#happens every fredas

[joznii]

your honor but riverwood is my favorite soap opera

[fortisfilia]

Promised Part 9 - Tom Riddle x reader

Info: This is a rewrite of a story I've posted on my old account years ago. If it sounds familiar, that might be why :)

Summary: In this story, Tom didn't grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader's sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.

Warnings: Arranged marriage

Word count: 3.4k

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 8 | Part 10

Part 9 - Never trust a Snake

Tom’s dorm was the nicest one you had ever seen in Hogwarts. Single bedrooms were offered to head boys and girls only, as a further reward for their title. His room was the size of a normal five-bedroom, but instead of additional beds, it was furnished with a welcoming couch, a nice wooden desk and chair, a fireplace and overall much more space. It wasn’t located next to the other dorms either, which had its virtues and disadvantages. The good thing was that you didn’t have to walk through the hallway of all the Slytherin boys’ dorms to get there. The bad thing was that Tom’s room was right next to Freda’s, so you had seen her a couple more times than you had wanted to. She had never said anything though and usually stomped off right away, brows knitted and red in the face.

Tom had ordered you to his room the day after Slughorn’s party, which was a privilege not many students were granted. Maybe not that much of a privilege if one was engaged to him. But it certainly felt special when you thought of it from where you had started, as a fiancée that he hadn’t even proposed to, who he wasn’t even in love with when the engagement took place. It also felt like he wanted you to be there. He let you study there even when he had to attend to his duties as head boy, which took up quite a bit of his time.

And then there was the Moly. A magical flower, used to counteract enchantments, that Professor Beery, the Herbology teacher, had given to pairs of students to take care of. They were weakest the last days before blooming and needed tending multiple times a day. It was a tricky task to keep them alive, so Beery had promised to give everyone who could manage it extra points for the Herbology N.E.W.T.s in advance. 

Tom had suggested keeping the Moly that had been given to the two of you in his room, as it would increase the chances of keeping it in good condition, seeing that no one else could get their fingers on it. Even though the plant looked quite healthy, he insisted on your help to look after it, as he was not willing to share points if you wouldn’t. So you had come to his room every day, only for the Moly of course.

Other times, when you were just reading or writing another Charm’s essay there, Tom used to stay nearby. He didn’t talk much, as per usual, and rather stared at you from across the room, but the fact that he never told you to leave and always asked when you would come back, for the Moly obviously, made it quite clear that he enjoyed your presence.

And you did too. So much that you had even spent the night accidentally. Accidentally, as in, you had stayed up way too long reading and making notes in your Guide To Advanced Transfiguration textbook, had really, absolutely, doubtlessly planned to go back to your own dorm, but couldn’t be bothered to get up from the sofa until you had finally fallen asleep. 

You woke up in Tom’s bed, not remembering how you had ended up there and sat up slowly, looking around, until you noticed him sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“Have I overslept?” you asked, hastily fixing your hair and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

“It’s Saturday,” Tom answered, grinning at your attempts to get up. “8 a.m. You can sleep a bit longer if you want.”

“Oh, Saturday, yes. How did I… What happened last night?”

“You fell asleep on the couch. It didn’t look comfortable, you were all sprawled out and twisted. So I put you into bed.”

You swallowed thickly. He had put you into his bed? 

“Did you-”

“No,” Tom shook his head. “I took the couch.”

“Noble,” you quipped, causing him to roll his eyes at you. “Why can’t I remember how I got into bed?”

He shrugged as he turned to face you. “You slept through it. I wasn’t aware that was possible either.”

Oh. An image of Tom picking you up from the couch and carrying you across the room flashed through your mind. He must have tucked you in too; the heavy duvet was still wrapped around you. “Come here then?”

Tom looked at you, scepticism thick on his features, before you reached out for him, holding a hand in the air and waiting for him to take it. He did and you slowly pulled him closer, lifting the duvet, until he lay down next to you. Cautious fingers went up to his face and ran through his hair, to which he closed his eyes, letting you play with his locks for a while. 

Now that you were fully aware of where you were, you noticed how different Tom’s linen smelled compared to your own. They had his clean, warm scent, of tangy embers dying in the fireplace, mixed with leather and something fresh like dewy iron. The scent had rubbed off on you while you had slept there and it felt like he had marked you, without even coming close.

“You didn’t have to sleep on the couch,” you whispered.

His eyes opened again. “You were completely knocked out. That would have felt off.”

“Well, for next time then,” you smiled, took his chin between your fingers and pressed a kiss to his mouth. The touch was still unfamiliar, a great deal of uncertainty as to whether he would reciprocate spreading in your veins. But he did, soft lips meeting yours, lingering as he exhaled and parting only in reluctance. “We’re engaged after all. Have you forgotten?”

“Oh piss off,” he scoffed and pulled you in for another kiss.

Some hours later, when you were tending to the Moly, you looked over towards the fireplace, where Nagini was sleeping in front of. At least you assumed she was sleeping. Her eyes were open and her tongue flicked out of her mouth now and again, but she seemed calm. She had curled up like a cat seeking warmth. The only thing missing was for her to start purring. Well, a pet was a pet, you figured.

“How’s the Moly doing?” Tom asked and went up to inspect it.

“Good. Great actually,” you said. “I think we’ll earn those extra points from Beery.”

“Don’t you think it looks a bit sickly?” he asked, holding the thin black stem between his fingers.

“No, it’s alright.”

He uttered a humph. “You don’t have the book on you, the one I gave you for Christmas, do you?”

“No, it’s in my dorm. Why would you need that now?”

“Have you read through it? All the way?”

“No, I haven’t yet. I just flicked through it and read some recipes that sounded interesting,” you answered, not knowing what he had in mind. “I wanted to try one of the Potions after we’re done with school. They all seem to take a while.”

“Which one?”

“The Vial of Auras for starters. Why?”

He nodded, still looking at the Moly. “I think there’s a recipe for plant cultivation in there. Could be of use.”

“But it looks fine, why-”

He turned his face toward you, looking into your eyes. “Just bring the book next time.”

“Okay,” you muttered. “I can bring it tonight. I’m going out to Hogsmeade with Camille in the afternoon. I’ll be back around 7 I guess.”

“That’ll do,” he said, finally sounding satisfied.

It was five minutes past seven when you returned to Tom’s room. The date with Camille had been lovely, despite you having had one too many toffees at the sweet shop. You had also gotten the Potions book from your dorm, still wondering why the Moly would need extra support. It looked completely fine. 

Tom’s room was empty, aside from Nagini, who had curled herself around one of the bedposts. You walked over to the desk where the Moly was standing and put the book down. Next to the plant lay a handwritten note:

“Coming back soon - Dippet needs me for head boy duties”

Killing time it was, then. You took Tom’s Charms book from the stack and practised a few spells for a while, trying to revise those that would most likely be tested in the N.E.W.T.s. About ten minutes later, the door opened and Tom entered the room. He dragged his feet as he shuffled in and was slightly out of breath.

“Are you alright?” you asked while putting the Charms book away.

He nodded. You walked over and took a seat on the couch, patting the space next to you for Tom to join you.

“I brought the book,” you said and pointed towards the desk.

Tom sat down, looked at it from afar and squinted. “Thanks.”

Slightly concerned, you frowned, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Tom nodded and scratched the side of his face. “Yes, yes. I’m just a bit tired.”

Tired wasn’t exactly what you would have described the state of him. He seemed nervous and completely out of it, his shoulders hanging down limply. 

“Did something happen? What did you have to do for Dippet?”

His eyes roamed the floor while he pondered. “Nothing important. Just some scheduling for the prefects.”

Something cold rubbed against your foot and when you looked down you saw Nagini, who had slid over. She was on the floor between you and Tom, hissing quietly.

“What does she want?” you asked.

Tom stared at Nagini vacantly and didn’t answer.

“Tom?” 

“Hm?”

“What is she saying?”

“She’s hungry.”

“Hungry? We’ve just fed her recently. Strange,” you said and bent down to pat her head. “I’m going to get you some more mice soon, don’t worry.”

Tom’s gaze roamed the room as if he was looking for something.

“Do you want to take a look at the book now? For the Moly?” you asked.

“No,” he answered. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead then.”

“You remember the day we got engaged, right?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Well, it was an arrangement between our families,” he stated. 

“Yes?”

“So I was wondering… What’s in it for you?”

Your stomach dropped. What did he mean ‘what’s in it for you’? Your sister’s curse was the most evident thing in this whole situation.

“You know exactly what’s in it for me,” you said while folding your arms. “Actually, I could ask you the same thing. Don’t tell me you forgot why we’re doing this.”

He took a moment to think before answering. “Of course I haven’t. I just thought there could be something else. Like, perhaps your parents bribed my family.”

You blinked, irritated. He had not just said that.“Are you serious right now? You’re suggesting my parents took advantage of the situation, went and killed two birds with one stone? So that they could marry me off and make me your problem?”

He stared into your eyes for a moment, then retracted. “No, I didn’t mean-”

“Because I’ll have you know, my family would never do such a thing,” you interrupted him. “I know yours probably would, but my parents are not like that, believe it or not. I thought you knew that by now.”

“I was just wondering. No need to make a fuss about it.”

“A fuss! You know what?” you said and got up from the couch, making sure not to step on Nagini. “You sound exactly like Ben. Only more rude. And I thought you didn’t trust him. But it seems that you don’t trust me either all of a sudden.”

“Wait, I’m sorry,” Tom said and followed you. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“We’re done here,” you snapped, making your way to the door, followed closely by Nagini, until Tom grabbed your hand.

“Don’t leave now,” he said, pulled you in a bit closer and a whiff of cologne wafted your way. He reeked of sweat and coughed so loudly you thought he might throw up any moment.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Tom,” you answered, your hand still in his. “Maybe you have a cold coming on or something because you don’t seem like you’re in your right mind. Now let me go.”

“No,” he said but turned his face away from you.

Suddenly the door flew open and you sucked in a sharp breath when you saw who it was. Tiernan Lestrange. And next to him was... Tom? Standing in the door frame, his eyes darting back and forth between you and… You looked to your left, to the person next to you and saw that Emlyn Avery was standing in Tom’s place, still holding your hand.

You wrenched your hand out of his grip and took several steps backwards.

“Avery?” you asked. “What is going on?”

Tom, the real Tom, still stared at you, a fire burning behind his eyes as he pulled out his wand and dashed into the room. Lestrange followed and closed the door behind himself.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Tom demanded, glaring at both Avery and you.

Avery kept silent, a nasty grin forming on his face.

“He… You,” you stammered.

“You two? In my room?” Tom yelled, his chest heaving. “You must have lost your damn minds.”

“I can explain.” Could you, really?

“Well, I hope you can. Taking Avery into my room to do who knows what? Care to explain that?”

“He was you!” you said, only then noticing how crazy you must have sounded. 

Tom shot you a look that told you better not to take him for a fool. His thoughts must have raced at top speed inside his head, you could practically see him thinking. His eyes scurried from your hand to Avery’s, then up to his face. His knuckles had turned white from how hard he clenched his fists and he couldn’t seem to stand still. What would his next move be? Beat Avery to a pulp, curse the two of you, or rush out of the room?

“Please,” you whispered. “Let me explain.”

Tom sighed and avoided looking at you. He shook his head as if he was fighting an internal battle against himself. It almost looked painful. Finally, he went up to Avery, pointing his wand right below the boy’s chin.

“Sit down,” Tom spat. “You too Lestrange! And I don’t want to hear a single word from either of you.”

They did as he said and Tom led you to the other side of the room, followed by Nagini. He cast a Muffliato Charm on the two boys so that they wouldn’t be able to hear what you had to say. 

“Go on,” Tom then said, still avoiding eye contact.

“I came here around seven, as we agreed. I brought the book but you weren’t here. Then I saw your note on the table and waited for you. You, I mean Avery, came in shortly after. But he looked exactly like you. Just until you showed up right now. I swear to Merlin.”

“What do you mean he looked like me?” Tom asked, an annoyed frown on his face.

“He looked and sounded just like you. I thought he was you. He acted weird and I didn’t trust him, but I thought you were just stressed out. The only way I could possibly explain this would be Polyjuice Potion.”

“You don’t really think one of them would be able to brew that correctly, do you?”

“I don’t… But how else would it be possible? You have to believe me. I would have never brought him here. Or anyone.”

He looked at you now, so intensely, it felt like he was reading your thoughts, trying to see if you were lying to him. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” you answered and gave it a good thought. “He asked me about some things. About the engagement. Maybe he was trying to convict me. They haven’t trusted me ever since the school year began, remember?”

Tom nodded and exhaled strongly, walking in circles around you.

“Did he touch you?” he asked.

“No. He just held me back when I wanted to leave. Just my hand, nothing else.”

“Are you sure? Don’t lie to me. If he touched you, I swear I’m going to-”

“No. He didn’t.”

Silence. Nagini's quiet hisses interrupted your thoughts while Tom watched her.

“Why was Lestrange with you?” you asked.

“He came up to me when I was done at Dippet’s. Tried to babble on for ages about assignments.”

“That makes sense. So you wouldn’t disrupt their plan.”

“What did Avery ask you exactly?”

“If my parents had bribed your family. So we would get married.”

“Idiot.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

Tom eventually stopped circling you, placed himself beside you and you both watched Lestrange and Avery sitting next to each other on the sofa. They didn’t dare look back at you and simply stared down at the floor like two ten-year-olds waiting for their parents to punish them.

“Oh, and another thing,” you said. “Avery stinks.”

Tom, to your surprise, stifled a laugh. That was unexpected, so you turned to him and asked, “Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

He did? You looked at him, taken aback.

“Nagini,” Tom said to you, taking both your hands in hiss. “She’s your witness. She confirmed you’re telling the truth.” 

“Good girl,” you said, to which she offered a small his. You really had to get her some more mice. 

Closing the gap between you, your arms wrapped around Tom’s neck and pulled him close. With his hands firmly on your waist, he rested his head in the crook of your neck for the duration of the embrace, breathing you in. 

“Thank you for letting me explain,” you said, your voice muffled against the fabric of his jumper.

Tom nodded, pulling back to look at you. He brought his hand to your cheek, his eyes still alight from the argument. “When Avery held your hand I nearly killed him.”

“I know,” you whispered as you laid your hand upon his. “I saw it in your eyes.”

He pulled you back into his arms and sighed deeply. The hug lasted for a long moment before you separated, almost having forgotten that the two Slytherin boys were still there.

“Now, what were they thinking?” you asked. “What point were they trying to prove?”

“Let’s ask them,” he said, broke the Muffliato Charm with a swift motion of his wand and walked over towards the couch.

“I’m going to ask you some things,” he said to them. “And don’t you dare lie to me. You know I can tell. You’re lucky you caught me on a good day, actually.”

They both nodded.

“Polyjuice Potion?” Tom asked.

Avery looked over to Lestrange. They both nodded again.

“Where did you get that from?”

“Stole it from Slughorn,” Avery mumbled so lowly, you could hardly understand.

“Speak up!” Tom ordered.

“We stole it from Slughorn’s stock,” Avery repeated. “At the party, when everyone was dancing.”

Tom sighed and pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose. Of course they hadn’t brewed it themselves. They were far too daft.

“Why?” Tom went on. “What’s the reason for all that?”

“Well,” Lestrange cleared his throat. “We were only doing it for you, Tom. To make sure she’s not betraying you. To find out if she and her family were using you, you know.”

“So we could help you,” Avery added and nodded vehemently.

Tom grinned coldly. “And you thought I wouldn’t have found this out myself by now? That I would need your help? Seriously?”

“We thought-”

“No! You didn’t think at all,” Tom interrupted. “You went behind my back, stole from a teacher and disrespected my fiancée. You’re both an embarrassment for Slytherin and I swear, if I ever see one of you just looking her way, it’s not going to end this lightly.”

Both of them nodded again and looked down onto the floor, not saying anything.

“Now follow me,” Tom said, still angry with them.

“Where are we going?” Avery asked as he got up.

“I’m going to report you to the headmaster of course. And trust me, you’ll be glad Dippet is going to choose your punishment and not me.”

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 10

Tags: @ariachaos

[harrisongslimited]

George Chapter of the Day #7

I Saw Her Standing There

Trigger Warnings: Swearing, adult situations, slow romance brewing, smoking.

Thank you to picture owner.

Chapter 7

The weeks flew by. Shooting was done, and the concert was scheduled for the following Friday. Joie was constantly on the go. Out to the pubs with Freda. Lunch with Cyn...and George took her everywhere...or anywhere she wanted to go. The more time she spent with him, the closer they became.

Joie woke to the sounds of the ever-constant chirping birds outside her bedroom window at Freda's. The night before, she and George laughed the night away, sharing fish and chips and a beer, at a little dive he frequently visited.  She even tried eating fish for George's sake, but one chew turned into a huge gulp, Joie shaking her head furiously, her hand signaling that she still wasn't a fish fan. The chips were good though, so she filled up on those.

When Joie finished her beer and was about to explode chips all over the sidewalk, George took her hand and walked her back to the car.  His hands were delicious. Strong, Gentle. She thought about her feelings for him, but she knew she was leaving in another couple weeks and figured not much could really happen between them. He was...well, a Beatle. She was just Joie.

From Freda, Joie began to learn about managing a wildly popular rock band. Freda was almost on her own, opening mail by the hundreds, sorting what belonged to who and what should be pitched into the trash. One Saturday, Joie offered to help Freda when she needed to go into the office to catch up.

Freda hugged her. "Yes, Yes, Yes!" she replied.

..........

 Joie was stunned by the amount of mail. Thousands came in every day. Thousands of pieces of mail. Asking for autographs, asking for locks of hair, asking for a Beatle to come to a birthday party. And things came in by the hundreds. Panties, bras, teddy bears, pillows. Handmade gifts.

"My Lord, Freda. What do you do with all this stuff?" Joie asked. "How can you possibly answer all this mail?"

"The boys help when they come in. Sign special things, do things for me. They are all very good about that. They really care about their fans."

"But this..." Joie pointed to the thousands of letters.

"I know" Freda answered, wiping her forehead. "At least I have a staff now. Before it was just me. We still don't have enough people to help. I talked to Brian about it. We need more help."

"Well, you've got an extra pair of hands today, Freda. Tell me what I can do." Joie said, rolling up her sleeves.

Freda grinned. "You don't know what you are getting yourself into...."

Joie touched her arm. "I'm ready. You name it."

"Well, just start opening mail. Requests for signed pictures go in this pile. People who want to be part of the fan club go in this pile. Ridiculous requests go in that pile. The sexy ones and requests for a Beatle baby go into the garbage. Don't have time for that nonsense. There are plenty of honest, caring fans who need our attention."

"Got it," Joie acknowledged.

"And for Lord's sake, watch out for paper cuts!"

Joie laughed.

Brian did not. He stood at the office door and surveyed his kingdom. "And Miss Kelly, when did we get more help without my knowledge?"

"Oh, Mr. Epstein, this is Joie Armagh. She's friends of the boys who is staying with me. Remember....California?"

Joie remembered the weak handshake but still extended a hand.

"Hi Mr. Epstein. Nice to see you again."

Brian nodded at her and weakly shook her hand. "But why is she working?"

Freda's eyes darted from Joie to Brian and back again. "Oh, she's just opening letters. Just to help. She came into the office with me today to volunteer her time."

"Nice to have you, Miss Armagh, but you will have to leave. There are confidential matters being conducted here and we can't have strangers in the office."

His cool smile made Joie grimace. Joie tucked her short hair behind her ears and stood up straight.  "Absolutely, I understand," she said in agreement. "I will be leaving immediately. I didn't mean any harm."

"I'll meet you for lunch," Freda told her softly. "Barney's across the street. 1pm."

"Got it!" Joie said as she collected her purse and made her way out of the North End Music Store offices.

..........

The Beatles went about their business, putting the movie together and creating a sound track. Joie didn't see much of them, but talked regularly to George, who seemed to have taken the role of her big brother. At least that's what she thought. But he called Freda one day and invited them both to his mum's house for dinner.

"You will adore his mum and dad," Freda informed her. "They are absolutely wonderful. Funny, sweet, and mum is a master chef. She could make filet mignon out of horse leather."

Freda drove, stopping first at the florist for some flowers for George's mum and then the chemists, picking up  the tobacco that George said his dad smoked in his pipe. The 2 women then headed north, talking about life in America versus life in England.

"I love it here," Joie told her. "I can't believe I'm going home in less than a week. The time just flew by. And you've been so kind to me. I don't know how to thank you."

"It's been nice having you, "Freda told her. "I wish you could stay longer."

"Me too!"

"Have you thought about staying? I mean, seriously?"

"Umm, maybe once or twice. I went so far as to apply for a Nursing Grant to study England's National Health system. It would give me another few months....but I haven't heard anything yet."

..........

George's family home was warm and friendly. His mum had a nice dinner waiting for them when they arrived, but they decided to sit and talk as they waited for George.

"He's always late you know," his mother told her and Freda as they sat in the kitchen. "Always. Even as a little boy."

"What was he like as a little boy?" Joie asked.

"Always focused on the guitar. Practicing, practicing all the time. Then all of them would come over and make such a racket. But I loved having them. I can't believe they have had the success they had. Things didn't look so promising when they were sent back from Germany."

Louise Harrison told them about their Hamburg days and George getting kicked out because he was underage. "That was the low point. I didn't think they would stay together after that. But things just seemed to move along and now...."

The front door suddenly swung open and George popped in, combing his wind-blown hair with his fingers. He smiled at his mum and dad and Joie could see there was a genuine affection between all of them and she felt right at home. George seemed different. Calmer, more open. Joie studied him as he kissed his mom and greeted his father Harry. Then he greeted Freda and Joie.

"Can I talk to you Joie? Outside for a minute"? he asked with a serious expression.

Joie thought for sure she was going to get a lecture about going to NEMS with Freda and offering to open mail. Suddenly she giggled to herself. She wondered if she'd get a spanking too? Maybe if she asked??

She followed him into the backyard for a cigarette and a talk by the swing that was surrounded by lovely flowering plants of all colors and shapes. It was a place for romance, if you asked Joie, not a stern talking-to.

He turned and offered her a cigarette, lit them both and took a deep drag. Joie was wondering if he was summoning up the courage to let her have it. 

Then he cleared his throat and started. "We...John, Paul and Ringo too, would like you to stay in England if you want to. We can arrange for a 6 month work pass. We had to prove that you could do a job for us that no English bird could do. And we came up with an answer: American Consultant. That's what you would be. You'd work with Brian at NEMS, help Freda with the American fan mail, help us before we tour the states. We have several tours coming up and you'd be a great organizer."

Joie's eyes grew to the size of saucers. She, for the first time in her life, was speechless. "I...I... don't know what to say....," she answered a bit shaky. "I mean I'd love to. But I have family and responsibilities back in California."

"I know. That's why I thought we'd try it for 6 months. I mean, if you like it here, it would be a great way to earn money, travel, learn the business...." George seemed to be chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"Well, you don't have to ask me twice," Joie finally broke into a big smile. "I'd love to stay....but I'd hate to keep imposing on Freda..."

"We'll figure that out since you accepted the job. We'll get you a car because you will be running errands for us. It's getting too hard for us to do it ourselves....even in London."

"I thought that's what Mal did," Joie laughed.

"He'll be on tour with us. We will all be gone for awhile starting in a month or so. But we'd ask you to come to America with us. Show us the ropes. And then come back to England. At the end of the 6 months, you can go back home, or we can get you a permanent visa."

"George," Joie hesitated before continuing. "Whose idea was this?"

George looked at her straight in the eye. "We decide together. We stick together. We might fight, but we are family and John, Paul and Ringo are the ones I trust and rely on. We'd never make a decision without everyone agreeing."

"Well," Joie said, "I'd need to call my dad. I'd need to get an extension from school...."

"Can you do that?"

Joie nodded. "I'm pretty sure I can. I've applied for a grant to study the National Health system."

"Well, call your dad and see what he says and let me know." George continued. "We would love to have you stay on for awhile. You are a big help."

Joie laughed slightly. "But I haven't done anything, George..."

He looked at her sadly for a moment. "You've been a good trusted friend. And those are few and far between these days."

[dirty-bosmer]

The very talented @sheirukitriesfandom came up with this writing game. Thank you so much for the tag! I'm finally recovered enough from my trip to take a stab at all the tag-games I've missed. It was both nice and a bit challenging to revisit my old works. Forgot a lot of what I had written, honestly 😅

Tagging: @atypicalacademic @justafoxhound @elavoria @kookaburra1701 @nuwanders @thequeenofthewinter @skyrim-forever @gilgamish @chennnington @throughtrialbyfire @thana-topsy @mareenavee @paraparadigm @ladytanithia @nine-blessed-hero @wispstalk @sylvienerevarine @expended-sleeper

And as always no pressure if you're not feeling it. Also consider yourself tagged if you see this and are interested in joining in :D

The rules are to share:

A line from your fic that makes you laugh

lmao I don't think humor is a strength of mine, so I combed through very briefly and pulled at the first thing I saw that made me snort.

Mathieu swore he'd had conversations of more substance with mudcrabs while five brandies deep, and yet it always fascinated him how little his Speaker could say in so many words.

(from The Illusionist Part 2)

A line from your fic that makes you sad

If she could hold the quill steady, she would write it ten times over. She’d say, I miss doing nothing with you, being nothing but with you. If nothing were as blissful as those hours spent beside you, perhaps I wouldn’t fear it so.

(from The Illusionist Part 2)

A line from your fic you're proud of

The Midyear sun blazed high and proud above Kvatch. Below, the city scrambled on. Another Midyear, another Middas. Magnus rose, its ascent resolute.

(it's actually the first line of The Illusionist Part 1, and it has surprisingly remained unchanged since my first iteration of the fic??? Unfathomable to me lol)

A line from your fic you think could have been better

Only one? 😅 Truth is, I'm perpetually editing old chapters, so I could pretty much insert the entire series of The Illusionist here.

A line from your fic that makes you want to punch a character

Lucien gurgled or perhaps chortled, then spat out a mouthful of blood. “I thought you preferred silence, dear Sister.”

(Lucien sucks so baaaaddd and I get progressively meaner to him, sorry. Kinda hate what I've done to him, but he is a loser and someone has to bully him, and the burden so happened to fall upon me 🤷‍♀️)

A line from your fic that makes you go 'aww'

Nim's hair draped around his face, shielding him from the dancing flames of the brazier, and when Raminus closed his eyes, she was the only light that existed in all of Mundus, brilliant and blinding. 

(Crying about my nerd Raminus Polus, what's new.)

A line from your fic that's full of symbolism

The shop windows taunt him from his periphery, but he will pass one hundred more if that’s what it takes to prove his presence. His footfalls are heavy. He persists, learns how to walk again, how to exert his body upon the world if only to feel it press up against his feet. 

(From Treacle)

A line from your fic that contains an Easter egg

“If we’re such pious servants, then why does Nana always speak of the Daedra as though she drinks with them every Fredas?”

From Slither and Writhe. It is referencing an OC of mine so idk if its really an easter egg, but I just think it's funny how the protagonists in TES games go about collecting daedric artifacts like they're halloween candy.

A line from your fic that's shocking

And if her mother had only been more inquisitive about her work, she’d know the difference between the stench of decay and fouled wounds and that of flesh mending itself together beneath fresh stitches and salves that Sylawen lathered on diligently with deft fingers everyday.

(from Slither and Writhe. A lot of lines in that fic are kind of er... gross 😅 It is about a necromancer, after all)

A line from your fic you want to talk about more

Abrim is gilded in the torch flame. Every part of him is a different shade of brown such that Scar-Tail needs only look at him in flickering light to feel he’s travelled all of Tamriel’s woods, seen every kind of tree there is.

Ramble time. While trying to describe this character, I was thinking of my uncles, how dark their complexion, how different the shades of brown are in their skin, their eyes, their hair. Growing up as a latina I used to find brown so boring and so common because I was preoccupied with a set of beauty standards that women in my community paraded about, only to realize they were full of internalized colorism :D Anyway, that was a decade ago, and there's this line I remember reading, and I have no idea where from— somos el color de la tierra, we are the color of the earth, and I think more people should be romanticizing brown because it's so diverse and so beautiful 💕

[khajiit-journal]

Fredas, Morning Star 03, 2025

(Friday, January 01, 2025)

Dream interpretation first, as always.

I was friends with this family who ran this restaurant. For the first half that I remember, I was sulky and upset for having been scared and tormented by someone else entirely. But the rest, I was trying desperately to save the matriarch from a god-given illness, by performing a ritual and pleading with the gods. I woke up before I succeeded.

I... don't know what this means per se. I can make a few solid guesses, that the former part is due to the haunting I'm enduring. But the part about the god-given illness? I... really don't know.

— ☆ —

My new tools arrived today! Safaa (Rumi oracle), Aileas (Imbolc oracle), Bao (Mahjong), and Lilian (Sibilla oracle). I've done some test readings with them today, and also did some with Nadia (G-Witch).

I made sure to thank Hermaeus Mora for all of this. As always, I deeply appreciate the work It puts in for me and this part of my practice that I am utterly Feral about.

I opened some free reading slots for Nadia/G-Witch. Quite a few people took up slots which I'm really happy about, but I feel a bit bad I can't do it all same-day delivery, but then again, I need to be kinder to myself and not be a little butt to myself. I think as of writing this I'm done for the night, I'm physically tired and maybe a bit spiritually tired? I dunno, I'm not very good at listening to myself, but Hermaeus Mora and Lucifer both are asking me to at least take a break before returning to it. So I will. I'll heed them, maybe eat some dessert or something. Watch some stuff.

I am proud of myself for saying "Thank you for your patience!" instead of "Sorry for the wait!" on my reading posts end blurb. I know it's small, but it's kind language like that that I deserve.

I did some personal Mahjong readings and plan on roping some friends into receiving some. If I wasn't so shy I'd reach out and ask a mutual or two if they want some, at least the mutuals I properly interact with.

I also made a taglist for this blog, visible from here. I'll update it daily as I need to. I like having taglists. It's something that used to be more popular on Tumblr back in the early 2010s of its life, when I used it the first time, and I haven't quite let go of that aspect.

I wanna write some TES related posts or queue more stuff up for that blog, but I dunno what to do. Maybe "worship" posts. How to worship them, with a section on subtle worship. I got the idea from someone else, but I don't know how many ideas I'll have for actually worship, despite doing it every day of my life.

I just feel very strongly about TES. I have a post in queue about Azurah's triple aspect/triple form as Human, Mer, and Khajiit and how it looks like the depiction of the Triple Goddess and what that can mean for Her worship; and another about Clavicus Vile likely being based somewhat off of the Christian idea of Lucifer.

TES means a lot to me. The Gods in it mean a lot to me. I would give up so much for them, but they would never ask me to do anything like that. Well. to an extreme, I mean. They do ask me to give stuff up to them, just nothing... "so much".

I should work on finishing Clavicus Vile's quick start so I can post it. I don't have to worry about Akatosh's, but Meridia's day is the 13th, and Haki's day is coming up on the 24th. I know I can churn these out at the speed of light if I just focus, but with ADHD, it doesn't always happen, lol. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself...

Speaking of the 13th, I need to... focus more on the actual cleansing rituals and everything. I know everyone (my spirit guides) is telling me to chill, to not speedrun it, but... I. y'know. I like to get things done. I don't like having a to-do list.

And also, as an aside, I added something to my parents list for myself for groceries (that I can use otherwise) and turns out it's not at the store so it has to be ordered online. Which is really good I did that, because otherwise I wouldn't have been able to find it when I needed it for my spells, which I really wanna do The Big Shadow Realm One on the new moon this month. To start the year with January's new year energy and the energy of the new moon. I also don't want to wait to perform it even longer.

There's really not much else for me to say today. No spellwork done or anything, just messing with decks, as ya do. So... well, it's not goodnight, I won't be in bed for another hot minute, but g'night.

[kingedwardviii]

Was he really a womanizer? and cheater?

In terms of being a womanizer, that's pretty subjective and there's no real way of knowing what his body count was and to what extent the rumors of him hooking up with women on tour were true. I'm sure it happened once or twice at least and he definitely did have his share of girlfriends, but at the same time if we believe every rumor about his sex life there wouldn't have been enough hours in the day to do anything else. David himself disputed these rumors, telling his ghost writer Charles Murphy he had sown "a fairly meagre planting" of wild oats (Source: The Windsor Story, page 102), but he might've been comparing himself to the likes of people like his grandfather Edward VII and brother Prince George who's wild oats could've filled several fields. It's also definitely not true that he was a virgin or incapable of sex prior to his relationship with Wallis Simpson, as some other rumors stated. As for him being a cheater, he definitely cheated on Thelma Morgan with Wallis Simpson. Outside of that it's harder to say. He did sleep with other women during his years-long on-again off-again relationship with Freda Dudley Ward, but she also was sleeping with other men and didn't want a monogamous relationship with him. He never cheated on Wallis at any point and I think in the right relationship it was actually pretty easy for him to be faithful.

Thanks for asking and have a nice day!

[corallapis]

I don't know whether you're still fascinated by Prince George, the Duke of Kent anymore, but you cannot imagine how relieved I was to find your blog and discover that I wasn't the only person who had P.G. on my mind. Bit of a mess as a person, but very interesting

i'd like to direct you to the diary entry chips channon wrote on the 6th september 1942:

A lovely sunny morning. I woke refreshed, replenished with energy. I have been thinking about the poor Duke of Kent: his death is a loss to me and to the country. Nobody knew him better than I of recent years — particularly the past six or seven . . . Fundamentally frivolous, he was fitful, fretful, both moody and unreliable in small matters. Yet his painstaking kindness was immense and equalled, even surpassed, by his surface treachery. For he could be very treacherous: no man was ever more disloyal in conversation, and no man was a better friend in action, or at heart (this curious and often disturbing contradiction in his complex character was the reverse of the habits of the Prince of Wales who always ferociously resented conventional condemnation, or even gossip, about his friends yet was never known to do anything for anyone except the reigning favourite, whether it was Freda Dudley Ward, Audrey Field, Fruity Metcalfe, or Wallis Simpson). But it was this puzzling trait to the Duke of Kent's Franco-Semitic make-up which first stopped people from loving him wholeheartedly, for as one began to be fond of him, he would do, or say, or commit some small little act that chilled one, and again, just as one began to mistrust or be indifferent to him, he would be so thoughtful, affectionate and disarming that one would genuinely like him more . . . unstable, sensitive, volatile he had beauty, wit and worldly wisdom as well as considerable culture. He read, collected and was a musician, but only people were of real importance to him. He was good and gracious with people, and avidly interested in their morals, incomes, food and vices. (He happened to sit next to old Mr Bland, the Guinnesses' trustee, at a banquet in Swansea and spent an hour trying to find out my exact income.)

Fair, with the extravagantly youthful figure and looks common to the male members of the royal family, he always looked and seemed ten years younger than he was. The Duchess and he must have been the most beautiful and dazzling couple in the world! It was only recently that deep lines began to show under his prominent turquoise eyes. And his tics nerveaux had grown: his exquisite hands knitted incessantly as he talked quickly and irritably. He was plagued by boredoms. His walk was an impressive shuffle. Being an ardent sun-worshipper, his small and trim figure was always bronzed and bleached. Naked he was magnificently gold and copper. And his head — his fair, untidy hair in the rain! — was aristocratic, even fin-de-race . . . He liked jewels, bibelots, snuffboxes, expensive china, Georgian furniture, pictures and les élégances. But more than the actual objets de vertu he collected, he liked buying, selling and exchanging them. His life was a long tussle with antiquaries; for he was a dealer at heart. He was a gourmet, even a connoisseur of food, and always personally supervised every domestic detail of his establishments. Alone of the royal family he had social sense and a flair for society and entertaining. His parties were always enjoyable and usually brilliant . . . In his off-time he would garden relentlessly, or he curled up for hours in the sun! Extremely soigné he was nonetheless unsuccessfully dressed.

Of course he had a secret of which he rarely talked and was ashamed. I was long aware of it. Later his conscience, too, tormented him about his eldest brother, whom he treated very shabbily, indeed. To lull his conscience he ended by hating the Duke of Windsor who was au fond the only person he cared for deeply. (He was even jealous of my spasmodic intimacy with Edward VIII who occasionally telephoned to me.) In his cups the Duke talked of little else, and it was a mixture of abuse and love and Schadenfreude. Latterly he was also extremely unhappy and haunted by the tragic position of Prince Paul, his brother-in-law. Except for Queen Mary, who admired him, and to whom he was devoted, the Duke had no feelings for his other relatives. From her he inherited his love of collecting, his artistic bent and his methodical habits of correspondence. He liked writing letters, which he always answered punctually, in his beautiful handwriting. He actively disliked the King, and more particularly the Queen. He said that they were little more than civic functionaries now and was sarcastic about her to anyone who would listen, calling her 'grinning Liz'. Although since the abdication crisis they were rather more intimate, he secretly resented her non-royal origin. Once he said to me, 'Do you know what Bertie does with his money? Why, he invests it!', and his high voice trembled with scorn. The Gloucesters, he thought, hopeless bores, and his sister, the Princess Royal, a somewhat pathetic turn. The more remote relatives were a constant target for his gibes and eighteenth-century malice . . . . He was flirtatious in manner and in his conversation which was always good and stimulating. He could never hide his deep and infinite desire to please and to carp. Probably he felt frustrated and cramped in his position. He hated Alec Hardinge, whom he accused of trying to poison the King against him. He said that he was not given sufficient scope for his latent and many gifts . . . He proposed himself recently to lunch with old and dying Mrs Greville (I was present). Next day he attacked her soundly in my hearing, and did not add that he had sent her a pair of white satin cushions on that very morning, which I knew to be a fact. He had many weaknesses and peculiarities: he drank to excess during the long pre-dinner interval, usually gin and fruit mixtures; at dinner and afterwards he drank nothing at all. He gave a somewhat effeminate impression by his furious knitting, his too many bracelets and rings. He was wildly extravagant in his purchases, lavish with his presents, but shrewd with finance generally. Often he exchanged or sold or passed on presents that had been given to him. Sometimes he would select his Xmas presents and send me the bill afterwards: it was the safest course.

Devoted to his attractive children, particularly to little Alexandra, to his dogs, he was often embarrassingly querulous — less so, of late — with the Duchess who idolised him. His brain was quicker, better-informed and more instinctive than hers. Somewhat out of focus for this prosaic age, he was nevertheless extremely popular and had a Perrault quality for the people at large which is lacking in other members of his family. The Duke's sad and dramatic death is the end of an epoch: London and life will be more colourless and less gay without him, that elaborate, eager, excited elf. And I shall miss his gossip, his maniacal laugh, his rich presents, his haunting personality, coral and lapis.

[telebisou]

Cold Skin

I liked it, despite being disappointed with it by the end. I enjoyed it, I must repeat this, despite missing its source material's bite in almost every scene. I enjoyed it! I enjoyed it. It was not as good as it could have been.

I miss Gens' misanthropy. Bring it back. Be angry with us. Smack us around. We deserve it. I suspect that the birth of his son caused him to try to inject warmth into Albert Sánchez Piñol's novel. That was a mistake. Freda, not warmth.

Making the narrator forgivable, never mind making him likable!, removed the point of the story from its plot. Humanity, in La pell freda, is the monster. Undoing this relationship removes its inescapable discomfort. The novel forces its reader through a bleak trial of unwilling self awareness that requires contemplation, while the movie replaces this mental process with an uncomplicated and wearily primitive fear of being killed. I so wanted Xavier Gens to trick me with this. I kept waiting for the trick. He makes some attempts at complicating a motive of just staying alive, injecting anticolonial sentiments and some surprisingly common philosophical questions. They're not unwelcome, but they are in the end overly simplistic. Treatment of racial xenophobia and the horrors of war is unexceptional, perhaps problematic if taken as direct metaphor, and, frankly, pointless - since we see from the very beginning, without any doubt, that these creatures are not "beasts". The film's musical score is typical, and forgettable.

Cold Skin's cast, visual craft, and moody location set are where its cinematic value is found. The script was unfinished.

Still I would recommend it, for the imagery alone, including the absolutely perfect performance of Aura Garrido, who embodied both Lovecraft's Deep Ones and the timeless sirens of myth, so well that I was brought to emotion several times. She is without question the star and center of this film, and she's worth seeing it, all by herself. More elaborate and expensive fish-person costumes never captured it the way she did in this performance. Many will compare Cold Skin to The Shape of Water, it's inevitable, but it's unfair. Water, it goes without saying, will be remembered for as long as cinema is relevant - but it lacked Aura Garrido.

Ray Stevenson, RIP, also delivered an excellent and thoughtful performance, as ever. I'm glad his star rose high just before he passed; I hope it leads some viewers to seek this movie out.

Xavier Gens; to regain your title, you must recall why you felt such loathing for human beings. Then you must marry that feeling to your newfound love of us, in some way. I think you'll shine brighter than ever, when hatred and love for humankind have merged inside you, their differences erased.

When that happens, please hire Ms. Garrido again.

[talldarkandroguesome]

19th of Morning Star, Fredas

I have managed to get through another week.

No word yet from the Nest about any shards. I just feel like I am adrift. I have the hardest time concentrating.

My letters west are taking longer than I should like. Snows always slow the post this time of year. I know the dried herbs I sent to Fennorian should be fine, so long as they do not get wet. I sent them, as usual, in oil skins, but it only takes one clumsy courier to spoil the delivery.

Next week the House is having me travel to visit the Velothi camp near Iliath Temple. Long it has been since I was sent to check in with them. I think it is because our House Council is reporting to the Grand Council soon about the war effort and every Councilmer is too busy to see to any secondary responsibilities.

Mother has a good relationship with Farseer Tirinaat. Not that she is not welcome by the Kagesh, they are rather fond of her. There has been a lot of tension between them and the Temple that stands on the edge of their hunting grounds and Mother has been able to negotiate much for them.

I am very much indebted to them for all their aid over the decades. Have I written about this? I feel as though I must have. I introduced Sildras to Ziddak's girl, Orilu. I must have written of them.

Anyhow, there has been some talk of the Temple that the Kagesh are being aggressive again, usually happens when they are threatened or asked to move their camp further away. Almost always it is some minor misunderstanding and easy enough to rectify.

My job is simple, to broker yet another peace between the tribe and Temple. Of course, I am sure that the Kagesh are, as usual, being made to look barbaric and hot headed. It is, unfortunately, all too often the case.

It will be nice to see how big Orilu has grown. She must be getting ready to start on her journey into adulthood soon. The wise women are surely beginning her final years of education before the coming of age ceremony.

I wonder if I should talk with Mother about having Sildras go on one himself. I know I completed one myself and it truly does give you the confidence needed to enter into being an adult.

As soon as the Grand Council has concluded and Mother has settled down from all the activity that follows, I shall speak with her about it.

Now, to make sure that everything is in place for Tel's visit before I leave for Stonefalls. I cannot be seen neglectful of my duties my... what can I say that is not offensive to Tel's person? It is not a mistresshood, for Tel is not being a mistress, nor are they a woman. Yet any other descriptor continues to feel cold and disrespectful. But as a host of this relationship and foray into heir surrogacy, I shall not be neglectful.

I know Sildras has made another painting and had it hung in Tel's room, right besides the one that he and Tel painted together upon Tel's last visit. But I need to ensure that the winter linens are put on this time. The chill that has come down from the currents off the Velothi Mountains brought a light blanket of snow again. I swear it gets colder and colder in Morrowind every winter. I am not complaining, it gives me fond memories of Skyrim. But I also know that Tel is less used to that than I. And while I am more than happy to warm his bed each night, that does not mean that I should not provide for comfort.

And now, to finish my glass of wine as the embers of the fire die down and then go and collect Avon for bed. He has been so much more exhausted of late and I want to show my gratitude.

[scribeofskyrim]

Fredas, 10th of Heartsfire, 4E 201

So, we’re in Dawnstar, at the Windpeak Inn, but apparently I have a fiance? Or a fiancee? I’m not sure.

The day started normally enough. We had breakfast and I took some time to make as many potions as I could before heading next door to sell off the remaining bits of loot we had to Adrienne.

Then, we headed to the market to resupply, but I was stopped by Ysolda. She said that I owed her for an engagement ring? I asked her what was going on, and she said that I got an engagement ring from her on credit. I’m a thane, so she had no problem with the deal, but she needs paid or the ring back.

She said that I told her how I had met my betrothed at a place called Witchmist Grove? And that it was really romantic, with fireflies and everything? And there was something about a party. I looked to Valdimar and Lydia, who only shrugged. They said earlier that they’d lost track of me for a while.

They’d been drinking, too. Maybe they had what I had?

Ysolda referred to both a Him and a Her, so I have no idea if I proposed to a man or a woman.

Whatever. She did say that Sam was going to be my best man at the wedding.

But how did I get around Skyrim so FAST? I know Sam’s a mage, he must have drunkenly teleported us from party to party, where I somehow ended up engaged to… Somebody somewhere?

I just hope that Ysolda doesn’t talk to much. I’ll have to make it up to her later.

We finished up in the marketplace, and delivered Thorald’s secret message to Fralia, who was at her stall. She was overjoyed to know he was okay, and gave me a beautiful sword in return! Lydia reminded me about the letter for Danica, but luckily she was sitting on a bench right at the top of the stairs, so that only took a moment. Once that was taken care of, we refilled our water, went back to the house so I could cook up some provisions, then we were off!

The carriage ride to Dawnstar was half the distance on the map, but took just as long and cost more than double the price to Whiterun because of the snow and bad roads. We spent most of the trip huddled together, dozing while we tried to stay warm. The dog planted himself under the furs our driver had over his legs, and only came out when he absolutely had to. The man wisely had extras for us to borrow, so we weren’t too cold, but far from toasty.

I suppose I have the bad weather to thank for the lack of anything bothering us on the trip. Too cold to go out, even for the spiders!

Dragons are another matter.

We’d barely taken two steps from the wagon when one started to circle Dawnstar. The guards spotted it first, and I looked to the others. I couldn’t see Valdimar’s face in his helmet, but I saw Lydia go pale before she snarled and grabbed her sword.

You see, a young boy had run up to the carriage right before we got to town, and asked the driver if he had any news or stories to tell. He climbed right up next to him; I had the feeling this was something he did every time. He was disappointed when the driver had nothing to tell him, but was happy to meet a friendly dog. He got off when we stopped, and wandered away.

The dragon was focused on the boy, and landed between us and him.

Luckily, Lydia was almost on top of it as soon as it hit the ground, and a bunch of guards and townsfolk came out to help. It was a small green one, too, so the fight didn’t last long.

But I was right there when it died, and the same rushing white light surrounded me again as its body turned to ash and bone.

The people murmured amongst themselves, both about the dragon and what they saw happen to me. I stared at them, unsure of what to do, and they quickly turned away, and started going about their business. Even the boy rushed past me, and kept his head ducked to avoid my gaze.

Valdimar clapped a sympathetic hand on my back as we made our way here to the Inn, and Lydia gave dirty looks to the guards, who shuffled quickly aside to give me a wide berth as we walked past.

I can’t help it if I’m the Dragonborn! I didn’t ask for any of this, and if I had the choice, I know I wouldn’t choose it!

Damn my bleeding heart. Dru always said it would get me in trouble. I know I’d be going to Nightcaller Temple tomorrow even if I weren’t the Dragonborn. These people are looking at me like I’m some sort of monster, but they don’t deserve to suffer from nightmares or dragons or whatever else Vaermina has planned for them.

Besides, that shady priest has some explaining to do. I saw him out there in the fight. He was the only one who looked me in the eye after the dragon soul came at me. He had a little smile on his face, and he nodded, like he… Approved. Not to mention I saw him run up to the beast without the slightest hint of fear, swinging a heavy Dwarven mace like he was born to do it. He buggered off as soon as the crowd started to break.

I’m sure we’ll see him tomorrow.

[princessmacabre]

day 40/100 days of productivity

spent the morning reading on the balcony

vacuumed and tidied my room

finished writing the letter to my friend (which happened to be 12 pages long… why yes, three years is a long time especially when you’re dealing with mental health problems, C-PTSD and need to go into every single detail about your latest romance with a hot and cute french boy that seems to be a wattpad story)

listend to some music

finished reading the novel La pell freda by Albert Sánchez Piñol from 2002 (it was a recommendation by my mum). I read the german translation (Im Rausch der Stille) but the title in English is Cold Skin. It was definitely worth to read it and I like how this novel kind of changes you in a very subtle way … it lingers with you even after having closed the book and finished reading …

Enjoying listening to Alexandre Desplat‘s music the most these days. A strange observation I made: while being by the sea I prefer Desplat‘s and James Newton Howard‘s music the most; and although I am in love with Bruno Coulais‘ works, I hardly listen to his music … but back here in my „home country“ his music is very much needed … anyone out there who likes to talk about film music composers and their works? Let me know

bisous xx

[harrisongslimited]

George Chapter of the Day. #5

I Saw Her Standing There

(**Please read General Trigger warnings in Chapter 1)

**********18+ only***********

Specifically slow burn romance brewing.

Chapter 5

Joie heard the phone ring the next morning. She felt exhausted. She wasn't sure what time zone she was in. But Freda popped her head in to see if she was awake.

"You feel like another trip?"

Joie yawned and smiled. "Sure. Where?"

"John and Cyn's house. It's George on the phone. He'll pick you up in 30 minutes. Can you be ready?"

"Absolutely!" Joie exclaimed jumping up from bed. She jumped in the tiny shower, pulled a comb through her hair, put on some make up and was ready when George came.

When Joie saw Freda wasn't ready, she asked what was up.

"Going to my sister's house. Every Sunday. Maybe you can come next week?"

"Sure. Are you certain you don't want me to go with you?"

"I'm sure. You'll like Cyn, John's wife. It's good that you'll go. You'll have a nice time with George on the ride too. He's a great guy."

"Where do they live?"

"Kenwood. It's about a 30 minute drive."

"George will make it in 20."

Freda laughed. "No doubt."

..........

"Hi," she said to him as she slid into the seat next to him.

"Hello," he answered with a cheery smile. "Freda said she's going to her sis's?"

Joie nodded. "Would you rather wait for a time she can come with?"

George shook his head. "No. I need to talk to John anyway. And you'll like Cyn. She's a very down to earth type. They have a son too. Julian. He's 2 I think."

Joie was surprised to hear that John not only was married but had a young son.

George revved up his mini cooper and sped off. It was silent for awhile, but Joie didn't feel uncomfortable. George just struck her as someone who didn't talk unless he had something to say.

"Do you mind telling me about your family?" Joie finally asked. "Are your mum and dad happy about your success?"

George looked at her a brief moment and smiled. God, she was adorable and smelled earthy, sweet.....clean, sexy, like just after a long needed spring rain...He knew he had to snap out of his thoughts and get back into the conversation but he'd rather have his arms wrapped around her lovely body. He coughed to change the channel in his thoughts. "They were always very supportive of my music. I used to skip school to go practice and although I don't think my dad thought it was very smart, he usually went along with it. I wore these tight stove-pipe pants and picklewinkers."

"What are picklewinkers?"

"Pointy black shoes. I had this Elvis haircut. Used to drive my mum crazy, but she always went along with it too. I have a sister who got married and lives in the states and 2 brothers. We're close."

"How did you meet John and how did the band start?"

"That's a long, long story. Paul introduced me to John. I used to ride the same bus with Paul to school. My dad drove the bus."

"And one thing led to another?"

"Pretty much. With a lot of twists and turns along the way."

They were silent again until Joie asked, "How do you feel about doing the movie?"

"It's mainly publicity for our music. Capitalize on the frenzy, you know?" he explained. "Don't know how long it will last."

"You don't think the Beatles will last?"

"Oh, the Beatles will probably last. But the craziness probably won't. John says we are lucky if we get 2 years on top."

"But look at Elvis. He's still around..."

"He's in a class by himself. And they've got him making movies now. I guess we will have to reinvent ourselves at some point too."

"Maybe movies?"

"Maybe. Don't really know what's going to happen."

Joie looked at him intently. "Are you enjoying the ride while it lasts?"

He looked back at her. "Sometimes."

..........

George made the introductions when they arrived at John and Cynthia's beautiful Kenwood home. Good smells were coming out of the kitchen and John offered Joie a glass of wine which she accepted. She'd never really drank before. The wine was smooth and dry and relaxed her.

Cyn and Joie went into the kitchen to talk and have their wine while John and George talked music and even called Paul at one point. Joie heard his name mentioned and tried to listen to their conversation then she remembered the list of things she was never going to do again.

Joie took another sip of her wine and asked, "Tell me about Julian. I hear he's just a joy. Where is he?"

"He's at my mum's. John is home so rarely, we try to make time for one another at least as much as we can. He spent the day yesterday with Julian. He's a wonderful little boy. He loves to draw and tries to play guitar like his dad."

Cynthia filled her wine glass again. And again. And again. Joie realized at one point that she couldn't stand up. She was horrified. She was hopeful that eating some dinner would help sober her up, but her head was spinning. How could she have let this happen? She had to make it back to Freda's. She had to get up in the morning for a meeting at Shepperton Studios for all the extras. Her anxiety was beginning to grab a hold of her. But she put up a good front. It was then she realized everyone was drinking and had no notice of her condition.

She was drunk. Hammered, liquored up, smashed, bombed. Oh my God, help me!

Drunk in England at the home of John and Cynthia Lennon. George Harrison was going to drive her home. She needed air. And fast.

She asked George for a cigarette and went outside to smoke it. But Cyn told her it was okay to smoke inside the house. It was then she leveled with Cynthia.

"I'm not used to drinking," she admitted, the room spinning around her "I really needed some air."

"Are you ok?" Cynthia asked, but went back inside the house, returning with a shawl that Joie could put around her shoulders against the cool, English evening air.

"Thank you, yes. I'm fine. I just needed air."

Cynthia kept her company as Joie attempted to sober up.

"It's hard to keep up with these boys," Cyn admitted. "I tried for years. You know, trying to fit in. You just have to go your own way."

"I usually do," Joie answered. "but I just am not used to drinking very much and I lost track."

"You ok now?"

Joie nodded. But as she went in, John and George were opening up another bottle of wine. Her glass was filled. But she ignored it for the most part. She'd had enough. It did help her relax and be more at ease with the company she was in. But when Paul showed up, all bets were off. She took another large sip of wine.

Why did he have to show up...and alone? Girlfriend, Joie told herself. He's got a girlfriend. Remember that. He's off limits. Besides, what would a man like Paul McCartney want with a simple California girl like Joie Armagh?

STOP! Joie told herself. STOP! You've had too much wine and aren't thinking right. You're thinking about things that you promised you wouldn't. Right then, she wished she could ask George to take her home. She wanted to lay down on the bed and sleep. But with Paul just arriving and the 3 of them talking, she didn't want to ruin George's evening. "Hi George," she'd say. "Take me home. I'm drunk as a church mouse in the wine cabinet."

Oh lord, no. He was so kind to her, she didn't want to look like some drunk off the street. Maybe Paul could just take her home.

..........

Cynthia made tea, settling the room from spinning in Joie's case, and yet she knew she was still drunk. She excused herself and went to the bathroom and put cool water on her neck and wrists. The water felt wonderful. But she still wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep.

She managed to stay in the conversations but used everything in her arsenal to appear in control. But when Paul announced he was leaving, she blurted out, "Do you think you could take me to Freda's? I'm still suffering from jet lag and am totally exhausted."

When she began to gather her purse and coat, by the time she returned, Paul had left without her.

"He's said to say sorry. He was late already to pick up Jane." John explained simply. "You can crash here if you need to. Plenty of room."

"That's ok," George interjected quickly. "I'll take Joie home. It's no trouble."

"I hate to end your evening this way...that's why I asked Paul to take me home. He mentioned he couldn't stay long because of Jane."

"Joie," George looked into her eyes and spoke gently, softly. "It's no problem. I'll take you home."

Joie blinked and tried to read George's face. His eyes held a sweetness she never saw on anyone...not even Charlie when they were making out.

"Okay," she smiled back at him, enjoying being the object of his laser focus.

"Good. I'll get the coats and we'll leave."

Joie said her goodbye's to Cyn, who tucked her phone number in Joie's purse. "Call me anytime. I'm usually here. We can talk more. Anytime. Really"

"Thank you so much. I had a wonderful time. And give Julian a hug from me"

George escorted her to the car and opened the door for her. As he started the car, Joie knew she was going to be sick. But she just couldn't. Not with George. She had to make it to Freda's somehow. But everything was spinning.

She couldn't understand it. She'd had wine before. But just maybe it was too much with her nervousness.

"It's been a little too much, hey?" George finally asked after she had been quiet for awhile.

"I guess so..." she muttered. "Ah, George....."

"Yea?"

"George....."

She touched his arm. "Could you please stop the car? I need to get some air."

She immediately jumped out of the car and ran into some bushes where she promptly threw up over and over. Then the headache started. She thought she was dying. Dying from the wine, dying from embarrassment.

Finally, in silence, she made her way back to George's car, her head hanging down because she felt like an idiot.

"Um...Cyn's cooking?" he joked.

Joie laughed weakly. "Too much of everything I think"

"You ok?"

She looked at him. He was smiling gently. "I'm so sorry," she told him, her voice wobbly as she tried not to cry. "I'm just so sorry..."

"eh," George dismissed it. Handing her some tissues from the glove box, his hand laid on her thigh. "Just let me know if you need me to stop again. We'll be at Freda's in 15 minutes."

"I'm so sorry..."she repeated again.

"You just got your wings, Joie. "We've all been through it. Every single one of us."

"Some wings..." she mumbled and blew her nose.

"I know......I know. It's ok though. Don't worry about it. Take a couple of aspirin and call me in the morning."

"Doctor Harrison?"

"Yes. Absolutely. That's me. I've been told I have a great bed-side manner."

Joie laughed and thought "I believe you would" and wondered what it would be like if he kissed her with that sensual mouth. "I knew it all along..."

She managed to stay composed the rest of the way to Freda's. George helped her into the apartment. Freda wasn't back from her sister's and Joie was glad Freda had given her a key.

"I'm so sorry...."

He took her face in his strong, soft hands. His eyes went right into her heart. Was she seeing things? Was it the wine? "It's ok Joie," he whispered in her ear, his warm breath giving her goosebumps. "Get some sleep."

"I feel better now."

"Good" he answered. "Have a cup of tea, wash your face, take the aspirin and get to bed. You'll be ok in the morning."

It took everything in him to turn to leave. "Here's my personal phone number. Call me in the morning."

"I will" she promised taking the number.

"Good night."

"Night George and thank you for taking me and bringing me home."

"You're welcome."

And he was gone. Joie went to the bathroom and didn't recognize the woman in the mirror. Her face was blotchy and her mascara had smudged around her eyes. In the right lighting, she could be a stand-in for Frankenstein.

"Some impression....." she told the reflection. But she did as she was instructed. Washed her face, took 2 aspirin and went to bed.

She wondered why George treated her like a princess especially since she asked Paul to take her home. She decided doing that was exceptionally bad form and swore it would never happen again. She closed her eyes and fell into a fitful sleep.

..........

The first thing Joie Armagh did when she woke up was to take 2 more aspirins. Her head was killing her. She had gotten drunk at John Lennon's house. She still couldn't believe it. Joie added it to 'The List of Things She Must Not Do Ever Again', then called Cynthia to thank her for a wonderful evening. They chatted for a few minutes and promised to try to get together soon. Her next call was to George, but there was no answer. Instead, there was a knock at the door.

There Paul McCartney stood. "ready for work, miss? Your car awaits."

Joie blinked her eyes. "Ah, um, you're taking me?"

"We are going in the same direction at the same time. Do you mind? Besides, George was going to do it but got involved in some phone call and was running late."

"Of course I don't mind. Come on in while I get my coat and my meeting notes. Then I'm ready."

As he opened the car door, Joie looked into his brown eyes.

"Sorry I had to leave last night from John's house. Didn't think you'd be stranded since George was there."

"It was fine," she told him honestly. "I came with George so I should have planned to leave with him. I just saw you were leaving and I was so tired."

"And potted..." he laughed.

"Was it that obvious?" she asked him when he got into the driver's seat.

"No. Not really," was all he said.

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #581

Top Ten Comedy Songs

Ah, comedy. Funny, isn’t it? I’ve talked a little about comedy songs recently when I was doing my list specifically about The Lonely Island; and also in the past, ranking the songs of Weird Al (and even further back, the songs of Monty Python). One of the interesting things I find with comedy songs is that they stick in my mind more than usual; I think because you’re parsing the jokes, the lines resonate more. You remember the lyrics because the lyrics are funny and you need to remember the construction of the lines in order to remember the joke. It’s one of the reasons why I know all the words to The Saga Begins but not to American Pie; it’s just funnier to sing about going back to Naboo because Queen Amidala wanted to, even if frankly you’d have liked to stay. So it’s more memorable.

For me, anyway.

So there’s nothing much else to this list. It’s just songs I’ve heard that are funny. No, actually, there is more to it; it’s not just “songs that are funny”, it’s songs that are specifically supposed to be funny. Actual, genuine, comedy songs, songs specifically designed to get you laughing. This lead to a lot of internal deliberation about Tenacious D in particular; are their songs comedy songs? Or are they genre parodies, songs that happen to be amusing, but are songs first and foremost? Songs that are funny rather than comedy delivered through song. It’s a hazy line, but I can still see it. It makes sense to me.

Mostly what you have here are songs from, I’d say, comedy acts. Monty Python, Weird Al, Lonely Island – all present and correct. Victoria Wood, Billy Connolly, and Tim Minchin. What you don’t really have – unfortunately – are any musical numbers. I came very, very close to having a Teen Titans Go! song on the list, but sadly it just slipped off the bottom. Maybe that’s one for the future. Another debate I had with myself was over “comedy song” versus “novelty song”; y’know, larky songs that could encompass everything from The Chicken Song (that feels comedy) to Right Said Fred (arguable, it’s at least amusing) to Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini (nope). I mean, where do you draw the line? I almost included Me and My Monkey by Robbie Williams, a genuinely funny and demented song about a coke-addled monkey shooting up hotel rooms in Vegas. I mean, the likes of Babe I’m on Fire or The Cure of Milhaven by Nick Cave are also darkly comic; and I think Don’t Sit Down Coz I’ve Moved Your Chair by Arctic Monkeys is hilarious. But is it a comedy song?

I dunno. But I decided these ten are. So enjoy.

Oh, and I only picked one song per artist; otherwise I worried there’d only be three or four artists represented. And I guess, er, Mature Content Warning? What is it with comedians wanting to eff and jeff in their songs, I dunno.

The Ballad of Barry and Freda (Let’s Do It) (Victoria Wood, 1986): there’s a pleasingly British comic sensibility which renders quite filthy content in a nudge-nudge wink-wink, innuendo-laden fashion that’s deemed suitable for younger audiences. From saucy postcards to pantomime to ‘Allo ‘Allo, we do like our primetime fruitiness. And who did it better (oo-er) than Wood? This masterpiece of comedy is so quintessentially British – from its references to hostess trolleys and, yes, Woman’s Weekly – but also fits the comic archetype of horny housewives and tired old husbands, the working-class world of Wood’s comedy. It’s comfy and it’s sweet and it’s lovely and it’s hilarious and it’s filthy. But it’s also a work of complex musicality and is a stunning performance by Wood on the piano.

Every Sperm is Sacred (Monty Python, 1983): Monty Python produced a raft of hilarious songs in their time, but there’s something about the production of this that elevates it above the likes of Eric the Half a Bee. The jokes about Catholicism I find very funny, and it’s always great to see Palin doing his Yorkshire accent. But once you turn it into a fully-fledged musical number, with chorus lines of high-kicking midwives and dancing urchin children and parades of undertakers and a singing corpse, it becomes something else. Even just aurally it’s such a high-quality production, and it all adds to the comedy.

White & Nerdy (“Weird Al” Yankovic, 2006): god, it’s hard to choose an Al song. I’ve already ranked them (and truth be told I didn’t go back to look to see if I’d put this as number one), but any of that Top Ten cold be here. What I love about this, though, is its lyricism, and the depth of its references; from millennial-era computing jargon through to references to Star Trek and Segways. It’s a snapshot of its time but it’s also just a wonderfully-constructed love letter to a particular flavour of geekery. And, of course, made funnier because it’s presented as quite a tough rap song.

Inner City Pressure (Flight of the Conchords, 2007): another band where I could have picked at least half a dozen songs. This one is great, though, because it’s probably the best Pet Shop Boys parody I’ve ever heard, and very distinct from the Conchords’ usual repertoire. Taking the serious, deadpan delivery of PSB, superficially singing about urban decay, but then writing lyrics about second-hand underpants is just sublime. Also wins a million points for getting a rhyme out of “concert flautist”.

D.I.V.O.R.C.E. (Billy Connolly, 1975): I sometimes think it’s a bit of a shame that Connolly segued away from music as his comedy career accelerated; especially given gems such as this. A fairly direct parody of the original song by Tammy Wynette, it’s the absurdity of the lyrics that real elevate this; the story of an angry dog biting the V-E-T, and the words Connolly chooses to spell (B-U-M). Also features the genius line, “she called me an F-ing C” – which, hilariously, is often bleeped on some recordings.

Horse Outside (The Rubberbandits, 2010): there’s something nasty and angry about most Rubberbandits songs; maybe it’s the weird carrier bag facemasks. But outside of songs about gay sex, fistfights, and Danny Dyer, we have this utterly demented love letter to a horse, and why it’s better than a car. Delightfully Irish in so many ways, it’s sort of quite sweet but also utterly barmy and consistently potty-mouthed. Bit mean about Billie Piper, though.

Spring Break Anthem (The Lonely Island, 2013): speaking about gay sex, we have my favourite Lonely Island song, mixing up hedonistic alpha male behaviour with tender same-sex romance. And, to be honest, that’s all there is to it; it’s skewering the offensive, misogynistic posturing of the song’s subjects by way of comparison. And it’s really, really funny. I wrote about it fairly recently so if you want more, go back two weeks.

Prejudice (Tim Minchin, 2009): Minchin is a genius lyricist and so many of his songs are both hilarious and also just really, really good (Not Perfect and White Wine in the Sun are almost entirely straight). I do sometimes get a bit of that try-hard atheism that makes Gervais so unappealing, but basically he’s great, and this song is amazing. Subverting expectations to tremendous effect is one thing, but the number of ways he finds of discussing the subject matter in increasingly funny ways is, well, very clever.

Happy Birthday in Minor Key (Bill Bailey, 2015): a bit like a more shambolic, shamanistic version of Minchin, Bailey’s musical genius often finds comedic expression as he deconstructs genres and styles. Here, playing Happy Birthday in a minor key creates a dirge that he then supplies with brilliantly dour, goth-tinged lyrics. There’s some wonderful wordplay and it all builds to a final couple of lines that really do put the icing on the cake.

George Washington (Brad Neely, 2010): this one nearly didn’t make the list, great as it is, but in the end the fact that I still – over a decade later – find myself quietly singing the refrain “Washington, Washington, twenty stories high made of radiation” suggests it has supreme earworm qualities. Long before Hamilton, here was a musical about one of the Founding Fathers that felt free to mix up modern lyricism with revered history. After all, it’s a known fact that Washington really did make love like an eagle falling out of the sky.

This was hard. I’m absolutely certain I’ve forgotten something huge and I’ll remember it two days after this is published. Next week will probably be better, as I’m doing my ying-yang thing and returning to the MCU…

[the-girl-who-didnt-smile]

It is necessary that I issue a correction to this story; really, the fanfiction series as a whole:

Previously, I described how Alastor’s grandmother (my Deviantart OC…) introduced worship of Lady Love to African Americans of the Deep South, where Lady Love is inspired by Erzulie Dantor.

The entire backstory for Lady Love is problematic, in that it de-Haitianizes her. I am the idiot who thought “The Voodoo Hoodoo Spellbook” contained an accurate description of Erzulie Dantor… 

Haitian Vodou is part of Haiti’s national heritage, and is entwined with its history - The Haitian Revolution. This can also be said for the lwa. Especially Ogou Feray - who is identified with Jean-Jacques Dessalines and Toussaint Louverture - and Erzulie Dantor - who is identified with Mambo Fatiman. 

SEE: Mocombe, Paul C. "The anti-dialectical signification of Erzulie Danthor and Bois Caiman of the Haitian Revolution." African Identities 14.4 (2016): 332-347. https://doi.org/10.1080/14725843.2016.1143803 

AND: Laguerre, Michel S.. Voodoo and Politics in Haiti. United Kingdom, Palgrave Macmillan UK, 2016.

“Ironman” and “Lady Love” should not be included in a story about New Orleans Voodoo, at all… were it not for the fact that Ogoun Feraille might have legitimately been brought to America by Haitian slaves. There is record that Ogoun Feraille was worshiped in America under the name “Joe Feraille”; notably, he is not associated with Marie Laveau or the social elite of New Orleans. There is also an intriguing bit of evidence that Maitresse Ezili was worshiped in America, that you can find in Jeffrey E. Anderson’s Voodoo: An African American Religion. This would not have been Erzulie Dantor; it would have been Erzulie Freda Dahomey - Azili. 

Additionally, I also think it is probably a mistake to call these characters “Loa”, as that is a Haitian term; I’m leaning towards renaming them “lesser gods” or something like that, but I haven’t decided on what… Something I need to revise at a later time. 

In the end, I decided to remove “Lady Rose” from the lineup; “Lady Rose” is simply what “Lady Love” used to look like. “Ironman” and “Lady Love” are still included, but only because Alastor has an ancestral connection to the slaves who were taken to New Orleans shortly after the Haitian Revolution. The two characters are linked to the Haitian Revolution of this universe.

So, the revision: 

The death of Lady Love’s infant daughter took place at the beginning of time. So distraught was she, that she cut herself off from the other gods and dedicated herself to helping weak and vulnerable humans. This was her attitude at the dawn of humanity… but as she watched every iteration of injustice, violence, and abuse, she became increasingly embittered toward humanity. By the time humans left Africa (or; equivalent event in Hazbin Hotel timeline), she was thoroughly jaded and completely gave up on helping humanity. Naturally, she could still see what was happening, but she gave up on caring or doing anything about it. Lady Love went dormant, isolating herself completely from the other gods and humanity as a whole. The only person who ever interacted with her was the Doorkeeper, who often took the form of a dog; she tolerated his occasional presence but was mostly silent. This was the era of Lady Rose, who interacted with humanity in Lady Love’s absence. What awoke Lady Love from her slumber was the Haitian Revolution - an event of such significance that it rekindled her faith in humanity. This belief - that there are some humans worthy of protection - is not something that she consciously recognizes or can put into words; it’s something that just immediately translates into action. So began the return of Lady Love. 

Her ex-husband, Ironman, was not always a god of justice. When he lost his wife and daughter, he turned himself into a god of war, made of iron and fire. This warrior god wasn’t really on the side of good or evil, but violence itself. He indulged in both righteous and unrighteous forms of brutality. It was this same historical event - the first time in eons that Ironman saw Lady Love again, the two actually worked together for a common cause. It is through their aid that the Revolution was successful. Sadly, Lady Love parted ways with him before he could talk to her, and he never saw her again. But this fleeting moment inspired him to only use his power for justice. And so, he became a warrior god of justice, devoted to helping those in most need of his power.

COMMENT:

The inclusion of “Lady Love” and “Ironman” is still questionable. While this is an improvement, they should arguably be removed from the lineup entirely. I plan to address this more thoroughly at a later time.

The myth of the cynical god

(As a disclaimer: This is not at all true for the actual deity or religion. This is just something I made up for my silly Hazbin Hotel fanfiction)

In the Beginning,

The goddess of Love

Was Full of Joy.

She Took a Husband.

She Bore One Son.

She Loved Both Dearly.

Until One Day 

Tragedy Befell 

The powerful goddess.

Two lesser gods cannot conceive 

A lesser god

For all gods are born of

Great God.

The Son

Was an Abomination.

Unable to become

A lesser god,

He Perished.

In her grief, Erzulie Dantor

Divorced her Husband

And Maimed Herself

With Two Small Scars

On Her Cheek.

The Pain of Losing

Her Only Son

Made Her Pitiful to

The Human Condition,

Until Humanity

Hardened Her Heart

And She Became

THE CYNICAL GOD.

[byjove]

My Aunt Louise was married to my Uncle Larry (who is my paternal grandmother’s big brother) and they were married pretty young so she watched my grandma grow up and they were friends. Uncle Larry cheated on her with this woman named Freda and divorced Louise for her way before I was born. Anyway, we all decided we liked Aunt Louise way more than Larry and Freda so she comes to every Thanksgiving and Christmas and sometimes Easter and Larry and Freda have both died but Aunt Louise is like 75 and still gorgeous and still going and that’s what happens when you’re unproblematic.

[jiubilant]

The Archmage of Winterhold, seeking answers, visits the Augur of Dunlain.

Last time, circumstances being as they were, he hadn’t had much time to look around. Now he paces the cramped chamber in which his prophet dwells, frowning, measuring it in shuffling steps. He flicks a light into his staff and squints up at the stalactites. He sniffs the air, heavy with mildew and the drainpipe stink of old, sour magic.

“Not very comfortable,” he concludes, trailing his fingertips across a slimy wall, “is it?”

A light kindles behind him. The Archmage doesn’t turn his head.

“I’ve been wondering,” he says to the cold stones, “if you know everything that’s going to happen in the way that, ah, that we know everything that has happened. Or if it’s a matter of—of looking, like a, a sorcerer in a scryglass. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, and such. You know.”

The light flares. The Archmage feels a prickle at the back of his neck.

That, says the Augur of Dunlain, is a ludicrous comparison.

His voice, if he still has one, is not what the Archmage hears. It is with the thousand echoes that whisper from every wall of the room, from every creaking crack and desolate corner, that the blaze of light that is the Augur—his breath the winds that whistle through the Midden, his throat the old and horrid hall—makes his mighty indifference known. It is like speaking to the stones. Like speaking to ice.

“Ah, well.” The Archmage turns to smile at him. “S’not what I came to ask, anyway. Would you like to teach on a Morndas-Middas-Fredas schedule, or would you prefer Tirdas-Turdas?”

The Augur’s silence is incredible. Even the walls stop dripping.

“Enrollment is up,” says the Archmage, sounding a bit smug even to himself. He arranges his face to look modest and a little worried; in other words, he thinks drily, he does his best impression of Savos Aren. “And, you know, you’ve been on sabbatical for some time now—”

My body was destroyed, says the Augur of Dunlain, swelling like a star. The chamber floods with incredulous light. My mind shattered across time. I forfeited life and its pleasures in pursuit of knowledge, and in my folly I made myself mightier than you can possibly imagine.

The Archmage raises a calm hand to shade his eyes. “So I’ve heard.”

I have endured this wretched existence for centuries.

“So you have.”

I know the hour of your death, says the Augur. The blue blaze of his consciousness flickers, and every shadow in the chamber shivers as if chilled. I know every mischance that will befall you. Every misstep you will take. I know who will belie you, and who will betray you, and who will break your heart.

Modest, thinks the Archmage. A little worried. “So you do.”

And you are asking me, says the Augur, if I will teach a class on Tirdas and Turdas.

The Archmage squints up at him. It’s like staring at the sun. He tries to imagine what the man had looked like, once.

“My dear,” he says, not unkindly, “aren’t you bored?”

* * *

Twenty-five first-years, their faces glowing blue, visit the Augur of Dunlain. It’s a Tirdas.

Welcome to Introduction to Restoration Magic, says the great light gleaming in the middle of the chamber, flickering with something like exasperation. When he speaks, the words whisper from all corners of the room. In this course, you will master the rudiments of the healer’s art. Apart from the three of you who will fail. Before we begin—

“Er,” says a patchy-sleeved prentice, tapping her chalk on her slate. “Can you truly see the future?”

Her neighbor, a sober boy with ink smudged on his chin, sits up straighter. “Who’s going to win the war?”

A small voice pipes up from the back of the room. “Will I pass my Alteration midterm—”

Come back, the Augur says wearily, during my office hours.