#ars is out here being Terrified of being known but also Longing to be understood

[silvery-bluish]

My poor old brain is trying to remember numbers you’ve not answered 😂, so how about 10, 14, 17 & 19 for Ars for the asks?

Questions from here!!

I do the same thing every time someone else is playing one of these games 😂

Thank you for the ask though Ginger!!

10. What scares them about entering a relationship?

Being Known is terrifying. Being known by someone they care about is Really Fucking Scary bc they don’t think they’re going to measure up, or the next secret revealed will be the breaking point. Having something defined and then having that taken from them would. Really fuck them up.

They also don’t. Hm. They don’t really expect to have a future? So it feels kinda unfair to ask someone to get invested in the potential of one with them.

14. What makes them feel loved? Would they build up the courage to ask for it?

They're gonna Directly Contradict Themself here because it's-- feeling like they're seen and understood? Feeling like they're known and cared for even when they're seen as a whole. When people remember little details about them-- Danny's Big Speech got them Real Good even if they were panicking about their brilliant plan to chase him off didn't work. On a more minor level, they find themself Unreasonably Pleased when somebody remembers their drink order, or does something to angle them out of sight without them asking or doing it themself.

It's something they'd struggle to verbalize in that way?? But it's uh. They're going to be dumping various secrets directly onto Daniel and Ricardo until one of them is a step too many so they're moving towards it in That way I suppose. There's also a uuh non-zero amount of them going (? me?? you were thinking abt me??? 😳) that they only manage to cover so much LOL.

17. Under what circumstances would they want to be left alone by their partner?

M. Most circumstances they at least ACT like they want to be left alone. But there's the baseline level of prickliness that you just sort of have to roll past with them, lol. Situations they actually Want to be left alone in are more along the lines of if they've been injured, a lot of the time -- they flight reflexed HARD on Ricardo after getting punched by Owl -- or if they're emotionally overwhelmed, sometimes. It would've gone Poorly if Ortega had tried to chase them down while they were ghosting him post Psychopathor kiss.

There's some Variance to it, too, which is probably Very Inconvenient for all parties involved. Sometimes Arsinoe wants to be chased, actually!! They can't always tell which is which. Hopefully Ricardo and Danny can figure it out. Good luck everybody.

19. Are they okay with public displays of affection? Do they like them?

Answered here!

[sharinluna]

Chapter 21 Translation Part 2

Chapter 19

Chapter 19.5

Chapter 20

Chapter 21 Translation Part 1

I skip parts and paraphrase a lot when I translate. So that I could let the players enjoy the complete original translated text by themselves when the chapters are released. This is just to give you a small taste of what is going to happen.

Also, I didn’t have time to quality check so bear that in mind.

Trigger Warning: This chapter includes actions that reminds of real-life relationship abuse, physical violence, and near-death experience.

Because of yesterday’s explosion, few people were out on the streets. There were feelings of dreariness in the air. The protestors at the front of Lucien’s Research Institute didn’t come out today as well. But the door to the institute still remained firmly locked, barricading the building from visitors.

I went in using the back door again. Once inside, I pulled my hat over my eyes and grasped the recorder pen hidden in my pockets. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on Lucien’s door.

I waited for a long time but there was no answer. I heard footsteps approaching me and turned around to see a young professor wearing a lab coat. He looked at me standing in front of Lucien’s office quizzically, with a bit of doubt in his eyes.

Young professor: What are you doing here? Professor Lucien is not here today.

I tried to explain myself.

Yōurán: I’m not here for an interview. I’m here to see Professor Lucien on personal business. Can you tell me where he is right now?

Young professor: You’re really not here for news?

He looked me up and down as if he still didn’t believe me but after a bit of hesitation he opened his mouth to answer.

Young professor: Professor Lucien has not returned to the lab since he left the office yesterday. I don’t know where he is.

Yōurán: Thank you.

I felt disappointed and at a loss for what to do next. Did Lucien leave right after I visited him? Where did he go then?

I stopped the world from ending with my death, but did I also stop the flu outbreak and Black Swan’s plans?

Was yesterday’s explosion just an accident, or was it done by an Evolver like the rumors on the Internet?

My thoughts landed on my precognition Evol. If I could see Lucien’s future, I would know his next target. I closed my eyes and repeatedly thought the one name in my head – Lucien – willing myself to see his future.

My firm resolution drew out a certain power that was flowing in my veins. Silent darkness covered my vision for a while. Soon, a greyscale light tore out the darkness to reveal a faint image.

???: Kill her.

I could hear a familiar cold voice.

In a dark, deserted place, a man wearing black was standing in the only light. The looks on his face was sharper than knives.

In front of him stood someone whose back was hunched down in pain. It was too blurry to see who it was, but the person somehow felt familiar.

Yōurán: Who is that?

Before I could see them clearly, the vision shook and abruptly ended. Simultaneously an awful migraine came over me. I had to grit my teeth to not cry out in pain.

I recalled the vision in my head. The desolate building looked familiar. It was the address of Ultima Bioresearch Institute’s old location where I once went with Lucien(The abandoned lab in chapter 13). Why did it have to be that place again? It seemed that everywhere I went it was connected to Black Swan.

Father once wrote in his report about KEY. He wrote that World Genetics Organization established Ultima Bioresearch Institute 70 years ago, and Loveland branch was established 20 years ago. 17 years ago, KEY attacked the server of the Institute. The incident affected the genetic data of humankind, leading to a huge impact.

So there was nothing useful left in there. Why would Lucien feel the need to go there again? Was there something I missed? I couldn’t think of a reason why he would go there. But thinking about what happened 17 years ago made me solemn. There must be a good reason why Lucien went there.

****************************************************

For the second time I visited the old location of Ultima Bioresearch Institute. Things looked the same as last time.

On the snow in the vacant lot were footsteps leading into the deserted building. I slowed to a walk and started to place my steps on the already existing footsteps. Steadily heading towards the building.

The door to the institute was unlocked. And there were signs of people shaking off snow on the entrance.

I heard sounds of something shattering and talking voices. I tiptoed toward the noise. As I went closer, I could make out Lucien’s voice among them. The silence was suddenly interrupted by a piercing scream.

The scream shook me and I accidentally stepped on something, and the sound was quite loud.

??: Who’s there!

A pair of sharp eyes spotted me immediately. Darn it.

Beyond the half-opened door I could see everything inside the room. Lucien was standing next to the window, looking eerily cold like someone who had no temperature. Closer to me was a woman wearing black. The one who had just shouted was her. Her expressionless grey eyes brought out a sense of terror from my memory. What was she doing here?!

Staying on alert, I looked at the female member of Black Swan that I had once encountered in the TV tower. She was more dangerous than most of the other Evolvers I had met.

She had easily overpowered a man who was crouched on the floor. His face was contorted and his eyes had no focus. His mouth was mumbling something senseless. I tried to hear what he was saying, and felt a chill when I understood his words.

Man: EVILS should all die…. You should all die…

He stopped talking when she punched him into unconsciousness as if she was annoyed. Then she stood up and looked straight at me.

Artemis: Well, now that you’ve seen us, we can’t let you go free then.

She narrowed her eyes. Dangerous energy seemed to flow from her eyes.

I wanted to immediately run away but she was quicker than me. Quick as a flash a suffocating grey fog swooped down on me. Even before the ash came into contact I felt my skin burning. I shouted out in pain as I felt death approach me.

Lucien: Stop.

Lucien spoke coldly but to me it sounded like a rescue spell. The grey ash that was about to swallow me up suddenly disappeared.

Artemis: She saw everything. Can we afford to let her slip?

Artemis wasn’t so keen to let me go. I looked between her and Lucien, desperately thinking of a way out of this.

Lucien continued to stare at me blankly. I couldn’t read what he was thinking from his eyes. I waited for his verdict like a prisoner waiting for their death sentence.

Lucien: Leave it to me.

I looked at Lucien. He looked so familiar, but yet so strange to me. Was he going to kill me in person? Or was he going to let me go?

Lucien: First, get that one out of here. Artemis.

Lucien eyed the unconscious man on the floor. Artemis nodded after a moment.

Artemis: Don’t ruin our plan, Ares.

She soon disappeared with the man. There was only me and Lucien now.

I opened my mouth. There were so many things I wanted to ask him but the one that had been most weighing on my mind popped out.

Yōurán: Why did you save me?

Feelings of danger still remained but I forced myself to look at him. His cold indifference made me feel like I was someone insignificant.

Lucien: Spontaneous decisions likely end in failures. But you might still be useful.

He said matter-of-factly. And the truth hurt so much.

Yōurán: So I’m just a test subject to you…

What was I hoping for, that he would still care for me? What was I waiting for him to say? Words of assurance? But Lucien shattered my foolish hopes at once.

Lucien: What else are you supposed to be then?

When he was not smiling like this, it was easy to feel terrified of him. I thought I could face it, but my heart still hurt to see him like this.

It seemed that I had never known him for real, whether he was Lucien, or Ares

Lucien: By the way, I’m curious how you came to be here.

Yōurán: I…

I had thought up an excuse, but I felt I could not trick his penetrating stare. Avoiding his eyes I asked back.

Yōurán: Why are you here then? This is where the Ultima Bioresearch used to be, not a place for casual meetings. If I spread the news that Professor Lucien was seen here, I’m sure many people would take an interest, right?

In his eyes flashed a look of surprise. He moved to the spot where the young man used to be, there was still blood in that spot.

Lucien: So that is what you want.

Yōurán: What do you mean…?

I looked at him not understanding his words and actions.

Lucien: 17 years ago, the server of Ultima Bioresearch was attacked by a hacker and massive amounts of genetic data were leaked. Among them there were data about Evol genes, and also information about the only person who had the Queen’s genes.

I stood thunderstruck hearing his words. Lucien, Artemis, and the man they had captured, was here because of the leaked data. Everything was still confusing, but I was certain that my speculation was right. They were looking for the Queen.

Yōurán: But didn’t all the data and information got destroyed?

There was anxiety and panic in my voice. I looked at Lucien desperately.

Lucien: I suppose you could think that.

The shadows in his eyes grew deeper as he answered my question vaguely.

Yōurán: Why… are you telling me this?

Lucien: Because you know more than I thought.

Half of his body was covered in shadows, the other half was covered in light. He walked closer to me step by step. His dark eyes emitted out a cold light.

Lucien: I’ve noticed this since the last time we met but…

His lips formed a bizarre smile. A smile that was cold, ruthless and extremely foreign.

Lucien: …why are you so sure that I won’t harm you?

As soon as he finished the sentence, a big shadow swooped down on me. Before I could react, my neck was being strangled by a brute force I could not escape.

He was so close to me our bodies were touching each other. In the eyes of a bystander, it would look like we were having a lover’s embrace. But his hands were suffocating my neck harder and harder.

I struggled to get out of his lethal grasp, but an invisible layer was restraining my body, leaving me unable to move.

His dark eyes held no emotion and no hesitation. They just quietly watched me painfully dying.

Yōurán: P- please let me go.

Tears flowed from my eyes, not out of sadness or fear, but as a pure physiological response from my body. My vision became blurry as I slowly choked to death, but I could see Lucien’s face clearly. There was no mercy, no pity in there. Only malice and cruelty.

Lucien: I already let you go once.

Yōurán: Why… why…?

I fell into despair as I saw that Lucien was trying to kill me for real. My sadness was inexpressible, and my brain fought to stay conscious.

Would I die? In front of my eyes I could see warm, white light but I wasn’t glad at all.

I don’t want to die yet. There were so many things left for me to do. I just came back here to this word…

Yōurán: No…

The light became bigger and bigger. In a pure white visual field there appeared numerous twisted black lines, constantly changing and fluctuating like error messages. The waves that I had felt once appeared again. Transparent patterns flared out forming concentric circles, spurting golden light.

If this was the power of my Evol…

A hole appeared in the invisible layer around me, and the strong force that was constraining me lessened.

I opened my eyes wide. I wanted to look directly into his eyes. With effort, I slowly raised my hand and grabbed his wrist. In a hoarse voice I whispered.

Yōurán: It can’t end…. like this….!

Suddenly, the restraint vanished and the hand strangling my neck let me go. Unprepared for this sudden change of actions I staggered and barely kept myself from falling. I breathed in the icy cold air and my lungs felt like burning. My chest hurt but the pain made me glad that I was not dead.

Lucien: You are the Queen of Black Swan.

I pulled my head up and faced him. Lucien was a few steps away from me and smiled in a cryptic way. The ruthlessness in his smile was bone-chilling.

Without the time we spent together. If the person in front of me had been Ares from the start and had only been Ares. If the Lucien that I had come to know hadn’t existed at all… then this man was more dangerous than anything I had ever faced.

Yōurán: I am not your Queen. I never was!

I met his gaze fiercely.

Yōurán: I’m not your lab rat that you can strap onto a med table and do your experiment on. And I certainly cannot be a reason that justifies the harm that you’re inflicting to people!

Lucien: You’re wrong.

Lucien put his hands in his coat pocket. There was no qualm in his heartless expression. And he seemed unfazed by my resistance.

Lucien: Evolution is necessary and Queen’s genes is just a way to a shortcut. Even without your input, we would still go for the same destination.

His words were candid and brutal. All the monstrosities I’d experienced in the past appeared in front of my eyes.

The sudden influenza virus was made by Black Swan to force people into evolution. But few people survived the attempt and the rest of them died in excruciating pain.

I clenched my fists and my eyes turned red. I can never forgive such a thing.

Yōurán: So it’s necessary that millions of people be sacrificed for your grand plan?

Lucien: New world and new order has always been founded on brutal realities. There has been no exception. Humankind’s evolution will never stop. If you fall behind, only death will wait for you.

It wasn’t surprising to hear him say these things. So why did I feel heartbroken?

Lucien: Evolvers are born out of a chance of thousands to one or millions to one. But there is only one Queen. Your genes can evolve ordinary people. Don’t you want to know the reason?

There was incomprehensible fervor in his eyes as he asked me that.

Yōurán: I don’t want to know…

I shook my head, refusing to hear the answer. But Lucien didn’t let me have that.

Lucien: Queen, by itself, is the height of natural evolution. If humans are the product of nature’s creation, Queen is a creation that ‘cannot exist.’

Yōurán: What do you mean by ‘cannot exist’….?

Lucien: The English scientist who first studied Evols called it “a pioneering creation”

There were deep meanings in his words that I couldn’t understand at all.

Lucien: It would be beneficial to us to cooperate with the Queen, but right now you are too weak, too insignificant and… entirely out of control.

The air around us hardened again. It felt like an invisible wall had separated us from the real world.

The danger was not gone yet. This time his expression was more serious, as if determined that he would not let me go this time. The depth of his eyes swallowed all light like a vortex from an abyss.

Trying to keep my intentions hidden, I calmly thought of a way to distract him.

Yōurán: Lucien! What are you trying to do?!

Lucien: Why, hold you captive of course, or…

He suddenly stopped talking.

Unseen rift expanded in the air, silently battling against another invisible force. I suppressed my dizziness and concentrated. Twisted white beams and black lines ceaselessly thrashed and drove out his power.

I unclenched my sweaty fists. It was a wild shot in the dark but I had succeeded.

Lucien: I didn’t know that you could do this.

Yōurán: …I just figured it out myself.

My voice was still hoarse from his strangling.

Yōurán: Ares, I will prove that you and your Black Swan’s doings are all wrong.

I wasn’t sure how long I could keep him constrained with my inexperienced Evol. With staggering steps I ran outside.

*********************************

Lucien watched her go further away from him. After a while he laughed quietly and dissolved her powers that was restraining him with ease.

Lucien: Let’s see how far you can reach.

He stood by the window and watched her struggle to run in the snow.

Suddenly, her form, which had been grey like everything else in his vision, suddenly tinged with vivid colors before it turned back to familiar darkness. But the colors still remained lucid in his retina.

His hand that had strangled her started to shake involuntarily, but he soon suppressed it with his reason.

Lucien: This won’t last long.

It wasn’t sure whether he was talking to himself or someone else.

Discussion

Why did I start this... ch21 is so tough to translate... I’m not sure I can come up with part 3 and part 4 of this chapter...

We now uncovered another aspect of Yōurán’s Evol. And honestly the descriptions are very abstract. I felt like I was reading a geometry book when I was reading about her powers.

1. Precognition(She can now use this power somewhat proactively)

2. Evolving other people(I think this has more to do with her Queen gene and not something she can control it.)

3. Invisible force(???)

She used this new power for the first time in chapter 20 when Helios was threatening her with a knife.

Suddenly, it seemed like time had stopped and my line of sight was bombarded with blinding white light. My soul was inside a pure-white space. In front of my eyes numerous black lines appeared forming unfathomable patterns. I reached out for those black lines. From the depths within my soul came out waves that passed from my fingertips and converted into soft lights that divided the shadows.

For a fleeting moment of 1/1000 second his powers restraining me vanished. I didn’t miss the chance and managed back off and escape from the blade at my throat.

I wasn’t sure but, it seemed like my consciousness had escaped the corporate reality for a short moment.

She used her powers again when Lucien was trying to kill her.

In front of my eyes I could see warm, white light. The light became bigger and bigger. In a pure white visual field there appeared numerous twisted black lines, constantly changing and fluctuating like error messages. 

The waves that I had felt once appeared again. Transparent patterns flared out forming concentric circles, spurting golden light. A hole appeared in the invisible layer around me, and the strong force that was constraining me lessened.

Unseen rift expanded in the air, silently battling against another invisible force. I suppressed my dizziness and concentrated. Twisted white beams and black lines ceaselessly thrashed and drove out his power.

Let’s try to figure out her new powers.

1. This ability manifests itself when she is constrained and unable to move in life-threatening situations(Helios about to stab her with his knife/Lucien choking her to death.)

2. Her mind goes to a place where there is a white light. She described that her consciousness seemed to have escaped reality.(My guess is that her mind came to contact with Black Cabin for a fleeting moment.)

3. Numerous black lines appears and fluctuates into waves and patterns.

4. She is able to shake away the powers that constrain her and with Lucien, she was able to constrain him, albeit briefly.

5. It seems that all of this happened in the short span of 1/1000 second. (0.001s)

All I can say about this is....wow.

I’d like to end the discussion by asking a question.

It can be inferred that Ares strangled Yōurán to see if she was Queen. The logic was that if Yōurán was really Queen, survival instincts would cause Queen’s powers to manifest itself when her life was in danger.

But if she had failed to do that, or if his assumption was wrong, she would have died in his hands. Can you say that Ares tried to kill her? Is what he did a murder attempt?

By the way, did you notice that his hand that strangled her shook when he started to see her in color? But he suppressed it and refused to think about it? *ugly sobs*

[ncfan-1]

Calling Out (In Vain)

Míriel assumes a responsibility of the House of Elros. She knows she is being watched, but whether she is being listened to is less clear.

Written for the April 27th 2016 general prompt, ‘The Numinous.’ Yay for Amnesty Week!

[Also on AO3]

[CN/TW: Blood, mentions of slavery. And, once again, Míriel’s views are not necessarily the views of the author.]

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Míriel was no stranger to the degeneracy of her people. She had grown to womanhood during the reign of her grandfather, and could only watch in silence as all the members of the court either openly blasphemed against the Valar, stood in silent approval, or stood in silence the way she did, too cowed to say anything in mixed company. She had been Zimraphel to them, no matter the name felt like an ill-fitting gown—too small, too limited for her, unequal to the task of encompassing all that she was. She had felt like she was being suffocated when she wore that name. Sometimes, Míriel wondered if any of them had felt the same, but honestly, she doubted it. Númenor gave no sense to her of having felt limited by being called Anadûnê, nor of even knowing well enough to know that being defined by the base tongue should be something that limited it.

By and large, Númenor had behaved as though there was nothing wrong with being cut off from so much. Ar-Gimilzôr had eagerly played the tyrant until his health finally failed him and he clung shamelessly to life, utterly without dignity, as joyless and pathetic as Tar-Atanamir must have been when he, first of the kings of Númenor, had defied the will of the Valar and refused to lay down his life when old age crept up upon him.

Calion was often away, making a name for himself as a conqueror on the mainland. He would come back to great fanfare, greeted lovingly by a king who held him dearer than his own heir, lauded by the court, and all too willing to sing his own praises to anyone who would listen. He came to Armenelos with gold and silver and precious stones, with texts he had plundered from Haradrim libraries, with dull-eyed slaves gray-faced with despair. He was often away. For that, Míriel was glad. Every time he returned, he behaved more and more as though he was lord here, or at least lord-in-waiting.

(He was often away, and Míriel was glad of it. Every time he returned, the face he turned upon her was more and more covetous. She did not care to be looked at as though she was a thing to be possessed, especially not by him.)

The rest of the court was what it was. The King’s Men were gleefully blasphemous, entirely too sure of themselves, and carried always the copper scent of poorly concealed bloodlust. They were… They weren’t even hunters, not truly. They were forever longing for their prey, though, and even if most of them lacked the cunning required to enact a scheme that could eradicate the Faithful as they wished to, it was a fool who was incautious around them.

On account of these people, Míriel had drowned a part of herself for decades, had been forced to watch in silence as her father and their allies did the same, for fear of what could come of expressing their reverence for the Valar. Númendil had been set upon in the streets of Armenelos when Míriel was a child—he’d not been seriously hurt, but graven upon her mind was the image of him coming to her father with his nose broken and blood all down his front, splattering his shirt crimson. Others had disappeared. Míriel’s mother had died when she was young—a young, strong woman who had taken ill suddenly, and slipped quickly into death. Perhaps it was just illness. Her father had always insisted it was just illness. Míriel wondered, sometimes.

She’d drowned herself on their account, and in the process had gotten their measure, in a way Míriel didn’t think her father ever had. When Ar-Gimilzôr finally died and Tar-Palantir took the throne, there had been no sweeping change in the hearts of the Númenóreans. Those who had hardened their hearts against the Valar did not one day look to the west in the morning, spy Tol Eressëa with their keen eyes and finally feel the reverence they ought to have felt all along. They clung to life and the vain idea that Men were not meant to quit the world, the even vainer idea that Men were not meant to be barred from that holiest of holy lands.

Three years ago, in the spring, Tar-Palantir had announced that the Three Prayers of Númen��rë would once again be upheld. For the first time in generations, the King of Númenor would show the One the reverence he was due. As was formerly the case, only the king would be permitted to speak on the summit of the Meneltarma, but anyone who wished to join him there was welcome to do so.

As it happened, the Númenóreans felt no more welcoming than they did welcome. When Míriel, her father, and the pitiably small party that accompanied them returned to Armenelos, they found all the windows in the palace smashed to shards, and the guards all claiming ignorance as to just who was responsible. Her father was grieved, even bewildered. Míriel was not. She was merely disappointed. The investigations she and Elendil conducted of the guards present at that time only deepened her disappointment.

Regardless of the displeasure of people who couldn’t be bothered to express their displeasure openly, the rite of the Prayers was upheld. At spring, at midsummer, at autumn, the king, the heir, and those among their people who would join them, ascended the Meneltarma and did reverence to the One. Had not the Edain of old kept faith, even in the face of bondage and slow death? The Núnatani, the true Núnatani, could do no less.

It was a strange feeling, being on top of the Meneltarma. When Míriel stood there, she could see nearly the whole of the land, the twinkling of the western Sea a dazzling band of blue on the horizon. It was difficult not to imagine all the past kings and queens who had led the procession, all the way back to Tar-Amandil, who had instituted the custom thousands of years ago. What the likes of Tar-Elendil or Tar-Meneldur would think to see what would have become of Númenor’s piety made Míriel want to clench her fists in shame. What Tar-Minyatur would have thought of the kings who clung to life beyond all joy and dignity made her stomach churn. She had every right to walk where they walked. She herself had done no wrong. But the idea of grappling with their shades, let alone answering to them, still filled her with a crawling dread.

Dread had no hold on the living on the summit of the Meneltarma, however, no hold any stronger than the tie of rope made from a single stalk of grass. It was a holy place. Míriel had not understood the power of holy places when she was a child; she had not known them then, you see. Ar-Gimilzôr, her fearful, small-minded grandfather, would not suffer any member of the royal family to ascend the mountain and be close to the One. Míriel had only her grandmother Inzilbêth’s stories of a time before the Andustari were driven from their homes and they were still free to make pilgrimages to the holy mountain. There was a veil between secondhand accounts and firsthand experiences that must inevitably rob the latter of some of its power.

The summit of the Meneltarma was a holy place. It was not difficult to keep the vow of silence when you were there, for the whole place was drenched in silence. The Sea was muted. Nearby Armenelos was muted. The only thing to be heard was the wind, and its howling voice made clear that it was the only thing beside the king that was permitted to speak. Míriel felt the eyes of the One watching her, always. It was wondrous. It was terrifying. It was as it should be.

Every time she made the ascent with her father and their people, there was something Míriel watched for. She never saw it.

Three years it had been, and in the summer of this year, there came a new challenge. It wasn’t a power play by some King’s Men lord. It wasn’t Calion, home again and insistent on buzzing around the royal court like a fruit fly after a corpse, finally proving just how much his ambition outstripped his station. It wasn’t even a flood, as sometimes afflicted Númenor this time of year. Her father was ill.

It was such a simple thing, wasn’t it? It was a lingering illness, but it wasn’t as though he wasn’t morbidly ill; his physician, Vorindo, didn’t believe him to be in any risk of death. Míriel doubted it was poisoning; the royal physician was a competent one, and would likely be able to tell the difference between normal illness and poisoning.

Her father would recover in time, but not soon enough for the Erulaitalë. The rite demanded that everyone in the procession, even the king, make the journey to the summit of the Meneltarma, make the journey on foot. Tar-Palantir was, quite frankly, not in any fit state to walk to the Tarmasundar, let alone to the summit of the mountain. He was at the moment weak and waxen-faced, growing tired if he rose from his chair for more than half an hour. Physician Vorindo feared such a walk would only worsen his condition, and looking at him, Míriel was inclined to agree.

Tar-Palantir was too weak to make the journey to the Meneltarma this summer. That much was plain. But the rite must still be carried out, and there must be one on the top of the mountain to make the offering and say the prayer. There was, to Míriel’s mind, only one alternative.

Her father had been resistant at first. They had both been raised on Inzilbêth's stories, after all, and had had little more than that to sustain them growing up. They had both grown up on something of a starvation diet, and that had left them ignorant of many things, with little time to rectify their ignorance even after it was no longer dangerous to make their faith an open matter. Absolutely not, he insisted; it must be the king, not his heir. His health would be enough improved by midsummer for him to make the journey, he insisted.

His health did not improve, and Míriel’s resolve did not waver. Elennúmen went digging through some of the old texts the Andustari had smuggled away from their great libraries before Míriel’s grandfather put them all to the torch. A few days later, she cheerfully reported her findings to the king. There was indeed precedent for the king’s heir taking his place in the procession if the king was himself unable to make the climb up the Meneltarma. As a young woman, Tar-Ancalimë did this many times, for her father was often away in Middle-Earth, and the rites must still be upheld, even if the king is absent.

At last, in the face of documented support for her position and his own unimproved health, Palantir relented. One of the royal family must make the offering and give the prayer on the day of the Erulaitalë. If it was acceptable for the heir to go, rather than the king, then so be it.

It was early in the morning, not yet dawn, and Míriel winced as another pin grazed her scalp. Gilwen, her handmaiden, was normally more careful than this about not sticking her with the pins when she dressed her hair. A rebuke kept shooting up to Míriel’s mouth like a barbed arrow, one that she kept swallowing down in turn. Gilwen worked by lamplight this day, the shadows mingling with Míriel’s black hair to make the task nigh-impossible to perform without mistakes. And it wasn’t every day that she wore a wreath in her hair.

Míriel bit back a sigh, eyeing the wreath in her mirror, pressing her hands on her lap to keep from disturbing Gilwen’s work. The slender, flexible branches that had been fashioned into the base were real enough; the kings of Númenor had long ago moved away from deforesting Númenor itself for their shipyards, preferring to despoil Middle-Earth’s forests instead, so there was no shortage of wood here. Some of the flowers woven into the wreath were real—the lavaralda blossoms, which would bruise if any hand was to grasp them too tightly, were already beginning to droop, and would likely be brown-edged and brittle by the time she reached the summit of the Meneltarma. But when she looked into the mirror, her eye was drawn by colors brighter than what was found naturally, and the light caught on silk threads.

Of all the things she worried about, this should not have been one of them. The summer had been uncommonly hot, and most of the flowers had wilted off the vine and the bush and the tree, scattered in dead, brown patches on the ground. Míriel raked her fingernail across a scentless silk petal and squeezed her eyes shut.

She found her father sitting up in bed when she entered his chambers, reading a book in the shallow pool of light cast by his lamp. His face had still the ghastly pallor of a corpse, but he rose swiftly to his feet when he saw her, more easily than he had in weeks. “Do you remember the words of the prayer?” he asked tautly, eyes lingering for a moment on the silk flowers in Míriel’s wreath before becoming fixed upon her face.

“Yes, Father,” Míriel assured him, lifting up a hand and smiling. “I’ve recited it to myself every day for the past month.” And to you and many others, she did not add. No need; she could sense it coming to his mind, even now. “I’m scarcely going to forget it now.”

Palantir pressed a hand to his forehead. “I know,” he said with a heavy sigh. “If this was another time, it would not trouble me so. But now…” He trailed off, licking his lips.

Now, they had centuries of neglect and blasphemy to atone for, and had to convince the Valar and the One that the Núnatani would cleave to them again, in time. Míriel knew. “I’ll make you proud.”

He cupped her cheeks with his hands, smiling gently. “I know you will. Now, be off. It’s a long walk to the summit, and you must be out the doors by dawn.”

Míriel’s heart was lighter as she left her father’s chambers, but she found her heart weighed down again as she began to make her way to the entry hall. None of those who would journey to the mountain with her were with her now; they waited in the entry hall, and Míriel hoped that their number would grow as they made their way out of the city, and especially once they were out in the countryside. That did not mean she was alone.

“Cousin,” she stiffly greeted sleekly smiling Calion as he materialized out of the glom that was the royal palace before dawn.

“Princess,” he returned with a slight incline of the head. “Have you given any thought to what I proposed to you?”

A terse bark of a laugh escaped Míriel’s mouth. “No need. The kings and heirs have always walked to the Meneltarma, and I see no reason why I should travel by litter when all my predecessors walked.”

“And the guards?” His voice was light, but Míriel was no more fooled now than she had ever been. There was an edge in his voice sharp as any Elf-forged blade. How anyone could miss it, Míriel did not know. She never had—she had heard it even when they were children.

Míriel smiled thinly. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Calion. What have I to fear from my own people?”

It was as light as she could make herself sound when circumstance forced her to speak to her cousin, and today, she hoped it might be enough to deter him. Calion’s influence here was too great to simply banish him from Númenor or even Armenelos—if that did not foment trouble immediately, it would certainly foment trouble later—but he could be deterred. So long as he wished to uphold an image of being the king’s golden nephew, he would have to be deterred.

Quick as a snake striking at prey, Calion’s hand shot out and grabbed Míriel’s upper arm. “Don’t be so certain, Míriel.” His smile grew keen, eyes gleaming with reflected lamplight. Though his grip on her arm was not overly tight, his hand seemed to grow more leaden with every passing moment. Even through the fabric of her robe, his touch was like ice. “I have seen more of the world than you have. You could profit greatly from my counsel.”

Míriel did not respond in words. Instead, she stared at the hand on her upper arm with the sort of look in her eyes that signaled clearly to Calion that if she could order that his hand be separated from the rest of his body, she would. Calion was truly masterful when it came to ignoring such looks, but even he could not ignore them forever. Slowly, he took his hand away. “Forgive me, Míriel,” he murmured. “I did not mean to overstep my bounds; I was merely concerned for your well-being.”

Outside, the sky was starting to lighten. Looking out the nearest window, Míriel could see the first touches of sunlight painting the horizon a dark red. She fixed Calion in a hard stare. “Explain yourself, then.” She raised an eyebrow. “As you are no doubt aware, I am not possessed of a surplus of spare time this morning.”

“The Powers do not care for you,” he said bluntly, his smile fading, “no more than they care for any child of Men. Praying to them will not move their hearts, for nothing can move hearts of stone to bleed. The One you so revere is a fairytale told to children by their parents to ensure their obedience and lessen their fear of the dark that waits after death. When your gods are indifferent and your creator is a fairytale, you have much to fear.”

Oh, this again. “That is your opinion.” Míriel swept past him, continuing her progress down the corridor, and could not deny the spark of relief that ignited in her heart when he didn’t follow after. “However unlikely it may be, I hope that the day comes when you renounce it.”

“And I hope that one day you’ll finally look at the world and see it for what it is, Míriel,” Calion called after her. “When that day comes, come to me. I’ll be waiting.”

The high ceiling sent his words chasing after her long after the original voice fell silent. Míriel held her head high and willed herself to walk at the same pace she would have if she had never met him when she had.

Calion was, as he ever was, a storm cloud looming over an otherwise clear day. The cloud would threaten the storm, even deliver it, but even the storm could not last forever. Upon reaching the entry hall, Míriel shook the last of the shadows he had cast away.

The entry hall was not as it had originally been—though reports indicated that the entry hall had been large even in Tar-Minyatur’s time, Tar-Ancalimon had expanded the hall so that it was vaster than most of the largest structures in Armenelos, excepting the rest of the royal palace. The entry hall could potentially have held more than a thousand people, without any having to elbow or push past their neighbor to get around.

Today, the entry hall was not full. The small crowd gathered around the door did not represent even a quarter of what the entry hall could comfortably accommodate. But there had been a moment, a horrible moment, when Míriel woke some hours ago—an irrational half-dream thought that she might come here and find the hall empty, with even the Faithful among the court deserting her for fear of the people’s reaction. Even when she was able to think rationally, she’d not expected more than perhaps fifty people to be waiting for her here, even considering that the servants had been given permission to join her. This was more than she had hoped for.

As the crowd became aware of her presence, they bowed in choppy waves, a sea of wreathed heads greeting Míriel’s eyes. She scanned the crowd for familiar faces, frowning lightly. Amandil could not be here today; he oversaw reconstruction in the Andustar, and could not regret that duty, even for something so important as the Erulaitalë. But there should have been others…

She saw them, and the crowd parted like the receding waters of the Great Sea to let her reach them.

“Are you ready?” Elendil asked quietly, while behind him Elennúmen and Vanyamírë wore encouraging smiles. Their wreaths were adorned entirely with lavaralda blossoms. Where they’d found so many, Míriel had no idea (it occurred to her that the lavaralda blossoms being mostly out of flower could be construed as a bad omen, but she forcefully relegated that thought to the recesses of her mind), but judging from the scent and the way they were already beginning to droop, Míriel suspected they were real.

One of the silk flowers in Míriel’s wreath brushed against her forehead as she nodded to him. “Almost,” Míriel muttered. “Where is Gilwen?” She searched the crowd for the face of her handmaiden. “Gilwen?”

Gilwen, short as she was, had to push her way through the crowd to reach her mistress. “I’m here, milady,” she managed, huffing a little and glaring at the last man she’d had to push past to get to Míriel. She held up a large wicker basket. “I brought this from the kitchens, just like you asked me to.”

Míriel opened the basket to inspect the contents; immediately, a fresh, sweet scent greeted her. Nestled in the rich blue satin lining of the basket, there was a cantaloupe, several peaches and apricots, and at the top, many of the globed, scarlet fruit of the yavannamírë tree and the darker, more elongated fruit of the nessamelda tree. At the sight of it all, Míriel smiled. Though the heat might have sapped the life from the flowers, they had not had the same effect on the fruit trees and vines of the land.

“There was a good crop of nessamelda this year,” Gilwen told her, her dark eyes shining. “The head chef says they’re better than he’s tasted in years; not even a trace of bitterness.”

Her smile widening slightly, Míriel nodded. The best fruit was required for the rite; nothing less would do. “Don’t lose this basket, Gilwen. I will need it later.”

“Of course I won’t, milady.”

Míriel turned her attention to Elendil, to Vanyamírë and Elennúmen. Her friends, she thought with affection, and true friends, for they had always made the ascent up the slopes of the Meneltarma with her, regardless of the opprobrium that might come down on their heads, courtesy of the King’s Men. “Now I am ready. Let us begin.”

They stepped out into a quiet early morning choked with a blanket of mist. The eastern sky was cast a brilliant shade of pink, across which Gil-Estel was making its descent, to give way to the sun. Some said Eärendil steered the star across the sky even now. Míriel wondered if he had any knowledge of what went on in the world far below his domain. Wondered if he too wished her well, or if it mattered to him at all. Even if he cared nothing for the struggles of his descendants, it was still something that Míriel had seen the star at all.

Banks upon banks of silver mist shrouded the high streets of Armenelos, where the street lamps had all been extinguished, plunging the streets into a deeper gloom. At the head of the procession, Míriel, far-sighted as she was, could see no more than thirty feet ahead of her. People watched her from inside their homes, staring out of windows and doorways with watchful eyes and watchful faces—some displeased, some unreadable, and precious few happy.

Head erect, face arranged into a serene smile, Míriel met the gaze of every last one of them. If the skin on her arms was rising in gooseflesh, that was the work of the mist.

By the time they reached the limits of Armenelos, the sun hung low over the eastern horizon, and the mist had burned away. Míriel’s group was met by a group of maybe two hundred of the people of Armenelos outside the bounds of the city who filed in behind the procession. The countryside was growing warmer by the minute and with no breeze to break it, the air was already becoming stifling. Míriel’s hair clung to the back of her neck in clumps and the sun beat down on the top of her head, but her heart was light. The crowd kept up a steady stream of light, cheerful chatter, and their numbers kept swelling the more villages they passed through. It was heartening to see that outside of Armenelos there were people less afraid to make clear where their loyalties lied.

With time, such will be the case all throughout Númenor. With time, if we are fortunate, our numbers will swell.

Truth be told, Míriel wasn’t entirely certain how to make the King’s Men see the errors of their way. She knew that some were not as utterly blasphemous as Calion. There were some who, though they cared not at all for the Valar, were content to let the Faithful worship as they would, and didn’t scorn the use of Sindarin or Quenya. There were some who, though they were skeptical, were also open to debate, and when approached politely responded in kind. But still more were insistent upon clinging to their beliefs.

How Míriel could convince them of the truth, she wasn’t certain. How she could convince them to quit being a menace to the rest, she wasn’t certain. But she had the long life of a Númenórean, even a Númenórean whose lifespan was unequal to the generations that had come before them. She would have enough time to find the answers. She must find the answers, if all was to be truly well with Númenor and they were to again enjoy the full measure of the Valar’s favor.

This was the burden of the House of Elros. She would not shirk it.

By the time they reached the southernmost Tarmasundar, the sun was halfway up the eastern sky and the cicadas shrilled deafeningly, as if in defiance of the heat. The cheerful chatter of the crowd began to fell away, especially as they passed by the Noirinan and the shadow of the tall tombs temporarily blocked out the light of the sun. Soon, the loudest voice by far was the wellspring of the Siril, and Míriel’s mind was full of stories she had been told as a little girl living in her grandfather’s shadow. She watched the doors of the tombs, and held her head high. Those stories were ridiculous, and even if they were not, she had nothing to fear here. They danced through her mind, regardless.

On the summit of the Meneltarma was silence. The cicadas would not venture to the summit, any more than any of the other local fauna—Míriel had never even seen butterflies visit the flowers that grew on the summit. No one in the procession spoke; even without the prohibition of silence, the terrible holiness of this place would not allow for impertinent speech. The wind was absent this day—even it held its breath, waiting to see if the princess of the present day could hope to equal her forebears.

Míriel wasn’t certain when the rest of the procession had pulled away from her. Even when alone on the summit, she still felt a presence standing alongside her, as if something vast and invisible had followed her up the winding road. But when she turned, she found the first line of the crowd standing some ten feet back from her, watching her expectantly.

It was time.

Míriel motioned for Gilwen to step forward. This Gilwen did, surrendering the basket to her mistress before scurrying back to the crowd. Míriel drew a deep breath (though quiet; even breathing too loudly felt as though it disrespected the sanctity of this place) and began to make her way towards the center of the summit, while the crunching of the grass behind her told her that the rest followed behind her.

Míriel waded through a sea of grass and white flowers that grew taller and taller the further she walked, until the moment came when it was past her waist, and a bizarre thought crossed her mind. Was it possible that if she lied down here, in the sea of grass and seafoam-like flowers, that she could drown? Would she stand back up to find herself transported, her surroundings strange and depopulated? The very idea of it should have been ridiculous, but standing here was like standing at the heart of creation. There was a primordial pulse to the earth that only grew stronger the closer Míriel came to the center. The standard of what was ridiculous and what wasn’t was just a little altered.

There was no altar here, as adherents of other, lesser faiths might keep. Míriel laid the fruit from her basket down on the grassy earth. They would decay and feed the soil, though no trees would sprout up, though Míriel little understood why that was. Perhaps it was simply that the holiness of this place kept it from ever changing. Perhaps the nature of holiness was to be as an insect suspended in amber, as the world of the mundane was forever changing, dying, decaying, and being born again. To still be the same, come the breaking of the world.

The prayer she spoke was an old one; no one was certain of its exact origin. Tar-Amandil had spoken it first upon this summit, but its origins were believed to go back further. Some said the Bëorians of old had first conceived of it. Some said the Ñoldor carried it from the Uttermost West into Middle-Earth.

Where the prayer came from, Míriel did not know. It was passed to her orally; the documents had gone “missing” during Ar-Gimilzôr’s reign and they must needs rely on Tar-Palantir’s memory. As Míriel recited the prayer, she wondered what might come of it. As she addressed the One, would she feel a shard of the One come to her?

This was a holy place and its holiness was palpable. Míriel felt close to… something. She felt no different than she ever did when she ascended the Meneltarma.

If the crowd felt as she did, they gave no sign; when Míriel turned back to them, there was no shadow of trouble to cast a pall over their faces. A brown, withered lavaralda blossom fell from Míriel’s wreath. The ground was littered with them, she realized dully. But where it left the others’ wreaths bare branches with a few pitiable petals clinging to them still, the silk flowers woven into hers were, even out of the corner of Míriel’s eye, garishly bright.

They could not tarry all day on the summit; there were festivities among the royal court that demanded participants and Míriel’s father would want a report of the offering and the prayer. I wonder if he would object to my bathing before I presented myself to him, Míriel thought to herself, as twin rivulets of sweat slowly dribbled down her face. The odor alone might be enough to bring his recovery to a standstill—and I would certainly welcome a bath.

As they descended the Meneltarma, Míriel turned her eyes to the sky, watching for what she had watched for every time she came here for the past three years. This day the sky was cloudless, the sky was clear. It was utterly without blot or blemish. Nothing but blue as far as the eye could see, mingling so completely with the sea that even Míriel could not discern where sky ended and sea began.

Her face slipped for a moment, but Míriel found it again soon enough, and led the procession downwards with a smooth and even countenance.

There was the same easy chatter on the way back to Armenelos as there had been on the way from, though the noise of the chatter dwindled the closer they came to the capital and the more people broke off from the procession to return to their homes in the countryside. Míriel was separate from it—it was something taking place behind her, rather than something taking place with her. She had the distant, disconnected feeling of a spectator. But it would not remain for long, either her feeling like a spectator, nor the still, hot air being filled with cheerful voices.

They were only a few hundred yards from Armenelos now, and an ugly noise was buzzing on the air like a hive full of angry bees, set to spill out and fall upon the unlucky. Míriel paused to hear it, frowning, and she was not the only who had noticed, nor guessed at what it meant.

“Míriel, we may wish to find another route to enter from,” Elendil muttered to her, leaning down close to her ear. “The high streets are unlikely to be friendly to us.”

She was the king’s only child. If she was to die before her time, that would leave the succession—the future of this land—in dire straits. She was the heir to the throne of Númenor, destined to wield the scepter and power alike. If she showed herself willing to be intimidated, willing to bow to the will of the unfaithful and the blasphemous, then she was no true heir of Tar-Minyatur. She was just some weak thing born in dark times, and twisted by the pollution of the land rather than something made to endure past it.

“The other streets are unlikely to be any friendlier,” she replied, “and I will not be cowed by my own people. Let us move on.” Míriel turned her gaze to Elendil, and could not find it in her to smile in the face of his wariness. “Stay close behind me, regardless.”

In the early morning, the people of Armenelos had not been happy, but they had been silent, and had done nothing to hinder to progress of the procession. Come early afternoon, and perhaps they were merely properly awake now, for there was more energy to them than there had been to the wan, disapproving apparitions who had stared upon Míriel in silence amidst the silver mist. Upon returning to Armenelos, Míriel found herself and the rest of the procession having to push through throngs of people as one might try to walk through the rough tides of the sea—every fiber of it actively resisting you, trying to push you back in rejection. Their eyes were knives seeking any chink in armor through which they could strike. The things they said, some muttered, some spoken, some shouted, Míriel shut her ears to it. She had to.

Armenelos was a large city, but it was not infinite in size. She would reach the palace soon. She must simply keep walking. Keep her head erect, her face smooth as glass, and walk.

Quick as any arrow, a stone sailed through the air towards her.

Before Míriel could even think to jump aside, it connected, striking her forehead. Stars exploded in her eyes just as pain exploded in her skull and blood leaked from her broken skin. As she stumbled and fell, noxious smoke stung her eyes and filled her nostrils. She saw gouts of flame blacken the sky, saw the Eagles returned to Númenor at last but as spectral clouds rising up out of the West, blotting out the setting sun and plunging the land into utter darkness, saw a great green wave plumed with foam swallow the mountains, the hills, the vales, the cities, and every living thing contained therein. Her mouth was filled with seawater, her throat choked, her lungs saturated and overflowing.

“Míriel?! Míriel!” Míriel spat out phantom seawater as Elendil hooked one hand beneath her elbow and another round her waist to pull her to her feet. “Míriel, we must not stay here,” he hissed urgently. “We must return to the palace.”

She nodded choppily. The action made her wreath, the pins that held it in place loosened by her fall, topple from her head and hit the ground. The dead lavaralda blossoms scattered in the wind that was suddenly blowing, and the silk flowers quivered and drooped. “Yes,” she said, and hated more that she could not keep her voice from shaking than she did that her voice shook at all. “We must return to the palace.”

-----------------------

Anadûnê—Númenor (Adûnaic) Andustar—The western promontory of Númenor. The north of this region was rocky, with forests of fir trees on the coast. Andustar contained three small bays which all faced west, the most northern of which was the Bay of Andúnië. The south of the Andustar was fertile, and there were forests of birch, beech, oak and elm trees. Timber was this region’s main source of wealth. Edain—Men of the three houses (the Houses of Bëor, Hador and Haleth) who were faithful to the Elves throughout the First Age; after the War of Wrath they were gifted with the land of Númenor and became known as the Dúnedain; after the Akallabêth they established Arnor and Gondor (singular: Adan) (Sindarin) Erulaitalë—‘Praise of Eru’ (Quenya); the second of the Three Prayers the people of Númenor make to Ilúvatar throughout the year. This one takes place in midsummer. A procession is made to the summit of the Meneltarma, led by the King; the attendants are dressed in white and silent. Only the King is allowed to speak at the summit of the Meneltarma, and he offered a bloodless sacrifice to Ilúvatar at this time. Gil-Estel—‘Star of Hope’ (Sindarin); the name given to the evening star, which in actuality was the light cast by the Silmaril that Eärendil wore on his brow as he steered his ship Vingilot across the sky Lavaralda—one of the trees in Númenor brought to them by the Elves of Tol Eressëa. The tree possessed long green leaves that were golden on their underside; its flowers were pale with a yellow tint, and hung thickly on the branches, possessing a faint but clear and pleasing scent. It was rare for the tree not to be in flower. Nessamelda—one of the fragrant, evergreen trees brought to Númenor by the Elves of Tol Eressëa. Noirinan—‘Valley of the Tombs’; a valley at the southern foot of the Meneltarma. There was located spring from which the river Siril flowed, and the tombs of the kings and queens of Númenor. Númenórë—a more conservative Quenya form of the name ‘Númenor’ Núnatani—‘Men of the West’ (Quenya) (singular: Núnatan); Quenya equivalent of the Sindarin ‘Dúnedain’, a term used to refer to the Númenóreans and their descendants. Siril—‘Rivulet’ (Quenya); the greater of the two rivers of Númenor. It rose from a spring in the Noirinan at the southern foot of the Meneltarma, and flowed south to reach the sea at the port of Nindamos. Tarmasundar—‘Roots of the Pillar’ (Quenya); the five ridges that consisted of the base of the Meneltarma. Each ridge stretched out in the direction of one of the promontories of Númenor. Yavannamírë—'Jewel of Yavanna' (Quenya); a fragrant evergreen tree with globed scarlet fruit, brought to Númenor by the Elves of Tol Eressëa.

[artsynanotech]

Fuck My Undead Life - Part 1

What did I do? Who did I upset? I want to know. I need to know. This past month I’ve kept my head down, done everything right, and dammit… Dammit it’s not fair! Isaac might be dust, Ares left me, the one person I never wanted to drag into this world is Xavier’s freakin’ blood junkie, and there’s a blood hunt on my coterie. It’s not even my fault! I know I’ve been nothing but a burden since the start, but the crime I’ve been accused of is a complete fabrication. A fabrication that convinced the two people who know me best in the entire world. Dammit why didn’t they trust me? I’ve only been with Ares a month and a half, but Isaac of all people should have known I’d never do… do anything like what’s on that disc!

The night started fine. I’d fallen asleep with Ares holding me. When we woke he told me his sire was visiting and he wanted me to meet her. I wanted to, I really did, but I wasn’t going to risk my coterie by making it look like I was consorting with more people outside the Camarilla than necessary. Ares understood. I gave him one of my pottery pieces though, as a gift for his sire. Even if I couldn’t meet her I still wanted her to think well of me. Ares seemed happy with the compromise, and left to go pick his sire up from the airport. Isaac came by not long after that, and that’s when everything crumbled. He… he slapped me. Isaac has never laid a hand on me. Not once. By the time I’d realized what he’d done he was yelling at me, demanding to know what I’d done and why. He was crying. I had no idea what was going on, and Isaac… he was terrifying. That’s when he showed me the disc. A DVD titled “The Prince’s Slave,” featuring a very convincing image of me dressed in… in fetish gear holding a man by a leash. I thought it must have been a joke, some sort of cruel prank. But Isaac said no. It was definitely me on the video, doing  lord-knows-what and shattering the entire masquerade in the process. The prince had seen it and put a price on my head, and on that of Caroline and Michella. Isaac wouldn’t believe me when I told him I didn’t make that tape. But he still came to warn me, and to try to throw my pursuers on a false trail. Even seeing me do and say those things couldn’t make him abandon his childe. I did what I was told. I ran. And I left just in time to see men with guns storm my building. There was no time for my sire to leave.

Isaac! Isaac why?! Why couldn’t you just let them have me? Then you’d be safe. I went through so much to save you, and between the two of us, you matter more than I do. Idiot… I had no choice but to leave him. I needed to get to Ares. Regardless of our feelings toward each other, he’s the only vampire in the city not obligated to kill me. I hailed a cab and headed towards the airport. I was followed. My cab was ambushed at a red light just blocks from my destination. I ran again. Thank god for celerity or I’d be dust. As soon as I was safely hidden I texted Ares – Isaac had the foresight to get a burner phone for me – and asked him to pick me up. Said it was an emergency. Of course he called after I did. God, he was so worried… Ares promised to be there in half an hour, and sure enough he was. I stayed safely hidden until then. He was dressed to the nines (apparently his sire hates it when he dresses casually), and I wish I had time to fully appreciate it. He looked breathtaking. But there was no time, and I hopped into the passenger seat of his car before anyone else might spot me. He started to drive. I was so scared, and worried, and I wasn’t thinking. I should have waited until we got to his apartment to tell him what was going on. But he asked, and I had to tell him. I explained my situation and showed him the DVD case. It shocked him so much he slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street. And worst of all – and I don’t know why I didn’t consider this in the first place – his sire was in the back seat! I was so embarrassed. I manage something of a proper introduction despite it all. Miss Salvatore seemed unfazed, perhaps even entertained, though, so perhaps I didn’t screw things up with her completely. She even said she likes my pottery. Not that it matters. Ares said absolutely nothing until we reached his apartment. He let his sire out and told me to stay in the car. And once she was gone he told me he’d take me anywhere I needed to go. He was so cold when he said it. I didn’t understand at first, but as we spoke it was clear he thought it really was me on the DVD. I told him it wasn’t true. I needed his help to find who made the disc, but nothing I said reached him. He was crying! I had nowhere else to go, no one I could turn to, and he knew that, and he still turned me away. How could he believe I’d cheat on him, and like… like that? The thought of doing something so terrible to him makes me sick. He didn’t say the exact words, but I think Ares made it clear he wants nothing more to do with me. There was only one other person I could think of who might help me. Well two actually, but I can almost guarantee you Ricardo’s under watch (if they haven’t killed him already, dammit). That left Charlotte, my best friend from before my embrace. I moved to D.C. on her suggestion and prior to becoming kindred she was the only friend I had in the city. I hadn’t seen her since after I met Isaac. But that also meant she probably wasn’t on any other kindred’s radar.

It was hard to call her after so long, especially knowing the danger I would put her in. But she was happy to put me up for the evening. I’d need to figure out where to hide during the day, but this would hopefully keep me safe for the rest of the evening.  Ares drove me to her apartment without saying anything else to me. I apologized for hurting him before he left. I know it’s not my fault, but… but what? Why do I still feel so guilty? It was good to see Charlotte again, at least. It didn’t feel like there were years of separation between us. She gave me a shoulder to cry on (and with Ares dumping me, I had plenty of non-Camarilla drama to vent to her). She had to step out to take a phone call for a few minutes, but aside from that, we had a good time catching up. She, at least, understands the absurdity of me dressed as a dom. And she seems to be doing well for herself. It was good to see that. Eventually she went to bed. I used the time to try and find out more about the DVD. I’d acquired a new Auspex power over the past month, Spirit’s Touch, which lets me read memories from objects. I’d hoped to use it to find out where the disc came from.  I didn’t exactly do that, but I did see everything that happened from when came into the Prince Maxwell’s possession.

It was like I was floating in the Prince’s office. I saw him with Bethany being… close. Maceth and Bethany’s other hound came in and delivered the DVD. Maceth said it came from one of his contacts. They all watched it. Maxwell was livid. He called for a blood hunt. Demanded the Scourge, of all people, bring me in. Bethany asked if that was necessary and Maxwell, that bastard, choked her. Picked her up by the throat and threw her against the damn wall. God, Bethany deserves so much better. I won’t ask what she sees in him – I know how easy it is to fall for someone who hurts you – but that doesn’t mean I can’t hate our Prince for it. Not that I didn’t hate him already. After that they left the room. Then I saw Isaac come in and watch the disc. Whatever was on it (It didn’t show up in my vision) broke him. As if I needed to see how much he was hurting… He took the disc and left. My vision ended there, as the sound of Charlotte’s door being kicked in startled me from my trance. I turned and saw two armed Nosferatu storm in. They demanded I leave with them. Then Charlotte came out of her room and apologized. She, apparently, had become Xavier’s ghoul in the years since we’d seen each other. Of course she’d sell me out to him. I told her not to be sorry. The blood bond being what it is, she couldn’t have said no to him even if she wanted to. But dammit, Xavier’s ghoul? I’ve seen how he treats his playthings. He’s no better than Maxwell in that regard. Then again, I’d rather take my chances with the Anarchs than with the Camarilla.

I went with them quietly. We drove for a couple hours, to a wooded area with an old house and some sort of storm cellar. Xavier was waiting outside. Then everything came to a head – Isaac hitting me, Ares leaving me, Charlotte being a ghoul – and I snapped. Xavier, at least, I could hold to task for what he did. I frenzied. Not that it did much good. Even in a blood rage I’m not match for him. He held me off until I heard Caroline scream for me to calm down. I regained enough lucidity to aim my rage elsewhere (at a rather unlucky tree) and tore at it until I calmed down. So here I am now, in an Anarch safehouse with Caroline and Michella. I don’t know how they got here or why Xavier is sheltering us. But those are questions for tomorrow. For now, it’s time to sleep.