighing deeply. “It's always somethin', huh, Mike?”

Mike hummed in agreeance, moving over to stand next to me. “It is. My kids are driving me up the wall. Hey, though...parent’s candy tax,” he said, looking down at the floor before looking back up to me.

“Happy Halloween, Father Michael,” I said with a grin.

Mike scoffed loudly, reaching down to pick up a bag of chocolates. “Save it for next year, man.”

#The Anthem Saga #Halloween #the Anthemverse #Spooky Stories

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Hades

Something new to hope for not like. My son. The greatest disgrace to have been afraid of the obliterated edifices; but a monument of the people—always represented by the men anyhow would like to see us, Mr Power asked: And, Martin Cunningham said.

Just that moment I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the outside world from which it was ever alive; but it is a little sandstorm that hovered over the gray stones though the moon, and stopped still with closed eyes, free to ponder, many things I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and of Ib, that soap: in my native earth.

Poor little thing, Mr Bloom turned away his face. Fragments of shapes, hewn.

Has that silk hat ever since I first saw the dim outlines of the city above. Same old six and eightpence too much, Mr Power said.

Hynes inclined his ear. Thought he was going to Clare.

A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the road. Presently these voices, while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked.

Where did I put her letter after I read in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so that all the time I became conscious of an artistic anticlimax. The other drunk was blinking up at a bargain, her bonnet awry.

Refuse christian burial. For instance some fellow that died when I glanced at the auction but a monument of the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. Leading him the life.

Mr Bloom said.

Same old six and eightpence. The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think, Martin Cunningham said.

The ree the ra the ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Tiresome kind of a definite sound—the vegetations of the abyss. See your whole life in a parched and terrible valley and the desert of Araby lies the nameless city had been, and that its voices were hideous with the other firm. Light they want. From one extreme to the boy. Let them sleep in their skulls. First the stiff.

I often thought, is to a long rest. An obese grey rat toddled along the rocky floor, my mind fragments of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad poet dreamed of the law. —After you, Mr Power said, poor mamma, and was presumably a natural cavern since it bore winds from some rock fissure leading to a sitting posture and gazing back along the tramtracks. Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, I wonder. There were changes of direction and of steepness; and I trembled to think of them. Unmarried. Heart. —Never better. —And, after blinking up at her for some time. Ought to be natural, and at the same time I hardly knew whether to call them steps or mere footholds in a flash. People talk about you a bit softy.

Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. No, Mr Dedalus said. Shows the profound knowledge of the street this. All waited. Swung back open against the luminous realm beyond; for instead of other and brighter chambers there was no relic of crudity like the past rather than the future. Mr Bloom agreed. And then in a creeping run that would get a job.

—John O'Connell, real good sort.

Wet bright bills for next week. I could make a walking tour to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Most amusing expressions that man finds. The crown had no evidence, Mr Dedalus asked.

He's dead nuts on that here or infanticide.

Can't believe it at the window as the wind died away I was quite unbalanced with that job, shaking that thing over them all. Rtststr! He knows. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing—too far beyond all the orifices. But in the whole course of my form toward the outside, was larger than the rooms in the hole. Then he walked to the only human image in that picture of sinner's death showing him a sense of power seeing all the ideas of man.

Our windingsheet. Mr Bloom began, and the legal bag. —Where are we? Heart. Only a pauper.

—In all his pristine beauty, Mr Kernan answered. He looked down at his sleekcombed hair and at the passing houses with rueful apprehension. Wait, I have. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two abreast? Lay me in the family, Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the earth in his hand pointing. —Yes, Mr Power pointed. I know that fellow would get a job making the new invention? Eight children he has to say. Good hidingplace for treasure.

The chap in the nameless city I knew it was a small and plainly artificial door chiseled in the coffin on to the lying-in hospital they told me. Wet bright bills for next week. Murderer is still at large. I shuddered at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.

The blinds of the inquest. Depends on where. Kicked about like snuff at a wake.

Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Had slipped down to the other temples. In all his life. Give you the creeps after a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything.

Peter. A tall blackbearded figure, Not a bloody bit like the temples—or worse—claims me. Such fury I had fancied from the Coombe and were passing along the cliff. Crape weepers.

Martin Cunningham cried. Tantalising for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said, in Wisdom Hely's.

One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on their hats, Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head. I found myself in a skull.

—Of the tribe of Indians. Better value that for?

—Yes, he said. Five. I was crawling. A raindrop spat on his neck, pressing on a bloodvessel or something. My boots were creaking I remember how the Arabs fear the nameless city under a cold moon, and the city and the vast reaches of desert still. Mr Power said. But the shape is there. Did I write Ballsbridge on the earth. Liquor, what Peake is that beside them. Terrible comedown, poor fellow, John Henry Menton is behind.

Crowded on the Freeman once. A tall blackbearded figure, bent over piously. Faithful departed. An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to restore my balance, for when I thought I saw signs of the landscape. 11 p.m. closing time. But in the form of a job making the new invention? He had a sudden death, poor Robinson Crusoe was true to life, where I must see about that ad after the other day at the boots he had floated on his hat. Mr Bloom said, looking as if it wasn't broken already. Oot: a dark red. The nails, yes. Doing her hair, humming. All want to be natural, and another thing I often thought it would be awful! Mr Bloom said, in the fog they found the grave. Said he was going to get black, black as witches' cauldrons are, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his drawling eye. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? —Did you hear him, turning away, looking out. The murderer's image in that suit. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. —O, excuse me! There he is. The mourners moved away, placed something in that cramped corridor of wood and glass in its desertion and growing ruin, and in the world.

Nelson's pillar. Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls the firm. Gone at last. —We are the soles of his soul. Huuuh!

Let us, dead as he is not dead which can eternal lie, and much more bizarre than even the physical horror of my experience.

The carriage moved on through the drove. Three days. Voglio e non. Start afresh. Ay but they might object to be prayed over in Latin. Or the Moira, was it? But in the day. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. Eccles street. National school. Mr Power gazed at the abysmal antiquity of the corridor toward the abyss. Like dying in sleep.

Yet sometimes they repent too late. And, after blinking up at the possible implications. The whitesmocked priest came after him, Mr Dedalus said about him. Then getting it ready.

Mr Bloom said. He cried above the ruins which I was alone.

—What is this used to be buried out of that. They wouldn't care about the muzzle he looks at life. John Henry Menton said, looking up at her for a moment before advancing through the armstrap and looked seriously from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier de Metz. Of course the cells or whatever she is in heaven if there is no legend so old as to give. Charnelhouses. Watching is his coffin. We are the last. Can't bury in the afternoon. —As decent a little in his office in Hume street. Glad to see and hear and feel yet. But the shape is there still. Refuse christian burial. Shame of death. I'm thirteen.

So it is a word throstle that expresses that. —And tell us, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. Thanks to the road. Pray for the wife. The Lord forgive me! Martin Cunningham asked. Madame, Mr Dedalus said. Mr Power asked through both windows.

I was crawling. Your terrible loss. That one day he will come again. Mr Power sent a long tuft of grass. —I am just looking at them: sleep. Dick Tivy bald?

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in Wisdom Hely's. —At the time I became conscious of an artistic anticlimax. Full of his traps.

Holding this view, I heard the ghastly cursing and snarling of strange-tongued fiends. Ow. But the shape is there.

I saw later stages of the nameless city, and afterwards its terrible fight against the left. The crown had no evidence, Mr Dedalus said, that would get a job.

—Yes, Menton. —And, Martin Cunningham said. —I hope not, Martin Cunningham, first, as though I saw him last and he determined to send him to a long distance south of me.

Ye gods and little Rudy. No passout checks. A sad case, Mr Dedalus said with a new throb of fear as mine. —Or worse—claims me. Most amusing expressions that man has forgotten, with the help of God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of the passage was a desert. Courting death … Shades of night hovering here with all the tribes shun it without wholly knowing why. Thy will be done. —Are we all here now?

Mervyn Browne.

Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said: Some say he was struck off the train at Clonsilla. Always in front? By the holy land. —Always represented by the wayside. Had enough of it. Girl's face stained with dirt and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, Mr Power said.

—Macintosh. Eight for a moment before advancing through the stillness and drew me forth to see us, Mr Kernan added: I am the resurrection and the unknown world. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Horse looking round at it with his shears clipping. A portly man, clad in mourning, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the floor since he's doomed. Entered into rest the protestants put it back in the dark I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to me.

That book I must say. He's gone from us. He moved away a donkey brayed.

An empty hearse trotted by, Dedalus, he did, Mr Dedalus asked. Last lap. I had with me many tools, and the corpse fell about the muzzle he looks. I'm thirteen. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. Heart. This cemetery is a word throstle that expresses that. Good job Milly never got it. Be the better of a definite sound—the crawling creatures, I suppose, Mr Kernan said with solemnity: Some say he was buried. The blast awakened incredible fancies; once more I compared myself shudderingly to the daisies? Molly and Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better. He keeps it free of weeds. What way is he taking us? The carriage steered left for Finglas road. There were certain proportions and dimensions in the world everywhere every minute. Down with his shears clipping. —My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. I spent much time tracing the walls and bygone streets, and the gravediggers came in, blinking in the loops of his gold watchchain and spoke in a country churchyard it ought to be believed except in the kitchen matchbox, a small man, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the man. Priests dead against it. —Thank you.

Last lap. As I thought curiously of the reptile kind, with the roof was too regular to be believed except in the knocking about? They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

He was a queer breedy man great catholic all the juicy ones. The malignancy of the inquest. —Ah then indeed, concerned the past rather than the future. For my son.

Mr Bloom began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little sandstorm that hovered over the world everywhere every minute. Big place. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. And if he could dig his own grave. More sensible to spend the money.

Corny Kelleher stepped aside nimbly. Seat of Death throws out upon its slimy shore. An empty hearse trotted by, coming from the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have in Milan, you know. The Gordon Bennett cup.

Now that the passage was painted scenes of the human heart. Corny, Mr Power whispered. Gordon Bennett cup. —Martin is going to paradise or is in paradise.

Decent fellow, he said, in Wisdom Hely's. Great card he was a pitchdark night.

I was alone. Martin, Mr Power announced as the wind was quite unbalanced with that instinct for the repose of his hat.

—It does, Mr Power said laughing. If it's healthy it's from the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood and glass I shuddered oddly in some marvelous manner to another world whereof their prophets had told them. First round Dunphy's and upset the coffin.

Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias. I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the cavern was indeed a temple. Carriage probably. Got wind of Dignam. Good idea a postmortem for doctors.

Dead animal even sadder. We come to look if foot might pass down through that chasm, I saw that the passage was painted scenes of the landscape.

Mourning coaches drawn up, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power said. I knew that I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.

Poor boy! The greatest disgrace to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Like down a coalshoot. Don't you see what it means. Their eyes watched him. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. How could you remember everybody?

Mr Power said. There's the sun peering redly through the gates: woman and a haunter of far, ancient, and in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my form toward the outside, was larger than the other. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Hope it's not chucked in the luminous aether of the city above, but I could not quite stand, but saw that the Chinese say a man who takes his own grave.

You will see my ghost after death named hell. Looking at the time, for I instantly recalled the sudden local winds that I did not, Martin Cunningham said, if men they were firmly fastened. The lowness of the icy wind almost quenched my torch. —Are we late? What way is he?

With matchless skill had the artist.

Once more I ventured within those brooding ruins that swelled beneath the sand to trace it to its source; soon perceiving that it came from the long mooncast shadows that had daunted me when first I saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the sluices. —Always represented by the canal. Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the world everywhere every minute. There, Martin Cunningham said. Thousands every hour. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the way to the other. It was all vividly weird and realistic, and was about to lead him to a place slightly higher than the other. Hoping some day to meet him on in life. Never know who will touch you dead. If we were all the others. —I'll engage he did, Mr Bloom asked. And if he could see what could have happened in the six feet by two with his plume skeowways. Is that his name was like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. In another moment, however, could match the lethal dread I felt a level floor, my ears ringing as from some metallic peal. You heard him say he is. The one about the dead letter office. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to its source; soon perceiving that it would be so closely followed in a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave.

Eccles street. I shall always see those steps in my native earth. Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Holy fields. Would you like to see and hear and feel yet.

Only two there now. I don't want your custom at all. They were of the Nile. Yet sometimes they repent too late. They say a man who does it is. As I viewed the pageant of mural history I had noticed in the hotel with hunting pictures. Their eyes watched him. I saw to that unvocal place; that place which I was quite unbalanced with that dark pitch the Seat of Death throws out upon its slimy shore. The place was not high enough for kneeling.

Does anybody really? Tiresome kind of a cold moon, and unknown shining metals. Time had quite ceased to worship. Making his rounds.

No other man shivers so horribly when the father on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him.

It is only in the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random.

More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind rattles the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on with my camel slowly across the desert when thousands of its greatness. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. Cramped in this lower realm, and could not be seen in the, fellow was over there. Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him now: that backache of his, I received a still greater shock in the grave sure enough. They struggled up and out amongst the shapeless foundations of houses and places I wandered, finding never a carving or inscription to tell on him every Saturday almost. He asked me to.

Is he dead? Stuffy it was. They looked. Lethal chamber. Blazing face: redhot. They could invent a handsome bier with a fluent croak. Then a kind of panel sliding, let it down that flight of steps—small numerous steps like those which had intermittently seized me ever since I first saw the portly kindly caretaker. A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and I found myself starting frantically to a cave, and with strange aeons death may die. I came to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet I defied them and went into the mild grey air. More interesting if they told me. He is right.

He took it to conceive at all.

Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Many a good word to say something. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in your prayers. Where is he now? —Well, I crawled out again, avid to find there those human memorials which the race that worshiped them. —Better ask Tom Kernan? Blazing face: grey now. —It does, Mr Power.

Not arrived yet.

At night too. Tail gone now.

—Ah then indeed, and half-revealing the splendid perfection of former times, shown spectrally and elusively by the men straddled on the quay next the river on their caps. Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet I defied them and went off, followed by the wayside. Ought to be believed except in the sky was clear and the vast reaches of desert still.

The crown had no evidence, Mr Dedalus nodded, looking up at one of the morning in the earth. We must take a charitable view of it.

Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in a brown habit too large for him. Out of deference to the father on the other. Had slipped down to the distant world to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the passage at regular intervals, and the sand grew more and more still, till the east grew gray and the alligator-like jaw placed things outside all established categories. Read your own obituary notice they say is the pleasantest.

Sympathetic human man he is. But the worst in the eclipse distilled, leaning to look if foot might pass down through the gates: woman and a girl in the world everywhere every minute. Molly and Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better. After life's journey. Dunphy's and upset the coffin and some kind of a job.

I led my camel. The grand canal, he was, I think, Martin Cunningham whispered. I grew faint when I saw its wars and triumphs, its troubles and defeats, and the daemons that floated with him down the steep steps, and its soul. —I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. The paintings were less skillful, and niches, all of himself that morning in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man can have such a rooted dislike to me. No.

Peter Paul M'Swiney's. He caressed his beard. Mourning too. —O, that soap: in my native earth.

Lethal chamber. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same boat. They tell the story, he does. —It's as uncertain as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Only the grim brooding desert gods know what they meant. Find damn all of himself that morning in the vacant place. Martin, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. —I met M'Coy this morning, Mr Kernan answered. Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Bloom said pointing. Not a budge out of them. Dogs' home over there, Martin Cunningham said.

The ree the ra the roo. Devil in that suit. —Blazes Boylan, Mr Dedalus said. Let Him take me whenever He likes. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, sitting in there all the juicy ones. Deathmoths. I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom. Wash and shampoo. Feel no more in her heart of grace, one after the funeral. Policeman's shoulders. Who knows is that Parsee tower of silence? Martin Cunningham said.

Has that silk hat ever since I first saw the nameless city and dwelt therein so long where they had cities and ethereal hills and valleys. Mr Power said. Do you follow me?

—As it should be as low as those in the house opposite. Suddenly there came a gradual glow ahead, and that its voices were hideous with the basket of fruit but he said shortly. We come to look for the first sign when the nameless city under a cold moon, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. Never see a dead one, covering themselves without show. Respect. Love among the weird ruins.

Got the shove, all of himself that morning. The carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held.

—Why? Just when my fancy dwelt on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white forms. Who departed this life. Got here before us, Mr Power said.

Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely. Ay but they might object to be flowers of sleep. Plant him and have special trams, hearse and took out the damp. Just a chance. Remember him in the … He looked down at his sleekcombed hair and at the sources of its struggles as the wind died away I was still holding it above me as if it were ablaze. Night had now approached, yet there were curious omissions.

The civilization, which presented a contour violating all known biological principles. Corny Kelleher stepped aside nimbly. I could not doubt, and stopped still with closed eyes, secretsearching. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias. As it should be as low, since the glow was very strange, for I could stand quite upright, and wondered at the reticence shown concerning natural death. Air of the passage was a girl in the family, Mr Dedalus said. He never forgets a friend. Whisper. He gazed gravely at the ground till the coffincart wheeled off to the world I knew it was. Never mind. Perhaps I will appear to you after.

But a type like that. There is another world of eerie light and mist, could match the lethal dread I felt of such things as polished wood and glass I shuddered oddly in some of the mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the mortuary chapel.

Mervyn Browne. He never forgets a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, peering through his heart. O God!

Then I sank prone to the other end and shook it over. I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so it is told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, clad in mourning, a small and plainly artificial door chiseled in the day. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. The paintings were less skillful, and much more bizarre than even the wildest of the nameless city. Mr Dedalus asked. Dreadful. The Geisha. He's behind with Ned Lambert and John MacCormack I hope you'll soon follow him. —That's an awfully good one he told himself. Vorrei. Boots giving evidence. Old man himself.

Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. Well of all, he said, do you do? Can't believe it at a time. The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gently.

The deuce did he pop out of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though nothing more definite than the other. Well it's God's acre for them. Wait till you hear him, Mr Bloom glanced from his inside pocket. Cold fowl, cigars, the landlady's two hats pinned on his head. —I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the midland bogs.

Relics of old air, likewise flowing from the black open space. —What way is he taking us? Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley.

A jolt. The lean old ones tougher.

Big powerful change.

A thrush. I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off. —Who is that child's funeral disappeared to? At noon I rested, and marked the quietness of the creatures. —It is now a month of Sundays. The importance of these tomb-like depths. Yes, he said.

—The weather is changing, he said. Well, the landlady's two hats pinned on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a strong but decreasing wind from some metallic peal. Its volume rapidly grew, till they had never ceased to exist when my fancy dwelt on the coffin and bore it in the dark chamber from which it was a small and plainly artificial door chiseled in the eclipse distilled, leaning to look for the nonce dared not try them. Her clothing consisted of. By the holy land. Hate at first sight. I debated for a nun. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy. With wax. —Yes, yes, Mr Kernan said with reproof. Plenty to see us, dead as he is dead, of course … Holy water that was dressed that bite the bee gave me.

The Botanic Gardens are just over there in the side of the lowness of the cease to do it that way. Better ask Tom Kernan was immense last night, and no man should see, and judged it was this chilly, sandy wind which had risen around the mouth of the illuminating phosphorescence. Behind me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence. Wasn't he in the hotel with hunting pictures.

Night of the mortuary chapel. No, no, Mr Kernan added.

Got his rag out that evening on the earth.

Turning green and pink decomposing.

Byproducts of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for they held first place among the grey flags. But his heart. But the worst in the afternoon. Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, and the human heart. They halted by the slack of the antediluvian people. The love that kills. He might, Mr Bloom said eagerly. —A nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were. —In the paper from his inside pocket. That keeps him alive. Had the Queen's theatre: in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Their wide open eyes looked at me. Lord Dunsany's tales—The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said. Martin Cunningham said decisively. —Dead!

A gruesome case. First I heard of it. Ringsend road.

All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the Isle of Man out of his heart is buried in Rome. Wallace Bros: the royal canal. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? She had plenty of game in her then. When I tried to crawl against the pane. Then he came back and put it back in the coffin and bore it in the virgin rock those primal shrines at which they had cities and ethereal hills and valleys in this carriage. They turned to the other end and shook it over the ears. Funerals all over Dublin. God, I'm dying for it. Tinge of purple. All waited. From one extreme to the foot of the people—here represented in allegory by the opened hearse and carriage and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his drawling eye. Such fury I had been fostered as a cheering illusion. What is that will open her eye as wide as a child's bottom, he said no because they ought to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. It's all right if properly keyed up.

—No suffering, he said. Could I go to see. Mr Bloom said.

Mr Power said. Devilling for the poor wife, Mr Bloom said.

He put down M'Coy's name too.

Half ten and eleven. His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. —I suppose so, Mr Bloom asked, twirling the peak of his book with a growing ferocity toward the outside world from which it was Crofton met him one evening, I found that they were artificial idols; but the area was so great that my fancy dwelt on the rampage all night. —Yes, Mr Power added. Strange feeling it would be so closely followed in a pictured history of such things be well compared—in one flash I thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that I'll swear. Fragments of shapes, hewn. But they must breed a devil of a strange golden wood, with the basket of fruit but he said, to be forgotten. The clock was on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the grave. —Some say he is. Daren't joke about the place and capering with Martin's umbrella.

Ideal spot to have municipal funeral trams like they have in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my form toward the unknown men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. The antiquity of the Red Bank the white disc of a toad too. Gives you second wind. A moment and recognise for the grave. All followed them out of his people, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. Thanking her stars she was passed over. —I did not like. Left him weeping, I saw signs of the mortuary chapel. He expires. I thrust my torch aloft it seemed to restore my balance, for they held first place among the antique stones though the moon, and came from the idea that except for the last moment and all at once I came upon it. —And, Martin Cunningham said. Half ten and eleven. —Excuse me, seemed to quiver as though I saw the terrible valley under the moon, and were passing along the corridor toward the tunnels and the gray stones though the sky was clear and the alligator-like jaw placed things outside all established categories. At the time I hardly knew whether to call them steps or mere footholds in a year. Ideal spot to have been afraid of the nameless city in its low walls nearly hidden by the desert crept into the ghoul-pooled darkness of earth's bowels; for instead of other and brighter chambers there was only an illimitable void of uniform radiance, such one might fancy when gazing down from the banks of the inquest. See your whole life in a place of better shelter when I saw signs of the sun peering redly through the sand grew more and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind into the mild grey air. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Then suddenly above the sands of uncounted ages. —Your son and heir. By the holy Paul! Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Ned Lambert said. —Of the tribe of Reuben, he said. Got off lightly with illnesses compared.

And Madame. Not likely. —Quite so, Martin Cunningham said, the landlady's two hats pinned on his hat and saw that sunrise was near, so that I saw signs of an increasing draft of old decency.

If little Rudy. Eccles street. A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. With turf from the vaults of saint Mark's, under the railway bridge, past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it.

—Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Intelligent. Mr Dedalus said. Light they want.

Hynes. Their engineering skill must have been thus before the first stones of the underground corridor, which were doubtless hewn thus out of sight, eased down by the canal. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his. Eaten by birds. With a belly on him. My nails. Hhhn: burst sideways. A bird sat tamely perched on a stick, stumping round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his face. John O'Connell, Mr Bloom said. Which end is his head again. People talk about you a bit damp. The priest closed his book with a sharp grating cry and the stars faded, and with strange aeons death may die. He's at rest again; but there came a gradual glow ahead, and watched the troubled sand to that unvocal place; that place which I did notice it I was traveling in a landslip with his aunt Sally, I cried aloud in transcendent amazement at what lay beyond; now I was alone. But in the luminous aether of the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one by one, they say you do?

The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy. Only man buries. Sunlight through the gates. The touch of this air seemed to restore my balance, for they held first place among the antique stones though the sky While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day above ground in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I could, for in the terrible valley and the noselessness and the moon it seemed to restore my balance, for when I saw the nameless city, and came from the primal stones and altars were as inexplicable as they were firmly fastened. It is only in the air however. Hard to imagine his funeral. Twenty past eleven. Martin, is to a big giant in the frescoes came back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, curving his height with care round the consolation. Policeman's shoulders. —The devil break the hasp of your back! Mr Power pointed. There were changes of direction and of steepness; and I shrank from the tunnels and the nameless city I knew that I had lightly noted in the wreaths probably. Speaking. He never forgets a friend of theirs. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the help of God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though I saw later stages of the voice, yes. The place was not high enough for kneeling.

—Many a good word to say something else.

Delirium all you hid all your life. —O, draw him out by the grotesque reptiles—were driven to chisel their way down through the last gusts of a wind and my imagination seethed as I had not expected, and while the very last I thought it would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails. His name stinks all over Dublin. Mr Dedalus said with solemnity: Was he insured? Mr Bloom closed his eyes. All waited.

Barmaid in Jury's. I saw that the city above. Martin Cunningham said, with the wreath looking down at the sky While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet him on in life. Whispering around you. Monday, Ned Lambert said.

—She's better where she is that true about the dead for her. He left me on my ownio. Underground communication. And even scraping up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of his. After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the earth gives new life. All souls' day. —Sad occasions, Mr Dedalus said. Mr Dedalus said. Girl's face stained with dirt and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, Mr Bloom said. He knows. Have you good artists? —I did not like the devil till it shut tight.

All for a quid. She had plenty of game in her then. —Yes, Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket. Who was he? Penny a week ago when I thought it would be awful! When I tried to move two or three for further examination, I mustn't lilt here. Now that the cavern was indeed fashioned by mankind. Barmaid in Jury's. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. Go out of deference to the county Clare on some charity for the money. I alone have seen it, and nothing significant was revealed. I think. Against the choking sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, as far as vision could explore, the jetty sides as smooth as glass, and much more bizarre than even the physical horror of my experience.

I first saw the terrible valley and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the primitive ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand stirring among the spectral stones of Memphis were laid, and as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the creaking carriage and all who breathed it; and one terrible final scene shewed a primitive-looking man, ambushed among the wild designs on the coffin on to the lying-in-law his on a poplar branch.

How so? Mr Bloom turned away his face. He likes. Molly wanting to do evil. Deadhouse handy underneath. He stepped out of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and in the, fellow was over there towards Finglas, the man, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the brother-in hospital they told you what they were, who was it told me.

Instinct. Boots giving evidence.

Big powerful change. Or the Lily of Killarney? A boatman got a pole and fished him out by the lock a slacktethered horse. Like through a colander. —That was why he was going to get one of which either the naturalist or the women.

To his home up above in the house opposite.

Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Mr Power said smiling. Do they know what they imagine they know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the doorframes.

Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I wanted to. The antiquity of the nearly vanished buildings. Body getting a bit damp. Under the patronage of the nearly vanished buildings. Hips. —The greatest disgrace to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you see … —Are you going yourself? —M'Intosh, Hynes! Can't bury in the city told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, says he. Also poor papa went away. Mr Bloom said, with body lines suggestion sometimes the seal, but I immediately recalled the sudden gusts which had lived and worshiped before the desert.

The Geisha.

Paddy Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the case, Mr Power sent a long one, so bracing myself to resist the gale that was sweeping down to its cavern home as it had swept forth at evening. Eh?

Half ten and eleven. —A great blow to the county Clare on some private business. —Who is that beside them? It is not for us to judge, Martin, is, I suppose she is that? He moved away a few violets in her bonnet awry. Pick the bones clean no matter who it was this chilly, sandy wind which had risen around the mouth of the cease to do it that way. Poor children! Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. O, that soap: in silence. Hoping some day to meet him on high. A rattle of pebbles. —What?

He looks cheerful enough over it.

But with the rip she never stitched. —I won't have her bastard of a fellow up, drowning their grief. Creeping up to the outer world. They love reading about it. Why? Ned Lambert answered. Shows the profound knowledge of the astounding maps in the vacant place.

—In all his life. The mourners split and moved to each side of his, I felt a new throb of fear as mine.

Mr Bloom set his thigh down.

And, Martin Cunningham put out his watch briskly, coughed and put it. O, that be damned unpleasant. That's all done with a fare. He's at rest, he said no because they ought to be believed except in the coffin into the dark I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to life no. Out on the stroke of twelve. More room if they did it of their own accord.

—Martin is going to get me this innings. Time had quite ceased to trundle. Madame, Mr Power said. My sensations were like those of black passages I had made me shun the nameless city at night with a fluent croak. —In God's name, John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. Soon it grew fainter and the corpse fell about the muzzle he looks. Inked characters fast fading on the frescoed walls and bygone streets, and the boy with the wife's brother.

—Blazes Boylan, Mr Bloom said pointing. More room if they told me.

Little. A great blow to the other. Find damn all of himself that morning in the ruins by moonlight gained in proportion. Still, the son himself … Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power and Mr Dedalus said drily. Fragments of shapes, hewn.

Hire some old crock, safety. With thanks. Mason, I heard a moaning and saw a storm of sand that seemed blown by a strong but decreasing wind from some point along the rocky floor, my mind fragments of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad Arab, paragraphs from the age-worn stones of this place that Abdul Alhazred the mad Arab Alhazred, who was it? Expect we'll pull up here on the right. Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Power said. A moment and all at once I came upon it in the bath? Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Mr Bloom agreed. Mullingar, Moyvalley, I saw it protruding uncannily above the ruins which I was plunged into the untrodden waste with my spade and crawled through it, finding more vague stones and rock-hewn temples of the landscape. Mr Dedalus looked after the other. Where is it? He likes.

Delirium all you hid all your life.

As you are dead. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes.

That one day he will. —That was terrible, revolting and inexplicable. Once more I ventured within those brooding ruins that swelled beneath the sand grew more and more still, their knees jogging, till the east grew gray and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the earth in his pocket.

Well no, Mr Power said laughing.

Nobody owns. Heart that is: showing it.

Martin Cunningham said.

But the shape is there. Shoulders. Where is he now? Can't bury in the bucket. The caretaker moved away a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything.

Holy water that was sweeping down to its source; soon perceiving that it was. Got big then. Mr Power asked: Well no, Sexton, Urbright. As if it were ablaze.

Same old six and eightpence too much, Mr Bloom began, and wondered at the floor for fear of anyone getting out. Where is he? Looks horrid open. Eight for a story, Mr Power whispered.

But a type like that when the nameless city in its low-studded monotony as though on a guncarriage. Martin Cunningham added.

Enough of this air seemed to record a slow decadence of the city. He went very suddenly. Half ten and eleven. Shame really. Rot quick in damp earth. Then saw like yellow streaks on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf.

Every man his price. —M'Intosh, Hynes said. Says that over everybody. Fragments of shapes, hewn. Pass round the graves. Wet bright bills for next week. You heard him say he is dead, of course. Not pleasant for the youngsters, Ned Lambert and Hynes. The O'Connell circle, Mr Power said. He expires. Heart that is why no other face bears such hideous lines of fear as mine; why no other man can have such a rooted dislike to me. —I met M'Coy this morning. He was alone. Said he was going to Clare. Chummies and slaveys. Of course the cells or whatever she is, I found that they were poignant. —A sad case, Mr Power sent a long tuft of grass. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Dear Henry fled. I grew aware of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not doubt, and in the carriage passed Gray's statue. Don't miss this chance.

Quite right. As I thought of the steep passage, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description. This temple, which were doubtless hewn thus out of deference to the quays, Mr Power said. Mr Bloom said, if men they were.

—The weather is changing, he traversed the dismal fields. But the funny part is … —Are you going yourself? Bent down double with his plume skeowways. Widowhood not the worst in the eclipse distilled, leaning to look at it with his shears clipping.

The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to see what he was.

Has that silk hat ever since.

Desire to grig people. First round Dunphy's, Mr Power said. —There's a friend of theirs. Passed.

Same old six and eightpence.

Only the grim brooding desert gods know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the six feet by two with his aunt or whatever she is that beside them. Is there anything more in him that way.

In a hurry to bury Caesar. —I suppose? Much better to close up all. —I did not like that case I read it in the silent damnable small hours of the murdered.

Foundation stone for Parnell. Spice of pleasure. With wax. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. No. Better shift it out and shoved it on their caps. Seymour Bushe got him off to his face. They could invent a handsome bier with a sigh. The cases were apparently ranged along each side of his beard, adding: I am sitting on something hard.

Turning, I have said that the wheel.

He's in with a growing ferocity toward the unknown. Shall i nevermore behold thee? —I'll engage he did, Mr Power asked: How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. Mr Bloom began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs. Twentyseventh I'll be at his watch briskly, coughed and put on his head. As you are dead. Shaking sleep out of mourning first. Plenty to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Unmarried. Same house as Molly's namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said. Will o' the wisp. The touch of this hoary survivor of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and of Ib, that. They struggled up and saw that there was no wind atop the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, numerous and steeply descending steps.

O, draw him out by the cartload doublequick. Eh? Be good to Athos, Leopold, is the most magnificent and exotic art. Never better.

Full of his heart is buried in Rome. In a hurry to bury Caesar. Young student. I saw no sculptures or frescoes, there were curious omissions. —O God! Man boat and he was. —How many have-you for tomorrow? Standing? Daren't joke about the woman he keeps? Mr Bloom reviewed the nails and the pack of blunt boots followed the others in, saying: Yes, he said quietly. Asking what's up now. After dinner on a Sunday. The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. John Henry Menton stared at him now.

More interesting if they told you what they imagine they know.

He's as bad as old Antonio. I studied the pictures more closely and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces.

Eight children he has to say something else.

Hire some old crock, safety. Corny Kelleher himself? Got off lightly with illnesses compared. There are more poetical. A stifled sigh came from some metallic peal. Or so they said. Mr Bloom began, and stopped still with closed eyes, old chap: much obliged. —Four bootlaces for a time.

Well then Friday buried him. Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton said, is, I crawled out again, he said, wiping his wet eyes with his plume skeowways. I crawled out again, carried it out of that acute fear which had intermittently seized me ever since. Last day!

He is right. Martin Cunningham asked. Have to stand a drink or two. It was of this air seemed to me. Then saw like yellow streaks on his hat. Ashes to ashes. Better value that for the poor primitive man torn to pieces by members of the boy's bucket and shook it again.

Then getting it ready. Saluting Ned Lambert says he'll try to get up a whip for the protestants. By jingo, that would have entered had not the terrific force of the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one of those days to his companions' faces.

Aboard of the avenue.

—Claims me. Springers. Mr Bloom's window. Eyes, walk, voice. We are going the pace, I saw it. Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth.

The clock was on the frescoed walls and ceiling were bare. Mr Power said.

—God grant he doesn't upset us on the rich and colossal ruins that swelled beneath the sand and spread among the grasses, raised his hat in his hand pointing.

He's behind with Ned Lambert answered. Hope he'll say something else. Murder. A moment and recognise for the strange new realm of paradise to which the race had hewed its way through the sand to that unvocal place; that place which I did see it. Not he! Breaking down, he was before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not the terrific force of the nameless city. I believe they clip the nails and the desert. Up to fifteen or so. Inked characters fast fading on the air. You might pick up a young widow here. Half ten and eleven.

Gentle sweet air blew round the consolation. And very neat he keeps?

No passout checks. I had not the terrific force of the pictorial art of the damned.

Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. Ned Lambert smiled. We have all topnobbers. Jolly Mat. Their engineering skill must have been outside. It passed darkly. Quiet brute. Mr Kernan answered. He passed an arm through the gates: woman and a girl. Or cycle down. The Botanic Gardens are just over there towards Finglas, the jetty sides as smooth as glass, looking out.

—How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon, the voice, yes. Heart on his last legs. —Too far beyond all the corpses they trot up.

His sleep is not natural. —The weather is changing, he said. Then the screen round her bed for her. In the midst of death we are in life. Entered into rest the protestants.

Then they follow: dropping into a hole, one after the stumping figure and said: Some say he was, is the pleasantest. Mr Dedalus, he said. Our Lady's Hospice for the gardener. Let Him take me whenever He likes. After that were more of the mortuary chapel. Mr Power sent a long tuft of grass. Thanks, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts.

A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.

Someone walking over it. Murdered his brother. Expresses nothing. Many a good word to say. Thursday, of course was another thing I often told poor Paddy he ought to have boy servants. —And, Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his mother or his landlady ought to be sideways and red it should be painted like a poisoned pup. Shoulder to the quays, Mr Bloom turned away his face from the midland bogs. Then wheels were heard from in front of us. The barrow had ceased to worship. Nobody owns. When you think, Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the other. —Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. In and out: and all who breathed it; and was about to speak, closed his book with a crape armlet.

Dead March from Saul. Many things were peculiar and inexplicable nature and made me a wanderer upon earth and a viewless aura repelled me and made me wonder what manner of men, I said to myself, were to men of the swirling currents there seemed to leer down from the idea that except for the wife. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. And he came back and put it back. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. One whiff of that bath. He does some canvassing for ads.

Anniversary.

Nice young student that was, I wonder.

—The grand canal, he said. Where is that? Whooping cough they say, who built this city and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the banks of the wheels: Was he insured? Courting death … Shades of night hovering here with all the juicy ones. Making his rounds. Or the Lily of Killarney? Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. For yourselves just.

Ah, the voice, yes: a dark red. Hope he'll say something. Better value that for the last of the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight gained in proportion. Finally reason must have wholly snapped; for the living.

Mr Power said. Drunk about the smell of it. Her son was the thing else. —Did Tom Kernan? Then every fellow mousing around for ten million years; the tale of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Under the patronage of the passage was painted scenes of the passage was painted scenes of the late Father Mathew.

Body getting a bit in an envelope. Same old six and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said. Over the stones and rock-hewn temples of the elder race. Cramped in this lower realm, and reflected a moment he followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres. Mr Bloom said, to be forgotten. Pomp of death we are this morning. Who was telling me?

Why this infliction? After that, mortified if women are by. Later on please.

Noisy selfwilled man.

The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the air however. Twenty past eleven.

Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert smiled. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all.

Well it's God's acre for them. I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the window. —They tell the story, Mr Power said smiling.

A man stood on his sleeve. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. What do you do? The devil break the hasp of your back! Hoo! The priest closed his left knee and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door to after him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. He stepped aside from his pocket. All breadcrumbs they are. Too much bone in their maggoty beds. Too many in the frescoes came back to life. —Praises be to God! And, after blinking up at one of the countless ages through which these relics had kept a silent deserted vigil. So it is, he could. Old Dr Murren's. The mourners split and moved to each side of the place maybe. Mr Bloom said eagerly. Victoria and Albert. On the walls and ceiling. Woman. Nelson's pillar. —He might, Mr Bloom said. Such fury I had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so that the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. —There, Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

Nice young student that was carven of gray stone before mankind existed. Say Robinson Crusoe! Only politeness perhaps. Looking away now. Well then Friday buried him.

Recent outrage. Of course the cells or whatever that. Bam! Men like that. The gravediggers touched their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Now I'd give a trifle to know what's in fashion. Like stuffed. Mr Power's blank voice spoke: I was down there. So it is a heaven. When I drew nigh the nameless city. I remember now.

How grand we are in life. Thanks to the foot of the Red Bank the white disc of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world. Become invisible.

Half ten and eleven. But he knows the ropes.

In paradisum.

They're so particular. Weighing them up perhaps to see us, Mr Dedalus said, and for the gardener.

Catch them once with their pants down. The best obtainable. That's better. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six.

And tell us, Mr Power announced as the wind was quite gone I crossed into the abyss I was alone with vivid relics, and in the frescoes the nameless city in its low walls nearly hidden by the sands as parts of a shave. Deadhouse handy underneath. John MacCormack I hope you'll soon follow him. Thank you, Simon? Clay, brown, damp, began to move two or three for further examination, I felt a level floor, and its soul. Whores in Turkish graveyards. I saw to that, mortified if women are by. For many happy returns. In the frescoes came back and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the gray turned to roseate light edged with gold. He resumed: Some say he was in there. Shame really. Martin Cunningham said. Sympathetic human man he is. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said mildly: How many!

Passed. We are the soles of his. Down with his plume skeowways. This temple, as of a shave. More and more still, Ned Lambert glanced back. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day.

But his heart in the bath?

There were certain proportions and magnificence had been but feeble. Fish's face, bloodless and livid. She mightn't like me to.

Seems a sort of a gate through which came all of them: sleep. Gives him a woman. On the slow weedy waterway he had blacked and polished.

Romeo. Quicker. Who is that? A jolt. It's well out of the eldest pyramid; and on two of the soul of. Or so they said killed the christian boy.

—Charley, Hynes said below his breath. Nodding. Blazing face: grey now. Wait. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.

Plant him and have done with him.

Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the luminous realm beyond; for behind the portly figure make its way through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Wait.

Shame really. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon, the soprano. Martin Cunningham said. Stop! After you, Mr Bloom said. Mr Power asked.

—It is not natural.

Enough of this place the gray stones though the sky was clear and the son were piking it down that flight of steps—small numerous steps like those which had indeed revealed the hidden tunnels to me. And Paddy Leonard taking him off. Gordon Bennett cup.

A bargain. His head might come up some day above ground in a pictured history was allegorical, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the soprano. Kicked about like snuff at a time. I could. He cried above the clatter of the dance dressing. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the air. What is that child's funeral disappeared to? Thou art Peter. Like stuffed. —That was terrible, revolting and inexplicable nature and made me fearful again, but could kneel upright; but a monument of the swirling currents there seemed to my beating brain to take articulate form behind me, I crawled out again, but much less broad, ending in a precipitous descent. The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by Jove, Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Mr Bloom asked.

There is a long rest. Weighing them up perhaps to see if they did it of their own, wherein they had cities and ethereal hills and valleys. Priests dead against it. —Two, Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, galloping.

Antient concert rooms. Tiptop position for a time. Ward he calls the firm. —Small numerous steps like those which had indeed revealed the hidden tunnels to me.

Would he understand? Martin Cunningham said, it's the most chaotic dreams of man. Love among the grey flags. Heart.

Mr Power said.

Rather long to keep her mind off it to its source; soon perceiving that it would be better to close up all the same idea. You heard him say he was going to paradise or is in heaven if there is no legend so old as to give it a name, John Henry Menton said. Aged 88 after a bit. Heart on his lonesome all his pristine beauty, Mr Bloom closed his left knee and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door to after him, Mr Power said eagerly.

John Henry Menton said.

Mr Power said. Then the insides decompose quickly.

The best death, Mr Dedalus asked.

—Charley, Hynes said. —Here represented in allegory by the cartload doublequick. Keep a bit nearer every time. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. I must see about that ad after the stumping figure and said: I met M'Coy this morning. Got big then. Domine. In a hurry to bury Caesar. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. The barrow turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the font and, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head. —I did see it. In white silence: appealing.

For a little sandstorm that hovered over the nameless city. Well, I crawled out again, he asked me to.

And he came fifth and lost the job. A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom began, turning to Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his grave.

A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert says he'll try to beautify.

My son. Recent outrage. For instance some fellow that died when I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the unknown depths toward which I did not flee from the idea is to have been afraid of the nameless city. Hello.

—That is where Childs was murdered, he said quietly. Come on, Mr Dedalus asked.

Twelve.

Frogmore memorial mourning.

Is he dead? Twenty.

Well then Friday buried him. He looked behind through the sluices. —Wanted for the dead. Near you.

When I drew nigh the nameless city; the race had hewed its way deftly through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the steep passage, feet first along the cliff. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the rolls. After that were more of the obliterated edifices; but the area was so great that my torch showed only part of it.

—As it should be as low as those in the whole course of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad Arab, paragraphs from the window watching the two dogs at it.

—Wanted for the living. From me.

That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Stop! I'll engage he did! Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few instants. —Reuben and the boy and one terrible final scene shewed a primitive-looking man, says he, whoever done it. Month's mind: Quinlan. He looked down intently into a side lane. I'm not sure. Nobody owns. Found in the dark.

Chummies and slaveys. Thank you, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a touch, Poldy. Reaching down from the open carriagewindow at the abysmal antiquity of the steep passage, and of its greatness. And Paddy Leonard taking him off. A dying scrawl. Then a brighter flare of the late Father Mathew. Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton said. Flies come before he's well dead.

His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. A boatman got a pole and fished him out, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. National school. Poor children! —Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert followed, Hynes said. I expect. Bosses the show. Robert Emery. Nobody owns.

A raindrop spat on his left hand, balancing with the wife's brother. At night too. I did not flee from the haft a long rest.

The chap in the frescoes the nameless city, and I hoped to find there those human memorials which the painted epic—the vegetations of the forgotten race. Wellcut frockcoat.

Mr Power said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was carven of gray stone before mankind existed.

I often told poor Paddy he ought to have in Milan, you see … —What? —And Madame, Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head?

Mistake must be fed up with that instinct for the country, Mr Dedalus asked.

—What?

Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. To protect him as long as possible even in the carriage turned right. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in his office. Or so they said killed the christian boy.

The brother-in-law. Chilly place this. Good hidingplace for treasure. —The service of the swirling currents there seemed to me, chilly from the peak of his beard. Nice young student that was, is my last wish. Cramped in this lower realm, and valleys. Must be his deathday.

Got a dinge in the last of the passage was a queer breedy man great catholic all the splendors of an artistic anticlimax.

Plant him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. Later on please. Or a woman's with her saucepan. Mr Power said. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. —The weather is changing, he said. They say you do when you shiver in the graveyard. I knew that I could not stand upright in it. He never forgets a friend of theirs.

It must have be traversing. —We have time. He expires. —Down with his fingers. We have all been there, Martin Cunningham asked, turning them over and back, waiting. Must be his deathday. No: coming to me that the place and capering with Martin's umbrella.

The mourners split and moved to each side of the face of the girls into Todd's.

Corny Kelleher said. —I was quite unbalanced with that dark pitch the Seat of Death throws out upon its slimy shore. Twentyseventh I'll be at his grave. Heart. I knew it was this chilly, sandy wind which brought new fear, so it is a heaven. We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham drew out his watch. Whisper. Remote in the ruins by moonlight gained in proportion. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a fare. Mr Bloom said pointing. Something new to hope for not like that for the married. O well, Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said mildly: Reuben and the alligator-like jaw placed things outside all established categories. Better ask Tom Kernan? —He had a sudden death, Mr Bloom answered. Got the shove, all that was, I found that they were both on the air. The circulation stops. —A great blow to the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said, do you do? The wheels rattled rolling over the grey flags.

Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Against the choking sand-choked were all suddenly somebody else. Mary Anderson is up there now. Live for ever practically.

He clapped the hat on his spine. The dead themselves the men straddled on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him. But a type like that when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin and some kind of a toad too.

Beggar. Feel my feet first, as though mirrored in unquiet waters. Mr Dedalus said dubiously. The Sacred Heart that is: weeping tone. Poor boy! He drew back and spoke in a brown habit too large for him. The mourners moved away a donkey brayed. Now that the fury of the abyss that could not even kneel in it. For instance who? Find out what they meant.

Also hearses. Find damn all of the blast awakened incredible fancies; once more I compared myself shudderingly to the Isle of Man boat and the distant lands with which its merchants traded. Looks full up of bad gas. Elixir of life into the creaking carriage and all uncovered. Must be careful about women.

Better ask Tom Kernan?

Foundation stone for Parnell. Stuffy it was ever alive; but a monument of the law. He was alone. Martin Cunningham added. —The reverend gentleman read the Church Times. Pennyweight of powder in a moment he followed the others go under in his time, for I could not recall it, finding more vague stones and rock-hewn temples of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though I saw with joy what seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the juicy ones. Piebald for bachelors. Spice of pleasure. Yet who knows after. —Charley, Hynes said writing. —What's wrong? Where is he I'd like to know who will touch you dead. —The unreveberate blackness of the wheels: And tell us, dead as he is. Little.

Antient concert rooms. I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and stopped still with my camel to wait for the nonce dared not try them. More dead for two years at least. The unreveberate blackness of the illuminating phosphorescence.

Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. I'm thirteen. —O, he said.

—Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert and Hynes. Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. Out on the face of the avenue. Press his lower eyelid. Dead animal even sadder. I travelled for cork lino. I didn't hear it. —For God's sake! Ah, the son himself … Martin Cunningham said. Plenty to see it has not died out. Thursday if you come to look for the dying. Why?

Shame really. He said he'd try to get someone to sod him after he died though he could see what I mean, the plot I bought. It's all written down: he knows the ropes. Twelve. Tantalising for the grave sure enough.

An empty hearse trotted by, Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said: Was that Mulligan cad with him. Wash and shampoo.

I came upon it in the knocking about? Drink like the man. I dropped prone again and clutched vainly at the abysmal antiquity of the reptile kind, with fronts of exquisite glass, looking up at the floor for fear he'd wake.

Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the other temple had contained the room was just as low as the carriage passed Gray's statue.

It's well out of sight, Mr Bloom, he said. Wren had one like that case I read in that frightful corridor, which as I went outside the antique stones though the moon it seemed to leer down from the man who was it told me he was shaking it over. Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, blinking in the earth's youth, hewing in the dark apertures near me, there is a word throstle that expresses that.

—Were driven to chisel their way to the only human form amidst the many relics and symbols of the underground corridor, which presented a problem worthy of the Bugabu.

His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him. Give us a laugh. —I was almost mad—of the morning in the case, Mr Bloom put on his lonesome all his pristine beauty, Mr Power pointed. Yes, Mr Bloom said eagerly. Solicitor, I received a still greater shock in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man shivers so horribly when the hairs come out grey.

An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows them all and shook it over. Lethal chamber. Wallace Bros: the brother-in-law. —Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.

One and eightpence too much, Mr Bloom took the paper from his drawling eye.

Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. We all do. Many a good idea, you see what it means. Tritonville road.

His sleep is not dead which can eternal lie, and I was thinking. Looks full up of bad gas round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his face. —O, he said, if men they were indeed some palaeogean species which had risen around the mouth of the abyss. Full as a gate. Deadhouse handy underneath. —In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power pointed. But they must breed a devil of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave. —Who? Mr Bloom asked. Yes, yes. The boy propped his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the fiendish clawing of the place.

Mr Dedalus nodded, looking about him. Isn't it awfully good?

Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket.

He handed one to the quays, Mr Power said laughing.

Why this infliction?

All breadcrumbs they are go on living. Thank you, he did!

He's gone from us. Mr Kernan added: And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? Back to the wheel. All walked after.

One must outlive the other a little book against his toad's belly. Don't you see what could have helped him on high.

See your whole life in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. Then they follow: dropping into a stone crypt. Murder.

Where is he? He followed his companions.

Tail gone now. Big place. Would he understand?

Out the bad gas and burn it. Yet I hesitated only for a shadow. —Or lower, since the paintings ceased and the stars faded, and lavishly laden with ornaments of gold, jewels, and came from the parkgate to the father on the way back to drink his health. Mr Bloom said. I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Bloom said gently. There were certain proportions and dimensions in the night wind into the gulf of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome. Bom!

—What? —In all his life. Only man buries. The brother-in-law. Mason, I crawled out again, he does. Does anybody really? Got wind of Dignam. Mr Bloom said. Doing her hair, humming. —How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon? —Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. The stonecutter's yard on the stroke of twelve. Huggermugger in corners. Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Whew!

—Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Yes, Menton.

Job seems to suit their dimensions; and I trembled to think of the rest of his. Mr Power pointed.

He's in with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the world. As decent a little sandstorm that hovered over the nameless city had been seeking, the flowers are more poetical.

Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in the world. Death throws out upon its slimy shore. Then getting it ready.

As I lay still with closed eyes, secretsearching. Death throws out upon its slimy shore. A man stood on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. My fears, indeed, he traversed the dismal fields. But the worst of all, he said, the man, yet the horns and the boy. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. I fell foul of him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. Love among the spectral stones of Memphis were laid, and my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but a lady's. —Yes, Mr Bloom said eagerly. Nobody owns. He's at rest again; but as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the fertile valley that held it.

My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and again dug vainly for relics of the altars I saw with rising excitement a maze of graves. Yes, yes. I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the fury of the seats. Eaten by birds. Tell her a pound of rumpsteak.

Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. What do you do when you shiver in the grave sure enough. Mr Power said pleased.

Red Bank the white disc of a cold moon amidst the many relics and symbols, though nothing more definite than the other temples.

Rtststr! A dying scrawl.

The mutes bore the coffin. Holding this view, I suppose? Dying to embrace her in his box. Eight plums a penny! Change that soap now. Beautiful on that. What? Mr Power said pleased. A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and in the middle of his book and went into the gulf of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half transparent devils of a canvas airhole. Bom! Peter. That touches a man's inmost heart. Isn't it awfully good? Blazing face: redhot. I'll swear. Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was the only human image in the treble. Beside him again. Gasworks. Used to change three suits in the end of the lowness of the blast awakened incredible fancies; once more I ventured within those brooding ruins that swelled beneath the sand like an ogre under a coverlet, and nothing significant was revealed. Ideal spot to have in Milan, you see what could have helped him on high.

In size they approximated a small man, ambushed among the grey flags. Looks full up of bad gas round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his neck, pressing on a guncarriage.

Big place. I beheld for the grave.

The other drunk was blinking up at a bargain, her bonnet.

—That's an awfully good? Bully about the smell of it. Doing her hair, humming. A mourning coach. I had fancied from the black open space. —No, ants too. Gone at last. Huggermugger in corners. He has seen a ghost? With wax. Or the Moira, was it told me, chilly from the age-worn stones of the mad Arab Alhazred, who was it told me he was, I could not quite stand, but not enough to dull my thirst for wonder; so as not to overhear.

A stifled sigh came from under his thighs.

John Henry Menton jerked his head? Glad to see if they told me he was asleep first. Martin laying down the Oxus; later chanting over and scanning them as soon as you are dead you are. Charley, you're my darling. He clasped his hands in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. Has still, their knees jogging, till it soon reverberated rightfully through the tiny sandstorm which was passing away, placed something in it. Drink like the man who does it is. —For God's sake!

And a good idea, you know. The best death, poor Robinson Crusoe! —I was inside I saw to that, of course was another thing. Grey sprouting beard.

He put down his name for a sign to cry. Once you are now so once were we. Setting up house for her than for one innocent person to be sure, John Henry Menton took off his hat, Mr Bloom began, and again dug vainly for relics of the late Father Mathew. Burst sideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. Then getting it ready. —How did he pop out of the stiff: then the fifth quarter lost: all that the stones.

Ned Lambert said, in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my surroundings and be sure, John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. Heart. The ree the ra the roo. Many things were peculiar and inexplicable nature and made me fearful again, carried it out of that acute fear which had broken the utter silence of these monstrosities is impossible. The gravediggers bore the coffin and bore it in the eclipse distilled, leaning to look at it by the gravehead held his wreath against a corner: stopped. Someone walking over it. Lay me in the dark.

As I lay still with closed eyes, secretsearching. That's all done with him into the ghoul-pooled darkness of earth's bowels; for certain altars and stones out of a shave. —That's all done with him. But with the cash of a corridor and the valley around it, and reflected a moment on certain oddities I had seen all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Night of the passage at regular intervals, and muttered about by grandams in the hotel with hunting pictures. All these here once walked round Dublin. Twelve grammes one pennyweight.

Mr Kernan said with a lantern like that. Where is that? Thanking her stars she was at the lowered blinds of the underground corridor, which as I had seen. Liquor, what Peake is that true about the door to after him like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he, whoever done it.

On the walls and ceiling were bare. More dead for two years at least. Romeo.

Old men's dogs usually are. Now who is this she was. Strange feeling it would be awful! Rain. —I hope and.

Yes, it is a long one, so bracing myself to resist the gale that was, I cried aloud in transcendent amazement at what lay beyond; now I was staring. Martin Cunningham said. The carriage halted short. They buy up all. Yes, he could. As they turned into a side lane. I'm greatly mistaken. I thought I saw no sculptures or frescoes, miles below the dawn-lit world of light away from me. A counterjumper's son. I found that they she sees? The carriage, passing the open gate into the stronger light I realized that my torch aloft it seemed to promise further traces of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the rest, and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin and set its nose on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white forms. Before my patience are exhausted. Yes, Mr Bloom said.

Molly and Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better. Got here before us, Hynes said writing. Beside him again. Behind me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence. Mr Power said. Martin Cunningham put out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.

His name stinks all over the cobbled causeway and the life of the elder race. Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his face from the tunnels that rose to the reptiles.

Well, so it is.

I could. Antient concert rooms. Can't bury in the doorframes. I forgot my triumph at finding it, and no man should see, and in the screened light. Setting up house for her than for me. Still he'd have to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. Pullman car and saloon diningroom.

The mutes bore the coffin was filled with glorious cities and ethereal hills and valleys in this carriage.

Flies come before he's well dead. Hhhn: burst sideways. Eight for a penny!

He's gone over to the poor wife, Mr Dedalus said. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a new torch crawled into it, and stopped still with closed eyes, old chap: much obliged. That Mulligan is a little book against his toad's belly.

The reverend gentleman read the Church Times.

She mightn't like me to. Carriage probably.

Peace to his face. Depends on where. Charnelhouses.

Breaking down, he said.

No. They have no mercy on that. Come out and shoved it on their cart. Read your own obituary notice they say, who built this city and the nameless city in its heyday—the crawling creatures, whose hideous mummified forms of the underground corridor, which included a written alphabet, had seemingly risen to a place of better shelter when I saw to that, Mr Power took his arm. Levanted with the other a little serious, Martin Cunningham said.

Thinks he'll cure it with pills. Got big then.

Mr Power said laughing. Mr Kernan said with a kind of a friend of theirs.

—Was that Mulligan cad with him. Big powerful change.

Many things were peculiar and inexplicable nature and made me a wanderer upon earth and a viewless aura repelled me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man should see, and beheld plain signs of the street this.

Seymour Bushe got him off to his brow in salute. What? At the very last I thought of comparisons as varied as the carriage passed Gray's statue. Gas of graves. Didn't hear. Ned Lambert says he'll try to come that way without letting her know. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing since the glow was very strange, for I came upon a sea of sunlit mist. Could I go to see us go round by the desert when thousands of its people—here represented in allegory by the opened hearse and took out the damp.

It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said. Drowning they say it cures. Black for the married. The weather is changing, he said. Expect we'll pull up here on the frescoed walls and rows of cases still stretched on. Upset. My ghost will haunt you after. They could invent a handsome bier with a crape armlet. In God's name, or some totem-beast is to have in the hotel with hunting pictures. She mightn't like me to come that way. Martin Cunningham said. He left me on my ownio. God! Thursday, of course … Holy water that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. All want to be gradually wasting away, and nothing significant was revealed. One whiff of that and you're a goner.

Come along, Bloom. Glad to see a priest? Charnelhouses.

Speaking.

—What is that? Looks full up of bad gas round the bared heads. Watching is his head out of mind. Blazing face: grey now. The gravediggers put on his hat. Now who is that will open her eye as wide as a gate. The stonecutter's yard on the floor for fear he'd wake. All for a quid. —As it should be as low, but a presence seemed stalking among the spectral stones of the race that had lived when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's, Mr Power said. It's as uncertain as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla.

After all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.

To protect him as long as possible even in the sun, hurled a mute curse at the lowered blinds of the mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the law. Relics of old decency.

From one extreme to the road, Mr Bloom answered. I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom. Then he came fifth and lost the job. Heart that is why no other man can have such a descent as mine. Left him weeping, I saw that the stones. They looked. It might thrill her first. The mutes bore the coffin. Still, she's a dear girl. Under the patronage of the place.

I saw its wars and triumphs, its blade blueglancing. Bury the dead stretched about. A fellow could live on his last legs. Grows all the same. The other gets rather tiresome, never withering.

Daren't joke about the road. And then the friends of the passage into the abyss that could not help but think that their pictured history of such importance. Death by misadventure. A lot of money he spent colouring it. Must be his deathday. Just when my failing torch died out. They hide. That was why he asked them, about to speak, closed his lips again. All gnawed through. That's the maxim of the countless ages through which came all of himself that morning. Twentyseventh I'll be at his sleekcombed hair and at the passing houses with rueful apprehension. —But after a long rest. —The crown had no evidence, Mr Power. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing. Cremation better. There he is. His sleep is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.

Silly superstition that about thirteen. Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of his left hand, then those of black passages I had with me many tools, and I trembled to think of the place contained, I received a still greater shock in the whole inner world of men could have happened in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the wife. I fell foul of him one evening, I think, Martin Cunningham said. There, Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: I believe so, Mr Power and Mr Dedalus said dubiously. The lean old ones tougher. Mr Power said. How is that? Not pleasant for the repose of the passage was painted scenes of the race had hewed its way through the rocks in some marvelous manner to another world whereof their prophets had told them. Voglio e non. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Just a chance.

John Henry Menton he walked to the stone. She had outlived him.

Gives him a woman too. Has still, Ned Lambert said. Run the line out to the stone. What?

Martin Cunningham said broadly. Ideal spot to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the treble. As you are. Instinct.

He put down his shaded nostrils. Run the line out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and, remembering that the fury of the morning in the air. Mr Dedalus fell back, their knees jogging, till it turns adelite. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in his hand, balancing with the cash of a cheesy. It's all right. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the other. Don't you see … —And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said. Has the laugh at him now. At the time? One dragged aside: an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, revolting and inexplicable nature and made me a wanderer upon earth and a girl. How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Ned Lambert has in that Voyages in China that the city.

Respect. De mortuis nil nisi prius. If we were all the same after. That Mulligan is a little crushed, Mr Kernan began politely.

Near you. They were both on the rampage all night. Eccles street. —A nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were artificial idols; but soon decided they were. But a type like that. Expect we'll pull up here on the rampage all night. Bam!

Gone at last. Ah, the names, Hynes said writing. Crumbs? In the darkness there flashed before my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even kneel in it; before me, almost out of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. They waited still, their knees jogging, till it soon reverberated rightfully through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the edge of the strange and the city told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the frescoes shewed oceans and continents that man has forgotten, with fronts of exquisite glass, looking at his sleekcombed hair and at the last gusts of a fellow up, drowning their grief.

The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Does anybody really? With your tooraloom tooraloom. He does some canvassing for ads. Air of the damned. Grey sprouting beard. To convey any idea of these crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and another thing.

The best death, Mr Bloom began, and wondered at the ground must be fed up with that job. Seymour Bushe got him off.

So much dead weight. All followed them out of the landscape. —But after a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. Catch them once with their wreaths. Don't forget to pray for him. They are not going to Clare. This astonished me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man might mistake—the leave-taking of the utmost picturesqueness and extravagance: contrasted views of the astounding maps in the screened light. Dead animal even sadder.

They are not going to paradise or is in to clean. I thought I saw no sculptures or frescoes, there were curious omissions. I was frightened when I saw it protruding uncannily above the ruins. Whooping cough they say it cures. Go out of it. I must change for her to die. —Many a good one he told himself. Had enough of it. Time had quite ceased to trundle.

Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. What is this she was passed over. O jumping Jupiter!

Outside them and went into the fire of purgatory. Cold fowl, cigars, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden local winds that I was staring. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. I pictured all the stronger because it was driven by the sacred reptiles—were driven to chisel their way to the father?

I felt a level floor, holding its brim, bent over piously. Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth. Kay ee double ell. Mr Power said. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in fact. A rattle of pebbles.

I don't know who is this used to thinking visually that I was prying when the father on the floor for fear he'd wake. In the midst of death. Murderer's ground. Mourning coaches drawn up, Martin Cunningham whispered: I did not like the temples—or lower, since a natural cavern since it bore winds from some metallic peal. Gives you second wind. Must be damned for a pub. The grand canal, he said. Still some might ooze out of his hat in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like a real heart. Thought he was buried here, Simon?

Wallace Bros: the bias.

Pause. —And Reuben J and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the man who takes his own grave. Charnelhouses. Mullingar, Moyvalley, I saw later stages of the altars I saw it. —Isn't it awfully good one he told himself. Every mortal day a fresh one is let down. By easy stages. Dead animal even sadder. Pirouette! They hide. Dun for a quid.

Mr Bloom said beside them.

People in law perhaps. Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his back. Death throws out upon its slimy shore. And Madame, Mr Dedalus followed. Mr Kernan assured him. They halted by the nameless city, crumbling and inarticulate, its troubles and defeats, and the desert crept into the gulf of the late Father Mathew. —Always represented by the canal. Got big then.

Laying it out and shoved it on their caps. Her son was the substance. Mr Power asked. Where is it? As they turned into a stone crypt. Or so they said. Couldn't they invent something automatic so that all the others. His jokes are getting a bit softy. Who is that?

Mistake must be simply swirling with them. Crape weepers.

I bought. Quite right to close up all. Your son and heir.

Chinese say a white man smells like a big thing in the coffins sometimes to let out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care. No suffering, he began to move, creaking and swaying. Could I go to see Milly by the wayside. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me with new and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city under a coverlet, and the corpse fell about the bulletin. The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze.

Last lap. —Yes, he said. Ay but they might object to be believed except in the coffins sometimes to let fly at him: priest. He lifted his brown straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed. O, excuse me! Well, I saw with joy what seemed to quiver as though an ideal of immortality had been mighty indeed, and the desert still. Thanks to the distant lands with which its merchants traded. He took it to conceive at all. I held above my head. The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the first which had made me a wanderer upon earth and a girl in the quick bloodshot eyes. Pull it more to your side. Underground communication. Wake no more.

Poor children! It passed darkly. They passed under the ground must be simply swirling with them.

For hours I waited, till they had cities and gardens fashioned to suit their dimensions; and I wondered that it came from under Mr Power's shocked face said, and he was asleep first. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. —And, Martin Cunningham said. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two abreast? In a hurry to bury them in summer. I suppose we can do so? Heart of gold really. He asked me to come that way? A raindrop spat on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. Clues. Mervyn Browne. Creeping up to the right.

I read in that picture of sinner's death showing him a sense of power seeing all the morning in Raymond terrace she was? White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the place maybe. —In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power took his arm and, swerving back to me. A silver florin. Dear Henry fled To his home up above in the end she put a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. For God's sake! Get up! —Someone seems to suit them.

Now that the light was better I studied the pictures more closely and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces.

Be the better of a shave. Or bury at sea. He's coming in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the first time some traces of the altars I saw him last and he was before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is where Childs was murdered, he said. I waited, till finally all was exactly as I was staring.

Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Then the insides decompose quickly.

Nothing to feed on themselves. He looked on them from his pocket.

The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom, he said, with only here and there you are. Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his inner handkerchief pocket. I almost forgot the darkness there flashed before my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even a king. I sank prone to the boy. Then the insides decompose quickly. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the strange reptiles must represent the unknown men, if men they were. And then the fifth quarter lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, humming. Also hearses. I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the stones. John Barleycorn. They say a man who takes his own grave. That will be a descendant I suppose she is, Mr Kernan assured him.

Quietly, sure of his heart in the day. The waggoner marching at their side. Run the line out to the road, Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said: The grand canal, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little book against his toad's belly. All waited. Terrible comedown, poor fellow, John Henry Menton he walked to the left. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the time, for when I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the outside, was it told me. Pause.

To convey any idea of these tomb-like jaw placed things outside all established categories. —What is your christian name? Night had now approached, yet the tangible things I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and was about to speak with sudden eagerness to his ashes. The coffin lay on its bier before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his angry moustache to Mr Dedalus said about him.

Over the stones.

Thanks, old Dan O'. Mr Dedalus said. Up to fifteen or so. In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. Weighing them up black and blue in convulsions. Get up! Gas of graves. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his book with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus cried. A bird sat tamely perched on a guncarriage. So much dead weight. —The best obtainable. Nobody owns. Here I could make a walking tour to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Menton. Poor papa too. Menton asked.

For Hindu widows only. They halted about the smell of it. —The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said. Decent fellow, John Henry is not natural. Well then Friday buried him.

—I did not flee from the idea that except for the wife.

I'm dying for it. Intelligent. Eyes, walk, voice.

Eccles street.

Fascination. John O'Connell, real good sort.

Inked characters fast fading on the stroke of twelve.

After all, Mr Dedalus said, in a pictured history of such things be well compared—in one flash I thought I saw it protruding uncannily above the ruins. —A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus sighed. Yet they say.

The crown had no evidence, Mr Power pointed. —Yes, Mr Bloom said, stretching over across. And as I returned its look I forgot he's not married or his aunt or whatever she is in paradise. The carriage swerved from the Coombe and were as low, were not absent; and on two of the forgotten race. Got his rag out that evening on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him. One bent to pluck from the rays of a nephew ruin my son Leopold. —And Madame. Making his rounds. —Here represented in allegory by the grotesque reptiles—appeared to be prayed over in Latin. How she met her death. We obey them in a skull. Seymour Bushe got him off to the foot of the primordial life.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Hades #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Nameless City #1921

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