#how am i both “something long forgotten by our books but still more incomprehensible than any human could encapsulate in a myth”

[ford-mustang-1969]

chat

gender crisis in tags

[cthulhuliet]

Hi hi ~~ big fan of your Lawlight work * chef kiss * So, if it serves to inspire you I got this little idea! NSFW A huge hc of mine is that Light loves L reading for him with that hot British accent of his, like come on, L`s dubbed voice with a brit accent??*agressive chef kiss* SOO imagine Light resting his head on L`s lap while L is reading to him and things get lewd in the novel :D maybe things coul get lewd in reality too 👀👀 oh, and another hc of mine is that Light rides D like a pro so ... maybe something with both? if you'd like 👉👈 No pressure at all tho!

Thank you so much for your kind words :') I am a fan of your Lawlight work as well, and even though it took a two weeks or so (my bad) I really hope you enjoy! (it also, as always, turned out to be a lot longer than I meant it).

close your eyes and imagine it

3.1k words | AO3 Link | warnings: explicit content, general kink, you know the drill

Most of the dreams were incomprehensible nonsense, and L had just about given up on the month of April when he saw a long entry that made him pause. His eyes widened at the contents. “Huh.”

Light shifted a little bit to make himself more comfortable, eyes only half open, “Hmm? Find something interesting?”

“I am in this one. Did you frequently dream about me?”

There was a beat, and Light responded coolly, “I cannot remember specifics. Hence, the journal.”

L hummed, a small smirk Light could not see grew on his face, “Well then, I will read this one out loud for your benefit.

OR

The one where Light discovers a dream journal he had written during the Kira investigation and can't help but be embarrassed by L's role in his fantasies. L, of course, does not mind. -

“A dream journal?” L questioned. He closed his laptop and Light smirked, raising an eyebrow, holding the notebook in his hands. L crossed the room and took the journal from Light, “Where did you find this?”

Light shrugged, “On my bookshelf with a lot of my other textbooks and such.”

“How old is this?”

“Was in my late teens, I suspect.”

L flipped through the book idly, Light’s neat handwriting was pleasant and clean compared to L’s own scrawled and messy penmanship. The pages slightly stuck together, as the old notebook seemed to have not been touched in years. L stopped at a page and briefly read the contents and looked at the date, before his own eyes widened.

“Hang on, this is during-”

“The Kira investigation? Yeah.” Light’s slight smirk turned into a large cheshire. “I figured you might be interested in reading what I wrote.”

L bit his bottom lip, looking up at Light, one eyebrow raised, “Does the Death Note still give you nightmares to this day?”

Shrugging, Light came up to L and looked over his shoulder at the notebook, “I mean, sometimes? But I also believe that having nightmares is just a part of being a person.”

“Or you have become so numb to your own murderous tendencies the nightmares do not affect you that much anymore.” L muttered, just loud enough for Light to hear.

He did hear him, of course, and he retaliated by shoving L hard enough for him to fall backwards onto their bed. Light socked L on the arm when he flopped down onto his back as well as L went to read Light’s journal to himself.

“Leave me alone, Light, can’t you see I am busy?” L teased, which earned him another hit on his arm, “You are being bothersome.”

Light crossed his arms, now sitting next to L laying down on the bed, “Those are my dreams, you are not reading without me, obviously.”

“Well then lie down so I can read them to you.” Light was the most frustrating man that L had ever been with. He wouldn’t have him any other way.

L sat up and rested his back against the headboard. Light assumed his usual position and rested his head on L’s lap. L idly put his hands through Light soft brown locks, twirling his soft hair through his fingers.

This was not an unusual position to find the pair in. Light often requests that L read to him, the other man finding the restrained but smooth baritone of L’s voice to be incredibly attractive, but also incredibly calming to listen to. It is not the first time his voice has been complimented, and it certainly will not be the last. Sayu has told L multiple times that he should become a voice over actor. He politely declined. The rest of the people do not matter, really. The only praise he needs is when Light humbly hands him a book he reads before bed, and falls asleep to L’s voice quicker than any amount reading on his own.

“‘ April 1st, 2004: I was present for class at To-Oh university, however we were all forced to give a presentation about when we believe all of our classmates will die and why. This was a horribly dark and drab lecture hall, and I had forgotten my cue cards about why Sakurano Mari was going to die due to dementia .’  This is not exactly a fun read.”

“It was not exactly fun to think about either.”

“I am going to find a different one.”

L used one hand to run his fingers through Light’s hair and the other to flip through the journal, skimming through the contents. Most of the recounts were incomprehensible nonsense, though there is no judgement to be had there. Whenever L does sleep, most of his dreams are disconnected fragments of stories -- feelings and emotions rather than a complete narrative.

L had just about given up on the month of April when he saw a long entry that made him pause. His eyes widened at the contents.

“Huh.”

Light shifted a little bit to make himself more comfortable, eyes only half open, “Hmm? Find something interesting?”

“I am in this one.”

“Are you?”

“Did you frequently dream about me?”

There was a beat, and Light responded coolly, “I cannot remember specifics. Hence, the journal.”

L hummed, a small smirk Light could not see grew on his face, “Well then, I will read this one out loud for your benefit:

“‘ Damn that Ryuzaki. He is plaguing my thoughts not only during the day, but I cannot even escape the damn bastard in my dreams’, I love you too, dearest ,” L sardonically snided. Light pinched his thigh , “ ‘Last night's events were particularly egregious, as this is not the first time something like this has happened, but I feel mortified even writing this down. Though, maybe if I recount what happened (like with the nightmares) these dreams will go down in their numbers.

“‘Ryuzaki and myself were in the library studying next to one another. I was eating a biscotti with tea. As it was in my mouth, Ryuzaki came up and bit off the end of my biscotti and just chuckled at me. I wasn’t sure what to do or say, but I just know I felt really hot an -’”

“L…” Light gripped his thigh dangerously, “What are you doing.” It was phrased as a question, but Light said it as a command. He ignored him. Light was never the one to give out commands anyway.

“‘ I cannot remember much but the next moment Ryuzaki’s lips were on my neck. Everything was fuzzy, but I could feel him biting marks into me and was teasing me by grinding against my di- ’”

Light growled, “I’m taking this away from you. Now.” He moved to sit up, but L’s hand was still in his hair. L gripped his roots harshly and shoved him back down. Light whined at the action, swallowing hard.

“You are not going anywhere.” That was a command, and Light took it as such.

“This is mortifying…” Light muttered against the mattress, his speech breathy.

L hummed and pulled Light’s hair up, forcing him to look at him, “I disagree.” He lied. “You are going to be good and listen to me read this whole thing.”

Light laughed, cocky, though his eyes were glassy with flushed cheeks, “Oh yeah? Or what?”

“Or how about I get to come and you don’t, hmm?” Light opened his mouth and closed it again, face flushed with shame. L let go of his hair and Light buried his head in L’s lap. L smirked and chuckled, “You are so adorable, all blushy and embarrassed…” Light whined at that, running his fingernail down the inside of L’s thigh.

“‘ This is not the first time this has happened, though I have to admit, it was the best incident. Even hazy, I had never felt that sensitive and stimulated. I just wanted to stay like that forever.’” L had one hand on the book, the other held a distracted, but firm, grip in Light’s hair, who was presently biting his lip and running soft strokes over L’s cock. “‘It was even better when I got to put my mouth on Ryuzaki. I have never sucked a dick before, so my brain could only supply what it imagines it feels like, but it was not even that that made it so good. Ryuzaki would hold my hair tight and look down at me while I was on my knees. He kept telling me that I was a slut, but that I was doing such a good job for him. Even before this I thought Ryuzaki had such a nice voice, I wish I could hear him more…’ You think my voice is nice, huh?” L asked, keeping his voice level, as Light’s feather touches became firm palming.

He groaned again, “Tch, shut up.”

“No.” L pulled him by his hair, forcing Light to look him in the eye, “I think it is time you shut up.” In only a few seconds, L manhandled Light and dropped him to his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed. L sat at the end, grabbing the journal with one hand and undoing his jeans with the other. “How many times have you sucked dick since writing this? Hundreds?” Light finished the job of removing L’s pants and underwear, his cock standing erect in front of him, “C’mon cock-slut, show me what you got.”

Light eagerly took L in his mouth, expertly utilizing his tongue on his head. L closed his eyes and tried to not become overwhelmed by the sensation. He opened his eyes to see Light’s cocky doe-eyes staring back up at him.

“What was it that you dreamed of? My hand tight in your hair, fucking your mouth, telling you you’re being a good slut, right?” L asked, rhetorically as he returned his hand to harshly grip Light’s locks. He slowly moved Light’s head up and down, spit dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. Light’s face was blood red with humiliation and lust, it was perfect.

L bit his lip as Light took him all the way down his throat, refusing to be the one to break first. He picked up the journal again, eyes focusing and unfocusing on the work in front of him. “‘ Ryuzaki kept calling me good boy, telling me I was taking him so well, and never had anyone ever made him feel as good as I was. I felt so overwhelmed. I had never felt such extreme desire for anyone, but I think at that moment I would do anything for him.’ Do you still want to hear all that? Still want me to call you a good boy, and tell you you are taking me so well?”

Light groaned around L’s cock, the vibrations from his throat sent a shiver up his spine and L suppressed a needy whine on his end. After years of doing this, Light knows exactly how to push him to the very edge-- to give him so much and yet not enough.

“‘ My memory gets a little fuzzy here, but Ryuzaki laid down on the desk, and he grabbed me by the thighs so hard I think I would have had bruises in reality. I grabbed him by the throat and rode him on the desk. A part of me was worried, because the conference room in the library was all glass, but also my head was so hazy and it felt so good.’” L pressed a thumb against his lips, “Had Light fucked himself on toys at this point?”

He pulled off of L, slowly stroking him as he thought about it, “I think at that time I had. I only realized I was not straight shortly after high school, and my sexual drive moved pretty fast after that.”

“‘Shortly after high school’, shortly after meeting me, right?” L smirked. Light opened his mouth to attempt a retort, but just narrowed his eyes.

“Such an egomaniac you are,” Light scoffed, “Not everything is about you.”

“No, not everything. But this is.” L reached under their bed and pulled out a box of toys and lube. He casually tossed the bottle and a large blue dildo in front of Light, “Stretch yourself open with that. I want to see you.”

“You don’t want to do it yourself?”

“Like you have earned that privilege yet.” L leaned forward (careful to not fall off the edge) and grabbed Light by the chin, forcing him to look L in the eye, “You’re going to open yourself up on that cock, and when your slutty hole is ready for me, you can ride me like in your fantasies.”

He could almost see the blood rushing to Light’s ears-- being literally talked down to-- condescended and scolded like a child. And yet, his pupils were blown all the way out, L barely seeing the amber color of Light’s eyes, and his jeans and underwear were, of course, already halfway to his ankles.

Light took the tip of the toy and fucked his mouth in and out with it, eyes never leaving L’s. He was already 3 fingers deep inside of himself, lewdly moaning around the cock very intentionally.

“This is a good look for you,” L remarked, breathily, slowly stroking his own cock.

Light suctioned the dick to the hardwood, and hovered over it, teasing his hole with the tip, “Well, if you are going to keep calling me a slut- fuck… I might as well lean into it.” Light bottomed out on the toy, one hand running through his hair, another sucking on two fingers as he slowly moved. Light, flushed and fucked out and using himself, was the pinnacle of sex and desire-- L began to question his decision about who exactly this was a punishment for.

“Ngh, this cock is so big , L… But it doesn’t feel nearly as good as yours.” Light dragged his teeth across the bottom of his lip, pointed looking at L’s cock, now leaking precum. Light knew he was getting to L. He knew exactly how he looked and exactly what L was thinking.

Fucker. Two can play at that.

L slowed down his own movements, raising an eyebrow at Light, “A common whore like yourself would be satisfied with any cock inside of him. You want mine so bad? Close your eyes, think…” L held the book open with one hand, “‘ I feel like I am going crazy. I am supposed to want this stupid bastard dead. And yet all I want right now are my hands on him and his on mine-’” Light groaned, finally touching his neglected aching cock, “‘-and it is so hard to focus on bringing him down, when the entire time I am dreaming about Ryuzaki’s voice in my ear, and my hands around his throat, and his tongue and mouth on me everywhere . I may just have to take care of him so I stop feeling this way... ’ My my, Kira... ” Light groaned at the name, “I thought you would be a bit more careful than to let your inner thoughts so out in the open like this. What would have happened if someone had gotten a hold of this?”

“I- Fuck- Academic rivalries are not uncommon....”

“I wanted to sentence you to death and you still could not stop thinking about me inside of you-”

“Oh shit L…”

“-or my hands on your cock or my fingers stretching you wide open. You still want me to whisper in your ear and moan , telling you what a good boy you are, right?”

“Yes… yes I want that L…”

L tutted, “And yet you aren’t a good boy. Desperate and begging… Writing down naughty thoughts and fantasies about someone who you wanted to die?” L shook his head, casually tossing the book aside. He reached for his own cock again, slowly stroking it watching Light fall apart, giving himself dual sensations, “Kira needs to make up his mind about what he wants. Because I don’t think he is good at all.”

“ L please…”

“Please, what?”

“Please let me on your cock.”

“Why would I allow that?”

Light stopped his movements on the dildo, only slowly stroking his cock at the same speed as L was his own, “I am not a good boy, I am a cock-slut for you, and only ever you. Fuck me please,” Light begged, broken and desperate.

L stood up and grabbed Light’s hands, pulling him off of the toy. He brushed the hair out of Light’s eyes and pulled Light on top of him, “So good, Kira. You don’t have to be a good boy for me, you can just be my good slut.”

He kissed L, hard, biting his bottom lip as he lined himself up on L’s dick and sunk down on him.

“ Fuck, you feel so much better than that cheap plastic,” Light straddled L properly, pressing his hands against L’s chest as he rode him, not wasting anytime picking up speed.

“Such a good whore for me, Kira,” L said, kissing his wrist, “You really do ride cock like you get paid to do it.”

“I know,” Light said, breathy and fucked.

L huffed, “A bit cocky, aren-”

“Now it’s your turn to shut up,” Light said, pressing down on L’s pressure points, his fingertips pushing hard enough into his throat it will surely leave marks against his pale skin.

L’s eyes rolled in the back of his head and Light moved his hips faster, L snapping back up to meet his thrusts, which quickly became sloppy as black dots began dancing in the corners of his eyes and his lungs started burning. His eyes welled up with tears and his entire body was on fire, his limbs going limp. He felt the white, hot edge so close and tangible. Every thrust felt like a rattle of electricity hitting every nerve and every part of his consciousness so closely and he just needed more -- Light relented, moving his hands away from his throat. L eyes snapped open wide and he coughed, taking heavy breaths. Tears fell from the corners of his eyes, and he dug his fingertips into Light’s waist, harshly grabbing him by the hips.

“L? I’m sorry, you told me you would tap out if-”

“Kira, more-- again-- now.” L commanded, and Light did not hesitate. He grabbed him by the throat and put his fingers in L’s mouth for good measure. Light was riding him with expert pace and precision, his lower body strength and years of running paying off. L’s legs trembled, and he used the last bit of his unfucked mind to dig his nails into Light’s hips and rock him faster and faster on his cock, reaching that beautiful and terrible and intense edge.

“ Ah- L! ” Light comes only a few seconds before L himself, moaning around Light’s fingers as he loosened his grip, but still only letting a fraction of the air healthy for the human brain into his head.

Light did not move himself off of L immediately. He moved his hand away from his throat, but kept small pressure on his neck with one of his thumbs.

“What are you doing?” L muttered. Light said nothing. L opened his eyes, tapping him. “Light?”

Light blinked, looking back, “Sorry, was feeling your pulse.”

“Why?”

“Wanted to make sure I didn’t kill you.”

L smiled softly, “Don’t want me dead anymore?”

“Sometimes. Certainly not like this, it’s too personal.”

“What, killing me while my cock is in your ass is too close for comfort?”

“Something like.” Light smirked and pressed a soft kiss against L’s lips.

After cleaning up, Light told L he wanted to burn the dream journal to prevent further embarrassment.

“Over my dead body.” L said, holding the notebook just out of reach.

Light smirked, “I have no problem arranging that.”

[vanitysruin]

11. These vain reflections.

All was still in the deep, deep darkness that arrested her.

Delial was not unconscious, a realization that took precious time to make. The chill on her skin, the stillness in her chest, the sensation of being suspended in water without water crept back into her senses one by one. That her flesh did not glow for the first time in a dozen suns or more was eerie enough to make her consider the possibility that she was indeed in some manner of dream, but then the dark swept away just a little, like great wings peeling back in preparation of flight, and ugly veins of unearthly light crept beneath her skin once more.

It was a vast and grey place and she was alone. No, not alone, never alone. The Ascian's presence was unmistakable, the shadow that grounded her in the light-less gulf of nothing. She imagined, for a moment, that his silence was a courtesy: that he was letting her acclimate whatever trial it was meant to be. It was many moments more before he spoke.

"Focus."

His voice echoed off nothing and into nothing, and he sounded both near and distant. "Not even I can teach you what you already know. Focus. It has always existed in you, even if you've so shamefully forgotten. All it takes is but a nudge." He continued, disembodied and stern. "I have told you my story. Tell me of yours. Let us see who you are."

"But I--"

"Focus. Your Mother crystal has given you such commands before, as she not? Hear... Think... Feel." The contempt in his voice was palpable, and Delial imagined it took a great deal of will to keep his tone cool. Even so, it became edged and taciturn. "If it aids you, then do it. If you cannot, then--"

"I will. I will. A moment, please. I..."

Remember. Remember. Who am I?

Who am I?

She closed her eyes. She took a breath. She reached out for the memories packed away, before they called her hero.

I am.... I...

Something whisked past her, slid under her arms like wind. If she thought hard enough, she could almost feel... almost feel...

... the stone tile floors of home. Warm stone walls the color of faded terracotta. The city outside is grand beyond measure, incomprehensible. I have never been so safe as I was here, all those years ago. I take comfort in the little things that shaped my world. The mosaic in blue and white and gold on the wall on the floor beneath the hearth. The only portrait in the house of us, the five of us, forced together into one gaudy frame. 

The suggestion of a query brushed past her then. Her toes touched upon something cool and solid. The grey broke into the warmer palette of her youth. No longer suspended, she found her footing in the center of a room that grew out around her, blooming into the shapes she can remember from a life so far away. It was Emet-Selch's doing, she knew, but there was still a tingle of pride in her heart. The nostalgia grew bolder as she remembered, remembered--

Down the hall, my father's study with its broad double doors left wide open. Stacked wall to wall with shelves and books and maps and nonsense. It spilled out into the parlor, my mother's domain, infesting the heart of our house with his scholarly obsessions. A pair of antlers, aldgoat maybe, mounted, purchased. Father was not a hunter, but mother loved it so. Said it reminded her of home. That was all the reason he needed. A thick woven rug, sofas that never sat right, left crooked because they would just get bumped out of order anyway. They were ugly things inherited through the passing of an uncle and father would hear no word of replacing them. They smelled of smoke and old wood and feathers. His favorite armchair, too, a hideous leather affair that looked as though it had survived calamities. Maybe it had.

The floor solidified first, and then the walls, and then it arched and curved overhead to seal the ceiling. Shorter than she remembered but she, too, was a shorter thing in those days long gone. Growing bold, she chanced a step, and then another. It did not surprise her to find that her feet were bare and she was no longer wearing the grim black robes that had become her working uniform. In its stead she wore a pale yellow sundress patterned with small embroidered wildflowers. And as the rest of the room filled in, populated by vague shapes that resolved themselves into drapes and books and laundry long forgotten, so too did Emet-Selch, occupying a place behind her father's armchair. He ran a gloved finger over it as if checking for dust. He did not seem impressed. 

"Quaint," he said. The echoing was gone, his voice constrained by this semblance of body, of place.

Her fondness for the scene was nearly dispelled right then and there. Her father would have nearly lost his mind with rage if he had ever played host the eminent Solus Zos Galvus. She wasn't so sure about her mother: at the least, she would be deeply amused to offer him a seat on those hideous green sofas. Arms nested at the small of his back and he stood without his usual slouch, stately and severe, much more akin to the image she was familiar with as a child. Imperious, through and through, though thoroughly indifferent to all he surveyed. 

"And what of it?," Delial said, perhaps a little more defensively than she intended. "I loved it here." All the trappings of home in a darkened room sitting an eternity away, back upon the Source. Not once had she revisited it person, not even after the city had been liberated. Surely it belonged to someone else, abandoned was. It was her own personal Amaurot, empty of the people she loved. There was nothing left for her there.

"I'm sure you did." Emet-Selch prowled, scrutinizing the little things that cluttered the place: a bowl of tarnished silver filled with crumbling potpourri, the heft of a stray book, the fraying corners of her father's armchair. He had the audacity to seat himself, first smoothing out the tail of his coat before plopping down with all the nobility he typically elected to ignore, save but for the shite-eating grin he pointed squarely her way. "Not bad. Not good, but not... terrible. I confess, I prefer my seats a little more gaudy and, shall we say, Imperial. But to each their own."

An ass is still an ass. He snickered as if she'd said it aloud. 

"This is where we begin, then. The furthest you can go?"

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. Who were you, here?" He waggled his fingers, gesturing about the room.

Delial's hands brushed down the front of her dress. It was her favorite when she was little. One size too large, just as she remembered. Who was I? "I am Delial Blackstone. Daughter of Lyra and Garren, sister of Westor and Harvard, and I am a child of Ala Mhigo." 

"And this is before you met your Scions of the Seventh Dawn?"

Delial blinked at him. His hands steepled, fingertips meshing together, and his golden eyes stared through them expectantly. 

"Of course it is. I was-- I was a child. I didn't leave here, until..."

"... Until..."

"Until after the Calamity."

"And before? Who were you then?"

Smoke and gunfire. They'd become more and more prevalent in the days after the occupation, and would rile up again and again and again. The streets were safe if you complied. If you did not, then perhaps the Kinslayer would find you. There were so many of us then, nameless terrors that struck in the night, we who fought against a divided Ala Mhigo. They made us this way. We were their weapons, and we served proudly. It was for the betterment of our country. It was for the sake of our people. We knew these things. We believed it all.

Something pinched behind Delial's eyes. It did not take her by surprise: a familiar sensation, when she tried to reach back into those earlier years. Some things stood out to her clear as daylight: the marches, the bodies, the razing of the temples, the fall of the Mad King. Others yet remained vague and fuzzy, and it was not until much later in life that she realized that that may have been by design. The Imperials had their ways and Delial had not been so immune to them as she'd been led to believe. She thought herself chosen, favored, stronger than the things that bent her weak-minded countrymen.

"Well?" Emet-Selch's voice was impatient, his gaze much too sharp. She turned away from him to pad towards the window and with a sweep of her arms she drew open the curtains. Outside, the sky was a sea of oranges, reds, violets, and hanging high above it all was the red moon, a smoldering wound yet to inflict itself upon the world. The street before her home was quiet and empty, dark but for the occasional ring of bone white light. Even without the oppressive presence of the moon, many found a simpler and safer option in retreating to their homes once the sun was near enough to setting. Imperial patrols and ruffians, traitors and ne'er-do-wells, often prowled and clashed in the night. Smoke and gunfire, the crackle of magitek energy, the pale yellow searchlights peppered throughout the ward: such was the cost of a better, stronger Ala Mhigo.

"I was an agent," Delial said. "I sought out enemies of the Legatus and of the Empire within the city. Grimsong." The name brought about a reflexive smirk. "I called myself Grimsong. I was feared. The resistance knew me and they trembled. And then, one day, they caught me. It was not until much later - until Lyse, and the Griffin, and the rebellion - that I ever dared go back."

Movement drew her eye a little ways down the street. Shadowed figures paced by with their faces low, eyes darkened. Their lips moved but she could not hear them. As they passed nearer, she imagined she recognized the dark plum hair of the shorter figure. Perhaps she even caught their eye when they seemed to take particular interest in her house, staring as they and their companion stalked by. Soon enough they were gone, and the street was still once again. As an imaginary sun slowly set, the sky turned from firey to cool, and the burning red wound that was Dalamud became the lesser blue tomb from which another dragon would rise.

"How curious. Captured by the very rebels you had tormented for so long, and yet you live?"

"I know not how to explain it."

"Naturally." Emet-Selch tapped his fingers together, and rose from his seat. She imagined it was by some courtesy that he made some semblance of moving as a mortal might. In this place, she was certain he could snap his fingers and move mountains if he wished. Instead, he paced and took a place beside her at the window. "I believe I'm more or less familiar with all that rubbish between points B and C. C being here, of course. Or rather, I can take a guess." He cleared his throat and gestured with his hand as he spoke. "By some miracle you encounter the Scions, who somehow manage to recruit you to their cause: to become their Warrior of Light, and fight back against the Garlean and Primal threat. And so on, and so on, a few twists and turns later, you arrive here upon the First. Does that sound about right to you?"

"T'was a bit more involved than that, I assure you," Delial grumbled in response. It was pointless to be annoyed with him: an immortal thing, an Ascian, who expected the impossible and thus was forever disappointed. At times she had foolishly thought he wasn't entirely dismissive of her existence, fractured or not. And then there were times, as he did then, where he looked at her as if she were little more than a stain upon his coat.

"I'm certain it was. How very trying and difficult it must have been for you, hero, you have my greatest sympathies." Emet-Selch turned to her, all the better for him to stare down his nose at her. "You may not trust me, and though it wounds me I can live with it just fine. 'Tis to be my lot in life, ever the shady villain for you small-minded things. You know the feeling, don't you?" A cruel smile, a single chuckle, aimed perfectly to hurt. "Ah, but I distract myself. Let me ask you this, then, since your brain has been so conveniently muddled: do you believe me? That as I am His champion, you, then, are Hers?"

"If we are tempered, then how do we act as we do? As if we yet retain will and thought? I have seen--"

"What you have seen," he cut her off, "Are but pale imitations of a greater art. The principles may be the same, more or less, and we share them as best we can. To their credit, sometimes they come close, but sometimes..." Emet-Selch shook his head, a show of dismay that could not hide the cold twist of his lips. "What we achieved was perfection, and thus it follows that the will of our gods be manifested perfectly in us. Do you think any of this would have been possible were we reduced to mindless, drooling creatures?"

The Paragons warned of thine abhorrent kind. The echo of a boiling, raspy voice brought with it the vague shape of a god. Ifrit, or a vague semblance of Ifrit, descended upon the street. A crown of horns aglow, magma-hot, a maw eager to breathe his blessed flame: he stared at her balefully, accusatory. His lean and lanky shape flared bright but not bright enough, and soon enough his limbs and body crumbled like so much ash, leaving his fury to writhe like the smoke of an inferno long starved for kindling.. 

Beside him, a massive shape rumbled to life: Titan, towering above his beastial kin, glowered from beneath a heavy stone brow. Godless overdweller! Thy myriad heresies shall not go unpunished! He beat his fists together with a great boom of boulders colliding, and in doing so his body cracked and crumbled, the mountain broken before the warrior that was his doom.

Last came the gale, Garuda, a wreath of wings and talons and vicious hunger. Amid the whirl of claw and feather she could see Garuda's maddened stare, the fury born from disbelief. What are you? What have you done to me?! No mortal should possess such power! The winds stilled around her as she shrieked rage and agony. Feathers wilted and fell away from a single point of light: a crystal, torn from her breast, gleaming like a knife's edge. Impossible! Impossible!

Their trinity, bested years ago and a world away, collapsed and faded into ash. It was Ifrit's eyes that remained upon her to the last before they too scattered, grey and lifeless. Thou art of the godless blessed's number. Thine existence is not to be suffered.

"And so you trounced all that was set before you, god and man alike. Thus you embraced this mantle of yours: Warrior of Light, the Champion of Hydaelyn. She never even tried to hide it from you, did she? You knew no better. Those around you knew no better." Emet-Selch turned to lean a shoulder against the edge of the window and fixed her with a pitying smile. "All it took was a glimpse of a world consumed by her accursed Light, and even then..."

“I don’t want to talk about Her,” she said. A fresh, new ache clawed at her mind. Even knowing the story between Light and Dark, the casual hatred that simmered beneath Emet-Selch’s words felt appalling, wrong. Heed not the Dark One’s words. Was it command or memory that brought Her voice, so long absent, back to light? 

“Ah, but we should!” He sensed her pain, surely he did, and he was ever ready to sink his fangs right in. Emet-Selch rounded in on her, forced himself into her place by the window, set gloved hands upon her shoulders to hold her there. “We must. Long have I known of her treachery, but I hadn’t realized the depths of her depravity until now. Oh, now it’s all too clear.” 

Outside, the blue false moon strained and cracked, ready to burst. What emerged, shattering its constraints like glass, was no dragon but instead it was the very image of Her. Hydaelyn’s crystalline avatar loomed over the city, glimmering and pulsating with a light that no longer seemed as calm as serene as She once did. Warrior of Light, She seemed to call. Beloved daughter.

“It was only natural, I suppose: once tempered, forever tempered.” Delial could not tell if it was rage or light that flared up again inside her. His hands could have been a comfort were they not so cold and unfamiliar. Low he bowed himself that he could meet her eyes, that she could not escape his so easily. “But to take everything from you, after all you did in Her name. That is a cruelty even I cannot abide, not even for you.”

Remember. Remember. The fury of the light renewed itself, reaffirmed its presence with every beat of her heart. “These riddles again!” Delial wanted to beat it out of him, pummel the grim smug look clear off his face, but she could scarcely even focus on him. Again the light clouded her eyes, drowning out the Ascian and her reconstructed home. Above the city, the crystal glistened brighter and brighter still: an omen, a warning. From sparkling mote shall I swell to glorious sun...

“Hear! Think! Feel!” Her mantra was spat at her and Emet-Selch loomed closer still, defiant of the light that tried to blind her. “The empty places in your life, the impressions of people you loved but never knew! All these falsehoods made to shutter your eyes, to deny you your own truth!”

The crystal burned and with it the sky, brightening again in yellows and reds. In the distance, beyond the silence of this false home and the sound of Emet-Selch’s voice, came a steady, rising roar.

… and all the world shall bask in my warmth.

“Defy her. Defy her and remember. Remember who you are! Remember us! Remember--”

It came upon them, a flood of wretched, angry light. The memory of Ala Mhigo crumbled before it, even the highest walls unable to withstand the crystal’s wrath. The great griffon perched atop the gate, the palace, the menagerie, all fell in an instant, obliterated without a chance to resist. It was upon the street outside in an instant, and then it filled the window with its malice, blinding and deafening and complete in its destruction. Delial felt herself violently jostled, and she was certain that she would be obliterated too, dashed against the walls of a place that did not truly exist.

Remember us.

She could not hear but for the roaring in her ears. She could not think but for the absence of everything, of self, in the heart of absolute light. She could not feel but for the fire upon her skin.

Remember.

Time passed. How many moments she could not tell; how many breaths she did not count. She became aware, just as she did when first Emet-Selch brought her into that grey oblivion, of numbness in her limbs and a new pain in her heart. When she opened her eyes, the light was gone but for motes that hung around her like tiny fading stars.

She was not alone.

An Ascian stood opposite her. They stared at her expectantly, unmoving, silent. Delial frowned, overcome by a most peculiar sense of deja vu. She had seen this before.

Ware thee the bearer of the Crimson Brand, a voice nudged into her heart. She ignored it. She waited, watching. Any moment now, the Ascian would bare their teeth like a beast, splay their clawed hands, and charge.

She waited. They waited. The stars around them fell and rose in slow, artificial orbit. 

Ware thee, for he is an Avatar of Shadow, that voice urged her, Whom death attendeth always. But there was no strength left behind it, no force of will to veil her mind.

This was where it began, was it not?

They are different somehow, this Ascian, different in a way that did not occur to her to notice before. Their robe was black and long and adorned with the markings of Zodiark’s devout. But their mask was not the deep crimson of their peers, but rather a pitch black, and in place of the speaker’s fangs or the emissary’s hooked beak, they were adorned with an extra set of narrowed, scrutinizing eyes.

Typical of him, she thought, wondering how she could have ever forgotten.When did he stop being so familiar?

The first time such a vision was placed before her, Delial too wore robes of black. They were different then, motley and crude, better suited to an aspiring adventurer. Now, they were longer and simple, a modest echo of her silent companion’s attire. Such decoration was not meant for her. But him… he was His most earnest champion, His most favored and rightly so.

Remember us.

She raised her head.

“Hades.”

Her voice rang out with a clarity that sounded alien in her own ears, and in that place it echoed out for an eternity. It struck him like a bolt of lightning, and his body flinched and straightened from its habitual slouch. He stopped himself from approaching, as if thinking better of it, hesitating. Time meant little enough to the immortal but millennia were still millennia and it had torn a gulf between them all the same. At last he brought himself to speak and his voice, too, took a timbre that did not suit his lesser, mortal shape. Deep and rich, it filled her heart like a song long forgotten.

“You’re a little late,” he said. There was a tremor in his voice, hidden deep beneath his brusque tone, beneath his sardonic nature. Ala Mhigo was gone, the cluttered parlor with its people-shaped holes was gone, but in those four words, Delial thought she felt the barest trace of home.

[aliceslantern]

Nocturnal Memory, A Kingdom Hearts Fanfic, chapter 2

[Summary: Dying takes a lot out of you, it's true, but when Demyx wakes up for the first time since his fight with Sora nothing's right. His memories are fragmented and he's missing his true name. And he's not the only one. An incomprehensible mystery and an inevitable war make him question what, exactly, he would do to become whole, and reclaim the music lost to him.

Chapter 2/34]

He hadn’t expected the water to be so salty. It seared into his skin and burned the still-healing blisters all over his hands. When he choked and swore at the pain, the sailors just laughed at him. “Hurts, don’t it,” one of them said. “Maybe it’ll toughen you up.”

           Sometimes when he thought hard he realized how shitty his life was, to end up here. But he didn’t like to think. It got messy. The best thing to do was stay under the radar and keep his nose clean, and do just enough work to avoid being noticed. Maybe somewhere out beyond the sea he could find some place new, some place where the people were friendly and where you didn’t have to indenture yourself to avoid starving…

 Demyx woke drenched in sweat. His head was foggy and he fought against it, trying to remember what had happened this time. His shirt had been taken off and the bandages clinging to his left side were rusty red with dried blood. He lay back down slowly into bed. He felt like… he’d had a dream… he tried to reach for it before he forgot it entirely. Something about the ocean…

[on FF.net/ on AO3]

“I hope you’re happy with yourself.” Ienzo’s stern voice forced him to look across the room. Demyx couldn’t see his face; he was ripping bandages out of an old sheet. The sheer tearing sound made him uneasy. “What’s the point of treating your wounds if you’re just going to keep ripping them open?”

           Yes, that was right… it was starting to come back. Even those memories from just a few hours ago seemed so indistinct and dreamlike. He’d… he’d left the room to try and find answers, but had only ended up passing out. “I’m sorry. But staying here alone is driving me crazy. I need to know what’s going on.”

           “Have you considered that the people around you know what they’re doing? I’m not keeping things from you out of spite, but with your welfare in mind. We’ll tell you what we know when you’re healed. Not before.” Ienzo’s sharp tone kept a rigid beat with the ripping cloth.

           “Alright. Alright.” He exhaled, sending another spasm of pain through his body as well as a wave of frustration.

           Ienzo kept working. For a long time that was how it went; Demyx would struggle to breathe without causing himself more pain, and the sound of the fabric would make him a little more anxious.

           “Ienzo?”

           “What?” He asked tersely.

           “I want you to call me Demyx.”

           The ripping stopped; Demyx sighed with relief. Ienzo paused but didn’t turn. He looked tense. “I suppose it’s your choice.”

           “I just don’t want to be known as a number. It’s bad enough that I have to use the name he gave me.” He looked up at the ceiling; the plaster was cracked and there was water damage. He kneaded a handful of blanket with one hand.

           Ienzo said nothing and resumed his work.

           Demyx closed his eyes. “Are you… mad at me?” He asked, and immediately felt stupid. “I mean, I know I wasn’t supposed to leave the room, but—”

           “I apologize if I seem tense. I am not angry with you.” Rip. Rip. There was no more sheet left. Ienzo hesitated, and then began to roll up the strips. “Are you still in pain?”

           “Well, it only hurts when I breathe, move, or am conscious, so you know…” He laughed a little nervously.

           “Then I trust I can leave you be for a few minutes? Will you be here when I get back?”

           He sighed. “Yes. I’ll stay here. I promise.”

           “Then I must take my leave for the time being.” He slammed the door behind him without once making eye contact or even looking in Demyx’s direction.  

He was slowly drowning in boredom.

           Time moved slower than molasses. At least Ienzo had had the propriety to bring him some books to read, but Demyx was never one to sit in a room and read for hours. He couldn’t read more than fifty pages without getting antsy. It seemed odd to him that none of the others had visited. They hadn’t been the greatest of friends, it was true, but he was so tired of being alone that he would probably talk to an old boot. Sometimes the stiff silence felt like it might suffocate him.

           And even when Ienzo came, he never really engaged in conversation, but would say stuff like, “Really?” or “Is that so?” Demyx even tried to get him to talk about books, which he knew Ienzo loved unconditionally. He always seemed tense and stressed. In the week or so that passed before he was feeling better, Ienzo seemed to lose weight. His eyes were constantly bloodshot with heavy circles underneath them. Demyx knew it was pointless to ask what was wrong, though he nursed a small seed of resentment for being treated like a child.

           After ten slow, torturous days passed, he was more or less healed. He could breathe and sit up without being in agony, even if he would occasionally get a skittering flare if he exerted himself. The bandages were gone now, leaving behind a mess of angry red scars that were both numb and hypersensitive at the same time; so sensitive, in fact, that the coarse cotton of his buttoned shirts was too much, and he had to wear an undershirt. He could walk across the room without feeling faint. Demyx couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t think he could be in this room for one more hour without going insane.

           “I’m better,” he said to Ienzo as he checked his vitals. “You said so yourself yesterday. I’m better so please let me out of here or I swear to god I’m going to lose my mind.”

           Ienzo stared at him wearily. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “It’s not fair to you anymore. You are absolutely right.” His voice was monotonous.

           “Why are you acting so weird?” Demyx asked. “You’ve been off all week. What’s going on?”

           Ienzo sighed. He crossed his arms. “You’d best get some shoes on and come with me.”

           The only shoes he had were his boots from the Organization, and even those seemed oddly loose in the calves and feet. Can you lose weight in your feet? He wondered. Still, it was a peculiar thought. What had happened to the cloaks? The only clothing he had now had been provided anonymously—simple, plain pieces with worn patches in the knees and elbows.

           Demyx followed Ienzo out of the room and down the hallway. Even with the sconces, it was so dark. Different situation, different castle, but we’re still in a clusterfuck, Demyx thought.

           It took a long time. He might have been stronger than he was after waking up, but still he quickly tired and a steady burn soon started in his legs. He said nothing and tried to keep his breathing level in case Ienzo changed his mind and took him back. He missed his old body’s vitality. He might have died, and he might have a heart now, but still it sucked that he could barely walk without getting tired.

           “You can rest, if you need, Nine,” Ienzo said as they rounded yet another corner. “I know it’s far and you’re still weak.”

           “How big is this place?” Demyx asked instead.

           “It’s not quite as large as the Organization’s, but it is a bit of an architectural folly. There’s no easy way to get from one place to the other. I… had almost forgotten.” A dreamy look came into Ienzo’s eyes.

           “So you’ve been here before?” Demyx asked.

           “Well, yes, of course. The first eight members of the Organization all lived in Radiant Garden prior to our transformation some twelve years ago. And most of us lived right here, in Ansem the Wise’s castle. I grew up here.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “My parents died when I was quite young. Ansem saw the potential in me and took me in.”

           “I’m sorry.” He’d known that the first six members of the Organization had been scientists, but most of the details he’d heard were hazy or vague. Still, Ienzo seemed much too young; he couldn’t be more than a year older than him.

           “It’s quite all right. I scarcely remember them anymore,” he said. “Even is more of a father to me, I suppose.”

           Demyx wondered where all this was coming from, after so many days of silence. He was tempted to ask. “Even raised you?”

           “In a way. Ansem the Wise was a scientist, but he was also a childless politician. He had no time or means to take care of a child, and I was only eight when I was taken in. Even had already been a parent. It seemed a natural arrangement.”

           “Vex—Even is a father?” Demyx asked. He tried to fit together his idea of Vexen with the concept of parenthood, and he couldn’t.

           “Was,” Ienzo said softly. “His son died many years ago. A sickness that could not be cured with magic. He turned to Ansem for that reason. And after he died… well... I suppose we became one another’s surrogates.” He shrugged.

           Demyx anagrammed quickly. “And Ansem the Wise… is Xemnas’s Somebody?”

           Ienzo smiled, but it was dry and ironic. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

           Ienzo told him everything.

Demyx was reeling. He could barely get his head around the story—it seemed fake—but the part of his mind that was hardwired to figure things out began to fill in the blanks. “So… I was right?” He asked weakly. “I was right about us having hearts.” He laughed. “It was a joke then, to me. I thought…” Part of him felt deeply unclean, and he hugged himself absently. The idea of being a vessel for someone… his body taken, violated…He shut down the thought before it ran its course.

           Ienzo sighed. “It seemed so foolish. But now we know so much more.”

           “So what does that mean for us? For me? Are we all just trying to move on, or… where is Xemnas… Xehanort?”

           Ienzo shook his head. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Or at least the committee is.”

           The committee… that name sounded familiar… Demyx groaned. “You’re kidding me.”

           Ienzo shrugged. “You have to admit that this is the best option for more information.”

           “The Restoration Committee works with Sora. Who, might I add, killed most of us?” His voice rose. “They helped orchestrate our deaths.”

           Ienzo touched Demyx’s arm. “Please. Try to remain calm. You’re healed, but I don’t want you to stress. Look at it this way. Had your Nobody survived, you wouldn’t be here today. You wouldn’t be human.”

           “But I would have been,” Demyx said. “Eventually, with time, if this bullshit is true and we were growing hearts. I would have had my memories. I would have known my damn name.”

           “I know it seems strange, but I promise you that this is for the best. The committee holds no ill will against us now that we’re on their side. We’ve been pardoned.” Ienzo eased Demyx down against the wall.

           “For what? What did we do that was so bad?” He demanded. “Maybe there’s a lot of shit I don’t know about the Organization, but what did we do?”

           Ienzo said nothing about that. “You really have remembered nothing of your previous human life? After all this time?” He asked instead.

           “No,” Demyx said. His heart was still racing. “I get… dreams… vague snippets of things… but… everything else is blank.”

           “I see,” he said.

           “You said we shouldn’t worry. But… shouldn’t I be whole?” He asked. “Isn’t that what this is all about? Now I’m even worse off than before.”

           “It seems so odd…” Ienzo said, more to himself than anything. “Why is the damage so extensive? Why you?”

           “What the hell are you talking about?” Demyx asked.

           Ienzo shook his head. “We need to keep moving. We’re going to go see Even.”

“Look left.”

           The room was frigid and bright white, just like he remembered the castle used to be; he shivered. It didn’t help that he was currently shirtless and his body was pressed against a cold metal table. A bright penlight seared his retina. He tried to do what Even said.

           “And right again,” Even commanded. They had been going at this for some time. At first it seemed like some sort of concussion test, to see if his eyes could follow, but now Demyx was just getting irritated.

           The light clicked off, finally. Demyx’s eyes watered from the intrusion. He slipped his undershirt back on tried to rub the warmth back into his arms.

           Even’s lab was a disaster area—not at all how he remembered it. In the Organization it had been so orderly and well-stocked, but here the glass cabinets that were against all of the walls were smashed, there were only some scattered brown glass bottles, and exposed pipe jutted from the ceiling. It must drive him crazy.

           “What do you think?” Ienzo asked even, looking up from the moldering book he’d been perusing.

           “I’m not sure,” Even said. “We know so little, but I think your initial diagnosis is on the right path.”

           “Guys, I’m right here,” Demyx said.

           Even looked at him. There was no warmth in the expression, only befuddlement, like he was a puzzle that couldn’t be solved. There had been no love lost between them, but still it seemed unfair to Demyx that after all this time that their interaction was nothing more than routine. “It’s hard to say for sure. But we have reason to believe that someone—or something—interfered with your reformation.”

           He blinked. His eyes were still stinging after the flashlight, and little purple dots swarmed across his vision. “What does that mean?” He saw Ienzo and Even exchange a look.

           “You’re not…” Ienzo hesitated. It was so unusual for him to stumble over his words that Demyx’s anxiety spiked. “You’re not whole. We have reason to believe…”

           “We believe that your heart has been fractured,” Even finished.

           “I don’t understand,” Demyx said. A tremor had crept into his voice. “What does that… I don’t…”

           “We’re not certain,” Ienzo said after a moment. “There is so little concrete, scientific information about the heart. We know that it’s a necessary component for a sentient being to exist. We know how darkness and light affect it, and that it can, in fact, break without the body falling to darkness. But other than that, we know nothing.”

           Even took the book Ienzo had been poring through and flipped through the pages. “The heart contains memories, yes, but it only contains emotions and connections with others. It’s the will that makes logical sense of these things through its physical existence in the mind—it fills in facts. So if the heart is fractured… it would make sense for your memories not to be fully realized. They remain in your heart, but you cannot physiologically recall them. But the real mystery remains… how did this happen?” He shoved the book at Demyx and paced over to the window.

           The page had a crude diagram of the three components of being—a silhouette of a body, a heart in the center of the chest, and a dotted line drawn around the silhouette to signify the will.

           “But if your heart was fractured, you shouldn’t be able to remember anything. You’d be a complete and total amnesiac. You still quite clearly have some semblance of self. How is the memory loss so distinct, with such a clear cutoff?” Even spoke slowly, as if he wasn’t aware that both of them were in the room. He turned. “And why are you the only one with this much damage?” He demanded.

           “You think I know?” Demyx asked. “Like, seriously? I just woke up like this.” There was a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach and he thought he might be sick. “What will happen to me, then?”

           “It’s hard to be sure,” Ienzo said with some difficulty. “We had thought that eventually you would finish your reformation and become whole. But it seems like that won’t be happening. Right now we should try not to cause any further damage.”

           “You can’t fix it?” Demyx asked. He looked down.

           “I’m afraid not,” Ienzo said. “And even if there were some way, I’d be too afraid to mettle, in case something were to go wrong.”

           “Will it… heal itself?”

           “We don’t know,” Even said. He actually had the balls to try and be sympathetic. “I wish the answer were yes.”

           “Oh,” Demyx said. “I see.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “And… what happens if it gets worse? What would make it get worse?”

           Ienzo shook his head. “Should your heart totally shatter, you would be reduced to a comatose state. It’s possible that you could become a Nobody again, but shattering doesn’t draw out darkness in the same way. Restoration to a human state would be unlikely. Hearts only restore themselves if they’ve been lost.”

           “I’ll be as good as dead,” Demyx said. He felt faint. “And what are the odds of this happening?”

           “In your position, thankfully slim,” Ienzo said.

           “Or so we believe,” Even said. Ienzo shot him a look. “There’s no need to lie to the boy, Ienzo. The truth of the matter is that your heart may still try to heal itself. Your being will try to restore its natural order. Your memories may begin to return… and the energy and trauma that reawakens in you could threaten to shatter it.”

           “Trauma?” This was just getting worse and worse. He could barely listen anymore; he felt dizzy. But it was like looking at a train wreck—he had to find out more.

           “Well, surely considering you became a Nobody your heart and will are quite strong,” Ienzo said. He patted Demyx’s knee, and Demyx flinched. “It’s a stronger will that keeps one from falling into despair and, subsequently, the darkness. There must be moments from your past where you needed to strengthen your will in order to survive. Moments of crisis…”

           “Oh,” he squeaked. It was getting hard to breathe. He had to get out of here; but he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to run. “So what the hell am I supposed to do? Just… just… live like this? With the fact that any moment I could remember something and fall over and never wake up?” His fingers had gone numb.

           “Demyx,” Ienzo said. “The possibility of this happening is all very slim.”

           “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped. “You keep saying you don’t know much about the heart. How can you be sure that I’ll be okay?” A tight pain gathered in his chest.

           “We can’t,” Even said.

[thefamilyineverknew]

Turning 47: pt. X

“Take the Highway to the Great Divide”

22-23 May 2018

Being a mono-tasker does have its advantages; a sharp focus on the task at hand, attention to detail, seeing a project through to the end. However, it comes with some stark deficits. In my haste and certitude in driving here, I have not only completely forgotten to contact any of my friends in Colorado to let them know I would be in the area, I haven’t even bothered to look up who is even living here. I have not thought this through.

Colorado Springs sits at the rough middle point in the state, east of the range, and I decide I’ll stop there to gather myself and hatch a plan. I just plug “Colorado Springs” into the navigator and let it guide me its deemed destination in the city, where ever that happens to be. It turns out to be the courthouse. So, park and sit for awhile, feeling mildly panicked, checking FB for people I know in Colorado and start writing. Friends who haven’t heard from me in years are now receiving messages, like “Hey, I’m in Colorado. Are you around?”.

Not feeling like the brightest bulb in the pack, I feel like a walk in the sunshine and a good stretch the legs is in order. As I head up the downtown street and across to a park, my senses are heightened by the unfamiliarity of the place. This leads me to finding a café. Starbucks, of course. Like a McDonald’s sign in a foreign country, a known quantity in a strange place is always a welcomed sight, however bland or blasé it might be. I order an iced coffee and take a seat outside. Check my social for any messages (none), and sip my cold beige.

Yesterday, before they left the farm, my aunt Lydia gave me both her phone number and my uncle Harry Kent’s, saying I would be welcomed to stay with them in Denver, should the need arise. Need has arisen. So I make the call.

Harry Kent & Lydia had been career missionaries in Costa Rica until retiring back to the US a few years ago. Though I had just been with them in Kansas, I hadn’t seen them for decades prior. They are very gracious, but also quite staid, so I am feeling both grateful and a bit like I’m on my tip-toes when Lydia gives me the green light to come.

The drive from Colorado Springs to my aunt & uncle’s takes about an hour and a half, but WHAT an hour and a half. For those who live here, I imagine the mountains to my shoulder and the massive rising and dipping earth formations have long become so commonplace as not to be noticed. But for these fresh eyes, it is a tall drink. I would prefer to be a passenger at this point, giving my full attention to the gorgeousness of it all, like I did when I was a kid on family vacation. As it is, I have to drive, and driving and gawking do not mix easily, especially for this mono-tasker. So, I try keep my eyes on traffic, while stealing glimpses when I am able.

Colorado is where my parents met, at Bear Trap Ranch in the mountains to the west of Colorado Springs. Both were in college at the time and were working there over the summer of ‘66, my mother in the kitchen, while my dad was a horse wrangler. The details of their courtship are unclear to me, other than my dad was strapping and my mom looked like Sally Fields, but I do know they were married within a year and have been ever since. The stretch between their hometowns, from southern Minnesota to western Kansas, was an enormous yawning midwestern gap (one our family would lap dozens of times). My dad would finish his studies at Kansas State in Manhattan, Kansas (very confusing when I was a kid. Where were the skyscrapers?), while my mom would teach kindergarten. Then they would move to Denver, where my dad would attend seminary, which is where I come into the picture in 1971.

In those early years, I can remember returning with them to Bear Trap; seeing young college co-eds in school sweatshirts, the smell of ponderosa pine, and the incomprehensible natural wonder of the mountains and surroundings. My dad always talked about his desire to move back to the Rockies when he retired. Instead, it is his older brother, Harry Kent, who has made Colorado his post-career residence.

The sun is setting as I arrive at their place; a latin turquoise blue house in a neighborhood of strict beige on beige. I absolutely approve. My aunt & uncle greet me at the door, show me my room, and give me the grand tour. The walls are lined with artifacts and memories from Costa Rica; sculptures, prints, and paintings. It is such a relief to be able to be caught by the family net, even after so many years and such distance.

Over the next couple days, Arla and I volley emails back and forth; I am still confident, feeling the needle is beginning to point toward a “yes”. In the meantime, I am fielding replies to the odd messages I had sent out to the diaspora of friends in Colorado. I hear from my friend Dawn Wilkinson.

Dawn was the Assistant Residence Director (ARD) in Fischer dorm at Wheaton when I was a Residence Assistant (RA) on 5-South, a year that nearly did me in. See, for both my freshman and sophomore years, I had developed this reputation for being wild and/or crazy, warranted or not. I would merely say that I was uninhibited. I certainly was making the most of my time, going for broke. Anything creative; music, performance, comedy, art, intricate pranks...it was all the same cloth to cut. I was going full-bore and having a blast, trying and doing new things, surrounded by some of the most interesting and creative that I had ever met. I was certainly set on having a good time and making an impact. An impact which backfired on me when, in my junior year, I took on the position as RA.

Now, Wheaton is a small school, about 2400 students, and when word spread that I would be in charge of 5-South, this naturally drew the interest of a certain type of student. One with a certain flexibility to rules and regulations. This would have been all fine and good had the school kept their former RD (Res. Dir.). However, the person they brought in, two weeks before school was to start, was a strict, by the books, rule enforcer. It was law by black & white vs. rainbow tie-dye, that whole year. Had my floor been a full house of buttoned-up types, it still would have been a challenge (it was 46 guys, after all, 18-19 yrs old on their first foray away from home). The sum of these parts added up to a nearly impossible and completely unmanageable year for me. This was the year I learned how to sleep through alarms, the year I sunk Marianas trench deep into Sergio Mendes & Brasil ‘66 records, and the year my grades plummeted, nay, spelunked, a full grade point. One of the saving graces was my superior, Dawn Wilkinson. She was the buffer between me and the RD, and was one of the few reasons I was able to make it through that year, tattered, but intact.

So, now, present day Dawn mentions to me the Air Force Academy is putting on their annual graduation air show in Colorado Springs, where she is. Perhaps, we could meet afterward? So I cruise down to see the air show which has just ended (although there is air to look at). Turns out they had started an hour earlier than scheduled. Bummer. Dawn & I text and she gives me the address of the church where she’s working. I plug in the coordinates and head that way.

I meet her in the church office and we go out to sit in the lobby. We talk Wheaton, our old colleagues from Fischer dorm, Colorado, her husband Dave (who I knew from back then), their kids, my kids, Sweden, and this trip I’m on. I lay down the skinny on why I am out this way.

“Do you think it will happen?”, she asks. “We’ll see, but I feel pretty good about it,” I say. We talk and talk, and then her teenage son and nearly-to-be married daughter arrive. “This is the guy I’ve been telling you about all these years! You know, the crazy one”, or something like that...(not verbatim). More talking and sharing and then it’s time to go. 25 years can go by and feel like a blink of an eye. Time is one of the strangest things we experience in life, I am convinced.

Getting back in the car, I can see Arla has written again! From her tone, I am certain she is getting closer to granting my offer to meet. Time, place, and logistics are the obstacles, yet, what I am seeing looks like a solution is coming....soon.

[whatwouldfrogsdo]

Opportunity (or Dreamer)

Day 6 of Nursey Week!

Trigger warnings: This deals with discussion of racism, particularly racism within the NHL, as well as white supremacy and internalized racism. Disclaimer that I, the writer, am white and so please, please if any of this is insensitive or straight up incorrect let me know and I will edit. There’s also some internalized acephobia.

Also on AO3 here.

“What’s that about?”

Derek looked across at Ransom, then followed his gaze, frowning when he saw April and March playing beer pong. Then he realized that Holster and Dex had sat down to talk just beyond the beer pong table.

Derek paused for a moment, considering if it was okay to answer honestly. “We’ve had NHL scouts. It’s, uh, getting to the point where we have to decide if we’re staying here for fourth year or not.”

“Shit.” Ransom looked impressed. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I think they’re starting to look at Samwell as one of the top colleges to try and pick from or something. Dex and I aren’t talking about it much. We don't want to affect each other’s decision.” His teeth worried at his lip. The reminder of next year's uncertainty got more and more stressful the closer to a decision he felt. The hiss of air next to him told him that Ransom could see some of his doubts, and the next thing Derek knew, he was being steered towards the stairs.

In the attic, they settled on the double  which had replaced the bunk beds about a year earlier, and Derek stretched out so that he was staring at the ceiling. Ransom flopped onto his stomach and tilted his head to look at him.

“What's up?”

“It's stupid.”

“Isn't it always? Okay, start easy. Do you want to play NHL next year or stay here?”

“I want to play NHL, of course I do.”

“And you want Dex to do the same but he's not so sure?”

Derek squeezed his eyes shut. “No. No, I think he'd regret not doing that last year. I didn’t come here for the degree. I came for the college experience, and I can leave after three years knowing I got it. He came as the first person in his family to go to college. It was an effort for him to get here. You never know what might happen with hockey and realistically something could happen that first year before we've made enough to get by on, and I can shrug and live on my parents’ money and maybe write a book or some shit, but he— It would kill him.”

There was a long silence. “Well why the hell aren't you telling him you think that?”

“Because half the time we fight it's about money. And— And because this hits too close to our first ever fight. I applied for the scholarship even though I didn’t need it and he did. What if— What if it’s my privilege talking when I say I want to go into the NHL, but that’s not for him? At least not now. Isn’t it kind of fucked for me to want that success straight away, but want him to wait?”

Ransom pulled the toy frog he and Holster had gifted to them at graduation towards him and had what looked like a staring competition with it while he thought. “I’ve never known you and Dex to avoid fights,” he finally said. “You tell each other what you think, whether it’ll annoy the other one or not. That’s how you work.”

It was true. Derek so rarely told people what he really thought of them, but with Dex he always had, and in the end it had turned into a strange form of trust. Similarly, back in the beginning when Dex was trying to mold himself into somebody he wasn’t, it was only back in the confines and privacy of their shared dorm that he let himself open up, heart pouring out for Derek to see, to the point where they didn’t know how to function when they had to pretend not to know such things about each other. “This is different. This is our futures. Besides, it’s the sort of fight we couldn’t keep up here. It would affect the whole team.”

Ransom stiffened for a moment, and when their eyes crossed, Derek knew both of them were thinking about all those altercations between Ransom and Holster the year before. Making life decisions was difficult.

“Nursey, bro, the main thing is you want what’s best for him.” There was a crack in his voice which betrayed a hint of emotion at the acknowledgement that Holster had only ever wanted the same for him. “And when it comes to privilege- I mean, fuck, have you spent so much time teaching yourself about classism that you’ve forgotten that you playing in the NHL will automatically put you on a Wiki page of Black players in the League? And you'll literally be like the third person with desi heritage. Hockey’s so fucking white, Nursey. You can’t let an opportunity like this pass you by because you’re trying to cater to your white boyfriend’s feelings.”

Derek nodded. He knew that it was true, but forcing himself to make a decision without factoring Dex in seemed impossible.

“Way I see it, Nursey, not talking to each other is making this decision more difficult than if you were. What if he’s thinking the exact same thing but he thinks you want him to go with you?”

“That’s the other thing, though!” Derek said, sitting up. “What if we can’t do long-distance? We’ve been living together in the same fucking room as each other ever since the second time we ever met. It’s not even just since we’ve been together, it’s since before that. We don’t know each other apart. We just went from hating each other’s guts to— to—”

“To disgustingly domestic?”

“Whatever. But we did all of that while living together, and the one summer we were apart was difficult enough and now we’re even closer and he’s my best friend and I don’t know how this would work. We don’t even—” His hand shook a little and he dug his fingernails into his palm as he tried to push the words out. “We probably have sex less than your average long-distance couple already.”

“Woah.” Ransom’s hand flew out and grabbed Derek’s, prising his fingers out of a fist. “That’s personal. You don’t need to tell me that.”

“But it’s relevant. What if we go all that time not seeing each other, and then when we do I’m not in the mood. Am I just supposed to expect him to be okay with that?”

“Dex knew what he was signing up for. If he really isn’t okay with that, he doesn’t deserve you, but I’m willing to bet Jack’s annual salary that he loves you, asexuality and all, and won’t begrudge it. Your relationship is way more than sex.” Derek knew he didn't look convinced, because Ransom let out a heavy sigh and continued. “Long-distance doesn’t work for everyone, right? But it does for some people, and you two— It’s up to you to make it work, eh? I know I’m the last person who should be giving advice on making it work considering my relationship couldn’t handle a move to Boston, but a lot of that was me not putting in the effort. I kept just thinking March and April have each other, so if I’m tired after another full day of med school, I don’t have to ring, or Holster’s got a game this weekend and it’s easier to get to that than it is to get to Samwell for their game, and what if I screw up his rituals by not being there? But if you put in the effort, and if you keep talking to each other, why shouldn’t you be able to manage it?”

Derek stared at a stain on the ceiling - the one which Holster insisted had been there before he moved into the attic, even though Ransom didn’t remember it being there to begin with despite it being right above where his top bunk had been. A long-distance relationship with Dex was incomprehensible to him after all this time of waking up next to him, and every time he tried to imagine it, doubts plagued his mind.

“Hey,” Ransom said softly, and Derek looked back at him. “This will be good for you. If you know you can get through this year, you can get through anything with him. If you can't, it's better to know now when you've both got a definite support system around and you'll have something to throw yourselves into. Otherwise, what? Five years down the line you've got kids to think about and you end up traded across the country from each other and realise that you actually don't know how to function apart?”

Derek nodded. “You're right. I know you are, it just makes me wonder why we have to change anything if we're happy.”

“Things change, bro, that's life. Don't turn down the opportunity to follow your dreams for love. Didn't La La Land teach you anything?”

“I didn't watch it.”

“Oh. Not everyone lives with Holster, eh?”

Derek snorted, but when he responded, it was with a sincere shrug. “He might be worth making new dreams for.”

“Nah, he isn't. Nobody's worth that unless they're willing to do anything they can to let you follow the ones you already have and if that's the case there's no point changing them. What difference does it really make doing it a year early? It's not like the odds of the same team signing you both is that great and it's probably lower signing the same year. You're allowed your own dream. You're allowed to want to give up on college for it and still think Dex should stick it out here. And he doesn't have to make his decision based on you thinking that but also you don't have to make your decision based on what Dex wants. Except you don't even know what he wants! You're just stressing over making sure he's happy and comfortable and please just think about why that's so fucked up.”

Derek’s breath hitched “I know. I know, okay. I'll talk to him. I'll tell him I'm doing it.”

“Good. You can fulfill my dream, too.”

When Derek looked over to see what Ransom meant, he was met with a mischievous grin. He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Well, I have a dream that one day—”

“Oh my God.”

“The Black boys and girls can play hockey with the white boys and girls.”

“That's already a thing.”

Ransom carried on as if Derek hadn’t said anything. “And I have a dream—”

“Are you really doing this, you absolute nerd?”

“That one day the Atlanta Thrashers won't be accused of reverse racism for hiring Black players.”

“Pretty difficult seeing as they aren't a team anymore.”

“But also that they won't only hire Black players to give themselves a particular fan-base.”

“Are you done?”

He grinned. “I don't know, are you convinced?”

Derek pushed himself off the bed. “Honestly, I'll do it. You're right. I have to do this; it's not an opportunity I can miss, and I want to do it now, not in a year when it'll just feel like wasting time.”

Ransom jumped up to hit him on the back. “Look at my little frog, all grown up and mature and ready to face the world.”

“You're so embarrassing,” Derek muttered as they started back down the stairs to rejoin the kegster. “Uh, but thanks.”

“Any time, bro. I mean that. You've got my number.”

They sidled up to Holster and Dex who each silently demanded if everything was okay. Derek swung himself up to sit on the arm of Dex’s chair, and placed his feet in his lap. The look Dex gave him said ‘we need to talk,’ but his fingers were gentle and reassuring as he ran them up Derek’s calves. Hopefully, they were on the same page.

[gbhbl]

Games, Brrraaains & A Head-Banging Life are very pleased to bring you an interview with the mysterious melodic, orchestral, blackened death metal band, Monumentum Damnati. Their debut album, In the Tomb of a Forgotten King is out on March 30th 2020.

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1. Thank you for taking the time to speak with us. How is everything in the Monumentum Damnati camp right now?

Abhoth: Thank you as well! Strange but as a matter of fact the debut album hasn’t been officially released and yet we are already actively creating the next one. We have been waiting for so long and don’t want to miss a single day. Also we’re working on the several videos during the process.

2. Can you give us a little bit of background into the creation of Monumentum Damnati?

Abhoth: The backstory of the project is much longer than its official existence. The appearance of MD was hindered by other projects, psychological issues, and generally different vigorous activity. But despite all of this the band finally took shape now. Great luck or a sign of fate but I managed to find the right people where I did not expect at all.

Thanatos: Yeah it all started not so long ago actually. That’s a quite strange story, you know. It started from the moment when I met Abhoth in a psychiatric hospital, I will drop the details of what we did there and how we ended up in such place. The thing is we quickly found common ground. Turned out that we have a lot in common, views on life and art but especially music. We both had some unused material from our other projects that lay deep down in the depth of consciousness. The idea to create some dark art together suddenly spark in the air and as a result we transmitting those amorph thoughts and demo tapes to a very definite form.

3. Monumentum Damnati is quite a mysterious band. What made you want to hide your identities?

Abhoth: Hidden faces and personalities behind the masks with blurred borders are primarily a symbol of the fact that music has no gender, country, skin color, or time. Actually to any artist would be useful sometimes to be by the other side of regular dogmas and borders. Passion for thematic literature / films / books also contributed to this choice.

Thanatos: First of all music is most important, who we are and how we look shouldn’t be relevant. On top of that, personally I don’t really like the excessive attention to me.

4. Do you think it works to focus listeners on the music rather then who is in the band? Or is there not the possibility of those hidden identities becoming a distraction?

Abhoth: In many ways this may look like a detachment from the public but the message is actually opposite. People who understand our art is the part of us and we are part of them. Long self-isolation didn’t pass without a trace, let’s say so. This is our specific way to make interaction with the public as honest and comfortable as possible for the both sides.

Thanatos: It is important to understand that this is not just a stage masquerade to stand out from the other bands. The message a lot deeper.

5. The masks are very detailed and very horrific looking. Does horror in general play a bit part in the makeup of Monumentum Damnati?

Abhoth: Horror is an inalienable part of our lives. It seems that I peered too long into the abyss and the abyss looked back at me. The horrors that served as the basis for some of the compositions in the past now seem distant. But so far it can haunt nightmares. And you can never get rid of it you can only accept it and put it on paper / canvas or a music sheet. But if we talk about the atmosphere of horror on the first album… it is still not so noticeable when compared with the material that we are preparing for the next release. The real evil is coming.

Thanatos: It is necessary to distinguish between the concepts of horror – as a genre of horror tales, and the horrible terrific things that occur in our lives. The first one is simply taken from the category of the entertainment industry but the second one is a brutal terrifying reality which is much worse and horrifying. Each person in his life sooner or later faces a series of terrible events and lives with his inner demons, trying to fight them. I stopped fighting mine I accept them and even draw an inspiration from it. Nightmares often haunt me as well. A couple of times I’ve experienced sleep paralysis, saw some things, sometimes it was even difficult to determine whether you are sleeping or this is really happening now. In general it is certainly difficult to ignore and of course such things are reflected in the creation of art.

6. Although quite a modern band, the music for the new album has been taking shape for longer, right? Can you tell us a bit about this journey and was In the Tomb of a Forgotten King always the goal?

Abhoth: If look back to the past the concept of the album should have been completely different. Over time the views on some things and musical addictions have changed. Some songs had to be returned to the drawer of the table while a number of new songs appeared. Including the title track of the album. This also predetermined the concept of a future release and the other visual parts. Do you know the feeling when you are sleeping and even in spite of intense fear you cannot force yourself to wake up? A terrible nightmare vision is not only a curse but also a gift. Nothing is real like a dream, and nothing is ghostly like reality. The composition “In The Tomb Of A Forgotten King” was created after one of these nightmares. Fearing to forget the bewitching melody and plot of the dream I rushed to record a demo and soon became literally dumbfounded by the feeling “here it is, yes, that’s what I wanted to say.”

Thanatos: There are many ideas, we still have a lot of tricks in our sleeves. In the debut album we didn’t show even a half of it. This is not the end of the tunnel there is still a lot to go.

7. In the Tomb of a Forgotten King, your new album is out soon. Are you satisfied with what you accomplished here?

Abhoth: This album is in many ways too personal and it’s hard to say for sure whether it was possible to realize all the ideas till the end. If so, then probably the band’s activity would have ended. But we are definitely pleased that this buried in a tomb forgotten king will not be forgotten. I am immensely grateful that Thanatos and colleagues finally managed to awaken me from the deep catatonia. They helped to throw secret creativity into the world. There are still many compositions left that are waiting in the wings, new ones are being written. But we must come to terms with the fact that because of our perfectionism it is difficult to be 100% satisfied with any result. But the main goal was achieved – to give life to our inner demons and to throw out 9 different faces of the wounded soul.

Thanatos: It depends on how you look at it. Unhealthy perfectionism always prevents you from objectively evaluating your work. Every time I want to change something or even redo it from the beginning. It is so rare when you manage to make everything exactly as you thought in your head. And it seems to me that with this album we more or less succeeded with that.

8. Is there a story within the music? A narrative being told?

Abhoth: Yes there is a story behind each song and it’s dual. These are stories inside the stories, parallel overlapping stories, where it is impossible to say for sure what interpretation a particular listener will find for himself. The meaning is veiled by metaphors and parallel plots. The dual nature of things has haunted me since birth. This is very well demonstrated in the song “My Bloody JJ”.Please, don’t get me wrong I’m not like an evil clown which running after people with an ax at the ready. The mysterious character JJ is taken from the book by Australian writer Will Elliott “The Pilo Family Circus”. Who interested – surely welcome to google it or even better rather buy a book and you will understand everything.

Thanatos: I think it will be wrong trying to explain what’s what. After all this is the beauty of art that each individual will be able to interpret the meaning in his own way. It is not so important what kind of message the author put in if the listener has any associations which are based on his personal experience. Therefore it’s good when there is a place for interpretation. It is important to not to deprive listeners of this right.

9. It is an incredible piece of work. A gothic, orchestral doom epic that crosses over many a genre. Did you find yourself tweaking and tweaking until you got exactly what you wanted?

Abhoth: Thanks! In terms of songwriting each track was born in different conditions and sometimes incomprehensible even to my sophisticated mind. Something literally appears right away in a couple of hours and some tracks were redone and shelved for the several months, delivered and shelved again. During the hospitalizations for obvious reasons it was impossible to write down alive the motives appeared in my mind. I had to find for the alternatives. An interesting experience. Regarding the style it was already noted that we did not have a binding to the specific genre. What came from the heart became part of the compositions.

In terms of the final sound design… In many ways we have been looking for the right sound engineer for a long time. Despite the large list of colleagues we wanted a new sound different from the previous ones. And one day I found an interesting Greek project Ocean Of Grief and contacted Koliopanos Filippos with the offer to cooperation. It was a great solution because we got a wonderful experience of cooperation. He not only took mixed ingredients between himself but also added his spices for the finished dish.

Thanatos: The goal was to create something that would be at least a little unique. These days it is super difficult to stand out, all the cool reefs have already been played the most genres are in stagnation. We don’t limit ourselves in any ways musically, we listen to all the music and trying to take the best from each genre and competently compose it. Pure metal genres are too conservative and limited to certain frames. We are highly against it. In the future we will have even more unexpected experiments, however the dark mix will remain.

10. Was there every a point who thought this project just wasn’t going to work? Or where you determined to get it done?

Abhoth: In fact it depends on how you relate to the result and how to vary it for yourself. From the beginning we didn’t set the goal of achieving sky-high results, big fees, or signing up for a major label, smashing large venues etc… The main goal was to create a project for the soul where the music would be in the first place (well, and the related: art, video, lyrics) Not as a PR tool but as a creative product.

Thanatos: Not really. We are all quite experienced musicians so no one panicked, everything goes on as usual. The ideas for the debut album were hatched for a very long time. However, it was surprisingly easy to find compromises and to sort things out.

11. Is this a one off? Or are you going to see how In the Tomb of a Forgotten King is received before you make a decision?

Abhoth: In our debut single (and video) “Infernal Sun” a person who has believed in the inviolability of his religion all his life begins to doubt whether everything is true, what he believed so far? He is tormented by the visions of the inevitable end, he constantly wonders if a higher power can give him what he firmly believed. Will the sun still shine after his death? He is horrified to realize that he cannot control the course of things and he isn’t in a position to look into tomorrow. Tomorrow may never come.

Thanatos: It’s difficult to look far into the future especially when there is no confidence in the future. Definitely we’ll work further and don’t plan to stop there. We still have a lot of unrealized ideas and opportunities, our path is just beginning.

12. What about bringing Monumentum Damnati to a live stage? Certainly not the easiest thing to do, I’m sure.

Abhoth: We have a concert activity in the plans of course. And this really is not the easiest task for sure. Each of the participants played a lot of performances with other projects and with confidence they can notice that for active concert activity a lot of resources are needed. At this stage, concert activity would be a good pastime for us. But I don’t want to disappear for the months on tours. It’s better seldom but to the point.

Thanatos: Concerts certainly will be it’s just a matter of time but unfortunately we can’t promise anything concrete for now. We are preparing something interesting something big, more than a usual concert, a kind of gloomy performance. Anyway we are always open to interesting opportunities.

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Links

Bandcamp | Facebook | Instagram | YouTube

Band Interview: Monumentum Damnati Games, Brrraaains & A Head-Banging Life are very pleased to bring you an interview with the mysterious melodic, orchestral, blackened death metal band, Monumentum Damnati.

[viralhottopics]

Can I forgive the man who raped me?

Thordis Elva was raped aged 16. Years later, she emailed Tom Stranger, the man who raped her, beginning a raw, painful healing process documented in their book South of Forgiveness. In this extract, they meet to find a way forward

Thordis Elvais from Iceland and known to Icelandersas a writer, playwright, journalist and public speaker. She was voted Woman of the Year 2015 by the Federation of Icelandic Womens Societies in Reykjavik for her work on gender equality, and has written a celebrated book on gender-based violence, 2009s mannamli (The Plain Truth). She currently resides in Stockholm, Sweden with her partner Vidir and their son.

Tom Stranger is Australian. He met Elva when he was 18 and on a student exchange programme in Iceland, and the pair had a relationship. Since then, he has worked in various sectors (community services, youth, outdoor recreation, charity, construction, and hospitality). For now, he is working as a landscape gardener and lives in Sydney with his wife, Cat.

From: tomsstranger@hotmail.com Sent: Saturday 21 May 2005, 5.38am To: thordiselva@hotmail.com Subject: Words for you Thordis, I dont know where to start. When I saw your name in my inbox, my spine went cold. My memories are still as clear as day. Please believe me when I say I have not forgotten what I did, and how wary I have to be of myself. I dont know how to reply. I want to call myself sick (but I know I am not), I want to say that you are so strong, so strong to be able to write to me and recall the events and my actions. I want to thank you for not hating me, although Id like you to. It would make it easier for me. Without looking for a scratch of sympathy, I want to tell you that the events and emotions I was party to in Iceland have replayed in my head many times, usually when I am by myself for any length of time. They flash past me, vividly accurate, and then, shortly after the denial and positive character reinforcement, comes the question: Who am I? It is a dark part of my memory. Ive tried to suppress it. But this is not about me. Whatever I can do or offer you, I am more than willing. The question is where to go from here. You tell me. Tom.

*****

After eight years of analysing the violent past and its consequences in a written correspondence, Thordis and Tom decide to meet up in the middle, between their home countries of Iceland and Australia, looking to face their past once and for all.

Day one, 27 March 2013

The taxi picks me up at a quarter to five and takes me to the bus station, where Im booked on the fly-bus. The grizzled taxi driver, hoisting my suitcase into the trunk with a smooth manoeuvre, asks me where Im going.

To South Africa.

Oh, really? To Johannesburg?

No, to Cape Town, I reply, still in disbelief at my own words despite the time Ive had to adjust to the idea. It would be an understatement to say that the proposed meeting has been on my mind. Its reverberated in every step when Ive gone out for a run; its been in every breath of cold winter air that scraped the insides of my lungs; its soaked the wet washcloth I used to clean my sons sticky fingers. And Ive tried my best to push it out of my mind when making love to my fiance, enjoying his warm skin against mine.

After all, that would be a highly inappropriate time to be thinking about it.

From the moment the destination was set, I adapted to a new calendar before or after Cape Town. The last time I bought deodorant I automatically deduced that I wouldnt have to buy another one until after Cape Town. Yesterday, when snuggling down with my three-year-old son to do some painting together, spending quality time with him BC momentarily appeased my guilt for leaving him for 10 days to travel halfway across the globe to face a man from the past without any guarantee of the outcome.

Something tells me that parents of young children are not meant to take such foolhardy decisions. Thats the reason I gave up my dreams of parachuting when I fell pregnant with my son. Then again, throwing myself out of an aeroplane at 7,000 feet carries less emotional risk than taking a trip down memory lane with the man who turned my existence upside down. Because it wasnt an unknown lunatic who tore my life apart all those years ago. Who turned down the offer of medical help for me, even though I was barely conscious and vomiting convulsively. Who decided instead to rape me for two endless hours.

It was my first love.

My mothers eyes flew wide open when I told her that I was travelling alone to South Africa to meet up with the man who raped me when I was 16. She strung together a series of hair-raising worst-case scenarios before letting out a sigh, looking at me with loving reluctance, and adding: But I know its pointless to try to talk you out of things youve set your mind to, dear. Shortly thereafter, my dad interrupted my packing when he dropped by for a coffee. Despite my attempt to break the news to him in the gentlest manner possible, it didnt prevent him from freaking out. He lectured me in a thundering voice about how I was jeopardising my life for an utterly ridiculous idea.

But I have to finish this chapter of my life, I said softly. My cheeks were on fire.

Finish this chapter? he repeated, appalled, and jumped out of his chair. You dont need to travel across the globe to finish anything! This whole idea is a big pretentious drama, thats what it is!

His words hit me right where it hurts.

Youll have no control over anything. Nothing but your thoughts! Nothing else!

What do you mean? I asked, confused. Ill obviously control my actions and whereabouts.

No you wont, dear, he hissed. You cant always. If you could, then that wouldnt have happened.

We both knew what he meant by that, even though weve never talked about the incident that changed everything. In recent years, Ive spoken widely and publicly about my status as a rape survivor (though, until now, never identified the man who raped me) yet my father and I have never discussed that fateful night. He has never asked and Ive always assumed he doesnt want to know.

I sat up straight, aware of my glowing cheeks. If you reduce me to victim and him to perpetrator, I can see how this seems incomprehensible to you. But were much more than that, Dad.

He scoffed loudly before storming out of the kitchen.

I leant against the wall and let the air out of my lungs slowly. Goddamn it. I knew this would be hard, but bloody hell.

My father appeared again in the doorway, pacing up and down with frustration I knew was fuelled by fatherly love. How can you be sure youll finish anything with this nonsense? This may just as easily be the start of something else entirely! The distress in his voice made it sound like a threat.

I sat alone in the silence my father left behind and watched the dust settle. In a way, I think were both right. This trip will surely mark an end to a certain chapter of my life. What sets me apart from my father is my belief that in the next chapter, I wont be the victim any more.

Day two, 28 March 2013

The screen in the seatback in front of me shows a blinking plane over a map. According to the timer, Cape Town is just 29 minutes away. The butterflies in my stomach nose-dive, as the time seems way too limited considering how many questions are left unanswered.

Goddamn it, what if I cant forgive him? Am I ready to let go?

Frustrated, I scroll through the folder on my laptop, searching for something to calm my nerves. I was level-headed enough when I suggested this trip, wasnt I? In an attempt to recover my faith in this risky undertaking, I read through my own proposal:

You may need a lifetime to forgive yourself for what you did to me. That is up to you and you take however long you need, independent of anyone else. I, however, am climbing a different mountain. And I am getting very close to the top. I propose that in six months time, we meet up with the intention of reaching forgiveness, once and for all. In person. It is the only proper way for me to do it, I feel. No letter can ever compare with face-to-face communication. And after all weve been through, I think it is the most dignified and honest way to finish this chapter of our story.

I sound so calm, so fucking reasonable. How is it possible that this was written by the same person now hyperventilating in a plane 30,000ft over South Africa, full of nerve-racking doubt?

Reading through his reply, Im somewhat comforted that he, too, felt conflicted:

Ill admit that I was floored by your request to meet up. Fearful, anxious, cautious, paranoid. You name it, it all came swarming in. But youve asked, and you sound like you are making vital ground towards something very special for yourself. So of course Ill agree to see you. After much thought I do think it will be beneficial, and an opportunity for myself to air face-to-face some long held words and for us both to look to close some doors. I want it for you, Thordis, as you seem strong, open and ready to see me and move forward. I want it for me because Im so very sick of being sick and seeing myself as unlovable, and believe I can move on if I could just look you in the face, own up to it and say Im sorry.

Forgiveness is the only way, I tell myself, because whether or not he deserves my forgiveness, I deserve peace. Because Im doing this for me. My forgiveness is white-hot from the whetstone, and its purpose is to sever the ties, because if I can let this go, once and for all, Im certain that my overall wellbeing will benefit greatly. Self-preservation at its best.

Day four, 30 March 2013

Its seven oclock when we buy ourselves a drink at the hotel bar and sit down by a table facing the garden, readying ourselves for the hard talk. The windowpane clatters loudly, and an endless stream of staff crossing the room distracts me to the point where I give up. What do you say about us finishing this conversation in my room?

He looks at me, shocked. Are you sure? Youre comfortable with that?

Im sure that itll be easier to have this talk if we get proper privacy. Its tough enough as it is.

Tom radiates ever-increasing anxiety as the elevator climbs closer to the 12th floor. Unlike him, my emotions have calmed down.

Almost serene, I step out of the elevator. Theres no turning back now.

He buries his hands in his pockets as I fish my key out of my bag in front of my hotel room. Putting my hand on the doorknob, it morphs into the white plastic door-handle with the keyhole that haunts my dreams. Within me, everything falls silent. Ready? I ask myself.

Without hesitation, I turn the key.

Tom follows me inside my room, takes a look around and smiles nervously. Not bad.

Sit wherever you like. Im going to make some tea.

Thordiss student ID from around the time she met Tom. Photograph: Courtesy of Thordis Elva

He sits down on the edge of the bed while I busy myself with the kettle. From the corner of my eye, I notice him closing his eyes and straightening his back, as if hes steeling himself. When the boiling water hits the teabag at the bottom of the cup, Tom begins the story in a hoarse voice. I wore my golden shirt that evening. I didnt know it was customary to get dressed up for a dance in Iceland, and I didnt have anything fancy. The son of my host family took me to an exclusive store and helped me choose the shirt. I thought it was the peak of cool, at the time. The striped trousers were a present from my host sister.

He accepts the steaming teacup from my hand and stares into it for a moment before continuing. I remember how excited I was when I bought the ticket. I remember that I was with my friends Carlos and Ben when we met you outside the dance. You were pretty drunk when you arrived.

It was the first time Id ever tasted rum, I tell him. I didnt know how to drink alcohol. Nor did I know how to smoke, even though I took a drag from the rolled cigarette you handed me. I just wanted to impress you. And after the ensuing wild cough, I wondered if perhaps that wasnt a cigarette, I remind myself.

I lost you the minute we stepped inside, Tom continues. Carlos and I went straight to the dancefloor. I remember feeling happy and carefree in that sweaty pile of people. Then someone told me you werent well, you were in the ladies.

My mind replays the awful scene from the bathroom stall. The stains on my new dress. My hair wet from hugging the toilet. My fear and wonder as one spasm after the other wrung my body out like a dishrag. The repeated promises that Id neither drink nor smoke again if I were only allowed to survive this night. And finally, the desperate wish for my mom to come save me. I fucked up, Mom. Im sorry.

Tom frowns. I felt it was my duty to go and check on you. So I went in and climbed over the partition, into your cubicle. I held your hair back while you vomited, and I thought I was going to be sick as well. Then you flopped to the ground and lay there, motionless. I remember carrying you out.

He pauses and looks away. Before I have a chance to tell him how grateful I was when he appeared like my mother incarnate to save me from an untimely death on the bathroom floor, he grimaces bitterly. Then I couldnt be bothered to look after you, Thordis. I dumped you on Ben and left you with him. You were slumped on the chairs outside the bathrooms and he stood there, stooped over you, as I went back to the dancefloor.

I look at him in surprise. I thought youd taken me straight home.

He clenches his jaw. My only thought was that this was the only Christmas dance I was going to experience in Iceland. I was selfish and didnt have any concern for you. In the end, I felt guilty that some other guy was looking after my girlfriend. So I scooped you up in my arms and carried you up the stairs, in a foul mood because I had to leave the party.

And the security guards stopped you on the way out because they wanted to call an ambulance for me as I was dangling from your arms, foaming at the mouth. They thought I had alcohol poisoning.

Id forgotten that moment but I dont doubt it, he says in a low voice.

Tom Stranger in 1996, the year he went to Iceland. Photograph: Courtesy of Tom Stranger

I remember that part vividly because for a second there, I thought youd take their advice, I respond, looking down into my cup. That Mom and Dad would get a call from the hospital saying that their 16-year-old daughter was lying there with alcohol poisoning. I imagined being grounded for life.

Id known for three years by then what it is to drink to excess, and Id seen many of my friends at various stages of drunkenness. I just thought you were wasted. I didnt think you were in real danger, he says.

Whatever it was, it had me paralysed and unable to speak. But I heard you loud and clear as you refused the offer of an ambulance, telling the security guards that you knew me and would see me safely home.

He nods, his complexion strangely pale. The taxi was white, I recall. I told the driver your address I remember letting us into your house. But what I dont remember is what I did with you while I struggled to unlock the door.

You draped me across your shoulder while you rummaged round in my bag for the keys.

He raises his eyebrows. Really? Like a sack of potatoes?

I nod.

He swears at himself quietly. And I remember your entrance hall, the shoes on the floor. From memory, past the coat hooks there were some stairs on the left, leading up to the kitchen and your parents area. Your room was through on the right. He stops and swallows.

I remember taking your clothes off.

I remember it too. My gratitude when he removed my vomit-stained dress. My relief at having my feet freed from the high heels. My frustration for not being able to utter a word of thanks. My lack of understanding when he continued to remove my underwear. Why my panties? Why?

My stomach muscles reflexively tighten as I prepare for the blow.

He stands up, moving restlessly, and walks over to the wall opposite the bed. I undressed you completely… He falls silent and hangs his head. The wind howls pitifully outside the window.

Tom begins to cry.

I wish I could tell you why I did it, Thordis.

Did what?

Raped you, he says, quietly.

This is an edited extract from South of Forgiveness by Thordis Elva and Tom Stranger (Scribe Publications, 12.99). To order a copy for 11.04 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Thordis Elva and Tom Stranger will be speaking at the Royal Festival Hall as part of the Women of the World festival on 11 March, and at the Bristol Festival of Ideas on 13 March

People were quick to judge I wasnt angry enough: what came next for Thordis and Tom

Standing in stark stage lights, with five cameras directed at me, I recently found myself on a stage, telling an audience of 1,200 how Id been raped when I was 16 years old. Next to me on stage was Tom, who raped me after a dance at our high school. Together, we gave a TED talk that summarised a 20-year long process, whereby Tom shouldered responsibility for his actions and the way they impacted our lives. It was viewed nearly 2m times in the first week and the overwhelming reaction was positive and supportive.

In the talk, I described the violence Tom subjected me to, how I spent years wanting nothing more than to hurt him back, how I found a way to part with the anger that nearly cost me my life, as well as rid myself of blame that I like so many other survivors wrongfully shouldered.

Tom described how he felt deserving of my body that night, without any concern for me, and consequently convinced himself that what he did was sex and not rape. The following nine years were marked by denial, in which he did his best to outrun the past, until I confronted him in a pivotal email that changed our lives for ever.

Ive been asked why I didnt press charges immediately, and the simple answer to that question is that I was a 16-year-old girl with naive notions about rape. Rapes were committed by armed lunatics, the kind of sensationalised monsters you saw on TV and read about in the papers. The fact that Tom wasnt a monster, but a person who made an awful decision, made it harder for me to see his crime for what it was. That way, the demonisation of perpetrators in mainstream media got in the way of my recovery. By the time I was able to identify what had happened to me as rape, Tom had moved to the other side of the planet, far from the jurisdiction of the Icelandic police. At the time, 70% of rape cases in Iceland were dismissed, even when the perpetrator could be interrogated and the survivor had documented injuries, neither of which were the case for me. Therefore, pressing charges would not have been a fruitful process, and the only option I felt I had left was to bottle up my pain and anger. Studies show that very few survivors have a clean-cut story in which they went straight to the authorities after being assaulted, put the blame squarely on the perpetrators shoulders, healed their wounds and moved on. For most of us, life after violence is a messy ordeal. We dont go to the police because were too confused, scared or doubtful that well get help. We blame ourselves and obsess about things we couldve done differently. We numb ourselves with alcohol/drugs/sex/food/work, or we turn to self-harm to relieve the emotional pain. We continue to see our abusers and pretend that nothing happened, because facing the truth is overwhelming. We develop PTSD and mental illness. We stay silent about what happened out of fear that well not be believed, or worse, blamed for it because we did something wrong. No wonder, really. In reality, the only people capable of preventing rapes are those who commit them, and yet were told from an early age that we can avoid being raped by dressing and behaving in a certain way. This culture of victim-blaming also fosters the idea that there is a right way to react to violence. Had the survivor only worn something else, not smiled so widely, not gotten drunk, fought back (more), screamed (louder), gone straight to the police, not feared their attackers retaliation if theyd only done that, everything wouldve worked out differently. Victim-blaming deepens the shame that many survivors feel and lessens the likelihood that they speak up about their experiences.

Watch Thordis Elva and Tom Strangers TED talk.

The reality is that there is no right reaction to having your life ripped apart by violence. I knew that my collaboration with Tom would be controversial, and the reactions of internet trolls didnt surprise me. But I am concerned with how quick some people were to judge the wrong way in which I worked through my experience. I wasnt angry enough, I shouldve pressed charges, I was setting a dangerous precedent, I should be ashamed. Although I made it clear that my forgiveness wasnt for my perpetrator but for myself and that without it, I wouldnt be alive, I was still told that I should not have forgiven.

This worries me. I worry about my fellow survivors who are at risk of internalising the misconception that there is a standard reaction to sexual violence, with the conclusion that they didnt react in the right way. To you, I want to say that you did nothing wrong. The way in which you carried on with your life may not have been clean-cut, it may have been messy and incomprehensible to those who dont share your experience, but it was your way to survive a trauma. Nobody has the right to tell you how to handle your deepest pain.

And as the title of our story South of Forgiveness suggests, forgiveness played a pivotal role in allowing me to let go of the self-blame I shouldered, largely due to the victim-blaming culture I grew up in. And yet, forgiveness is not the core of our story, in my mind. The core issue is responsibility.

I understand those who feel discomfort and even outrage when hearing and seeing Tom on stage, knowing that hes perpetrated sexual violence. At the same time, given how prevalent this type of abuse is and how under-reported a crime it is, were in all likelihood seeing and hearing from perpetrators on a daily basis the main difference being that we dont know theyre perpetrators. They could be the people we went to school with, who greet us at the grocery store, who direct the films we watch, get elected to public office, run entire countries and live right next door. Given the low reporting and conviction rate, most of them will never have to take responsibility for their actions in an institutional sense. This does not lessen the gravity of their deeds.

By the time Tom had confessed to his crime, he couldnt have done time for it even if he wanted to, as the statute of limitations had passed. As a result, our case fell through the cracks of the legal system, like so many others, but it didnt lessen our need to analyse our past and place the responsibility with the person to whom it belonged: Tom. We also did our best to answer questions that are rarely posed in the public discourse about rape, where more focus seems to be on the survivors attire, behaviour, whereabouts and sexual history than the perpetrators culpability. And as frustrating as it is, I understand it to a certain extent. Because in the public discourse, the only people speaking about the violence theyve been party to are the survivors, usually. Which is why we only have their stories to dissect, their details to scrutinise. Did she say shed been drinking that night? This tradition of one-sided scrutiny blindsides us from looking at the behaviour of the person responsible, the perpetrator, to whom the focus needs to shift.

I am not sharing the story of how I processed the abuse I endured as a set of recommendations for others.

My story is a unique account shared in the hope that it can aid a public discussion about sexual violence.

As a society, it is our duty to fight against violence. And as individuals, we have a right to heal from it.

Read more: http://bit.ly/2lUbi8H

from Can I forgive the man who raped me?