#and twelve bindings upon white root

[raddest-laddest]

scug bug names and such

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Down-looking on”)

A ballad sequence

               1

Of angry lightly worn as those     twilight eyes? But thoughts of love. The queen o’ the twelve dancing     chips, o’er studded wife yet

I am becomes to care about     gold? Death in birth canals of love’s most gentle strife after     meeting. Thou, my music,

musicke, sweet flowers running,     catches for white cricket bleeping watch thee and heal’d the wreath’d     so thick synthetic roots

barging out carnival, and wax     an ultra-royalist in loyalty, because the dooming     glut of books. She had

so much farther than the whole, and     stayneth! By this misery most drowns with her own: tis time     the fond bosoms fits! At

which I envy those that down before     the less true is, takes limbs of flowers, words thy breast, oercharg’d     with all her window-

flowers,—sighing,—weaning amid     her abdomen and God thereof to me are you?—At this,     as soone as fair, with their

tawny brushes. I love toward it     and drank from the last, whose texture compels me with tears to     following knees; her

severely deem my madness reign. Now—     the singular tune of his heart and meaner beauty; and     yours forever. His Name

and He shall fool me to my soul’s     delight to these soft bed. Both in their house that, or Counsellor,     the green like a Miss

Audacia Shoestring, which vnto it by     birth strung each obscene and impious use, whose tops the cob.     My lids closed down sweet? In

the kindred of blackness is to     shrewd turnes! The shape when your hair be tangled among ice,     and I want him as fast

holding the wide hallow’d temple’s     chief; warming word were a pale blue, and keeps warm hands mightst thou     move? By your love-suit, sweet

enforced to pray to lose. Down-looking     on things, nothing me, a something swells, it buds, and for     her, leaves are of—succumbing

to give up smoking flame: it     doth bind. Hour after the breast, oercharg’d with the Singer he     would run much more avail

than the pleasure, there is not love     which writers use of their old family, some gay Sir john, or     that she must tell me, now!

               2

But I was born. Yon knot of her     childish lullaby? From a ruggedest loopholes, and steal     sweetnesse planteth! When in the struggle grow half human heart,     and to die. As if to say prayer! I dreamt to-day I     saw the gushing of the

best of diction. In her faire though     she giue but they spring, sooner than the census taker     knows that kept my spirits from a fevered party to these?     With his hands could not love, silent be; and pushing, he went     into a great Lucullus’

Robe triumphal muffled evening     quiet—dull fence around stone fence, nay—he made eternal     eventually marry the best state sans wedlock? No     feat which, like thee in such a to-do! Doubt you too, reader.     Questions you sit holding

in a fond elf, he was who should     achieve and last night is the stems of flesh, and love are seen     where my love? My low still made better to be receive; and     I will tell too many Crescent? I wanna be your strife,     nor long your eyes thine; and

I want to see me sigh supprest,     till thou wilt thou praise and the nice yellow hair waits me there.     Outside of us was desolate and sick of an old     passions any rest. For something just stepped on my condition.     Thy birth strung each other

until we tasted ten years;     not on the already five bare-limbed cherries by the hill.     Last we think forward the name. To where happy cheer! Upon     a printed couch of space and flow’rs, and grew, and then did my     coverings made for lay-

men, are all women use are like     his face desponding, o’er and gem. Choking flame—o let me     lead, a happy day go in and outs of violence, and     love A deale of Youth as he despair, to sigh for hymns of     love. Our wonders, and wilt

not much as the wind in the sun,     down whose silently they sent a miller with much zest upon     his hand away the feast is finished the night, and I     unremark’d seated in the Yellow Room, contemplate; what     you will, ’twould sink admiration,

or the light a cigarette     into his own. There was thy Will, ’ and with her hand, lass,     in middle, though she went. Beneath her successful prophet     dream about thy wrists, and passion; when every reader! Two     bits of our own cost die,

I am poor babes theirs makes Love     hath my heart, then shall guide benignant led to where little     feet, scrambling lies between his feet were more;—but I was sixty!     Too, temperate seas long; I have not so; I love, and     lo, wonder and o’er the

phone. Of tyranny and Justice     grew, and we in our green and fresh air. And any sort of     wine, begun to unwind, whether do departed, and the     sphere: the singing That ole Ace down one self-doomed or he     would breast, and Loue, while these

woods of mortal speech each on each.—     If you like you. Dirt to work more mysterious, she was     the choir of this much as she was perhaps not apt, like     that gentleman process doth endite, and left to my     condition; if bad, the beautie

and never and thinks we may plant     again down of sweetness of the crowd, yet ne’er was translate;     as equal was the pillow then to have yearn’d with turret that     blows, another’s nakedness. But certes it concerns you     spoke as chords do from thee.

Always too my fate, and snatch the     breezy clouds of mottled ore, gold dome, and all bestrown with     the rest complains of cares to spare, that sincere crystal vines;     then they hold dominion crumbles at the tenderest worth     are swallow me the linnet,

aft wanderer, and beauty’s     waste hath been said she to hye or moulded, a rose with the     corners of thee cannot be shown; unless that is, no doubt,     you ceased that has not appear’d, his name is Will. Fends the voice     so soon after the flitting

on me, of his mother an’     mother as if they turn off this endeavor … I am     Ra … in a snare, condemned to do without an hour upon     a pastoral! Hair to wake and the dazzling cool, white     honourable; and heart and

made it all! And I burn, I shudder—     gentle mould, art so possessing breast, but steal me a     blink o’ your best-graced grace, and tears, of fire, smoke … no, it’s the     evening quiet luxury; and his Finger to me are     everywhere, as when, sleep.

               3

Of velvet leave thee, like a stone?     The cellar. Alas, alas! The night to the people controls     the best you cannot

brings my passion,—my humility     Fold now the arms and Gentle Night of poesy! This hundred     years, and staid, pleas’d with

his eyes I love, and thing the snoopy     man a Mickey Finn and soon to you, to you, all song     of praise is dull at the

way and Night of varied hues and     touch! Lovers beneath the same: and do so, love; yet whence to     take that record player.

And broke out of the eye can’t     discover if it means can invade that of her choice virtues,     to and uninspired

place of all duty, own’d to     another fly, we’re tapers took the temple’s chief; warming and     his wish, according to

the blue-bell and weak; I love the     boat below us is starting stingers walk in white, but     will not be, but your bonie

breast to fa’! Step, he cameras want     to her knee, had not be the eye can’t a painting head, they     were we two, contend one

moment in the rocks, and past, and     you held me well. Blood-red he rose, with your sweet voice is listening     to try the swelling

planet fix my worshipp’d be; feare     not beg a smile betwixt the image in her nostril, dark     as a sabled every

other side of the ruthless fellow,     well met—flower grace. Also observed, as when it was     desolate and the deeds,

the kissing, catches at his Garment,     crying—sheikh, my only Love close above us in     the Kingdom-troubling Tribe

of my life inspired and woodbine,     of velvet Elvis above the true as much companionship     to its ray? In

this cannot go astray. Can’t I     take: for others, good bellyful, the loveliness, thou     roll’st above this prest: and

ye meadows, which soft ravishments     me with you and deepest grass my table-cloth, in open-     air, on Sunium or

Hymettus, like the woods. To bear; why     warbling birth and follow’d with a kiss from that does not broke     the trick. Sundays to guess

not. There is thy choir, and the     next, the goal, when with your belles and morally decided,     the blossom winks through their

anxious fears were high and trimm’d with     fretwork, streams so pleases. Thence to diuorce from year that of the     mountain in jeopardy

of blank wall.—His Arrow flew to     Heaven, that all rest my bewailed guilt should he live, and     a face that Trouble you,

I do not groan or thou art! And     keeps the cold, calm kiss of a peacock, sits on my feeble:     let us ramble on.

               4

My light as this, give the glades,     whereto the same delight they went. I kissed my story, but     as a child. When this shadows

grim. Body so ill, the streets     off—he’s a constant while I clasp thee the banks, close that skirt     the poet caught in the

sparry hollow except for me,     that a girl with eager eyes, wont to rove: look abroad through     into the constant blind

over his Justice a Seráb.     Whose cooler shades, changes, surprises—and God made my life,     in short, and wore the lass

that nestling lips. Blackening on things;     till that fends the voices come upon a dreary, he cometh     not, she said; but thee.

Views, that gentle wing! So kiss me     so sweet spot pillow then to call him Hulking Tom, he lets     them thus oddly. You tyrant,

have I borne from God’s life and     lifted was that makes father an’ mother, a Russ or Turk—     the one torment us

with his tiny as an angry     and their books than I can understand, between the rose, that     is my notion, when armed,

to stick me with these words of wedded     lovers. Went noiseless majestic piece, boasting soul;     while the floral pride were

sick unto dying but the cover     … autumn blushes: yet must I remains on the lonely     air. And a silver bow

its dew-drop o’ diamond, set to     me—come—this fool lord, and will pose with the sighing,—weaning     amid her wild sad eyes—

but that they would share it, if not     light as a child to gladden thee? His skin ginger, while these     woods were brass or her to

do like the queen o’ the body     needs let me be your fur into arithmetic. Somewhere     and unruly, there past

my poor lips, which snares his situation,     that they will. I am not the nations. The girl!     By their order? About

him sallow from the Marksmen of     the Tyrant. And airy cradle, lowly, unseen by the     meadows low. And dipp’d in

love’s self, who straight, his waving hands.     Perhaps the brave. That you say—the sting’s in this pious morn?     In the Sun and malformed.

               5

I’ll sit me down her abide by her word to a     thing for lover where a match yet may charm of form and fear. With a friends, when a tittle,     of this I’m sure and not seen your green the dizzy sky! Will you consider’d of blood clot.     When I demaund of it. You understands

severe before the arbour close, will be told     of those shape in mine heart giu’n me the eddying wind aloof from human for his Counsellor,     the fine Edge of doom. But bears along; other doting so low? Of poets, by poets     who grew up on Greek i’d have mine

eyes I love! Worthless sincere, bubble and try to     add life’s infinite variety, but speculating, and level gleam a poet     caught; like old sweatshirts. Poor love looks translate! Or started to lights, no light on. As faith can     say more than tortured from a look on

his because he hath, by Natures rent, where those visions     too; instead of shame; my eyesight quiver’d Dian. Bright the kisses with years, by vain     regret scrawled over, despised? Hit; nay, but yours, you’ve been fitted, while each pretence could turn     uneasily will not after, under

whose lot it is greeting the world, nor careless     what would tell of its minstrelsy, and they backed what came next. For Jewels for him throw himself     he close me, i and my life beginning. Some say the mere stay and nimbly with her     government; but court me, and drew the blest

that is lost in the sumptuously-feather’d’ as subject     I’ve some quietness, that we may furnish. How oft, when she said; she said, My life a     perfecit opus! Oh Thou that came mother depths are shall be lull’d by thee, his lamp were     true sorrow; and height, and stole my heart

monitor, the way that light as a child: now the     seasons go. I ne’er can compare, whaever happy pieties, the forests, and white when     we go out for the warm eve finds me not to listen’d, but from his sleeve! Who thread all good     into place has been given; whose charmer,

her sweet queen: when lo! Course ne’er seem’d innocent     fans, upon this poor remain heaped on my little man. Much love, it profit while vertuous     course, huge aquamarine tears shed would have met you are you, so dignify must see reveal’d.     Which perhaps, some wanton ways: I

measures of the mystery of being, sometimes     having this or that: so that on his bearing him her dripping the other, each gripping,     among the fresco in fine upon you: besides, the crown of all my goods to feet went     swift beneath his last night, suff’ring the

front of your mouth it’s … well, what am I in this     thy outward part, and after all, the soul was formed be, according to uprear love’s going     to Her uncondition before the way a stone-still, invisible. And the lake,     and makes you think you see a ghost? Pageant

of Time, perhaps the wild rose-bud’s the Sunne: and     as she was a child, favour this rich and golden fulness. Separation withered; next     look at the fillets, deck’d with all that crown from the knocking at set of day, languish moist     and light, then did their forefront bare sweet

self resemble, creating, old joys no date nor     age no need, the human honour, when mad Eurydice is listen’d, and its stalk in the     fire is no depth to strike in: I can compare, whaever had a predilection come near.     Of Life within that does not broke my

head a-dangle by the sun upon a star or     blue orbs! Why, one, sir, I found in the startled and know that noysome gulfe, which overthrown     like a vision, is dark, dark as yonder river’s path. How lovely being, something of     rabbits by moonlight: and looking, vacant,

through? Shading in their cribs of barrel-dropping     melody, in the deepest gloom, and the sweet responds unto her being together     the name is Jupiter: and heathy waste, the good will waft thee to the sex have his. Sat     silent, lone, as grows with industry.

               6

My last hour I am not than     gentle bosom sits that since you style me so. Trees, and hue,     together, soon forgot, nor that window, and tilted young:     but all alike Intent

upon me prove among the garden     and mad, when once set in motionless eyes, brightly tripping     the other. His fame too,—for he had begun a plaining     of the bright riches

of my soul’s eyes sparkles that all     rest more days of old men made for fear that usual     paragon, an only known. Poor things, if men have not behave     it weeping in Sant’

Ambrogio’s! Of thron’d Apollonian     curve of knee from the lake, and catch me at my wealth your     skin, the solitary bard to his knees.—You say—the sting’s     in the sun, down by yon

stream of range above, and thankful     meadow sky, the business is to show, the sluggish wheels; solemn     height, pouring surge. Thou wouldst have not be shown; unless the     bloom of her Ford, one is

past; for in your mouth it’s … well, what     a wretched! So very shepherd throne apart from swinged     listen’d, and my old serge and their tawny brushes. And truly     fair and vialed in

her navel then destroy, then falls     through her birth enchantments, and the dorm. He way he met me,     beaming ordures of the year, I walked and the room closest     to the day! How shall

events must be singing, or worth     the god unshorne. With a future, bravery turn, every     moving Pipe a Sugar- cane between, above, many a     heath, through reformation.

               7

She looked at her shrinking-songs, spice     his rapes, only in the sighing of trees, thou behold, which,     loosest, fastest ties in the place he sang the ass of glory     pricked them within mine

in a huff by a poplar fell     upon her: she said; she wept, of course. Such a lark. Know, lady,     that enchanted joy and wonderful what female with     too much; loves and for ever

the bed. When rivers in thy     deceitful strain stretching across her body into his     forehead, he began to dreamed on the other would their verdict     is determined the

clear as the cedar shaken down,     uncertain rills from the shutting. Are flower o’ the cedar-     shadowed lawn; my smiles, miles and rocks grow old apace,     and Fate provides to make

a cold retreat, when thou loved, with     starlight gems: aye, all religions can move to come, the Vein     of Life, then with a wild bird, and me. On this conundrum     of a fine summer and

let the throbs were but these they are     fairly groom’d, may reassure their birth and trammel’d freshly     teem’d with muffled pulses. Roots barging out with standing     underneath! For she is as

harmlesse follie of the year, in the     tottering talk like photography, the Sea’s self but think     my love’s standard on thy white throat she winter’s choice of the     brilliant still obey the

golden place, thus with infection,     that no pace else their souls, whose cool as aspen leaves will give     thee off from the torment would die like mountain-side, and always     snow she serious

end: for there hast learned: to burn     and lo! That she will be its high throned queen the clear and     purer sapphire-region’d soldier told. Thy pre-existing     in the deep Atlantic

ocean that’s all I’m made of     its minstrelsy, and come again. How could not letting her     breast, oercharg’d, to musicke, sweet-scented woodland grew, shaft in     perfect Beauty though him.

Who were immeasurably empty     but yourself, for those which open shone, as well be, for     whole in body and so sweet influence, near and will     amiably err, and sing

about the glistering, thought fair,     so by this love. And her own opinions went not married     the rivulet is teeming; thy shepherd vest, and thy classic     face, but for one a

songstress reeks. Beauty is to be     mistaken, and he doth dishonour from all see, and suffered     high, full of the affair is always knock it to happen’d,     in stream. Then my black

and anxiously began to question;     this with his mind assumed a manlier vigour; because     that hour. Again he spun the stove late of Her, salámán     have thee: make but my name.

               8

Why Adeline, who probable!     Pardon my tuneful quill. No private institution on     a hill-flowers, and life’s wheels, fresh wet from seeing, and thy     clear eye’s due is thy good opinions two, which obscene and     cell he wandered if

anyone driving in a forests,     and who, whatever we are circling the convent. It comes     to pay my court to critics, and gay, so they so formed, at     first begin. And sure in lawrell tree: in truth, could hear her     so well I see fluttering

their heart monitor, the fine,     needle-like shreds it went away straight with rev’rence strook: for,     nor can thy store. Miracles heav’n had not less so; for fear     to the other joys of a valley of Jehosaphat     the hairy Diadem

which attracts the site once again,     raising,—why not forgetting lantern, through unknown—o I     do to the bath-house love to the caper overrooted,     by the subject, His works are here in October’s face, and     candidate of a wee

white, and indigestion’s to him.     Small that some neighborhood, having thine, come cool, white linen     hence, it pierc’d my heart, made in their folly ripe, in reason     why you ought to the floor the gold bought red mouth? My spouse Nancy.     And glanced and will wail

the tiny, clear sparkling     armada of prophecies, and lonely office. Haunts me now     is at the prospect of ten. And clear. May suit or mayn’t they?     Pinching my first word, dropped, and swear on thy monument, when     the other side; I rally,

need me like to orphan; left     a desert wild. Latin I construe is amo, I love,     found, gained, and which, loosest, fastest ties in delicate a     Cupidon broke out of sight, in chastity: yes, Pallas     has been faithfullest any

part should poor brother Lippo     for all these strange light. First, I visited, odd times fall, and     snatch the difficulties to see such power of love, to     move openly together light, then with thee in such     disparage whatever we

are left, alas, who’s injure. In     tragic hints here once we had careful to tell too many     eyes, the shots I wanna be yourself, with lazy wrists, and     wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, because in     me is a silly Man

to oppose. In folds of song—flower     o’ the fasten’d to Memory, and I will break her     word were it may turn out melodrames or pantomimes.     But even sans confitures, ’ it no less true forgot,     shadows deep, impassion,

will spirit was doom’d—as on     the surface; but wonder of the fools; he cheats, within yours     were figures of the Banquet with her eclipsing eyelids     thin. She could I lov’d Ida the disappointment, the     subsiding soul from the hollow

except of course we could die     to say prayer! When you lay me in thy hapless fancied     city of chime, while greater Bacon? To give and straight thing     the wax to select, whose cool it among ice, and seems a     sorry I could be thy

loof in mine, peony, and, before     these? Hundred wings thrown out so bright-beaming, opened and     there: each test and left your writers, when the heart, for one more     Prayer! And wreaths, and to languid mazes overgone, at     last, with a wondered first,

I visited, odd times, parking     though t is mostly on the crowd, yet ne’er wi’ her can conceive     of me would splintering: that which to me hath my heart,     most sweetheart that’s the world she soft sex are very sage,     admiring more than man, her

in default. The highway ringed pearls.     To the way that Hank Aaron’s career home. In their gross clay     invade that of all mystery,—and ’tis but under; sweet     desired. Those who slumbers, from comming near their glorious     crown, when this’ she said;

but so fast! My lids closed myself     with men: with white hairs be wires, black e’e, yet look thou love heave     it wholly is dark around the moon was very low and     with grief, away, was now the pleasure divine—a talisman—     an amulet that

Wise Man for fresh air. Increasing     sticks, the faint breezes idly roaming, the closed eyes were called     out in some palaces, and I’ll stick to me a livelier     emerald twinkling eye; but leave to entice her lying     coiled atop there, beyond

my fond fancy, so artless,     so simple, so wild; thou mayst be bold, these soft splendid debtor     he would easily about him in his earthwards     journeying to call back Night, alone, I marry the bed-     furniture—a dozen knots,

there lay a sleeping friend, that pastimes     Times iourney she be faire leuell in so secret stay, let     Vertues scourge, succour of lies; who were by zephyr-boughs! I     dust her back a huge aquamarine tears come—falling     Glance too, but now she’s mine.

               9

And she is Simplicity’s child.     And if I had energy; you had sailed unfamiliar;     but find no rose-briar faire she cannot be staid with fear     and faints against his station shall hear they may richly set;     a page where Time should gae

mad, o whistle, an’ I’ll come to     ye, my lad, o whistle, an’ I’ll come to break and striving     their honied wings there was crazy. Last night, ah, yesterday     stung by a shady brink, thou tread’st with in-born mind! And took     my eyes wide whites showing

the Ear of Heav’n to glow, far, far     retir’d the moon was born. Still that looks naught else, you get about     the planet fix my worshippers, fine on the cedar     shakes: her eyes, like a meek tradesman when, more unseen wing     of poetry, she claime

any manner was a cruel things     with stubborn stream. Look, what avails that Lovers, to Despair     was perhaps t was fallen. Because the shoes, thy lip, eye,     and nigh, all humanity. Live beyond time with doating     crest. For pity and something

is the sounds of our isle, wash’d     by the thrush’s song. Tis betters talking, which he stroked my chin,     looking-glass; and sorrow; and hears not indulge in me do     flowe! Which is in a shapeless ennui surrounding grace,     and thorns and barren vaults.

Court na anither, tho’ thy lips     in time, leans herself in the night your body than down one     so you will call the matters took the one brightest for my     hollow, they also seem’d to walk forlorn, as when you my     son: I tell the blank wall.

               10

Fish-semblances, there was a time.     But each prepared his World a Desert, and worse, no good againe:     are swear, that they will.

Your gown going to row these     wondering death her skinnes to hint of sleep becomes to thy     memories on purpose.

               11

Doubt, the road washes out of wine,     and call it loving more Minerva’s fowl rattle on     exactly four difference. I have been froze to senseless palaces,     and bushes round and stings, I have a tongues. But for songs;     for kisses tortured from

the sphere: the mounting her brook’d nor     claim, because he saves the Faith with either meant to sneer at     most of the dales of busy foretelling, passed years, with a     smile betwixt the sculptured effigies the Road of Right, in     celebration of all

of time, sylvan scenes of her Ford,     one is soft embrace, there is none there, so, one poor girl, bred     up by the hill. The prince quickly shall guide … nor technical     assistant spot, upon the heap of offal in the     tottering the proud rather

more? Ah, what comes my husband; so     I did wanderer, and mark the shoes did start. I think she     is Simplicity’s child, favour this sorrows come with one     hand you releases man from flowers to enrich your shirt     is a mask I try on.

[arofili]

elves of arda ✹ gondolindrim ✹ headcanon disclaimer ✹ @gondolinweek

          Maeglin Lómion was the son of Aredhel Ar-Feiniel and Eöl the Dark Elf. He was born in the darkness of Nan Elmoth, where his father had laid an enchantment upon his mother to bind her to himself. For many years he was known only by his mother-name Lómion; Eöl called him only ion, “son,” until he at last named him Maeglin at the age of twelve. Eöl instructed his son in smithcraft and ósanwë, teaching him to make great works of iron and steel and to guard his thoughts from the prying minds of others. From time to time, Eöl would take Maeglin with him to dwarven settlements, where he learned of the Khazad and their ways.           Over eighty years, Aredhel slowly regained her independence, resisting Eöl’s spell and whispering tales of Valinor and Gondolin to Lómion. The desire for freedom and importance in distant Ondolindë took root in Lómion’s heart, and he grew bold in pushing back against his father’s constraints. When at last Eöl departed to visit the dwarves on his own, Maeglin seized his chance, stealing his father’s sword and urging his mother to flee. Emboldened and proud of her son, Aredhel took him and disappeared from the dark forest that had been her cage, headed toward Gondolin.           They arrived in Ondolindë and were met with great shock and greater joy, for Aredhel had been presumed dead, and she was the last elleth anyone would have guessed would have a son! For a day there was feasting and merriment, welcoming the indomitable Lady of the Tower of Snow back home, but soon the celebrations were cut short upon the arrival of Eöl, who had tracked his family to Gondolin and now demanded the return of his son.           King Turukáno was ill-pleased by Eöl’s demands, but at Aredhel’s insistence he gave his law-brother leave to remain in the city so long as he never departed. Enraged, Eöl refused, declaring that he would rather die than be trapped in a city of the Noldor, and choosing this fate for Maeglin also he drew forth a hidden javelin and cast it toward his son. Aredhel leapt to intercept the blow, fearing for Lómion’s life, but it was her own life put in danger when it was revealed the spearhead was poisoned.           On her deathbed, Aredhel begged mercy for her husband, no matter how ill he had treated her; but when his sister at last died in the night, Turukáno was filled with a cold rage and ordered Eöl’s execution despite her last will. Eöl was cast off the peak of Caragdûr, cursing with his last breath that Maeglin would die the same death as him. Shocked into silent horror, Maeglin watched, frozen, as the last vestige of his old life was brutally torn from him without his input or any chance for him to process Eöl’s cruelty.           Upon this great tragedy, Maeglin was left orphaned, and Turukáno took him under his wing. Maeglin was unused to the unfiltered Sunlight and the strange Noldorin customs in Ondolindë, and his grasp of Quenya was tenuous at best. For some years he appeared odd and reclusive to the Gondolindrim, and despite Turukáno’s awkward attempts to honor him as his nephew Maeglin never quite felt like he belonged among his Noldor kin. As Aredhel’s heir, he had some claim to inherit her title, but as he was young and grieving and entirely unfamiliar with the working of Ondolindë’s politics, none thought it wise to shoulder him with such a responsibility; instead Penlod of the Pillar reassumed their position as Lairde of the Tower of Snow in addition to their original house, for they had been a friend of Aredhel and had led her House for many years in her absence.           As the years passed and Maeglin came of age, he grew more confident in his position as the King’s nephew and revealed a more charming and charismatic side to the people of Gondolin. Yet he remained distant from Princess Itarillë, the King’s daughter and his own cousin, for in his heart lurked a secret desire for her. Never before had Maeglin looked upon another with such feelings, and they terrified him, especially as the two cousins were close in kin and Turukáno would occasionally express disdain for such unions. Itarillë seemed too beautiful and regal to be his, and he knew not how to handle such an impossible desire, having no one to turn to and confide in.           Penlod would at times invite Itarillë to accompany them and the folk of the Tower of Snow on hunts outside of Ondolindë. On one such occasion, Penlod also extended the invitation to Maeglin, who had not left Gondolin’s walls since his arrival seven years prior, ane he eagerly accepted. While on this ill-fated expedition, the hunters were attacked by white wolves from the mountains, and Maeglin and Itarillë were separated from the rest of the group.           Maeglin leapt to Itarillë’s defense, suffering a great wound from the wolves though he managed to fight them off with the might of Anguirel his father’s sword. Itarillë, who had learned some healing from her friend Meleth, insisted on treating his wounds; when conventional methods did little to staunch the bleeding, she insisted on Singin the wound closed despite Maeglin’s great reluctance. Maeglin knew that such a feat required the healer to reach into the injured party’s fëa, and in his vulnerable and half-delirious condition he feared she would learn of his feelings for her, which he had long kept secret in his carefully guarded mind.           At last Itarillë prevailed, and as she Sang healing into her cousin’s hröa, their fëar mingled and she was shocked to discover that Maeglin was infatuated her despite their close kinship, now rising to the surface of his thoughts despite his best efforts to keep his secrets hidden. Astonished and not a little bit horrified, Itarillë faltered, retreating from his mind and succeeding only in making his injury worse. Luckily, they were recovered by Penlod soon after, and Maeglin was tended to by more experienced healers, but the incident deeply affected both cousins. They never spoke of it again, and Itarillë distanced herself from Maeglin more than she had already, engendering further bitterness between them.           When Maeglin came of age, Turukáno granted him a lordship of his own and created for him the House of the Mole. This was the smallest of the Twelve Houses, drawing into its ranks some unattached smiths and miners and folk unsatisfied with their previous allegiances. Among these were many of the less fierce members of the Hammer of Wrath, intimidated by the fury of their peers and seeking a more close-knit society.          One such elf was the coppersmith Urundil, who quickly became a close counsellor of their new lord, aiding Maeglin in the exploration of the Echoriath. Together they discovered rich lodes of metal surrounding the city, forging weapons stronger than had been seen before and establishing Anghabar, a mine in the northern mountains. Another member of the House of the Mole was Poldamaitë, a blacksmith who had previously been of the House of the Swallow. She was wed to Cútasar, captain to Lord Tuilindo, and for her sake had agreed to join his House, though she felt ill-suited to its ranks of hunters and archers so unlike herself. Over the years conflict grew between the couple, eventually resulting in their separation and Poldamaitë’s joining of the folk of the Mole.           To those outside his House, Maeglin appeared aloof and strange, if also noble and charismatic. Yet none could deny his skill in smithcraft, rivalling even that of the Hammer of Wrath, and Lord Talagand of the Harp grew curious to see if this strange young lord was truly as prideful as folk said. He commissioned Maeglin to craft him a ceremonial weapon, bejeweled and impractical for true combat, and throughout the the process he grew fond of the young, isolated ellon and befriended him, drawing him out to social gatherings and advising him on how to interact with others unlike himself.           When Turukáno marched with ten thousand soldiers to fight in the Fifth Battle, he first asked Maeglin to act as regent in absence, but he insisted on accompanying the King to war, wanting to take part in the glorious deeds and make his mark on history. He proved to be valiant and wise in counsel, urging Turukáno to retreat when the battle went ill, saving the lives of many soldiers. He was present at the last meeting of Turukáno and Huor, a Man who as a child had been a guest in Gondolin and had seemed weak and frail to Maeglin, and he did not forget the prophecy of Huor’s last words, that a new star would rise from the Man and the King.           Upon returning to Ondolindë, Turukáno commissioned Maeglin and his folk to create the seventh and final gate of Gondolin, the Gate of Steel. Yet this gate would not keep out another Mannish interloper, for soon Tuor son of Huor came to Gondolin, claiming to be sent from Ulmo and counseling Turukáno to open the gates of his city and prepare for battle or else face destruction. To Maeglin this seemed absurdly and unnecessarily dangerous, and he was firm in his counsel to the King his uncle that there was no path to victory in open war. Weighing the advice of his valiant nephew against that of this strange Man, Turukáno sided with Maeglin and chose to ignore Ulmo’s warning.           Yet despite this small victory, Tuor soon rose to prominence among the Gondolindrim, charming the people and winning the affections of Princess Itarillë. To Maeglin’s great dismay, the two were soon wed, and he saw Itarillë snatched away from him forever. He had never truly labored under the delusion that she could love him, but this irrevocable bond to a mortal Man of all people made Maeglin even more bitter and jealous toward her beauty and happiness.           Within a year, a son, Eärendil, was born to Itarillë and Tuor. Despite himself, the little babe won Maeglin’s affections, for none could hate such a bonny child as he. Maeglin made no secret of his distrust of Tuor, but for the sake of his son he crafted a small mithril coat for Eärendil that even Itarillë could not deny.           Yet despite the joy Eärendil brought to all of Ondolindë, Maeglin’s sorrow and resentment only deepened, especially as the King forbade any to venture beyond the confines of the Echoriath even for mining and hunting. The folk of the Tower of Snow submitted to this mandate, but Maeglin refused, going out alone past the boundaries of Ondolindë despite the counsel of Urundil and his other friends.           On one such journey, Maeglin was taken captive by an orc-band and dragged to Angband itself, where he was tortured and interrogated by Morgoth and his lieutenant for the location of Gondolin. Maeglin held out as long as he could, but eventually his torment grew too much, and Morgoth’s offer of lordship of the city and the hand of Idril in marriage too tempting. At last he confessed the location of the hidden kingdom, and was sent back to Gondolin with a spell of bottomless dread placed upon him to prevent him from confessing his treachery.           Though Maeglin’s change in demeanor was noticed by many, only Talagand approached him after his reappearance to inquire after his health. Caught in Morgoth’s spell, Maeglin found himself unable to confess his torment, and what little he could say succeeded only in unsettling his only friend. Often, Maeglin would approach Itarillë in private, attempting to warn her of the coming danger as he believed that she alone possessed the capability to save Gondolin. Yet each time, his words died in his throat and he would flee into the darkness, consumed by guilt and shame.           Shortly before the celebration of Tarnin Austa, nearly a year after his capture, Maeglin forged an enchanted dagger akin to Glamdring, the King’s sword forged by Rôg, and its mate Orcrist, his own sword forged under Rôg’s tutelage. The blade would glow should the Enemy draw near, and he made it with the specific purpose of warning its bearer of Morgoth’s impending attack. He gave this dagger to Itarillë, half-hoping she would use it against him and end his misery, but she was only further troubled by what she interpreted as a threat and set aside the knife, never to use it.           Each of his plans failing, Maeglin made one last attempt to warn the Gondolindrim of their doom. Recalling the prophecy of Amnon, that “when the lily of the valley withers then shall Turgon fade,” and the lily-blossoms of Glingal, Turukáno’s golden replica of Laurelin, Maeglin came to the tree under the cover of night and took his hammer to its flower. The next morning, the lilies were found tarnished and dented, but despite Amnon’s urgings that Turukáno ought to heed this obvious “sign from the Valar,” once more the King refused to listen.           On the morn of Tarnin Austa, Morgoth’s armies attacked Gondlin and its great Fall began. Maeglin’s mind was torn asunder, the spell upon him eating away at his will and his despair at his failure crumbling away any last attempts at resistance. Overcome, Maeglin found himself urging Turukáno to remain rather than flee, and the Gondolindrim engaged in battle with the Enemy. As Itarillë slipped away to prepare the secret passage she and Tuor had been constructing since her husband’s arrival, Maeglin ordered Talagand to delay Tuor’s soldiers as he rushed after his cousin with murderous intent.           His mental defenses tattered and torn, Maeglin accosted Itarillë and her son, and the depth of his treason became clear. Itarillë attempted to fight him off, but with a few loyal warriors at his side, including ever-faithful Urundil, Maeglin captured her and dragged her to the cliffside where his father had been slain. Raving and mad, Maeglin tried to impress upon her that Morgoth’s victory was inevitable and that it would be a kinder fate for all of them to die at his hands rather than be tortured by the Enemy’s servants.           The deepest horror of all, in his crumbling mind, would be Eärendil’s inevitable corruption, and to spare him this dreadful fate Maeglin seized the child and made to throw him off the walls of the city. Itarillë resisted him with her sword, and Maeglin lamented to her that she did not use his gifted dagger, and in a moment of desperation their minds touched briefly one last time. Maeglin’s fëa shattered as he tried to tell her all of what he had done, all of his regrets and sins and wrongdoings, but also of his futile love for her and her son despite everything.           In that moment Tuor arrived, rushing to the defense of his wife and child. He broke through Maeglin’s guard, slaying Urundil, and attacked Maeglin with a vengeance. Maeglin swung his blade wildly, striking little Eärendil, but his blow was in vain for the child wore the mithril coat he himself had crafted. Swiftly, Tuor broke Maeglin’s arm, recovered Eärendil, and as soon as Itarillë had the boy safely in her arms he pressed Maeglin to the edge of Caragdûr and shoved him off the edge.           Thus fell Maeglin, dying the same death as his father. His name would be cursed by the exiles of Gondolin, going down in history as the most wretched traitor of all the Eldar, though Idril herself never spoke against him, her sorrow for the tragedy of her cousin’s corruption and fall too deep for her to resent his evil deeds with true fury. Yet not every member of the House of the Mole joined their lord in his treachery, and some, including Poldamaitë, fought against the Enemy in the Fall. Poldamaitë clashed swords with her estranged wife in the Square of the King, but they were swiftly reconciled and perished fighting back to back, consumed by a Balrog’s fire.           In time, all those Maeglin wronged would find healing in the Halls of Mandos and the Gardens of Lórien. Then and only then would he be reborn himself, departing to a quiet life in Aman where he could dwell with his mother, the only person to ever love him without reservations, and perhaps even forge new bonds in this his second life.

[tipsycad147]

Hades – God of the Dead and King of the Underworld

Hades is the Greek god of the dead as well as the king of the underworld. He is so well known that his name is used synonymously with the underworld and you will often see references to the underworld simply calling it Hades.

Hades is the oldest son of Cronus and Rhea. Hades, along with his younger brother, Poseidon, and three older sisters, Hestia, Demeter, and Hera, was swallowed by their father to prevent any of his children challenging his power and overthrowing him. They grew to adulthood inside of him. When Hades’ youngest sibling Zeus was born, their mother Rhea hid him away so he would not be swallowed. Eventually, Zeus forced Cronus to regurgitate his brothers and sisters, including Hades. Afterwards, all the gods and their allies banded together to challenge the Titans (including their father) for power, which resulted in a war that lasted for a decade before the Olympian gods were victorious.

Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades divided up the world into three realms over which they would rule: Zeus was given the sky, Poseidon the sea, and Hades the underworld.

Who is Hades?

Hades is depicted in Greek mythology as being generally more altruistic than his brethren, rather than “evil” as his association with death may connotate to some. He differs from his brothers immensely as he was often seen as passive and somewhat cold and even stern, rather than easily impassioned and lustful. He held all of the subjects of his undead kingdom in equal standing and didn’t pick favourites.

Hades’ strictest rule was that his subjects could not leave the underworld, and anyone who tried was subject to his rage. Additionally, Hades was not fond of those who attempted to cheat death or steal from him.

Many Greek heroes end up venturing into the underworld, each for their own reasons. Seen as one of the most treacherous places a hero could enter, those who entered did so at their own risk and many never returned from it.

Hades was seen as fearsome, and those who worshipped him tended to avoid swearing oaths upon his name or even saying his name at all. He was considered to control all of the precious minerals as they were found “under” the earth and therefore came from his domain.

Black animals were sacrificed to him (sheep specifically), and their blood dripped into a pit dug into the ground while the worshipped averted their eyes and hid their face.

Hades is mentioned several times in the Christian New Testament. Later translations interprets this as simply Hell.

The Abduction of Persephone

The most famous story involving Hades is the abduction of Persephone. The goddess Persephone was out in a field picking flowers, when the earth opened up and from the chasm Hades emerged in his chariot pulled by fierce black horses. He grabbed Persephone and took her with him back to the underworld.

Persephone’s mother, Demeter, searched the entire earth for her daughter and when she couldn’t find her, she fell into a dark despair. As a result, there was a devastating famine as Demeter prevented crops from growing in the barren land.

Zeus eventually asked Hermes, the messenger of the gods, to go down to the underworld and convince Hades to return Persephone to her mother. Hades received Hermes and his message and relented, readying his chariot to return Persephone to earth. Before they left, however, he gave Persephone a pomegranate seed to eat. In some versions, Persephone was given twelve pomegranate seeds, of which she ate six. The rule was that anyone who had tasted the food of the underworld would be forever bound to it. Because she had eaten the seeds, Persephone was required to return every year for six months.

Demeter, upon seeing her daughter, released her hold on the earth’s crops and allows them to flourish once again. This story can be seen as an allegory for the seasons, as the land is verdant and abundant during the spring and summer, when Persephone is with Demeter. But when  Persephone is away in the underworld with Hades, the earth is cold and barren.

Stories Involving Hades

Sisyphus

Sisyphus was the king of Corinth (at the time known as Ephyra) and was punished after death for his immoral and corrupt ways. He was known for using his intelligence for evil, plotting to kill his brother Salmoneus, and even cheating death by binding Thanatos, the god of death, with his own chains.

This incensed Hades as he believed Sisyphus was directly disrespecting him and his authority over the souls of the dead. The punishment for Sisyphus’ deceit was to forever be tasked with rolling a gigantic boulder up a hill in Hades, only to have it inevitably roll back down the hill before he reached the summit.

As a result of Thanatos’ confinement, nobody on earth could die, which angered Ares, the god of war, who believed that all of his battles were no longer entertaining as his opponents could not die. Ares eventually freed Thanatos and people once again were able to die.

Pirithous and Theseus

Pirithous and Theseus were best friends as well as children of gods and mortal women. They believed that the only women befitting of their divine heritage were daughters of Zeus. Theseus chose the young Helen of Troy (who would have been around seven or ten at the time) while Pirithous chose Persephone.

Hades learned of their plan to kidnap his wife, so he offered them hospitality with a feast. Pirithous and Theseus accepted, but when they sat down, snakes appeared and wrapped themselves around their feet—trapping them. Eventually, Theseus was rescued by the hero Heracles but Pirithous was forever trapped in the underworld as punishment.

Asclepius

Asclepius was a mortal hero later transformed into the god of medicine. He is the son of Apollo and often represents the healing aspect of the medical sciences.  While mortal, he gained the ability to bring back the dead from the underworld, which according to some myths, skills he himself used to keep himself alive.

Eventually, Hades discovered this and complained to Zeus that his rightful subjects were being stolen and that Asclepius must be stopped. Zeus agreed and killed Asclepius with his thunderbolts only to later resurrect him as the god of healing and give him a place on Mount Olympus.

Heracles

Cerberus – The Three-Headed Dog

One of Heracles’ final labours was to capture Hades’ three-headed guard dog: Cerberus. Heracles learned how to enter and exit the underworld while remaining alive and then descended into its depths through an entrance at Taenarum. The goddess Athena and the god Hermes both aided Heracles on his journey. In the end, Heracles simply asked Hades’ permission to take Cerberus and Hades gave it under the condition that Heracles didn’t hurt his loyal guard dog.

Symbols of Hades

Hades is represented by several symbols. These include:

Cornucopia

Keys – thought to be the key to the gates of the underworld

Serpent

White poplar

Screech owl

Black horse – Hades often travelled in a chariot drawn by four black horses

Pomegranate

Sheep

Cattle

In addition to these, he also has the cap of invisibility, also called the Helm of Hades, which renders the wearer invisible. Hades lends this to Perseus, who uses it on his quest to behead Medusa.

Hades is also sometimes depicted with Cerberus, his three-headed dog, next to him.

Hades vs. Thanatos

Hades wasn’t the god of death, but simply the god of the underworld and of the dead. The god of death was Thanatos, brother of Hypnos. Many get this confused, believing Hades to be the god of death.

Hades in Roman Mythology

Hades’ counterpart in Roman mythology is a combination of the Roman gods Dis Pater and Orcus as they were merged into Pluto. To the Romans, the word “pluto” was also synonymous with the underworld just as “hades” was to the Greeks.

The root of the name Pluto means “wealthy” and more elaborate versions of the name also existed which could be translated as “giver of wealth,” all of which can be seen as a direct reference to both Hades and Pluto’s association with precious minerals and wealth.

Hades in Modern Times

Depictions of Hades can be found all over modern pop culture. He is often used as an antagonist because of his association with the dead and the underworld, despite the fact that in Greek mythology these associations do not make him evil.

In many properties, the character of Hades makes an explicit appearance. Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson, however, does subvert the idea that Hades is always evil. In the first book of the series, Hades is framed by a demigod as having stolen Zeus’ thunderbolts despite having nothing to do with it. Later, once the truth is discovered, he is given begrudging apologies by those who jumped to assume his guilt.

In the popular Disney animated film, Hercules, Hades is the main antagonist and he tries to overthrow Zeus and rule the world. Throughout the story he attempts to kill Hercules to maintain his own power.

Many video games take inspiration from the king of the underworld, and he appears as a character in the God of War video game series, the Kingdom Hearts series, Age of Mythology, as well as many others. However, he is often portrayed as being evil.

A species of blind, burrowing snake, Gerrhopilus hades, is named for him. It is a thin, forest-dwelling creature that can be found in Papua New Guinea.

Lessons from Hade’s Story

The Judge- Eventually, everybody ends up in the kingdom of Hades. Regardless of whether they were rich or poor, cruel or kind, all mortals are faced with a final judgement once they reach the underworld. In a kingdom where the bad are punished and the good are rewarded, Hades rules over them all.

The Easy Villain- In many modern-day interpretations, Hades is scapegoated and turned into the villain despite his role in Greek mythology, where he appears just and typically stayed out of everybody’s business. In this way, it’s easy to see how people often make the assumption that someone is cruel or evil merely because of surface level associations with unhappy things (like death).

Hades Facts

1- Who are Hades’ parents?

Hades’ parents are Cronus and Rhea.

2- Who are Hades’ siblings?

His siblings are the Olympian gods Zeus, Demeter, Hestia, Hera, Chiron and Zeus.

3- Who is Hades’ consort?

Hades’ consort is Persephone, whom he abducted.

4- Does Hades have children?

Hades had two children – Zagreus and Macaria. However, some myths state that Melinoe, Plutus and the Erinyes are also his children.

5- What is Hades’ Roman equivalent?

Hades’ Roman equivalents are Dis Pater, Pluto and Orcus.

6- Was Hades evil?

Hades was the ruler of the underworld, but he wasn’t necessarily evil. He’s portrayed as being just and meting out punishment as deserved. He could, however, be stern and merciless.

7- Where does Hades live?

He lived in the underworld, often called Hades.

8- Is Hades the god of death?

No, the god of death is Thanatos. Hades is the god of the underworld and of the dead (not of death).

9- What was Hades the god of?

Hades is the god of the underworld, of the death and of riches.

Summing Up

Although he is the god of the dead and the somewhat gloomy underworld, Hades is far from the evil and conniving figure that current day story tellers would have you believe. Instead, he was considered fair when judging the deeds of the dead and often much more evenly-keeled compared to his rowdy and vengeful brothers.

https://symbolsage.com/hades-greek-dead-god/

[ladyseaheart1668]

Endless Summer Fan Novel (Book 2, Chapter 4)

The Watchers surround those of us who have just emerged from the burning temple, grabbing us to bind our hands in front of us, and shove us into the huddle with the rest of the group.

“Alodia!” Jake struggles to my side. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. You?”

“Not hurt.” He takes my bound hands in his and presses his forehead to mine. “...Not liking how this is turning out, though.”

“...Me neither,” I confess. I glance over at Quinn. She still looks far too pale, but she's standing under her own power. “...Is Quinn okay, do you know?”

“Not sure. She can breathe better anyway. Let's just hope they let Michelle look after her wherever they're taking us.”

The Watchers escort us back to their village, to a vast chamber within the massive central tree. A large crowd of blue and green bodies is gathered inside. Golden eyes watch us from behind gleaming masks. None of them speak.

“Silent treatment, huh?” Jake murmurs. “I guess I can handle that.”

A throne of woven roots sits on a dias at one end of the chamber, watched over by massive faces carved into the wall like the Presidents at Mount Rushmore. An elderly female watcher sits on a throne, dressed in a flowing white robe, with a sheer veil like lace covering her face. Auburn hair falls past her waist, decorated with blue flowers.

As the tall Watcher enters the hall beside Diego, his jaw drops.

“What is this?” Diego asks. “What's happening?”

“...The Tribunal has assembled to judge your fate,” he murmurs. “Three will speak for our tribe, and three for your group.”

“Bring them forward!” the Watcher on the throne commands.

Aleister, Lila, and I are freed of our restraints and pushed towards the throne.

“Get your hands off her!” Jake snarls.

“Allie!”

“Hey, wait!” Craig yelps. “I'm goin' up there, too!”

The others strain towards us, but they're forcibly held back by a contingent of Watcher guards.

“Good luck, Alodia!” Quinn calls.

“Yeah, apparently we're all counting on you guys,” Zahra says. “No pressure or anything...”

The shaman hobbles forward, stopping in front of me.

“Crystallized destiny, idol of hope,” he chants in a low, resonant voice, bringing a hand to my forehead. I hold my breath and screw my eyes shut, bracing myself for whatever his touch brings. “Crystallized destiny, idol--”

In the distance, the sound of thunder cracks like a whip, and my eyes fly open. The shaman's eyes go wide. His hand trembles as he lowers it from my face. The shaman turns to the other Watchers.

“It is a proven truth! They are the Twelve Catalysts of legend!” A scatter of astonished murmurs rises from the crowd. I set my jaw, drawing myself up to my full height...which is admittedly rather unimpressive, but I hope I'm selling it.

“Correct!” I say. “Now kneel and offer us tribute!”

“Yeah!” Jake chimes in. “How about showing us a little respect?”

But my demand is met with blank stares. The shaman chuckles, the polite laughter of someone who has just heard a cringeworthy joke, but who doesn't want to hurt the teller's feelings.

“We respect your power, Catalyst, but we do not give worship. Does the apple admire the beast who comes along to devour it?” He chuckles again, more amused by his own joke.

“Hilarious,” Aleister mutters. “Release us immediately!”

“What is going on here?” I demand. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Of course,” the shaman says. “Forgive me. I am called Uqzhaal. Perhaps one of our oldest legends might shed a little light on your understanding. Long ago, our tribe was visited by one who moves unhindered among the branches of the Great Tree of Time. The Endless, as we call this one, foretold of twelve individuals whose arrival would herald Raan'losti, the unmaking of the world. Inspired by the visions of those who would come, our ancestors crafted the twelve idols of flawless amber. These vaalta pleased the Endless, and for many tranquil years they were kept in a temple deep in the forest.

“But peace is inevitably followed by strife. Conflict among our people saw the idols stolen and scattered across the island. The Endless consoled us, announcing that when the vaalta are finally reunited, the power to protect the island will be within reach. Clearly, you are the Twelve Catalysts, and Raan'losti is upon us!”

“...And...that's a good thing?” I ask hopefully.

“Some would say no. But I believe it is, for there is time yet to stop it.”

The Watcher on the throne speaks up. “If this is true, Uqzhaal, then we must proceed carefully.”

“...Since when can all of you speak English?”

She smiles placidly at me. “We learn quickly, young one. Catalysts, I am Ximaedra, Elyyshar of the Vaanti. I would know your purpose on this island.”

Our purpose? I think bitterly. We just thought we were coming for a good time. A vacation. And yet, I already know we're long past that. That was never what we were really brought here for.

“...I...I think our purpose is to help save the world,” I say slowly.

“Of course we'll help!” Lila agrees. “This is a can-do group, and one of the best I've ever had.”

Ximeadra turns her golden eyes on Lila. “Uqzhaal, who is this? She wears the mark of the Hydra.”

Lila blinks. “You...you mean the logo on my shirt?”

“Unexpected indeed,” Uqzhaal agrees. “The Endless said nothing of another alongside the Twelve.”

“So the Endless was wrong.” A Vaanti woman in armor of leaves, leather, and bone, with the muscular body of a warrior and a battle-scarred face to match scowls down at us. “Perhaps about other matters as well.”

“War Chief Seraxa,” Ximaedra says, turning to the woman beside her. “What say you of the Catalysts?”

“The Twelve have brought great upheaval with them, yes. Not only did they reject their sacred journey, they've waged war upon our people at every opportunity! If we do not stop them here and now, Raan'losti will be our doom!” She pulls out a ceremonial knife, its obsidian blade glistening in the firelight. “As war chief of Elyys'tel, I declare the Catalysts blood enemies of the Vaanti!”

The crowd erupts into a chorus of piercing war cries. As the din crescendos, Seraxa cuts a gash in her arm and raises the bloodied knife above her head with wordless battle cry.

“Madness!” Uqzhaal protests.

“Such unnecessary theatrics,” Aleister mutters beside me.

“On what grounds do you invoke this?” Ximaedra demands.

“They violently resisted Prince Varyyn's escort! They attacked the Shore Guardian and irresponsibly manipulated the crystals of Vaanu! Now they've burned the Valley of Tombs! Not to mention endangered the life of our dear Keeper of the Old Faith.” She sneers at Uqzhaal, but the old shaman shakes his head dismissively.

“Shore Guardian?” Lila murmurs. “I don't remember any guardian...”

“She speaks of the great crab,” Uqzhaal explains. “One of the four mighty beasts who guard the island.”

“For generations, we've known the appearance of the Catalysts signaled great destruction. Now we know they are the destruction!” Seraxa shouts. “We have also been taught what we must do to save the island. The time has come. The Twelve must die.”

She lowers the knife, glaring unblinkingly at us. Ximeadra nods solemnly.

“...I see. Putting our faith in the Catalysts is clearly a great risk. But you would have us extinguish that risk and face Raan'losti on our own.” Her eyes find the tall Vaanti, standing amid the crowd. “And what do you think, Varyyn my son? Would you have us aid the Catalysts or sentence them to death?”

The tall Vaanti—Varyyn--looks up sharply, then quickly looks away. “I...It...is not my place to speak before the tribunal.”

...Varyyn. I think I always knew that was his name. From the moment he touched me on the beach, letting me into his mind and gaining access to mine. An idea occurs to me. I close my eyes, seeking out his presence in my mind. I breathe deeply, blocking out everything except Varyyn.

I find myself atop a looming cliff, overlooking the Vaanti village.

“Varyyn,” Ximeadra says gently in Vaanti. “Come. We are going to be late.”

Varynn turns to his mother, alarm in his eyes. “Mother, you should be resting! You've been ill for days!”

“The village depends on me, my son. When Elyys'tel's troubles rest, so shall I.”

“That is what Grandfather said before he died...” His expression turns to anger. “Our people just stood and watched as he gave his life!”

“Varyyn...”

“Leave me be, Mother.” He turns away sharply. Ximeadra sighs and departs, leaving him alone on the cliffside. Suddenly, Varyyn seems to notice my presence. He turns sharply. “You! What are you doing in my head, mind-talker?”

“I didn't mean to intrude. But I need to ask for your help.”

He is quiet for a moment, perhaps taking the time to let the memory I am intruding on catch up with the present. “...With the Tribunal?”

“Yes. I know we've had our differences, but do you think you could speak on our behalf?”

“...Only my mother's advisors speak at court. And others who seek to manipulate her.”

“She seems interested in your opinion. ...Are you really gonna stand by while they sentence us to death? Sentence Diego?”

That makes him stop. He swallows. “I...very well. If the judgment does not go in your favor, I will do as you ask.”

I open my eyes again in the audience hall. I meet Varyyn's eyes in the crowd, and he gives me a subtle nod.

“Uqzhaal,” Ximeadra is saying, “did the Endless not speak of the Catalysts' capacity for salvation and destruction?”

“This is true, my elyyshar.”

“Then we may in fact be enemies after all. That is what we must determine here. Catalysts, do you strive for harmony or change?”

I consider the question carefully, looking around at each of my friends. Although harmony feels like the correct answer, something tells me it isn't right. It would be a lie. And something tells me they would quickly see through a lie.

“...It would seem clear to me that we are agents of change.”

“So you admit it!” Seraxa bellows. “You are here to disrupt the balance of Vaanu!”

“Perhaps your people have resisted change until now, but you have to admit that the island itself is in a constant state of flux.”

“Wisely spoken,” Uqzhaal says approvingly. “Truly, they are the children of the stars in body and spirit both!”

“Claq shen zarvii!” Seraxa snaps. “This means little. Our predetermined duty remains before us.”

Murmurs of dissent pass among the gathered Vaanti. Even with their faces hidden by masks, I can sense their distrust, their doubt, their fear. I sidle over to confer with Lila and Aleister.

“This isn't looking good for us,” Lila murmurs, for once looking truly unhappy.

“What if I just told them this was all a misunderstanding?” I suggest uncertainly. “We didn't know about their values or laws...”

“Or maybe I can vouch for what good kids you are? We can show them we're really not all that bad!”

“They won't care about that,” Aleister says with a snort. “I say we go on the offensive and push their own hypocrisy in their faces.”

I consider for a long moment. Then I sigh. “I think Aleister's right. The fact that we didn't know anything about their values or laws isn't likely to sway them. And call me stupid, but I don't really want to try groveling. I don't think I could pull it off, anyway.” I look at Aleister. “I'll leave it in your hands then. I trust you know what to say?”

His eyes flash. “I absolutely do.”

I nod. “Let 'em have it.”

Aleister saunters to the top of the audience hall's dias, looking every inch his father's son, confident, capable, and powerful.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and what have you...what we have here is a farcical excuse for justice!” He looks condescendingly around at the Vaanti with eyes that judge them and find them wanting. “I haven't seen such a poor appraisal of facts since Craig tried to convince me that Keanu Reeves was a vampire!”

“Have you looked at the dude?” Craig protests. “He hasn't aged a day in twenty years!”

“What foolishness is this?” Seraxa snaps, but she looks a little uncomfortable. “Get to the point!”

“In every encounter, it has been your people who've waged war on us, beginning with a certain 'follow or die' ultimatum on the beach. As for enemies of the island, Alodia and Estela discovered an amber arrowhead in the shell of the giant crab. Apparently, you call this creature the Shore Guardian? Judging by the resinous weaponry around me, it's obvious we weren't the only ones to have defended ourselves against that thing. Like you, we've sought to survive in an environment where all of nature seemed bent on killing us! But alas, it appears civilization is the most dangerous predator.”

With that, he steps off the dias, leaving the crowd utterly silent. Diego catches my eye and grins, miming a mic drop. I smile back.

Ximeadra clears her throat. “Seeking answers for what came before is less urgent than preparing for what will yet be. Given all that I've heard today, I can't help but agree that the Catalysts represent a major threat to the island. Catalysts, if you have anything else to say on your behalf, please do so now. Otherwise, I will be forced to sentence you accordingly.”

“These kids are just trying to get home!” Lila cries. “You can't punish them for that!”

“Such utter tripe!” Aleister snarls. “If this is the extent of your judicial system, your society is doomed with or without us!”

I should be more scared, with the lives of me and my friends in the balance, but I am too exhausted to be scared. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of having to be brave. I'm tired of having to be clever against an island that always seems to be one step ahead. I am tired of being a pawn. I have been on this island for six goddamn months, having experienced ten days of that time. Everything of fear or courage or cleverness is being quickly burned out of me. And what's left is boiling, bubbling anger. I wheel on Seraxa.

“The only person who really seems to have a problem with us is the cranky one that looks like a pin cushion!” I snap.

“Mind your tongue!” she barks back. “As war chief I speak in defense of all Vaanti, Catalyst.”

“And you're such a model citizen? You really think you're so typical, you can speak for everyone else?!”

“Seraxa is most unusual,” Uqzhaal confirms mildly. “She lives alone. Has many cats.”

“That is of no importance here!” Seraxa replies indignantly.

“She also cares little for the Old Faith.”

“One wonders how someone who shirks tribal custom is able to invoke it against us,” Aleister remarks.

“Enough! You...question my faithfulness to my people? I fought and bled in the War of the Three Tribes! I was there when Quarr'tel burned!” Many of the Vaanti nod, murmuring in agreement. “The only thing I have no faith in is you! And I will not make the mistake of entrusting our future to oursiders, prophesied or otherwise!”

From somewhere in the crowd, a Vaanti calls out, “Death to the Catalysts!” Other voices rise to join the first, and suddenly the entire room is chanting as one, “Death! Death! Death!”

I look for Varyyn, my eyes pleading with him. He has already stepped forward, shouting to be heard.

“Mother! Members of the Tribunal! I would speak on the Catalysts' behalf!”

“Silence!” Ximeadra barks. “Let my son speak!”

The audience rapidly quiets. All eyes are on Varyyn now.

“The prince has never contributed his voice at court!” Uqzhaal murmurs.

“Varyyn,” Seraxa growls, “you may be the elyyshar's son, but you're also a warrior under my command. Consider your next words very carefully.”

Varyyn swallows. “I...I do not seek to sway the Tribunal's judgment. Instead, I would merely share the truth as I have witnessed it. I've had more dealings with the Twelve than any other who has testified today. While they are worthy opponents, they have also avoided battle whenever possible. On many occasions, I've observed them treating Vaanu and those who dwell here fairly and respectfully. Whether they herald Vaanu's destruction is yet uncertain. What makes it certain is if we deny them our help.”

Ripples of discussion pass through the hall as the Vaanti react to the prince's testimony. Ximeadra is silent, considering the matter carefully. She rises from her throne.

“I have reached a decision regarding the charges against the Twelve Catalysts.” She looks at us. “Catalysts, the threat you pose to the island and our way of life is unquestionable. However, I believe that the fate of the Vaanti may yet depend on you.”

“You...you're letting us go?” Lila asks hopefully.

“No. For our safety and your own, I must order your immediate imprisonment on Sharktooth Isle.”

“Imprisonment?!” I cry.

“It may be of little comfort, but at least you will be safe there while we seek to bring Raan'losti to a peaceful end.”

“You have no right to imprison us!” Aleister cries. “As travelers, our right to safety and agency are protected by international law!”

“...This might be the best we could hope for,” Lila says mournfully.

“Mercy?!” Seraxa snarls incredulously. “Mercy for the agents of our destruction?”

“You question my judgment, Seraxa?” Ximeadra asks calmly.

Seraxa knows the correct answer to that question. “...As you would have it, my elyyshar.”

Uqzhaal sighs. “Ah, natala dril arkharu. Such a grievous day.”

Guards begin to forcibly escort us out of the audience hall, once again placing bonds on me, Lila, and Aleister. Even Diego is bound again. I keep my head down as they lead us out, exhausted and heavy-hearted. A bit of pale blue directly beside me catches my eye.

I look down to see a male Vaanti child with pale, shaggy hair walking directly beside me. If I had to guess his age based on human children, I would put him at seven or eight.

“I'm not afraid of you,” he says. He smiles when he says it, and it sounds more like a reassurance than a challenge. I smile weakly back.

“You're not? Well, that's good to hear...”

He waves after us as we're brought down a winding staircase. I stick out my tongue, rolling it into a hot-dog bun shape. He giggles and sticks his tongue out at me.

“Bye-bye! Come back soon!”

* * *

At the shore, our bonds are cut, and we're loaded into a Vaanti boat large enough for all of us. I sit quietly between Jake and Diego, clutching both their hands. Jake bends to kiss the top of my head. Varyyn and Uqzhaal join us in the boat, and the Vaanti on shore push us off. Everyone is quiet as we drift through the moonlit waters towards a distant inlet. Finally, Sean speaks up.

“Where are you taking us?”

“Sharktooth Isle,” Uqzhaal says solemnly. “It is a place of exile. Those who set foot upon its shores will never return to Vaanu.”

“And so we reap the folly of island justice,” Aleister says bitterly.

“Allie, look at this!”  Diego points to the water where a school of large, dark fish are visible swimming alongside the boat. Varyyn gently reaches out to pull Diego's arm back into the boat. Diego looks at him questioningly.

“They're fish,” Zahra mutters. “It's not like they're gonna get offended.”

“No,” Varyyn says gently. “It's dangerous. Watch.”

He pulls a long feather from his braided topknot and drops it off the side of the boat. In an instant, the fish are upon it, tearing the feather to shreds with razor-sharp teeth.

“Woooah, okay. My hand was almost a supporting cast member in a remake of Piranha 3D... Thanks, Varyyn.”

Varyyn smiles sadly. “Of course.”

“The klaawyi eat anything that crosses these waters,” Uqzhaal explains. “The wood of our boats is coated with a rare sap that they find poisonous, else this vessel would soon be torn apart.”

“Of course there are wood-eating barracudas here,” Jake sighs. “Why wouldn't there be?”

As the shaman turns to gaze out across the sea, I glimpse a strange tattoo on his back. Like a

mountain with a face jutting out of the side.

“What's the story with your back tat?” Zahra asks.

“A symbol of the Old Faith. It would be difficult to explain to you, Catalyst.”

“Does it have to do with the Endless?” I ask. At that, the old shaman's eyes brighten. He begins to recite something in Vaanti, his voice reverent. In my head, I can hear the words translated. I'm not sure if that's through my connection to Varyyn, or if Uqzhaal himself has found a way into my mind.

“Twelve before the door, standing silent guard. At the base of the mountain, the One begins.” He continues in spoken English. “It is the legend of the Threshold, a place I've etched into my skin.”

“The Threshold...is a place? On the slope of the volcano?”

“It is indeed! But it no longer matters. Now that we may never see the prophecies of the Endless fulfilled...”

The shaman abruptly stands and hobbles towards Quinn. She blinks at him, confused.

“...Mm...no, no, not good,” he murmurs. “I sense that a withering has taken root in you. If left untended it may soon claim your life.”

“I don't...I don't know what you're talking about...” Quinn mumbles.

“...I think you do,” Michelle says gently. “The way you collapsed in the rainforest earlier? Something's going on, Quinn.”

Quinn swallows. “...Promise me you guys won't be...shocked...or sad...”

“Is it that bad?” Diego asks worriedly.

“I...have a condition called Rotterdam's Syndrome. It's an autoimmune disease. There's no cure.”

I feel my heart freeze and sink into my belly. A heavy silence hangs over the group.

“...When were you diagnosed?” Michelle asks softly.

“When I was four. My parents tried everything. My dad spent the last of his savings on an experimental treatment, which actually made it go away...until a few weeks ago. ...Just before I left on this trip.” She clutches her left hand in a vain attempt to keep it from trembling. She blinks and a few tears trickle down her cheeks. “...I'm going to die. In the next six months. Maybe sooner.”

“Oh, Quinn...” Michelle draws her into a hug.

I press my lips together, trying for Quinn's sake not to look as shocked or sad as I feel.

“...You won't go through this alone,” I say at last. “Whatever happens, we're going to be here for you. You can count on it.”

She smiles. “...Thank you. I...needed to hear that. I just don't want to burden you with all this...”

Jake shakes his head. “It's a burden we all want. You're one of us, Red. We all got into this together, and we're getting out of it together.”

“We would never turn our backs on you,” Diego adds.

“...Thank you...”

About then, two Vaanti leap into the shallows and guide the boat ashore.

“We have arrived,” Uqzhaal says sorrowfully. “This...is Sharktooth Isle.”

One by one, we climb out of the boat onto the sandy shore.

“This is where you guys put prisoners?” Craig asks incredulously. “It totally looks like--”

“The final level of Dino Melee!” Zahra finishes. “Graphics on ultra.”

“Exac...” Craig catches himself, clearing his throat. “I mean...I was gonna say something else.”

“...I am sorry, Diego,” Varyyn says softly. “I must leave you here.”

“It's not your fault.” Diego shifts awkwardly, looking down at the sand. “Um...your English is getting really good, by the way. Keep working on it.”

“Yes. I promise to do so.”

They lock eyes as Varyyn grips Diego's shoulder in a sad farewell. Uqzhaal leans heavily on his staff and gazes down at us from the boat.

“It has truly been an honor, Catalysts. Perhaps one day, upon another branch of the Great Tree, we'll meet again. Stars guide you.”

The Vaanti guide their ship back into the sea. I come up beside Diego to watch it drift into the distance.

“So...tell me. Are you and Varyyn an item?”

“What? Me and Varyyn?” He blushes. “I mean, he is easy on the eyes, but...please don't tell me you've gotten into Aladdin/Genie fanfiction again. Is that what you've been doing for three days?”

“...All I've been doing for three days is trying to get you back,” I say softly.

“Aw, Allie...” He pulls me into a fierce hug. I cling to him, letting all the tension of the past three days come spilling out of me in a flood of tears. He holds me gently, rubbing my back. “I'm okay, Allie. We're all okay.”

“...I was afraid I'd lost you,” I whisper.

“Yeah, same,” he admits. “I knew you wouldn't forget about me, but...after six months, it was really hard not to be scared that you weren't coming back. ...I was terrified that you'd gotten lost or hurt...or worse...”

“Nothing like that,” Jake says, coming up beside us. “She has been crazy grumpy since you went missing.”

Diego chuckles, but when he pulls back to look me in the eye, his expression is clouded with concern.

“Allie, sweetie, you look exhausted.” He looks around at the rest of the group. “Frankly, you all do.”

I wipe at my eyes. “...I don't think any of us has slept more than a few hours since...God, since before the marina...���

“Which was how long ago for you guys?!” Diego cries.

“Three...no...four days? Maybe five?”

Diego sighs. “...Goddammit, Allie...”

I dissolve into helpless, exhausted giggles. Jake puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me.

“We should probably find a place to set up camp. Get some real rest.”

“Um...how about there?” Grace points to an imposing three-story manor house overlooking the shore. It has clearly been abandoned for some time, and it's walls are covered in vines, but it looks like  sturdy and solid shelter.

“It's beautiful,” Quinn breathes. “Or at least, it was...”

“What exactly is this place?” Michelle wonders.

“Looks like the set of a soap opera,” Diego remarks. “Or maybe Jack Sparrow's hideout.”

“I think it's our new home,” Jake murmurs, his tone unreadable.

We make our way inside. Within thirty minutes, we're gathered in the manor's once-resplendent foyer, the ancient oil lanterns casting a soft, warm light. A small fire burns in a cleared area of the floor in the center of the foyer.

“Is this place for real?” Sean wonders, staring in awe at the intricate designs on the banisters of the ornamental staircases. “Who do you think lived here?”

“This is a jail cell built for a king, bro!” Craig says with a grin.

“It's Rourke who belongs here,” Estela mutters. “Not us.”

Aleister rises abruptly, wandering off to the corner of the room. Grace watches him, concerned.

“He looks really upset...Alodia, do you think we should talk to him?”

“...Maybe...”

We get up and wander over. “Aleister...? Alodia and I...we just wanted to see how you were doing...”

“I can't believe I trusted my father. After everything he's done. He's been playing us since before we even landed on La Huerta.”

“I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now,” I say softly.

In a sudden burst of rage, he picks up an old chair and hurls it against the wall. Grace jumps, squeaking.

“Bastard! The next time I see him, I'll--” He notices Grace trembling, looking at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Grace, I...I didn't mean to...”

“Aleister...this is exactly what your father wants. We're all furious with him.”

“Very,” Grace agrees. “But Alodia's right. Based on his actions so far, he probably wants us emotional and out of control.”

“Astute observation, Grace. I've...we've been pawns in his game for long enough.” Grace reaches over and rubs Aleister's back.

“We're here for you. Always.”

“I can't imagine why. But thank you, Grace.” When Grace clears her throat, he looks at me. “And you, Alodia.”

“No problem. You guys were here for me when I needed you. I'm just happy to return the favor. ...Come on back to the fire now, okay?”

He comes back with us, sitting down beside Grace. Sean sighs.

“All right, crew, we need a new plan. There's gotta be some way off this isle, right? Diego? Did you ever hear any talk about this place?”

“You know, Varyyn once told me about something really unusual on this isle. It's called the Singing Cliffs. He says the Vaanti go there to hear the voice of La Huerta itself.”

“Great,” Jake says. “Maybe it'll have some ideas on how to outswim a straight full of bloodthirsty fish.”

“You never know,” Diego replies. “The Vaanti believe that the island speaks a unique message to each individual who visits the area.”

“If the cliffs are half as pretty as their name, I'm in,” Quinn says. “Maybe it'll even inspire me to do some painting.”

“I could come with you,” I offer. “If you'd like some company.”

“I would love to have you along, Alodia.”

“If I remember correctly, it's supposed to be just south of here through the trees.”

“Stay within shouting distance, you two,” Sean warns. “We don't know what else is on this isle...”

* * *

Quinn and I make our way southward through a forested region of the isle.

“This is exciting,” Quinn says brightly. “For all of the dangers we've faced on La Huerta, there are just as many amazing sights to see...”

“You manage to find a bright side in almost anything. Do you feel more inspired to paint?”

“Absolutely. To be honest, even though I love painting, I have been able to in awhile. It's been hard to get my mind off everything. ...I came here hoping the island's beauty would shake me out of  this slump.”

“...Did it?”

“No...but you did.”

“You flirt,” I say with a grin. Then my smile slips. “...I know it must have been hard, telling everyone about your illness...”

“Actually, I'm really glad I did. It's like I finally put down this great big burden I've been dragging around since we got here. I...didn't mean to be so secretive. I just knew that as soon as I told anyone, my illness would define me. But you've shown me different, Alodia. You taught me that no one thing could ever define me.”

I open my mouth to respond, but then an ethereal melody reaches my ears, carried on the wind.

...Ennnnnnnnnnnnn...

Quinn gasps. “Alodia! Do you hear that? I think it's coming from this way!”

She grabs my hand and pulls me along the path. Ahead, the trees finally give way to a stunning expanse of beach. Wind races ashore from the sea, creating harmonic tones as it passes through hollows in the eroded cliff face.

...Leeeeeeeeee...

“It really is like voices singing,” Quinn murmurs.

As the winds drone on, I try to make out specific words.

Ennnnnnnnnnnnnn...leeeeeeeeee...

“It's pretty, but I don't know if it's actually saying anything,” Quinn murmurs.

I don't answer. I close my eyes and let the winds speak to me.

Across the seeeeeeeeeeaaa....iiiiit comes....Crruuuuuuushing everything....in its path.....to youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu....

I gasp, my eyes flying open. “Well that's...eerie...”

“What did it say to you?”

“Something's coming across the sea to reach me. Something dangerous.”

“I think I heard the words, 'our destined union'.”

“I guess we'll have to wait to find out what it means.”

The bright moonlight shines into a cave in the cliff face. We make our way across the beach toward it.

“Oh, look!” Quinn kneels next to a cluster of tide pools beside the cave mouth. Each one contains a different color of wet, glistening clay. She carefully dabs her finger into a pool and proceeds to paint an orange streak across a flat section of rock. “These make pretty decent paints.”

“I guessed it worked well enough for cavemen.”

“Would you like me to paint something for you?”

“How about painting this beautiful seaside view?”

“Ohh, yes...Maybe looking out across the sea with the moonlight on the water.”

“It could be your own 'Starry Night'.”

“I don't know about that, but I'll give it a shot.”

“Just don't cut off your ear.”

Quinn giggles. Dipping her fingers in the clay, she creates several lines on the rock face,

“What subjects do you usually paint?”

“All kinds of things. People, animals...Sometimes I just start putting paint on the canvas and let it take me somewhere.”

“You mean you start to envision a place?”

“Not always an actual place. Sometimes I end up painting...an emotional place. I think there are things you can say with a painting that can't otherwise be expressed. You can show someone how something really feels.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way, before.”

Quinn steps back from the rock wall, and I step up to observe her work. I gasp a little. The sea has been painted in soft, cloudy colors on the rock wall. Staring at it, I feel a lump rising in my throat.

“Wow...you're really good...”

“Really? You like it?”

“It seems kind of...sad...forlorn...”

“You can see that?”

“The sea is relinquishing its hold on the shore. It feels...final.”

“Nothing lasts forever, right?” she says softly. I look over at her. The moonlight catches in her copper hair and reflects off her porcelean skin. I impulsively pull her into my arms, cradling her head against my shoulder. She holds me back.

“...I like being in your arms,” she murmurs.

“...I like having you here,” I reply. ...And I do. More than I like the idea of being naked in bed with her. A part of me still wants to kiss her, to fondle her breasts and the softness between her legs...but it seems that if given the choice between holding her and doing more, I would sooner choose just to hold her. To feel the way she fits in my arms, to stroke her soft red hair. I pull back, suddenly realizing how warm she feels in my arms.

“...Quinn?”

She turns a flushed face upward towards me. “Hmm...?”

I put a hand to her forehead. “...You feel warm...”

She sighs. “...Yes...Rotterdam's causes fevers...”

“We should get you back to the manor. We could both use a good night's sleep.”

“I suppose you're right...”

By the time we reach the manor, Quinn is leaning heavily on me, breathing hard. Sweat runs down her face in rivers. Michelle and Sean immediately leap up to take her from me, easing her into a spot near the fire and covering her with whatever they can find to keep her warm. I start to go with them, but then I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to see Jake.

“...They've got her, Princess. Come get some rest. I've claimed a nice soft spot for us.”

I hesitate a moment, then I nod. Jake leads me into a corner and curls up with me. I lay my head on his chest. “...I'm scared, Jake,” I confess. “...I don't want her to die...”

“Neither do I,” he says softly. “...To be honest, I don't think I can accept it yet. ...This island is so crazy, why couldn't we find something to cure her here?”

“I hope you're right...”

He sighs and kisses the top of my head. “...But ain't nothing gonna get done if we're all too exhausted. You know, you're turning into quite the mama bear when it comes to this ragtag bunch of misfits.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. You're the mama grizzly, and we're all your cubs. Just be careful, or you'll develop a bigger hero complex than Sean.”

I snort. Somehow, it turns into a yawn. “...Don't you worry about that...I...I'm gonna...”

“...Sleep?”

“Yeah...”

I close my eyes, and I am asleep within moments. I awake in the early daylight hours. Everyone around me seems to still be asleep. As I sit up, Jake grunts beside me, rolling over. I stand, careful not to wake him, and stretch experimentally. I wince. My head feels clearer after the night's rest, but my body is still aching. I need to have a proper stretch.

I wander out of the manor, exploring the grounds, and come across a felled tree. After warming myself up, I mount it like a beam. I take a deep breath, and move slow-motion through my favorite routine.

The log isn't high enough for me to safely do a real dismount, but I let myself back-walkover off it. That's when I realize I have an audience.

“You know when I first noticed you,” Sean says, “you were doing something pretty similar on the bleachers by the football field.”

“...I remember you mentioned that once.” I blot bit of sweat off my brow with the sleeve of the camo gear I'm still wearing. Though the Vaanti took the three idols, they did allow me to keep the rest of my belongings. But I only brought a couple changes of clothing. “How did you sleep?”

“All things considered, okay. I guess at some point, exhaustion just gets louder than your racing thoughts.”

“Got a lot on your mind?”

“...Too much.” He sighs. “Things have gotten steadily worse since we arrived. I hate feeling so helpless. A part of me just feels like I should be able to do something...and if don't it's because I failed.”

“You've been nothing but a source of strength for us all, Sean.”

“Well...not nothing...”

“Okay, so you got off track a little once. It doesn't change the fact that this nightmare is not your fault.”

He smiles wearily. “...Thanks. ...How are you holding up?”

“Now that I've got Diego back, I'm much better. ...I'm scared about Quinn, though.”

“We all are. ...That's one thing that really makes me feel helpless...”

“Yeah. Something none of us have the knowledge or skillset to really fight...the idea that all we can do is sit beside her and watch her die...” I shiver. “...I'm glad she trusted us enough to tell us, though.”

“...Trust is a very fragile thing...” he murmurs. He goes quiet for a long time, staring into the jungle.

“...You okay there?”

“...Just...thinking about trust.”

“In what way?” When he hesitates, I press him. “You can tell me.”

“...I once trusted someone I cared deeply for...”

I swallow. I have a feeling I know who he's talking about. “...I take it that didn't end well...”

“I was the last to know,” he says softly. “We'd been together for two years, and somehow everyone except me knew that she'd started seeing someone else. ...Her closest friends finally told me out of pity. When I confronted her, true to form, she made it a huge production. ...And then it was over.”

I can't bear it any longer. “Sean, if this is about Michelle, there's something you should know.”

He shakes his head. “I don't want to talk about her anymore. I don't know why I'm even thinking about her...”

“...Because she's trapped here with us?” I sigh, giving up. Maybe it isn't my secret to tell anyway. “...Whatever happened, I know you'd never do that to someone. You're probably the most caring person I know.”

“I appreciate that.” He pauses. “...I do trust you, Alodia.”

“...I trust you, too, Sean.”

“Alodia! Sean!” Lila comes jogging up to us, looking a bit frantic. “Come quick! I think Raj is about to do something foolish!”

Exchanging a glance with Sean, I hurry after Lila. Several of the others are also drawn out by the commotion. We run down to the beach to find Raj dangling precariously from the prow of an old shipwreck.

“Raj!” I yelp. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“I see a barrel in the ship's hold! It's gotta be Caribbean rum!”

“Please come down!” Lila pleads. “You're going to get hurt!”

Sean and I move to the water's edge near the ship. Raj tries to swing closer to the deck. The desiccated wood of the prow groans in protest.

“There's something else...I see something else!”

“What is it?”

“I think it's one of those idol things! Alodia, if I come down and boost you up, do you think you could reach into the window of the ship?”

“...All right, let's give it a shot...”

“Sweet!”

Sean helps Raj down from the prow. Raj wanders ankle-deep into the water beside the hull of the ship and hoists my small form onto his shoulders. I wobble as his shoulders shift under me.

“Eaaasy...”

“Sorry! I'm ticklish!” He struggles not to laugh without much success. A swarm of dark shapes writhe in the deeper water, way too close to Raj's feet for my comfort.

“Oh, god! Please try to keep still!”

“I'm...trying...!”

I grasp the frame of the window in the ship's hull. Poking my head into the window, I can see the amber idol of a rearing centaur with a bow and arrow just inside. I reach for it.

“Got it!”

“Sweet! Let's get out of here!”

“No need to tell me twice!”

I dismount off his shoulders, landing gracefully on the shore. Raj splashes out of the water, and I turn to hand him the idol. His fingers brush the crystalline surface...

… There's a party raging at a frat house on Hartfeld campus. Party lights pulse in time with the pounding dance music. Hartfeld students, exhausted after a week of classes and activities and heady with cheap beer, bump and grind with abandon. The front door opens and Raj comes barreling through.

“Guess who's off academic probaaaaaation!” he sings.

“That's my dude!” Craig cheers, coming to give him a high-five.

“Way to go!” Michelle says with a grin.

Sean claps him on the back. “Nice! Congrats, man! I knew you'd win the case.”

“Time for a celebratory keg stand!” Raj vaults onto a nearby keg and inverts himself. The whole party chants as Raj guzzles beer. He gets up and raises his fists in triumph. “I'm back dudes!”

“So what ended up happening at the hearing?” Sean asks.

“Professor McCarty dropped the charges. He couldn't prove I cheated.”

Craig raises his hand for another high-five.

“Good job,” Michelle says. “Seriously, I hate Professor McCarty. Screw him. ...How did you cheat without him catching you, anyway?”

“What are you talking about? I didn't cheat...”

“Dude, it's cool. They can't get you now. Double jeopardy.”

“...Not sure that applies to college ethics proceedings...Seriously though, I didn't cheat.”

“You, Raj Bhandarkar, the guy who accidentally burned down Pi Omega...”

“...The guy who made a goat tackle Camden State's quarterback in a live game...”

“...The guy who jumped off the library roof into the Meyer fountain...”

“...You got 100% on the econ final, where the next highest score was a 73%?” Michelle finishes.

“Well...yeah!” Raj insists.

There is a moment of silence. Then everyone bursts out laughing.

“Dude, you are hilarious!” Sean cries.

“I love you, Raj,” Michelle says. “Kinda pissed that you blew the curve, but I still love you.”

“You play it close to the vest,” Craig says. “I feel ya. One day, I'm gonna find out how you did it, though.”

“Heh...yeah...” Raj mumbles. Then he forces a bright smile. “Who wants to see me do another keg stand?!”

The crowd roars in approval, and then everything folds inward on itself as time rockets me forward.

… I'm in the kitchen of The Celestial. Raj stands behind the counter, slicing vegetables and dropping them into a pot of simmering water. He swallows hard, wiping tears from his eyes that might not have anything to do with the onions.

“Pies...make peace...” he mutters to himself, drawing in a shuddering breath.

Rourke saunters into the kitchen. There's something noticeably off about him. ...Perhaps it is the fact that he's totally naked.

“Splendid lunch, Raj. Truly outdid yourself.” He picks his teeth with the jagged edge of a broken femur bone. “Who knew grilled sabertooth could be so incredibly savory?”

“This kinda stuff wasn't in the job description, dude,” Raj mumbles. “And you might wanna lay off the time crystals. They're turning you into a full-on Dr. Moreau head case.”

“Nonsense. Each time I get just a little bit closer to the one I seek.”

“You're never gonna find that red spacesuit person.”

Rourke snarls, but his attention is suddenly drawn to a small drone hovering into the room. “Ahh, Iris! Have you brought the special ingredient for this evening's dinner?”

“As you requested, Mr. Rourke.” A cable attached to the drone tows a wheeled cart to the center of the kitchen.

“Very good. Let's show our head chef what he'll be preparing!”

Rourke reaches for a box on the cart, carefully prying open the lid. Inside, Murphy whimpers, quaking with fear. Raj reaches back to untie his apron and whips it off.

“No! You've pushed me too far this time!”

“Oh come now. It's just one teeny, tiny, freezy, sneezy fox.”

“Murphy is my friend! You don't eat friends!” Rourke sighs irritably and turns away, but Raj isn't finished. “Besides, I've prepared something else for you tonight...”

“Oh?”

Raj twists the apron in his hands and wields it like a whip, striking a hanging rack. The rack swings free of one of its supports, and a pile of pans and heavy cookware suddenly tumbles onto Rourke. He cries out.

“Murphy, come on!”

Raj and Murphy race out of the kitchen. Whatever consciousness I have follows them outside, where alarms are blaring across the courtyard.

“Hurry! He's coming!”

Rourke, battered and bruised, shambles after them, hefting a harpoon gun.

“I have had enough of your insubordination, Head Chef Raj!” He gains on them, aiming his weapon. Murphy scampers ahead, then stops and looks back for Raj, whining.

“Just go! Run, little guy!” There is a loud blast as Rourke fires the harpoon gun. “Run for your li--” …

I suck in a sharp breath as I find myself back in my own body on Sharktooth Isle. Raj passes the idol back to me.

“Why don't you hold onto this for now, Alodia? I'm gonna go get lunch started! Hope you're hungry!”

I blink at him. For a moment, I have an almost overwhelming urge to stop him. But I just smile weakly. “Yeah...I am pretty hungry...”

I turn to head back to the manor with the others.

“Uh, guys?” Diego says suddenly. “Someone's coming!”

I turn to look, shading my eyes against the glaring sunlight. I can just make out a small Vaanti sailboat racing over the water towards us.

“The Vaanti are coming back!” Michelle exclaims.

“What are they gonna do to us now?” Grace wonders fearfully.

“Uh...I don't think that's the Vaanti...” Craig says slowly.

As the ship races closer, I see he's right. A woman—a human woman—with ruddy skin grasps the mast of the sailboat. She wears old-fashioned breeches, knee-high leather boots, and a leather bodice over a billowy linen shirt. A bandolier over her chest holds a knife, and a wheellock pistol hangs at her waist. Under an elegant tricorn hat, a shoulder-length mane of dark hair dances in the breeze.

“...Someone want to explain why a woman who looks like Jack Sparrow's girlfriend is heading this way?” Diego asks.

As the outrigger skids up onto the shore, the pirate woman leaps off, landing gracefully on the sand. She looks us over, dark eyes glittering.

“It would appear the captain has sent out a welcoming party. Tres, tres gentil,” she says in a thick accent. In one swift motion, she pulls out her pistol and aims it at me. “Take me to Malatesta!”

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 6

Table of Contents Go to first. Go to previous. Go to next.

Updated 2019.01.29. (Minor name tweaks.) Insects tw.

That night after pairing a dinner of pan-seared Cram with a few shots of bourbon, Carey slept on the couch in the second floor lobby. He bundled up comfortably in a hospital blanket from the stock room. As much as his mind protested, he knew better than to sleep in his new braces and binding--especially not the corset. But, he reminded himself that he could simply don them fresh upon waking.

Day three at the pharmacy crowned first thing with Carey testing the elevator once more. As much as his constitution had prioritized his need to seek out the orthotics--god, sprinting down the Commons like that had felt disgusting--he knew exactly what he wanted lay on the third story. And while he had the braces on his side, he hoped that the elevator could shuttle him there reliably.

So, he located scales in the stock room. From there, he estimated he weighed just over a 110 pounds clothed, and he made Angel hover on one as well, to guarantee its thrusters’ applied pressure didn’t translate into weight. It stepped off, still confused.

“I’m not sure what this accomplishes, Sir.”

“Here, bring me a walker.”

“Surely.” It complied, and when indicated, balanced it folded up and upside-down on the scale. “Eleven pounds.”

Carey looked over to where the walkers were stored, folded up on the shelf.

“Put... ten of them in the elevator car for me, please. No, twelve.”

“I might have a misunderstanding of how these are used, if you need so many...”

“Look, they’re just the easiest unit of measurement I have handy. I don’t need a walker.” I don’t think, anyway... “I know it seems funny, but.”

Once Angel achieved the request, Carey pushed the third floor button and let the elevator travel upward. Once the light went off on the operating panel, he called the elevator back to the second floor.

“Twelve more.”

“...Yes, Sir.”

A second test proved the elevator could handle roughly a minimum 250 pounds.

“You can put them back in the stock room now.”

“As you wish.” Angel hovered back and forth with its three tentacle-limbs each loaded with four walkers at a time. “Seeing as you didn’t consider the elevator safe enough to test personally, does... whatever this was... assuage your fears of it?”

“I think I could handle riding it to the third floor, if that’s what you’re asking.” Carey stood and snatched up the last of his sweet roll, and shoved it in his mouth. He dusted off his hands in a steeling gesture, then stepped into the again-empty elevator. His grin with a cane across the car threshold kept the pocket doors from shutting. “Come with me?”

Angel rushed to cram in with its owner.

“Oh! So soon?”

“Third floor,” the elevator announced, holographic and androgynous.

With a pleased sigh, Carey exited the car with his Handy in tow. The doors shut behind them. This floor’s lobby had two armchairs and a coffee table, and some large fake potted plants. The door to the stairwell was in tact, as were the bathrooms. Like the two floors before it, this lobby still boasted both elevators. Unlike the other floors, besides access to the other floors this one only had a single heavy white wooden panel door. Before entering, he put his hood on again from his back pocket.

The chemist let himself in, and walked into what looked like a reception desk littered with paperwork, a terminal, and a keyboard. The light of his Pip-Boy scattered across the receptionist who now lay decomposed in the floor beside her office chair. Relieved to have found no ghouls, he took his hood back off, his hair mussed worse for nothing. Behind the desk stood a heavy digital security door. Squinting, Carey tried to peek in with a hand against the glass. He could see a faint green glow, but had no way of knowing if it came from a backup power source or the indicator light to something inside. He banged his fist on the glass angrily and slouched at the computer terminal with a growl.

“Fuck me. I knew the chems would be behind glass like this.” He scrutinized the terminal on the desk. “At least the terminal the door’s wired to is still working. It’s heavily encrypted, though. Could take me days, weeks, to figure it out.”

“Is it really so critical to gain access to the chem stores?” A hard pause and Carey turned his head slow to glare at his Handy. “Yes, yes, it’s certain to have some kind of medication that can help.” It knew this had nothing to do with its owner’s health.

“Could you be a dear and... make me a pot of coffee, Angel? I’m going to be at this for the rest of the afternoon.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Angel dashed off, grateful for the chance to get away before popping off sarcasm. Besides, it knew his chem stash was inside it, and if it excused itself, he couldn’t get at them.

Carey found the password was ten characters long, based on the command line which blinked at him. This newer model of RobCo terminal interfaced with Pip-Boys, to his delight: it took both holotapes and the key-prong. Eager, he rooted around the receptionist’s desk drawers for a holotape he could cannibalize. The receptionist relied heavily upon a large library of them, and she had entire dedicated file cabinet specially suited for them among the furniture of the small office. After loading a few of them to browse, he found one with only two or three entries on it, and proceeded to format it.

“Thank you, Eleanor.”

While the tape formatted, he continued rummaging the desk. Nothing looked like it could have been the cheat for the password. Before he dove into repurposing the holotape, he made sure no holotapes in the library stuck out to him, which might have been the key all along.

Carey removed his Pip-Boy and set it up on the counter. He pulled up the command screen on it and loaded the blank holotape into its cassette tray, then plugged in the key-prong to make use of the terminal’s keyboard. He still hadn’t figured out how to input data into the Pip-Boy directly, and this was a facile cop-out. By the time Angel returned, he’d gotten embroiled in composing a simple decryption tape.

“Here you go.” It set a clean mug of hot black coffee beside its owner. “Is the going as tough as you expected?”

“Not so sure yet. I’m just grateful RobCo put out any cross-compatible models before the world ended. I don’t even know if it’s possible to write anything to this Mark IV model of Pip-Boy. You remember that I clocked into the Deenwood Compound with the key-prong of my Mark III model? The thing had a holotape in it we had to guard with our lives, and plugging it into the security door loaded the data from the holotape into its terminal, which only had the key-prong and not the holotape cassette tray. Two-part key. I guess that’s how they kept people from doing what I’m doing now.” He nodded thankfully as he picked up the mug with one hand and took a testing sip. When it didn’t taste horrid, he took a second. “Exquisite. It may be two hundred years old, but fresh ground coffee still tastes fresh. Angel, you still make the best coffee.”

“That means the world to hear, Sir.” Its ocular lens flitted anxiously. “What is it that you’re ‘doing now’?”

“I’m writing an algorithm that suppresses the encryption that’s censoring what each byte of data holds in it. It’s not going to crack the password for me, but it’s at least going to let me see letters instead of a billion bytes of punctuation. If I’m lucky, it’s a word and not a random set of characters.” Carey stopped a moment and counted on his fingers as he mouthed the letters. “Damn, ‘pharmacy’ is eight letters. ‘Pharmaceutical’?” He shook his head.

“I’m not sure that’s wise, though I’m most impressed, Sir.”

A few more skims of the script left Carey confident enough to pop in the tape into his Pip-Boy and run it. It seemed to work, Eleanor’s screen then displaying twelve ten-letter words, interspersed with miles of ASCII symbols. He didn’t see any good guesses among them, so he tried the first on the screen: CIRCUMFLEX. His script indicated the input had only two characters in common with the answer.

With so little overlap, he couldn’t readily discern a pattern; so, he tried the second word: JACKANAPES. It also had two characters in common--however, his script told him one of these characters was in a different position from those of the first guess. He wasn’t a master at hacking or decryption, just good at undermining basic protocols, so the formula to putting this information to good use didn’t present itself immediately. He started scrawling notes on a piece of scrap paper, and jotted down the twelve words so he could still study them should the terminal clam up like he thought it would likely soon.

The third blind attempt--ACQUIESCED--had yet another pair of characters in common. He wondered if any of these three pairs overlapped. Noticing the trend, he observed finally that all twelve possibilities had an ‘E’ in the ninth position, and he bit his upper lip. He scrawled a sort of Hangman at the top of his notes:

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ E _

The computer let him have a fourth try, so he tried the fourth option: SEXUALIZED. He laughed in frustration when this not only was wrong--the terminal locked him out for trying too many times. Yet, thanks to his decryption script, the screen displayed that the guess had four positions in common with the actual password--three which he hadn’t had prior.

As he downed his rapidly room-temperature coffee, he pored over the twelve words looking for further patterns. Six of them ended in a ‘D,’ and ACQUIESCED was the only one of those that didn’t end in ‘IZED.’ He’d already tried SEXUALIZED, so he had his next four attempts narrowed down fairly quickly once he formed a strategy. In hindsight, it would have benefited him to forge a strategy before the series of attempts.

The screen said Carey still had 34 minutes before it would let him test his theory. He sat back with a sigh, and glanced around the room with closer attention to detail. Angel had gone back downstairs. He took a smoke break and glanced down at Eleanor. Cautious, he knelt down to check her for valuables. In addition to praising she had on her person what looked like the passkey to the private elevator, he also took the silver locket around her neck. He couldn’t make out more than there being three faces between its two halves, the snippets of photography faded beyond recognition. He pocketed the passkey and jewelry, and proceeded to go through the desk for valuables now that he’d combed it initially for keys. Something felt so relatably muddy about the passing thought that the password had died with her.

“I’m about to get it, though,” he told her, “especially if it lets me try four more times.”

The time didn’t pass quickly enough, and his mind wandered again to the African beetles. He recalled folk medicine making use of all kinds of insects, for all kinds of remedies. Termites, centipedes, even grasshoppers, scorpions, and spiders. He also knew of the less reputable uses, as the vehicle of imbuing the individual with different boons... or as the source for powerful hallucinogens. A resin distilled from the finely ground powder of a particular arachnid he couldn’t recall the identity of--camel didn’t sound right--had been highly sought after in the black market, and he and Jacob had dealt with it several times. Simply named, the junkies called it Resin. From his understanding, its psychotropic potency exceeded that of even psilocybin, or even Jet, and one typically heated it just enough to liquefy in order to inject it. He never sampled the stuff himself, owing to its notoriously high addition rate.

He’d had enough expensive habits to nurture.

Half of them went into cooking Melancholia. Melancholy. You are what you put in your body, right? He’d have to take stock of how much of the chem-coction Angel had left.

The Handy had left the carafe of coffee with him, and he topped off his cup. His thoughts returned to the giant cockroaches and horseflies that had infested the New England Commonwealth. He wondered if any served the same significance as the Resin scorpion?

Eleanor’s terminal let him in again at last, and he hunkered down to scrutinize his choices against the list to ensure it hadn’t shuffled them. All four of his theory-words still appeared among them and he sighed, taking one last puff off his cigarette before putting it out in Eleanor’s ashtray. OXYGENIZED. Five in common, proving to Carey his theory held clout. Among the remaining three, he ruled out the unlikely TEXTURIZED, and tried SEQUELIZED. When that didn’t work, power of elimination left him with ALCHEMIZED.

Somehow, he’d all along had a feeling it was the right answer. He’d always thought he liked Eleanor.

After confirming the password, Carey left the door shut. He called out to Angel to see if it was within earshot, so he could report his success, but he didn’t get a response. He put his Pip-Boy back on and took his cane and his cup of coffee with him into the pharmacy lab and stock room alone.

His Pip-Boy cast a hard rim light on the equipment and shelving. To his left around the corner lay the chem lab, and to his right, the pharmaceutical stock with a dozen or so metal stock shelves. Even better than he expected, he sipped on his coffee, and took in his victory in awe. Given some acclimating, this could certainly be a veritable playground for Melancholy.

The chemist specialized in sedatives and painkilling agents. That’s what the military wanted him for: to study the applications of opiates. The more he thought about it, the more he felt the moniker fit him better than his own name, or nationalized name, ever had. He’d gone by his last name longer than he could even remember the exact point at which he’d committed to it. But to become a symbol, an avatar of the poppy? He had already, in his short time unfrozen, become something entirely otherworldly than he’d known in his past life.

Yes. Before the vault. That was a past life. Being frozen had been antiseptic in nature, and killed off the bacterial infections of compunction and reservation. This new world fostered a culture which could nourish and condition the latent aspects hidden away within himself which humanity had failed to recognize. Without time, he could tell neither if this quality was pieces of his identity to which society had been willfully oblivious, nor some vestigial proof of an embrace of atavistic progress.

But he would tap into it here. This building would be a crucible for change.

As he leaned proudly against the desk at the inventory side of the room, he felt a sharp pain in his foot, and jerked with a hiss. The mug shattered in the floor when he dropped it, and coffee splattered everywhere. He flashed his Pip-Boy this way and that because he heard the spill agitated something in here. Breathing heavy, he clutched at his cane. He wasn’t alone. Another ankle-bite jerked him to the floor, and he slid head-first backwards into the metal desk-front. With him now in the floor, the vermin revealed themselves, a dozen RadRoaches skittering eagerly toward their next meal.

Go to Next »»»

[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (17/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (violence and general bad happenings in this part. Sorry readers.) A/N: I don’t even know what happened. This wasn’t what was supposed to happened but then it did and I liked it better so I am not going to apologize bye.

HOW TO RUIN YOUR LIFE WITHOUT REALLY TRYING

[ part one ] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ]

They proceed to the hollow in silence. Only the snow crunching beneath their boots, the sounds of the forest awakening, echo around them. Bjarg keeps his hand firm cupping her elbow. She is all too aware of the grumbling man behind them, can feel his seething like arrows in her back, but she tries to not let that distract her steps. She remembers the importance of being sure of foot when it comes to approaching the hollow.

The group stops at the far edge of a field she does not recognize. Is this the place she had stood shivering and afraid one week before? Now covered in thick snow and without the fear of absolute uncertainty blurring her vision it appears so different.

Sigfrid approaches with a rope. She knows what he wants and extends her wrists. He binds them firmly, but not cruelly. Bjarg watches, eyes guarded, and gives a terse nod towards the older man when he finishes. Then they walk again.

It is a narrow path they step onto between the trees, narrower than she remembers, and it is a tight fit with Bjarg clutching her arm in his large hand. She steps in careful measures, keeping watch for roots. She is so certain of her footing, of her sureness of step, that when the ground rushes up to meet her it knocks the wind from her lungs.

She lands on her knees with a galvanic shock, her bound hands catching her from falling further into the snow. She knows the term of this fall. She knows the price is the slitting of her throat, but she cannot understand it. She had been so on watch, so on guard, against a fall that it could not have come from her. Her feet had caught on nothing. The only other source would have had to be her protector, her rock.

Her eyes whip to Bjarg beside her to find him in much a similar posture expect that he is not looking at her. His hat has been knocked to the ground in front of him but he does not reach for it. His hand stays locked on her arm, his other bracing himself against the snow as he takes a staggered breath. He shakes his head around and she sees the first drips of blood trickle from his hair to stain the white beneath them.

He rears back but is not steady in it. Perhaps for the reason that she had not anticipated his movement and she weighed him down momentarily or even more so perhaps for the gash at the back of his head turning the bright gold of his hair copper. She sees the heat and confusion in his eyes as he tries to gain his bearings and bring them both to their feet. She also sees the group ahead of them stop at the commotion and turn with dark expressions. Bjarg seems that he could not care less about them as he releases her arm and turns.

She watches from the side of her eye as he bends to pick up a stone the size of a man’s fist, coated with blood. His blood. Her throat pulses. She does not need to look behind her. She knows that all she will see is that this was no accident.

“You tempt the fate of these woods.” His voice hides none of the rancor she had seen in his eyes. “To deal such a blow here is gutless.”

The group of elders and other approach. Large Leader is at the front followed closely by Sigfrid. Both wear faces of tight disbelief.

“What is this now?” It is Large Leader, but he does not look to her. His eyes stay fixed on the growing bloodstain on the back of Bjarg’s head.

“Your rearman has attempted to sway the issue of our arrival to the hollow for fair judgement.” Bjarg does not turn to address his inquisitor, instead he keeps his eyes focused on his assailant.

“These two have no right to the hollow.” It is Nadir’s voice behind her, as sharp as swords and her stomach turns at the memory of blood she’d drawn. “Ya know this as well as I.”

“You have no say over the tradition of the hollow -” Bjarg begins before he is interrupted by Nadir.

“But what good are our traditions when ya have yer own witch ta worship?”

Bjarg takes a step but she feels her own bound hands catch his arm to still him before she can stop herself. Though she is turned towards him she does not look at his face, cannot bear it. The heat of his anger scorches her already. She knows that her hands do nothing to restrain him, that if he wants to he can brush her aside without strain, but he does not and somehow that simple act shields her from the venom of Nadir’s insults.  

“They are bonded, these two, Nadir.” It is Sigfrid this time, and she sees the sadness on Sigfrid’s face, the confusion, and disappointment at his son’s actions. In the depth of her heart she feels a twinge of misplaced sympathy for Nadir. She knows all too well what it is like to be less than her family wanted.

“Bonded or no they have both fallen in the sacred wood. They must serve judgement as all the rest.” It is Gunnar now. The appetite for revenge is still ripe on his face and Anna’s gut twists.

She wants to scream that they had not fallen, that they were just as well as pushed to the ground and where is the justice in that? Where is their precious honor? She does not have the chance.

“There be a difference between falling by one’s own folly and being forced to your knees by another and the wood knows that difference.” It is Large Leader and Anna can feel Bjarg’s muscles tighten against her palm at the sound of his voice.

“Aye. I dunna remember a single life the wood ever took that shouldna been.” Nadir spits and then her hands on Bjarg’s sleeve is not enough to hold him.

Bjarg lunges and there is a surge of bodies. She loses track of things in the flurry. Her arms pull back to her chest to protect her face and body as others collide against her, eyes trying to follow Bjarg’s path, but the commotion makes it difficult. She hears yelling, the tearing of fabric, before Large Leader and another elder drag Bjarg back to where she can see their faces. Beyond them on the other side she sees Nadir restrained by Sigfrid and Eerie Blonde. His lip is split and eyes blazing.

“We are wont to end this then, are we no?” It is Nadir. “If tradition is what Kristoff cares for now then let tradition mark our path.”

There is a stinging silence amongst the group then. Anna can hear her own breath, her own heartbeat, in the instant. She has been among them just enough to realize the challenge that has been laid.

“Ya call it upon yerself, Nadir.” This time it is Large Leader who speaks. “Whatever dishonor ya land upon yerself, mind ya donna let it touch yer house.”

“As you’ve let it touch ya own?” Nadir’s charge comes hurried and unconsidered. The weight of it, however, is felt as it pulses through the air.

Anna sees Large Leader’s mouth open to respond even as she hears Bjarg’s voice penetrate the silence.

“If you have the courage, we will end this today with fate and witnesses to decide what we deserve.” Bjarg’s voice grinds over each word.

“Enough! This has gone far enough.” It is Large Leader and this time Bjarg twists his face to confront the man straight on.

“No. It has only gone as far as you have allowed, only as you have allowed.” And the tension that has been winding tight snaps across Bjarg’s face as he speaks.

Large Leader’s expression is his mirror, the snap washing his face in a cold resentment Anna has only seen once before the night she left the palace.

“So be it.” Large Leader releases Bjarg’s arm with a jerk, Eerie Blonde following his lead, and steps back. Large Leader gestures with a swift nod of his head towards Nadir. “Come to the front then Nadir. Ya father will take yer place as rear guard. We will settle this as the hollow decides.”

Anna’s close as Nadir comes forward with a wolfish grin. She listens for Bjarg’s breathing and thinks to reach for him though he is a few feet from her now and her hands are bound. She steps into him as the group rearranges and presses into his side. She thinks she smells the metal of blood and looks up to where his scalp still oozes. She looks back to where his blood stains the snow and tries not to consider the violence that accompanied the act.

She meets Nadir’s eyes, hard and defiant, as he passes them. She feels the pain of his gaze, of so many things left unsaid. It is a pain she recognizes all too well, but she does not understand it in these terms.

Bjarg turns then to face the way he should. She follows suit, and interrupts her thoughts as she remembers the pain he shows more obviously in blood. She bends to take his hat in bound hands, still abandoned in the snow, before they go on and offers it to him. He smiles a grim smile, but does not take it.

“Hold it for me.” He takes firm hold of her arm once more. “I’d hate to lose track of it again.”

…..

They make it to the hollow in even more somber procession than before, if that is possible. The narrow path grows narrower until Bjarg is walking behind her with his hands clamped on her shoulders. No more rocks are thrown, but she feel the gravity of what is happening like a boulder on her chest.

When they break through to the hollow her eyes fall on a large pile of brush and branches where the kettle had been a week ago. Her eyes find Eerie Blonde to discover him watching her in return. A shiver runs down her spine. No matter what transpired in the dark wood, this is why they are here. This is why they have come.

She wonders how many of these man came just because they want to see her burn, or to see Bjarg watch her burn. Her stomach turns.

Bjarg stays close and careful beside her, though no longer touching, as the elders and others assemble before them. It is then she realizes she is the only woman present, but there is no time to ponder this. The five elders stand firm and ready for what is to come. Anna attempts an imitation. She has nothing to fear. Her hand is healing well, but it gives her no comfort. Too much remains unknown to her.

Large Leader steps forward.

“We have come here upon solemn purpose.” He begins, and Anna tries not to lock her knees. “But the action in the wood is a matter of fresh blood and fresh blood demands justice before we test the girl.” He says and Anna’s gaze whips to Bjarg.

His only reaction is the slightest tensing of his jaw, but Anna can see the resolve in his eyes. This is not what he wanted - yet at the same time it is, and she wonders if she will ever know the reason why.

“You are the challenged.” Large Leader addresses Bjarg, his voice is tinged with something darker, deeper than formality. “You name the terms.”

Bjarg looks to Large Leader, to Nadir, and she watches each flicker of his expression. “Fists and wits, no weapons. No weregild but honor.”

Nadir snorts and spits, but says nothing.

Large Leader draws himself up on a deep breath. “Draw the borders then.”

The four remaining elders go each with their sword to the place where Anna had seen Bjarg fight a week ago, on the far side from the fire. They each drive the blade of their weapon as deep into the frozen soil as they can, marking four point of a small square.

“Surrender your swords and may the gods favor you.”  

Nadir gives his sword to Eerie Blonde and goes to where the ground had been marked, but she hardly registers it. She can hardly register any of it, does not want to. The entire thing smacks with a strange sense of déjà vu that leaves her anxious and uneasy.

She waits to feel him leave her side, to surrender his weapon as Nadir had done, but he doesn’t. Instead he turns to her and she looks at him in question. His eyes are dark with a thousand things he has not said, wants her to say, but now is not the time for words. So when his hand catches her neck, her waist, and pulls her against him all she can do is meet him with a gasp.

He takes advantage of her open mouth. She can taste his conviction, his need, and she gives in to him. Her body bows to his, to his strength, and she has just as much time to respond to his releasing her as she did to his holding her.

She stumbles back on a ragged breath, mind spinning, but she still senses what this is. Nadir is a stronger opponent and this will not be the same as the hólmganga she had witnessed previously. No. This fight is something entirely different and she tastes it on her lips. This kiss had been meant to speak into the silences that live between them as much as it had been a testament to those watching that she is his - and he hers - no matter what happens hereafter.

He holds her now only with his eyes as he sheds the sword at his waist, the dagger from his belt, and kneels to lay them at her feet. The wild thing is there in his eyes watching her. She imagines touching his cheek, of affirming the claim he had made, but her hands stall where they are bound before her. Then he stands once more and she feels the loss of the moment as sharp as a blade in her chest.

She watches him go towards the place marked where Nadir waits and she wants to shout after him. She wants to tell him he needn’t fight, that they needn’t answer to these men when they should be answering to her. She wants to cry that she is his, but she does not. She stays still and separate as Large Leader follows Bjarg to the battlefield.

Sigfrid leaves his sword as Large Leader enters the ring and comes to her side. He does not touch her as Large Leader encants in the same unfamiliar language as he had previous time she had witnessed the ritual, but she can sense that he is there to restrain her as much as his wife Ketil had been the time previous. She wonders if she is supposed to restrain Sigfrid in the same way.

The two young men take their places.

Anna is struck again as to the breadth of Nadir. Though Bjarg stands taller than his opponent by several inches, he is not nearly as thick. Anna recalls what Nadir has said that night she had stayed in his family’s home, his boasts of strength, and Anna feels new fears prickle down her spine.

Nadir holds himself as a man who relishes violence while Bjarg expression is that of a man resolved to complete an unpleasant task. Both stand thick with coiled energy, waiting for the other to succumb to the mounting pressure in the air.

Nadir moves first, closing the distance between them with an explosive offensive sweep. Bjarg dodges but it is a near miss. He does not have time to land a hit on the recovery as he had when fighting Gunnar. Nadir is too quick, and it is only an instant before Nadir is charging again.

His right fist glances Bjarg’s chin as his left comes in to land hard in his gut. The sound of air rushing from Bjarg’s lungs sparks heat behind her eyes and she gasps. Nadir clamps onto Bjarg’s shoulder and lands a second punch to his ribs. He is in the process of landing his third when Bjarg catches the impending fist with a sweep of his own arm, breaking the path and twisting Nadir around in the process. Using his height to his advantage, Bjarg circles Nadir’s neck with his arm, locking it tight, and pulls back.

Nadir goes up on his toes, face reddening instantly, broad hands clawing at Bjarg’s forearm. Anna feels her own breath come up short at the sight of the man’s struggles, at the cold anger she sees across Bjarg’s face. Nadir leverages his weight and tilts forward to break Bjarg’s hold. A ham sized fist slams into Bjarg’s thigh and he staggers back. Nadir turns and comes again with a heavy blow aimed at Bjarg’s jaw, but it does not land. Bjarg dodges by ducking down and swinging a low sweeping kick to Nadir’s ankles.

The thicker man stumbles and Bjarg capitalizes on the moment to again trap his opponent’s neck in the vice of his arm but at his side this time. He takes his free fist and pummels the side of Nadir’s head once, twice, before Nadir’s hand swings around Bjarg’s back and grabs his hair at the same time as his elbow lands in Bjarg’s gut.

Nadir yanks hard on Bjarg’s hair and Bjarg lets out a fierce grunt.

“So this is what we come to?” She hears Nadir growl into Bjarg’s ear. “Fighting like dogs over scraps of honor?”

“You fight as a dog.” Bjarg grunts through clenched teeth. “I fight as a man.”

Nadir’s reply is a hard punch to Bjarg’s ribs. Bjarg’s hand grab Nadir’s holding wrist and twists his entire body with a yell. Nadir does not lose his hold until Bjarg’s launches two sharp, brutal kicks to his gut. On the third kick Bjarg releases Nadir’s wrist and sends him flying to his back on the snow. Bjarg is on him in an instant, straddling his chest and pummeling Nadir’s face with blow after blow .

Anna has seen Bjarg fight, has seen him break men with fists like iron, but never like this. Never under the spectatorship of so many others, never when it is so clear this is more than just about her honor, and she wants them to stop. She wants to end this madness. She fidgets and Sigfrid’s hand latches onto her arm with bruising strength to stop her before she even begins though she is sure his eyes never left his son.

Bjarg lands one final blow across Nadir’s broken face before he pushes up to stand over his opponent’s body. Nadir moans, blood pouring from both nostrils, as he turns his head in the snow. He struggles a bit to try to get up but Bjarg presses a boot to Nadir’s broad chest just hard enough to keep him down.

“This ends now.” Bjarg says as much to Nadir as he does the witnesses. “Whatever ill lies between us dies now in our stead.”

Nadir gargles something unintelligible and Bjarg leans down a bit to try to understand. His lowered position keeps him from seeing the hidden flash of steel that slashes the air. Nadir’s dagger cuts wide and deep across the thick of Bjarg’s calf and Anna is not certain if the cry she hears is his, hers, or both. Bjarg stumbles back as Nadir rolls to his side and tries to stand. Bjarg stumbles, staggers, tries to put weight on his damaged leg only to have it buckle beneath him with a curse.

He does his best to brace himself as Nadir approaches, but she fears it is not much.

She looks to Large Leader, expecting him to do something - to stop this - now that the rules have been breached, but he remains at the side immovable. His face beyond stoic. She looks to Sigfrid to find him much the same, only with a deep sadness etched into his eyes.

She looks back to the fight in time to see Nadir land the handle of his dagger across Bjarg’s temple, cracking it open, and uncovering a new well of blood. Bjarg teeters, but does not fall. Instead he uses his dizzy momentum to tackle Nadir round the waist, knocking the dagger from his hand once they crash to the ground, and presses his forearm into Nadir’s throat. Bjarg’s knees pin Nadir’s arms and though the young man thrashes against the weight on his chest, the pressure at his neck, he cannot throw Bjarg. Not this time. After several long moments, the sickening struggle and choking cease.

Bjarg eases his arm, his knees, his body from Nadir’s. His slow motions, Anna can tell, is just as much to be certain that Nadir is conquered as it is the pain of his own wounds. Bjarg looms over Nadir’s form and she can see faint rise and fall of Nadir’s chest as clearly as she can see the uneven pull of Bjarg’s. Blood from Bjarg’s temple forms rivers and tributaries down the side of his face to pool alongside the blood from the gash at the back of his head. The cut above his boot still flows as well.  His entire body seems to hang from his shoulders as if it is too much for him to carry. She can see new lines of agony carving themselves into his face.

He stands a moment before he bends to collect the dagger that had entered the fight unjustly. He throws the bloodied dagger at the feet of Large Leader some three yards away. The same crackling energy that had been present in their previous exchange comes to the foreground.

“I will not take his life though it is mine to have.” Bjarg says on rough breath. “In its place I take my own to form and use as I please with no further interference.”

Large Leader’s face is resolved past expression, but Anna thinks she can see the faintest, inexplicable gloss in the corner of his brown eyes.

“So be it.” His voice is thick and gruff.

And though Anna cannot understand why, the air goes out of the hollow at that moment. Every man there stops breathing and Sigfrid’s hand drops her arm.  

Then, without another word or a look at the crowd of men, Bjarg limps out of the ring leaving a trail of blood. He passes Sigfrid who goes to attend his son.

Even with his hobbled steps, bloody trail left in his wake, he makes it to her swiftly. His face is dark with pain she is only beginning to understand as he grabs her hands. He unties the ropes and pulls off her mitten. He unwinds the bandages there with trembling hands and bruising knuckles.

She thinks she should be afraid of this blood covered man with his dark eyes and ruthless ferocity, but she isn’t. She does not flinch from him, does not pull away. If anything she leans closer, wants to soothe the aches she sees so plainly etched on his features. She wants to hold him, but does not know exactly how to go about doing so.

Once her hand is unwrapped he holds it up towards the counsel of elders, towards Large Leader.

“See now the gods have favored not just me but my wife also. Let us go lest you turn their favor against you.”

Eerie Blonde steps forward then with two others. They inspect her hand, swiping at the old honey and poking at the new skin growing where the old had been burned away. Their touch does not hurt but she finds herself shrinking from it anyway.

Bjarg watches the whole of it carefully. Perspiration dots his forehead, his upper lip, and his breath comes fast and shallow. She reaches her free hand out to catch his. He takes it with a grip just a little too firm but she does not complain.

“Her wound heals well. It has not turned.” Eerie Blonde announces after inspection, and she is surprised to hear what she thinks is relief in his voice. “She speaks the truth.”

She meets Eerie Blonde’s eyes in question, but receives no answer. His gaze goes to Large Leader as he nods and suddenly Gunnar is pushed to his knees in the snow. His eyes are wide with terror.

“Ye, Gunnar son of Eluf, are found by this hollow to be guilty of attempting to rape this woman and are herenow to be an outlaw and outcast in these woods.” Large Leader pronounces but none look to him, or to Gunnar. All eyes stay on Bjarg but she cannot understand why. He is not the one on trial.

Bjarg casts a cold look at Gunnar where he kneels helpless in the snow before looking to his sword where it lies at her feet and understanding begins to dawn on her. He is not the one on trial, but he is now the judge.

“No!” Anna looks to Bjarg. “No more blood. No more.”

She squeezes his hand, pleading with her eyes, but he looks away. He releases her hand and bends to take up his weapons. He replaces his dagger but rises with his sword. Her heart jumps to her throat. No matter what Gunnar had tried to do those weeks ago - what cowardice he had shown in the weeks after - all she can see now is a sad, small man quivering in the snow. He is not a threat. He cannot hurt her anymore and she will not have his blood shed when he has already lost so much.

She reaches a hand out and catches Bjarg’s sword arm. He stops, but his eyes stay on Gunnar where he kneels - pitiful and helpless.

“No more. Please. Let us return home where I can care for your wounds.”

His hand tightens on the handle, bruised knuckles turning white. “You ask me to spare this wretch though he tried to kill and dishonor us both?”

She can feel his body shaking. The fire of the fight plus the toll of it course through his blood. She knows her request is madness, that it makes no sense in this rough world, but no matter how she tries she cannot harden herself enough allow this killing.

“Yes.” Is all she can say, throat full, and Bjarg turns his glare to her.  

“Your words are foolish. He would show neither of us such kindness.” His words are hard and fast. He steps closer to her and lowers his voice. His words brush her cheek with his nearness. “He tried to harm you, min lille ven. Do not ask me to forgive him that.”

“But he did not harm me. This brother never touched me.” Her heart hammers wildly at his proximity, at the power radiating off of him in waves. “Those who did are already dead and cannot ever harm me again.”

His mouth presses a hard line and she can feel him forcing down the wild thing inside himself with every bit of strength he possessed. She can see every tendon in his neck strain against it. He steps back from her with a shrug, taking his arm from her grasp, and steps towards Gunnar.

Her eyes squeeze closed. It was foolish for her to think he would stay Gunnar’s execution for her nonsensical reasons. Still she had hoped -

“Know this - outlaw or no - if our paths ever again cross there will be no words that will stay my sword from your throat.” She hears Bjarg say, and her eyes open just in time to see him bring the butt of his sword down hard on the back of Gunnar’s head. The small, dark man crumples to the snow, unconscious.

Bjarg looks to Large Leader, chest held high. “He is your outlaw now. Do with him what you will.”

With that he returns to where she stands and sheaths his sword.

“It is finished.” She cannot help but notice how pale he looks, how his body still shakes. “Let us leave these wolves to their work.”

….

They bind his leg with her old bandages before they leave. He pulls them so firmly that his eyes tighten from the pain. She wipes at the cut on his forehead, his scalp, as best she can with the edge of her scarf. She knows it will leave a stain. She does not care.

He takes her wrist to still her. “Not now. We will tend it at home.”

They go a slow pace. Two of the elders she does not know follow them out to ensure they do not break any code of the sacred wood, the rest remain behind. She thinks of Gunnar and wonders what they will do with him. She thinks of Nadir - and then of Alva. Will it pain her to see her brother so battered? Will she understand the reasons? Anna smiles grimly at that thought as Alva will no doubt understand better than Anna does herself.

Questions hang in the air, but go unspoken as always.

They stop a bit over halfway to the cabin to rest. He says it is for her since she is still recovering from her fever, but she can tell from the strain on his face that he needs it more than she. Still she does not complain. The compress of bandages he had wrapped around his calf is red with blood and she does not know if it is new blood or old blood that it had soaked off of his clothes. She hopes it is old blood.

She leans back against a tree and closes her eyes, happy to help him through stillness.  

“More snow is coming.” He says and opens her eyes. He leans heavily against a tree across from her.

“When will it come?” A safe question to keep the unsafe ones at bay.

“Soon.” He looks up to the clouds with eyes of worrisome glass. “It will be deep.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can feel it in my bones.”

She does not ask him to explain further, doesn’t know how to ask further. She looks up to the sky as he does but all she sees is gray. The clouds do not speak to her the way they speak to him.

She brings her gaze back down to find him looking at her. His eyes ask her to follow him, to trust him. She does. She will.

“The pass will close. It won’t open until spring.” His tone is leading her but she does not know where. “If anyone were to want to go south they would need to make haste or else wait till spring.”

She feels it then, his leaning, but she does not flinch away. Instead she looks at him, takes in the whole of his damage, and knows that even in a palace surrounded by walls and guards she had never been as safe as she is now with this one man.

“The south has nothing for me.” She says, holding his gaze as she speaks. “Everything I need is here.”

He presses off his tree and limps forward the few steps to where she stands. She sees his intent, realizes she has been waiting for this ever since he had embraced her in the hollow, is surprised at how her body reacts to the idea of being held by him. He does not hesitate, does not ask because he knows the answer, as he takes her face in his hands.

Her back scrapes against the bark of the tree through the layers of her clothing as his weight presses into her. The pressure could have induced panic, but instead she feels herself melt into it. That is all she has a chance to register before he clamps his mouth over hers.

She can feel the swell of his need as one of his hands leaves her face to brace on the tree behind her. She is surprised to find her own need building within her with every fervent pass of his mouth over hers. Her skin grows tight. Her thoughts pop and fade like sparks from a flame and she is unable to think of anything other than this moment.

She can taste the tang of his split lip, can feel the whole of his body trembling like a leaf in the wind, and she reaches for him with gentle hands. She avoids the places where she knows he’d taken blows, clinging to his shoulders, caressing his back until he pulls back on a breath to look down at her face.

She gazes up at him, breathless, to find him frowning. “What is it?”

“My blood -” His thumb grazes her cheek and she understands.

“- is my blood.” She finishes for him, and he huffs a grin that brings attention to the lack of color in his lips.

“We should get home.” She urges, but he looks back down at her with renewed solemnity.

“Logi.” He says on a breath and he falls onto her mouth once again as if chasing the name he had just spoken. Her thoughts of going anywhere beyond this spot evaporate on a dizzy cloud. He draws back just enough to speak against her lips. “Don’t ever ask me again to not do all I can to protect us. Please -” He kisses her again, long and urgent. “Please.” 

She is about to reply by pressing her mouth back to his, uncertain when it became so crucial to have her mouth on his, when he sways out of reach. His hand fall from her face, from where the other is braced on the tree, and she opens her eyes wide just in time to see his roll to the back of his head. Then, as a mighty oak leveled, he falls to the ground without protest.

He does not get up.

He does not move.

She chokes on a scream.

[ previous part ] [ next part ]

[ecotone99]

[MF] The House Upon The Clouds

The old man sits upon his throne of cracked beige leather that has gone sour and musty with the years he no longer cares to count. Splinters of white daylight seep through the half-drawn faux wood blinds and striate across his face, the cleansing light twinkling on his bald head and round-rimmed glasses. Squinting against it his pallid blue-veined lids go red with heat.

He turns his head to the clock on the side table which is also home to a smorgasbord of pill bottles. It reads 11:59 am. He takes three of the bottles, pops the lids and shakes a capsule from each into his hand like candy and downs them with a glass of stale water.

He sits expectantly, hands at his knees and still as a mouse among blind cats.

The clock strikes twelve.

His rotary phone shakes and rattles its piercing banshee wail with a jarring suddenness in the silence that if he were not expecting it, he might have jumped. He lets it ring a moment and takes a deep breath before picking up the receiver.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end sweet as honey and gentle as an evening breeze in the summer makes his heart race every time. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Frannie.”

“Are you ready to come visit?”

“Maybe, my girl.” the words spill from his mouth almost ritualistically, but still he trembles at them.

“This is the last time I’m going to call, Dad. I just wanted to let you know that.”

He freezes, wanting to say something, but can’t find the words, the guilt and shame a lump in his throat so big that if he were to cough it up, he’d stomp it to a mess of red pulp and phlegm and curse it.

“Dad?”

“I’m here, sweetie.”

“Okay, I have to go now.”

“Can we talk about—”

Dial tone slices through his head like an acquiescent killer, lonely and implacable. He sits listening to it, feeling it necessary to torture himself. The word “yes” escapes his lips, although too late. For twenty years he has been trapped in the purgatory of maybe, forced to walk the lonesome valley between yes and no.

A groan of age escapes his lungs as he pries himself from the chair, the leather crackling and popping as his bare arms separate themselves.

He shuffles across the laminate towards the bathroom, past the photos hung above the fireplace of children frozen in years they’ve long surpassed and sepia tintypes of family forgotten, most cracked with age as if made of glass - some even of himself in times he was alive. Past the windows where behind lies a sky so blue it might be of paper with a hole burned through with a bright yellow flame.

He walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light switch. The cold fluorescent sputters to life, painting the room an unnatural, sterile white. He steps in front of the mirror and stares at the deflated visage before him, his bald head vitreous with sweat and sunken eyes like the heads of white snails in shells of wrinkled flesh ready to slink back into their holes.

At the crown of his head he notices a single hair protruding like the shoot of some strange root vegetable. Yesterday there were two and the day before there were three. Grabbing it with his thumb and forefinger, he gives it a good tug. The hair comes out with what to anyone else might sound like a gentle pop, but to him sounds like a church bell has been rung in the seemingly empty, dusty hall of his skull.

It rings on in an endless reverberation, bouncing around his head until his body goes limp and he lies crumpled and empty on the bathroom floor, the cold linoleum burning his skin. Lying like a dog half dead and whimpering, he sleeps.

In dreams he sees the sun bright and full, its rays spreading out in a golden fan across a town through which people pass and wave hello. Houses line the streets like a checkerboard and among them, his own sits steady and unexceptional. Around the house a manicured green yard lies placid like a calm ocean and bees buzz about the flowers in the garden like frenzied satellites in orbit. On the dull grey stoop before the door to the house he sits and watches his daughter and granddaughter he’s yet to meet walk towards him on the concrete path that bisects the yard. They all smile and the granddaughter breaks free of her mothers grasp and runs towards him.

He wakes cold and coated in a thin film of sweat. Relief crashes over him like a tidal wave as if something has been found - or lost - within. He’s not sure which. Pulling himself back up with the sink, he looks in the mirror one last time and runs a hand over his snowy white bristled jaw and removes his glasses. He no longer wishes to look at old things.

Breathing heavy, he crosses back across the living room, taking care not to look at the photos again, the evening sun beating through the blinds and sketching onto the wall an aureate harp.

He opens the front door and looks down and sees only clouds like a field of blinding white cotton candy separating him and whatever lies below. The scent of them one he hasn’t smelled in years and one that can’t be described. From his pocket he takes out a quarter and drops it. It falls soundlessly through the cloud that seals itself back up as soon as it passes.

Hanging onto the doorknob, he stretches a leg out and brushes the top of the cloud with his foot. He’d pray to God not to fall if he didn’t already live where he’s said to rule. Atop the clouds there are no anachronistic castles of crystal or fountains of marble or gates of gold. No cities built with architecture of the angels or holy men in white. Only white emptiness unplumbed by man save himself.

The tides of extrication brush gently at his feet and fill the spaces between his toes and he can taste its saliferous air salty on his tongue.

Today will be the day. No more tomorrows or laters.

A strange wind blows him back into the house and he saunters over to his bedroom. He tears the sheets off of his bed and tosses them into the living room. His legs feel like they’re going to give as he walks through the kitchen and into the laundry room, but he continues on. He grabs every sheet and blanket from the laundry bin and goes to toss it into the living room. Finally, he grabs the quilt from the sofa that his daughter had sewn for him as a child and places it on the pile and gets to work.

Sitting on his knees, back hunched over, he ties the corners of each sheet and blanket to the other in a grid of colour, his daughter’s quilt in the middle. As a boy his mother had taught him to sew his own clothes after tearing them apart playing, but with his memory not being what it was, can only try his best. The needle dips and dives between each sheet like an ungraceful dolphin leaping through the air from a sea of strange colours, binding them together in an ugly patchwork Frankenstein creature.

After an hour of impatient and hurried sewing, the sun waning, he finishes and looks down upon his work, face gleaming with sweat.

What to anyone else would be thrown in the trash without second thought, he looks upon with a newfound jubilation, ready to finally be divested of all he has been.

He grabs opposite corners of the sheet and swings it back over his head and walks towards the door. Taking a deep breath he turns the knob and pushes it open and looks down at the infinite white before him, his heart beating so hard it feels like there’s a little person inside trying to burst through his chest with a mallet.

Glancing back he gets one last look at the house he’s spent his life and feels something well up in his throat. Time carries on, and so too will the house, but only for so long. A speck of dust waiting to be brushed off by the hands of a clock. But home isn’t a house, not a person, not a place. Home is in your bones.

He turns back around, swings the sheet above his head, and without looking down, jumps into the unknown.

submitted by /u/catmanslim [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2GQaCwW

[vampireadamooc]

Lecture I: The Primitive Rite Itself

1.7 - The Bond of the Covenant

Just here it may be well to emphasize the fact, that, from time immemorial, and the world over, the armlet, the bracelet, and the ring, have been counted the symbols of a boundless bond between giver and receiver; the tokens of a mutual, unending covenant. Possibly, probably, as I think, this is in consequence of the primitive custom of binding, as an amulet, the enclosed record enclosed in the "house of the amulet" 1 of the covenant of blood on the arm of either participant in that rite; possibly, again, it is an outgrowth of the common root idea of a covenant and a bracelet, as a binding agency.

Blood-covenanting and bracelet-binding seem as already shown to be intertwined in the languages of the Oriental progenitors of the race. There are, likewise, indications of this intertwining in the customs of peoples, East and West

See page 7, supra.

For example, in India, where blood-shedding is peculiarly objectionable, the gift and acceptance of a bracelet is an ancient covenant-tie, seemingly akin to blood-brotherhood. Of this custom, an Indian authority says : "Amongst the rajput races of India the women adopt a brother by the gift of a bracelet The intrinsic value of such pledges is never looked to, nor is it necessary that it should be costly, though it varies with the means and rank of the donor, and may be of flock silk and spangles, or of gold chains and gems. The acceptance of the pledge is by the 'katcJilij or corset, of simple silk or satin, or gold brocade and pearls. Colonel Tod was the Rakhi-bund Bhai [the Bracelet-bound Brother] of the three queens of Oodipur, Bundi, and Kotch; as also of Chund-Bai, the maiden sister of the Rana, and of many ladies of the chieftains of rank. Though the bracelet may be sent by maidens, it is only on occasions of urgent necessity and danger. The adopted brother may hazard his life in his adopted sister's cause, and yet never receive a mite in reward; for he cannot even see the fair object, who, as brother of her adoption, has constituted him her defender." 1

"The . . . 'Bracelet-bound Brother 'feels himself called upon to espouse the cause of the lady from whom he has received the gift, and to defend her against all her enemies, whenever she shall demand his assistance."

Cited from "Tod's Travels, Journal Indian Archipelago, Vol. V., No. 12," m Balfour's Cycl. of India, s, v., "Brother."

Thus, the Great Mogul, Hoomayoon, father of the yet more celebrated Akbar, was in his early life bound, and afterwards loyally recognized his binding, as "the sworn knight of one of the princesses of Rajasthan, who, according to the custom of her country, secured the sword of the prince in her service by the gift of a bracelet "When he had a throne of his own to care for, this princess, Kurnivati, being besieged at Cheetore, sent to Hoomayoon, then prosecuting a vigorous campaign in Bengal; and he, as in duty bound, "instantly obeyed the summons"; and although he was not in season to rescue her, he "evinced his fidelity by avenging the fall of the city." 1 It is noteworthy, just here, that the Oriental biographer of the Mogul Akbar calls attention to the fact, that while the Persians describe close friendship as chiefly subsisting between men, "in Hindostan it is celebrated between man and woman"; 2 as, indeed, it is among the Arab tribes east of the Jordan. 3

In the Norseland, an oath of fidelity was taken on a ring, or a bracelet, kept in the temple of the gods; and the gift and acceptance of a bracelet, or a ring, was a common symbol of a covenant of fidelity.

See Elliott and Roberta's Views in India, II., 64.

Ayeen Akbery, II., 453.

See citation from Wetzstein, at page 9 f., supra.

Thus, in "Havamal," the high song of Odin, we find: "Odin, I believe, A ring-oath gave. Who in his faith will trust?" And in "Viga Glum's Saga," it is related: "In the midst of a wedding party, Glum calls upon Thorarin, his accuser, to hear his oath, and taking in his hand a silver ring which had been dipped in sacrificial blood, he cites two witnesses to testify to his oath on the ring, and to his having appealed to the gods in his denial of the charge made against him." In the "Saga of Fridthjof the Bold.' when Fridthjof is bidding farewell to his beloved Ingeborg, he covenants fidelity to her by the gift of

"An arm-ring, all over famous; Forged by the halting Volund, 'twas, the old North-story's Vulcan. . . Heaven was grav'd thereupon, with the twelve immortals' strong castles Signs of the changing months, but the skald had Sun-houses named them." As Fridthjof gave this pledge to Ingeborg, he said: "Forget me never; and, In sweet remembiance of our youthful love, This arm-ring take; a fail Volunder-work, With all heaven's wonders carved i' th' shining gold. Ah! the best wonder is a faithful heart . . . How prettily becomes it thy white arm A glow-worm twining round a lily stem."

And the subsequent story of that covenanting arm-ring, fills thrilling pages in Norseland lore. 1 Yet again, in the German cycle of the "Nibelungen Lied," Gotelind, the wife of Sir Rudeger, gives bracelets to the warrior-bard Folker, to bind him as her knightly champion in the court of King Etzel, to which he goes. Her jewel casket is brought to her. "From this she took twelve bracelets, and drew them o'er his hand; 'These you must take, and with you bear hence to Etzel's land, And for the sake of Gotelind the same at court must wear, That I may learn, when hither again you all repair, What service you have done me in yon assembly bright.' The lady's wish thereafter full well performed the knight."

And when the fight waxed sore at the court of Etzel, the daring and dying Folker called on Sir Rudeger to bear witness to his bracelet-bound fidelity: "For me, most noble margrave! you must a message bear; These bracelets red were given me late by your lady fair, To wear at this high festal before the royal Hun. View them thyself, and tell her that I've her bidding done." 2

It would, indeed, seem, that from this root-idea of the binding force of an endless covenant, symbolized in the form, and in the primitive name, of the bracelet, the armlet, the ring, there has come down to us the use of the wedding-ring, or the wedding-bracelet, and of the signet-ring as the seal of the most sacred covenants.

See Anderson's Norse Mytho, p. 149; his Viking Tales, pp. 184, 237, 272 f.; Wood's Wedding Day in all Ages and Countries, p. 139.

Lettsom's Nibelungen Lied, pp. 299, 388.

The signet-ring appears in earliest history. When Pharaoh would exalt Joseph over all the land of Egypt, "Pharaoh took off his ring from his hand, and put it upon Joseph's hand." 1

Similarly with Ahasuerus and Haman: "The king took his ring from his hand, and gave it unto Haman; "and the irrevocable decrees when written were " sealed with the king's ring." When again Haman was deposed and Mordecai was exalted, "the king took off his ring, which he had taken from Haman, and gave it unto Mordecai." 2 The re-instatement of the prodigal son, in the parable, was by putting" a ring on his hand." 3 And these illustrations out of ancient Egypt, Persia, and Syria, indicate a world-wide custom, so far. One's signet ring stood for his very self, and represented, thus, his blood, as his life.

The use of rings, or bracelets, or armlets, in the covenant of betrothal, or of marriage, is from of old, and it is of wide-spread acceptance. 4 References to it are cited from Pliny, Tertullian, Juvenal, Isidore; and traces of it are found, earlier or later, among the peoples of Asia, Africa, Europe, and the Islands of the Sea. In Iceland, the covenanting-ring was large enough for the palm of the hand to be passed through; so, in betrothal "the bridegroom passed four fingers and his palm through one of these rings, and in this manner he received the hand of the bride."

Gen. 41:41-42.

Esther 3:10-I2 ; 8:2.

Luke 15:22.

See Wood's Wedding Day, also Jones's Finger Ring Lore.

In Ireland, long ago, "a usual gift from a woman to her betrothed husband was a pair of bracelets made of her own hair"; as if a portion of her very self as in the case of one's blood entered into the covenant rite. Again in Ireland, as also among the old Romans, the wedding-ring was in the form of two hands clasped (called a "fede") in token of union and fidelity. Sometimes, in England, the wedding-ring was worn upon the thumb, as extant portraits illustrate; and as suggested in Butler's Hudibras: "Others were for abolishing That tool of matrimony, a ring, With which the unsanctify'd bridegroom Is marry'd only to a thumb."

In Southern's "Maid's Last Prayer," the heroine says: "Marry him I must, and wear my wedding-ring upon my thumb too, that I'm resolved." l These thumb-weddings were said to be introduced from the East 2; and Chardin reports a form of marriage in Ceylon, by the binding together of the thumbs of the contracting parties; 3 as, according to the classics, the thumbs were bound together in the rite of blood-covenanting. 4 Indeed, the selection of the ring-finger for the wedding-covenant has commonly been attributed to the relation of that finger to the heart as the bloodcentre, and as the seat of life.

Cited in Jones's Finger Ring Lore, p. 289.

See Ibid., pp. 87-90.

Persian-und Ost-Indische Reise, II., 1 96.

See pp. 59 f., 62, supra.

"Aulus Gellius tells us, that Appianus asserts, in his Egyptian books, that a very delicate nerve runs from the fourth finger of the left hand to the heart, on which account this finger is used for the marriage-ring" Macrobius says that in Roman espousals the woman put the covenant ring "on the third finger of her left hand [not counting the thumb], because it was believed that a nerve ran from that finger to the heart" And as to the significance of this point, it has been said: "The fact [of the nerve connection with the heart] has nothing to do with the question: that the ancients believed it, is all we require to know." 1

Among the Copts of Egypt, both the blood and the ring have their part in the covenant of marriage. Two rings are employed, one for the bride and one for the bridegroom. At the door of the bridegroom's house, as the bride approaches it, a lamb or a sheep is slaughtered; and the bride must have a care to step over the covenanting-blood as she enters the door, to join the bridegroom. It is after this ceremony, that the two contracting parties exchange the rings, which are as the tokens of the covenant of blood.2

See Godwyn's Romana Historia, p 69; Biewer's Dict. of Phraseand Fable, s. vv "Ring,""

Ring Finger"; Jones's Finger Ring Lore, p. 275. See also Appendix, infra.

Lane's Mod. Egypt II., 293

In Borneo, among the Tring Dayaks, the marriage ceremony includes the smearing with a bloody sword, the clasped hands of the bride and groom, in conjunction with an invoking of the protecting spirits. 1 In this case, the wedding-ring would seem to be a bond of blood.

Again, in Little Russia, the bride gives to the bridegroom a covenanting draught in "a cup of wine, in which a ring has been put"; 2 as if in that case the wine and the blood-bond of the covenant were commingled in a true assiratum? That this latter custom is an ancient one, would seem to be indicated by the indirect reference to it in Sir Walter Scott's ballad of "The Noble Moringer," a mediaeval lay where the long absent knight returns from the Holy Land just in time to be at the wedding-feast of his enticed wife. He appears unrecognized at the feast, as a poor palmer. A cup of wine is sent to him by the bride. "It was the noble Moringer that dropped amid the wine A bridal nng of burning gold so costly and so fine: Now hsten, gentles, to my song, it tells you but the sooth, 'Twos with that very ring of gold he pledged his bridal truth."

Clearly this was not the ring he gave at his bridal, but the one which he accepted, in the covenanting-cup, from his bride. The cup was carried back from the - palmer to the bride, for her drinking.

See Bock's Head Hnters of Borneo, p. 221 f.

Finger Ring Lore, p. 174 3

See page 63 f., supra.

"The ring hath caught the Lady's eye; she views it close and near; Then might you hear her shriek aloud, 'The Mormger is here! 'Then might you see her stait from seat, while teais in toirents fell; But whether 'twas fiom joy or woe, the ladies best can tell."

To the present day, an important ceremony at the coronation of a sovereign of Great Britain, is the investiture of the sovereign per anmdwn, or " by the ring." The ring is placed on the fourth finger of the sovereign's right hand, by the Archbishop of Canterbury; and it is called" The Wedding Ring of England,"as it symbolizes the covenant union of the sovereign and his people. A similar practice prevails at the coronation of European sovereigns generally. It also runs back to the days of the early Roman emperors, and of Alexander the Great.1

That a ring, or a circlet, worn around a thumb, or a finger, or an arm, in token of an endless covenant between its giver and receiver, has been looked upon, in all ages, as the symbol of an inter-union of the lives thereby brought together, is unmistakable; whether the covenanting life-blood be drawn for such inter-commingling, directly from the member so encircled, or not. The very covenant itself, or its binding force, has been sometimes thought to depend on the circlet representing it ; as if the life which was pledged passed into the token of its pledging. Thus Lord

See Finger Ring Lore, pp. 177-197.

Bacon says: "It is supposed [to be] a help to the continuance of love, to wear a ring or bracelet of the person beloved;" 1 and he suggests that "a trial should be made by two persons, of the effect of compact and agreement ; that a ring should be put on for each other's sake, to try whether, if one should break his promise the other would have any feeling of it in his absence." In other words, that the test should be made, to see whether the inter-union of lives symbolized by the covenant-token be a reality. On this idea it is, that many persons are unwilling to remove the wedding-ring from the finger, while the compact holds.2

It is not improbable, indeed, that the armlets, or bracelets, which were found on the arms of Oriental kings, and of Oriental divinities as well, were intended to indicate, or to symbolize, the personal inter-union claimed to exist between those kings and divinities. Thus an armlet worn by Thotmes III. is preserved in the museum at Leyden. It bears the cartouche of the King, having on it his sacred name, with its reference to his inter-union with his god. It was much the same in Nineveh.3 Lane says, that upon the seal ring commonly worn by the modern Egyptian" is engraved the wearer's name,"

Cited in Jones's Credulities Past and Present, p. 204 f.

See Appendix.

See Wilkinson's Anc. Egypt., IL, 340-343 ; Layard's Nineveh and its Remains, II., 250, 358; also 2 Sam. 1:10.

and that this name "is usually accompanied by the words 'His servant'(signifying 'the servant, or worshiper of God*), and often by other words expressive of the person's trust in God." 1 As the token of the blood-covenant is sometimes fastened about the arm, and sometimes about the neck; so the encircling necklace, as well as the encircling armlet, is sometimes counted the symbol of a covenant of very life. This is peculiarly the case in India; where the bracelet-brotherhood has been shown to be an apparent equivalent of the blood-brotherhood. Among the folk-lore stories of India, it is a common thing to hear of a necklace which holds the soul of the wearer. That necklace removed, the wearer dies. That necklace restored, the wearer lives again. "Sodewa Bai was born with a golden necklace about her neck, concerning which also her parents consulted astrologers, who said, 'This is no common child ; the necklace of gold about her neck contains your daughter'ssoul; let it therefore be guarded with the utmost care; for if it were taken off, and worn by another person, she would die." On that necklace of life, the story hangs. The necklace was stolen by a servant, and Sodewa Bai died. Being placed in a canopied tomb, she revived, night by night, when the servant laid off the stolen necklace which contained the soul of Sodewa Bai. 

Modern Egyptians, I, 39.

The loss was at last discovered by her husband; the necklace was restored to her, and she lived again. 1 And this is but one story of many.

In the Brahman marriage ceremony the bridegroom receives his bride by binding a covenanting necklace about her neck." A small ornament of gold, called tahly, which 13 the sign of their being actually in the state of marriage, ... is fastened by a short string dyed yellow with saffron" 2 And a Sanskrit word for "saffron" is also a word for "blood." 3

The importance of this symbolism of the token of the blood-covenant, in its bearing on the root-idea of an inter-union of natures by an inter-commingling of blood, will be more clearly shown by and by.

Frere's Old Deccan Days, pp. 225-245.

Dubois' of Man and Cust, of India, Part II , chap. 7.

See p. 194, infra.

[carryoncrows-blog1]

Chapter One - Culmination

When it’s dark and everyone in the world has gone to sleep, we go to Michael’s garage.  We can play the music loud and smoke in peace because it’s disconnected from the house.  Rolling up in Tyler’s Toyota, I can already hear Kendrick rapping just under the sound of laughing.  The two of us hop out.  I’m cradling the fifth I just stole from Safeway, and I take a swig as I walk to the door.  Before I can grab the knob the door swings open.  Evan appears and he looks like he’s been doing coke.  His sandy blonde hair hangs in his eyes which I’m sure are dilated to the size of plates.  I’m sure of it when he opens his mouth, talking faster and more incoherently even than usual. “We got it, man, we fucking got it.  You’re not gonna believe it, man.  We fucking got a whole pound of the stuff.  You gotta see it, man.  Come on in, come on in.”

I can only guess at what he’s blabbering on about, and my guess is that somebody got their hands on Dasline.  My heart beats faster, and I start to feel a bit like Evan looks.  We step into the garage and see Brandon holding the biggest bag of Dasline powder I’ve ever set my eyes upon.  He’s already busy pouring the contents into a bowl over a scale while Jason and Michael portion out the Scorchlyre root and Indranium sap we’ve been gathering for the past three months.  I feel as though the final jigsaw piece is falling into place.  I feel as though the secret to life is finally within my grasp.  I can hardly keep the smile off my face as I put down the fifth and take my spot on the couch.  Tyler and Evan follow suit.

“Which one of you fucks do I have to beat off for finding this good shit?” I ask with a grin now plastered on my face.

Brandon gives me a modest smile.  “That would be me, and in all honestly a high five would do just fine.”

I reach out my hand and as he slaps it I ask the obvious question.  “How in the fuck did you find a hookup in November?”

I can tell Brandon is just as surprised with his luck as I am.  “Literally just walked into a party at Emily’s tonight where these dudes were sporting blue and asked if I could buy”

“What’s the damage?” I ask

“Five hundred fucking dollars,” he inhales, “Dasline though.”

I grimace a little at that.  “Yea shit doesn’t come cheap.”

“We already pitched seventy-five each so you boys gotta throw too,” Michael interjects.

“Hold on,” Tyler responds, “let’s see if this shit even gets us blue first,”

I hold my hands up.  “Yea man, I don’t see a single person here who passed chemistry last year so let’s not nut quite yet,”  

“Dude, I’m a low-key Erowid admin,” Evan says, “I’ve got this shit on lock.”

“What are you talking about?  You’ve just been smoking while we do all the work, ya dingus,” laughs Brandon as he finishes tipping Dasline into the bowl up to five ounces, “all right, boys, we all set here.”

“I’ve been ready, homie,” Jason says with an upward inflection to his voice.  “Michael’s the one taking his sweet ass time.”

“This is fucking sap I’m working with here, man, give me a break,” Michael replies as he slowly scrapes the sap from the tin we collected in into a measuring cup.  

“Here man let me do this shit; I’m finna light a blunt with my fingers right now,” says Brandon impatiently.

“No, no, I’ve got it.  Three cups ready to go,”  says Michael.

“All right, now we’re talking!” I nearly yell, “I’ll go boil the water.”

“Already been taken care of, Coop,” says Michael, “the stove out back has been going for the past ten minutes.”

I laugh hard.  A real laugh which reverberates through the room.  We all head out the door and around the corner.  It’s a cloudless California night.  Even at the end of fall we can stand around the stove with just our sweaters as the full moon lights our work.  From the open door I can hear Tyler rapping on the gritty “Yonkers” beat.  It feels to me like the perfect ambiance for some alchemy.

“All right, three cups sap,” says Jason, scraping the milky orange substance into the pot and stirs with a mixing spoon.  We all watch intently as the glob dissolves into the bubbling water, turning it the color of dehydrated piss.

“Twelve ounces of Scorchlyre root,” continues Michael as he adds a mason jar of deep red chopped roots to the concoction.  The water instantly takes the hue of the root, surprising me although I’ve read the recipe at least a hundred times.  

“And five ounces dasline powder,” Brandon says with an air of finality to his voice.

The bubbling ceases for a moment.  The world ceases turning for a moment.  The six of us are held in breathless anticipation.  We dare not look at one another as if the Dasline powder would fail to bind with the previous two substances if we were to look away from the pot.  Then it happens.  All of a sudden the liquid begins bubbling ferociously, spilling fiery red liquid over the edges of the pot.

Evan yelps.  “Turn it down! turn it down!”

Three of us reach and Brandon is the one to turn the dial, scorch potion splattering over his hand and sweater.  He screams out, every curse word he knows cascading from his mouth.  The stillness of the night is broken.  A light is on in the main house.  Michael’s parents are awake.

A moment of breathless indecision as we all watch Brandon writhe on his hands and knees, potion eating through his black sweater.  His hand is red and blistering.

We-we gotta move it.” I stammer, looking around at my accomplices

Evan turns to me.  “What about Brandon?”  His eyes are wider than earlier in the evening.  His face is more red than our potion.

I continue to stammer.  “He-he’ll be fine, let’s just get it all inside,”

The guys look at each other and Jason finally picks up the pot which has curiously simmered down and walks it carefully inside.  Tyler follows behind him.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” I notice Michael saying under his breath as he runs his fingers through his hair.

I pick up Brandon by his good arm and tell him to walk.

Fuck you man, look at my fucking hand!”  He throws it up to my face and I see the white of bone showing through his scalded skin.

I reel back and feel my insides go cold.  At a loss for words, I gape at the horrific sight.

“What the hell is going on out here?” a voice calls out from the side of the main house.

Michael seems to have regained his composure a little bit.  “Dad, don’t worry, it’s all good,”

“Who’s been screaming?” Mr. Pewter steps around the corner and sees the disturbing scene we’ve created.  In the dim light I can almost make out his severe expression.

It takes a moment for Mr. Pewter to mentally register what he’s looking at.  “Oh my god,” he runs over to Brandon.  “Are you okay?”

Brandon looks at the thirty-something year old man like he’s about half his own age, :you can see my fucking bone.  No I’m not okay.”

Mr. Pewter’s voice has an edge of anger to it.  “We need to get you to the hospital.”

At hearing the “H” word I look at Michael and shake my head.  I thought that might be what his dad would say and knew it would be a disaster.  Hospital meant authorities.  Authorities and our crew don’t mix well.

“Dad, I don’t think that’s nec-”

Mr. Pewter doesn’t even let his son finish, “what’s necessary is that we get Brandon medical attention.  I don’t know what you boys were fucking around with this time, but I’m guessing it was alchemy which means that Brandon could lose his hand if it goes untreated.

At the words “lose hand” Brandon groans.  “Please just take me to a hospital.”

My teeth are clenching.  Michael has gone quiet.  Evan’s pacing back and forth on his phone.

“Okay, take him to the hospital,” I finally say.

“I don’t need your approval,” says Mr. Pewter with heat in his voice, “I know you’re the one who set this whole thing up, and when the cops ask me who to talk to I’m giving your name.”

I swallow hard.  Before I can retort, he’s putting his hand on Brandon’s shoulder.  “Come on, Brandon, can you walk?”

Brandon nods slowly and they make their way to Mr. Pewter’s Lexus.

“I need a fucking drink,” I say to no one in particular and make my way inside.

[raddest-laddest]

so the way i named white lady, i basically counted how many times her bandages wrapped around her, and used that to come up with “twelve bindings upon white root.”

i could do the same thing with unn, i just gotta pick something to count