#as much as a way to navigate my own trauma is an apt one.

[recitedemise]

𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲'𝘀 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿. This lengthy headcanon will refer to canon dialogue from mostly Gale, sometimes others. Reader's discretion is advised. There will be in depth explorations into grooming, emotional abuse, heavy manipulation, and suicide.

First, let it be said that Gale, a mortal man, will always be the powerless one in his dynamic with Mystra. Of course, nearing forty years of age, he remains entirely responsible for his own actions, his own blunders and every hurt he'll cause, but it's important to remember who formed much of who he is: his goddess, his deity, and egregiously, his lover.

Mystra is power. Mystra is possibility. She knows what sway she holds over her Ioyal, vulnerable, and entirely mortal followers. In all ways that matter, they are but lambs she can steer and herd as she sees fit. She knows they can't deny her and knows they'll never want to. Gale's sheer servitude and complete devotion. Mystra, knowing that, used him to filth.

Gale: I was just... practising an incantation. Player Character: No, there's more to it than that. I know devotion when I see it. Gale: What can I say? She's—she's Mystra. I can't describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence... Mystra is all magic. And as far as I'm concerned, she is all creation. Player Character: I didn't realize the depth of your devotion. Gale: Magic is... my life. I've been touched with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it.

Gale, orb in his chest, doomed to be eaten by the very thing he loves the most, still speaks so reverently of the goddess, of his lover that has left him to die. He conjures images of her memory—and she is all the while forgetting about his.

Minsc: Gale reminds me of vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rasheman. While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth, I thought it born of caution after some catastrophe of wizardly men-folk of old. Now, I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?

Tales of Mystra's treachery spreads far, leaving those familiar waters surrounding Gale's tower in Waterdeep. They whisper her name, afraid to utter it one time too many, suspecting, perhaps, that she'll show in their mirror like some Faerûnian Bloody Mary.

Talent rouses Mystra. She can see who uses the gift of the Weave and feel them, sampling whatever delight sings their veins as they pull from her domain. Not unlike a spider, she'll follows every tremor that strikes her as just a sliver more profound; and Gale, a prodigy, plucked the Weave's web to so garner her focus. And like some black widow scurrying, she surged down that ripple to prey on a boy. There, Gale, so impressionable, was just a mite older than twelve whole summers. He sat so stunned, beholding Mystra as she lured him into the cradle of her Astral domain. Bathed in her magic, pleasantly coddled within that glittering cosmos, Gale felt blessed in a way he'll struggle always to recount, no word, no language, fit to describe it. He felt chosen. He felt seen. And potently, to a child, he felt loved. Now, imagine a child experiencing something like that. Imagine what they'd think, how brilliant they must be when stood beside the rest. She told him he was gifted, made his heart swell not unlike a child's appetite for praise. She knew what she was doing by offering these morsels, by preying on a child's most delicate mind, and Gale, child prodigy, was already so awash in the idea that his value was in magic. Unfortunately, Gale, susceptible, had no way of squirming out of his goddess' grasp.

Reality: She's laid down the seeds to creep into his heart. When he's just old enough—seventeen's sufficient, she thinks—she stakes her claim and makes him hers.

Gale: My virtuosic talent once caught the eye of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra, who named me her chosen and her lover.

Gale is stunned when she takes him to bed the first time. (Is this really happening?) Mystra claims his mouth in a kiss, taking everything she knows he offers so willingly. Mystra, of course, is not so stunned.

Dream Visitor: An elder brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals. Gale, tasked with Mystra's missive to sacrifice himself: This is it... I must do as Mystra commands.

Gale has worryingly low self-esteem beyond his magic. As already explored, his entire worth as a man hinged on and was built entirely off his talent as a wizard. He fought tooth and nail for any crumb of affection Mystra would offer his way, something she only gave him at all seeing his gift as a child. He wants her forgiveness. He desires it genuinely. He believes so firmly that he has wronged his goddess, buying into the idea that sacrificing himself will right his wrong. She holds such dominion over him, making him reduce his confidence in himself into a mere, trifling pittance; after all, she wasn't just his lover, but the patron deity he prays to. And regardless, Gale is a people pleaser, his initial acceptance of her missive coming as no surprise.

After all, Gale, at times, goes to incredible lengths to appease his audience. This habit, compulsion, impulse, whatever you want to call it, is a quality that was relentlessly exacerbated in his relationship with his immortal paramour. He wanted to content her, felt all he did was never enough, for as a matter of principle, he was oceans, leagues, and entire galaxies beneath her. Gale figures: well, how can a short-lived dalliance satisfy a god? He had to make her happy. Indeed, he'd done everything she'd ask. He'd bedded her how she liked, kissed her how she wanted, and of course, even said those words she'd said tasted best. She was his lover, a lover that never tended to his own needs and pleasures, and he fooled himself into thinking that's enough. He won't bend backwards for everyone, mind you, but if you're of the ones he would, he would stop at nothing to make you happy. After all, people pleasing is a way to keep oneself safe, a trauma response to sidestep discomfort, and though it achieves only a direly tentative peace, when that is all you've been fed, you will pursue it.

Gale did not want to lose Mystra; he couldn't bare the sting of it. And so, when Elminster visited him, Mystra's call for his death offered oh so callously, Gale, heartbroken, felt that part of him kick up. He couldn't endure the guilt, was so hungry for a chance to let his weighty heart breathe, even if it meant dying in the process.

At least this way, he'll finally do something right. At least this way, Mystra will forgive him, and all his friends will survive.

Gale: After I was afflicted with my condition, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. I'd given up on myself.

As a byproduct of people pleasing, Gale, too, is all too quick to accept all guilt. He self-deprecates, gaslights himself to a venomous degree, and twists his reality in so cruel a way as to make him the villain Mystra'd led him to believe. He self-flagellates himself, the first one in the world who will throw Gale of Waterdeep a mental punishment. Mystra's a goddess, after all, seen as utterly faultless, and twined so tightly with a being so mighty in esteem, Gale slipped into the role of the guilty often. When tied with anyone with grandeur like this, so immeasurable in their own self worth, it's important to keep in mind this: you are nothing but a prop in which to fulfill their ego. Gale was not Mystra's, not by a long shot. Rather, Gale was a tool, simply her mortal extension.

And he took every blow meant for her... a common and terrible habit for many people in imbalanced, ego-fueled relationships.

Gale's life beyond her wasn't something that interested her. She took most of Gale's devotion, manipulated his life to be her sole mantle of attention, for Mystra is not a goddess that shares very happily.

Indeed, long before his self-imposed isolation, this jealous deity did well at keeping him isolated.

Player Character: Picture kissing him. With tenderness. Then, with passion. Gale: I... I didn't think— Narrator: You perceive quick-fire embarrassment, trepidation, and finally... elation.

And so, cheated out of love, so reduced in his value as a man and lover both, suffice to say, Gale's slow to believe he can ever be loved. That's what happens when you're with someone so cold, consistent only in their infinite lack of respect. Gale looks at fondness, and he feels—confounded, to be sure. He thinks, is this truly mine to have? He doesn't know what to do, is nearly forty in game, and despite having lived decades devoted to one relationship, he feels, at the same time, entirely out of depth. To be frank, he greets it with embarrassment, like he's been caught red handed with something not his at all. He's like a child caught rummaging with his hand in a cookie jar, all this isn't mine to enjoy, not mine to indulge in, but he thinks, startled, but god, do I want. He wars with disbelief, uncertainty, and need, and in so many ways feeling utterly starved, with just a glimmer of affection, he falls fast into love.

Scenario: (And if properly romanced, it changes his world.)

Gale: In her (Mystra's) likeness, I used to read a thousand stories. She was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes. But now... it is hard to see any redeeming qualities in a lover who condemned you to death. I'd much rather gaze into your eyes than hers. Yours are capable of tenderness and feeling... No god could ever compare.

He says it with sincerity. There is such wonder, such love, and such awe in his eyes. He makes the act of kissing him feel like you've just reached into the trenches to but pluck him soundly from his ruin and despair. You think, Gale Dekarios, how unloved have you been all this time?

Gale: To know you love me for the man I am, and not the magic I command… none have loved me so purely before.

The answer is: entirely.

For so long, Gale thought love was simply being chosen. He knew nothing of being favored for the quality of his character, to be cherished and accepted even in those ways he fumbles and lacks. Again, his needs were seldom met, often treated with utter indifference by Mystra herself, and to meet someone so eager to treasure him, dote on him in a way his heart, his body is somberly new to, raptures his spirit and captures his soul. He's seen for who he is. He's... loved, desired for his silly quips, his easy smiles, and his growing affections. He bares himself to them, and in turn, they cradle his heart like something entirely precious. Gale thinks this has to be dream. He says, at times, you are more than I deserve.

Scenario: (But sometimes, he hopes too strongly and loves too greatly. As it always does, then, like he's once more wanted too much, he watches something beautiful slip right through his fingers. Of course, Gale Dekarios. Of course it does.)

Player Character: I didn't know you felt so strongly, Gale. Gale: Perhaps I should have done more. Been more charming, more flattering, harder to reach... but I was only myself, and sometimes that isn't enough.

They don't love him anymore. It breaks his heart. He hurts so much, so profoundly and deeply, and he doesn't realize that he breaks their heart in turn.

Unable to ever voice his feelings with Mystra in any way that amounted to much, Gale's a tendency to wallow, expressions coming off as potentially 'guilt-tripping' and even, on occasion, passive aggressive. Firstly: Gale NEVER means to manipulate emotions, and he's no intention of twisting anyone's arm, either. Fact is, Gale, never taken seriously when he'd bared his vulnerabilities to the Mother of the Weave, can end up saying just a little too much. He feels very deeply, and for most his life, seldom had an outlet for these weeping sentiments. He sometimes lets slip raw words and oftentimes heart-wrenching expressions; all the same, it's not so pitiful as to shepherd an outcome, but rather, is a gesture taken by a man so desperate to be heard. It may feel like scheming, but the truth is far, far greyer: feeling as though he's no right to share the depth of his heart, Gale simply lets it geyser out in a way he can't cork up. In ways he doesn't realize, he's adapted to this ache, passively reacting so his feelings can at least be seen and recognized—no matter how pitifully unwhole. With someone who values so little his thoughts... well, when he slips into these moods, one can hardly feign shock.

Situation: (And if no one shows him trust and tenderness, any true care in his character or worth, Gale gets swallowed up by how wronged he was.

He thinks: Let me be a god. Let no one hurt like me anymore.)

Gale: They only want us to serve them, pray to them...and ultimately, to die for them. But what if we didn't need them? What if we wielded their power instead and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? I could make that happen.

Gale is not above anger, and as stated, he is not above pettiness; however, more than that, he is not above righting himself whatever wound he was struck. Gale, if not offered much by ways of affection, understanding, is made to believe that one idea that's lived growing in his mind: Gale Dekarios is far from sufficient; he has to be more. He has to be better. Gale, in such an unkind ending for himself, sips too desperately—and perhaps greedily, too, but desperately serves as a far better word—at that idea that he needs power. And so, wresting the Crown of Karsus for himself, he spites Mystra in his own way, becoming a god he feels is leagues better than she will ever be. Damn her thoroughly. Damn her ego, her power, and her endless indifference. He will serve the people, protect them, and in ways Mystra never could, better the world.

Situation: But as a god, he loses all sense of his kindness. Humanity. All who loved him leave him, and even Tara spurns the image he's become. With power, he's gained the respect he thought he always wanted... but in turn, he lost in even greater measure all the love he's known.

Endnote: But healing, knowing to forgive himself and knowing he's deserving of care simply for being Gale Dekarios will remain, always, the best path for him.

[fel-temptation]

🧠 - What do you like most about the OC?

This question always messes me up because I always go “they’re my blorbo; everything 🥹”

The fact she’s a walking Greek tragedy probably has something to do with it. I think coming up with Korrinth and how she’s spent her time back on Azeroth was probably some of the most thought provoking character details I’ve ever really delved into. To get into her headspace, to think of all the details about how she sees the world and her place in it- coupled with the fact the original person she once was is basically a memory? That was pretty fun and nuanced and unlike anything I had really done with a character before. It was depressing really interesting to ask all these big questions about how someone who viewed themselves as a monster (and was extremely sensitive to this moniker) navigated their way through the world. A character basically doomed by the narrative.

I’m getting way off topic. I had a point I swear!

So I guess my favorite thing about Korr, with that context, is I call her broken a lot. I mean, apt description but it’s misleading. She’s actually probably the most mentally resilient character I have. She wakes up every day and has to face her own trauma over and over again, with odds stacked against her in the form of demonic influences, with a shakily nihilistic outlook on the world at large and the fel-tainted sanctuary she inhabits in it, and she just keeps going. I mean, yes, she’s absolutely the most worn down by the bad of the world character I have- and as much as I don’t advertise this, and how much she goes out of her way to hide it, she’s still a pretty decent person. I don’t know; I think about the things she went through, and even worse how she views/feels about them, and I’m pretty sure that would have broken most. So yeah, she’s cranky, and brash, and unlikable, but…. She has these really rare moments where her truer character shines through, where her moral compass is on display and you kind of realize that perhaps there’s more to her then just tragedy and hardship. That she has parts of herself that aren’t as fel tainted as one would think, you know?

Anyways that was a really long winded way of me saying that she’s not as broken and heartless as she appears and I think that’s impressive given what she’s been through.

Thanks @the-crimson-rose !

[alchemabotana]

St. Bahkita - by Antonina Whaples 2021

Mixed media painting

Medicine people are more apt to be holding and releasing large facets of consciousness in this time. The message has been clear: go easy on yourself, pace yourself, rest often, and communicate only as needed.

It’s felt for a while that the medicine world has been deep undercover, and there’s been some in-fighting amongst the spiritualists about facets and tenants of what should be allowed to proliferate, and what is ultimately harmful to us all. Those who are still in fear of punishment, but truly animated by Spirit are being initiated through their own personal Great Mystery in various dimensions of Spirit World and this time-based concurrent reality. Those who were unjustly punished will be granted many graces in this time. Those who unjustly punished them will have their graces stripped away. To every season, turn, turn, turn.

In the next 6 months, some study could be used towards the influence of Saturnian energy on the consciousness we inherently perceive and struggle with when it comes to the panic it induces to begin to accept reality as fuzzy-wuzzy until a new clarity is discovered. When reading astrological reports with Saturn in Aquarius, make sure to try to relate to any patriarchy messages coming down through the spirit sponge to a fun, positive archetype in your mind. As in: what if so-and-so were here at this moment to give me encouragement, how might that sound in my head? In other words, redefine the voices in your head to send you intel and self-talk that is, at the very least, highly amusing.

And it’s not just the medicine people “feeling it” - there is a great number of uninitiated psychics and healers of all nations who are undergoing a psychological and personal spiritual awakening. There are new nations of imagination being introduced to the grid. “Boys have become men” so to speak - whatever your relationship to gender or sexuality - your inner masculine has had to arm wrestle his way into the current condition, and he deserves an epic theme song.

The divine feminine is asking this timeline “are you living with art? Are you living with heart?”. It’s been the remembrance of the knowledge we’ve been tuned into our whole lives (and the ones in the past), coming forward in an epic sweep. If your waters, earth, or air was littered with shipwrecks, mine fields, and poison gas - you’ve been feeling the triggers in every element of your life.

Take a moment to consider the reality of your lived experience, the spirals that they take, and the ultimate return to yourself through it all. We are cyclical creatures, animals of a planet, who rise and fall with the sun and the moon, and steer our destinies in the field of ownership of our minds. Like never before the nations of this planet have been revealed to themselves through the eyes of others. It’s not a surprise to begin to discover who has been avoidant of mirrors (literally, and in the outside world). Be cautious of reading too much into the “whys” of the action (or lack thereof), and be more conscious of your personal power to co-create entirely new realities, and the dominion you’ve been given karmically to do so.

Many in the mojo have discovered that there are personal power rules to any craft, be it intrinsically practical or utterly magical. Deep awareness of the lessons of the past and present are becoming embarrassingly clear to the lot of us. When responsibility needs to be claimed, it is actually an act of courage to pick up what is yours and transform it into something useful. Those who have abused their power are being dosed out timely warnings and opportunities for recompense. Those with real healer hearts should remove themselves from scenarios where other’s energy sources are disruptive to the real work being done. Revelation of this personal removal is indeed a tricky communication from Spirit and your Guides. Be watchful of subtle cues from the universal communicators in your day to day, and make sure to acknowledge that just because it’s happening, doesn’t mean something is wrong.

It’s a big message from the Spirit World these days that spiritual activity is only on the rise. Apparently many nations have called in some very powerful healing requests, and this ancient technology supersedes the forward drive of whatever other power players there are. For those obsessed with the advancement of this timeline and the legacy that they will leave, this spiritual thumbprint will be difficult to navigate. If you find yourself cursing in traffic, using expletives to explain everything, or decide that everyone is evil, you’re probably just normal.

Universal Spiritual Law has been triggered on many levels for some time. Although to many it feels like the spiritual authority and power of those they pray to is waning in this timeline, the personal revelation of spiritual truth is a promised covenant of this era. We will all discover the unveiling of our personal identities to ourselves, and revel in the discovery and love of who we were created to be. Self love and the care of the Self is and will become a spiritual dawn of community care, with generations of young people focused on how to make environments feel safe, comfortable, and healing. As people further emerge from their dwellings and interact with the outside environment it will feel like we are rediscovering our world. Absence has made the heart grow fonder. This refreshment will quickly fuel the arts and further encourage entrepreneurial growth. Those in the art sectors of the economy will breathe a sigh of relief to discover that their exploits, struggles, and expressions are important, valid, and very valuable. Quality of creation across the board will be re-evaluated. Less focus will be paid to functionality of design or shows of artistic mastery, nor will it be another reductive view into the abstract. This new art coming from this era, and the one to come, will be focused on process and emotion, meditation, feeling, intuition,spirituality, and self love. Everything for quite a while will feel very “personal” and people as a whole will need the niche of creation in their day to day routines in order to feel grounded and supported. This will take many forms, but ultimately be incredibly expressive. This new expressive voice will sound quite different from the ones that came before, and new definitions reflective of our human experience will be written in our history books. One day we’ll look back and realize just how much we knew all along.

Shamanic Reading for the Next 6 Months:

July: Elk

August: Deer

September: Whale

October: Squirrel

November: Butterfly

December: Coyote & Possum

The animal medicine consulted for the next six months indicates that timing in the natural world is healthy and centered. The more focus we as animals pay to our cycles with the natural world around us, the more healed we will become. Our focus will shift from drive to trust as we learn the ebbs and flows of the world around us, and are able to remember it through generations of whole peoples.

It will be a gentle fall into the Autumnal season, and the equinox promises to bring balance and opportunity for healing, forgiveness, reconciliation, and internal restfulness. All empathic people will feel this gentle spiritual wave as they continue to tune into the larger frequencies of the changing season.

The thinning of the veil will be informed by the emotional work we do in September, with focuses on the deep waters of emotional consciousness. It will not be surprising if you are able to, without even realizing it, leave behind facets of yourself that no longer serve you. On a very literal note, I have gotten messages for several decades now that we need to be listening to the frequencies of the whales regularly in order to heal from the psychological trauma of the past, especially war and slavery. The Whales have kept an unbroken consciousness in the waters of this world, and they are trying to reconnect with us in order to help us heal. This is part of the cycle of how animal nations help and heal each other. Other animals are very clearly able to communicate complex matters to each other and we are being invited to the pow wow to listen, learn, and grow.

The Gathering energy of All Souls will be a much needed source of energy for the late Fall and Early Winter dynamics arriving at the end of the year. It will truly feel like it is time to begin to hibernate sooner than usual. It will not be because of bad weather, but because people are choosing transformative activity of the inner self over social interaction. Something about the high Yang energy of the beginning of this 6 month journey has worn us out, and we’re ready for the respite offered by our cocoons of choice.

December is notable for further explanation as it is two animals together: Coyote and Possum. In this case we can trust that these tricksters are up to some good, and there are safe passageways being opened this holiday season that may not have been available in the past iterations of the holiday cycle. Watch as things mysteriously go right, and try to lean into your trust of your intuition and spirit guides as they whisper to you all the right answers to the final exam.

[acsversace-news]

Somewhere in the middle of early 2018’s television season, a thought struck me: Two of the shows I’ve most enjoyed are about gay serial killers.

Then came the onslaught of questions. What does this say about me? What does this say about these shows? Are they, to use the well-worn but apt word, problematic?

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The shows in question are American Crime Story (ACS): The Assassination of Gianni Versace on FX and The Alienist on TNT.

The first is based on real-life events and follows the first season of Ryan Murphy’s wildly successful series, The People v. O.J. Simpson. It stars the likes of Darren Criss, Penelope Cruz, and Ricky Martin.

The second, meanwhile, is a period piece based on the fiction novel of the same name by Caleb Carr. This series stars Luke Evans, Daniel Brühl, and Dakota Fanning.

Examining gay serial killers

The shows are very different, but in their common thread, men who kill and disrupt the LGBTQ community, albeit in different times and ways, there is something fascinating at work. And potentially alarming, given the very real, alleged gay serial killer who recently put Toronto through heartbreaking trauma.

Set primarily in the 1990s, ACS examines the serial killer Andrew Cunan (Criss) who claimed Italian fashion designer Gianni Versace (Édgar Ramírez) as his fifth and final victim in 1997.

As series, Murphy paints ACS with deliberate and analytical strokes. It is a show whose every decision, every beat is carefully thought about and completed. While emotions run deep in each episode, supported by phenomenal performances from its entire cast, there is something eerie and cold about it as well.

The Alienist is a messier series, but one that is just as emotional. It’s character-driven, as opposed to adhering strictly to its plot.

It takes place in mid-1890s New York City and follows a small group hunting down a serial killer plaguing the city. While the killer himself may not be gay, he targets young and teen boys who dress as girls and prostitute themselves to men, largely due to forced circumstances.

This series looks less at the commentaries of gender and sexuality, and cares more about what it means to kill. Brühl’s character, Kreizler, is an alienist, an archaic term for a psychiatrist or psychologist. Inter-personal relationships, prejudice, and classism are all explored in the show. It cares more about its narrative and characters, up against the all-at-once grimy and decadent backdrop of New York City.

Both series care about their tones and aesthetic. They are committed to them. They do, however, beg questions of representation and whether or not it should be good or bad.

Enjoying problematic things

Developing a TV show about a gay serial killer in and of itself is not wrong. After all, neither of these shows want you to root for the serial killers. While ACS gives a more fully-developed look at Cunan than the killer in the Alienist (done deliberately), their crimes are presented honestly and without sympathy.

And in the case of ACS, it tells a true story, one that cannot be erased from history.

The Alienist makes more mistakes than ACS, even if it is just following the book. Not only is it about the murder of children, some of whom are figuring out their gender expression and others forced into horrible situations out of desperation, but it makes other questionable choices, especially with characters of colors.

Yet despite these facts, both shows are immensely enjoyable.

But in a time where the Bury Your Gays trope is alive and well, and dangerous, should we be advocating for shows like these? After all, there’s a reason the benign nature and happy ending of Love, Simon is being discussed and lauded so much.

Does representation have to be positive for it to matter? Do these shows count as representation if some of the material is negative?

Navigating the maze

There’s typically a simple answer: It’s okay to enjoy problematic things, as long as you understand why they’re problematic.

But the guilt can be real. Week after week, my roommate and I planted ourselves on the couch for the new episode of The Alienist. We cooed and gushed over it, despite its subject matter — and knowing this very dark, real world.

Separating art from reality can be a difficult thing. Luckily with these two pieces, it is not a matter of the people behind the camera being controversial, making it difficult to support any work they do. While both killers in the two shows are in the wrong, wholly and completely, it is important to understand they exist in the world of their shows. It is not about the creators behind the camera harboring homophobic attitudes — which can, and has happened.

It is a matter, however, of acknowledging their subject matters, and the weariness of queer stories constantly being about struggles and horror and pain, and assessing how the products address them.

I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m tired of queer stories constantly being about prejudice or death or ostracization. For once, I want a romantic comedy with all the tropes of the classics, but with two queer leads. I don’t want the ar I constume to constantly remind me of a world that can be cruel. I see that in the news enough.

But I couldn’t help liking these shows. Maybe it was simply because they were well-made. Maybe some things, even if they are depressing, are worth it. The answer can be both of these and more. Though they occasionally made my stomach churn, and forced me to examine my own enjoyment of them, ultimately I simply had to accept that it is possible to feel a myriad of things for a piece of pop culture and not wade too deep into the murky waters.

[rilenerocks]

A couple of days ago, an old friend of mine sent me these two photos in an email under the subject title “Memories of a Simpler Time.”  They were taken in 1971, outside a place called Earthworks, a grocery store which was the center of an effort to build an alternative community in our college town. There was an Earthworks Garage and a bike shop and a restaurant called Metamorphosis, and Strawberry Fields, which still exists in my community as a natural food and dry goods store. There was a drug counseling service called Gemini House just down the street. I lived across from it. We were part of a somewhat loosely connected and yet often, intimately connected group of people, who had basically decided to divorce ourselves from the culture at large to live within a more progressive society of our own design. On campus, there was Record Service, a music store which provided economic fuel for a great number of projects like a community health center, and there was a homemade clothing store called Thimble and Threads. Eventually there was a community resource guide which listed all the services that mushroomed out of that valiant attempt to turn our backs on the heartless culture which was racist, sexist and classist, and which spawned the Vietnam War that was killing our peers.  The resource guide was called The Earthworm. My friend who is in the photos wanted to see if I could identify people on those Earthworks steps, aside from the few he remembered. That was ironic because Michael and I are standing about four people away from him, but with our backs to the camera.

Here is the final cover of The Earthworm. I labeled us as I brought that catalog with me to the exhibit I prepared as part of Michael’s celebration of life which took place in December, 2017, seven months after his death. I needed that time to recover from the last months of his life and in fact, the five plus years that preceded his death.

A simpler time. I’ve been thinking a lot about what that might mean in this era when in the U.S., every day for the past three and a half years, staccato bursts of hard-to-assimilate news stories rattle the mind from morning until night. Some people limit their intake of them, attempting to stay calm. For people like me, who can’t look away, there have to be other methods of trying to cope with the madness. But wasn’t there always madness of one kind or another? Is this time any more complex than other times? Is it just that as we exit our youth, life gets more layered which makes coping more complicated and strenuous? That may be partially true for those children who grow up in safe, stable environments. But I know that can’t possibly be the way it is for kids who from the earliest times in their lives, are scrambling to survive amidst all kinds of challenges and dangers.

My mom, a fun-loving person and inveterate storyteller, wove an interesting and evocative tapestry of her life which she readily shared with me and my siblings as we were growing up.  Her tales ran the gamut from humorous, entertaining and exciting, to treacherous and frightening.  Her childhood was filled with deaths, embarrassments and neglect, and wasn’t very long as she married my dad at only nineteen. Her perceptions of that youth depended on her age at the time she was telling her tales. Sometimes she romanticized being a young girl and talked about how much less complicated life was back in those days. At other times, she bitterly decried all her hardships.

 Often, her tales were dramatic and harrowing. When I was a young kid, when she crossed all kinds of parent/child boundaries while sharing her tales. I thought her life was impossibly complex and scary, as she seemed a living miracle for having escaped so much trauma to become a mostly “normal” grownup. And so, inadvertently, she added a pile of worries to my young life, which required me to navigate some significantly adult issues while I was still a kid. I guess that’s why “a simpler time” doesn’t really resonate with me. I’ve always thought life was complex and way more problematic than not. Ironically, the wife of my friend who sent me the photos which sent me off on this train of thought was Julie, who died in March after a lengthy struggle with a stubborn cancer. Over 50 years ago, when I was still a teenager and Julie a scant year older, we dubbed the murky, below-the-surface mysteries of our lives, the “deep debris.” It still seems like an apt description for what life is really like for most people.

Right now, life for me is still that curious mixture of simple and complicated. On one hand, for the foreseeable future, my days are pretty much the same, and fairly limited. I spend most of my time at home. I’m lucky because I can work in my garden instead of being trapped indoors. I’m out there for hours, laboring away. It’s a big yard, too big for me, but here I’ll stay as my daughter and her family live across the street. Another good thing, being able to see them rather than being separated by many miles. I have no idea when I’ll be able to travel anywhere again. The world is full of questions right now, so even though it’s simple figuring out what to do every day, it’s complicated trying to look down the road, wondering how long I’ll be healthy, if I can reach for the goals I’d set for myself, post Michael’s death and pre-pandemic. The advent of the social justice furor of the past few weeks created the only decision-making  situation for me – should I as a person in the most vulnerable group for Covid19, leave the safety of my home to participate in a demonstration for a cause I believe in or not? That turned out to be an easier choice than I thought. I absolutely felt the weight of my moral responsibility to attend so I did. But demonstrations won’t be happening every day. So how to maneuver through this deceptively simple new world that is here to stay, whether I like it or not? All I read tells me that in order to stay safe, this limited life is likely to stretch out for much longer than most of us hoped it would. My cost/benefit analysis about staying healthy keeps leading me back to staying close to home. I’m trying to figure out how to readjust my outlook, absent the ability to make plans, so I can avoid sinking into unproductive frustration. 

Looking ahead is murky. My hard earned skill of living in the moment is still fairly effective. I think about all the people who’ve navigated the horrors of living in a single cell, with no way out, for years on end. I don’t want to be a spoiled whiner who thinks that this current situation is that big a deal. How did we ever get so entitled and self-centered? I don’t want to become someone I don’t like.  So I’ve decided I’m going to look back for awhile. I’m making a personal anthology of both the big and little experiences in my life that have gotten me to where I am today. The national parks I’ve visited are part of my tapestry. The travels I’ve been able to experience and am missing now are great memories. But I’m also interested in thinking about the little bits of life which flesh out how we become the people we are. So far I’m working on lists of the books I’ve read, the movies I’ve seen, the television shows I loved throughout the years. But what’s really been fun is digging around for the small stories and buried facts that don’t often come up in conversation.

My first story is about the fact that I’ve driven over one hundred miles per hour. Which feels really fast, I suspect, to anyone who doesn’t drive race cars. One of the big enticements I used to convince Michael that the institution of marriage wasn’t inherently awful, was to promise that if we actually did it, we’d get enough money to buy a decent vehicle. We wound up with this green Chevy Blazer with a white roof. In the almost ten years we shared before having kids, we took a lot of long road trips. Michael, a born speed demon who didn’t want to be ticketed, bought both a CB radio and a “fuzzbuster,” or radar detector, as must-have equipment for our new vehicle. The CB radio, which we primarily used to communicate with the semi-trailer drivers on the highway, required that we have “handles,” names that we used to identify ourselves to those who’d give us warnings about where the police were hiding to catch speeders. Michael chose, “Swamp Fox” which was the name of an American Revolutionary War officer who was credited with being an impetus behind the development of guerilla warfare, tactics dear to his heart. For the sake of simplicity and easy identification of our vehicle to those with whom we were communicating, my handle choice was “Lady Fox.” When we’d take turns driving, whoever held the wheel handled the CB. I laugh out loud as I remember the lingo that went along with this – “breaker 19 for a southbounder on I-75.” But I did it. Miraculously traffic would move along at 90 mph and higher, so as Michael napped, I’d just press the accelerator, hang on to the wheel and hope for the best. I developed steely nerves bombing away down those roads. Good times.

Another story that I recalled had to do with our visits to a lovely state park located about 30 minutes away from our town. This park has over twenty deep ponds that were reclaimed from strip mining many years ago. While people could canoe and fish there, swimming was prohibited. So of course, swimming is what we decided to do. We brought along some inexpensive floating rafts and our two dogs who were always with us. My little border collie, Ribeye, was extremely sensitive and very attached to me. We found a secluded spot with no one else around, stripped off our clothes, hopped onto the rafts and pushed off from the rocky shore to sun and dip ourselves into the water. Ribeye, who was anxiously pacing the shoreline, decided that the separation was too much for her, leapt into the pond and swam out to me and attempted to join me on the raft. Of course, her nails punctured it, thereby dumping both of us into the drink, just as a group of people were approaching our hidden corner. I can still hear Michael’s uproarious laughter as I swam frantically for the shore and some cover, dragging the crumpled raft with Ribeye happily splashing along beside me. I hadn’t thought about that in years.

As I muck around in the garden, my isolation-reliever, I’m going to practice letting my mind wander back through incidents like these, which collectively, add up to the bigger picture that is my life. Tiny oases that provide temporary escape from the present and which help hold the uncertain future at bay. We’ll see how long this approach lasts.

A Simpler Time…Maybe A couple of days ago, an old friend of mine sent me these two photos in an email under the subject title “Memories of a Simpler Time.”  They were taken in 1971, outside a place called Earthworks, a grocery store which was the center of an effort to build an alternative community in our college town.

[dotshiiki]

CoL, chpt 8

I am so sorry I wanted to post this morning but my supervisor asked to change tomorrow’s morning meeting to today and I was instead scrambling to get everything in order for that and yeah, back to doing this while I’m having lunch, oh wells. 

VIII: WILL

As their borrowed Ford Mondeo wound its way south, Will wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

It wasn't his first road trip. He'd taken many as a kid with his mom, back when she still did music tours. Most recently, he'd gone cross-country in Leo Valdez's camper-dragon from New York to New Rome. In terms of size and reliability, the car Annabeth had borrowed off her dad fell somewhere in between Naomi Solace's tiny Chevy (old and beat up, but incredibly dependable) and Leo's spacious but insane contraption (prone to—literally—flaming temper tantrums). It was one of those solid suburban models, great for a college professor and his family of five. Maybe a bit on the squeezy side with three grown boys in the back seat. It was just as well the Roman demigods had stayed behind. If Frank Zhang had been in the group, Will didn't think they would have fit.

Anyway, the car wasn't the problem.

It hadn't been so bad when Annabeth had been at the wheel, but then she'd traded with Thalia—who drove like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic like an F1 driver negotiating a race track. Sure, they were in a hurry, but a little caution probably wouldn't be amiss.

On Will's left, Nico grumbled, 'I don't see why Jules Albert couldn't have driven us. At least he used to be an actual race car driver.'

'I heard that,' Thalia said.

Will considered Nico's zombie driver. He'd only encountered the dude once, but he remembered two things about him. One, the guy was really steady at the wheel. Two, you could smell his rotting corpse all the way from Olympus.

That might not have been such a great idea on a six-hour car ride.

'Well, I guess it would've been a bit of a squeeze with five of us as passengers instead of four,' he pointed out instead. 'You wouldn't wanna be squashed up all the way to L.A.'

'I don't want to die on the way to L.A., either,' Nico muttered. 'I could have shadow travelled.'

Will rolled his eyes. 'With all five of us? We've talked about this, Death Boy. Unless you've learned how to transport large groups on your own without dissolving into shadow, we're doing this the long way.'

Nico glared at him, though Will wasn't sure if it was targeted at his use of the hated nickname or the aspersions he'd cast on Nico's abilities.

Probably both. Not that Will cared. Nico was cute when he got mad.

On Will's other side, Percy had been staring out of the window with his chin propped on his hand, gazing at the sunset over the Californian mountains. Now he turned to watch them, his eyes darting between Will and Nico as he followed their exchange.

'Who's Jules Albert?' he asked.

'Long story,' Nico said.

'It's a long trip,' Thalia called back. 'You may as well spill.'

Will zoned out as Nico told them the story of his undead ex-F1 champion chauffeur. It was one of those tales that always made Will curious about the different parenting styles of the gods. You wouldn't imagine the Lord of the Underworld to be a concerned—albeit behind-the-times—parent, but there you had it.

Will's dad, on the other hand, was pretty much the opposite. Apollo was nothing if not current. You probably didn't get to be the god of music and poetry and that sort of stuff if you couldn't keep up on what was trending. On the parenting front, though, his record was more flaky: fickle with bestowing gifts (unlike Nico and his inheritance of a full spectrum of Underworldly powers, being an Apollo kid was like a lottery for godly skill) and attention (Apollo wasn't always great about remembering who his children were, let alone communicating with them). Though he'd been better since his enforced stint as a mortal. He'd even sent Will a birthday card when he turned eighteen, which might have been a first for any godly parent. The quest Apollo had recently undertaken must have given him a new appreciation for the trials his children went through.

Was about to go through, in Will's case.

In Tartarus.

What had he been thinking, volunteering for this quest? It wasn't like he had a ton of experience with this sort of thing. Sure, he'd played his part in two wars, but he wasn't one of the front runners for the dangerous quests. He wasn't Annabeth, leading a team of demigods on a heroic air/sea voyage. He wasn't Thalia, who'd basically signed her life away to hunt monsters for Artemis.

He wasn't Percy, hero of the Battle of Manhattan, saviour of Olympus twice over, a demigod with credentials longer than most minor gods, whom even Will's own father respected (and Apollo didn't hold that many people in high regard).

Percy, who couldn't remember why everyone admired him.

Thanks to a potion Will had administered—yeah, okay, it was to save his life—and maybe screwed up so that he was now dying slowly from an empousa's curse.

Annabeth blamed herself, but Will knew some of it had to fall on him, too. He was the healer, after all.

That was why he was here.

If Will were the jealous sort, he might have been concerned that Nico was with them, too. Will was fully aware of the crush Nico had once had on Percy. (Not that Will could blame him. He'd be lying if he said he'd never had at least one dream about those brilliant green eyes and roguish smile.) But jealousy wasn't really Will's style. He preferred to think of it as Nico accompanying him, helping him atone for his mistake.

Besides, Will was the one who had volunteered them both. It wasn't entirely selfish. There had been something in Nico's face that morning, a flicker of the shadow that never quite left his boyfriend's soul. Nico never spoke much about his time in Tartarus—not to Will, not to anybody. All Will knew was that Nico had been there at some point during the war, and judging from certain hints he'd picked up from Hazel and Reyna over the years, it hadn't been a walk in the park. But everyone seemed to think Nico had just shrugged it off and moved on by now.

Except recovery from a traumatic experience wasn't quite so straightforward. People often thought healing was always about getting better, but Will knew that there was always a part before, where you had to get worse. The same way a fever raged through the body to expel the germs inside, you often needed a psychological unravelling to dislodge a trauma. Will had seen it happen to Percy and Annabeth in the fall after the Giant War. He'd watched them go through the painful process of falling apart and coming back together.

Nico, on the other hand, seemed to have buried his time in Tartarus deep inside himself. Maybe his friends couldn't see it. But Will wasn't Camp Half-Blood's best healer in a century for nothing.

And that morning, Will had sensed Nico's need to tackle his demons, to face whatever he had encountered head on and beat it this time. He needed to return to Tartarus, whether he knew it or not. And Will would be damned if he let Nico do it without him.

Although he'd be lying if he said he wasn't scared shitless about what they might face down there.

To calm his nerves, he ran over the provisions he'd packed for their journey: nectar and ambrosia, naturally, but also all the specialised healing supplies he could get his hands on. A jar of Lemnian mud. A tincture of Moly. And of course, Gatorade, because Nico was bound to try something stupid at some point with his Death Boy powers.

It was nearly midnight by the time they pulled into West Hollywood, a time that seemed eerily apt for approaching the Underworld. The dark didn't seem to faze Annabeth, who navigated Thalia expertly through the winding streets.

'It was dark, too, the last time we were here,' she said, shrugging.

'That was what, ten years ago?' Thalia said. 'Your memory's insane!' Then she abruptly clamped her mouth shut. In the rear-view mirror, Will saw her biting her lip in consternation.

Annabeth frowned out the window as they passed the only shopfront still lit up, a crooked neon sign flashing 'CRUSTY'S WATERBED PALACE' over its door. 'Some things don't change much.'

Thalia pulled up by the kerbside of a black marble building with tall glass doors. Golden letters above them screamed 'DOA RECORDING STUDIOS.'

'We're here,' Annabeth said. She opened her door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The others hopped out as well. There was a sign on the building door that said:

VALET PARKING AVAILABLE CARS NOW ACCEPTED AS COLLATERAL

'What does it mean, collateral?' Percy asked.

'Payment for passage, probably,' Annabeth said. 'Though I'd like to get the car back to my dad eventually if possible.'

'We already blew up his car once,' Thalia said. 'What's another?'

Annabeth sighed. 'Let's just go.'

Inside the building, the hallways were lit with lava lamps shaped like ancient torches. Rows of plastic fold-up chairs lined the walls, all filled with dismal-faced people who looked like they might not be entirely solid. Bluegrass music belted out from a speaker box in the corner of the ceiling.

At the end of the hallway was the most ostentatious desk Will had ever seen. Made of polished mahogany and embedded with blood-red jewels, it stretched in front of a plain silver elevator with a single button: down. In an ornate armchair behind the desk lounged a man in an expensive Italian suit. He was kind of handsome, a bit like Nico, with his olive skin and finely chiselled features.

'Group of five?' he said. His accent was vaguely European. 'What was it, a car accident?' He pulled out an iPhone and brought up an app. 'No alerts from Thanatos. How many times do I have to tell Death to update me when he makes a delivery?' He swiped across the screen to a time display. 'Never mind—you'll have to wait. I have a crossing scheduled now.'

He shoved the phone back in his suit pocket. 'Tickets for crossing thirteen-oh-eight-one!' he announced to the room at large. Then he turned back to the five of them. 'Have your fare ready when I get back. Prices are on the chart.'

He indicated a sign on the wall, where a list of fare prices and timings were printed:

Standard passage—1 drachma; wait time: 10 years Expedited passage—10 drachma; wait time: 5 years

Shorter wait times by negotiation only. All bribes accepted.

Check PlutoXE for latest exchange rates.

Children over 12 pay full fare.

A bunch of ghostly people shuffled forward, tickets in hand. Most of them were pretty old, but Will thought he spotted at least one young face that looked vaguely familiar. Before the group could get to the lift, Nico stepped between them and the Italian-suit man.

'Hello, Charon,' he said, crossing his arms.

Charon did a double-take. 'Oh, it's you. Don't you have better ways of visiting your father than clogging up my ferry?' He looked suspiciously at Will, Annabeth, Percy, and Thalia. 'And which part of the no-living-allowed rule don't you understand, kid?'

When Nico still didn't answer, Charon said, 'Fine. They better pay up, though.'

Nico tapped his finger on the expensive mahogany desk and gave Charon a pointed look. 'Who helped you argue for your last pay raise with my dad?'

Charon sighed and shook his head. 'Okay, okay. This lot isn't going to be happy to be bumped, though. Celebrities,' he grumbled. 'Always so demanding.'

With a jolt, Will recognised the familiar-looking kid as an actor who'd OD'ed last summer. And some of the older faces in the group had that vague, seen-them-on-TV-but-can't-name-them feel of TV personalities from his mom's generation.

Charon sent the actor kid and four other spirits back to the waiting line, silencing their complaints with a threat to bump them further down the list if they gave him any more lip.

'And don't even think of changing the music channel when I'm gone,' he warned.

They filed into the lift with Charon and the rest of the celebrity group. As soon as the doors closed, they found themselves descending in the darkness, landing with a splash on the surface of a black river. When his eyes adjusted, Will saw that they were in a cavern lit by gemstones studded in the volcanic rock. The lift had expanded into a barge, which Charon poled towards a shore of black sand. He let them off on the beach at the bottom of a rising path that led up towards a foggy grey meadow.

'My next annual review is in a month,' he said to Nico.

'I'll keep it in mind.'

They hiked up the path with the other souls. At the top, they entered an enormous screening area like the kind you saw at airport security: a long winding line marked out by post-and-rope barriers, except the posts looked like they were made from femurs and the ropes from sinew. The end of the line split into ten security checkpoints, all manned by ghouls in pale green uniforms. They were frisking the spirits that passed through the metal detectors, except at a smaller, separate line on the end marked 'EZ DEATH', where the spirits passed unmolested.

'They've…upgraded,' Annabeth noted.

'Luckily for us,' Nico said. 'Come on.'

He led them to the other side of the rope-barrier line, where a roped-off channel had been marked out 'SECURITY PERSONNEL ONLY'. Nico lifted the barrier and they all ducked under it. The nearest security ghoul turned to them, but when he saw Nico, he gave a sharp salute and returned to his duties.

As they got closer to the entrance marked WELCOME TO EREBUS, Percy yelped and stepped back, treading painfully on Will's toes. A moment later, Will saw what had startled him and nearly jumped out of his skin himself. An enormous three-headed Rottweiler had appeared out of nowhere, so big that it spanned the entire row of checkpoints.

'Cerberus,' Annabeth said.

Three heads leaned towards her, their tongues lolling out. Will ducked to avoid being splattered by monster dog drool.

Cerberus's tail wagged. One of the heads barked. It was deafening, but it sounded…joyous. Another dog head made a low, pleading sort of whine.

'He…does he remember me?' Annabeth said in amazement.

Nico shrugged. 'Possibly.' He raised his hand to scratch Cerberus's left head. The dog was so big, it was unlikely that Nico's small hand could have made any difference, but Cerberus seemed to be pleased by the attention nonetheless. Annabeth copied him on Cerberus's right head. The middle one whined and gave Will a hopeful sort of look.

Will hesitated. Pat the monster guardian of the Underworld? Well, sure, why not. In some weird way, it was kind of like visiting his boyfriend's home and meeting his pet dog.

After passing Cerberus, they followed Nico through a gigantic field filled with glassy-eyed spirits. These parted naturally before Nico, leaving them an open path to walk through, but closed the gap behind them once they passed.

'Is anyone else as freaked out as me?' Percy whispered.

Will nodded. It was like being in a crowded room at an insane asylum: every spirit chattering away to itself with no apparent awareness of anyone else.

'Well, it's not the first time we've been here,' Thalia said.

'Don't tell me.' Percy sounded resigned. 'I've been through this before and I just don't remember.' He turned to Will. 'I would've thought this wouldn't be your first time, though.'

'What makes you think that?'

'You're dating Death Boy here, aren't you?'

'Don't call me that,' Nico said sharply, shooting Will a look that said plainly, This is all your fault.

'We haven't actually done the meet-the-parents thing,' Will said.

'Sure we have,' Nico said. 'I've met yours.'

Just as he said this, they reached the gates of a magnificent palace built of glittering obsidian. It was silhouetted against a backdrop of craggy volcanic mountains. Its grounds stretched across the Fields of Asphodel to reach the edge of the only bright spot in the gloom: a gated community surrounding a tropical island. A low parapet made a ring around the palace grounds, marking out the sector of the Underworld that was Hades's personal territory.

Standing at the edge of it, Will was reminded of the first time he had brought Nico home to Schoharie and they'd stood in front of his mom's tiny house. Nico had given him a terrified look, like a caged animal about to be led to slaughter. 'Are you sure about this?' he'd asked.

'Relax—it's just my mom,' Will had reassured him. 'She'll like you.'

Looking at the black obsidian palace, he imagined the situation in reverse. It didn't match, though. You could fit ten of Will's houses into the courtyard of this palace. And Hades wasn't just Nico's dad. What demigod wouldn't have a healthy amount of respect, if not fear, for the Lord of the Dead?

Then again, that kind of applied ot all the gods. And Nico had met Apollo, though the fact that the god had been a mortal kid barely a year older than Will himself at the time probably reduced the intimidation factor.

Nico seemed to sense what Will was thinking. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. 'Maybe I should invite you over to stay. See how you like meeting my parents. Fair's fair, right?'

'Ha ha.'

'Seriously, I do have a room there.'

'Let me guess, decorated with skulls and stuff?' Will said dryly.

'How did you guess?' Nico shrugged. 'My dad thought it was funny. I think. Hard to be sure, with him.'

'Guys,' Thalia said, 'back to the quest? You can get past the meet-the-parents hurdle when we make it back. If we make it back.'

Annabeth pointed to a path leading off to the right of the palace gates. 'That way, isn't it?'

'That would be the shortcut, yet,' Nico said, his face sober again. The shadow of Tartarus flickered across him again. He looked like he had more to say about the route, but he just pressed his lips together and started down the path.

It led into a dim tunnel that smelt of earth and minerals and something else that Will couldn't quite put his finger on. It reminded him of the smell of ancient magic, the way the soil of Lemnos, with its healing properties, gave off a different scent from commonplace mud. The tunnel narrowed and sloped downwards. The air took on a chilly, metallic quality. Will could smell iron in the walls now, like they were made from the blood-soaked earth of a battlefield or the stones of a sacrificial altar.

They emerged into a dark cavern. The path beneath them sloped steeply towards a sharp drop-off: a cliff overlooking a pitch-black chasm. The whole cavern churned with a deep, coercive magic. It snaked out of the chasm and wound itself around Will, a compelling force drawing him to the edge like it was a magnet and Will a hapless steel nail.

'Do you guys feel that?' he whispered.

Annabeth shivered. 'It's Tartarus. The pull—once it latches on, you can't break free of it.'

'Like running from a black hole.' Nico's voice was hollow and echoey in the cavern. He stared down into the chasm and then turned to Will. The dim glow of the stalactites cast eerie shadows across his pale face. A thousand nightmares played in his eyes.

Will reached for his hand, although he wasn't sure if it was to offer Nico some comfort or take some for himself. Nico's fingers were trembling and even colder than usual.

'Well,' Thalia said, 'we do want to go in now, so…'

As if an unspoken signal had passed among all of them, they reached for each other's hands at the same time. And then, linked in a tight circle, they jumped.

A/N: I realise the layout of DOA recording studios is not quite in keeping with the canon description in Lightning Thief, but where’s the fun in repeating the books? Let’s just say Charon redecorated a little. All those pay raises must have gone somewhere, right?

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