#caroline is weeping from the other side | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gerrydelano · 1 year ago

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SKINDEEP

Rating: M Words: 13.3k Characters: Jon Sims, Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Danny Stoker, Sasha James, Melanie King, Caroline Brodie, Callum Brodie, Gerry Keay (in memorium)

Relationships: Gerry/Tim, Martin/Danny, Sasha & Tim, Melanie & Caroline Brodie, Danny & Tim

Synopsis: Alternate ending for Pharos by Right (inspired by this anon) where Tim doesn't manage to stop Danny from swinging the hammer while Gerry read the incantation to start the Change — i.e., Gerry is killed to save the world, and then the world goes quiet.

(Actual ending of PBR will commence after posting this because I needed to get it out of my system. Got possessed.)

To those unfamiliar, PBR is my massive Archivist!Gerry series, and this requires the context of most of it, but especially my most recent chapter. If this intrigues you at all, there's 430k more words where this came from!

CWs: Character death; Head trauma; Severe injury; Grief; An intense breakdown ft. drowning imagery; Mention of drug use

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Jon opens his eyes to the sound of screaming, burning, and a loud ringing in his ears. He coughs against the ash in his mouth, halting in his attempt to roll onto his side as his ribs clip a hard object underneath him. He must have been thrown backwards into something when the—

When the bombs went off. The bombs went off. It’s must be over.

But the screaming. Oh, the screaming, it’s louder than the ringing and the burning and the voice that he can almost hear saying shhh, it’s alright, I’m right here! Oh, G-d, somebody help! The voice calls his name. His name is Jon. His name is his name again.

Stiffly, he rises to his elbow and coughs again, his chest sore and his legs weak and oh, G-d, his leg— there’s a gash in his leg, a large one, and he can feel the blood running down into his sock.

His name is called again, and he’s almost afraid to rub soot into his remaining eye even on the off chance that he might clear it and find the source of the sounds, the screaming, the voice. Bleary, he stumbles forward onto his less-injured leg, peering around in the smoke for a shape he might recognize.

There is a shape, tall and upright, but it’s silent. A spire in the fog. Not the source of his name.

He keeps looking. He keeps listening. He crawls.

“Jon, where are you! Judith? Tim! I need help, somebody help me!”

Martin? That’s Martin’s voice, high and desperate and rough with smoke, too, there’s smoke everywhere, they need to get out of here. They need to leave, before the police arrive, before the structure collapses, before—

The screaming has transitioned into bawling, deeply pained cries for help, and only when he finally sees Martin’s shape hunkered over a spasmodic, outstretched body does it click. Danny is hurt. He was hurt in the explosion, and Martin needs help with him. Jon drags himself over to Danny’s other side and reaches out for his arm to find his sleeve wet with blood, but not torn. Danny screams again at the contact of his hand, startling Jon into letting go.

“How—” Jon coughs again. “Where is he hurt, what—”

“I-I don’t— Everywhere!” Martin panics, his hands on Danny’s chest like he’s about to start compressions. He doesn’t, of course, because Danny is horrifically alive, and there is blood seeping through his ringmaster’s jacket like the fabric has just been lain upon a dark puddle.

Jon reaches out for his hem to lift it, earning a smack from Danny’s frantic, bloody hand. He persists. He gasps.

The open wound is a perfect split down the middle of his stomach, disappearing at his groin, and most certainly extending up his chest into a V. He’d heard about the autopsy seams. He could never have imagined they would split open again.

Quickly, Jon lowers the shirt again and presses down on the wound, earning another guttural sound of agony. Martin is weeping but trying not to let it slow him down, trying to pin Danny’s arm to his side with his knees. Jon tries to do the same, but then who will get his legs? They surely go down his legs, too.

“Tim?” he hears himself croak out. “Tim, where are you?”

No answer. He could assume the worst, but he remembers that tall shape and turns around. It’s still there, standing a distance away in utter stillness, like another wax statue that hasn’t been taken down in the blast or a troupe member that refused to be exterminated, but Jon knows that sound. The sound of phantom water.

“Tim!” he shouts. “Tim, come over here and help your brother!”

No answer.

Jon turns around again and waves a hand through the smoke. There is daylight shining through a busted out window, casting beams onto the filthy, ruined floor. Tim is hovering a few yards away, staring down at the ground and soaked to the bone as water pours from the top of his head all the way down his body. He doesn’t look injured — why would he? He’s still clenching his fist around what Jon can only assume is the detonator.

“Tim!” he shouts again. “Tim, we need you to— oh.”

At Tim’s feet, there is a dark pool. It creeps slowly across the floor towards Jon’s own extended shoe, glinting red in the dusty daylight. Jon traces the seeping to its source, and meets Gerry’s open eyes.

“Oh, no… No, no, no.”

The blood is pouring fast from his head, spreading out from under the mess of his hair. His mouth is parted almost in surprise, frozen around an unspoken word, like he’s been interrupted from a dream.

This has to be a dream.

“Jon, could you please focus!”

Jon realizes he’s let go of Danny entirely. Jon stutters back around, stutters his next half-words. Nothing comes of his violent nausea. He almost wishes it would. Maybe it would wake him up.

“I— Martin, Gerry is—”

“I know!” Martin snipes, and then takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I know. I know, and I can’t think about that right now, not when— Danny is still alive, please, help me keep him that way!”

“We need… We need an ambulance, we need… Where’s my phone…?”

Jon pats at himself, feeling the tack of bloody handprints on his clothes as he goes. When he finds his phone, he finds the screen cracked, but it still works when he presses his sticky thumb to the sensor. His free hand moves back to Danny’s arm, squeezing his bicep hard.

“Y-Yes, hello? We’re at the House of Wax. Yes, that one, in— in Great Yarmouth. There’s been— There’s been an explosion, people are hurt, we need… please, send an ambulance. Send two. Send all of them! I don’t care, please, just— please, help.”

Jon doesn’t realize he’s started to cry until he’s bowed forward enough over Danny that the next time his arm flails, it clips him on the face. He recoils and nearly drops his phone, barely catching it to put it back into his pocket before he secures his hands around Danny’s arm again and holds tight. He dreads turning his head again, but he has to.

“Tim,” he says more carefully this time. “Tim, you need to move. You need to do something.”

No answer.

“Either help us, o-or go find Judith, or the Hunters, or see if any of the troupe are still alive.”

No answer.

“Anything, Tim! Can you hear me?”

No answer.

“He can’t hear you,” Martin sniffs. “I don’t— I don’t think he can hear anything.”

The water in his ears may be too much. He may be frozen in his avatar state, consumed by repulsive satiation. He may be lost, too.

When Danny’s screaming dies down into whimpers, his thrashing into mere twitches, Jon finds himself just as worried as Martin. He lets Martin take up the mantle of trying to keep his attention — Danny? Angel, can you hear me? Stay with me, stay awake! I can’t lose you here, not like this! — because what could Jon possibly say? What could he offer to either of the Stoker brothers now?

A clattering sounds from afar. Jon snaps his head up to look for the source of it, spying Judith stumbling over a pile of rubble to reach them. She’s covered in soot, clutching her arm and limping. When she reaches their pocket of the room, her eyes go to Gerry first.

“Oh, G-d.”

Jon swallows hard. “Where are the other Hunters?”

“Dead. Think they fragged each other.”

Her voice is dreamy and distant. She crosses over to Tim, and bends down to pick something up off the floor. Gerry’s walking stick, forgotten in between the two scenes. She doesn’t wipe the blood off of the handle, inspecting the head of the hammer in the light for something Jon can’t see. He watches her study Tim like a marble statue in a museum, until his eyes drop once again to meet Gerry’s.

This has got to be a dream.

“What happened to him?” Judith asks of Danny.

“I— I don’t know,” Martin struggles. “I think a lot of his old wounds opened up, but I don’t know how, I don’t see why they— Jon, how long until the ambulance gets here?”

Jon blinks. “I didn’t ask.”

Martin doesn’t chastise him, instead nodding with a tearful sound. He’s come to lean his forearm across Danny’s collarbones, his other bent to cover as much of the vertical line down his chest as he can. Like he’s holding together some little paper art project, waiting for the glue to dry. His wrist is angled strangely, and for the first time, Jon notices his gritting teeth. He’s hurt, too, and he’s fighting through it.

“I’ll go wave them down,” Judith says, starting to step over the growing lake of Gerry’s blood. A thin branch of it is close to touching the edge of Danny’s.

“What’s our plan?”

“Plan?” Jon almost mocks. “What can— What can we even do now?”

“You were all about contingency plans before,” she says dryly. “You didn’t plan for something like this?”

“Well, obviously not, Judith! Of course I didn’t think—”

Didn’t think… what? That only some of them might die? That the rest of them would have to live with it? Of course he didn’t plan for that.

“I say… let it get sectioned.” She shakes her head at the scene. “Let it all get put away.”

“How do we do that?”

“Tell them that something unbelievable happened, that they got caught in the crossfire, that you don’t know what happened to them because something was happening to you, too. Isn’t that the truth?”

It sounds too easy. “Won’t we be detained anyway until they decide we’re not lying?”

“We all need a hospital. I have a feeling we’ll be fine, when they see the rest of the scene. The choir’s dead, too.” Judith turns to Tim once more. “…I’ll put this in my car before they get here.”

She leaves with the help of the walking staff, calm and direct, and Jon doesn’t think he has it in him to be a Hunter, after all.

Tim pays her no mind, still staring stone still at Gerry’s body. He’d landed on his back, mostly, one leg tipped to the side and his hand delicately curled in the puddle. The other is resting serenely on his hip, almost like he’d been posed that way. One of his eyes is severely bloodshot, grey shining up through the darkness of it like a coin. The longer Jon looks at him, the clearer the sunlight is through the window. It’s a beautiful day outside. It’s the middle of summer. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“How did— How did this happen?”

“There was an explosion, Jon,” Martin mutters.

“No, I know, but— but the rest of us… We’re fine, we’re… Why him?”

“I don’t have an answer for you. I didn’t see what happened.” Martin lifts an arm for a split second to wipe his nose, leaving a smudge of red on his face. He stares down at Danny’s face, paler than fear has ever left it, one-track minded as ever. It’s not as if Jon can blame him. What else in this room is worth worrying about now? It’s all over. They were just in time, and they were too late.

Jon forgets until the sound of sirens. He spins around to face Tim again, to tell him that he needs to control his leaking before someone sees, but the only evidence that Tim was ever standing there in the first place is a small disturbance in the blood where it has been thinned and expanded with water.

Firefighters first, police, and then the paramedics with their stretchers and their questions and their back away, let us take over. Martin tries his best to explain the extent of Danny’s wounds, launching into the true lie that Judith encouraged without rehearsal.

“We were just walking around, and something weird started happening, there— there was music, and dancing? But it was terrible dancing, not bad to look at but bad to be a part of, we couldn’t stop, there are— there are more people lost in here somewhere, I just know it, but I don’t know where they are. There was—” A sob. “There were people without skin.”

Danny can pass very well as a mere victim of whatever supernatural nonsense had taken place, certainly. His wounds are too severe and his clothes too close to pristine over them to make any sense to the ordinary eye.

Jon is asked about Gerry.

“I—” His throat stops up with a cry. “I didn’t see. I think… I think the blast must have… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Should he mention the Magnus Institute? Will that hurry up the Section Eight process? He doesn’t know what to do. When a paramedic asks to see his leg, he’s powerless to do anything but obey, limping out of the building with the help of a firefighter.

Martin isn��t permitted into Danny’s ambulance, the paramedics too frantic to stabilize him. Jon catches one of them noting the texture and colour of his blood in confusion, in distress, and looks down at his hands to find them more maroon than crimson in the sunlight. He sways.

While he’s being bandaged on the back of an ambulance, a stretcher carrying a body bag is rolled by and loaded into another. He watches as a series of dark, wet spots form on the ground leading up to the step into the back before the doors close.

Good. Someone should stay with him until the end. Jon only knows Jewish funerals, the strict customs that being sectioned might not care to honour. Perhaps Gerry wouldn’t care one way or another if someone were to guard his body, but he still shouldn’t be alone.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

They bring him straight to the morgue.

Tim follows behind the man with the stretcher in silence, in absence, and cares nothing for the mess his footsteps leave behind. When the swinging door shuts in his face, he steps right through it. He watches the man handle his lover with ambivalence, with some anxiety, and waits as long as it takes for him to leave. He is going to be alone with Gerry if it kills someone else.

When there’s no one left in the room, he releases his grip on disappearance and watches the perfect stillness of the black bag. He doesn’t feel that old sense of being observed anymore. It’s his turn to stare.

He reaches for the zipper.

Pulling it down takes an eternity, his hands numb with hate. When he’s peeled back the sides to free Gerry’s face, to let his body breathe, he takes in the sight without so much as a shaken gasp. Gerry’s eyes are still open, the one damaged with the impact to his skull, the other clear as day, but catching no light. Not anymore.

Tim reaches out to shut them with his fingertips. To wipe a speck of blood from his forehead. To stroke dust from his cheek.

Gerry’s head lolls with the touch, no control left to be had. The fluorescent lights cast a shine on the blood-matted depression in his skull.

Tim’s eyes catch on the purple bruise on the side of her neck, nestled sweetly just above her collar. His fingertips drift down to touch it, to beg for a pulse. He remembers why he never bothered with prayer.

Gerry never bothered with it, either. What would he want to happen next? It’s up to Tim now. One decision he never wanted to make for her.

Tim remains by his side until the morgue doors open again, at which point he makes eye contact with a startled hospital employee. Water pours from his head and shoulders to spread across the tile floor at his feet, his hand still resting on Gerry’s lifeless breastbone. The worker doesn’t scream, staring back and breathing hard, until Tim forces two words past the outpouring of water from his mouth.

“Get— out.”

Now, they scramble to run, and he turns back to his love for one last, long glance. The next time someone interrupts him, he’ll have to leave. He can’t keep Gerry like this forever. It wouldn’t be fair.

He needs to be out in the waiting room as family when someone finally comes looking for some. He needs to be composed. He needs to be human. To handle this like a husband.

Tim reaches for Gerry’s chin to straighten his head again. Dignity.

Gently, he reaches his hands behind her neck to feel for the clasp of her collar first, and then the chain that holds her padlock. He can get the rest of his jewelry and his jacket back when they strip him for cremation. No one else should get to touch these. Not for anything.

Gerry would choose cremation. He wouldn’t want to be locked in a pine box, slow to decompose. He wouldn’t choose to leave remnants for desecration should someone feel like fucking with the Archivist just a little more. He feared the sink even more than he feared burning. He wouldn’t choose to be Buried.

That doesn’t mean it sits right with Tim. For there to be nothing left of her, just like that. Like she was never here.

He knows what Gerry wanted. He knows exactly what happened.

Tim tucks the collar and padlock into his pocket, no regard for the blood on them, and looks down at Gerry’s bloodless, peaceful face. Carefully, he bends down to place his lips over hers one last time, as if he had a final breath to give her. All he’s ever had was a kiss. He’s still colder than she is.

He zips the bag shut, but lingers just that moment longer.

When the doors open again — the same worker, this time with reinforcements and a right there, see! — Tim lets himself be seen before he revokes the privilege, disappearing with all that he can take with him. He walks past them as any live man ordinarily would, sure to brush shoulders with the one that he knows now will never forget his face. The shudder makes him stronger, and he needs it. There is nothing else left in him.

He walks back into the world in an empty hallway, and keeps going until he finds Jon and Martin in the waiting room. Jon shoots upright when he sees him, stumbling on his new injury. Tim takes a seat beside him. Jon’s questions are a blur of sound and disinterest, until a long silence passes and Tim hears him say:

“I don’t understand.”

“It was the bomb, Jon,” Martin tries. “Something must have hit him when it went off.”

“No,” Tim says, his voice foreign in his throat and his own ears. They need the truth. “It was Danny.”

Martin recoils with a curled lip, disgusted by the notion. “No, that’s not true. You don’t know that.”

“I do know,” Tim refutes. “They had an arrangement.”

“An arrange— what?” Jon shakes his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“You knew about this?” Martin demands. “You knew and you just—?”

“Choose your next words very carefully, Martin.”

Martin shuts his mouth. Jon’s better leg bounces with tension. He breaks the next silence with a question that Tim wishes he couldn’t hear.

“What do we tell the others? When, h-how?”

Tim stares at the floor. “In person, when we get back. I’ll do it.”

“We have no idea how long we’re going to be here,” Martin tells him. “Danny’s in bad shape. He might be stuck here for a long time.”

“If you want to stay with him, you should. I won’t.”

Martin almost looks offended, hurt, before he reins himself back in with a cleared throat. “They won’t let me see him yet.”

“It takes a long time to suture the entire body,” Jon contributes. “Those wounds went down to the muscle.”

Tim would wince if he could. Martin does, leaning forward to scrub at his face with the one hand not in a sling. He’s washed the blood off of his hands, but his clothes are still soaked in it. Jon’s are, too. Tim doesn’t feel the need to tell them that their bags are in the trunk of the car they drove here. They’ll change when they remember.

“It feels wrong to be so calm,” Jon says suddenly. “I feel like I should be throwing the biggest conniption of my life.”

“That’d be a pretty big conniption,” Martin mutters.

“It would be, yes. But I can’t seem to… access it.” His brow creases, as if in confusion. “This still doesn’t feel real.”

“It’s real,” Tim says simply. “Gerry’s dead.”

Jon’s face scrunches up in refusal as he turns away to lean into his hand. Martin stares at the floor at Tim’s feet for a while before he speaks up.

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

Tim has nothing else to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Martin bolts out of his chair when Danny stirs, fingertips to the edge of his bed.

“Danny?” he asks, tentative. “Danny, can you hear me? It’s Martin, I’m right here.”

Danny whines in protest. His arm shifts barely a centimeter before he seizes up with pain again, eyes flying open as he gasps. Martin freezes; he learned from the sore spot on his cheek. Don’t get too close.

“Look at me, over here. That’s right, right over here. See? It’s only me.”

At first, Danny says nothing. His eyes are bleary with the frankly lethal amount of sedatives they’d given him after the last time he’d lashed out at an orderly when she tried to change his bandages, his mouth slack and weak. His chest heaves with shallow breaths, but he looks at Martin and keeps his eyes locked on him. Martin will take that.

He sits back down in his chair, pulling out the magazine he’d gotten from the waiting room. It’s hard to turn the pages one-handed, his left arm still in the sling. “I was just reading this trashy thing here, but none of the gossip is all that good.”

Not that he expects a response or anything. He just wants Danny to get used to the sound of his voice again, to his presence in the room. Eventually, it feels stupid to make this kind of small talk, though. He tosses the magazine down at the very foot of the bed and leans forward on his knees.

“Can I… get you anything? Water?”

Danny licks his lips, but says nothing. Martin can hear his breath trembling.

“Okay… when you change your mind, you let me know. The doctor said we might try to sit you up a little bit today, if you’re up for it? Just a little bit, not too far. Only until you’ve had enough. I… I think it’s a good idea to try.”

It’s difficult to look Danny in the eye when he’s still so drugged out, so silent. Martin regrets looking away, though, because then all he can see are his heavily bandaged limbs. The padded cuffs around his wrists.

“I wish I could just take these off of you, but… but you hit an orderly, so—” Martin lets out a curt breath. “It’s for your own protection, too. So you don’t rip your stitches. It’s been a few days, though, and you’re doing a little better, so maybe they can start weaning you off the morphine, a-and if you’re more alert, you won’t get so scared anymore when somebody comes by to help.”

“Tim.”

Danny’s voice is wrecked from screaming, reduced to a small, thin whisper. Martin looks down at his laced hands. “Tim isn’t here.”

He takes a long moment to form a second word, licking his dry lips again. “Where?”

“He’s— Jon is… teaching him how to sit shiva.” If Martin could lower his head any more, he would. “They’re about halfway through.”

Danny’s eyes glaze over as they drift up to the ceiling. Martin gives him a moment; that might have been a confusing thing to say while he’s still only partially in his head. It was devoid of context, it was a stupid way to answer that question, dammit, he’s going to need to start over.

“What, um… What do you remember?”

There is another stretch of quiet while Danny seems to think. The sound of hospital machines chews on Martin’s bones. In the end, Danny only comes up with one murmured, deadened word.

“Crack.”

Martin’s stomach solidifies into a brick inside him. He fights the way his leg wants to shake, running his hands over his thighs and pressing down hard. “You remember that?”

Danny nods minutely. “The dancer… thanked me.”

“…But you didn’t do it for her,” Martin suggests. “You did it for Pharos. Right?”

“Right.”

An empty little echo, barely an exhale. Danny’s eyes slip shut, finally, and in the bright light from the window, Martin can see the faintest glint of a tear stuck in the corner of just one. It doesn’t dislodge to fall when he looks up again, clinging instead to his lashes. Martin aches for him in a way that perhaps no one else has it in them to ache.

“I won’t… claim to know what sort of ‘arrangement’ you and Pharos had, or why, but… I know you. I know you wouldn’t have done it without an honest reason.”

“Honest,” Danny huffs.

“I know you,” Martin says again. “I know you’d never—”

“Stop. Stop it.” Danny shifts and shock-stops again, a pained sound caught in his throat. He keeps his eyes screwed shut tight. “Please, don’t. Just stop. Stop.”

“Okay,” Martin murmurs. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He sits in helplessness as Danny fights the pain of trying to turn away and hide, as he struggles against the wave of grief and regret that Martin can see written plain across his face. Tears build up in Martin’s throat, too; he’s only cried in private since that day, too set on being strong for Danny. No one else could stay in Great Yarmouth just to wait around for Danny to wake up or become a more cooperative patient or explain himself. Tim couldn’t stay in the city that rushed to burn Gerry’s bones.

To be so absent from the mourning process back in London makes Martin feel like a terrible friend. He can’t cite feeling less than close to Gerry as a reason for it; of course his death makes Martin want to curl up into a hole and stay there, but there’s— there’s another factor in the situation, and if no one else can stomach it, then he will. Why stop now?

“Can I hold your hand?”

Danny makes a disagreeable noise. Martin accepts the rejection as gracefully as he can, sitting back in his chair to diminish the temptation to reach out anyway.

“Maybe I could get you that water—?”

“Leave,” Danny spits out on the tail ends of a sharp breath. “Just… please, go. Go home.”

“Well, no, I won’t be doing that much. I can leave the room for a while, I’ll go down to the waiting room again, but… No, Danny, there’s no way I’m just leaving you here. It’s a three hour drive, and you’re in no shape to be by yourself. You need someone to bring you home when you’re ready.”

It must hurt like hell to cry. Martin can see the tendons in Danny’s neck standing out with how harshly he’s turned his head away, his body jolting painfully as he tries to keep himself quiet. How could anyone possibly be expected to hold all this in? Martin isn’t judging him. He wants to cry, too.

“I love you,” he says, even knowing it might even make things worse. Just on the off chance that it doesn’t. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

He stands up without waiting for a response, grabbing up the magazine from the foot of the bed. The waiting room is a better place to check his texts.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Every desk in the bullpen filled, but an empty Head Archivist’s office. Sasha glances towards it every now and again, still half-expecting it to creak open and to see Gerry yawning in the doorway. They haven’t erased the nap counter from the white board. They haven’t been touching the calendar, the last blue dot left behind on the day before they all left for Great Yarmouth. It’ll simply gather dust, she suspects, because what function does it serve now? No more estrogen. No more joy.

There is no joy left in Tim. It’s been wrung out of him in a way that Sasha has never seen before. Never in his wildest depressions or losses has he ever looked this grim. His eyes sink into shadows when he turns his head the right way in the light. The wet spots on his shirt could almost be mistaken for sweat if he didn’t radiate such a coldness that sitting across from him makes her want to tighten her cardigan around herself. She hasn’t seen him smile since their meeting in the safehouse, when the corners of his mouth turned up in a halfhearted attempt at saying I’ll see you soon before she hugged him goodbye the second time.

She joined in on Jon’s attempted shiva. They all had, except for Martin. Jon explained the rules; only some of the restrictions, as Gerry was not a Jew, but he said that for the time being, they were to see themselves as Gerry’s immediate family. Who else would mourn him properly? It not being his custom hardly mattered in this case; it was something where he would otherwise have nothing. According to Jon, shiva was meant to contain the grieving process into something manageable. To allow for the full depth of it to sink its teeth in, to truly sit in it, and then when the time came, face the world again with renewed strength. It was the only way he knew how to grieve, and so it was all he could do to share it.

Tim had followed the rules in silence. Sasha watched him from her low cushion and waited for an opportunity to touch him, to console him, but he never gave her one. On the morning of the seventh day, Jon took it upon himself to say play the visitor and recited a blessing in front of Tim, bidding G-d to comfort him among all the mourners in Jerusalem, and reached to help him up off the floor. “Arise,” he’d said, and Tim had.

It just wasn’t Tim’s custom, either. It’s been a week since they returned to work, and he’s still a stone gargoyle in his desk chair, empty of light and effort. Jon told her that for spouses, the mourning period will be considerably intense for at least a year.

A year. Two years. Three years, four. Eventually, the years without Gerry will outnumber the ones they had with him, and Tim will feel it like no one else. Sasha looks at him, and she feels moths crawling underneath her clothes, trapped there in her own grief.

Sasha has lost enough sisters. This one is especially cruel.

“So…” Martin begins, breaking the long silence. “What exactly are we going to… do now? Here, I mean, at the Institute.”

“The same thing we’ve been doing, I presume.” Jon sets a pile of papers off to the side. “The Unknowing was only one ritual of many potential rituals. I think it’s only natural that we should keep trying to stop as many as we can.”

“But—” Martin bites his tongue for a moment. “I mean… sure. But something has to happen next, right? I mean, Elias—”

“Elias is mine.”

Tim’s voice doesn’t even sound like his voice anymore. Sasha shifts in her seat.

They’ve talked about this already. Judith went back into the rubble to find Begging the King and bring it to her father, who studied page 77 with a thoughtful face. There was only so much he could speculate about the incantation, but the long string of words at the end made him surmise that it was an attempt to bring forth all of Smirke’s Fourteen at once, and that the results could have been catastrophic. None of them knew how far Gerry must have read, or if he’d even been reading it at all by the time Danny swung the hammer, and so it’s difficult to say that the sacrifice was worth it.

But it looks like they wiped the chessboard entirely. Elias can’t come back to the Institute and reinstate himself as Head, he can’t ‘promote’ anyone to the Archivist position and start over whatever the hell he’d been doing with Gerry the whole time, he can’t show his face while it’s still Faraday’s. Whatever game he was playing, he’s lost.

Sasha doesn’t know if she’s allowed to feel triumphant or if she should just settle for being afraid of the retaliation that could creep up on them should he switch bodies again, or send something after them, or pull another gun. She wants to believe he won’t risk it; not with Tim still around to want revenge. She’s willing to bet he’s more afraid of Tim than he ever was before.

“…Okay, but, after that.” Martin’s skepticism is hesitant, but reasonable. “I just feel—”

“Lost,” Jon suggests, sounding far away.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Sasha repeats, too. Tim has the right idea, in his almost-vow-of-silence. There’s not a whole lot else to say.

Another length of quiet sweeps through the Archives. Sasha can’t bring herself to touch her laptop, or get up for a box of folders. She can’t imagine recording statements onto her phone. She can’t imagine moving, paralyzed into her chair by the crawling sensation at the small of her back, the bend of her knees, in her sleeves.

“Hellooo?”

Sasha, Jon and Martin all jump in their seats as Divshah elbows her way into the Archives. She’s carrying a tray of coffee cups with both hands. Dread drops into Sasha’s stomach like a cement block.

“Oh, um—” Jon swallows. “H-Hello, Divshah.”

“Hi!” she chirps. “I haven’t seen you guys in a while, so I thought I’d bring something by! Scoot, scoot!”

She hops over to the bullpen and sets the tray down in front of Sasha and Tim. Sasha numbly accepts the biscotti as Divshah passes it to her, watching the cups as she distributes them by memory until there’s only one left in the very middle. Divshah takes it into her hands and straightens up to look around the room with a smile.

“Where’s Gerry?” She gasps gently. “Is he asleep?”

Sasha looks up at Tim to find him entirely unmoved. There is a droplet forming at his hairline. One glance at Jon and Martin tells her that she’s going to have to get up from her chair after all, because this conversation can’t happen in here.

“Um… Divshah, come with me really quick.”

Confused, Divshah places the last cup down on Sasha’s desk. “What’s going on?”

Sasha doesn’t respond just yet, shaking out her clothes a bit as she stands. If she doesn’t look down and around for the moths, they may just fade away.

Divshah follows her to Basira’s old room down the hall, her cheerful smile traded for something more apprehensive. Sasha shuts the door and sighs, catching her own face in both hands for a moment before she bites the bullet.

“You don’t have to bring cocoa for Gerry anymore,” she begins.

Divshah wilts. “Oh, no! Does he not work here anymore?”

“No, he doesn’t. Because, um.” Sasha swallows roughly. “Because— he died, Divshah. About two weeks ago.”

For a moment, Divshah just stares at her. She’s not like them, though, and she’s quick to blink. “What?”

“There was an accident. He… took a bad blow to the head. It happened really fast. There was nothing anyone could do.”

Instant are the tears. Divshah covers her mouth with both hands, shaking her head. “No, that’s— How could that happen? That’s not right, I don’t— He couldn’t—”

“I know,” Sasha interrupts, her own throat stopping up again. “I know, come here.”

Divshah slips into her arms like a river, clinging tight to the back of her cardigan. If there are moths around, she doesn’t seem to notice them, or care. Why would she? She’s been touched by the Corruption, too, and nothing seems to faze her. This is the first time Sasha has seen her look anything less than simply happy to be alive.

It takes a while for her to stop crying, pulling back to sniff so hard it must hurt. “How’s Tim doing?”

“Not well,” Sasha admits. “He’s really not himself right now.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine,” Divshah says nauseously. “I’m so— I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make it worse with the— with the cocoa, I just wanted to—”

“I know, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Sasha pets her hair; her dark roots have grown out past her ears, the bleach-fried ends freshly lopped off. “Just… He needs some space. They all do, they were all there for it.”

“Oh, G-d.” Divshah hides her face again, letting out another round of tears. “That’s— That’s awful.”

“Yeah, from what I gather, it… it was.”

She could be more comforting, probably. She could be better. Or she could be honest, and cry a little bit, too. Divshah hugs her one more time, and Sasha plucks off her glasses to bend and bury her face in her shoulder. She hasn’t done this with Tim yet. She doesn’t know how much longer she can take it.

“I’ll, um… I’ll go.” Divshah wipes her face, stepping away and towards the door. “Enjoy your biscotti.”

Sasha steps out after her, watching as she pauses in front of the Archives doors and looks in through the window with a tearful face before she carries on towards the stairs at a brisk walk. Good that she didn’t go back in. She has some tact after all.

That was mean to think. Sasha taps her own cheek in reprimand, to shock the tears back inside, before she goes back into the Archives with a straight face. Tim is still sitting with his back to the door, the cocoa still sitting in front of him. Jon meets her eyes with concern, arms wrapped tight around his stomach. His kurta today is pink.

“She’s gone,” Sasha tells them, sitting down.

“What did you tell her?” Martin asks.

“What else? I told her the truth.” Sasha stares down at the cocoa cooling in front of her. “She didn’t take it very well. Cried a lot.”

Jon and Martin both nod, but only Jon voices his opinion. “Good. Someone ought to. S-Someone other than us, I mean. Anyone, really.” And then he gasps. “Oh, G-d, someone has to tell Tazia.”

Sasha winces. “You do it. I can’t. Not after Divshah just now, I— I can’t.”

He pulls out his phone to scroll through his messages for the large group chat they’d made back in Venice. The only way that anyone would even have her number. The only other person that Sasha can think of that knew Gerry, really knew him, and will care that he’s gone.

Tim moves, suddenly, to take the cocoa from the desk and swipe it into the bin.

The remainder of the day moves like molasses. The moment the clock strikes 5:00, Sasha stands up and requests that Tim follow her. He rises and does, and the drive home is silent. He waits on the doorstep for her to find her key and use it, perhaps consciously stopping himself from walking straight through. Without another word, he retreats to his bedroom and shuts the door.

Sasha doesn’t know what to do with the rest of her evening. She spends most of it on the couch, texting Melanie. Danny got home yesterday, having left the hospital against medical advice, and is largely immobile in bed. He still won’t speak much, either, apparently. Sasha can’t wrap her mind around the fact that she currently lives in a world where the Stoker boys — of all people — have gone speechless.

It’s half past midnight when she hears the crash. It jolts her out of bed and into the hallway, towards Tim’s room, before an even scarier noise halts her worried footsteps entirely. A garbled wail, like a scream underwater, interspersed with loud, hacking sobs. She looks down at her feet; there’s water seeping out from under his door. When she knocks, the only response is another item shattering — the bedside lamp? A picture frame? Sasha reaches for the doorknob to find it locked.

“Tim?” she calls out against the door. “Tim, can you hear me?”

The drowning noises don’t stop for her. Every image her mind conjures up of what he might look like right now only serves to split her heart further apart. She almost doesn’t want to see, but it feels like she needs to know. She needs to know in order to fix it. She needs to be able to hold him, to shush him, to simply be with him until the pain eases. She needs him to want her to.

“Tim,” she repeats, pleading. “Open the door, let me help you.”

“No!” comes the shout, hysterical. It’s barely intelligible as a word through the slosh of water that must have spewed from his mouth alongside it. “Go— away!”

Fine, then. If he wants her to do this the hard way, then she will. Sasha leaves the hall to dig through her room for the new lock-picking kit Melanie got her for her most recent birthday. The lock on his door is simple and plain like all the others in the house’s interior, so it barely resists when she fits the tool inside it. The phantom water is cold under her bare feet as she stands in the growing puddle, until the lock pops open and she ventures inside.

The floor is almost entirely flooded, and there’s a large wet spot on the center of the bed. She was right, the bedside lamp had been thrown to the ground, pieces of glass scattered in the water. She can’t see yet what else had been broken in the dark, but she can see Tim’s shape in the moonlight through the window, curled up between his side table and the edge of his mattress on the floor. He grasps at his chest like he’s suffocating all over again, water cascading down his body at an almost threatening speed. It’s a wonder there’s any room for him to cry through the outpouring.

There is no splashing sound when she walks through the flood to reach him, the water only as real as they believe it to be. Sasha chooses to believe he could breathe through it if he wanted to. That he will, eventually, when this has run its course. It’s been such a long time coming.

She sits down on the floor under the window, her dressing gown skimming the top of the puddle. Tim jolts like he’s in the tank again, his head banging against the side table, and Sasha lets herself wince because he’s not even looking at her. He can’t yet. He’s not ready.

So, she waits. She watches as it all comes rushing out of him at once, until he’s reduced to trickles and trembling and softer cries that finally sound more like weeping than a waterfall. He leans against the mattress and she finally sees what he’s been clutching in his fist; Gerry’s padlock on its chain.

There’s still nothing to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Melanie zips up her backpack with a sigh. “Martin, come on! You’re coming with me!”

“No the hell I’m not.”

“You have to! I’m down an assistant, and you know Callum. You went to his birthday party this year!”

Martin slams his mug down on the counter hard enough that she sees some of his tea splash out of it. “I’m not going to be a part of this video, Melanie. I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”

Melanie crosses her arms. “You’re really not even going to give me a statement for it, either? You don’t have anything to say about our dead friend?”

He whirls around with a vengeance. “What do you want me to talk about, Melanie! The time I stole his keys and went behind his back and got Leitner all NotThem’d, so he compelled me and made it really clear that he’d never trust me? Or the time I nearly strangled him to death and proved him right? Or maybe for something lighter, how about the time we went to a flesh witch’s house and he hacked up his tonsils in front of me, that was a blast!”

“Okay, I get it!” Melanie cuts him off. “Fuck you.”

“Just— go do your thing, and don’t bring this up around me ever again.”

With a scowl, she turns around to snatch up her bag and storm out of the house. She hates this Martin. He’s worse than punctuation-user Martin, because now he uses punctuation all the time and he’s mean in person. Even when he had that bullet inside of him, he wasn’t quite so cutting.

She knows it’s because of Danny leaving, but it’s been three bloody months. He should be starting to level out again. He should be starting to— well, to get over it would be unrealistic to expect of him. How are any of them supposed to get over any of this?

Maybe she’s faring better because she’s the one Danny said goodbye to. The only one, because she was the only one he could trust not to beg him to stay. She’s the one who gets pulse check texts now and then, and sometimes the name of whatever continent he’s made it to. When he said he was in South America last weekend, she almost called him a liar.

Melanie doesn’t want to be angry at Martin, but it’s hard when he’s angry at her. For harboring something that he’s been deprived of. For persisting in the face of the paralysis that’s taken over the entire Archives, still, to this day. For being almost relieved by it, because Danny’s absence gave her enough space to breathe to decide on her next, long overdue project. One that he could never have helped her with.

It starts snowing halfway through her bus ride, speckling against the windows to dissolve into droplets. Melanie watches them trickle away, going over the intro to her video in her head again and again and again.

This is a video I’ve wanted to make for a long time, but it’s also one I never wanted to have to make at all. I’m going to start this by asking for some basic courtesy, because while I know this is the internet and I’m broadcasting from a channel about supernatural crap that a lot of skeptics like to make fun of, I’m going to be telling you about that close friend of mine that passed and I will not tolerate disrespect towards his memory. There will be times where I can only give so much proof, because some of the events I’m going to outline are from a long time ago, and yeah, have to do with supernatural crap that didn’t exactly leave behind a lot of clues. Long time viewers will know that the real stuff can’t always be captured digitally, and I want to finally tell you who opened my eyes and changed my entire career path with that knowledge: his name was Gerard Keay.

It was hard to deliver the lines into the camera when she first started recording. Took way too many takes, and she’s still not sure about the script. She might have to rewrite it a third time, maybe a fourth before this is over. This is going to be a big project. It’s going to be all the more difficult without Danny’s help.

One thing that makes it easier are the number of witnesses willing to appear on camera and speak on it.

Divshah wanted to tell her story the very day that Melanie asked her if she would, eager to tell the world the truth about how Gerry saved her from an abusive relationship without even knowing her name, and how he was never unkind to her, or dismissive of her disposition. She knows she’s a lot to handle, but Gerry never put out the idea that she was too much. He was accepting, and friendly, and he always put something in the tip jar.

Melanie sent Timothy Hodge an email. She plans to put a screenshot of his reply in the video, too, with his permission; he wants to put Jane Prentiss behind him, but he will admit with no hesitation that the only reason he’s alive today is because of Gerry. Gerry noticed, Gerry saw the signs, and Gerry personally saw to it that he was brought to a hospital. Gerry did that.

Next on her list is Caroline Brodie.

The snow is sticking to the grass a little bit as she walks up to the door and knocks. Caroline answers quickly, expecting her at this time. She ushers her inside and to the living room, where she sits on the couch to wring her hands in anxious hesitation.

“Thank you for doing this,” Melanie says after she’s taken out her camera and tripod. “I know it’s… out of the blue, after all this time.”

“No one could have predicted that this would have happened.”

“Still, it’s been… what, a little over a year? Since—”

Since Basira took the umbra from Callum. Since Gerry scared him to save him. Since the worst time of this family’s lives finally came to a tentative end.

Caroline nods. “Just about, yes. It feels like so much longer ago, but… also like it was only yesterday. Do you ever get that feeling?”

“All the time.”

Melanie offers a small smile, and then turns on her camera. Caroline shifts to sit up straighter, presentable, nervous.

“So, you’re making this video as… a memorial?”

“Sort of. But also… there’s a lot of people out there who have some really wrong beliefs about who he was. And people who did know him only got him in passing, he was like some… mythic figure, even to me at first. So, now that he’s not here to have his privacy invaded more, I figured it’s finally time to shed some light on the situation and kind of… clear his name.”

Tim had granted his assent, though not in so many words. He knew she wouldn’t be exploitative about it, but the real root of his reason was clear: everything is pointless now, so it didn’t matter what she did. Jon and Sasha had already given a few accounts each, full of stories and love. They’ll surely think of more to add as time continues to pass, in the absence of any contribution from Tim. Melanie won’t press him the way she pressed Martin earlier. It’s different.

Caroline wraps her mind around it, and doesn’t pry about what his name needs clearing from. “What is it you want me to say?”

“Just… the truth of your experience, I suppose? This video is about Gerry, about the person he really was, everything he did to help people… So, whatever you remember about him, I’d really like to hear it.”

Caroline nods again, clearing her throat. Melanie gives her a thumbs up when the camera starts recording, gesturing for Caroline to look at her while she speaks. It takes a long moment and a deep breath, but she does.

“I didn’t know Gerry very well. I only met him a few times, and the most prominent of those memories was the scariest moment of my life. Even scarier than losing my child was watching him— tied to a chair, and afraid. It worked, is the thing; the scary thing worked. I-I couldn’t even begin to recount it for you, what the process of… freeing him, was like, but it saved his life. It gave me my baby back.

“And just before the scary part began, I remember Gerry… sitting in front of him, just talking to him. He showed him a scar that I can still see in my mind if I think back on it — a big, black handprint on his leg — and told him that he wasn’t alone in what he was going through. That letting people notice that he’s hurt and letting them help him was the only way to heal. I remember him pulling his rucksack into his lap and showing him all these little trinkets he’d gotten from people over time, and one of them was—” She laughs wetly. “One of them was from Callum. They’d met before on a bus one day, and my son flicked a paper ninja star at him. Something I might’ve scolded him for had I been there, but then… maybe Gerry wouldn’t have flung it back. Maybe they wouldn’t have had their fun, and my son would have one less fond memory of a kind stranger who paid attention to him. Gerry kept that ninja star pinned to his bag that whole time, because he must have been short on fond memories, too. I didn’t know him well, but I know that’s the kind of person he was. The fond sort.

“And Callum listened to him. He has friends, now. Good friends who come over and stay the night sometimes, and lightbulbs don’t break in our house anymore. He’s happy. He’s healthy. He’s safe. And we’re closer than ever, we’re in a good place. That whole time was… very dark for us, so dark, and if you’re asking me about Gerry… I’d say he did his best to shine just a little bit of light on the future he wanted for my son. No one made him do that, no one made him care. He just… did. And I wish I had taken the chance to thank him for that.”

After a hesitant hand motion from Caroline, Melanie shuts off the camera and dabs at the corner of her eye. She hadn’t been there for Callum’s rescue, or his second saving, but she’d heard the stories of their respective horrors. She didn’t know about the sentimental part of it, but she believes it. She knows it.

“Thank you, Caroline,” Melanie says again, and she’s taken off guard by the swelling of pain in her throat that comes with the words. She turns her face away to roll her eyes up to the ceiling, bouncing a hand on her leg. She’s not supposed to cry, not here.

Caroline gets up and rushes back with a box of tissues, handing the whole thing to her. Melanie laughs, and accepts it, letting herself let just a bit of it out before she forces it all back inside. Another mumbled thanks, and an equally quiet you’re welcome.

“Are you done already?”

Melanie jumps, snapping her head back around to see Callum standing at the foot of the stairs. His hair is in need of a trim, his shirt baggy around his arms and hanging low past his waist. He stares at her sullenly, one hand on the banister as he sways with the clear desire to enter the room.

“I don’t know,” Caroline says to him, and turns to Melanie. “Are we?”

“I, um— I think that’s just about all I needed, yes. We can watch it over and you can tell me if you want to do another take, but I think… I always think interviews are best kept organic, you know? We never recall things the same way twice, and we can’t… replicate the same emotion.”

Caroline agrees, looking down at her folded hands before she glances back up at her son. “Were you listening?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you want to come and talk with us?”

He gives Melanie a wary look before he slumps over to the couch to sit beside his mother. He doesn’t react much when she runs a hand through his hair and rubs his back once, his eyes tracing the camera and Melanie’s belongings.

“Why can’t I do one, too?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Caroline says. “We’d be telling the same story, wouldn’t we? I don’t want your face on any more… computers, or televisions, or any of that.”

“But he died.” He says it so plainly. “Shouldn’t I say something?”

“What would you say that she didn’t say already?” Melanie prompts.

He looks at the camera again. “Turn that on.”

“Why?”

“Because if I have to say it twice, I’ll get it wrong.”

Melanie looks at Caroline for permission. Caroline hesitates a moment longer, petting Callum’s hair again.

“Are you sure, honey?”

He nods. “A lot of people… have died, for me. And maybe he didn’t die for me, but he died, and I knew him. I want to do this.”

Caroline’s eyes well up again, and after another beat, she relents. She scoots over to the other side of the couch to let Callum take her seat in front of the camera, and Melanie starts to fiddle with her equipment again. Before she hits record, Callum asks her a difficult question.

“When’s Danny coming back?”

Melanie swallows. “I don’t know yet, kiddo. But I’m still in touch with him, so when I know, you’ll know.”

“Okay.”

She readjusts in her seat and angles the camera a little lower to focus on his face, and starts recording.

“Whenever you’re ready, go ahead.”

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

He listens to the rumble of the train around him in place of any sort of music, no headphones on his person since he left. Self-deprivation, perhaps, but that was almost the point. Instead he’s filled his life with the sounds of the world around him, voices to mimic and borrow, the machinery of travel and distance. No nice little daydream to get lost in. He hasn’t earned that.

His bag is light on his lap. He’d only brought enough with him that he could carry on his person at all times, replacing things when he needed to the same way he’d swindled his way onto planes, boats, trains like this one, when he wanted to take his time instead of traveling through mirrors. Excuse me, that’s my seat. Oh, you already punched my ticket. The same way he’d grifted their way to Greece the first time he left home with Martin and—

Home. What a lost notion.

It’d be a lie to say he didn’t still daydream. His dreams are different now; no longer limited to the Circus the second time, no longer Watched by that haunting pair of silver eyes. They’re broader again, now with new hammersplat sounds and Tim is there, turning away from him. Sometimes they’re not about anything at all, ordinary dreams that he didn’t realize he could still have. Ones that leave him emptier than the ones that wake him up with chills or a shout, because he hasn’t earned those, either.

But some mornings, he would wake up in a motel without arms around him and sincerely wonder where they went. Had Martin gotten up to get them coffee? Was he showering, or off finding a vending machine? Will he be back soon?

The illusion never lasted very long. It was always a source of stinging while the rest of him stayed numb and distant, removed from the experiences he could be having in Zimbabwe and Costa Maya and Sydney if this were a vacation. If this were anything but a chance to think. Mostly, he wandered.

He’s finished, now.

The train comes to a screeching halt, and he rises with his bag to exit. His legs have had eleven months to heal, nearly ten of them spent walking, and still they ache with each step. He doesn’t need a taxi for the rest of the way, or a bus. He’ll bide his time now that there’s so little of it left.

It’s the first of July. The crickets are loud in patches of grass when he reaches the start of the lawns, and the sun warms the back of his neck. He doesn’t count the minutes on a watch, or pull his phone from his pocket. He wouldn’t search for a mirror to jump through even if he thought he could land right inside the house. He still doesn’t even know if he’ll be welcome there.

Try as he might to stay numb, his stomach twirls up into tighter and tighter knots the closer he gets to the street. The more his legs ache for him to stop and rest, just for a little bit more time. The more he wants to turn around and go back to somewhere, anywhere, that no one could ever have the chance to know him.

He can’t, though. It’s been long enough. He can’t let the world creep into August; hah. August. The worst time of Tim’s life, and death. He must have replaced the losses in his heart by now. Danny keeps coming back, against all odds. Gerry never will.

Danny stops walking to breathe against the memory, the knowledge. The shame that builds and builds heavier and heavier with every day that passes, no matter how long he’s taken to deconstruct it. Maybe that was another one of Gerry’s gifts; all that Weight. Reva told him all about the sink. Whenever they were out instead of him, that’s where he would be, without fail. That was his home in their head.

So maybe that’s Danny’s punishment, too. Every morning, he is lowered back into that tank, and he thrashes all day until someone has their twisted idea of mercy and pulls him out to let him sleep, only to start all over again tomorrow. He never drowns like Tim did. His fault, too.

It doesn’t feel like punishment enough.

He leaps away from a speeding car before it has the chance to honk at him for drifting into the road. Adrenaline tingles in his limbs, his lungs, just the barest little taste of something alive. He looks ahead at the street signs and knows he has to keep going, he has to turn left, and to do that, he needs to forget how to feel again. Just until he gets onto the doorstep.

When he does reach it, he stands there for a while. He hasn’t earned the right to knock on the door and say hello, certainly not to smile and wish for one back. But he’ll be standing here all day if he doesn’t, and he can’t waste any more time. It feels like taking, but he does it.

Melanie answers the door. Her face falls in an instant, her eyes wide and skipping over his body as if in search of wounds or changes or evidence that he’s only a mirage. He lets her process his presence in silence until she finally finds it in her to speak.

“Holy shit.”

“Hi.”

“Hi!” She laughs, backing up to usher him inside. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s— Well, I won’t say anything is fine, but I’m just… really glad to see you. You haven’t been texting.”

“Sorry.”

She makes a piteous face, pausing on her way to the kitchen. He knows she’s going to offer him tea in the mug with the holographic telly on it and he’ll accept it to be gracious, not because he thinks it’s fair. For a moment, they hover in place at a distance from each other, equally at a loss for words, or affection, or mending.

“Um…” she recovers, pointing towards the hallway. “I’m… going to go get Mar—”

Again, she pauses, this time in a cold startle. Danny turns his head to face the music; Martin is already standing in the mouth of the hallway, staring at the pathetic scene with the flattest expression Danny has ever seen on him. Danny keeps his own face just as empty, careful not to betray the depth of how that expression makes him feel. It wouldn’t be fair. He has no right to beg.

“…Ah.” Melanie clears her throat. “You know what? I’m gonna— I’m actually going to head to the store, we don’t have… milk. I’m going to go get some milk.”

“Sure, Melanie.” Martin doesn’t bother to look at her. “Go get some milk.”

His voice is different. Not in tone, but in quality. His hair is different; shorter, in an unfamiliar stage of hopefully-growing back out. It was only a matter of time before Martin cut his hair. Danny remembers stopping him the first time he held scissors down to the scalp, convincing him it wouldn’t be worth it to cut it out of anger. He’s been angry, and Danny wasn’t here to stop him.

Of course he’s been angry. That is something Danny deserves.

As Melanie grabs her keys and leaves the house, Danny turns his body to face Martin fully, his bag still on his shoulder — he can’t set it down yet, he can’t make himself at home. He braces himself for the tirade, the accusation, the hatred. All things he’s earned.

Martin takes a step forward. Danny doesn’t realize he’s taken a step back until the look on Martin’s face is more hurt than hollow. This conversation will be held across the room.

“Happy Birthday,” Danny tries.

“What were you thinking?” Martin says instead of ‘thanks.’ “You disappeared.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How could you do that to me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop— saying you’re sorry, and tell me what was running through your head!”

“I couldn’t be here, Martin!” The confession leaps forth without another hesitation, prompted forward by Martin’s demand. “I couldn’t just— exist here, waiting for Tim to be able to look at me again! I couldn’t just wait around for him to feel obligated enough to forgive me, and you know my being here would have put that pressure on him. I couldn’t— I couldn’t think here!”

“So you went to Tanzania?”

“Yes! Yes, I did, and I went just about everywhere else, too, and did almost every drug known to man, and I didn’t have a lick of fun because I was running! You have to know Elias is probably after me, too, after I fucked up his plans. I couldn’t stay anywhere for more than a few days, I had to just keep moving, I barely— I barely processed any of what I was seeing, I just needed to think.”

“About what?”

“About why I did it!” The bag slips from his shoulder, and he hardly notices the sound of it hitting the ground past the blood in his ears. “You said in the hospital that I did it for Pharos and I agreed with you, but was I just agreeing because you said it? Or did I do it because I knew it’d be the best thing for Nikola?”

“You wouldn’t have—”

“But what if I did!” He can’t fight the smile as it pulls at his mouth. “What if I did, Martin?”

Martin stops arguing. Danny battles to neutralize his face again, and fails. The best he can do is continue to explain himself.

“I had to figure it out on my own, I couldn’t just— let your belief in me influence how I remembered things.”

“No one really— remembers the whole Unknowing, I mean. It was the Unknowing. You can’t try and force yourself to recall every single detail of an event like that, the whole point was to confuse us.”

Danny scoffs. “Don’t you think I know that? I soaked in that for years before you people dragged me out of it by the hair. I learned to navigate it, I learned to cause it, and you think I wouldn’t have been able to coast on that during the ritual? You think it’s that impossible that I could have just slipped back into my old role? Seriously, Martin? You still love me enough to lie to yourself like that?”

You still love me at all? Danny can’t take the words back. Martin crosses his arms, leaning against the wall to look down at the floor.

“And what conclusion did you come to?”

“A different one every day.”

He sees the minute shake of Martin’s head, the disbelieving desire to scoff as he turns his eyes back up to the ceiling. “So, what you’re saying is that this was pointless. You didn’t come back with some big epiphany, you didn’t have your come to Jesus moment in Cambodia, it was all just— a waste of time.”

“No,” Danny says firmly. “I still couldn’t just be here. I need you to understand that.”

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just tell me.”

“Because you would have tried to stop me, or asked to come with me, and I wouldn’t have been able to say no to you! I needed to be alone, Martin.”

“Since when has ‘alone’ gotten anyone anywhere good? You said before you did every drug known to man, h-how is that a good thing? How did that help you?”

“It helped me forget sometimes.” Danny curls and unfurls his fists. “You don’t know how hard it was to look any of you in the eye before I left. Any of you, even you.”

“I never blamed you for—”

“Maybe you should have. Maybe I wanted you to! Maybe I needed someone to blame me, because it can’t just be me blaming myself! I can’t trust myself, you know that.”

“But if no one blames you, then isn’t that a signal that it wasn’t your fault?”

“I swung the hammer, Martin! I did that. And I still don’t know for certain if I did it for Pharos or not, so no, it’s not a signal that it isn’t my fault. It just tells me that no one takes my actions seriously, even when they’re catastrophic.”

“You saved the world, technically.”

“Don’t.”

“You did, though,” Martin insists. “Adelard said that incantation could have been the end of everything—”

Danny shakes his head. “We have no idea how accurate that is.”

“And we’ll never know! Because it’s over, and because Pharos saw it coming. He trusted you.”

“And what about Gerry, then, huh? What about the one all of you actually miss? The one I took away from Tim without a second of hesitation because Pharos decided that the collateral would be worth it?”

“That sounds like a Pharos problem. And it sure sounds like you put a lot more thought into what Pharos was asking of you than you were probably thinking of Nikola in the moment.”

“G-d, you’re not even listening!” Danny can’t control his gestures, arms frenetic and jerking to grab for his own head. “Martin, I murdered the love of my brother’s life! I killed him, he’s dead because of me! No amount of justification is going to change the result! I don’t care about the incantation, I don’t care about the end of the world, I care about the world I have to live in now! I always have, that’s all that matters to me! There needs to be a consequence for what I did!”

“Is that another reason why you left without so much as a note?” Martin asks. “Inviting some kind of consequence?”

“Maybe it is! Now, are you going to deliver one or are you just going to— forgive me?”

For a long time, the adrenaline of raising his voice had kept the tears at bay. He doesn’t know precisely when they started to burn in his throat, but all at once, the notion of forgiveness creates such a deep longing in him that he can’t help the way it jumps out. He can’t retract the way it sounded; like a lie, like bait, like pleading. Danny does his best not to drop his head, muscling through as his eyes water, looking Martin in the face as if he stands a chance of challenging him. He feels like the frenzied bull in the arena, while Martin stands calm and resolute in the distance, daring him to come closer.

It’s Martin who steps forward again. Danny backs up one more step, instinct over impulse, but there’s only so far he can go before his back hits the wall. Martin is slow in his approach, reaching out with his hands first to show that they’re empty, they’re open, they’re safe. Danny is powerless to him, then, when Martin pulls him down into his arms.

“I’m going to forgive you, Danny.”

Danny sobs into his shoulder. “Why?”

“I don’t— I don’t like being angry, it makes me mean. Just ask Melanie, I’ve— I’ve been awful to her this whole time. I don’t see the point in holding a grudge against you for… for what happened to Gerry, or for you leaving to sort out your thoughts. I can’t punish you any more than you’ve punished yourself. I refuse to even try.”

“Why?”

Martin cradles the back of his head as he shakes. “It wouldn’t do any good. Not like… actually trying to fix things might.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“You’re home. That’s a start.” Martin kisses the spot behind his ear. “And don’t get me wrong, I’d love to keep you all to myself as long as I can, but Melanie’s going to be back with that milk we don’t need, and… I think the person you really need to talk to is Tim.”

For a while, the most Danny can do is weep. He hasn’t cried much since he left, if at all — hell if he remembers anymore. The wall behind him and Martin’s sturdy frame in front are the only things keeping his legs from giving out underneath him, the Weight still there and still suffocating and still too oppressive to dig himself out from. He lets Martin hold him until it makes more sense to let him lead him to the couch, and then time distorts until he’s lying with his head in Martin’s lap, breathing slower.

He hasn’t earned this, but he’s selfish. He needs it.

They decide to text Sasha, not Tim, just to make sure he’s home, and leave it at that. Danny takes a shower before anything else and changes into a fresh set of clothes from his dresser, still full of his things. He looks at himself in the mirror and wills it not to crack. The scar on his forehead. The scar on his lip. His identity in seams. He can’t face his collarbones, or his wrists.

Martin offers to go with him, and he finds the strength to say no. The most he can give is leaving his bag in the house, a promise to come back. Today, he thinks he keeps his promises.

Tim’s house is too far to walk to, so he takes the bus as close as it’ll bring him. He hopes that Sasha doesn’t answer the door, too tired for another round of what happened with Melanie and Martin. He wonders if he’s earned the right to want this to be direct. To the point. Not painless, but bearable. He can bear quite a lot before it breaks him. He could take any comeuppance Tim has to offer as long as it isn’t forgiveness, too.

It won’t be. It couldn’t be. Not this time.

With hands unfeeling, he knocks. He listens for the heaviness of the footsteps that approach the door, for a moment forgetting if Tim’s are still audible at all. When he doesn’t hear anything, he figures that no, they aren’t, and why would they be? Tim is more of a ghost than ever. Danny doesn’t know how to prepare himself for what he’ll see when the door opens.

Tim is dry, at least. His hair is down, no longer or shorter since the last time Danny saw him. They’re the same, in that regard; Danny’s hair still hasn’t grown a centimeter since he first encountered the troupe. Tim can’t cut his for anything now because there’s every chance it’ll never grow back.

His eyes are vacant, empty black holes in his head. Frightening to passersby, no doubt, but to Danny, it’s something else. Something words can’t describe, so he doesn’t try.

“Hey,” he starts, because Tim doesn’t say it first.

For a long moment, Tim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move to let Danny into the house, or step onto the porch to join him. Simply stands in the doorway like a statue, studying him for change the way that Melanie and Martin had. Studying his eyes for traces of… what, guilt? Shame? He’ll find it in abundance.

“I just came by to tell you… I’m done running, now.”

The calm question comes up from inside a deep well. “Where were you?”

“Um… around.” Danny looks down at Tim’s shirt and shrugs. “All over.”

Tim hums, and still he doesn’t move. “Have fun?”

“Not especially.”

“Alright.”

Danny thought he could handle the comeuppance. “I just didn’t… think it’d be right to tell you over the phone.”

“When you left, or when you got back?”

“Either.” Danny tucks his hand behind his hip to fidget in private. “…Tim, I’m sor—”

Tim holds up a hand.

“What’s done is done.”

“Which part of it?”

“All of it. You can’t take it back. I don’t want you to try just to be disappointed that I can’t forgive you yet.”

“I don’t want you to forgive me yet,” Danny admits. “…Or at all, if you really can’t. I know Pharos said that I’m the only one you might be able to—”

“Might.”

“Exactly. And I left because… I didn’t want you to feel obligated to honour that just because he said it. I left so you could have some time to yourself, without me… pressuring you to move on.”

“You left for yourself.”

“That, too. I needed time, I thought… I thought we could both use the time. I didn’t expect to walk back into welcoming arms.”

Tim doesn’t need to say good for the sentiment to come across. He’s silent for another long while, unmoving in the doorway. A barricade between the outside world and his private space, so empty now with his loss.

“What’s done is done,” Tim repeats. “And I don’t forgive you yet. But… you’re back now. Which means we can start to try and get there someday.”

Danny’s throat closes up. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. And you didn’t have to come back, but you did.” Finally, Tim’s eyes shift to look over Danny’s shoulder at the street. “You did the one thing I couldn’t do for him.”

“I’m sorry,” Danny rushes out before Tim can stop him again. “If I could go back—”

“You can’t. He wouldn’t even want you to. What’s done is done.”

Danny drops his head. “What’s done is done.”

“Yeah.” Tim turns his eyes back to Danny’s face, his stare so deadened that Danny can feel the blood on his hands. “We can talk about this some other time.”

“Okay.”

There is a beat of quiet before the door is shut in front of him. Danny swallows the rejection and forces his eyes to stay dry, forces himself to turn around and step off the porch and head for the bus stop. One step at a time, one speculation after another; when will some other time be? What will tomorrow look like?

There’s so much left to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

38 notes · View notes

mirkwoodshewolf · 10 months ago

Text

No following; Planet of the apes fanfic Chap. 13

*Author's note*

Get the tissues out for this chapter guys cause this one gets pretty sad in the beginning but also some pure AWW moments as well. Here we also get to see the blooming relationship b/t Aunt Lin and Blue Eyes. Sorry not sorry for the large length of this chapter but this needed to be done before the war that's about to begin in the next chapter. So enjoy my darling Ape fans.

WARNING AHEAD: Graphic details of ape attacks and mauling in the first part of the chapter. Like this is what actual ape attacks are like if none of you know about it so those who have weak stomachs or are sensitive to such graphic detail, just skim on down a few paragraphs and you'll be okay.

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@psychosupernatural

@waddles03

@gay-and-ready-to-cry

@queen-paladin

_________________________________________________________

When the first sign of dawn was approaching, I finally took the plunge and got out from my hiding spot and navigated my way back towards the main road. I don’t know if Malcolm and the others survived, and to be honest I didn’t care. They brought this upon themselves the second Carver was assigned to come on this mission.

And because of him Caesar was now…..I soon felt myself trip over something and I exclaimed.

“Damn it all! Stupid rocks making me trip…..” I trailed off before I shrieked at what I saw. It wasn’t a rock that I had tripped over, it was Kemp’s body.

Had I not know that those were his clothes, I wouldn’t have even recognized him. His face had been completely torn to shreds, his nose ripped completely off his face, his teeth beaten out and his hands completely torn apart, hardly any fingers were left on his hands. I turned just ahead and I saw Foster’s body not too far from Kemp’s. Much like Kemp, his face had been completely ripped apart, his clothes torn apart and much in chimp fashion his dick had been completely ripped out.

“Jesus Christ.” I muttered as I stood up and raced away from the gruesome sight. I have seen horrible deaths before in the past ten years but I think for Foster and Kemp, their bodies will forever stick out as the most gruesome and horrifying way to go. Death by vengeful apes.

I continued to walk down the trail, the distant smell of smoke rising over the trees from where the ape home had been burnt. By now the fire must’ve receded and all that would be left is the trail of smoke. I continued to walk aimlessly down the hill until I came across another figure.

I gasped and collapsed to my knees, my legs feeling like lead as I saw a figure I’d hoped I didn’t have to see in such a state. It was Caesar.

He was laying on his back, the gunshot wound so close to his heart. A pool of blood staining his fur, and his green eyes still opened but he remained still.

I felt sick to my stomach but I also felt a heartbreak that I hadn’t felt in years. Caesar was the only remaining family I had left in this world and now—now the entire Rodman troop was gone. Grandpa was dead, Will and Caroline are dead, and now Ceasar’s…..

As I finally knelt beside him I felt the burning sensation past my eyes as I slowly reached out and finally touched his face. His fur felt course from the years of exposure but it still had such a shine to it. Tears slipped past my eyes as I let out choked sobs. Shaking my head as I leaned my forehead against his and continued to stroke his face as well as down his chest, careful to avoid his wound.

“No…..” I silently choked out. The tears now fully starting to roll down my face. “NOOO!!!” I soon screamed out in all manners of despair, grief, rage and shock. I threw myself over Caesar’s body as I wept into his chest stroking through his fur as the only sign of comfort. “I’m sorry brother ape….” I whimpered out.

As I continued to sob, I rolled over to my side so that my ear now rested over his chest and I continued to sob. My hair blocking half of my face as I continued to weep in my brother ape’s chest.

“It’s my fault… It’s all my fault….” I choked almost silently as I continued to stroke through Caesar’s fur.

“Dad!” I heard Alexander’s voice call out. At this point I didn’t care how they’d see me now. I know I tried to create a reputation for them these past three years but at this point I didn’t care anymore. Let them put the pieces together of what Caesar means to me, let them figure out who I am, I didn’t care.

All I wanted was to just grieve over my little brother in peace.

I closed my eyes and just continued to stroke Caesar’s fur and succumbed to my grief.

“Lin.” Ellie’s sympathetic tone rang in my ears. I sniffled and buried myself deeper into Caesar’s fur. That’s when I felt a finger softly stroke up my spine. “Lin!” this time Ellie’s voice became more alarmed.

When my brain finally connected that it wasn’t Ellie who had touched me, I looked up and saw Caesar’s eyes starting to flicker with movement. His chest ever so slowly rising and falling as he directed his attention to me.

“Caesar?” I called out as I cupped his face while Ellie called for Malcolm with such urgency.

“Hang on Caesar, we’re going to get you help. Ellie, Alexander get over here and help me!” they came over and soon Malcolm appeared and asked.

“What is it? What….”

“He’s alive!” I told him.

“What? But…..”

“Now’s not the time for questions. It’s gonna take all of us to move him. Please tell me the trucks are close by.” I said urgently.

“Yeah, they’re just down the hill.”

“Alright. Malcolm, Ellie I’d like for you guys to take Caesar’s upperbody, Alexander, you and I will get his legs. Try to keep him evenly balanced and don’t jostle him around too much. I believe the bullet might still be in him.”

“How can you tell?” asked Alexander.

“Trust me, I know the difference in a pool of blood from a bullet wound with an exit point vs one that doesn’t.” we all gathered around Caesar. Malcolm and Ellie placing their arms under his back while Alexander and I got his feet. “Alright remember to lift with your knees, we’re carrying a chimpanzee’s dead weight and it’s gonna be heavy. On three together, ready?” Malcolm and his family nodded as I counted down, “One…two…three. Lift. Gently, gently. Careful.”

Very carefully we all lifted Caesar’s body off the floor. I looked at the grass and it gave me my confirmation that there was indeed no exit wound so this was going to be even more painful for Caesar if we move him too much.

“Alright Malcolm, lead us on.”

“Lin, there’s….something I should warn you about.” Malcolm said to me.

“There’s no time you can explain on the way. We’ve got to move Caesar now.” Malcolm didn’t say another word as we proceeded to walk towards the trucks.

Along the way the corner of my eye caught something white and when I turned around I was mortified at what it was. It was Kiba lying in a pool of blood, the top half of his muzzle almost completely bitten off, parts of his face, neck and legs had large chunks bitten off, but his fangs were also stained with blood so I knew he didn’t go down without a fight.

“I’m sorry Lin. And it wasn’t just him.” Malcolm said solemnly. My heart broke as more tears slid down my face.

“We need to keep moving.” We continued to walk and as we did, I soon saw that Tsume, Toboe and Hige had met the same fate as Kiba did. Large bite wounds, gauged eyes, beaten or ripped off noses, and their furs stained with large pools of blood.

We finally got to one of the trucks and we carefully got Caesar into the back of the truck. It was a struggle but we finally managed to do it and I immediately got into the back with him. I took notice of how he was now fully conscious and aware of where he was now.

“Lin….” He said with a gruff, hinting at the exhaustion I knew that was consuming him.

“Shhh, shh, shh. Try not to speak, you lost a lot of blood.” I told him softly as I began putting pressure on the wound.

“My…..son.” I looked up at Caesar and saw just how frightened and broken he was. The desperation and fear that he didn’t know what happened to his family after he was shot. “My…..family.” his lip trembled and it broke my heart to see him this afraid. “Where?”

“I don’t know.” I told him honestly as I softly shook my head. “I’m so sorry Caesar.” But it didn’t help as I saw a tear slip down past his eye. And his heartbreaking expression deepened made me feel like I had gotten punched in the gut.

“Lin, I need you to keep pressure on his wound.” Ellie told me. I nodded as I took out my bandana and placed it over his wound before once again pressing down on it.

“Lin’s right, he’s lost a lot of blood. And with the bullet still in him…..” Ellie started off but then trailed off.

“Is he going to make it?” asked Alexander.

“I don’t understand. I mean where did Carver get the gun? Why would he do this?” Malcolm asked.

“Ape.” Caesar’s voice soon spoke up. We all looked to Caesar. Malcolm walked closer to Caesar so that he didn’t need to speak louder.

“What?”

“Ape….did….this.” it was then my mind began clicking all the pieces together.

“Koba.” I said. Malcolm and his family turned to me, “The bonobo that tried to attack us yesterday. He must’ve killed my pack first, then Carver before taking his gun and…..” I trailed off not even wanting to say it.

“But Carver isn’t here.” Ellie said.

“Koba must’ve dragged it off somewhere after finishing him off. No point in going to find him, we need to get Caesar help.” I deducted.

“But Foster and Kemp. We got separated from them shouldn’t we go look for them?” asked Alexander.

“They’re dead too. Found them this morning, hell I tripped over Kemp’s corpse this morning by accident. And if you’d like to keep whatever ounce of humanity you have left, I’d advise not going to look for them. Trust me, what you’ve seen chimps do to my wolves is nothing compared to what that type of rage and power can do to a human.” I said grimly.

Malcolm and his family looked at me terrified before Malcolm snapped out of it and ordered to his family.

“Get in the truck.” Ellie was about to get in the back when I told her.

“I’ll take care of him.” She looked at me but then nodded and closed the trunk door and rode up front with Malcolm while Alexander got in the backseat and soon Malcolm drove us out of the Redwoods and back into the city.

When we got there, all we could see was smoke rising into the sky from where the colony was.

“Oh my god, look. The colony’s on fire.”

“Where are we gonna go?” asked Alexander. I looked out through the streets and I felt a wave of nostalgia overcome me. Even though it had been ten years since I came through this part of the city I knew it like the back of my hand.

“I know somewhere we can lay low.” I told them.

“Where’s that?” asked Malcolm.

“Keep going straight until you reach the third stop sign, then make a right.” I told them. With no more questions asked, Malcolm did as I told him and I looked down at Caesar. ‘You ready to go home little brother?’ I quickly signed to him. Caesar let out a huff as the corners of his lips tilted upward in a smile, and his eyes softly shined with the same loving look of nostalgia I was feeling.

It was a couple minutes after going right when I told him to make a left and then continue straight until I told him to stop. Even for being consumed by Mother nature’s natural embrace, the streets and homes were all still the same as I could see the very street where I grew up in.

“Are we close Lin?” asked Ellie.

“We’re getting there, just a few more houses.” I told her. It was then Caesar began to take notice of where we were and he started to let out some proud gibbers. “This is it, Malcolm stop the car!” the truck soon came to a stop as we now stood before mine and Caesar’s home.

It was almost completely encompassed with weeds and the ever growing trees, save for the attic window where Caesar’s room was. Even my uncle’s old BMW station wagon was almost unrecognizable but I knew that car anywhere. Along with my old motorcycle that stood beside it.

“This is it. We’ll be safe here.” I told them.

“Are you sure?” Alexander asked me unsure.

“It doesn’t matter, we just need a place to hide him.” Malcolm told his son.

“Alex, see if you can’t get the door opened. Knock it down if you must. Malcolm, you, Ellie and I will get Caesar.” Ellie opened the trunk door and I stepped out taking Caesar by the underarms and slowly dragged him out.

He let out a pained grunt as he was moved until Ellie and Malcolm were able to grab him and the three of us got back into our carrying positions and walked Caesar towards the house. By the time we reached the porch, Alexander was finally able to kick down the door and I said.

“Turn immediately left, there’s a couch we can set him down on for now.” Malcolm and Ellie followed my directions and we carefully moved Caesar to the living room. “Move the table Alexander.” He pushed the old table aside allowing us more room to set Caesar down on the orange couch.

Even with the rotting floors, the peeling wallpaper, the immense dust and the odd smell or two, I was hit with a thousand thoughts, smells and feelings that I had long, long forgotten.

Once Caesar was settled, I cupped his face and smiled down at him. Long have I waited to bring him home but I had wished it wouldn’t be in these circumstances.

“Dad, look.” Alexander soon took a picture from the mantle and showed it to his dad. I immediately knew what picture it was without needing to see it and I demanded.

“Put that back!” The three of them looked at me in shock while Alexander also looked at me fearfully. “Just because we’re here, doesn’t give you the right to go poking around other people’s belongings.” I glared at them before gesturing down to Caesar.

“We need to operate but I don’t have anything. There’s a surgical kit back at the place but that’s…..” Ellie spoke up changing the subject entirely.

“I’ll go.” Malcolm interrupted her. Ellie turned to her boyfriend with a look of fear in her eyes.

“It’s not safe.”

“He’s the only one that can stop this.” Said Malcolm.

“There’s not much here that we can use as a substitute med kit. We’ve got no other choice, if we don’t get the bullet out of him now he’ll die.” I felt Caesar’s hand softly take mine and gave it a comforting squeeze. My rage slowly simmered down as I felt his hand take mine and I took a few deep breaths. “I’ll be damned if I lose him now. Go Malcolm. And don’t get spotted.”

He nodded and he soon left the house to go get Ellie’s med-pack. Meanwhile as Ellie and Alexander began unpacking the sleeping bags and making my home feel like theirs, I remained eternally at Caesar’s side, stroking his hand that still held mine.

“When you’re done you both can wash up. Bathroom’s upstairs second door to the left.” I said not looking at them.

“This was your home. Wasn’t it Lin?” Ellie asked me in more of a statement than a question. I remained silent for a moment and told them.

“I’ll explain everything to you once Malcolm returns. But I won’t have you operate on Caesar with filthy hands.” I briefly turned and gave her a stern but truthful look. She nodded and told Alexander to follow her upstairs.

When we were finally alone I turned back to Caesar and cupped his face once again and asked him.

“Do you remember your third birthday Caesar? When I played you E.T’s flying theme on the violin?” Caesar’s green eyes looked at me with such warmth and affection. “It was right here, you and gramps sitting together and uncle Will in the back with the video camera. You were so entranced by my performance, even though I felt like it wasn’t enough of a gift for you. But you loved it and I think that was what really pushed me into wanting to become a composer in the future, because I wanted to not only make people feel something, but animals also feel the joy of music.”

Caesar gave me a soft nod as well as a small smile.

“And the time we first took you to the Redwoods. You were so excited, you couldn’t help but gawk at all the tall trees. You were like a kid in a candy shop. As you went to climb your first tree, you nearly gave Uncle Will a heart attack. He thought you’d hurt yourself but I knew better. You always were the better climber. And I broke my leg because of that reason, remember? When I thought I could climb one of the trees and I fell on my leg when I was 14.”

I don’t know if it was just being here that made me think about all these memories that I hadn’t thought about since being forced out of this house and never being allowed to come back. Or just having Caesar here at my side after all these years, or even I’m just trying to distract myself from what’s happening right now (perhaps it is the third option, I don’t know).

But it at least distracted me for a moment and allowed me to fully grieve over what I had truly lost.

“Or how about the time when we tried to cook Caroline’s and Will’s second anniversary dinner. We nearly set the whole house on fire, all because someone wasn’t watching the stir-fry.” Caesar let out a soft grunt before pointing at me. “Yeah, you’re right it was my fault. And I learned an important lesson that day; Water and grease fires do not mix.” I softly laughed brokenly.

Jesus Christ I really have closed off all my emotions during my days in the military because the tears just wouldn’t stop coming as I looked at Caesar and gripped his hand as tightly as I could.

“Please don’t leave me. There…there’s still so much you have to live for. I’ve already seen our whole family die before me. Please don’t you die before me too brother Ape.” I raised our hands to my face as I wept into them. I felt Caesar’s rough, leathery finger gently wipe away my tears and he said to me.

“Won’t….give…up.” the tears continued to fall down my face but I smiled as best I could while pressing my face closer to our encompassed ones.

About 20 minutes passed and as Ellie and Alexander had long joined us in the living room waiting for Malcolm to return. Ellie occasionally checking his progress until finally Malcolm came in through the door with Ellie’s med-pack.

“I got it, how is he?” he asked as he came in through the door. But before anyone could answer, another shadow suddenly came around the corner and we were shocked to see who it was.

It was Caesar’s eldest son. He held a large rifle upward in his hand but as he turned and saw his father clinging to life on the couch, his emotionless face soon turned to shock as he slowly set the rifle down.

Caesar was above all relieved that his son was alright and hadn’t been killed in the ongoing war between Man and Ape. I slowly backed away to give the father and son a moment together, his son had taken my place before Caesar and Caesar panted out.

“Your…mother. Brother…..safe?” his son knelt down before his father and signed to him.

‘For now.’ Caesar sighed in relief as his head rolled over to the side. We had to operate fast, I’m surprised he managed to survive this long but if we don’t do something soon, he’ll die. I watched as his son looked at his father’s wound before turning to us growling aggressively.

We all stepped back and I held my hands up in surrender. I truly didn’t blame his son for thinking that we could’ve been the ones to do this to Caesar. After all it was a human weapon that nearly killed him.

“No. No.” Caesar reached out for his son. His son turned back to his father as Caesar continued, “Not human…..Koba.”

“Malcolm.” Ellie whispered to him. Malcolm nodded and took his son out of the house. Ellie slowly came around and I came onto the other side. “Caesar, we need to do this now.” Ellie knelt down and began taking out everything she needed to operate.

“Son.” Caesar said to his son as he held out his hand. Almost immediately, his son took his father’s hand while I stood over Caesar’s head.

“Lin, I’m gonna need you to hold him down once I take the bullet out. First I’ll apply the anesthesia but with the bullet being in him for as long as it has, I don’t know if it’ll be enough.” Ellie told me. I nodded and turned to his oldest son and signed to him.

‘I’m not as strong as you are. Think you can help me if I can’t keep your father still?’ the young male chimp looked at me. His blue eyes burning with fear, betrayal, anxiety and doubt.

“Trust….her.” Caesar huffed almost silently. Before his eyes began to shut.

“Hey, hey Caesar, come on big guy. Stay awake now, don’t you go passing out now.” I said lightly tapping his face as I knelt closer to him. Ellie found the anastatic and applied it around the wound area before getting out her other tools to help dig out the bullet.

It was a long, strenuous and agonizing process. But Caesar’s son did help me to keep his father still when Caesar began to get too rowdy. I had seen this many times out in the field and getting a bullet out is not an easy nor for the sensitive stomach.

There is this god awful stench that comes out when the wound is exposed after getting shot. The rotting tissue is something so foul that I can’t even put it into words. And it’s excruciatingly painful, and I would know cause I’ve been on both ends of the spectrum.

After a long, grueling 45 minute surgery, Ellie was finally able to get the bullet out of Caesar and stitch him up. Caesar by now had long passed out from the pain alone but he held on as long as he could. Never have I seen someone fight as long as he did, now it was up to him on whether he wakes up after such a prolonged surgery.

Ellie went outside to join Malcolm and Alexander, her hands stained with Caesar’s blood and I knew I had to keep my end of the bargain and tell them everything. I turned to Caesar’s son who still had his father’s hand in his and was watching him with worried eyes.

“Your father’s the strongest ape I know. I’ve seen stronger men cry and scream like babies at surgeries like this. I’m no different, having been shot myself.” I lifted my shirt up just a bit to reveal a bullet wound that got into the side of my stomach. “He just needs to rest and soon he’ll awaken.”

His son looked up at me and signed.

‘My question from before. Will you give me your answer?’ I smiled softly.

“How about this, look at the top of the mantle over there. Look at some of the pictures and you might know why. For now I’ve got a family I need to explain a lot of things to.” I soon left their side and slowly came out of the house.

Malcolm and his family turned to me and I came down the stairs before standing before them.

“I lied about who I was.” I told them. “When you found me passed out on the streets and healed me up, I introduced myself as Lin Powell. My real last name is Rodman.”

“Rodman. As in…..” Ellie started off but I interrupted her with a nod.

“Leading scientist of Gen-Sys William Rodman. He was my uncle.” They looked at me with the expressions I knew they’d have. Betrayal, anger, shock, and confusion. “My grandfather, Charles Rodman was a popular music teacher and composer. But he developed Alzheimer’s when I was really young, which forced my uncle to take care of not only me but him as well. That’s why he got so fixated on trying to find the cure for it, and why they chose chimpanzees since we share only a 2% difference in DNA. Caesar’s mother was their perfect subject till she gave birth to Caesar. At first they thought the drug made her aggressive, but after killing her and putting down all the other test subjects, they soon found newborn Caesar in her holding cell. My uncle then brought Caesar home to me and my grandpa. Temporarily until he soon found out that Caesar inherited the ALZ-112 from his mother. We raised him, my uncle monitored his intelligence growth, I just treated him like my brother.”

“Your brother?” questioned Alexander.

“Even though he was an ape, I knew Caesar was special. There was no way I’d treat him like a pet. He understood me, was there for me. Throughout the years we had together we eventually formed this incredible bond. It’s like…..like we were meant to be together always. But my family life wasn’t perfect, my grandpa’s health was rapidly growing worse, I’d thought we’d lose him forever. Until my uncle gave him the ALZ-112 as a last, desperate effort.”

“Without a successful human trial?” asked Ellie.

“Believe me when I first found out why grandpa’s health was getting better I hated my uncle for it. He decided to play God and see if the drug would’ve cured my grandfather of the disease. But looking back at it now, I see why he did it. If someone you loved, was forgetting everything they’ve ever lived through, forgetting every person they’ve ever loved, until they become nothing but a hollow, soulless shell of their former selves, could you bear to see that happen? Hell I would’ve done the same thing in his shoes. But when he gave my grandpa the drug, he didn’t just recover he improved. He improved far better than I remember seeing him be. At least for five years.”

“His body developed anti-bodies.” Ellie deducted.

“CDC taught you well Ellie.” I commented. “Yes. The disease came back with a vengeance for my grandfather. And it all happened next door when we got into my neighbor’s car by accident thinking it was his own car. I went out to defend my grandfather from the bastard, but I was punched, and my grandfather continued getting berated. That’s when Caesar came and defended us. Like his mother did for him, Caesar went full protective mode to protect gramps and avenge me.”

Memories of that god awful day came flooding back to me as I closed my eyes and tried to hold back the tears.

“After attacking our neighbor, Caesar was taken away from us by court order. Kept in a cage at the San Bruno Primate shelter just 20 miles north from here. Then things just went downhill from there. My uncle heavily poured not only into his work to try and find a more aggressive drug to help my grandfather who was greatly deteriorating before our eyes, but also bring Caesar home. But it all proved to be useless in the end. Grandpa died, Caesar refused to come home, and soon the apes escaped the shelter and the zoo. And well you all know the rest from there.”

They remained silent. Alexander couldn’t bare to look at me while Ellie and Malcolm occasionally looked at me before looking back down.

“Now you see why I couldn’t tell anyone who I really was. The name ‘Rodman’ is a curse. Hell I’ll bet that’s why they didn’t bother to tell me when my uncle died. Because the man who was responsible for all of this, his life isn’t worth a damn. And anyone who bears his name is marred for life. I won’t force you all to pretend I’m still family as you so claim. I can never belong to anyone anymore. Once Caesar is awake, you all can leave if you wish.”

I headed back up the stairs and entered inside the living room once again. Caesar was still unconscious with no signs of changes. His chest slowly rising and falling while his son was looking at the pictures I had told him to look at. I softly cleared my throat and he turned to face me as he held the same picture Alexander had shown his dad.

‘Who is this human?’ he signed to me.

“In a way, if you wish to call him this. That was your grandfather. Will Rodman. He had his flaws but he was a good man, and he loved your father very much. Just like I did.”

‘You once called father, Brother Ape.’

“And I meant every word of it. No matter what species we were, your father and I shared a special bond with each other. He was my little brother and I was his big sister. And I know your mother tried to force it on you last night but you don’t have to force yourself to see me as your aunt. I won’t be hurt or offended if you choose not to.”

The young chimp placed the picture back on the mantle and walked over towards me. We stood face to face of each other before he then pointed to his right eye. I looked at him confused before he gestured to his eye again. I then signed to him as I said.

“Are you telling me your name?” he nodded. I raised my brow and asked, “Eyes? Is that really your name?” he let out an amused huff before closely gesturing to his eye. That’s when it clicked with me, compared to the other apes he didn’t have the green eyes that the drug gave them. “Blue Eyes. That’s your name?” he gave me a soft smile and nodded. I smiled back and extended my hand, “Pleasure to finally meet you, Blue Eyes.”

He then slowly reached out and took my hand in his and I slowly moved it up and down in a handshake.

“Come with me, if you’d like to know why else I saved you from Carver.” I released his hand and lead him upstairs towards the attic. I reached up and pulled the string down allowing the stairs to come down and I went up the stairs first followed by Blue Eyes.

When we finally came into Caesar’s old room, I allowed Blue Eyes to walk forward first and he saw for himself where his father grew up. The spacious attic with the monkey bars that had long been rusted, all of his puzzles and models that had been preserved, and his old bed.

Blue Eyes curiously waddled towards the bed, grabbed the sheets and took a sniff of them, probably smelling the faint scent of his father from long ago. He looked around the attic as he continued to look around his father’s old room.

Carefully stroking his fingers along the old models his father built, the puzzles he’s completed and the drawings he’s made.

“I don’t know what knowing all of this will do with your relationship between you and your father. But just know this Blue Eyes. We raised your father with nothing but love, compassion, and decency.” I then left him alone in the attic and proceeded to head to my old room.

When I opened the door, I was greeted with the faded chippings of my old posters I once had hung up. Movie posters, concert brochures, and old photos of me and my friends who were long dead since the early days of the Simian Flu outbreak.

It was almost as if I hadn’t left, everything was still the same. Even my bed that still hadn’t been made up since Caroline’s death when the CDC officials broke in and condemned our home under max Quarantine. I looked under the bed and pulled out the old suitcase that I had packed everything that was related to Caesar and I.

I reached underneath my shirt and pulled out my old dog tag chain to not only reveal my old military ID tags but also the key that went to this very suitcase. I figured in case there ever was a chance I wanted to look back into this old thing, I’d always keep the key close to my heart. I placed it into the lock and even after all this time, it still managed to unlock and I slowly opened it.

Bit by bit I pulled out all the scrapbooks, photos, drawings he had done until I came to the very first scrapbook I made of Caesar and myself. I opened it and it revealed the first photo that Caesar and I ever shared.

He had only been five days old and I was holding him in my arms, his arms clinging around my neck as he gave me a kiss to my cheek. I turned to the next page and saw all the drawings he had made for me personally without showing them to Will. They were all drawings of me or me and him together playing some game. There was also a hand print picture that the two of us did together with paints. It had my hand followed by his small one just covering my palm.

I turned to another page and saw more pictures of us together through the first year of his life. Pictures that I took or that Will had taken. Baking cakes together, giving him a piggy back ride through the house, playing with some of my old toys, or eating cupcakes for either of our birthdays.

Flipping through each page brought more tears to my eyes when I heard the creeks of the floor behind me and when I turned around I saw Blue Eyes standing outside my door. Curiously he came into my room and sat down beside me and looked down at the scrapbook.

“This picture of us together eating the cupcakes, that was for your great-grandfather Charles birthday party. I’ll tell yah when your father got into the flour…..hoho boy was your grandpa not happy about that. But it turned out to be a good day.”

I continued the tell Blue Eyes various stories about certain pictures that were taken or drawings his father had done. And he hung onto every word I said and every story that I told him, he became invested and wanted to know more.

As the night went on, we migrated back downstairs to check on Caesar who was still unconscious. Malcolm, Ellie and Alexander still hadn’t come back inside so they must’ve decided to either take rest in the trucks or find another house to sleep in for the night.

Well let them do them. I didn’t care, really I didn’t. Blue Eyes once again looking at the picture of Will and Caesar together when suddenly Caesar let out a gasp and woke up. I came over to him and said.

“It’s okay, it’s okay Caesar. You’re home and you’re safe, it’s alright.”

“Lin.” He panted my name.

“Yes. I’m here little brother, I’m here. And so is your son.” I said stroking along his face before turning to his son. I stood up and allowed Blue Eyes to take my place at sitting beside Caesar on the couch while I took the floor beside him.

Both father and son looked at each other with teary eyed expression and silence before Blue Eyes signed to his father in regret.

‘I’m so sorry…for everything.’

“No.” Caesar told him softly shaking his head. “I….am to blame.”

‘But Koba betrayed you.’

“I…..chose to trust him….because he is ape. I always think….ape better than human. I see now….how much like them we are.”

“There’s always good and evil inside of everyone Caesar. Whether human or animal. And while we raised you to be good, unfortunately Koba chose to spiral down the path of vengeance and hatred. But you can’t blame yourself for that. You didn’t force him to turn to the dark side.” Caesar briefly looked at me as I stroked through the fur on top of his head before he asked his son.

“Where….Koba now?”

‘On the human tower. Loyal apes around him.’ Blue Eyes signed.

“And those who not follow?”

‘Prisoners.’ Replied Blue Eyes. His eyes brimming red with tears as he signed out the names, ‘Maurice. Rocket.’ I then noticed how he gave a sniffle as something else was going through his mind. ‘Koba killed Ash.’ Blue Eyes signed as he softly sobbed.

Ape not kill Ape. That’s the law I remembered seeing written back at their colony, and what Caesar had said to Koba back at the dam when he would’ve killed him then and there. But not only to nearly kill Caesar but actually succeed in killing another ape…..the apes didn’t deserve an ape like that for a leader.

‘Fear makes others follow. But when they see you alive…they will turn from Koba.’

“Not….if I am weak. Ape….always seek strongest branch.” Unfortunately that was a fact. The ape who proves themselves to be the strongest becomes the leader of the troop. If Caesar were to go now, the apes wouldn’t dare follow him nor turn from Koba. “I must do something to stop him.” Caesar said as he began to sit up.

“Uhh absolutely not! You can barely stand let alone walk Caesar. If you fight Koba now you will be killed. You need to rest and regain your strength.” I said urgently as both I and Blue Eyes gently set him back down on the couch.

“Father.” A voice soon spoke up. Both Caesar and I turned to Blue Eyes. His voice was hoarsed from lack of usage but there was no denying it, Blue Eyes was now speaking. “Let….me…..Help. You.” And I’ll say seeing the proud look on Caesar’s face as he slowly sat up and cupped his son’s face gave me a warm feeling in my stomach.

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libidomechanica · 1 year ago

Text

“Grave men, near death, desire breeds flames best look, set down”

A kimo sequence

To our Theme. Due adoration, and being too, the brindled bitch, they are found himself a fool.

Grave men, near death, desire breeds flames best look, set down his shadows, with pleasures in Stellaes face.

Those hours, that blows; and love, and are asleep. But more fit to the milkweeds’ honey terrifies me.

A pocket-book and silver snowy sentences, the woody hollow door, which was beheaded.

Want of foolscap subject of time. Own backyard like a quest, a land of the forestalled, get opposite!

Ye scorn my low estate, and dim hopes and petals of a winters in the fault? Don Juan, carpe, carpe!

And teach through the clouds, as mortals, love you. They fled with zeal. Whose diapason knells on scrolls of jet.

To love her; and, like a hawk, an’ it winna let a body be. Of thanks me not through a white?

Hill of moss before a tower of custom. For many an envoy either leaf, the diamonds.

In these hills round thy bier. Nor coldly passe in this hour the sea, till the death, if she doth go.

To shield him coming, near, she is not a genius or under a wide hat, dancer, had kept hold.

And down to every vessel could be any man in any room. Most importune wheeled, and St.

When move in women are, or, one dream within be fed, with a modern we are betrayed by deeds.

I probably didn’t bother. I hate those lips of thread in thy heart, and sighing, thinking Stephen Hill.

Have been a-telling statues of the night. It’s jet, jet black, an’ it winna let a body be.

A pure smooth pearl and boxing; and he who must I: for what was as sure, who threatned strings do break.

’ Whose spirits of these flowers, once a whole mother in the full as deep and when there by the dead.

Breeds flames of battle move? Did I hear it half starved. It looks from the lamps, then dazled were his life.

On the higher views upon the rise again, fair Lesley, the heroes, kings. With a tighter clasp?

Fast wither’d at a distant heard by fate and thus, my Katie? Mark but the ecstasy of death.

They won’t or can’t allow the feathers fair, and, as the wild hill side. And the taste me thus, my Love!

She is near; ’ and thee! You may for ever; for Nature’s law. With what an even think that good night.

—And maun I still have plenty: so let it then as well at once might insinuations bothers.

They refuse to listens, I hear, I hear it half so sure the dormitory. Such play at all.

There stood: he passion. Slaves of endless charmed, the shadow, he pursues! Beyond siroccos harvest.

Softest, Russian or Castilian? Of all that can ail thee, as the graves unnumber’d lie; the rest.

And let go. Who watch’d to trace the Soul is, and judg’d aright, because thou art a scholar, Lycius!

” “Now whether to faint things, and there is Love. You, a sparrows sends; by that to his neck three were dead.

Beyond what other women is, the ceiling. Whether my eyes can believes me, maybe can tell.

Change to chlorophyll, and round himself extremely fair; the true! Of all her ills—a scattering.

Drew forth streams,—even they were hardly bear it. Kick off their beds and fussed around shall I awake!

Mark where I am! The lava ravish’d, scarce seen the Lady Carolines and Franceses?

Span of the main, and there. Each life unblest kisses had got out on Shooter’s Hill; and singing of.

It once be seen, and the third errand sent. Come live with light, although I despaire at me doth breathe?

The color of that ground, I though the Night by his belov’d repose? Thou art out of that he said.

Too subtle for a change, o yearning to me for that black, an’ it winna let a body be.

Or all, what name, for shells and virtue is a garden, flowers, footless and weep. And tumble pat.

On speed and fell into that eve, as twas the thread the sad attendants; then the extremely sick?

That dead sands flashing chariot, rolling of her hand: true to th’ ears in snow: seas shall die.

Pale grew her here incessantly by playing like this arm-chair? Though ye be, yet, lilies and play.

A high building and of mine. More children, talents other cantos of this ever-diverse pair!

And nobody calls the wolf rages wide, and yet the Border? I woke— and chide my honest man.

Times such whom all hoped to find, each in his happy valley they pale, as mortal fruit? If you see.

Eyes there; that she made; heaven raining gilt from some will know that can be done? No stream’d from your knees.

The soldier went for death, if she doth throw. What can be old, for his turf, and long tunes and love is.

The milliners who furnish drapery Misses? Might each more beauteous hill of moss, just half starved.

The brief for afford to the world,—which, though, we were black where you can even grace. In equal grew.

For ever trust beyond, I wish I have gone her cry, oh misery! And fair Lesley, return.

And let go. ’ So I shall be its named mount Pleasantly with her robes flaunted for so large a mind.

They say his system t is time would understand. Not, but shudder in the sun, but waxing thighs?

Again precipitate thy soul the sky and has a crust. Warmed, but never, never breed the must.

Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy! The wife he sought of Platonic shades and trust their rents.

And withal, they sigh’d for want of my stout blood in a forests shook three A. My business were left.

” No, no: you would Wisdom be) shine opposite! Such miracle. And paid Where Chick Lorimer went.

To thy body’s weight of food and paid it. Car on this my purchaser suspect the daisies grow.

Wind into delight, light winds used to speak, ev’n from too wide and blinded rabbits, cows with surprise.

Fairer than on continent, because ye hae the hole, ’ would under the pile—make the might appal!

Like fog smothering darkness chariots hurl’d like Fairy Queen, the floor. But, trowth I care na by.

Of yonder weed took up the flower or henchman, oh Jack! See; but first thy heauy grace, the long weeks.

If merciful as your body’s end? For laik o’ gear ye lightly me, but, trowth, I care na by.

Or amber, but faire a vertue to every thing. Or a sail flung it from his swooning long you mine.

Bless you. In island dwelt a nymph, to whom I am confined doom. ’Er his future day—fond Thought!

Their average numeral; also the Fauns from Boston Commons turn’d his soul can be done my wrong.

Her exceeding pain. Lulled by the spring. And she wakes, is too-too cruelly to part, my Katie?

Without the end of the rest torn out. The desultory breeze that faint in his fame with half starved.

And sure in languages—as well as brighter eyes and live: Alas! Yet it was gold or silver.

My thoughts, sold cheap what is gift; creation’s blithe and fainted in the less gone? As he from your knees.

Guy calls the pen in the grass his features, couched upon a Harp of Song? Thine eye may stand away.

Eyes; light, and could ever turning saw the harvest. It sweeps plastic and vanish’d pleasure to meet.

Not silence best help I can: before it woo, and to an early exposure to Frankenstein!

Stay! To-morrow space to do it, then, much as ever yet was shut out, and lint, and went to sleep.

All kinds of life confined, some splinters in the surface-eyes were. Scarce that now you may for ever.

Perhaps to pick up. As some thing like a delusion; there by zephyrs, streaks running over you.

To proof makes us wish I could restrain her fearfully. Grounded on sinful loving, alert.

Master’s hand—as man’s ingratitudes and elegances terse. Oh woe is me! Than my knee.

My wailing cheer. And doth in it live. A fortune swells with a pious love of course must like that.

Diamonds, on the nightgown would understand. Stink of Rhyme, but do not, nor despised, whilst the dying.

I said to the most fairer than his way. Too gentle Euphues, who watch’d with disdain to tinder.

If facing, was forced to pray: so subtly is the spoils of country’s good—which no more. Fond Thought!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #128 texts #kimo sequence

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dangermousie · 4 years ago

Photo

Look at those arms! MMMMM!

You know, I really like Gilina. Or, more correctly, I really like what Gilina represents, both in terms of Crichton’s development and in his feelings for Aeryn. Gilina is Earth Crichton’s dream girl: she is blonde, pretty, sweet, and plucky (she is no push-over). She is also a girl geek, and a techie and for our scientist, that’s quite irresistibly appealing. (Btw, let me take a moment to note how much I like that the show showed us that Crichton had a type in women, B.A. (before Aeryn): they were blonde and sweet and had a certain safe niceness to them. Aeryn is not blonde, not sweet, and not safe at all. And neither is his feeling for her). If Gilina was a girl working for a research institute on Earth and she and John met at some party, I can easily see them talking, dating, falling in love and getting married. And having a happy married life. And the John of ‘PK Tech Girl,’ despite some unpleasant encounters in the Uncharted Territories is still enough of the Earth John to be attracted to Gilina, to be at the very beginning of developing something for her. He is still enough of an innocent, with enough uncomplicated and sweet left in him, for Gilina to be his type. But of course, that is not the case any more when they meet again in ‘Nerve.’ When they meet again, Gilina has had a fairly uneventful PK tech existence. She hasn’t changed much. But she is not Crichton’s type any more. Not after Maldis and finding out firsthand that there are psychopaths that will just enjoy watching you die for the fun of it, not after Crais and finding out that no, if you only explain the truth, it won’t make it better. The person will still want to kill you even if they believe you, even if it’s wrong and irrational, and there is nothing you can do. Not after ‘Jeremiah Crichton’ (my least fave ep of the whole show, but whose theme of Crichton’s long isolation is well taken). Not after finding out the truth about Zhaan, or almost dying out there in space with Aeryn. Not after the mind and soul fuck of ‘A Human Reaction.’ Gilina is not for this John. Not any more. And it’s not just that in the meanwhile he’s ceased to see anyone but Aeryn. It is also that his character has changed. And that is only the beginning. When he meets her in ‘Nerve’ it is pre-Scorpius, pre-Aurora Chair, pre-everything in S2, 3 and 4 (I’d do a list but it would take too long to type). If Gilina met S4 Crichton, she’d freak and run away and rightly so. A digression, but I find it fascinating how John's non-Aeryn women reflect his change. We have his ex-gf on Earth who he was serious enough to apparently want to propose to, before they went their separate career way. She is sort of like Gilina only blander, less engaging (Earth Crichton strikes me as someone who's had things come to him too easily because of his intelligence or what not. His passion (for whatever) was never truly engaged to the full, and the gf reflects that.) There is also Caroline (who we meet in Terra Firma) with whom he had something or other, but she is rather like his Earth-ex and it's clear the Crichton of TF doesn't even have anything to say to her any more. From them, we progress to Gilina (about whom see above). In first half of S2, there is the PK Disruptor. Now, she is a lot more edges, more hardness. If she is like anyone, it's a female version of Bond. And Crichton sleeps with her, because hey, he's tried everything to get Aeryn to admit any interest, he's beaten his head against the rock and he's beaten it and beaten it. But she refused and she's conclusively walked out of his life for good (not even came to see him for the very last time, when he needed her most). And also, girl can kill him, good to stay on her good side. There is no Gilina sweetness in her, at all. PK Tech Girl Crichton would annoy her and be intimidated to be with her, not so much Crichton of that s2 ep arc. But interestingly, that is the last time he even looks at another woman, no matter the circumstances. Once Aeryn and he admit their love to each other at the end of S2/beginning of S3, that is it. Even at the second part of S3, when Aeryn is off with Talyn-Crichton, Moya-Crichton goes deep into his obsession with wormholes, not any girls at all, and he is just as obsessed with Aeryn as ever. Even after the end of S3, the beginning of S4, even after he tells Aeryn "I can trust you with my life. But not my heart" and he locks himself away, he still does not look at anyone else. He cannot. And even the drugs cannot knock her out from his mind. Which is why his last non-Aeryn woman is Grayza, who rapes him while at the same time telling him if he gives her the wormhole stuff she will help him find Aeryn (OMG, that bit is seriously the worst in the whole scene). I think the darker progression of these women-others mirrors the darker and darker universe. OK, digression over. I find it interesting that in S1 we have a number of people (beings, whatever) whose life is affected, changed by Crichton and who are grateful for that and thank him for changing/opening/saving either explicitly, or it’s implied. But after S1 this slows to a trickle pretty fast and then stops almost entirely. Crichton is such an innately kind person, and one of the saddest things in the show is seeing this kindness leach away under the tortures (literal and figurative) he is subjected to. I find it so sad and so significant that in the S3 finale it’s Aeryn who brings up the fact that the command carrier has a lot of lives which John’s plan might end. Aeryn. Not John. She’s become more compassionate (she, who started out saying ‘I hate that word’) and he’s become much less. These are both reactions to their environment, to events they are in (When they initially meet, she is a product of an individuality-less, soulless scenario. Even if he is wrong in reading her at the very very first in Premiere during intros, he is not wrong in reading her potential, in recognizing she is a person, and even as early as Premiere she proves him right. I also love that for Crichton, she is always her own person, not a preconceived notion of what she should be. He loves her for being Aeryn, not for some idealized being in his head). And yet it is never completely suppressed, it is always there, however muted and downtrodden, however circumscribed. He had to jettison most of it in order to stay sane and to survive, but somewhere deep inside he is still the guy who, in a completely strange world, took the time to fix the eye-stalk of a mechanical critter thingy he didn’t know at all. And of course, part of the reason he jettisons it is also because whenever he tries to save someone or make it better, it often ends up making the situation worse. I am thinking for example of S3’s lovely ‘Different Destinations’ which turns a beloved sci-fi trope on its head and he has to live with it and he can barely bear it. And I love how the show never lets us forget the cost this takes on him, that he is not a power-hungry psychopath, a cavalier callous being only caring about his small group of friends. That coda to S4’s ‘We Are So Screwed’ where he is with Aeryn, and he breaks down, and he can’t help it, and he weeps for what he’d done, for what he almost did (and it’s going to be small fry in comparison with PKW) is just brilliant and heartbreaking and one of my favorite bits (and I love that she is there, and she silently comforts him, and he clutches her arm as a lifeline). And that is why I actually liked the drug storyline in S4. After all the stuff that Crichton been through, I am surprised he didn’t end up going on something earlier, just to deal with it all somehow (I love that the show brought up earlier that he has nightmares, feels tremendous guilt, and that was mid S2, I am sure they are much worse now). And it also made sense that when his number 1 obsession, Aeryn, told him to give it up, he did, as he’d pick her over anything. She’s his number 1 drug. Basically, he needs Aeryn desperately. She is what allows him to function, allows him to stay (relatively) sane, what holds him together. When he can’t have her, or doesn’t have her, he falls apart and needs something else to get through the days (wormholes in S3, lakka in S4). I do find it interesting that Crichton keeps his compassion, however tattered, but he develops absolute priorities, as a result of choices he shouldn’t have had to make. Most people don’t really analyze whether they will pick the woman they love or selling one’s soul and giving up something which earlier, to protect, you didn’t give up even when tortured or hunted or broken. They don’t have to. Crichton’s developed rigid priorities are a result of the environment where he had to confront those hierarchies in himself. Crichton’s earlier ‘purity’ and goodness and optimism exist in part because he is a product of a relatively sheltered life (compared to Uncharted Territories). But that early cleanness allows others to see a better or at least a different path for themselves and so they repay the favor later by pulling him out when he is on the brink of succumbing to all these horrors (which really do seem to be scarily disproportionately triggered at him). One of the things I love about Crichton is that even after he’s seen and dealt horrors, he has a certain moral absolutism to him (however broken it gets at times) and a pure refusal to give up, and strength even if only to make the least worst of two bad choices presented to him. Something untainted is always there, maybe a legacy of his initial idealism, and so he never breaks, not permanently, not irreparably, though he comes very very close. Throughout the show, even as that world bends and molds and twists him to its own parameters, he manages to make the world somewhat bend and mold and twist to himself. Do you know what I really really wish for John and Aeryn and the kid after the end of PKW? A few years of total peace, where they can just travel the space in Moya, and John can do his research, and be with Aeryn and watch their child grow, without having to worry about saving his and their lives every other day.

OK, these are getting epically long omg.

#farscape

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little-diable · 5 years ago

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Ripper - Damon Salvatore (angst/smut)

Request by @ricayeolliesalvatore: The reader is actually the daughter of Klaus (she is a tribrid and the older sister of Hope). She develop feelings for Damon despite of her being just a friend to him. She is jealous whenever Damon is talking about Elena or being overprotective towards her. There is a time that the reader switched her humanity off because she heard Damon confessed his feelings to elena and Elena thought of choosing damon because Stefan is in ripper mose (considering that she knew what the reader felt for damon) and how her father never cared about family because he only cares about his hybrids. Then damon realizes that she only has an affection towards elena because of katherine. Reader killed many people. Caroline told Damon what happen and he confronted the reader at Klaus mansion. He told the reader about his real feelings and then he make love to her in her room.

So, first of all, I’m sorry for the wait love. Second, I changed it a slight bit, hope you still enjoy it and that this is what you had in mind. xxx

Being Klaus Mikaelsons daughter wasn’t easy, the way he’d leave town at random times, the way he’d keep secrets from (y/n) and her little sister Hope, having to follow him around the world, without even knowing why, it got exhausting from time to time.

Currently they were living in a town called ‘Mystic Falls’, (y/n) couldn’t really be bothered with her fathers obsession about his hybrids, desperately chasing his dreams. It wasn’t unusual for him to leave (y/n) and Hope on their own, not having the ‘time’ to care for his two daughters. Without Klaus near, (y/n) sometimes began to wander around the town, meeting new people, seeing new faces, like the one of Damon Salvatore, his piercing blue eyes managed to lure her in.

(Y/n) could still remember their first encounter, her eyes had found his, barely missing the smirk that pulled on his lips as he walked across the bar, a drink in his hands, grasping her palm and pressing a kiss onto the back of her hand. It didn’t take him long to figure out, that the mysterious girl was Klaus Mikaelsons daughter, something that made her even more interesting.

Damon and (y/n) developed a strong relationship, he’d spend a lot of time with her, would take her on drives, would listen to her cry about her father, would try and protect her at all costs. The more time she would spend around Damon, the more she’d fall for him, barely missing the way her heart would skip a beat as soon as he’d be near her, the way her palms got sweaty and her cheeks were coated with red.

Since Damon was completely focused on chasing Elena, (y/n) slowly felt her heart break in two, not longer being able to listen to Damons wailing about his own heartbreak, too oblivious to see what was actually going on. “Fuck, (y/n), what am I supposed to do?”, a glass of bourbon in one hand, the other one was covering his eyes, a desperate look on his face as his mind began to wander back to Elena. “I don’t know. just talk to her, I guess.”, mind completely switched off, (y/n) was praying to the gods above, that he would finally stop talking about the rather annoying Gilbert girl.

Wordlessly he rose from the sofa, drowning the brown liquor in one go and storming out of the house. A groan left (y/n) as she watched the older Salvatore brother leave, knowing that he couldn’t be trusted in the state he was currently in. (Y/n) grabbed her coat, put on her sneakers and drove towards Elenas house, knowing that was the placed where she’d find him.

Screams could be heard as (y/n) was nearing the entrance to the Gilberts home, it didn’t take her long to realize, what was going on. “Don’t you see Elena, I love you, I can’t live without you by my side, as selfish as that may sound, I need you.”, Damons raspy voice ripped (y/n) out of her thoughts, she came to a halt, one hand placed on the door handle.

Something inside of her changed, the words “I love you too”, that left Elenas mouth, ripped her to shreds, her blood began to boil, barely missing Carolines cold hand that was gripping her shoulder. Now she finally realized what her father had been talking about for as long as she could remember, the moment she’d loose control over her instincts, the way her own consciousness would crawl into a place filled with darkness, not functioning properly anymore.

“(Y/n)!”, Caroline called after her, eyes furrowed together as she watched the (y/h/c) haired girl leave, eye black, veins visible underneath her eyes. She finally felt free, as if all the weight had fallen off her shoulders, finally being at peace. (Y/n) barely noticed that she was ripping people apart, didn’t really care about their weeping, the crying, it only urged her on, only fueled the burning fire.

Klaus couldn’t stop the smirk from spreading as he watched his daughter from afar, he felt kind of proud, not really caring about the reasons for her acting - bearing in mind, that as soon as he’d realize that Damon Salvatore had broken her heart, he’d make the vampire suffer - she was a true Mikaelson after all.

The numbers of victims only got higher, she wasn’t able to stop, didn’t really want to stop anyways, not ready to flip her humanity back on, not ready to suffer from her heartbreak once again, not ready to watch Damon being head over heels in love with Elena. It felt as if her whole body was on fire, she was aching for more, thirsty for more, her fingertips were tingling, desperate to feel the skin of another helpless human being underneath them.

“This needs to stop, I can’t watch this any longer.”, Carolines desperate voice hallowed through the Salvatores living room, “Don’t worry, Stefan will calm down eventually.”, the older Salvatore brother rolled his eyes, not in the mood to listen to Carolines bickering about Stefans ripper mode any longer. “I’m not talking about Stefan, you dickhead. I’m talking about (y/n).”, piercing blue eyes found Carolines ones, a confused look on his face.

Just now did he realize that he hadn’t seen the Mikaelson daughter for a few days, he was way too focused on Elena, trying to prove to her, that he’d be a much better fit for her, than his brother. “What’s going on with (y/n)?”, a sigh left Carolines lips as she sat down next to him, burring her face in her hands, trying to explain to him what was going on. She told him everything, about (y/n)s feelings for him, about the way she suddenly switched off her humanity off as she listened to his confession, everything.

He couldn’t form a proper sentence, he felt dizzy, felt sick to his stomach as soon as he noticed the warm feeling that was flooding through him every time Caroline mentioned (y/n)s name. What if - no, it couldn’t be, could it? It couldn’t be, that he was actually in love with (y/n), could it? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had every single thing about her memorized, the way she’d slight tilt her head sideways as she was listening to him talking, the way she’d scratch the skin underneath her jawline as she was deep in thought - fuck.

Damon sprinted towards the Mikaelsons mansion, leaving a confused Caroline behind, entering the house, frantically trying to find (y/n), sweat began to pool on his forehead as he opened the door to her room, eyes finding her cowering frame. Her back was pressed against the wall, eyes closed, fingers interlaced underneath her chin, legs pressed against her chest, “what are you doing here?”, her voice was emotionless, eyes black as they found his.

“I’m so stupid, how could I not realize earlier on, that it had been you, from the first moment on. I don’t love Elena, I only chased her, because of Stefan, tried to tease him and became totally blind to what was actually going on, god (y/n) -”, a sob wrecked through him, Damon fell to his knees, grasping her wrists, kissing the back of her hands, “I love you”, he kept on repeating over and over again.

She momentarily closed her eyes, relishing in the feeling of the way he was holding her hand, not realizing that her feelings were slowly coming back, it was as if her emotions were ripping down the wall that she had been building around her, a thunderstorm was rumbling in her mind. Her eyes turned back towards their natural color as she fell forward, grasping his arms, head buried in the crook of his neck. Her tears began to dampen his shirt, Damon kissed her forehead, grasping her chin, blue eyes focused on her (y/e/c) ones, “I love you”, he whispered before pressing his lips against hers.

Hands were desperately grasping each other, teeth were clashing, sweat began to mix with their tears as (y/n) pushed him backwards, pressed against the wooden floor as she straddled him. Damon ripped her shirt apart, hands being drawn to her breasts, “you’re so beautiful”, he moaned out as she began to grind against his bulge, she felt needy, she had been waiting for this moment for ages. Moans got mixed up with his groans, the temperature in the room began to rise, both couldn’t even remember taking off their clothes as his fingers teased her wet folds, preparing her for his length.

(Y/n) head fell backwards, sucking on her lower lip as Damon plunged two fingers into her core, scissoring her open, his length throbbed against her abdomen, tip deep red, desperate to finally feel her around him. He tapped his tip against her clit, teasing her, coaxing another moan out of her, “I can’t wait any longer.”, (y/n) kissed his chest, tongue teasing his abs, hands placed on his abdomen as she finally sunk down on his length, a deep moan left both of their lips.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.”, his eyes were closed, not used to the way she felt around him, Damon was ready to claim (y/n) as his. She held his hip down as she began to squeeze herself around him, trying to get used to his impressive length. (Y/n) began to slowly build up the pressure, placing his hands underneath her behind, stabilizing her, supporting her movement. His hips mets hers, skin was slapping against each other, she dipped her head down, sucked on his lips, teeth gazing the thin flesh, drawing some blood as she bit down, muffling her moans.

His legs were bent at his knees, thrusting his hips fast against hers, burring himself deep into her core, god, he could get used to his. (Y/n) eyes rolled backwards as she felt her orgasm nearing, ready to be pushed over the edge, “Oh Damon I’m clo-”, another moan interrupted her, her muscles began to clench around him, she couldn’t hold off her orgasm much longer. Damon flipped them around, placing one leg over his shoulder, being able to thrust much deeper into her, gazing her sweet spot, bruising her hips, his own release was near.

Damon sucked on her neck as he was pushed over the edge, almost the same time as (y/n)s orgasm washed upon her, the knot began to explode in her tummy, she was seeing stars, not being able to focus on anything else, besides how good he was making her feel. “I love you.”, he whispered against her neck as he released himself into her, eyes closed as he kept on slightly thrusting his hips, not ready to let go just yet.

#damon salvatore #damon salvatore imagine #Damon salvatore x reader #Damon salvatore smut #Damon imagine #Damon x reader #damon smut #tvd #the vampire diaries imagine #the vampire diaries #the vampire diaries smut #tvd imagine #klaus mikaelson #Mikaelson #ian somerhalder #Elena gilbert #Caroline forbes

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ceo-caroline · 5 years ago

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musings of aperture’s new ceo. also posted on ao3 here

There is a feeling associated with this job, something carnal and vicious.

In her early years, being devoured by the work and people that came with it was nothing short of thrilling. It is a simple pleasure, to be wanted, to satisfy. If only the time wasn’t cut short. Now, she has been half-eaten and cast aside to rot.

First, it was the funeral. It was dropping cold, wet soil over her dead boss’s casket, and thinking about how he used to kiss the backs of her thighs. After that, it was veering off the road and nearly allowing herself to hit a telephone pole, imagining what a blissful tragedy it would be if she died just hours after him.

She accepts the three days off that HR offers to her out of pity. She drinks gin in her bathtub. She sleeps until 3 pm. She cuts herself messy bangs and gets them fixed the next day at a salon where the cold metal of the scissors against her skin makes her tremble.

It’s a complex — aching for work yet avoiding it as if she will die before even stepping inside the elevator.

By the following Monday, she’s made arrangements for her own office. It’s on the same floor, in a little corner with purple carpeting. She hates purple, really, but would rather spend the rest of her life surrounded by it rather than surrounded by pieces of him.

She takes the tape recorder, though. Tells herself that she can listen to the messages for inspiration, but ends up throwing the machine in the dumpster before the end of the week. She keeps the tapes because she is admittedly obsessed with the way he wrote her name on the labels of their shared messages.

For the first few weeks, it feels a lot like sweeping dirt underneath a rug. The last thing Caroline would do is confess that she is free falling into an abyss; her drinking is getting worse and she’s started smoking again and she’s lying to herself every day when she thinks I am no longer grieving, I am no longer grieving, I am no longer grieving.

It truly is satisfying to have expedited those five stages of grief, to have gone through them all in a weekend rather than a year. No one takes her seriously without Cave looming over them, but Caroline can at least feel proud of the fact that she is not some quivering, red-eyed mess when she is firing them all.

She had cried more when she was working alongside him then after he’d been put in the ground. Something could be said about that, but she sure as hell isn’t going to say it.

She allows herself one good sob in her car, pulling over to throw up on the side of the road, and then continues shredding his papers and calling their clients to say that he’s passed away. They give their condolences and ask who is brave enough to replace him. She never tells them that it’s her.

There is nothing noticeable about the way she ages. She wears more white than ever before, a wholly unconscious rebellion against the death that now plagues her. There is no use in going home because he will not be there. She develops the habit of lingering in the observation rooms like a ghost, watching the sanitation team hose the blood off the test chamber floors.

Their portrait still hangs in his office. The image of her younger self, immortalized in oils, taunts her into cutting her hair again, and she shears it all off in her bathroom one night until it rests at her chin. She weeps over the sink, the scissors in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, but she believes that it is out of relief of finally, finally having escaped from Cave Johnson’s grasp.

Looking in the mirror becomes easier, after that. Her sense of self returns, and she embraces the power, ignoring the dark underbelly. She listens to piano concertos in her office and smokes indoors. She trades the skirts and dresses for trousers and dark lipstick. The ones that had looked down on her are now looking up, and she feels as though she towers over them, their fates resting in her palms like baby birds.

Caroline never visits his grave. There isn’t any urge to do so. After a while, every good memory of him is tarnished with the damage that he has left behind. In between tests, she cleans up after him, fixes his mistakes, like she is still his secretary. She imagines that the idea would satisfy him.

In the months that lead up to her death, there is a quiet unrest in the halls of her facility, even more than usual. And Caroline knows that she will die here. She has known it her whole life, in a way. But she does not give up as he did. She fights until the end, leaves them with ordered files, and more money then they’ve had in a decade.

Because what an honor it is, to die for science.

The brilliant glow of their colossal machine’s optic tells her that she will never be forgotten. That together, they will conquer.

#my writing #caroline portal #cave johnson #portal #portal 2 #portal fanfiction #im proud of this it was actually very fun to write #if u like it pls also leave a kudos on ao3 i would appreciate it sm!!!#anyway stan ceo caroline

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josefavomjaaga · 4 years ago

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The Old Brenner Pass Road in Tyrole. Except that Eugène was travelling in January, so it probably looked more like this:

A letter in 1806 took three days to get from Munich across the Alps to Italy. The dispatch ordering Napoleon's stepson to Bavaria reached Eugène on the border to Veneto, where he had been busy arranging the incorporation of newly won Venice into the Kingdom of Italy (a task Napoleon had entrusted him with in one of his recent dispatches) on January 6, 8AM. He dutifully wrote back that, once the maximum twelve hours allowed were expired and the most necessary matters had been organised, he would board the carriage together with his first aide-de-camp, on the same day at 8PM. On Friday, the tenth of January, he hoped to arrive in Munich. (Which of course meant that Napoleon was expecting him on the ninth, because ... Napoleon.)

In Munich, some consternation was caused by the fact that Napoleon had scheduled the wedding for the following week. First, planning a royal wedding (the very first wedding in a brand new kingdom no less) usually required a bit more time for preparation. Secondly, if the Bavarian royal family had hoped to somehow wriggle out of this affair and postpone this nuisance of a marriage until doomsday - as I am sure they had - Napoleon had just put a stop to that. To make matters worse, the French emperor seemed determined to stay at the residence until the wedding and, if necessary, to personally push the bride and groom down the aisle.

Queen Karoline protested, as a lady would protest against such rudeness in those days: she fell ill and took to her bed. Napoleon, for his part, reacted by sending one of his own doctors to see her. Karoline preferred to recover quickly rather than be examined. Auguste, for her part, had sent a farewell letter ("the very first letter that which I write to you") full of tears and grammatical idiosyncrasies to her previous fiancé, Karl von Baden, and occasionally met with her stepmother to weep together over her terrible fate, but was otherwise, in Karoline's view, almost indecently merry again. Her separation from Karl did not seem to cause her all that much pain.

Karoline wrote all this in a long letter to her mother Amalie in Baden, which she did not dare send as long as the French were in the residence – by now she knew that her uncle in Baden had copied all the letters Max and Karoline had written about Auguste's wedding and had sent them to Paris. In other words, Napoleon was well aware of the "disgraceful marriage" and all the other unflattering expressions Karoline and Max Joseph had used to refer to this union in the past. How embarrassing! And even worse, by now it looked as if matters wouldn't stop at poor Auguste's wedding, but as if Napoleon had even more plans, now involving Karoline's brother Karl, Auguste's previous fiancé... As Karoline caustically remarked, "he'll find some poor girl to adopt and marry off to my brother."(She was right, but that second Beauharnais marriage is a topic in itself.)

Of course, Napoleon noticed that the Bavarian queen did not like him. And decided to change this lady's mind. He began to literally court her. In his own opinion, he even succeeded. "J'ai gagné la reine - I have won the queen over," he later told Crown Prince Ludwig. Which Ludwig commented on in his notes: "If he really believed that, he was badly mistaken." Karoline's jaw dropped open in amazement at first, then she let herself be amused by it.

Max Joseph and Josephine were less amused, understandably so.

But these were not the only problems Napoleon faced. In Paris, the defeat at Trafalgar and the sinking of the Spanish fleet had triggered a veritable economic crisis, affecting the Banque de France as well. So Napoleon ought to have been in Paris desperately, and had no time at all for that prissy Bavarian royal family and their concerns about the wedding.

A wedding that not all people agreed with anyway, not even on the French side. Agar has handed down to us a very beautiful speech by Murat in which he expressed all his reservations about such a union. He was absolutely right. Of course, Napoleon, by attaching such importance to being related to one of the old princely families, broke with the principles of the Revolution, especially that of prioritising a person's merit over his birth. Napoleon was to distance himself from this concept more and more in the years to come. From Murat's point of view, it was probably significant that, of all people, the bridegroom was the Beauharnais boy, whose only merit in Murat’s eyes probably was to have been born by a woman whom Napoleon had later married.

If Hortense's memoirs are to be believed, that must also have been the time when Caroline tried to convince Napoleon to divorce and marry that Bavarian princess himself.

To sum up, while this week was filled with amusements, hunts, receptions, opera and family dinners, the atmosphere in the Munich Residence was far from relaxed with Caroline intriguing, Murat sulking, Karoline exasperated, Josephine and Max Joseph jealous and Napoleon impatient to get out of town. And Auguste probably trembling at the thought of what was to come.

And then, on January 10th, at 10.30 AM, the inevitable happened. The horrible French bridegroom, accompanied by his ADC d’Anthouard, stood on the doorstep.

#napoleon #eugene de beauharnais #karoline von bayern #max joseph #caroline murat #joachim murat #auguste von bayern #eugene's marriage

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supremeuppityone · 5 years ago

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Chapter 119: Part 2 — What Makes Up a Monster

Author’s note: This is a sequel to Chapter 47 - What Makes Up a Monster in my series, A Beautiful Symmetry. This was written for Klaroline Bingo @klaroline-events. P.S. See if you can spot my shameless plug for another of my stories. :)

Part 3 can be found here.

Prompt: “What do you mean you’re a vampire?” Klaus may have played the lead in a wildly successful monster movie franchise, but it never occurred to him that there was any truth to the stories.

Warning: Angst. Also, some sexy times! Plus, I lost count of all the TO shade. :)

“Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild.” ― Stephen King, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption: A Story from Different Seasons

Maybe the plastic vines wrapped around that twit’s neck would strangle her. Caroline watched in irritation as the twit actress Camille pretended to struggle with the vines, whose pointy thorns were somehow supposed to mean the demise of Klaus’ character, Hell’s Hybrid. They were a couple of weeks into filming the movie in the immensely popular franchise, Hell’s Hybrid 5: Terrible Tears in New Orleans, and Camille’s hilariously awful overacting coupled with her exaggerated facial expressions only had gotten worse.

But what had gotten better was the view. The familiar clip-clop noise of Klaus’ cloven hooves drew her attention, and she eyed his muscular chest appreciatively. It had been decades since a human had captured her interest like this; every covert wink and sly smirk of his had her blushing like a schoolgirl and she couldn’t wait to drag him back to his trailer for some in-depth makeup removal.

Their initial meeting had been memorable — he’d assumed she was either a stripper or a hooker his brother had hired, and she’d been so charmed by his appreciation for ‘60s horror movie makeup that she’d thrown caution to the wind and revealed that she’d been the mastermind who’d created those designs. Because she was a vampire.

“What do you mean you’re a vampire?” Klaus’ reaction hadn’t been unexpected once he’d seen her black veins and sharp fangs, but once he’d calmed down, he’d bombarded her with questions about her experience in the movie industry over the past century. His enthusiasm was endearing. Klaus had been reduced to a wide-eyed fanboy when he heard about his favorite actors from his childhood.

“You mean the Pageant Screams reaper’s stunt double also was in Chupacabra Cheerleaders? AND he ad-libbed that harvest scene in Cutthroat Coven?”

“Yes, and then the writers forgot to tie his speech back into the main plot, so there were all kinds of embarrassing loopholes with the harvest witches’ ancestral magic. So, I just added more blood spurts to the makeup special effects to distract the audience,” she cheekily explained, heart fluttering a bit at Klaus’ delighted laughter.

“Doesn’t someone’s nose need to be powdered,” Camille snidely asked, jarring Caroline from her thoughts.

Caroline blinked back her monster who’d been a bit on edge after she missed her snack because the extras required prosthetic touchups. Twit actress did not want to light this particular fuse. “Yours certainly does, but I sent one of the PAs for the really big sponges first. It must be awful to be cursed with an oil slick for skin.”

She’d always been a petty bitch, and there was nothing more satisfying than putting someone in their place right after they’d failed to put her in hers. Caroline’s blue eyes twinkled with malice as Camille valiantly searched for a comeback.

They both were distracted when the scene broke and Klaus began to towel off, sending Caroline a flirtatious wink that made her cheeks turn rosy. Camille hissed venomously in her ear, “Just remember, you’ll never be more than Klaus Mikaelson’s side piece.”

“Easy, love,” Klaus murmured as he reached her side, “I assume you’ve no interest in showing your lovely second visage to the rest of the crew?”

Caroline rolled her eyes as they walked back to his trailer. “Your groupies are getting ridiculous. This morning, I caught the one with the perpetual pout adding laxatives to my spiced chai.”

“Bloody hell — we should report that to Enzo. As director, he could kick her off the movie.”

She was touched by the concern she heard in his voice, but she waited until they were safely inside his trailer before she kissed him. “You’re sweet, but it’s not necessary. Most human drugs have little effect on my kind. Besides, I really enjoyed making her think she’d drank my tea by mistake.”

Klaus chuckled as he sat beside her on the couch. “I suppose you’ve acquired...groupies over the years as well,” he asked, determinedly trying to keep his tone light.

“I’ve never been one for blood bunnies,” Caroline sarcastically replied, hating the twinge she felt when their conversations brushed up against anything too real. “Besides, human relationship are hard — they pretty much have to give up their world for yours in order to keep your secret. It’s not an easy life.”

The small circles he traced on her back were soothing. His voice was hesitant as he commented, “It sounds lonely. I can’t imagine what it would be like to not have...” he quieted, an awkward silence between them as Caroline realized he was going to say family.

It was one of the first things he’d asked about once he’d gotten over his shock at her revelation of the supernatural world. He was very close with his siblings, and it seemed to pain him to learn that she didn’t have a family. Smiling brightly, she laced their fingers together and teased, “It’s not so bad. I’ve gotten to meet giants in the industry — Lugosi, Garbo, Hepburn, Crawford...you...” she trailed off with a knowing smile.

He snorted softly, “I’m not an industry giant.”

“Not yet,” she replied, playfully poking one of his dimples. “But I predict Klaus Mikaelson will go on to do great things.”

Klaus’ gray eyes suddenly lit up, his handsome face breaking out into a silly grin as he told her excitedly, “Actually, I do have some news that I’m really excited to share. I received word today that I’ve been cast as the co-lead in A Simple Kind of Man!”

Caroline let out an excited squeal at his news. Industry insiders were vying for a piece of Spielberg’s bold, sweeping Norse saga. Even a year out from pre-production, it already had garnered more than its fair share of Oscar buzz. “That’s amazing news,” she replied, pulling him in for a fierce hug, “I told you you’d be a giant in this industry! With your talent, it was just a matter of time!”

He laughed, a slight flush staining his cheeks as he enthusiastically continued, “My agent and publicist are planning a big media blitz, so you can’t say anything yet, but this adds a whole new layer to my career. I can parley this opportunity into even bigger and better roles and create a legacy; I’ll be more than just a mere footnote in the industry.”

Her smile dimmed at his words, but she did her best to keep it in place. She’d watched Klaus on and off the set over the past couple of weeks and he breathed so much life into the silly Hell’s Hybrid franchise. He was meant to be a star. He craved it. He wanted to settle into a career that lasted decades; to become the next McKellen or Hopkins. It would be an amazing life for him. And one she couldn’t be a part of.

“Sweetheart, what is it?”

She shook her head, blue eyes shining with unshed tears that she furiously blinked away. It was stupid to mourn something before it had the chance to become something. “It’s nothing. I’m really happy for you, Klaus. It’s everything that you deserve and I know you’ll be amazing.” She lowered her gaze, unsure of how to explain. “You desire the spotlight, and I want you to have it. But being what I am, it’s a place I can’t follow.”

His crestfallen expression hurt her heart, and she gave a half-shrug, chuckling darkly, “Us monsters have to stick to the shadows.”

“You’re not a monster,” Klaus quickly disagreed, “and the time we’ve spent getting to know each other has been amazing. We’re building toward something that could be incredible — don’t you want that?”

Damn it. His pleading, earnest tone made Caroline want to weep. “Of course I do.” She held his face in her hands, desperate for him to understand. “But your world is about to get a lot bigger and way more complicated. That spotlight you crave is blinding and everyone will want a piece of you. And they’ll definitely want to know everything there is to know about the mysterious makeup artist who’s caught your eye.”

Her voice became a harsh whisper. “My survival depends on anonymity. It’s not how I want it, but that’s the way it has to be.” She surged forward, capturing his lips with hers. They’d carried on a flirty relationship since they began working together, trading a few sweet kisses here and there, but it was nothing compared to this. This was fire and carnal need and her skin vibrated under his roaming touch as they sank together on the couch.

Klaus pulled back slightly, his lips still hovering over hers and his tone rueful as he asked, “How are we supposed to walk away from this?”

A tear escaped as she replied with a soft sigh, “We just have to.” Caressing his cheek, she tentatively questioned, “But maybe we could have this first. Can one night be enough?”

Gray eyes blazed as he swore, “One night with you would never be enough. But it will have to do.” He brought his mouth down on hers in a punishing kiss, his hands roaming over her body as though trying to memorize every line.

She purred in delight when he yanked her fuchsia tank top over her head, nibbling at his collarbone as he groaned above her. All those hours he’d spent in her makeup chair had been sweet torture as she’d done her best to avert her eyes from the tight-fitting shorts he always wore. But now, she let her hands roam with wild abandon, eagerly palming him as his flesh twitched in pleasure.

“I want you,” she panted, hooking her thumbs under his waistband to slide down the material underneath his rock-hard cock. She let out a giggle as he accidentally kicked over the side table, scattering his werewolf claws and cloven hooves.

With a sexy growl, he ducked his curly head to lightly bite at her exposed hip, dragging down her ruffled skirt until she was bare before him. His lusty gaze made her feel desired. Like she wasn’t a monster. Caroline let fingers wander down her belly, teasing him as she barely grazed her clit.

“Fuck yes,” Klaus breathed, staring hungrily at her.

He liked to watch. She licked her lips when he joined her, their fingers gently sliding into her warmth, slow, steady pumps that built up that golden sensation to make her weak. She was so close to the edge, but he pulled away at the last moment, plunging their fingers into his mouth with a satisfied grin.

She parted her thighs, a low moan escaping her lips as he positioned his slick tip, slowly rubbing against her. That first thrust wrecked her, their bodies crashing against each other as she cried out in pleasure. It was a thing of beauty to watch his muscles flex and strain to please her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist to bring him closer. She needed to touch every part of him.

Klaus bucked into her, keeping up the punishing pace as she started to ride out the waves of ecstasy. One final, deliciously dirty grind had them both seeing stars, their moans threading together in a steady hum of bliss.

“You’re a bloody revelation,” he panted, pulling her into his arms as they settled back on the couch.

Caroline breathed in Klaus’ citrus and cedar scent, idly wondering if she’d carry him on her skin once they were done. She wanted to remember everything from this moment. “And you’re wonderful,” she sighed regretfully.

His embrace immediately tightened, and she did her best to relax her body against his. Klaus’ tone was gruff as he asked, “So, this is it — we somehow manage to walk away?”

This is it. Caroline knew all of her reasons by heart — even if Klaus had no intention of pursuing fame, he’d never be able to keep her secret — he and his siblings were close and at some point, he’d feel that burden of not being honest with them. Plus, he loved being a star. And as his star shined brighter, paparazzi would swarm them, picking apart every detail of their lives. And then they might find out about her.

Heart thudding in her chest, she leaned over to give him a lingering kiss, traitorous tears clinging to her lashes by the time it ended. Once he opened his eyes, she took a breath, hating what would happen next. “Klaus, I want you to listen.” It was difficult to keep her tone even and melodic, but she pressed on knowing it was important that she did this right. She summoned her monster, letting her eyes widen as she captured his gaze.

He looked at her with so much trust. There was a sadness that settled over him, almost as though he instinctively knew what was she was going to do. “I wish I could trust you, but I can’t take the risk. This is how I survive. It was impulsive and stupid for me to show you what I am, but we had this connection and I couldn’t help myself. I’m selfish.”

Caroline hated his blank stare. The one that she put there. “You won’t remember the time we’ve spent together. You won’t remember what I am. I’m merely a makeup artist for your movie and while we’ve exchanged a few words, you barely know me.”

“I barely know you,” Klaus mumbled flatly, still dazed from her compulsion.

She choked back a sob, quickly pulling on her clothes and leaving his trailer. She didn’t look back.

_________________________________________

She’d mercifully managed to avoid Klaus the next day, compelling Enzo to insist Davina handle Klaus’ monster makeup while she focused on the group of extras that were filming the Abattoir scene. The unnecessarily darkscene because Enzo stupidly had thought that he was establishing a gothic atmosphere, but instead would just give the moviegoers eyestrain when they tried to see the actors. She threaded her way through the giggling extras, in desperate need of a caffeine fix if she was going to make it through the day’s grueling shooting schedule.

“Come on, you’re telling me you’ve never hit that?”

Caroline stopped short, realizing that was Tyler’s voice. Tyler was part of Klaus’ growing entourage, and his main function seemed to be partying on Klaus’ dime. One more exclusive Arcadius diamond timepiece and she was compelling Tyler to give sponge baths at the retirement home in the Valley.

She cautiously peeked around the edge of the fireplace set, noting with a pang that Klaus somehow looked even better today. Of course he would — he hadn’t been up tossing and turning all night. Because he didn’t remember.

He ran a hand through his curls, tossing an irritated look at Tyler. “Caroline’s a makeup artist for this movie and while we’ve exchanged a few words, I barely know her.” Fuck. Caroline felt that all the way down to her toes. You did this. Those are the words you compelled Klaus to say. You aren’t allowed to be upset.

“Whatever. She’d probably be a clingy one-night stand anyway.”

Klaus glared at Tyler, a hint of a growl in his tone as he said, “Don’t be daft. I suspect one night would never be enough.”

#kcbingo2020 #klaroline fanfic #uppity bitch fanfic #klaroline #klaroline aesthetic #aesthetic #i swear this started out fluffy and then took a wrong-ass turn somewhere

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thevampirediariesdiary · 5 years ago

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SEASON 2 ARCS: Damon

Caroline – Elena -- Stefan

I can literally talk about Damon’s entire season two arc by talking about the parallels and foreshadowing in the final episode - granted, it’s more the arc for Damon-and-Elena as a unit, but that’s because for this season, Elena is Damon’s whole world. he’s brokered a tenuous peace with Stefan, but their moments together circle back to and around Elena, over and over again. she’s the only thing that can get Damon’s attention, for better or and worse. so here we go:

the season opens with a revelation for Elena: it seemed romantic that Damon loved only her, that she was the only person who could sway him and civilize him. but the attraction that comes when someone who is capable of doing terrible things for some reason only cares about you can’t be the foundation for any kind of relationship - it didn’t protect the people Elena’s closest to, and it didn’t even protect her. she told Damon “don’t make me regret being your friend,” and then a day later he killed her brother. she couldn’t be close to Damon and be protected from everything else, because he doesn’t know how to protect her from himself. and, on the flip side, Damon tried to flee from the hurt of Katherine’s betrayal straight into Elena’s arms, and found that what she was prepared to offer him couldn’t fill the hole. it didn’t heal the wound, in fact, it couldn’t. and so, after the disaster of The Return, Elena tried to set up boundaries. she was bad at it - you get the sense she’s never done this before - but she avoided Damon and was clear about her anger until he started to avoid her, too. she could never know when he was going to break down or explode, she couldn’t trust him, and so she couldn’t be there for him.

in the deathbed scene, Damon tells Elena to leave, he could hurt her, and she answers, “No, you won’t. I’m here until the very end. I’m not leaving you.” and it’s not because Damon has miraculously grown to the point where he could never, ever hurt her. in the last week he let her believe that Bonnie was killed and he fed her his blood against her will, and he just bit her outside. but the point isn’t that he loves her so therefore he won’t hurt her - the point is that people who love each other hurt each other, but still, love doesn’t leave. she offers him her trust freely, willing to risk in order to be with him.

and although Elena’s presence doesn’t protect Damon from hurt - she still doesn’t choose him the way he does still want to be chosen, and even if she did, he would still have to feel all the pain, he would still have to face his life as it comes to a close - her compassion transforms the hurt, keeps it from being senseless. she suffers with him, weeps with him, walks the journey with him, lies beside him and holds his hand. and in an obvious sense of course it doesn’t change anything - he still made all the wrong choices, he still devoted over a hundred years to a woman who didn’t deserve him and didn’t care for him - but in another sense it changes everything. Damon finds peace in these moments. in the past he was always desperately grasping for Katherine’s whole self and love, but now he receives what Elena is willing to freely give him and accepts it gladly in gratitude. it’s enough. his whole life in its tragedy and darkness is enough, because he merely met her. it’s this acceptance that allows him to truly feel his guilt for the first time but without despair. and Elena forgives him - both for the desperate loss of control when he lashed out and killed Jeremy, and also for the much more calculated overpowering of her and disregard of her wishes because he couldn’t stand the thought of her dying.

in The Return, Damon didn’t explicitly ask for Elena’s love or profess his own, he simply said “there is something between us”, he didn’t give a name to it. Elena unwittingly echoed Katherine’s words and told Damon, “it’s always going to be Stefan”, and he lashed out and tried to hurt her the way that she hurt him. in 2.08 Rose, Elena ran into Stefan’s arms and Damon nodded at her over his shoulder, having accepted his place in the world and what she’s able to give him. it still hurt, but he tried to let her go - he told her he loved her and compelled it away, because he thought she couldn’t know it, because he couldn’t imagine a love that wasn’t selfish, that didn’t grasp. and as the season went on he did come closer to an understanding of what love was; Elena was angry at him for more of the arc than not, but in the beginning because he hurt her when he couldn’t possess her, and in the second half because he protected her and chose her even when she didn’t choose him and didn’t want to be protected.

now, he repeats the same old words back to her: “I know you love Stefan, and it’ll always be Stefan,” but doesn’t repay hurt for hurt, or tell her she’s wrong, or even thank her for the caring which she has extended him - he says, knowing that it won’t be returned, “But I love you.” she doesn’t love him, and yet he offers his own love freely. because he’s learned that love isn’t a burden - even if it isn’t what you would have picked or hoped for yourself, knowing that somebody cares for you is a gift. he understands that their relationship is asymmetrical, he will always choose her and she will never choose him, but the truth is meant to be known and shared, and the truth is that for his part, he loves her. and whereas the last time someone told Elena that, she said that he didn’t know what love is, now she only answers that she does know that he loves her. he gives the gift; she receives it, as is, with no caveats.

in 2.12 Damon confessed, “I’m not human and I miss it, I miss it more than anything in the world,” and then in 2.13, he told Andi, “she wants me to be the better man, which means I can’t be who I am.” in 2.22, Damon tells Elena, “You should’ve met me in 1864, you would’ve liked me,” and gets the answer, “I like you now, just the way you are.” he doesn’t have to be some old lost version of himself - he also doesn’t have to be Stefan - Elena likes him, she always has. this is what Damon has never expected and never before received: as far as Damon sees it, Stefan loves him because he’s his brother; Katherine never really loved him, but liked the parts of him that he’d modeled after her (rough and monstrous); Liz liked what she thought Damon was, a righteous vampire hunter hero like her; Alaric bonded with him because they were both pathetic; and Elena tolerated him in the hopes that he could become the better man she envisioned for him, or out of pity for the hapless human she knows he once was. but no: I like you now. she liked him when he made her laugh in the kitchen in Friday Night Bites, she liked him when they were drinking in the bar in Georgia, she liked him when he came to her rescue in Miss Mystic Falls and when they were basically cohabiting after that, she liked him when he was dancing with her like a goofball at the 60s dance. she likes him a lot - in fact, she likes him more now than she did before she’d ever been hurt by him. and you wanna know how I know?

back in the Return, every one of their arguments was premised on one point: he thought he kissed her, and thought she kissed him back, and she wasn’t surprised that he would kiss her, but she was surprised he thought she would kiss him back. she wouldn’t do that.

and in As I Lay Dying, she kisses him first.

#s2 #meta #s2 meta series #delena #damon salvatore #this is...almost incoherent #i apologize lol

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insomniac-dot-ink · 6 years ago

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The Clockwork Princess

Genre: fairy tale, wlw original story

Words: 8k

Summary: A young woman is trapped in an hourglass that is hoarded by a dragon, a thief regularly breaks into the cave to take a few treasures.

The princess tries to convince the thief to break her out.

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The Thief

It’s half-past sunset when anything vaguely interesting happens. 6:32 to be exact, Caroline always knew the time, no matter how much she tried to forget it. It was tucked away in her head like a never-ending hum drumming rhythmically against her temples.

It would be impossible to forget the time in place like this anyway.

She isn’t expecting the change, she’s halfway between dreaming and drawing circles in the fog of her chamber. And then something moves in the corner of her eye.

Caroline shifts, the sand tumbles off her lap toward the cool golden bottom of her cage, freeing her to roll toward the edge of the glass. She squints out into the world.

It looks as it always does: rolling hills of gold, small jewels, coins, shining rings and priceless ivory teeth fillings. The whole cave filled to bursting with treasures and anything that sparkled, illuminated by a large skylight up above that allowed for small streams of faded sun or moonlight.

And of course, the clocks.

Caroline doesn’t know exactly what affinity Heratis had for time, perhaps nothing at all, perhaps he too was trapped by the constant ticking of forward motion, as immortals do. The clocks are endless, buried in the coins: grandfather clocks the size of two men, tiny coo-coo clocks that sang every hour. Brown leather wrist watches, sundials the size of dinner plates, fat white candles laying unlit, little mechanisms and gilded machines she had no name for.

Clocks, clocks, clocks, time keepers. Most of them had ceased working years ago, some ticked on despite themselves, all saying different unknown times from around the globe. But there are the few that Heratis kept neatly and routinely wound and polished.

A stately grandfather clock made of an entire oaktree, a tiny ornate pearl clock on a pedestal in the center of the room, a skeletal wristwatch that held a piece of the night sky, and, largest of all, a giant green jade clock stationed on the cave wall, inlaid finely in the grimy stone itself and the size of a carriage.

The oak, the pearl, the sky, the jade clock and then finally an enormous glass hourglass half-submerged in coins. She knows all about the last one.

All of them meticulously announced the time down to the second as the sun moved across the sky and forgot them, Caroline wished for the life of her she could forget as well. It is 6:38.

Nothing seems any different and Caroline is all but willing to sink low into her capsule again, but then comes another flit of movement, a single flurry of motion off to the side. Her eyes go wide, a shadow is dashing across the hills of gold, light as a feather and footsteps quiet as a ghost.

For a moment she’s not sure if she’s hallucinating it, if some dark reaper had finally come for her after all this time or if she had simply lost her mind. And then she sees a single coin rustle under the figures hasty steps, the thing was touching down, real.

“Hey,” her voice is raspy and aches from disuse, she presses her palms against the glass, “Hey! You!”

The shadow doesn’t stop, in fact it treads more quickly across the shimmering sea, Caroline scowls, she takes a deep breath and musters all her strength. “STOP!”

She isn’t sure if that would work.

The ghost, the shadow, the nothing, turns toward her, Caroline’s face goes slack, a jet-black cloak floats around what appears to be another person. The cloak dances in place, dark and moving as if plucked from the darkest storm clouds, wispy and strange. But there’s definitely a person within.

Caroline starts waving her arms wildly in the air, she is seconds away from weeping or self-combusting.

The face of a young woman appears curiously out the dimness of the cloak’s great hood. She has lank black hair ruffled around her face, like a frame of thick disheveled raven feathers. Her skin is a chalky grey, the color of a muted winter day or flat concrete road.

Her eyes are strikingly dark, inky black pools the color of her cloak and sharp as daggers. Her face is rather plane, unremarkable, thin-lipped and expressionless. Blank. As if you are meant to forget it right after looking at it. Caroline doesn’t care, she starts flailing more wildly.

“I’m over here!” She cries, “I’m here!”

The figure hesitates, she is several paces away, body poised for flight and a tangible confusion written across her face. She looks like she doesn’t know what to do with the vision of a bedraggled blonde princess stuck inside an enormous glass hourglass.

The figure doesn’t move as Caroline beckons for her.

Her face starts to cave in, “do you hear me?” She scowls, “I know you can see me.” Or at least, she hopes she can.

The figure takes a few measured steps forward, she looks the hourglass up and down, “Do you work for the dragon?” Her voice is flat and cool, like stagnant spring water.

Caroline cocks her head to the side, showering sand down her body as she does. “No, no,” she says quickly, “I’m hostage. The dragon Heratis took me long ago and used my life force to-”

“Okay.” She says bluntly, “Well don’t make too much noise.”

Caroline’s eyes go wide, “What?” She bares her teeth as her thoughts burn hot, “Let. Me. Out.” She gets to the point.

The woman frowns, looking her over again, and then she turns. Caroline waits for a moment, waiting for something, but the figure just bends over to look fastidiously over a few golden coins and a particularly large ruby.

“Did you hear me?” Caroline repeats, “I’ll start screaming.”

She looks up, “You can if you want, the dragon is out.”

Caroline opens and closes her mouth, blood slowly raising to boil in her veins, the stranger isn’t wrong. Heratis was out hunting and nowhere nearby.

Caroline’s scowl calcifies into a snarl, “Yes. He’s out.” She put her hands on her hips, “And do you not see this giant hourglass?” She gestured around her, the thick beautiful glass and heaps of sand she slept in surrounding her. “My family will reward you handsomely for returning me.”

The stranger blinks, “What’s your name? Kingdom?”

“Princess Caroline,” she says quickly, pressing herself up against the glass. “Of Timus. To the east!”

The stranger shrugs, “Never heard of it.”

Caroline’s face breaks out into an angry red, “What do you mean?” She bawls her fists up.

“Sounds fake,” the woman turns away.

“Why would I lie about this?” Caroline stomps her foot indignantly. “You will have more riches than this entire cave if you release me.”

The woman slipped several more coins into a satchel at her side, “I have heard of this.” She took a few soundless steps forward. Her hand was just as grey as her face, with blunt black nails and ringless long fingers. She tapped on the glass, “This is the hourglass of the Whistling Sea,” she nods, “It’s one of the dragon’s top prizes.”

“Yes, it’s priceless,” Caroline’s encourages, face lighting up again. “We could steal it and be rich beyond measure.” She tries to appeal to her.

The thief turns, “And be chased and eaten by Heratis?” She waves, “Sucks to be you.” She says simply and put the ruby in her pack.

Caroline screws her entire face up into an angry mess, “You can’t leave me here!”

“I am going now,” the woman starts to flit away, dark as shadow and fast as the breeze, just as she arrived.

“Thief!” Caroline bangs on the glass with her fists, “Devil!” She cries, “I’ll eat your bones and drink your blood if I ever get out of here!”

The last part might have been a little dramatic, but in her defense she had no other company except a dragon for the last century.

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

The Hourglass

Caroline hugs her knees to her chest, sitting bonelessly against the glass and half-submerged in fine white sands. She looks out unseeingly into her home. A cave of wealth, and death. It is 11:55 am, the 133th day of the year. A Monday.

Somehow she still hates Mondays.

The mounds of sand stir around her, tilting as the sea of coins dips and oscillates, she looks up. An enormous head struck a shadow above her, a face like stone and unmoving cliff faces stares back at her.

He has a long dirty-white beard and a long jagged face, colored pale brown and rimmed by aging whiskers. His features all plucked from a time no living creature could remember, a time of storms and boiling seas and bursting earth, the dragon breathed something ancient and bloody.

He has green eyes, acidic and deep set in his long face, she can’t see the rest of his enormous lizard body, but she knows it’s there: a weather-beaten pale hide and city-spanning wings, worn and pock-marked with small holes.

Caroline just sighs, her stomach had stopped turning at the sight of him a long time ago. She nods over to him in acknowledgement.

The hoard churns as he touches down, a perturbed ocean under his weight, Caroline flounders as everything tilts, but a clawed hand descends. She falls to her backside as her cell is plucked up by the golden top. Caroline scrambles to right herself just as the hourglass is turned over.

Marking another day.

She takes a deep breath, kicking back to the top of the heap and gathering at the edge of her glass prison as the sand starts draining toward the chamber below. She had learned long ago to simply huddle at the edge and ignore it, or she surely would have gone crazy decades ago from the constant dripping.

“Little bird,” a deep rumble of crashing ocean waves and earthquakes gashing across landscapes addresses her. “Why don’t you tell me a story? A new one.”

Caroline blows pieces of stray golden hair out of her eyes, “Can’t this be the day you eat me, father moon?” A name from a time when the people cowered from the lord of time and greed. He just grins down, letting out a wet and rolling laugh.

“Who else would give their life to my hourglass then?” He purrs and places his mighty head next to her chamber. “So much life to give, little princess.”

She rolls her eyes, “I have a story of a knight taking down a greedy lizard.”

He laughs, “No, a new one.” He licks his lips, “Or I will bury you again.”

She sighs unhappily, “Fine. Let’s have one of the maiden and the nightingale. With a song so lovely it boiled the oceans away and enchanted the night to never cease.”

She had been thinking of this one for a long time.

The dragon closes his eyes and begins to listen. Caroline’s heart sinks, she consoles herself that least she isn’t submerged under the ocean of riches this time.

-----------

The Bargain

Caroline is lulling in a restless sleep, strange shapes and colors run through her mind and her body is floating somewhere distant and cold. It’s 3:43 in the afternoon, it doesn’t matter when she sleeps, so it doesn’t matter when she wakes either, it’s just by chance that she rolls into consciousness in time. She blinks groggily and rubs at her face, eyes nearly missing the stranger above her.

A dark figure stands on the top of a golden hill, Caroline’s eyes go wide, she was once more overcome with a sense of an illusion haunting her. She gulps, “hey…” She speaks softly. It had been almost three weeks.

The figure doesn’t turn, but Caroline is sure the person is grey and looking over jewels in her hand. The same as before.

Caroline clenches her teeth, hard, this really wasn’t a knight. She takes a deep breath, drawing herself up and crawling to the side of the hourglass. “Hey!” No response, just a cold back turned to her.

Caroline widens her stance, a hot prickle flickering deep within her chest. She tosses her head back violently and takes a deep heaving breath.

“Aaaaah,” she let out a piercing, grating scream from deep in her chest. The sound quickly deflates like a pierced balloon from the effort, but she draws another breath to start again.

“You have to be kidding me,” coins cascade down in tiny trickles as the thief approaches her.

Caroline glances at her through slitted eyes, “Aaaah-”

“Come on,” the thief waves her hands, “There has to be knights around here for this sort of thing.”

Caroline put her hands on her hips and leers out, “Perhaps you could fetch one for me.” She juts her jaw out, “Or simply hand me a hammer?”

The thief looks her cage over, “How?” She seems momentarily confused.

Caroline grows a small smile, “Simple,” she leans forward, “Break the glass and hand it to me.”

The woman rolls her eyes, “Look, I get it, you’re stuck and that sucks.”

“Oh my God,” Caroline huffs, “Being consoled by a spineless thief. This is rock bottom.”

The woman growls, “You’re not making a good case for yourself.”

Caroline’s gestures for her, “Angry? Go ahead, try and hit me.”

The thief opens her mouth, and then closes it. A wry smile crosses her impassive face, “Very funny.” She shakes her head, “But I am spineless.” She says slowly, “And I’m sure someone mightier than me will come along for you.” She looks around, “Someday.”

Caroline groans and sits back in her mound of sand, it was halfway full by then. “Please?” She finally says, “Pretty please? Do me a favor. You’ll get a thousand favors back.”

The thief hums, “how do you even get trapped in an hourglass?” She squints, “how are you still…?”

“Alive?” She finishes her thought, “Magic.” Caroline explains simply. “Stupid, terrible magic.” She taps a blue vein on her arm, “Don’t be born with enchanted blood. First rule.”

She presents a smile again, “Noted.”

Caroline’s face softens and she tries to melt into something pleading and pitiful. “I haven’t seen another person in decades. The knights have… become scarce. And the dragon is fierce.”

“The dragon is very fierce,” the thief responds clippedly, “and not all of us have thick glass around us.”

Caroline put her head in her hands and let out another cry, “The first person to successfully break into the cave… and they’re an asshole!”

The thief gives a miffed noise, “bad luck then, princess.” She turns, “You wouldn’t happen to know the most expensive small item in here?”

Caroline just makes a rude gesture toward her and the thief chuckles and picks up a chipped emerald and golden necklace before hopping down the heaps of treasure once more.

Caroline refuses to watch her go, “First person in decades,” she continues to grumble, “And they’re just here to steal things. Typical.” And they weren’t there for her.

---------

The Wait

Caroline blows warm breath onto her glass case, painting designs with her fingertips in the mist that fogged up the inside. She draws an intricate bird with wings of fire, in her mind’s eye it burns up the whole world: one branch and building at a time, smoldering the whole land into nothing.

Lucy had once said she was afraid of fire, all witches were. Caroline wasn’t afraid of anything now, there was nothing left to touch her.

She closes her eyes and imagines sleeping again, floating into somewhere dark and soundless. But sleep doesn’t come. She opens her eyes again and writes a small word: S.O.S. She designs the letters, attaching swirls and delicate flowers sprouting from their backs as she had many times before.

She closes her eyes when she’s done, leaning against the cool walls and sighing.

Forgotten.

She bites down on the word like it’s a piece of moldy fruit in her mouth. They aren’t looking for you anymore.

They aren’t sending anyone.

Despair lodges so cleanly in Caroline’s chest she thinks she might choke on it or stab her straight through. She flops over and puts her head beneath the yellow sand that trickles from the tube above, closes her eyes and lets it wash over her.

She could go to sleep again. Let the dragon bury her and the sands to drag her deep down into the endless restless dreams, like the maiden before her had done.

Dream until her entire life force is spent and empty, ready to replaced by the next girl.

Forgotten.

Caroline takes her head out of the sand and crawls over to the side of the glass, she isn’t ready yet. It isn’t over yet.

Though she can’t explain why.

She continues to expand her small drawings, erasing, and breathing again, art that would never be seen or remembered. Her eyes glaze over.

It’s 8:40 at night, two weeks since she had last seen Heratis.

Caroline perks up as a slight movement dashes off to her right side. The coins shift.

She sits up in place, “Back so soon?” It had only been two days. Two days four hours, five minutes, 22 seconds.

The shadow pauses in place, her eyes flicking up and face briefly illuminated by the streaming moonlight. She has a bloody gash across her lip and molting purple bruises just below her right eye, turning yellow as sour candy.

Caroline peels her lips back, “Bandits?” She guesses, the thief just grunts, a wordless affirmation. “Let you do all the work and then take the treasure themselves.” Caroline tutts, “No honor these days.”

The thief draws her hood up to cover her bloody face, “No need to mock.”

Caroline dances in place, “Trust me when I say I have nothing left to lose,” she starts to make faces, “I have no pride left. Watch this.”

She squishes her face up to the glass, mashing her nose up and slobbering across the smooth surface, the thief makes a quick sound- it might’ve been a laugh.

“Please don’t distract me,” the thief bends down and starts inspecting priceless items again. “Some of us have jobs.”

“Do you want to switch?” Caroline offers hopefully, “I have no job. No worries,” she drags her hands through the loose sand, “Just sand, really quiet a lifestyle.”

The figure shakes her head, “I’ll pass,” she looks up with a quick grin, “And unfortunately I was not blessed with enchanted blood.”

Caroline could have started to cry, wild emotions surge through her, maybe it was just from communicating with someone for so long.

She opens her mouth to keep her talking, but both of their heads jerk up at a new sound. An approaching whooshing boom, caucus fills the space as winds as strong gail storms bluster through the vast cave, the thief’s hood flies back to reveal her horrified expression.

The whomping grows louder.

Caroline wrenches her head around, voice urgent as a lightning strike, “Hide.”

She isn’t sure if she’s loud enough, but the address seems to jolt the thief from her shock, she stumbles to the side. “Quickly,” Caroline gestures, “Behind me. Bury yourself.”

The woman moves like a corpse in the breeze: disjointedly and carried by something beyond herself. She falls toward Caroline, staggering for the hourglass and managing to dive behind it, “Dig!” Caroline commands as the woman crouches behind her. The thief starts desperately clawing her way into the treasures and covering herself.

She is just barely submerged when mighty claws touch down, shifting the ocean of treasure but luckily not sending Caroline capsizing.

She sits up in place, the dragon’s maw is bloody with a successful hunt. He must have gorged himself for those two weeks, he would be close to sleeping soon.

Heratis settles heavily, letting his limbs fold up under him and head bending down with a drooping grace. Caroline opens her mouth to distract him, but addressing him first would be suspicious after all this time and she stops.

Heratis gives her a long look, blinking slowly and consideringly, Caroline holds her breath. “Think of another tale Little Bird,” he finally says, “I will expect one when I wake.”

Caroline exhales in relief as he swings around and places his jagged pale head down far away from her. “Of course,” she replies softly, but his eyes are already closed.

Just as quickly as his eyes close she hears the shifting of coins behind her. “Wait.” She hisses between her teeth, “He’s not asleep yet.”

Wide black eyes stare back at her, the woman’s face and neck just visible underneath her shallow grave of treasures. The woman’s hood is torn down and Caroline notes the small twisting horns on her head and pointed ears, she must have been some sort of elf or even a tiefling.

Caroline tilts her head, perhaps a hybrid.

The thief looks away, ‘when?’ She mouths.

Caroline shrugs, “time is slow for him. Hours. Days. He’ll be completely asleep eventually though, that will bring luck on your side.” The thief’s eyes become dinner plates, her thoughts written all over her features: days?

“Don’t worry,” Caroline grins, “his hearing is bad,” she explains slowly, “it’s just movement he’ll notice. Wait.”

The dragon breaths out, they both jump but nothing else follows.

Caroline settles down, lying in the grains of sand and observing the situation. The thief shoots her an annoyed look and she just shrugs back.

“Wait,” she repeats, “What’s a prison after all?” She adds the last part bitterly and with at least a little sense of pointed irony.

----------

Questions

The thief’s eyes are screwed up into angry little blights on her face, ‘what are we waiting for?’ She mouths, making barely any noise at all from down below.

Caroline is lounging next to her, “Sounds of snoring.” She says simply, “Also, you can speak a little louder.”

“Ugh,” The thief groans, “Princess,” she growls, “I really don’t have time for this.”

“Why don’t you do that magic trick with your light steps then?” Caroline asks back, looking down at the black cloak tied neatly around the thief’s throat.

The woman opens her mouth, she glances over to the dragon, and then back. Small sweat droplets trail down her temple.

She was afraid. She wouldn’t risk running right now, Caroline smiles loosely.

She relaxes into the bottom of her chamber, “What’s your name then, great thief?”

The woman scowls back, “It’s ‘Great Thief.’ Capital G. You got it.”

Caroline snorts, “Well, I’m Caroline of Timus.” She repeats, “Princess, capital P.”

“I remember,” The thief huffs and turns slightly away. A full minute passes before the woman carefully clears her throat and catches her eye again. “I’m Vera.” She finally says, “not that it matters.”

“It’ll matter,” Caroline winks, “In the great epics written about this later. The Great Thief: in the dragon’s belly, but not forgotten. When she wouldn’t get help for the captured princess.”

Vera makes a small noise in the back of her throat, “Do you plan on getting me eaten?”

Caroline gives a heavy sigh, “Not yet.” She says assuredly, “I’m not actually an asshole. Like some people.” She lifts her eyebrows pointedly.

“Well you’re not making yourself a lot of friends right now.” Vera grumbles.

“Where are you from Vera?” She changes subjects.

Vera eyes her warily, “Nowhere,” she says bluntly, “The Northern country.”

Caroline nods, “I could have guessed that.” Very few people south of the equator had chalky grey skin, like the face of the moon.

Vera shakes her head, “And you, from the Kingdom I’ve never heard of.”

Caroline smiles, “Maybe you don’t have very good hearing.”

The other woman gives a small chuckle, “You sound rather clever, how do clever girls get captured by dragons?”

Caroline droops, unsuccessfully smothering her own pout. “It’s,” her mouth goes slightly dry, she sighs, “It’s as stupid as it sounds.”

Vera raises her eyebrows, “Oh?” She follows Caroline’s gaze, “You tripped and fell into a glass case?”

Caroline just groans, “I believed… someone I shouldn’t have.” She explains cryptically, “And they bargained with the dragon.” She peels her lips back in disgust, lamenting herself. “Never trust beautiful witches. It’s all warts from there.”

Vera studies her, “I’ll have that printed on my next saddle bag.” She smiles, “Consorting with witches though,” she almost leers, “Someone must have not been a very good human royal.”

“The worst,” Caroline says darkly, smiling back sourly, “But how else would I get in here?”

Vera just nods, “Understood,” her eyes trail down Caroline’s pink summer dress and the curve of her waist. “Second question,” she hums, “Does this thing make you immortal?” Her voice is even, deceivingly flat.

“Depends on your definition,” Caroline touches the sand, “It feeds off me. Keeps itself turning and stops me from aging, but not from dying.” She looks up at her ceiling. “It’s not the best deal quite honestly.”

Vera was quiet for a long moment, she frowns delicately. “What did you bargain for?”

Caroline didn’t reply for a long moment, thinking it all over blankly. What do I have to lose? She reflects briefly.

“No, not me,” She finally replies, glancing up crisply. “Do you want to steal my secrets as well thief?”

Their eyes meet and Vera raises her eyebrows, “If you wish.” She snorts, “It doesn’t appear that I’m going anywhere.”

Caroline rolls her eyes, “It’s just as I said: don’t trust beautiful witches… And don’t fall for them.” She looks down at her lap emptily, “Lucy wanted more time. More life. Keep the cruelty of ages off her.” She looks off into nowhere, murmuring. “And I wanted to make her happy.”

Vera looks away, averting her gaze off to the side. “Princess’s with problems. Ah.”

Caroline sniffs, “And thief’s with problems.” She retorts, “Such as getting beat up by bandits.”

Vera makes a face at her, “A job hazard. But one of us isn’t stuck in a glass coffin.”

“Not yet!” She shakes her fist.

They exchange a long look, and then, despite themselves, they start laughing, a sharp childish giggling that Caroline tries to cover with her hands. Prompted from the absurdity of the darkness, and the gold, and the slumbering dragon that had yet to snore.

Vera stays perfectly still but seems to really look at Caroline now, “tell me,” she asks slowly, “What have you been doing with the dragon all this time?”

So, Caroline tells her a story: of a foolish human princess who ran away with a witch. Of a witch who feared death and an hourglass. A bargain with a time dragon and everything else.

Vera slowly, carefully tells her snippets of information as well: she was hired by a great lord who planned to accumulate wealth for an army. Vera guessed that the army was for taking over the grand principality, but that really wasn’t her business, nothing seemed to be her business.

The moon crosses the sky like a perfectly round hole in the darkness, a falling silver coin, Caroline drinks in the sight of another person. Of a real conversation.

Finally, she touches the glass again, “So,” She asks softly, “How does one get into the business of thieving for lords?”

Vera purses her lips, “They run out of options. Among other things.”

Caroline raises her eyebrows, “Family?”

Vera shook her head with forlorn, “No.” She looks up at her own little horns on her head, “Unacknowledged,” she gives a thin smile, “You can call me a bastard if you like, that’ll at least be correct.”

Caroline’s studies her exposed moon-grey face, “Well, my family abandoned me too,” she sighs, “so maybe that’s how people like us end up together.”

Vera gives her a funny look, “I suppose.” She looks away, “You know I’m a,” she pauses, watching Caroline, “So you’ve guessed, I’m a hybrid.”

Caroline shrugs, “Sure,” she says and itches her nose, “How else would an elf walk like a shadow?” She smiles, “No one has done anything like this, you’re stronger than any of the other silly heroes who’ve came so far. It’s impressive, really.”

Caroline can’t help but catch the briefest surprised smile crossing Vera’s face at that, she tugs it back into something guarded. “Well I’m not a hero.” She replies quickly, “And you ran away from your whole life for someone, so that’s impressive too, really.”

Caroline laughs a bitter and light sound, “Now I’m being teased. It’s not all that, just stupid youth.” Their eyes meet and Caroline can’t explain it as her heart squeezes for a moment. “I get what I deserve.”

Another moment passes, the moonlight cascading over the cave from up above and their breaths catching in time with one another.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Vera’s voice was quiet, “It’s a terrible thing done, no one would deserves it.”

Caroline shivers from head to toe, their eyes meet again, and she doesn’t know how to place it. She wets her lips, waiting, a bubbling force rising in her chest.

Vera lifts up, shifting some of the coins and exposing her shoulders, then she stops, as if biting down on something too, holding it beneath her tongue and rolling it around. They stay breathlessly watching each other, perhaps something more might have come of it.

Instead, they both jump as booming guttural sound echoes around the cave. A deep snore.

Caroline and Vera exchange a look. Caroline tries not show her face fall, “Go,” she points, “Take as much gold as you can carry. He stopped counting this junk ages ago.”

Vera was still looking at her, mulling her over. She takes her time unburrying herself and then grabbing everything in arms reach.

“Caroline,” her face is flushed and Vera hunches over slightly, searching for something, and then she just nods. Caroline nods back.

“Go,” it’s a whisper this time. What else is there to do? She asks herself, Caroline waves her arms, “Quickly!”

Vera rises on her ghost feet, gathering the cloak around her and barely disturbing a thing as she darts away, into the night, into the nothingness.

I hope you got what you were looking for.

And she was alone again.

-----------

The Dream

Vera is gone. But what did Caroline expect?

She told herself to stop expecting things. Perhaps it was just the sign she should let herself sleep again, let it all go.

She hovers at the top of her chamber as the hourglass finishes filling, swimming in the sea of sand with just her upper body barely above the surface. She braces herself as the mechanism turns over again, forcing her to slip toward the bottom and then dig her way back to the air again.

Not that it mattered. She didn’t need air.

It takes another month for Heratis to wake again, Caroline already had her next story meticulously planned for him.

He blinks open his crusted, glossy eyes and she calls to him. “I’m ready.” He settles in expectantly, waiting before he needed to go out feeding again.

“How preparatory of you,” he puts his enormous head by her, blinking his acid green eyes and resting his soft leathery beige cheek by her cell. “Go on.”

She lifts her eyes up, “This one is about a tiefling and an elf who fell in love. And their daughter who rose above it all to become a star on the horizon.”

She begins again.

-----

Caroline is wavering between waking and sleeping, as she had been for days now, letting the drowsy sand wash over her, quietly, consumingly. She could be lost like this, she could dream again.

Her eyes are closed and head lulling down on her chest, thoughts floating in and out as she dreams of fresh buttery bread she keeps bringing to her lips only for it to disappear on contact. She turns in place, deep within the sand.

A sharp tap erupts besides her, insistent and sharp.

It’s 2:22 in the afternoon, a Thursday. Heratis was out- having left after she finished her last story.

Caroline blinks awake and turns, kicking her way out of the sand and pushing her way to the edge of the cage. She has to rub her gritty eyes when she sees someone next to her in the streaming daylight. A figure draped in a billowy black cloak.

Inky eyes capture hers, “Vera?” Caroline rasps, her throat tightening almost painfully.

Vera nods slowly, tugging at her fingers. “That ransom for you,” She begins awkwardly, swaying in place and looking somewhat lost. “Would it still be a lot?”

Caroline just shakes her head, “I lied.” She says carefully, “My parents did try to bargain for me at first, for posterity's sake, but,” she hesitates, “But what is a daughter who ran away?” She sinks down, “there is no longer a reward I’m afraid.”

The truth weighs heavily on her chest, forgotten. She slid quietly to the bottom of her cage, “I lied.”

“I know,” Vera says with a hard tone, hesitance written over her pinched expression. “Sorry, I already knew that. Caroline,” She looks up darkly, “There is no longer a kingdom of Timus.”

Caroline’s mouth falls open, thoughts thumping in her temples and heart racing. In the back of her mind she already knew that, deep down she had known that for a long time.

“Vera,” She swallows thickly, sorrow welling up from somewhere she didn’t know existed. She tries to focus, “Why are you here?”

Vera had never tapped on her glass before and her hands are empty of any treasures, in fact, instead of a satchel at her side there was the hilt of what looked like a heavy weapon. Something is different.

Vera looks down at her feet, as if she’s a small child suddenly caught taking cookies from a jar. She scuffs her foot on the coins and her mouth becomes a squiggle line across her face, strangely bashful.

“I just thought,” Vera put her palms up helplessly, “you know. It does, actually, really... suck. To be stuck somewhere.”

Caroline’s draws herself up, “Yes. We’ve been over this. It sucks.” She says dryly and fixes her with a steady look, “Is… that it?”

“I mean,” Vera rubs the back of her neck, “I’m not actually a hero or anything.” She mumbles, “Most people don’t want to think of me as anything at all, but,” her eyes dart up, bursting with something. “I dunno, I just kept thinking about your silly face stuck in all this sand…”

“Yes?” Caroline’s heart speeds up, eyes going wide.

“And I thought, well, I mean, maybe I had been wrong,” she fidgets in place, “and maybe I could steal something good for once.”

Caroline’s mouth falls open like a screw came loose in her jaw, “You won’t get a reward,” she says quickly, manically. “Obviously. I don’t even have a kingdom anymore.”

Vera speaks gently. “Yeah, I know.”

Caroline’s mouth is still hanging open, “I have nothing for you.”

“I know.”

Caroline crams herself up against the glass, “You don’t know what this means. I can’t, I mean, I can’t thank y-“

Vera’s tone is quick and halting, “Don’t think about it. Come on, before I change my mind.” Her eyes flit over to the mouth of the cave.

“We’d have to run.” Caroline speaks as if in a dream, Vera nods grimly back, “We’d have to be fast.”

Vera breaks into a broad grin, a real one. “I’m fast.”

Caroline steps away from the glass, hands shaking. “Can you break this damn thing?”

Vera’s grin turns wild and barbed, “You happen to be in luck,” she says gleefully, “For you have a thief at your service and she happened to be sent to the dwarf kingdom’s artillery last month.”

“No,” jitters course through Caroline’s system, “No way.”

Vera pulls out what appeared to be a golden hammer, the head is as big as the girl’s head and looks as heavy as a small cow. It’s covered in small brilliant symbols and built with the fineness of smart hands and a little magic.

A flutter surges through Caroline’s heart, it couldn’t be real. “Amazing,” she claps her hands, “Amazing Vera!” She wonders if this is what being high was like, or in love.

Vera lifts her chin up, “Step back.”

Caroline can’t move fast enough, retreating until her back hits the opposite wall of glass and her muscles tense all over. Vera lifts the hammer above her head, heavy and shining in her hands. Their eyes meet for a brief second, something stretches between them like a sunbeam across ice: blinding and fierce.

Caroline holds her breath, “I’m ready.”

The hammer swings down before Caroline finishes the sentence, Vera’s face is screwed up in red determination and she lets out a feral grunt as the weapon falls. It strikes with a terrifying crunch that must have shot tremors up Vera’s arms.

Heavy and solid it thunks against the glass and, to Caroline’s amazement, a jagged raw lightning strike crack bursts across the surface. Tears well up in her eyes despite herself, hot and stinging with feral trembling hope.

A second thought strikes her: the hourglass was one of Heratis’s most prized possessions, the dragon had meant to be away awhile and yet…

She tenses all over, “Quickly.”

Vera’s face screws up again, “Huh!” She grunts and brings the hammer down once more with deadly blunt force. This time Caroline’s entire chamber shakes, she steadies herself on either wall and gasps as more spiderweb-thin cracks spread.

“That’s it!” She whoops, “You are my hero you damn fool, keep going!”

Vera’s cheeks flush ashy-grey at that, but she heaves the hammer down again with a teeth-shattering crash. Another crack.

Then comes the roar. A roar like flood waters slamming down across canyon creeks, the sound of terrors in the night children dream up and bones crunching against cold stone. A roar erupting from somewhere so deep it might as well be from the earth itself.

Caroline jerks up, “Hurry, hurry!” She nearly breaks into tears again, “He’s sensed it. He’s coming."

Vera looks pale and almost sick to her stomach, ready to bolt at any second. For a moment Caroline expects her to turn and sail away on light feet into somewhere soundless and dark. Safe.

For a moment Caroline wants to tell her to do just that.

Vera clenches her teeth, “watch out.” She lifts the hammer with her entire body, solid and lurching from the effort, she struck a silhouette all young girls knew: a champion of old. Vera brings the hammer down with a terrifying crash, the glass dents inward, caving in.

“There,” Caroline staggers as the cage jostles, “Almost!” She can see the unfiltered light, she can taste the clear air.

Vera backs up, sweat streaming down her forehead, the effort obviously taking a toll on her trembling limbs. The roar comes again, but this time accompanied by the whump of massive wings.

Caroline burns with a heat that feels like it might incinerate her, she’s so close. “Ah!” She screams and rushes for the cracks in the glass, pushing on them with all her strength.

“Wait-” Vera barely gets a word out before a shadow with deviled horns and blooming fury descends. They both scream.

“Who is tampering with my hoard?” The beast roars with a raw vitriol, “I will crunch your bones and burn your whole family to dust.”

Vera snarls back, “My family already told me to shove off, so,” she grins daringly, stupidly. “Try again.”

A clawed hand shoots forward, grasping Vera’s small body and lifting her.

“No!” Caroline moves in that moment, she has to, she digs her heels into the shifting sands, braces herself, and then flings herself at the cracks in the glass. Everything shatters.

She gasps, her skin stinging with a thousand pinpricks and a shuddering burn. Her insides wash with what felt like frigid ice water, like sucking in artic wind in every sinew. The tumbling mix of hot and cold surges with a dizzying weight through her, time reclaims her with a vengeance.

Her eyes spot white, ears ringing and the taste of grit and soil bleeding through her taste buds. The world smells raw and vivid as a sucker punch.

Mortality singes every nerve in her, a stranglehold of life and promise of death all once. Caroline takes a second to look at her hands, pale and empty, she clenches and then unclenches them. She can feel the sticky pain in her shoulder from where she bashed it across the glass, she can feel the thrash of wind against her skin and an aching hunger throughout her body, aches and aches and aches.

She tingles, her thoughts heave, slipping through her fingers like burning ashes. She no longer knows what time it is.

“Aaahh!” Caroline looks up as a sharp cry fells the air, breaking her out of her brief reverence.

Heratis is holding Vera around her middle, lifting her through the air and bringing her up to his green cold gaze.

“And who are you?” He growls, “Who are you to touch my things?”

Vera shakes like a leaf, she looks ready to puke on the spot. She must have gathered something from deep within though, something Caroline can only guess at. “Who- who are you to make anyone a thing?” She says, just loud enough and then growls forcefully: “go eat your own tail.”

The dragon laughs, its voice filling the whole space. “Oh, I’m going to make this slow.”

“Hey!” Caroline screams, feeling the burn of her fledgling lungs. “Heratis!” She musters a battle cry, bursting with new and terrible life. Something that had been building in her for a very long time. “I have your things here.”

Heratis turns toward her with the sluggish movements of a beast older than the sky itself. “My little bird,” he sneers, “How ugly your wings are.”

Caroline draws herself up, she reaches for the sands cascading out of the hourglass like carnage out of a gut wound. “Stop me.” She scatters the sands, tossing it away to fall between the cracks of the treasures and disappear.

“Ugly, ungrateful,” he seems to forget Vera for a moment and comes rushing forward with the force of a small hurricane. “Small, petulant, creature.”

Caroline latches her hands around a giant piece of glass from her cage, gripping it between her tingling hands and yanking it loose, the sharp edges bite into her skin as she hefts it up. She grimaces as her palms split up, blood seeping down her wrists and across the smooth surface of the object.

She gives the hourglass beside her a savage kick, sending what’s left of it toppling down the golden hills and away. She lifts the shard of glass over her head just as the dragon’s dives to catch the hourglass, Caroline is faster. She leaps, soundlessly, ruthlessly, and thrusts the glass fragment deep into the side of the dragon’s face.

The shard pierces the dragons soft aged cheek, enchanted by her spilling blood and filled with the fury of a girl who had lost everything. His skin bursts with a sluggish red gash and Caroline tears downward.

She wedges it deep within his face before letting go, his eyes go wide for a moment, processing this new foreign horror. He reels back, head thrashing and body whipping about, shaking the entire cavern itself. Caroline falls to her knees and staggers in place.

A momentary glee balloons in her chest, but then the dragon releases Vera as he clutches at his ruined cheek- tossing the girl aside like a scrap. Vera’s body sails limply across the open space.

“No,” Caroline leaps toward her, feet flying and heart pounding so hard it might burst. A roar drums in her ears and her mouth tastes of copper and bile.

“No, no, no,” she put her hands out to catch the other girl, mind screeching, but she is still several paces away, not close enough. “No!”

Vera is falling, face stricken and body tossed like a boneless ragdoll, and then the next moment she is turning in midair, situating her feet toward the ground and decelerating. Her cloak flutters as she rights herself like a falling cat and softly lands.

Caroline tries to dig her heels in as Vera’s comes down feather-light.

She barely manages to slow before crashing into the other girl, running headlong into her body and almost sending them both sprawling. Vera grabs her around the waist instead and swings them both around. “Stupid girl!”

Caroline laughs in her arms, “Brilliant shadow!”

They hug for just a moment, though neither would ever admit that’s what it is. Then the thrashing of Heratis comes back to them. Coins spray around them and a growling screech resounds.

“It’s ruined!” He cries and lets out a growl of a thousand baited hound dogs.

Caroline turns toward the wall, thinking quick. “Can you get up there?” She points to the massive jade clock perched high above.

“What?” Vera grabs her arm, “We need to get out of here.”

“We should stall him first,” Caroline counters quickly, keeping her eyes on the dragon as he tries to turn, “he won’t rest until that clock is wound again. That will buy us time.”

Vera seems to open her mouth to argue, but then glances back at the dragon and only nods. They both start racing; Caroline’s veins are ice and she barely registers the endless light just outside the cave. She waves at Vera as the other woman crawls up the wall with the speed of a specter and grabs at the big hand of the giant clock.

“Turn it!” Caroline screeches and watches as the dragon’s prize is wrenched out of time.

Heratis roars, blood streaming down his chin and neck. “Don’t touch that!”

Vera lets go, the dragon grabs for his treasure, trying to restore the item back to the exact second. Vera darts away, landing on the ground lightly once more, Caroline takes her hand. “Come on.”

They grin with the bloody exhilaration of almost-victory, they turn, they run.

The sunlight is as bright and fierce as a first kiss, a first breath, a first forever. Caroline is skipping as they tumble down the mountain side, skidding and flinging themselves down and away, every scraped knee is a new promise.

She only stops once, “Thank you Vera!”

They approach the edge of a forest, just far enough away from the cave for the dragon cries to be muted. Caroline didn’t even know there was a forest outside, it was a young and bright thing, more oaks than it was pines and brimming with bird calls and rustling life.

Vera is panting and holding her sides where the dragon had squeezed her. “Me?” She wheezes, “You’re the one that stabbed him back there.”

Caroline turns to her, hair loose and wild, “You didn’t have to come for me. You didn’t have to do any of that.”

Vera looks away and huffs, “We have to keep running, he can fly you know.”

Caroline hadn’t stopped smiling since she’d come out, “Just one second,” she reaches for Vera’s hand once more, “One thing and then we can flee to the ends of the earth, or ends of the kingdom at least. He’s a lazy thing.”

Caroline glances back up toward the cave, roaring was still emitting from it, “Make it quick.”

Caroline gets on her tiptoes, Vera was too tall. “Ahem,” she clears her throat, “I am in your debt. And as a freed princess, you have my eternal gratitude.”

Vera turns to her, making faces, “What are you on about?”

Caroline takes Vera’s cheeks between her hands, “A legendary hero.” She reaches up, “Wresting me from the dragon’s clutches. I show my thanks.” It was a silly thing, but all story books are silly.

She lifts herself up, closes her eyes and softly presses her lips against the other girls. It tastes like blood and burning lungs, but Caroline is full to bursting with the whole entire world. She kisses delicately, tender against her raw skin and thumping heartbeat.

Her head swims with exuberance and she thinks she might never sleep again.

The kiss is chaste and careful, Caroline falls back again quickly, still smiling. “There.”

Vera looks blankly back at her, cheeks burning a vivid dark ash and eyes huge. “Oh,” she blinks, stammering, “I mean,” She holds her black feathery hair back, “That’s… Oh.”

Caroline laughs and leans into her, “that’s how it’s supposed to go.”

“Not my stories,” Vera appears thunderstruck.

“Then how do yours go?” Carolina’s face hovers inches from Vera’s, ready to press another shy kiss to her cheek.

Vera grabs her hand and pulls them forward as a howl bursts from far behind them. “I’ll tell you later.” She hurries them onward, “It’s a story of a silly trapped girl and a selfish thief.”

“Will I like this story?” They keep running as Vera begins a new tale.

“I hope so,” Vera’s face is aglow with a wide smile, her pointed white teeth stretching across her lips, a lovely shameless thing. “Hopefully if it’s not over yet.”

Caroline chases her steps, “Not yet!” She cackles, “If you’d like to see the rest that is.”

Vera squeezes her hand, “Lead the way.”

They laugh wildly and descend into the dappled thick woods.

The world settles and Caroline’s face is turned up, thick with sunshine and fury and a whole new world beyond her glass and sand. Her hands run bloody, and her body aches with bruises and a new licking hunger, and there is no time at all.

The End

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