#cause the holy ground burns their feet and the high risk is that its full of holy water but how would that work?

[rosefulmadness]

aziraphale just watched so many people that he barely knew but saw on the daily die, then he reunited with the one person he does know but rarely sees, crowley, and when they meet again after so long he hands him what could very much be a suicide letter.

I 100% understand his reaction to the whole holy water thing. my dude just saw so much death, and when he thinks he's safe (cause he's with crowley), his crush bestie asks him for help to die.

Good Omens Historical Trivia That's Haunting Me Today...

So we all know A.Z. Fell & Co is located on the fictitious Whickber Street in Soho and was established in 1800.

Aziraphale has run the shop ever since then and was in contact with Crowley at least until the 1820's when they took their little jaunt to Edinburgh and Crowley got sucked down the tube slide to Hell. They meet up again no later than the 1860's, when Crowley asks for Holy Water.

Stands to reason that between the 1820's and 1860's Aziraphale was in Soho doing Aziraphale things. Running his bookshop. Eating tiny cakes

Yeah... you know what else was going on in Soho during that time?

The worst cholera epidemic in London history.

If you don't know, cholera is a deadly bacterial infection caused by drinking contaminated water. Prior to the 1850's humans weren't really sure what caused cholera, but they knew it was terrifying and also that it was absolutely epidemic in big cities.

TW: this is gross - The main symptoms of cholera are agonizing stomach pain and non-stop watery diarrhea, eventually leading to the skin turning blue due to the thickening of blood from severe dehydration. Patients can lose more than 20% of their body weight in hours as they quite literally evacuate every drop of water in their bodies until they die of heart failure. - OK gross part over

Cholera symptoms show up as short as 5 hours after infection and could kill within as little as 12 hours. Cholera was especially terrifying because of how quickly and painfully it killed you, and because the patient maintained mental clarity up until the point of death. More than half of the people who contracted cholera died within a few days after consuming the bacteria-contaminated water.

And guess what water had cholera bacteria in it?

The public water pump on Broad Street in Soho in August of 1854

And this wasn't one of those epidemics that starts slowly and drags on. It hit like a bomb. It killed 600 Soho residents in ten days.

That's roughly 60 people a day in a 3-4 block area. Most of them died at home because the disease struck too quickly for them to to make it to a hospital. Survivors described hearses stacked with coffins 4-5 high going down the street nonstop all day long during the outbreak. Entire families were wiped out overnight.

What does that have to do with Good Omens?

Aziraphale's book shop was right in the epicenter of this outbreak.

Neil Gaiman has been pretty free about the fact that Whickber Street is a thinly veiled expy of the real Berwick Street in Soho.

This is a famous map showing the 1854 Soho Cholera epidemic. I highlighted Berwick Street and the public water pump that was the center of the contagion. The black bars (I circled a few in blue) on the map designate deaths. The thicker the black bar, the more people died in that particular house.

51 people died the week of the cholera outbreak on Aziraphale's Street alone.

Cholera was one of those diseases that provoked a lot of panic, not just because of how fast and painful it was, but because of the way it didn't follow common conventions about class or age. Children died while the elderly survived (often because the elderly had no one to gather water for them). Lower class houses were spared while their middle class landlords died. Churches were packed that week, because people in Soho had no idea who would get sick next. The epidemic pretty much burned itself out in a week and a half, since by that point everyone who drank the water had already died. I have to wonder what our resident Angel was up to during that time. Obviously cholera can't hurt him, but that's his neighborhood. There's no way hundreds of people, including entire families with children, are dying painfully in his neighborhood and Aziraphale doesn't notice. That means that in between this scene:

And this one:

Aziraphale would have watched one of the worst disease outbreaks in London history play out right outside his front door. I feel like there's great potential for a good story there if anyone better than me wants to write it.

[sirensmojo]

Scar - Geralt Of Rivia x Reader

Summary: You’re a creature chased by Geralt Of Rivia for a week now, but he couldn’t find you. What he doesn’t know is that you were spying on him since the beginning, when another creature attacks him you stand by his side which causes you to stick with him until he decides if he should follow his feelings and keep you alive, or do the job and kill you.

Warnings: fluff, mystical creature, fights, magic, terror & horror

Word Count: 2,757

 Masterlist

Geralt set a camp in a forest, the same he was told not to cross as humans never came back alive from, but he doesn’t have anything to risk. He isn’t a human, maybe this forest was for mystical creatures only. At first, everything went well. The sun was still up, stick to a blue sky sprinkles by the tips of highs bushy and leafy trees. It was boiling hot, he took off his armor, and his body flopped in a vivid sleep near his horse. It founds him well as it has been, three days in a row of sleepless nights.

Swiftly, his body stiffs, eyes snapped open, looking far away, when they finally lock on something unusual. He gets up on his feet and waits, quietly, his eyes following each shadow it can find.

It is when he glimpses of it, in the distance. His head tilted, eyes squinted, a mere inhuman shadow, only visible from where he stands. The beam lights were stopped by the trunks of trees here and there, making it impossible to keep an eye on the form. It was almost as if the thing vanished from one tree to another, Geralt was confused, his brow narrowed at the vision of horror that played before him. One minute it was there, near a bush, the other, right behind a high branch. Nearly human, but not human enough to make him feel comfortable or make sense of it. A grunt escapes his dry, plump lips as the taste in the air changes, Geralt was cold, all of a sudden. He is not yet sure of what presented in front of him, but until then, his sword will stay on the ground.

A high-pitched tone shrill springs out the dark, an animal he concluded. But what sort of animal does this noise? Add to that the pace of the shadows getting quicker and nearer, a peculiar form lurking in the trees. The leery breath of the man started to thicken as his lips parted. If he doesn’t feel at the mercy of anything dangerous, why can’t he control his breath? Or his pounding heart? At each sound, even the slightest, he can’t help but gaze in that direction. His golden eyes flickered from a point to another by the time he notices the settings have changed.

The leaves had left the trees to encounter the ground that it’s covered in white thick peach fuzz. He put one knee on the soil with a hand-dipped in the white sea. It was indeed snowing. An umpteenth grunt slips out his throat, blowing his warm breath in the cold dark. Moreover, his eyes don’t accommodate to the darkness nicely. Not enough to be able to discern reality and imaginations, not sufficiently to put words and reasonable thoughts on what this animal was, not enough to ease his, now, edgy self. Why the beast doesn’t attack? Or was it even a beast? The Witcher came to that conclusion because the feeling in the air has been always more dense and thick, when there’s a mystic creature in the areas, he senses it. Now all he could sense was leather and woods, for some reason. He pinches his nose, quite annoyed by his helplessness, closes his eyes for a demi-second and inhales deeply, which lead to some unwanted noise caused by his half blocked nostril due to the low temperatures.

“Fuck” He whispers.

Not a single sound reaches his ear after that breath, not a single shadow seen. When his eyes open, his whole body is on alert. His arms tense, his torso stiffens, whereas his legs were hammered in the dense white veil covering the spot. Something was approaching. It even passed by him in a fury. His blood boils in his veins. Even so, he feels like each cell weighted ten times its weight in silver. Geralt heard a last shrill noise nearby by the time he fought with the last drops of strength flowing into his body and reach out for his sword. As he struggles to lift it, a jaw closes on his shoulder. He winces in pain, spitting a deep growl towards the shadows. Gauging by how fast the pain spreads locally, the mouth of the creature must be his main weapon. When it backs off after its first bite, the Witcher figured out the thing will not kill him straight, it isn’t hungry or extra. It utterly wanted to play with his prey, him. He felt like his hands paralyzed, but also shook the most, he’s unsure if it was caused by the frozen or by the bite. His black eyes sprang out, revived thanks to the ache emanating from his dysfunctional shoulder, as it gives him a full ability to discern what attacked him.

It looks like a woman with large spider-like legs coming out of its back. Its body resembles a grisly exoskeleton more than the pulpy features of the human woman he spent the last night with, indeed. That thought, making the Witcher smile.

Despite the new ache focus blooming all over his body, the man was still standing on his feet, springing his sword at the neck of the still unknown yet hideous creature when it jumps back at him. The man heard a terrible screeching sound as the creature crawl about a large boulder. Behind him, rustling bushes and a thud, as if something has slid and then dropped down from the trees behind. Yet still, he can’t look back or the spider-looking thing will take enjoyment in biting again, and he knew well he would not survive another bite. He was encircled by weasel creatures that let him an interval to swallow that today is the day he’ll surely die, in the gelid forest, where hours ago it felt as hot as burning coals. The blood dripping from his huge wound was abnormally overflowing, damping his whole white tunic. On top of that, his death comes in the middle of nowhere, far from his pathetic life.

Perhaps in the next world he have peace of mind?

He can’t even comfort his spirit with this thought because as wicked, cold, and evil as this place seems, he preferred to rest under its ground for the rest of life rather than facing the endless void he thought was waiting for him behind the veil.Although the beast was aggressive and agile, the Witcher still tries to aim its back with clean and neat sword movements. Even with one arm left, the battle was not yet determined, but the white-haired man stays confident, patiently looking for an opening. On which occasion he knows he will not hold back his blow.

***

There is blood pooling at your feet and welling up from your throat. There are thousands of bodies around you, all with these same holes burned in their jaws. You woke up abruptly, with the boorish stench of rotting corpses winding each portion of your body as if you weltered in a bath of death. Besides the smell, the knife in your stomach that you see is a dull pain. 

You scratched your lids and opened your eyes again. “Holy crap on a cracker,” you whistle. And fear clouds your every thought, every movement and action from now on. Your heart beating in your chest warning you, he got enough of these for a lifetime or so. All you can think at this moment is how this foulness occurred. Because you are sure you don’t remember the hammered knife in your guts, nor falling asleep in the waters. Your voice instinctively tries to reach out for a name, “Geralt!” you continuously weep, tired of seeing blood and wounds every so often. Where did you go? He asks himself. Usually, he would think you just wanted to go back to your life, but something in his guts told him this isn’t right. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he heard your voice calling for him. He sprints through the forest, lungs burning as he calls you back. The more his breathing grew louder, the more he knew he was near. He can’t hear his desperate breaths, can’t even hear the pounding of his own heart. All he could hear was the soft melody drifting across the wind before him.

“Y/n,” Geralt muttered near your head. You try to lift your hand to his face, but instead, he grabs it and passes it around his neck, helping you to stand. “You turd!” You whisper, almost out of breath. The golden-eyed man looked over your face and grunts, as a sign you got his attention. “Can’t you see the knife?” you teased with a breezy voice. You wonder if you were still dreaming or if all of this was real. Thus, when the pain in your belly starts to prickle. “Just put it out,” you spat some blood. “I’m bringing you somewhere safe,” he riposted. But by the flimsy laugh leaving your weak body, he rolled his eyes and dropped you carefully at the feet of an old tree. His gaze was sinking so deep into you it almost ripped out your soul.

You wanted to say something, but the overflowing blood of your injury got in your head, making you feel dizzy. The face of Geralt is blurry, so is the forest, and again your eyes shut to join a dimension that you swear is your personal hell. There is blood running down the corner of your mouth. You’re invited to look down by the putrid odor, noticing the dead pile of carcasses on which you sat. You began to yell. “Oh, no-no-no. Please no, don’t tell me that… Oh gods, no,” your voice resonated like an echo. Each of your words coming back at the place that sets them free.

You knit your brows as your orbs open. “You finally up?” the deep and raspy voice of the Witcher resonating in your ears. “I haven’t slept in days… Anytime I close my eyes, I feel it reaching out to grab me,” you spitted curtly. The long-haired man, standing and turning his back at you, only grunt as an approval. ”‘Feeling what?’ I heard you asking,” you add. “Did I?” Geralt looks over his shoulders, squinted towards you. You nodded, ready to spread out another layer of drama at the top of your current situation. “Those blackened claws… They’re coming for me. I am the blackened claws,” your solemn tone caught the attention of the Witcher, that slid to sit on the log beside you, holding you a flask of water. He exhaled deeply, avoiding your eyes.

“All I know about you is that you miraculously healed from a knife in the guts. I didn’t see any claws, even less blackened,” the man sings, proud of himself. You choked on your drink and hassle to pat your stomach, even ripping your cloth to the side to be able to corroborate his words.  “What the goose?” You sputtered, the tip of your finger seeking your wound in vain. Your eyes wide, you lift your gaze to the sour complexion of the man. “The goo- what?” he repeats, one eyebrow lift to you, which you ignore. “What else has happened?” you reluctantly ask, not sure you wanted to know other eerie things you may have missed about yourself. “Well,” he tilted his head in a chuckle, a smirk graces his face. “It’s that bad?” you cut him off brows narrowed as your gazes lock. Geralt tensed his jaw, a grunt slips its way out, seeing the worry in your eyes. “Can you stand?” he asks your way. You slowly let go of the soil in your hands and lift them to the sides of your body, then you push on your legs, and, as if it was the first time, you throw Geralt your warmest smile, glad. He stands up on his feet and slips on the cloak he just grabbed. You confusedly looked at him. The weather was so hot and humid. You wondered why he needed this cloak. “Come, on,” Geralt cheerfully purrs, motioning that you follow. You executed, quietly walking beside him. When Geralt stops, your two looks drop at the same thing, your feet. Your narrowed eyes describe plainly the conundrum displaying in your head. You kneel and spread your fingers above the white veil before you clench your fingers in a fist, imprisoning the substance in it. You stand back up, still looking at your fist as you open it. Geralt observed the scene with cautious eyes, he surmised you had something to do with the snow, but not quite sure if so, why you were mesmerized by it as if it was the first time you touch it. “Is this familiar to you?” he motions his hand toward the areas.

Indeed, it is familiar. The day before, you saved his life while he was fighting with a deadly injury here.

Geralt hears rustling bushes behind him, followed by a thud. You, now, stand near the scene you were observing from above. Eyes flickering between the watcher and the Cipher, he was staring at, crouching in the shadows. You thought you had each of those bastard creatures. Apparently, one remains. “On your knees,” you commended. Hearing your sassy tone, Geralt looked over his shoulder, and what a surprise he has. Two creatures for the price of one. Solely, you were not the same species that assaulted him. Your eyes constantly drip a yellow ooze, your paces utterly silent as you neared him.

A loud and shrill, high-pitched cry comes from behind a boulder as the wind comes in blasts followed by hailstorms, and thundershower. This tempestuous weather buried a sweltering atmosphere, seizing Geralt by the throat. Him, that refused to kneel before you find himself forced to. The wind is sweeping every greenery leftovers, and rain is draining down any hope of survival.

In the distance, the Witcher shields his eyes with his hand against any projectile and watched as you and the Cipher jumped high in the air with stabbing shrieks and subsequently collide in a mystical twirling of both magic energies. He cringes as the yellow ooze drips from your eyes into the bite holes in the jaw of your victim, infecting her. In a rush of gloom, everything stops. The rain freezes in midair, and the wind hushes. The mist vanishes behind the trees, the dusty sky, making room in an azure and bright one.

Even the heat, passionate mild settles back as if nothing has happened, the only evidence of the previous chaos being the spruce firing body on the ground. “You should fetch more woods that is dry if you don’t want this flames to die” You solemnly let out towards Geralt. “Bloody hell, that rhymes,” you heatedly cheer yourself up. Though the warmth mastered the air again, the snow still envelops each section of the brush like a soft thick blanket of ice and drifting snow. It is an eerily beautiful sight the golden-eyed man is lucky to witness. Geralt lids fluttered in incomprehension for a brief instant, he suddenly stands back up and hassled his hand to his wound shoulder, only to find nothing. The injury completely healed, single marks of sharpening teeth as scars left in there. “How?” he grumbles.

“I can put it back if you want?” you suggest, lifting your eyes brows. Geralt that was still searching for his nonexistent wound stops on track and glared at you, a grunt emanating from the deepest of his throat. “What?” you shrug. “I can slap you… with a wet fish,” you added, gauging his reaction. “Maybe it wasn’t me,” you shrug to him, not knowing what else to say. “Don’t it help your memories flow back into your mind?” asked Geralt as both of you stood near the gathering ashes of bones who initially was the Cipher you killed.You shook your head and mutter. “No, it’s still as dry as a bad piece of lettuce” Geralt glances at you as soon as the words left your mouth. “Hmm,” he grunts.”But Y/n, it is your doing,” he maintains, your weird comparisons comforted him most in his assumption.

[wildwoods1]

Making the Climb 

In front there was a  sheer ragged wall. Clips and gadgets she had no intention of knowing well enough to call by name littered the ground…  People were shouting  right behind her and she assumed that they were speaking a foreign language until she turned to look at them, she heard the words she understood all too well. “C’mon you lazy ingrate, climb!

”Might as well be Sisyphus! Push, climb, what’s the difference. Maybe climb was the Roman version. Homerian humor not withstanding, it was still a grim task for someone afraid of heights. But why she was there, what her fate was to be if she failed… or succeeded for that matter, none of it was plain. She was just suddenly there out of no where, apparently  expected to draw on inner resources she did not know  she had. There was a certain irony, given the train of thought, in her name, Helena. In Montana. The yelling was louder now since she had been ignoring it. Still no explanations. She had nothing… Hm. Not exactly true. There was a feeling, something like inner movement trying to trip the pawl of her psyche. Difficult to tell what was going on, just that something was. Helena was grateful she could at least be aware of that. A small stone hit her side. Another and another. Someone yelled into the crowd for patience and it stemmed the tide of intolerance, but not with much comfort. “She’s goin’ up, you know that. That’s why we’re here, to make sure! Calm down now, she ain’t needin’ stonnin’ yet.” There was an ominous weight hung on the “yet”. Obviously she wasn’t leaving here without an effort. But what she did finally get was that it was important that she try. No idea why. "Just do it. It’s time," was all she got. 

With a deep breath she looked at the ground not knowing anything about the equipment she saw scattered around her. Turning to the crowd, she asked “Can anyone tell me how to use this stuff?” 

They replied with some degree of disgust “That’s your problem”. “We ain’t nursemaids, ya know.” “Lookin’ for the easy way, like always!” 

The feeling within persisted with vigor. No getting around it, apparently. She started deep breathing to build oxygen. Knowing she was not very strong didn’t help. It had to be by her wits, holy Jees! 

She walked up to the rock face and for the first time noticed that she was dressed for the climb right down to her fingerless gloves with leather palms and belt with steel re-enforced loops, which, by the way, were anything but encouraging at this moment. Surveying the area directly in front of her she saw some hand holds. Straight up marched a series of over lapping rock layers seeming to slide over each other and then at the right moment, stick where they were; it was horizontal layers stacked vertically. It wasn’t stairs but a welcome navigation. A little to the right beyond the last of the layers was a cave-like hole about the size of a hawk’s nest. Directly to either side there were outcroppings good for holding, plenty of room for feet, and so on it went. Hesitant to step back into the crowd, she leaned back so far she almost fell on them. It seemed to be a climb and a half but maybe do-able .Helena walked up to the rock and for what seemed at first an ironic belligerent act, bowed to the rock like a worthy opponent. Before she could straighten up she felt it. It was a response from the stone; an acknowledgement so precise and formal that she almost laughed out loud as a nervous reaction. With that little surprise she reached out to touch the rock and felt it reaching out to her hand. Something told her to move her hand a little and as soon as she did, the energy subsided. She made sweeping passes over the rock fairly slowly and found that when she was over a good handhold, the energy was present, when she passed it, the energy collapsed. Well, that was good to know. Imagine the only help coming from the rock! 

Feeling a little more confident, she clapped her hands together rubbing her gloves against each other and reached for her first holds. For being completely without experience, she felt she was doing fairly well, so far. About ten feet over and above the small cave, she started seeing small Chameleons popping out of crevices and coming toward her, one after the other, about six in all. They would run toward her from either side and when they reached her they tuned and scampered straight up. Oh. No. They were all going on a straight line until they suddenly veered left around some invisible barrier and then resumed upward movement. That was very odd. What peculiar behavior was this? Something repelling them at that point? A smell, perhaps?

After that last step, she realized she had no more foot holds. Gone! Hand holds, yes. But the feet, they had to have something. Oh god, she was done for. A good thirty feet down now. Too high to jump down, no where to go. She was on the verge of letting her panic have full reign when she felt the rock. It felt like a wavy projection, making her a little dizzy. But it continued to repeat itself in this fashion. Suddenly the pattern was familiar. Her eyes glazed over and she was thrown into a memory. It was her counselor, Caroline; “When you cannot find a way, use the structures that are already in place. The structures already in place. In place…” Well… the rock was in place… how… No! This is not the time to think, this is the time to sense. OK. Chameleons… that was the familiar pattern… but also they went left and… Oh, they didn’t go back and forth looking for hand and foot holds, they swayed their weight in the stream of moving upward… and .. She felt her body ever so slightly swaying, opening up to the guidance as to where to go next. As she gave in to this silent slight rhythm, a whole scene materialized. She was in the midst of a Carlos Castaneda scenario with the luminous body-egg of energy  clearly evident as the person’s field around him. She could see it gleam with bits of snags and energized areas. Parts of it were completely clear, others seemed dense, some areas filled with light. The scene was percolating in her like a beaker in the chem-lab ready for potent discovery. Remembering only parts of the description, she scanned it until she recognized the image as coming from a time of particular clarity in her life. For now, she needed the sense of that time, a sense of the rock, and its structure. She envisioned her own energy egg around her body. Scanning that she felt the area of rock pressing on her. Ah! The unmistakable surge of guiding energy, she looked at her energy field in her mind’s eye to see if anything in her field matched with the rock. There! A few inches to the right and then over to the left and up. She opened her eyes to be sure she put things in the right places. A little to the right, OK. Now… But… There was nothing there. A bulge in the rock to the left showed no sign of relief for her feet. But it had to be. “I felt it! I saw it!” she said out loud to absolutely no one.

The bulge in the rock didn’t allow her to lean back and see anything. It was big enough to be useful if she could get up there but she could see no way for a hand hold. Her arms were getting quite tired and her thighs were way past burning. There was little left for pauses. No ropes, no clips, no nothing.

Something tickled her nose so she opened her eyes. It was the tail of a Chameleon stopping long enough to turn around and look back at her… sort of “Are ya getting’ it honey, cause I ain’t got all day”. He then scrambled directly left, made a little jump into nothing she could see and disappeared behind the bulge of rock. He showed up on the top side of it, stopped to look at her for a heartbeat and scampered straight up over the edge into to a crevice. She swallowed hard at the implication. She’d have to just grab at whatever was on the other side of the bulge and hope something would be able to hold her. It required reaching past her arms length; this was a real risk, not a little bit of wishful thinking. Taking one last look around to be sure this was the only way, she took some very deep breaths and threw herself toward and past the edge of the bulge.. Yes! It was not only a hand hold, it as like a handle, firm and true for fingers to wrap around… and wet! Oh god what was that? Pulling herself over around the bulge she could see that it was the tiniest of springs in the rock. A hole about the size of her garnet beads, which would be approximately four millimeters, allowed water to pour in dribbles onto the rock. It looked as if there was hematite-laced tiger iron through the layer now being flooded. Previously some of the sandstone above it had given way to the onslaught of incessant excavation. The water carved a trough in the rock until it reached the tiger iron making what looked for all the world like a car door handle. The angle of it gave her the leverage to pull herself over with no problem. Foot holds were a comfortable height and depth; beyond the vertical ridge, the slanted rock face allowed her to lean forward and rest her full weight on it. Rest. Oh god.  It never dawned on her that there were no chameleons of this type in all of Montana.

A drink! Sheer heaven. Wiggling out of the glove she collected the water in her hand and found some real relief.

Too soon she knew she had to get moving or her muscles would seize up. Deep breath, look up for the path and…She was standing outside of a butcher shop looking eyeball to eyeball with a long since dead fish. “This has got to stop!” she thought in desperation.  She was afraid she was still on the side of the mountain hanging precariously by fingertips in the “door handle�� of the rock. One foolish move and she may not have any thoughts at all after that! 

She asked anything that would answer what to do next. Of course it was the fish who answered.  Fog covered his eyes as dead as could be but he was speaking none the less.  “You made it up the rockface, sweetie. The people down below never knew how easy the last little stretch was. They would have cried “foul!” if they had. But as you have realized, you were not there to please them.  You made it! That’s all you have to know. A good soul left the rope “seat” for you and you got in to be hauled to safety.  You are safe now. You are NOT on the rock. You are on the street. Talking with a dead fish. By that reckoning, you could say your troubles weren’t over yet! Turn right. Go to the next door on your left, come in and press the button over the 3rd mailbox. You’re safe now. Truly, you are.”  The fish, was once again dead, cold, immobile. What choice did she have? No money, alone on some unknown street, god knows where.  Right, door on left, third mailbox.

“Helena? You are expected. Please come up to the third floor, door on the right.”

As she opened the door she saw a middle aged man in an orange robe, shaved head, beads at his waist. He bowed to her and motioned that she sit in one of two chairs in the room.

 “I am Yonten Palsang and if you are willing, I offer you guidance. You have come a long way….in mind and heart, not just body. Please accept my humble offering of tea.” Helena found herself fascinated by his eyes, it was only one more second before the pinpoint of light flashed in his left eye as he began to pour the tea without looking.  Something in the faint flash of light…. something very friendly and chameleon-like.

[a-memory-of]

The Final Stone, pt. II

The long tunnel extended for some time, overgrown by vines and large roots crushing through broken gaps in the walls. Ruran’s soulstone offered some light in the dark, and traces of a tar-like substance can seen clinging to the sides. It grew thicker the further they walked.

"This is like before... with the ninth stone." Nathaniel Salem invoked a small, fey light; about as bright as a dim torch. "The joys of facing an enemy we are, at the very least, familiar with. Let us use this to our advantage, yes?"

"Do not touch it," Ruran Vas reminded Ellere, keeping his pace--perhaps a little quicker as they grew nearer to their final destination. Nathaniel's light would illuminate more of the tunnel, exposing more of the ooze in the crevices.

Ellere Valahan frowned. She certainly did not recall him being there to help.

The tunnel eventually opened into a wide room. Inside, the blackish tar-like substance has smothered the wall, climbing high toward the ceiling and covering much of what can be seen. High above, a pinpoint of sunlight pours through an open hole in the ceiling and onto an ooze-covered statue. At its chest, a faint glimmer of dying golden light can be seen.

"There," Ruran sayid, pointing toward the statue. He went rigid, and his gaze fixated on it. "The final piece is--there...Taken from its holy place, abandoned, forgotten..."

Nathaniel circled the two, taking the surroundings into account first and foremost. "...Resentful."

The black ooze seems to stir at their presence, or it could be a trick of the light.

"Aetherial artifacts of such a potency are bound to attract unwanted attention." Nathaniel looked up, irises golden under the helmet.

Ellere looked around, almost as if looking for something. She regretfully released Ruran's hand if only to ready to be ready to cast as needed, aether licking at her finger tips and another above the collapsed star globe at her back. "It formed beasts before, deep under Qarn."

"It will do so again, given the chance. How do you both want to go about it?" Albeit nonchalant in tone, the priest’s body language suggested utmost attention.

Ruran took a step forward, as if compelled. The strange substance abruptly skittered away from beneath his feet, repelled or repulsed, or both. "At long last," he murmured under his breath, another soft voice laced in it.

True to its aforementioned nature, the ooze begins to writhe and build into a loose shape. Ruran seems oblivious, looking only forward at the statue.

"It dissipated once Ruran took hold of the stone, it was all I could do to form a barrier long enough," she looked to Ruran as he moved, expecting the same trance-like state as before. "Unless you mean to fight it, I can attempt to do the same as then.".

Taking notice of the change in tension, Nathaniel moves forward, strides greater than before, "Walk him to his quarry, make sure nothing touches him, and you. He is likely to be enthralled by the reunion. I'll do what a voidhunter does best in the meantime."

Ellere looked to Nathaniel a long moment, then gave a nod. At least this, the two could agree enough on. She moved back to Ruran's side, fully withdrawing her starglobe and calling forth a dome-shaped aetherical shield. She doubted Ruran could hear her, but she offered a quiet, "Do what you need to, dear. We are right here."

Nathaniel turned away from them, speckles of aetherial levin coursing through his left arm, as he flexed fingers in preparation. "Do not disappoint me, Ru’ranvas."

_____________________________

With @weepingknight​ & @will-of-the-traders​

As the two deliberated, Ruran took another step, then another, each one causing the shadows to flee from him. A slight golden aura began to form around him, and he murmured under his breath in words unknown.

When the knight drew near the statue in the center, the dark substance trembled and molded itself into two large beasts. They appeared to be an amalgamation of several jungle creatures, forming the head of a couerl, the body of a bear, tail of a snake, and wings of a bird. A garbling screech emanates from both of them.

The priest started casting immediately, at that. As he did, something about him changed; for the aetherially inclined, it felt as Ruran's stone might have, in nature. Nathaniel was a crystal bearer. But his heart was one of hunger, or destruction. It gnawed at the void, eager to devour, or destroy. He started with a warning. Levin bolts, from the sky, after a wide arc was drawn with his staff. To keep the beasts at bay, draw their attention. Not unlike the whiplash of a ringmaster.

Ellere kept her focus first and foremost on keeping the arching shield over Ruran. She herself moved closer to him, staying under the barrier. Every so often her gaze flicked to the mage, but she would wait until the creature's made their own move.

Ruran remained transfixed on the statue, and he extended his hand forward. The shadows scattered, exposing the golden stone heart embedded in the statue's chest. Before he commits, however, Ruran hesitated. He looked over his shoulder toward Nathaniel and Ellere. The knight's eyes soon flash, and the aether from the statue begins to rejoin with Ari'doram.

The glooping creatures rear back, away from the lightning, snapping their jaws and flapping wings in anger and hunger. One moves to the opposite side of the room, to gain another vantage point in a sort of pincer, and it lashes toward Ellere. The other, despite the lightning, did its best to snap at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel commanded; the words spoken might have been heard in old Belah'dia, in old Sil'dih, in old Ul'dah. Surprisingly, he would deny passage to the beast, closest to Ruran and Ellere first and foremost. Umbral winds drifted towards it, icy stalagmites of an impressive size looking to halt and maim. This left him exposed to the second beast closest to him, however, and he braced himself for impact to the best of his ability. Impossible to dodge and cast at the same time.

Meeting Ruran's eyes in that small, final moment, she understood. Ellere allowed herself only a moment to let her eyes close and take a deep breath.  A single word was said under her breath. She opened her eyes and saw the one closest to her had been buffeted by a wall of ice. Realizing what it meant, she turned on her heel and forced a 'wall' of her own at the other beast, pushing a force against the ooze in a single burst back toward the other side of the chamber.

The icicles slammed into the creature, crushing it beneath the weight and causing its form to splatter and lose its shape. The cold had caused it to grow sluggish as it attempts to rebuild itself, stalled for the moment.

Meanwhile, the other monster lunged forward, only to be met with a sudden wall and pushed safely away from Nathaniel. The ooze slips this way and that, trying to get around and reform.

In the back, a third shape has silently taken form. A panther, smaller and sneakier, pouncing toward Ellere with claws extended. Before it can reach her, a burst of light pulsed from Ruran's soulstone--an overflow of aether that it could not contain. The shadows shriek as some of the ooze is burnt away from its body, and the smaller creature recoils and sinks down into the earth again.

The statue's small stone has dimmed. The union seems to be nearly complete. Nathaniel does not let the surprise halt him; Ellere's assistance is beyond welcome and he is eager to take full advantage of it. His alignment shifted, and as one has breathed in, one most breathe out. Aetherial currents turn astral, in nearly a blink, and fire is conjured, with strength. A magicked circle beneath the beast flashed, and within seconds, a pillar of flames erupts from it, to consume, to burn, until there's nothing left. Red at first, it turns blue, as Nathaniel maintains it.

It is enough to light the room. He will have none of this. Not here.

Ellere tucked her head to the side, the unexpected blast of light taking out a threat even before she was aware of it. She did not dare risk looking back to Ruran, not yet. Instead she let Nathaniel once more take over the distant ooze. With one hand extended, she held the sluggish one down with a heavy gravitational force, not letting it take a new shape. The other hand still held her globe high, maintaining the shield around Ruran.

The flames eat away at the ooze, causing the creature to writhe and let out a wet rumbling shriek, until it is gone. Any of the tar on the immediate walls and ceiling are gone as well. The light of his flames cause the rest of the room to tremble.

Ellere's force pinned the other enemy down, and although it struggled, it cannot build high enough or spread fast enough to take another shape. It squirmed in protest.

Then, the last of the aether left the statue and swirled into Ari'doram. Ruran stood quietly for a long moment. He swayed a bit, his soulstone shining brightly, then looked down at his hand. He flexes his fingers, as if studying the movement. The holy light that had encompassed him glows brighter, filling every corner of the room, adding to Nathaniel's. All around, the shadows writhe in pain and begin to evaporate.

The walls and ceiling are revealed beneath, and the details of the statue in the center can be seen, Belah'dian runes carved along its surface. Soon, the shadows are gone, and the room is quiet. Ruran remains facing away from them.

Having broken the tether, Nathaniel stands up straight once more, chest heaving with every breath for a time. Sensing threats contained, his mask vaguely turn towards the statue, and the herald.

Knowing what the light meant, and the surge of aether, Ellere let her barriers drop. She was breathing heavy, though it was the only sign of strain she let slip. She looked back toward Ruran, watching him sway. Her globe was folded away and her hands hovered in case he collapsed. "Ruran?"

The sound of Nathaniel's staff being tapped twice on the ground echoed, and at that, glamours suppress any aetherial evidence of his own soul stone. He observes the both of them, perfectly still. The man reaches him to remove mask and hood, reverent. Beneath, a face as impassible as the rest.

At Ellere's voice, the knight looks slightly over his shoulder. His eyes burn like twin suns behind his mask. With explanation or declaration, he begins to rise upwards, the ends of his hair glowing and lifting aloft. A wave of power washes through the room, one that commands awe and could instill fear.

"An oath kept...by a faithful heart…" The words spoken with the many voices of Ari'doram. More words follow, although they are quiet and in a tongue few could understand.

Without taking his eyes off Ruran, as gentle as he can possibly be, authority in the tone, he said, "Miss Ellere. Step aside."

Despite perhaps knowing better, Ellere's hesitant hand made to reach for his, for perhaps the last time. "Ari'doram...." she breathed, a ghost of the name.  She seemed torn, tired. She knew what Nathaniel wanted her to do. Still. "And what of ours...?"

Nathaniel readied his staff, golden irises emitting a faint, eerie light, as he prepares himself to cast, should she refuse him once more. "Miss Ellere." He asked again. The tone made it clear it is the last time he will.

Energy pulsed off his hand in reaction to Ellere's touch, causing a fuzzy feeling to rush up Ellere's arm. It isn't painful, just...strange. Powerful. His hand doesn't move in response. His masked face looks upward toward the sunlight coming through the hole in the ceiling. Several voices speak, but they all say something different. A cacophony of words, old and new.

"As sworn of mine oath to thee, thy trial cometh."

Nathaniel's attention snapped back to Ruran at that, and his eyes look through his form in realization. He frowned gradually, deeply.

Ellere only glanced to Nathaniel, making no move to step away yet. She remembered this feeling. Different and yet almost the same. Ari'doram had touched her mind before. "Trial?" a question, confused and soft. "I..." She dropped her hand away, sign enough she would not interfere.

Ruran’s body began to rise higher, more of him being enveloped in golden light. There was an energy in the air akin to a spell being cast, the aether stirring around him. In a sudden burst, a flood of light filled the room. When it faded, Ruran is gone. 

Nathaniel and Ellere both began to feel light-headed...

[cupcakeshakesnake]

Watching World Enough and Time for the first time

Hoo boy

-HOOOO BOI

-THE FINALE IS HERE (the first part of it, that is)

(Spoilers below the cut)

-Oookay snowy place... Kinda feels like the beginning of a Christmas Special (even though it’s still June...)

WHAT

-THE EPISODE BARELY STARTED??

-DOCTOR ARE YOU FAKING AGAIN

-WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR SLEEVE, WHAT CAUSED IT TO BE SO TORN UP

shit, no, really, what happened

NOOOOOOO WHAT

-He’s screaming because he’s turning into Trump

-...sorry.

-And the theme song comes on, without ANY explanation at ALL of what in the HECK just happened.

S t e v e n  mofo M o f f a t

-The name of doom.

? giant spaceship??

W H A T

-Holy shit BBC your CGI really improved

“Hello, I’m Doctor Who.”

“LIES” (from “Flatline”, Series 8)

-”My plucky assistants, thing 1 and... the other one.”

I’m sorry

-No seriously what are you doing Missy

Mary. Frickin. Poppins.

-”But think of the age gap!”

JELLY BABIES

-I’m 110% sure those are jelly babies and if not I will be pissed

Their faces say everything.

-”Well. I am the mysterious adventurer in all of time and space known only as ‘Doctor Who. And these are my... Disposals. Exposition and- comic relief.”

“Iz no an esersise, iz a tepht.” “Are you eating?” “No.”

...Bill’s face. This whole thing. I just can’t.

“ALlllso it’s his real name”

“His WOT”

-Okay so Missy’s probs joking here but what if his name was actually Doctor Who, what if his name was the title of the damn show and it was right in front of us and we never noticed lmao

-”Are you a human?!”  “Don’t be a bitch.”  SHE SAID THE B WORD

-”My name is Doctor Who.”  “It’s not, is it?”  “I like it.”

S H I T

WHATTHEFUCK

-”She’s a murderer!”  “Enjoying your bacon sandwich?”  “Why?”  “Because it had a mummy and a daddy. Go tell a pig about your moral high ground.”

Bill: ‘...stop.’

“ah HAHAw na forget it”

-”Nardole agreed.”  “No I didn’t.”  “He did in my head which is good enough for me.”

“Are you having an emotion?”

“Look at that face, he’s having an emotion!”

“Can I take a selfie with you?”

Don’t know what they’re eating but I’m hungry and that looks tasty

-”She was my man-crush.”  “I’m sorry?”  “Yeah. I think she was a man by then. I’m fairly sure that I was too, it’s a long time ago.”

”We’re the most civilized civilization in the universe. Billions of years beyond your petty human obsessions with gender and associated stereotypes.” “But you still call yourselves Time Lords.” “......Yeah. Shut up.”

-The food looks like salad now

-that was sooo cute aaaa

-”Every star in the universe. We were going to see them all.”

-”But he was too busy burning them.”

“Promise you won’t get me killed.”

Well look at how well that went

I don’t like their synthesized voices at all.

-It reminds me a bit of this.

“Assumption.” “Deduction.” “Hope.” “Faith.” “Idiot.” “Always.”

I can’t believe Missy copied Hagrid

-”Why do you care, Smurf?”

-”If somebody kills you and it’s not me, we’ll both be disappointed.”

-”It’s a matter of time.”

OOOHHHH

-I don’t know shit, but I think I heard that time slows down at the event horizon of a black hole. As in, it seems to slow down to an outside observer.

-And I’m still too stupid to actually connect that information to the episode itself.

-Meanwhile, Bill seems... okay for now.

What the heck.

-The man is disturbing but not disturbing enough to make me go full caps lock and definitely not the most disturbing thing I’ve seen.

WHAT’S WITH THE THING ON HER CHEST

So much fluff

Oh...

-”Pain... Pain... Pain...”

-Pain pain pain pain PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN--

Sorry but CONVERSION THEATRE?!

-Bill geT THE HELL OUTTA TEHRE

-WHAT IF THEY’RE ACTUALLY PEOPLE SCREAMING IN PAIN BUT THEY LOST THEIR ABILITY TO SPEAK BECAUSE THEY’VE BEEN CONVERTED INTO WALKING TIN CANS AND THE ONLY WAY THEY CAN EXPRESS WHAT THEY’RE FEELING IS REPEATEDLY SAYING “PAIN” IN MONOTONOUS VOICES

Please don’t be a jumpscare, please don’t be a jumpscare...

Okay, so the room with people in beds said IN, Bill’s room said CONVERSION THEATRE (I still don’t get why they call it a theatre/theater; who’s the audience? What’ so theatric about it?) and this room says OUT.

-Which MIGHT mean that the first one is where the humans are kept in custody before conversion, much like a normal hosptal wing (except for the conversion part) then humans are taken to the “Theatre” to have devices implanted on them and whatnot. THEN when they’re successfully converted or about to be so, they’re taken to the OUT room to finish the process... But then what?

Hey they’re using buttons to express their emotions

-World Enough And Time But The Cybermen Talk With Emoji Keypads

-But what if that guy couldn’t find that button at first so he was like “Stay-- (no that’s not it)” “Yes-- (not that)” “Step-- (no no)” “Pain-- (ah HA)”

AAAAGH I got scared

-I got a scare

OH SHIT

-Trope that scares me the most: Hiding character about to be discovered.

-The guy doesn’t tattle on her though

-They just... muted the device... That guy’s still in pain...

Holy fuck they’re all muted

-I want to say some sophisticated thing about governments pretending there are no complaints by simply muting them.. or something like that

-Bill you don’t have to turn the volume all the way up and risk being discovered

-I feel weird here, because “Kill me” is something I say a lot but there’s a HUGE difference between “Hahahahahaha what am I doing fucking kill me, stop my sinful hands hahaha the government should come to my house and end me look at all this trash i’m drawing ahahahaha this is true art fucking kill me pfftahahahahaha” and "K̺̯̭̻̘̟̎͂͛i̙̖̳͍̮̭̣̍́́l͒͏̮͎̲͖͇͖ͅl̤̜͙͉̘͋̆ͬ̂ͤ͘.̤ͤ̌ͬ͊ͤ͑ͅ.̝̞͕̖̒̑̈̃̔.͓͋̎ͦ̔ͮ̚ ̞͎̻̥̦͕̌ͬ͗ͫ͆̅̚m̳̱̬̞͍͓ͤ̿͂̊̃e̅̀.͉̫̪̰̖͢.̣͍̣̲͉.̡̙͖̥͎̯̜ͅ ̋ͥ͜k̹̳̞̀ȋ̬̖̭͜l̎̿ͬͮ͗͑̀̕l.̍̎.̟͎͇͉̪̳ͅ.̲̼̠ͤͫ̑̆̐̈͘ ̪̣͍͙͕͉̔̈̄́ͤͪ͝m̡̗͔̞̟̲̔̿ͩ̌̽ĕ͚̦̩̥̪̍ͅ.̞̩̫͖̗ͫ̓ͨ̌ͩͥ̽.̴̥͓̦̺̌̇ͬ̈́͂̂͒.͔͕̫̼̾͞ “

-”This way Mr Razor, look sharp!”  Was that pun intended

Floor 1056. huh.

-That’s a whole goddamn city in there

WHAT THE FUCK

-NOPE

-THAT’S A NOPE FROM ME, A NOPE FROM YOU, A NOPE FROM ALL OF US, I AIN’T RHYMING SHIT WITH YOU!

-(...what.)

-”It will help with the horror to come.”  “What horror?”  “Mainly the tea.”

BEHIND YOU BILL

-”Drink it while it is very hot. The pain will disguise the taste.”

-me cooking be like

-Wait, if she’s been here for weeks then the Doctor and the rest of them have been up there all this time?!

-So if the ship’s top is ‘fast’ and bottom is ‘slow’ then the ‘top’ must be closer to the event horizon.

-That explains the date number thing up there.

-So Bill was in here for weeks, maybe months, but only a short time passed up top. Okay.

Thanks Doc, I still kinda needed that cleared up

-”If you’re standing in your garden, your head is travelling faster through time than your feet.”  WHAT

-Okay, I didn’t know THAT, that’s actually new.

-Although I’m not sure if I should go flaunting this new knowledge willy-nilly, seeing as Doctor Who is generally not considered a credible source of scientific facts.

Awwww;; Ahahahahahaha

-”He’s been raising that eyebrow for a week.”  That really puts things into perspective.

-What’s with that woman seriously

-”Don’t change the channel.”  “A week, raising his eyebrow... why would I change?”

I find it kind of cute and sad at the same time that Bill has been watching the Doctor in excruciatingly slow motion for months and hasn’t gotten tired of it

-...Why did the window affect the patients?

“How many more years?”

-wait

-YEARS?!?!

-HOLY SHIT

-...Holy shit...

Just think of seeing that guy’s involuntary backflip for weeks on end

“Wait for me.”

There’s people down here?!!

-Are you saying that city was built by the people who came down here to fix the engine and those people’s descendants

-”Soon we will all be upgraded like them.”

-UPGRADED

-UPGRADED

*TRIGGERED*

dafuq

-Reminds me of the time I pulled a winter cap over my face just because I could.

-And then I put glasses on top.

-It didn’t help. I couldn’t see through the yarn as easily as I’d hoped.

-”That was good.”  “Venusian Akido.”  “I thought you needed four arms for Venusian?”  “I’ve got hidden talents as well as hidden arms.”

Okay, I’m REALLY hungry.

-”When you hug me it hurts my heart.”  “Aw, sweet.”  “No, your chest unit. It digs right in.”

Just brilliant.

He’s wearinf a fucking mask I can’t;;asdaf

JESUS CHRTISY

WHAT THE TABLEFLIPFLAPPING FUCK

-THE GUY WAS A BACKSTABBER

-YOU BITCH

Oh yeah? If it’s so good then why don’t you go upgrade yourselves alrready?

“This won’t stop you feeling pain, but it will stop you caring about it.”

oh yeah that guy totally doesn’t care about his pain

-In fact he looks dead inside

-That actor might as well have been thinking ‘shit, my eye hole slipped and now I can’t see properly.’

-”It fits over your head.”  Yeah I can tell that mister but I don’t want you or that ridiculous pipe thing you got there drilling willy-nilly into my brain

-”But I’m the computer guy, that’s always me.”  “Sorry, she’s cleverer.”  “She’s more evil.”  “Same thing.”

Uh oh

-”Hello, ordinary person. Please maintain a minimum separation of three feet.”

-”I’m really not trying to kill anyone today, but it would be tremendously helpful if your major arteries were out of reach.”

-Annnnnnd now I’m veeeeery suspicious of the scraggly man’s identity as well.

-Like, even more so than before.

same

-“There’s always a scary thing with you isn’t there?”  “Are you only getting that now?”  *Empty Child flashbacks* *Silence in the Library flashbacks* *fucking BLINK FLASHBACKS*  ...yeah I see what you mean.

And here we see another example of BBC’s Photoshop attempts, here used to tamper with stock footage of Earth to create an alien version of it.

-(I know it’s not Photoshop it was a joke)

-Wait.

-IT’S MONDAS ISN’T IT

-Yes I read up on the Doctor Who wiki before and apparently Mondas was a very Earth-like planet, only its people opted to ‘upgrade’ themselves for survival at some point in their history

-Remember kids, if you don’t have time to binge on Classic Who, just read up some long articles in the TARDIS wiki.

WHY IS THAT GUY’S HEAD SO SMALL AND THAT DOOR JUST OPENED BY ITSELF

I have a bad feeling about this

-Oh yes a VERY bad feeling

yep called it (Not really. It was in the trailer.)

-Wow Missy is so salty today

-Not sure if ‘salty’ is the right word... Let’s say ‘verbally homicidal’

-GOD THE SUSPENSE WITH THIS DOUBLE POV’S

-Like, holy fuck, that’s some awesome screenwriting there. Switching between two scenes while maintaining the suspense in both, without making it too fast/all over the place or too long.

-I’m getting chills.

wHAT

-Sheesh, the way his voice changes at the end of that sentence... Jesus.

same

-I’M SCREAMING HOLY FUCK OVER AND OVER AGAIN

-I THOUGHT MISSY WAS GONNA REGENERATE INTO HIM (which is kinda weird) OR MAYBE HE’D BE APPEARING IN A FLASHBACK OR SOMETHING BUT NOOOOO THAT ONE FISHY GUY WAS THE MASTER ALL ALONG

-MOFFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT

HOLY FUCK

Is it just me or does the Doctor look really scared here

-Maybe he thought he got rid of them for good hundreds of years ago, and now they’ve come back and they took his friend and it’s all just...?

shit

-SHIT

-NO BILL

-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO

-WE’VE LOST OUT GAY DAUGHTER

I CAN’T

-BELIEVE

-THIS

-IS

-HAPPENING

-THE FOUR BEATS!! WTF!!

no.

oh no.

oh shit.

oh hell no.

shit

-THE FOUR DRUM BEATS.

-AFTER ALL THAT TIME, AFTER 8 YEARS, THEY’VE COME BACK TO HAUNT US AGAIN.

-THAT WAS BACK IN THE RTD ERA OH MY GOD

*SCREAMING*

SDHHSJKSHJKASKJERIHIERHIRGHJSDHJGAGSLDJFAH

-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

...

-FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

HOLY FUCK??

“I did my duty for Queen and country.”

“I waited for you.”

-...

-*cue end credits*

-HOLy sHIT

-THAT DID NOT JUST HAPPEN

-WHAT AN WAY TO END THAT EPISODE

-MOFFAT

-I’M SCREAMING

-I SCREAMED SO LOUD I ALMOST DEAFENED MYSELF

-MOFFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!!!

[chameleonspell]

189: dead

Blooooood. The ghastly spectre writhed in the darkness, its mouth a void, the edges of its smoke-like form roiling and churning. Its voice was deep but echoless, bypassing mundane concepts like mouths and ears to arrive directly in Iriel's head. Shared blood and spilled. Clan blood cries out for blood. "Yes." Ire rubbed his brow; this was melodramatic and needlessly invasive. "You said. But I can't spare any, so if you've quite finished moaning at me, I need to get past." He moved towards the rock opening behind the ghost, but it whipped into his path, sending a shock of cold through his chest where it touched him.

"Stop that," he said. "I'm not here to disturb the spirits or desecrate anything. I thought this was a cave, not a tomb." This not our ancestral holy ground, but we come here bound to a purpose. You shall not interfere. "I don't want to! I'm just here looking for someone, and as soon as I find him, I'll be on my--" No. The one you seek is ours now. "He's... dead?" Ire tried to seem impassive, this was no time to give them emotional leverage. "Show me his body, then. Or are you trying to get rid of me?" His heart still beats, but he is ours now. You cannot have him. "I can, and I will. He's outcast, and you're dead. You have no claim over him." He will give himself willingly. He has no alternative. This is clan business, family business. Stay out of it, earth-walker. Iriel hadn't crossed miles of stony scrubland in the rain, then spent hours blundering through a pitch-black cave complex for this. He drew a Daedric dagger from his belt. "I'd prefer this didn't come to violence," he said, "but I'm going down there." We are the honoured ancestors of the Ahemmusa, the ghost told him. You cannot harm us. You may banish our wraiths, but our eternal souls shall return again through the Waiting Door until our purpose is fulfilled. "Mm. About that." Iriel angled the ebony blade, so the enchantment shimmered in the small magelight he was managing to maintain. "This dagger has a soul trap spell on it. Trapping sentient souls is terribly unethical, of course, but where I trained, you'd technically be classified as an undead revenant." His mouth twisted. "It's a grey area. So I'd prefer not to, but if--" He didn't need to continue. The ghost had already vanished into the rock, wafting off to cause trouble elsewhere. Iriel exhaled, thankful that bluffing still worked on the dead. True, his blade was enchanted with soul trap, but he had no soul gems on him at all. He resheathed the dagger and began clambering down into the near-vertical tunnel the ghost had been guarding. He wished he had a clearer idea what was going on, here in this ugly crack in the earth between the Grazelands and the mountains. He'd found Julan's boot-marks near the entrance, but no sign of anyone else. Inside, the first open space he'd reached had been burned black with ash and strewn with broken arrows. The scene of a battle, but years cold. A hole had been cleared, in the back, the fungus and cave-weeds hacked away to reveal a deeper passage. Soon, he'd found Julan's boot-prints again, and, half an hour on, a freshly dead Scamp. Three wrong turns and a damp skid down a slimy crevasse later, he'd tripped over the first dead ash-beast, and begun to suspect Mashti had been right that these caves, too, led beneath Red Mountain. The corpses had kept him on the right track, after that, becoming more frequent, both Daedra and Dagoth-spawn. It was hotter, too, and from time to time, his magelight was supplemented by crystal outcrops, flowering from the walls in wan blues and nervous violets. No sound but the scrape of his feet, the rasp of his breath, and the slow, distant rumble of molten rock. Until he began to hear the voices of the dead. Voices or voice, it was hard to distinguish. It wasn't one monologue, but a stream, a chaotic jumble of psychic flotsam and jetsam, shreds of memory and threads of thought, snarled one into another, dragged from the peace of the void and tossed through time, breaking still further, former identities fragmenting in the physical, smashed on the cruel certainties of Mundus. All that remained was the ghostline. Soul energy, bound together by age-old spells, and the blind cohesion of liquid, like clinging to like. Almost, but not entirely. There was one... not quite a voice, everything in his head had the same faceless, toneless quality, but... one strand that was consistent. That repeated, again and again, until Iriel saw the threads as a rope of meaning, knotting and holding the weaker souls in its narrative net, pulling them in a shared direction. ...heard her, the zainsubani girl, heard her weeping, heard her demand to speak to my husband in secret. i followed them. i learned the hard way not to leave sashael alone with pretty girls half his age and half again... ...not what i feared, and yet worse. she told sashael he must tell HIM the truth, must take as son the one who was NOT his son, never his true son, who was outcast, was nothing... that he must do this because the mabrigash was weaving a plot that would kill the boy... He'd begun seeing them, then, briefly, at the edges of the light. The wispy recollections of past lives. Always moving away, oblivious to him, lost in their soul-shocked navigation of this arduous and hostile world. ...held my breath in the shadows, ashamed of my hope, ashamed of my wish to remove this blight on my life and my marriage. since for all that i hated him, he was only a child. and had i not promised? had i not suffered him in the camp, so that my husband might look on him? not speak, never speak, but look? Only when he'd come to this passage had the ancestors noticed him, tried to stop him. And even then the resistance had been distracted, half-hearted, gone before he could press for more information. Iriel chewed his cheek and crept forwards. The clamour of the dead was angry and insistent, their attention compressed into singleminded focus, like rapids rushing through a gorge. ...had i not agreed this? and sworn no harm upon the boy or even upon the witch? though all knew i could call down the bitter curses of lord boethiah any time i wished? and oh spirits, i did wish. but i did not, because i had promised. promised on the one condition that he never acknowledge him, never speak his name or hers. and i swore, and he swore, on blood and ash, soul and bone, the three blessings and the four corners, oaths deadly to break... ...yet i heard him say now that he would break them. would risk raining destruction on all our clan, for this outcast not-son. i knew then i had to act, to protect my people, to protect my marriage, to protect my husband from his endless foolishness... The rock beneath him was steep and slick, but there was light ahead now, crimson and spiteful. ...when he came to me, and begged me to release him from our compact, i pretended to understand. i told him i would undo the curse-bonds, and i did so... ...but if he was released from his vows, so too was i... Halfway down the incline, his feet went from under him, and he crashed, toppled, rolled helplessly through the opening and into the red cave. Through a dizzy blur, Ire took in a high, cragged ceiling, glowing lava far below... and a ledge beneath him, shrinking rapidly as he barrelled forwards. Flailing every limb, he clawed his way to a halt, spreadeagled on the edge of the precipice. Inside his head, the ghostline howled, drowning his thoughts. ...i prayed to lord boethiah as soon as he was gone. i prayed that sashael never speak a word to the boy. i prayed for cunning vengeance for the insults cast upon me. i prayed for blood. i prayed for that foul witch to feel all the agony i had suffered, and more... ...i was angry. i spoke rashly, imprecisely. the daedra offer us great power, but they take delight in such things, and grant prayers to suit their own amusements. i received the trap that took my husband from me, nothing of him spared, even for the bone-rites... ...all her fault... forcing my hand... i paid the price she should have paid, but she shall pay it yet! when i sent my soul to the ancestors, i charged it with spells that would bind them to my vengeance! we called to him, in his dreams, but he would not listen. now he knows her treachery, he will finally be our sword! Through the furious anguish of the dead, Iriel heard Julan scream, somewhere above him. He looked up. There was a narrow spit of rock, high and far across the cavern, lit by the lava below. Julan was half-way along it, legs braced for balance, hands shielding his head. The air around him... the entire ceiling of the cavern... was full of ghosts. They surrounded Julan like light-maddened insects, diving and swarming, blocking his way back to the tunnel he'd entered from. One swooped straight through his shoulder, and he flinched, staggered, screamed again. Ire called his name, to no avail. "Get out... of my head!" Julan's voice was uneven, exhausted. Louder, closer, were the dead souls, curse-fused by power and malice into a whip, their demands piercing Iriel's head like skewers, and he wasn't even their target. You would still be her shield, after such a betrayal? "No," he heard Julan rasp, "but how can I--" You would turn from justice? This one act would prove you his true son, let you claim your place. You would spit on his bones instead, and pledge yourself to the witch? "No!" Then take back his blood from her! This is your initiation test, outcast! This will make you Ahemmusa, from breath to ash. Clan must cleave to clan, dead to living, life to death. Will you turn away from your people when they need you, when they cry out for your aid? "No!!" Then answer betrayal with betrayal! Eat your mother's sin, purge her poison from your blood and strike her down! Swear it, bind yourself to us! A silence that cracked and bled, then: "No... I need to think, I can't just... I came here to find the truth, not..." So you choose her. "No..." Then you choose nothing! Outside the clan, there is nothing! Choose nothing, and you will be nothing, have nothing, mean nothing! "...that's... not..." Lies and delusions! You are still her creature, then. Break free! Choose!! "NO!!!" The ghosts dived at him, a swarming mass of mindless rage. Then Ire saw him fall. Saw every thread in him snap clean. And Iriel launched himself into space. No rope, no cape, no spells, no thought, no hope, really, of saving anyone from anything, only of sharing in it. Of being with him, when the impact came. next: 190: weight previous: 188: despair beginning: 1: numb

[dragonoffr]

Ruined

Content warning for death, asphyxiation, and violence, the rest of the story is under the cut.

This is a short story I wrote as some background for my dragon Prenumbra, who can be found here.

Critiques and questions are encouraged!!

Edit: content warning list was updated 5/4/2017

~~~

I laid sprawled out on the rusty-smelling dirt, mud mixed from blood splattering onto my cheek as the burning in my side and chest became too much. The ragged edges in my armor dug into my ruined flesh, but I could barely see straight let alone care. It was dark. Too dark. I reached out, my paw bloodied and blackened from the shadetouch in a vain effort to keep running, praying in futility for escape from this battle I had lost. I gasped, but the dark magic of the shadetouch filled my nose and mouth, choking me and making me gag. I couldn’t breathe, could barely see. My scrambling paws brushed against something hard and smooth, and I grabbed onto it, cutting my palm on the sharp edge of the dagger I’d dropped in my fall as my sight failed me.

In all my life, my memory had never been that great, but the day I joined the fight against the Shade will forever remain with me, kept closer than a lady’s favor tucked under a knight’s breastplate. The banner that proudly proclaimed Join the fight against the Shade today! flew high above the table, faded and battle-worn with some tears and suspicious-looking black spots. The first day of training had been little more than verbal abuse hurled by our commanding officer in an effort to scare us into obedience or defecting. He’d made it clear that unless we had the drive to fight we would die before the next full moon.

The only thing that kept me from breaking down in sheer terror at the prospect of being forced to fight mindless creatures that once were dragon was the promise I’d made to my mom and sisters. Our village had been under siege by the Shade, the monstrous and chaotic entity that seemed more powerful than even the holiest of holy warriors. Nobody knew where the Shade came from, but many thought it was a guild of dark wizards, or even a single wizard with unnatural abilities. Whatever the cause, the Shade had the ability to take over anybody unfortunate enough to come into contact with the unnaturally thick and heavy smoke that surrounded those inflicted with shadetouch. It killed everybody, it didn’t matter who it was or how strong they were.

I knew this intimately well. My mother had flown to the defense of the village, my sisters following her with swords held high as they charged the group of shambling living dead. They wore masks in an effort to protect themselves from the noxious smoke, but not even their quick horses and protective gear was enough to save them from being pulled down by the group. The shadetouched made quick work of them while the villagers fled, I running with them. As the youngest of the family I’d always promised my mother and sisters that I’d join with them in the fight that claimed our father, determined to see an end to the Shade. I was only fifteen winters and could barely lift a proper steel sword, so I’d had no choice but to run.

After that, it was simple for me to find an encampment of an army and join up with their ranks, my new home a simple gray tent with a violet scrap hanging proudly like a small flag from the front. It was that day that I met my bunkmate, Menir. She’d taken me under her wing, being five years my senior, and everything about her from the kind glint in her eye to the way she’d affectionately headbutt me reminded me of my own sisters. She’d shown me how to wield a sword and helped me become strong enough to protect myself, and in exchange I showed her how I could cast illusions. Being the baby of the family meant that I got to make all kinds of mischief, and I was proud of the tricks I’d taught myself with my handy little tools. I learned everything I could about my new sister-in-arms, how she loved flute music and that she got her scale color from her mother and her father’s stubbornness. And in return she learned about me, how I was the youngest of three, and how I sometimes still was scared of the dark. She introduced me to other comrades-in-arms, but with them there was always the reminder that a day might come when they wouldn’t be back in their tent mending socks or reciting silly poetry. That was always a risk, but it never seemed likely with Menir. She was too cautious, and I always had her back. She got rude looks from the scarier and more grizzled-looking warriors, comments about how I was going to get her killed, but she always would laugh it off and remind me that so long as I had her back, she had mine and we would come home safe every time the Shade attacked.

For months, that was true, we would be dispatched to fight off infestations of encroaching shadetouched victims and burn the bodies after slaying them, then come back in time for a late dinner with friends before flopping into bed. The attacks came without rhyme or reason, though, so sometimes we would suddenly be roused for battle in the middle of the night.

One such night Menir woke me up by shaking me roughly, the shouts of battle a chorus of wails that jolted me awake. She hauled me up, telling me that I needed to hurry as she shoved my chainmail into my arms and stuffed my helmet cap onto my head. The last thing I’d wanted to do was get up in the middle of the night, but Menir needed me. After a year of fighting by her side, she was my sister in every way that mattered, I couldn’t let her down.

I scrambled to get up, yanking my chainmail on and belting my sword over it so it wouldn’t swing every which way. I tugged at bracers and greaves and scrambled for my helmet. Once I had my armor on, I bolted out after Menir and she tossed me my shield while we ran to group up with the others, dodging clumps of shadetouched and smoke as we tried to get with the main party. I could hear the captain shouting orders, his normally-unshakeable voice suddenly cracking as more and more shadetouched attacked, the Shade itself hanging over the encampment and glowing with an unnatural violet light. How had the sentries missed this? Where were the scouts? What was going on?!

I sliced through one shambling body, the darkness making it impossible to tell who it once was, only to pass right by another who lifted its sword. The flash of silver made me jump and I stared up as the blade swung down toward me, knowing I’d never be able to dodge.

“Prenumbra, look out!” Menir shouted, tackling me and sending us skidding into the wall of a tent as the blade crunched through something. She grunted and rolled off me so I could stand, and once she was up we stood back-to-back as a circle of shadetouched gathered around us.

I bared my fangs and kept my feet apart with my sword in paw, I would not let these monsters take us down without a fight.

With a shout I swung at the nearest one, shoving its battle axe aside and then stabbing it in the chest. It stopped dead in its tracks and I slung it into another, sending both of them falling backwards and out of the circle. I could hear Menir hacking away at them as well behind me, her breaths labored as she swung her hand-and-a-half sword in wide arcs, keeping them from getting too close. We were making our last stands, somewhere deep in my stomach I knew that we weren’t going ot make it out. There were no other soldiers I could see, just a sea of blackened eyes and shambling bodies shrouded in shadow as they swung at us, barely kept at bay by our own weapons as the Shade got thick around us.

Suddenly, something heavy collided into me and I froze in fear. I felt something drip down my legs and looked down, only to see a sword sticking out of my gut, the blade black with blood. I looked over my shoulder in disbelief to stare blankly at the face of the one who struck me.

Menir.

I watched as her eyes became black and violet pits, blood splattered on her cheek looking black in the unnatural light. Black shadows slunk around her, around us as Menir pulled the blade free of my gut, the wet slide noise nearly making it impossible to hear her.

“Prenumbra…” Menir rasped, “look out…”

I collapsed once more into the dirt, unable to even will myself into moving as my sight disappeared into a purple-black void and Menir’s voice faded with my heartbeat.

After a moment, I rose again, head lolling and mind blank. I could see the forest around me, distorted into purple and black hues. There was a strange puddle on the ground of some black liquid, but I paid it no heed, merely stepping over it as I stumbled toward a familiar worn banner.

[ravenvsfox]

14. “How can I hate someone that I’m in love with?” Andreil. I am ready for angst (such Christmas spirit, wow)

14. “How can I hate someone that I’m in love with?” (Hi there I combined this with another request, so this is the sequel to my 99 prompt with Neil getting hurt !!)

“All they had in the tooth-rotting section at the corner store was coffee crisp and triple fudge so I got both,” Neil announces, shouldering their door open with his hands full of ice-cream tubs and an array of keys.

He’s taken to wearing them on a lanyard like a school teacher, and Andrew knows he does it because he wants them at hand, near his heart. Renee bought him a fox charm and it hangs between the key to the court and the first one Andrew ever gave him — he’s memorized the shape of it without trying to.

Kevin glances at Neil over the screen of his laptop and stands immediately, walking wordlessly to his room. He retreats to his bedroom whenever Andrew and Neil are in a room together, lately. ‘A precautionary measure’ he’d sneered when Nicky had asked.

“Is that okay?” Neil says, suddenly standing above Andrew, head cocked.

“It’s acceptable,” Andrew replies, and opens his hand. Neil presses the triple fudge into his palm, and produces a plastic spoon from the shopping bag to balance on top.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to wait,” he explains, mouth quirked.

Andrew ignores him, hooking his finger in the plastic seal and breaking it apart. Neil collapses into the couch next to him, tossing his feet up over Andrew’s lap and dropping the bag on the carpet. Andrew looks at him. “It’ll melt.”

“Eat fast,” Neil says, and grabs Andrew’s first spoonful for himself.

“I should’ve let the FBI take you.”

“You should’ve,” Neil says seriously, “Now I’m your problem full-time.” He leans in enough that Andrew can see the chocolate in the corner of his mouth, the complicated relationship between his freckles and his burns —

“Andrew!”

He’s yanked back to the present by Nicky’s frantic voice, a high discordant thing like a wrong note in a bad piece of music. The rest of the foxes crest over the slant of the hallway, a wave of good intentions that pushes Andrew back into the wall and takes his breath. He can’t deal with them, he can’t escape to somewhere else when prying voices are trying to keep him here. He can’t be fighting to see Neil with foxes holding his hands behind his back.

“What’s the news,” Allison asks when they’re close enough, looking uncharacteristically haggard with her lipstick wearing away and her shirt untucked.

Andrew shakes his head.

“He’s not…” Dan starts to ask, horrified, and Andrew’s fists clench so hard his knuckles crack.

“No,” Matt says firmly. “The monster would be ripping this place apart.”

Andrew produces a knife instantly, and renee catches his wrist, eyes hard and terrible above her smile. “You’re going to get yourself kicked out of the hospital.”

He hates it, he hates it, because it’s the only thing that could’ve made him stop.

He drops the knife on the floor and Renee quietly stoops to pick it up and pocket it.

“He’s going to be okay, Andrew,” Nicky says earnestly, skirting carefully around Renee to stand in front of him.

“He’s survived worse,” Kevin agrees, an old haunted look on his face.

“Don’t,” Andrew says. It’s all he can manage.

There’s a knife in his chest and Neil has the handle; if he dies now the blade never comes out. If he dies it won’t matter how much armour Andrew puts on, the knife is already in, always.

“It must suck to be in love with a bullseye,” Allison says, and Dan shoots her a look. “It’s Baltimore all over again,” she continues. Her mouth is a smile put on backwards. Her coping method is to take the thorns out and face them in the opposite direction.

Renee easily stands between Andrew and Allison but Andrew waves her off. “How can I hate someone that I’m in love with?”

“Love and hate are brothers,” Aaron says darkly, kicking at a chair viciously before meeting Andrew’s eye.

“Oh yeah?” Allison says. “Which one are you?”

“Allison,” Renee warns, grabbing her hand.

“I’m tired of them. I’m not listening to this backwards hyper-aggressive shit they do when Neil’s dying next door.”

“Renee will not be enough to save you if you keep talking,” Andrew says evenly. “None of them will be.”

“That sounded a lot like a threat,” Allison says cooly, stepping forward so that her front is pressed into Renee’s back. She’s still a wall between them, but Allison’s starting to look more and more like a battering ram.

“How observant,” Andrew says. It’s actually affecting him for once, this messy thing the team does: hurting each other so there’s someone that feels the same way they do.

Allison tries to step forward again, towering over Renee and Andrew in her 6-inch stilettos. Renee digs in her heels just as a grizzled doctor in navy scrubs steps up warily to their group.

“For Neil Josten?” he asks, eyes darting between them and settling on Andrew with hazy recognition.

“That’s us,” Matt says, stepping forward and putting one placating hand on Allison’s shoulder.

“He’s in surgery now, stable at the moment,” he starts, and everyone looks at each other, daring someone else to be the first to risk relief. “One of his broken ribs caught his lung, and that was causing his difficulty breathing. Obviously the break in his arm was pretty messy, but it’s been set now, no worries there. The worst of it is his ruptured spleen, which triggered some internal bleeding; one of our best is trying to fix that up right now—“

“What are his credentials?” Kevin asks, arms crossed.

“I beg your pardon?” The doctor looks towards the doorway he came from and back again, clearly intimidated.

“The surgeon.”

“He’s an attending,” the man says slowly. “More than qualified. Neil’s in good hands.”

“Is his arm going to heal?”

“His arm,” the doctor repeats.

“Is he going to be able to play exy again?” Kevin asks frankly.

Andrew takes him to the wall by the neck so quickly that no one can even react.

“Ask another useless question,” Andrew dares, and pulls Kevin away from the wall so he can slam him back into it. One by one, brutal hands come to his elbows to peel him away. He lets go of Kevin, shakes them off, and stalks right up to the doctor instead. His rage is so present that the 10 inch height discrepancy between them tightens into nothing. “When can we see him?”

“He’s only just gone into surgery, so I’d come back tomorrow—“

Andrew closes his eyes and presses a new knife up into the doctor’s ribs, blind.

“Andrew, holy shit,” Matt says. There’s the usual shift of the air in the room when everyone seems to re-realize what he’s capable of.

“When can I see him,” Andrew amends, pushing in enough that the blade breaks through his scrub top.

The doctor has his hands up in an instant. “There are policies, I can’t. I’m sorry I can’t break them,” he says, panicked.

“Who can?” Andrew asks, and recoils at the feeling of his teammates’ hands on him again. He steps back, shoulders taut, stomach twisting.

“Take it up with the head of surgery,” he says quickly, backing away. “Neil’s holding up for now, but he’s in rough shape. Prepare yourselves.” He disappears behind the ‘staff only’ door as fast as he can, darting looks over his shoulder the whole time.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” Aaron asks, eyeing the door.

Dan sighs. “Wait, I guess.”

“I’ve heard this is a good place for that,” Nicky jokes weakly, pointing at the ’waiting room’ sign in grey and white.

Andrew leaves the room immediately, ignoring Kevin calling after him, Allison saying something sarcastic, his brother’s eyes on his back. He kicks the door to the stairwell open and climbs until he runs out of stairs. The rooftop is off limits but unlocked, so he walks out into the evening, one arm band uncomfortably light without a knife, his mind uncomfortably full without Neil.

He walks to the very edge and looks down, considering the way the fear tastes completely different from the one he’s been grappling with since Aaron called him. Losing Neil isn’t the same as losing himself off the edge of a rooftop. A fear of heights is a kind of deadly anticipation, but Neil in surgery is like already falling and making contact with the ground over and over again.

He needs him alive, but everything Andrew has is breakable, and he should know that by now.

He stays on the roof for a long time, crosslegged on the precipice of a fall, his cellphone face-up at his side.

It’s well into the night when he gets a text from Aaron, just a single word:

Alive.

Andrew gets up so fast he almost topples over the edge, and he feels a burn of relief he shouldn’t be allowing himself to feel.

Baltimore was bad because he was learning a feeling he’d never had before. But he’s been living with it now: the persistence of feeling, the weight of someone next to him in bed that he had invited there. Neil dying now, after giving him that, would drive him off the next roof he found himself on.

He walks back down to recovery, dodging gurneys and fast-walking nurses. There’s no security posted at the door, and it’s almost too easy to slip through into a room full of post-surgery patients in various stages of drug-induced sleep.

It’s impossible to miss the shock of auburn hair against crisp white pillows.

Neil is closest to the window, his face shockingly pale in the 4 AM dawn that’s trying to wriggle its way into the room. It’s unnerving to see him so silent, just another face above a nondescript gown.

Andrew’s own face twists, he can feel it. Everything condenses to the eyes that aren’t open, the elbow to wrist encased in plaster, the new scar down Neil’s front where there were strange hands in him.

He walks to his bedside and tugs on his hair. “You’re a liar.”

All those ‘I’m here for good’s and ‘where would I go’s are all exactly as empty as Andrew thought they were.

If Neil were awake he would say, “you knew that,” or something equally banal. He would make Andrew want to speak, to prove him wrong. He would extinguish this pointless fire in Andrew’s chest.

The door behind him opens and a woman walks in with her eyes down. Andrew doesn’t look away from Neil’s lax face, but he can still sense the moment the person notices him, the shuffle in her halting steps.

“You can’t be in here.”

“I’m staying,” Andrew says, unfazed.

She makes an indignant noise. “Leave or I’ll call security.”

Andrew makes a go ahead gesture, and combs his hand through Neil’s hair. She walks straight back out of the room with a self-righteous boost in her step.

“Wake up,” Andrew says at Neil. He stays still and sick and unreachable. The nurse comes back in with a guy in uniform, both of them looking stern, coming at him with their arms raised. Andrew lets them come. “I’m staying,” he repeats.

The woman makes a tsk-ing sound. “He seems stable.” She picks up his chart and frowns. “He’s not going to come out of anesthesia for a while yet. We’re going to have to ask you to go back to the waiting room until he’s fit for visitors.”

“If he’s breathing, he’s fit.”

“I think we’ll decide that,” the woman says, and holds out her hand like he might take it.

“I’m,” Andrew says looking at her hand and then back at Neil, “staying.”

“Jeff,” she sighs.

“Alright son,” the security guard says, reaching for Andrew. He neatly dodges his slow hand and takes the guard’s legs out from under him with a swift kick. The woman is out of the room before he’s even properly hit the floor, calling out shrilly into the hallway for reinforcements.

It takes more security than they have on the whole floor to wrestle Andrew out of the room, and when they do it is only as far as the waiting room again, back into the relieved and disapproving arms of David Wymack.

“You keep him under control or he’s going to be escorted from the premises,” someone says, Andrew’s not keeping track of who. It’s clear Wymack’s been negotiating because that’s all the reprimanding he gets, manhandling and insult-flinging aside.

“Your starting striker got run over, did you hear?” Andrew asks, and Wymack frowns.

“I heard. I also heard he survived, but that doesn’t seem to have had any effect on your crazy.”

“Breathing does not equal surviving,” Andrew says. “I will believe it when he can tell me himself.”

“You know he’ll just lie,” Wymack says, mouth twitching.

“I can hear the ‘I’m fine’s now,” Nicky jokes.

“How did he look?” Matt interrupts, eyebrows low and furrowed.

Andrew considers, looking at the wall when he replies, “unresponsive.” It’s clipped and unhelpful, but it’s clearly more than anyone expected, from the way Matt nods and shrugs and Wymack raises both eyebrows.

They fall back in line, sitting and fetching coffee and watching the clock. Mid-morning meanders back into the hospital, and the noise goes from a lapping tide to a choppy sea.

It’s 10 AM before some intern comes to fetch them, glancing at Andrew over and over as they explain the situation: how Neil had woken up an hour ago in extraordinary pain, how they’d doped him up and he’d fought against it, trying to stay awake for reasons they couldn’t understand.

“Which one of you is Andrew?”

Andrew says nothing, but everyone looks at him. The intern looks horrified. “Oh, well. He’s asking for you. All of you, but we said he could choose two visitors to start and he just said, well. You. Your name. He’s a little dopey.”

The foxes start to react but Andrew’s already walking past the intern, she has to sprint after him to keep up. “Wait hey, I’ll— I mean, I’ll take you there.”

She steers him in the opposite direction, past a handful of swinging doors and through the labyrinth of identical hallways.

His steps get faster the longer he walks, and he’s starting to think the knife in him is actually a hook on the end of a reel that Neil’s winding up.

He bursts into Neil’s private room all at once. He catches a glimpse of Neil’s focused brows, his too-blue eyes narrowed, and then his face opens all the way up, a pull on a bow that comes all undone.

“I survived,” he calls out, wiggling the fingers in his left hand at Andrew. His face is untouched by the chaos of his latest near-death experience and Andrew can’t stop looking at it.

“For now.”

“For you,” Neil says, voice hollow like the gaping rafters of a cathedral are hollow. It’s the meds, Andrew knows. It’s the morphine pulling ideas at random from Neil’s head, but he looks so calm and self-assured that Andrew can’t help putting their foreheads together.

“Stop. Doing this.” His voice is so heavy. He almost can’t carry it on his tongue.

“How else would I know how much you care,” Neil says, not really joking at all. Andrew doesn’t reply, he’s busy smelling the tang of blood and feeling his anger becoming unwieldy in his hands.

“I hate you,” Andrew says fervently. “I wish you had died.”

“I know,” Neil says, moving his face so that their cheeks are pressed together. It’s the only point of contact Andrew had offered and Neil is milking it. “You’re going to have to deal with me for a little longer.”

“And what if I’m done?”

He feels Neil’s ghost of a smile against his cheek. “You’re not.”

Andrew’s eyes burn and his chest shakes with rage and he holds Neil’s head like it’s everything that matters.

(It is, it is, it is.)

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Proverbs and Psalms

for Thursday, August 6 of 2020 with Proverbs 6 and Psalm 6 accompanied by Psalm 48 for the 48th day of Summer and Psalm 69 for day 219 of the year

[Proverbs 6]

My son, if you will risk your family’s future to put up collateral for the debts of an acquaintance,

if you seal a commitment with a handshake to someone without first knowing the value of his word,

Then your words may well be the trap that snares you,

and your promise may seal your fate.

You can’t be sure to whom you hitched your future.

So, my son—save yourself! Here’s what you need to do:

go to that person who became your master with a handshake,

humble yourself, and plead your case.

Do not sleep;

don’t even rest your eyes until you deal with this.

Get out as quickly as possible,

as a gazelle runs from the hand of the hunter,

as a bird takes off from the grip of the fowler.

Take a lesson from the ant, you who love leisure and ease.

Observe how it works, and dare to be just as wise.

It has no boss,

no one laying down the law or telling it what to do,

Yet it gathers its food through summer

and takes what it needs from the harvest.

How long do you plan to lounge your life away, you lazy fool?

Will you ever get out of bed?

You say, “A little sleep, a little rest,

a few more minutes, a nice little nap.”

But soon poverty will be on top of you like a robber;

need will assault you like a well-armed warrior.

Someone who struts around taking advantage of unsuspecting souls

and deceiving others is to be avoided.

With a wink of his eye, a quick shuffle of his feet,

and a slight gesture with his hand, he signals his roguish treachery.

With a warped mind and twisted heart, he constantly looks for his own gain at others’ expense,

causing friction everywhere he goes.

But you watch: his actions will bring sudden disaster!

In an instant, his life will be shattered,

and there will be nothing to save him.

Take note, there are six things the Eternal hates;

no, make it seven He abhors:

Eyes that look down on others, a tongue that can’t be trusted,

hands that shed innocent blood,

A heart that conceives evil plans,

feet that sprint toward evil,

A false witness who breathes out lies,

and anyone who stirs up trouble among the faithful.

So, my son, follow your father’s direction,

and don’t forget what your mother taught you—

Keep their teachings close to your heart;

engrave them on a pendant, and hang it around your neck.

Their instruction will guide you along your journey,

guard you when you sleep,

and address you when you wake in the morning.

For their direction is a lamp; their instruction will light your path,

and their discipline will correct your missteps,

sending you down the right path of life.

They will keep you far from the corrupted woman,

away from the smooth talk of a seductive woman.

Do not lose yourself in desire for her beauty

or let her win you over with her painted eyes,

For you can buy a harlot with a loaf of bread,

but sex with another man’s wife will cost you your life.

Can you carry fire right next to your body

and keep your clothes from burning?

Can you walk over fiery coals

and keep your feet from blistering?

Take another man’s wife, and you will find out—

whoever touches her will be found guilty.

People don’t despise a thief

who only steals to fill his hunger;

Still if they catch him, he must repay seven times over—

he could end up losing everything he owns!

By contrast only a fool would commit adultery

since by his action he loses not only his possessions but also his own life.

He will suffer injury and be disgraced;

dishonor will leave a permanent mark on his life.

For jealousy sparks a husband’s rage—

when he gets his revenge, he’ll show no mercy.

He will not be paid off or appeased;

no bribe or gift will set things right.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 6 (The Voice)

[Psalm 6]

For the worship leader. A song of David accompanied by the lyre.

O Eternal One, don’t punish me in Your anger

or harshly correct me.

Show me grace, Eternal God. I am completely undone.

Bring me back together, Eternal One. Mend my shattered bones.

My soul is drowning in darkness.

How long can You, the Eternal, let things go on like this?

Come back, Eternal One, and lead me to Your saving light.

Rescue me because I know You are truly compassionate.

I’m alive for a reason—I can’t worship You if I’m dead.

If I’m six feet under, how can I thank You?

I’m exhausted. I cannot even speak, my voice fading as sighs.

Every day ends in the same place—lying in bed, covered in tears,

my pillow wet with sorrow.

My eyes burn, devoured with grief;

they grow weak as I constantly watch for my enemies.

All who are evil, stay away from me

because the Eternal hears my voice, listens as I cry.

The Eternal God hears my simple prayers;

He receives my request.

All who seek to destroy me will be humiliated;

they will turn away and suddenly crumble in shame.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 6 (The Voice)

[Psalm 48]

Beautiful Zion

A poetic song, for the prophetic singers of Korah’s clan

There are so many reasons to describe God as wonderful!

So many reasons to praise him with unlimited praise!

Zion-City is his home; he lives on his holy mountain—

high and glorious, joy filled and favored.

Zion-Mountain looms in the farthest reaches of the north,

the city of our incomparable King!

This is his divine abode, an impenetrable citadel,

for he is known to dwell in the highest place.

See how the mighty kings united to come against Zion,

yet when they saw God manifest in front of their eyes,

they were stunned.

Trembling, they all fled away, gripped with fear.

Seized with panic, they doubled up in frightful anguish

like a woman in the labor pains of childbirth.

Like a hurricane blowing and breaking the invading ships,

God blows upon them and breaks them to pieces.

We have heard about these wonders,

and then we saw them with our own eyes.

For this is the city of the Commander of Angel Armies,

the city of our God, safe and secure forever!

Pause in his presence

Lord, as we worship you in your temple,

we recall over and over your kindness to us

and your unending love.

The fame of your name echoes throughout the entire world,

accompanied with praises.

Your right hand is full of victory.

So let the people of Zion rejoice with gladness;

let the daughters of praise leap for joy!

For God will see to it that you are judged fairly.

Circle Zion; count her towers.

Consider her walls, climb her palaces,

and then go and tell the coming generation

of the care and compassion of our God.

Yes, this is our God, our great God forever.

He will lead us onward until the end,

through all time, beyond death,

and into eternity!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 48 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 69]

For the worship leader. A song of David to the tune “Lilies.”

Reach down for me, True God; deliver me.

The waters have risen to my neck; I am going down!

My feet are swallowed in this murky bog;

I am sinking—there is no sturdy ground.

I am in the deep;

the floods are crashing in!

I am weary of howling;

my throat is scratched dry.

I still look for my God

even though my eyes fail.

My enemies despise me without any cause;

they outnumber the hairs on my head.

They torment me with their power;

they have absolutely no reason to hate me.

Now I am set to pay for crimes

I have never committed!

O True God, my foolish ways are plain before You;

my mistakes—no, nothing can be hidden from You.

Don’t let Your hopeful followers face disgrace because of me,

O Lord, Eternal One, Commander of heaven’s armies;

Don’t let Your seekers be shamed on account of me,

O True God of Israel.

I have been mocked when I stood up for You;

I cower, shamefaced.

You know my brothers and sisters?

They now reject me—they act as if I never existed.

I’m like a stranger to my own family.

And here’s why: I am consumed with You, completely devoted to protecting Your house;

when they insult You, they insult me.

When I mourn and discipline my soul by fasting,

they deride me.

And when I put on sackcloth,

they mock me.

Those who sit at the gate gossip about me;

I am shamed by the slurred songs of drunkards.

But, Eternal One, I just pray the time is right

that You would hear me. And, True God,

because You are enduring love, that You would answer.

In Your faithfulness, please, save me.

Pluck me from this murky bog;

don’t let it pull me down!

Pull me from this rising water;

take me away from my enemies to dry land.

Don’t let the flood take me under

or let me, Your servant, be swallowed into the deep

or let the yawning pit seal me in!

O Eternal One, hear me. Answer me. For Your enduring love is good comfort;

in Your great mercy, turn toward me.

Yes, shine Your face upon me, Your servant;

put an end to my anguish—don’t wait another minute.

Come near; rescue me!

Set me free from my enemies.

You know all my opponents;

You see them, see the way they treat me—

humiliating me with insults, trying to disgrace me.

All this ridicule has broken my heart,

killed my spirit.

I searched for sympathy, and I came up empty.

I looked for supporters, but there was no one.

Even more, they gave me poison for my food

and offered me only sour vinegar to drink.

Let them be ambushed at the dinner table,

caught in a trap when they least expect it.

Cloud their vision so they cannot see;

make their bodies shake, their knees knock in terror.

Pour out Your fiery wrath upon them!

Make a clean sweep; engulf them with Your flaming fury.

May their camps be bleak

with not one left in any tent.

Because they have persecuted the one You have struck,

add insult to those whom You have wounded.

Compound their sins; don’t let them off the hook!

Keep them from entering into Your mercy.

Blot out their names from Your book of life

so they will not be recorded alongside those who are upright before You.

I am living in pain; I’m suffering,

so save me, True God, and keep me safe in troubled times!

The name of the True God will be my song,

an uplifting tune of praise and thanksgiving!

My praise will please the Eternal more than if I were to sacrifice an ox

or the finest bull. (Horns, hooves, and all!)

Those who humbly serve will see and rejoice!

All you seekers-after-God will revive your souls!

The Eternal listens to the prayers of the poor

and has regard for His people held in bondage.

All God’s creation: join together in His praise! All heaven, all earth,

all seas, all creatures of the ocean deep!

The True God will save Zion

and rebuild the cities of Judah

So that His servants may own it and live there once again.

Their children and children’s children shall have it as their inheritance,

and those who love His name will live in it.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 69 (The Voice)

[thegardenandthegrave]

The Power Of Fandom Compels you.

The scent of sulfur hung low in the air. The tremors that had overtaken the earth were so frequent that Ursula Gibson had stopped paying any attention to them. Nowadays they just lulled her to sleep in the worst possible way. The light of her phone cast a pale glow on her face, a stark contrast to the eerie red of the sky above her.

“Turn left in 1,000 feet.” A feminine voice announced from the device. Right after, two sharp warning bells came and her phone screen went black.

“Shit.” She said, staring at the black screen in dismay. She pressed incessantly at the power button, hoping for just a few more moments of screen time. The cracks that ran in a spider web from the right corner were all that remained of the Waze map she’d been studying. Of course, she’d known ages ago that this would happen. She’d managed to find a lifehack site early one that explained how to keep her phone alive using a pen, a D battery, and a car charger. Even that couldn’t last forever, though.

Ursula was on her own now. A cold feeling overtook her as she looked away from the broken screen and acknowledged in her surroundings. There had been trees here, once. Now there were black spires of charred trunks and ash floating lazily in the wind. She couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t have flecks of ash covering her skin. She closed her eyes against the bright light of the hazy red sun and took a deep breath. End of the world or not Ursula would finish what she’d set out to do.

Someone had to try, at the very least.

Tucking the phone in her back pocket, Ursula scooped up the ragged backpack she’d dropped at her feet. Once it was secure over her shoulders she grabbed her walking stick and wiped away the thin layer of sweat and ash that had mixed on her brow. Tucking a stringy strand of hair behind her right ear she set off down the road towards her final destination.

 The trek was slow. Due to the blisters that now covered her feet and the broken asphalt that had once been a road, it took her twice as long as it should have to reach the left-hand turn her phone had indicated. Once there, she turned onto the Rus De Bois Flurry Road and breathed a sigh of relief. Only another half mile and her destination would be on the right.

As she hobbled along, Ursula tried to keep her mind off of what she might do once she reached the end of her journey. It had been a long seven months as she traveled around the country trying to track down the source of the disturbance that had been the catalyst for Armageddon. Without the help of others, she never would have made it this far. She smiled as she thought of the long conversations she’d had with humorshriek37 in the late nights when the wind was filled with howling demons and the internet was sketchy at best.

She tamped down the urge to pray they were safe, wherever they lived. Prayer didn’t do any good anymore. It fed the enemy. It made what she was about to do even more impossible. There was no going back though. Sweet 0rangatangellie had risked everything to get the information on where the enemy was hiding. The coordinates had been painted with her last dying breaths in the red of her own blood on the floor beside her.

When Ursula had seen the pictures that were posted of the scene she had been surprised to know that Ellie was so young. The color of her skin hadn’t mattered in that moment, hadn’t mattered to anyone since the beginning of this horrible apocalypse. As Ellie had shown them in her last act, they would all bleed red in the end.

Ursula stopped in front of the massive hill that had cropped out of the ground, surprised that she hadn’t been attacked yet. The uplift in earth wasn’t quite a mountain, but neither was it a molehill. It was just high enough that she had to crane her neck to see what rested at the top. Then she had to close her eyes and turn away as the bright light burned against her retinas.

“Excuse me!” She called, eyes still closed. She had no way of knowing if the enemy had heard her. Any moment now she could die in a blaze of righteous fire. Still, she had to try. She had to. “Excuse me! Who the hell do you think you are?”

No response was given, at least not in plain English. Even a bit of French or Spanish would have been fine. Really Ursula could work with anything Latin based as long as the being before her gave her a chance to try.

Instead, she felt the response. It was curious, surprised, and a little annoyed.

“You heard me!” She yelled, leaning against her walking stick and wishing she’d bought some sunglasses. They wouldn’t do much good against the monster waiting for her but at least then she’d be able to think past the bright orange of her closed eyelids. The full power of holy light was raining down upon her and she wanted to fall to her knees. She wouldn’t do it, but she wanted to. “I’d like to know who the hell you think you are. Because rumor has it, you’re claiming to be God.”

I AM GOD.

The impression came over her in a swift force of tidal waves and inevitability. She braced herself against it and marveled at her own ability to withstand the power. Entire cities had fallen in the face of this great being and crumbled under its intensity. Ursula had a cause to fight for though. A cause that she would not give up on until her final dying breath and perhaps not even then.

“Well, so you say.” Her voice was feeling very hoarse. She tried to remember the last time she’d had a drop of water. It had to have been at least two days ago. She really was at the end of her journey no matter what. There was nothing but fire and ash for miles around. She’d never make it back to a sanctuary before she died of dehydration. If the supposed God even let her leave after what she planned to say.

I AM GOD. It raged again, and she gave it a very understanding look. The look was lost in translation as her eyes remained closed and her sympathy remained nonexistent. I AM THE BEGINNING AND THE END.

“Good for you,” Ursula said, and all caution had been thrown to the wind. She would die here, this day. She would not die before she had a chance to have her say. “Do you know what I am? I am the spokesperson for humanity. I am the one they sent to tell you to fuck off. We denounced you long before you showed up again. We don’t want you here. We don’t worship you. Kill every one of us and it won’t matter. End the world, and see if we care.”

I BRING PARADISE. I BRING PEACE. I AM THE ENDER OF SIN.

Ursula scoffed at the impressions she was getting off the God that had come down from the heavens to wage war against demons and ruin the world in the process. She ran a hand through her oily, bedraggled hair and sighed.

“We don’t want that.” She called and wondered why it couldn’t see the destruction it had caused. Omnipotence had its flaws if this was how their creator thought they would reach eternal salvation. Whatever that even meant, really. “No one cares about paradise anymore. No one wants to go to heaven, not at the cost of all this. We were living our lives you know. We had plans. I missed out on watching The Doctor become a woman because of you!”

There was confusion that crashed down on her, but she held strong against it. The god above her might not understand, but Ursula knew. She knew without a doubt that this god of theirs had made a mistake. The world wasn’t supposed to end. Not yet. Not like this. She pushed back, willing the stupid all-powerful presence to understand.

“You created us!” She yelled. “You made us this way. You gave us life and let us go on living it for billions of years. You can’t take it away now. It’s not fair to us. We had things we were doing, you know. Jobs, and families, and dates. Well, some people had dates. I had a novel I was reading. I’ll never finish it now. You call that peace? I call it cruel.”

I AM NOT A CRUEL GOD.

  “No?” Ursula let out a mirthless laugh. “Look around you. There’s more pain and suffering now than there ever was when you just left us alone. We weren’t doing great but we hadn’t destroyed ourselves yet. All the worst wars have been caused by fighting over your existence and now that you’ve proven yourself real we’re left with a handful of survivors who hate you and wish you’d never existed.”

There was a distinct silence coming from God. Ursula peeked an eye open though she knew it would ruin her vision. She’d be dead soon, regardless. It was worth it, to see the surprised look that the entity wore. The young, frustrated woman wondered if anyone else had seen a God look hurt. She doubted anyone else had ever spoken to a God this way. Not to its face, at least.

“Look, if you really want to make things right you still have time.” She tried. It was even harder to sound helpful when shouting, but seeing the frown on its glowing face had sparked hope in her. Ursula’s right eye was seared into darkness, but she’d give up her whole right side to make this work. “If you’re all powerful you can reset everything to before you arrived. You can let us keep on going and find out that really, we’ll work things out on our own. If you want to be a good God you could even come hang out among us and put a rest to the crazy wars we’re fighting in your name. But above all, what would really make the world a better place would be another season of Sherlock. Make that happen and I can guarantee an entire cult following of people who will be praying to you and giving you all the sacrifices you could want. Just, don’t make Sherlock date Molly. God or not, I’ll personally skewer you if that happens.”

Ursula sucked in a breath at the end of her rant and waited. That was all she’d had.  A cracked and dying phone, and a bit of rage in her heart. She was just a fangirl after all. There was no ninja training that she’d endured or some magical artifact passed on to her so she might defeat the greatest evil the world had known. She only had her rage at being denied access to her favorite shows and a lack of self-preservation born of watching too many movies where the hero wins despite all reasoning.

Now all that was left was to be struck down by the fury and fire of the Almighty God.

Silence.

She peeked open her left eye, expecting to see rage baring down on her. She gasped and took a step back at what she saw instead. Grass as green as emeralds and the clear blue sky. She sucked in a deep breath, the first clean gasp of air she’d had for seven long months. She stood stock still, in the same place she’d been before it all started. It was a park just a few blocks from her apartment and she could hear the skateboarders nearby, edging each other on as they worked up to more complex tricks. A large woman in a pink tracksuit passed her with a little white dog on a leash.

Ursula had seen that woman crushed by an asteroid, at the very beginning of the end. Now the woman was alive, free and clear of any debris falling from the sky. They were all alive, safe, unharmed by the total annihilation of the world.

And Ursula’s eyes were healed once more. She felt years younger, had never felt so refreshed and empowered in her life. She grinned and reached into her back pocket for her phone. It was uncracked and fully charged. Her nose scrunched up for a moment and she wondered if she’d imagined all of it.

Then her phone went off with a text alert and she knew it had all been real. There, on her screen, was a link to the announcement that Sherlock would be returning for season five. She turned to head back to her home, fully prepared to re-watch all her favorite shows and re-read all her favorite fanfictions without taking them for granted ever again.

She ignored the curious glances she got from strangers at her beatific smile. She knew they would never believe her. They would never understand what she’d learned that day; sometimes miracles really do happen.