#in other words should I save the detritus to show you later

[cookinguptales]

a question for my beloved followers

so I'm working on a project rn that's... I guess historical fiction adjacent. if, when I eventually post it, do you think it would be interesting if I made posts talking about the historical inspirations that went into it? (art, music, customs, historical events, etc.)

[dreamerfound]

Fictober Day 12 - Leverage - safe house

Prompt:  “You’re making my head hurt.” Title:  safe house Fandom: Leverage Ship: Mr. Quinn/Eliot Spencer Rating: Mature Warnings: coarse language,  alcohol use, blood, minor injuries, sexual situations (fade to black). Length:  1,135 words Summary: Just a couple of idiots who refuse to go to the hospital when they’re injured.

Quinn picked up the remote and raised the volume on the TV. He was hoping to drown out the sound of the pipes squealing as Eliot showered off the detritus of the job they both just got back from. He needed to do something to get his mind off thoughts of a wet and naked Eliot Spencer just a few feet and a closed door away.

Fifteen minutes later Eliot emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, hair still-damp towel wrapped around his waist, and smelling like Quinn's shampoo. "You're making my head hurt," Eliot complained.

"It's not me that's making your head hurt. It's the wack on the head that guy with the baseball bat gave you." Quinn lowered the volume and put the remote down on the arm of the couch.

"Whatever, I'm still blaming you."

"That's fine, it's not like I was out there saving your ass the whole time."

"Seriously? That's the way you remember it?" Eliot shook his head and winced. He reached up and touched his forehead, fingers coming away with blood. "Fuck."

"You're head's bleeding."

"No shit, really?" Eliot turned around and headed back to the bathroom. "I think it opened up again in the shower."

Quinn followed. Besides the gash on his head, there were bruises starting to bloom on Eliot's back and side. The job had gone a little rougher than expected. "Maybe you should go to the hospital and have that checked out."

Eliot shot him a glare that would've sent a lesser man running but only made Quinn want to bend him over the sink and lose the towel. "Yeah, yeah, I know. No hospitals." Quinn shook his head. "Idiot," he muttered.

"Like you're one to talk. How about you let me look at your shoulder?"

"My shoulder's fine," Quinn lied. It hurt like a motherfucker.

"Then why don't you show me how fine it is." Eliot's voice was stern and commanding. Quinn hid his grin by looking down while he slid off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Eliot helped him get the shirt off without taking a layer of his skin with it. He saw the blood soaked through it when Eliot tossed it to the floor and grimaced. Huh, he hadn't realized it was that bad. "This needs stitches," Eliot said, a thread of concern laced his words.

Quinn shrugged and instantly regretted it as the pain hit him like a brick on fire. "I've got a suture kit in the other room," he said through gritted teeth.

"Good luck sewing your own shoulder together."

"That's what I have you for." Quinn grinned. "I trust you."

"You trust me?" Eliot said disbelievingly. Trust was rare in their line of work.

"Well, with this sort of thing, yeah I trust you." He wouldn't want Eliot to think he was soft for him or anything.

"Fine. Take the rest of your clothes off and get into the shower. I'll stitch you up after you get out," Eliot said, his fingers still warm on his skin.

Quinn stood there and enjoyed the way Eliot's hands felt on him. After a moment he cleared his throat and stepped away. "Unless you're gonna lose the towel and join me, I'm gonna need a little privacy here."

"Whatever," Eliot grunted. Quinn closed the door behind him, stripped off the rest of his clothes, and got into the shower.

When he got out, Eliot was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a couple of butterfly bandages on the wound on his head. The suture kit and a bottle of Jack were on the coffee table in front of him. "Give me a minute to put some pants on," Quinn said as he dug around in his duffle bag. Several minutes, a clean pair of pants, and two swigs of whiskey later; Quinn sat on the edge of the sofa while Eliot disinfected his wound. It burned like hell but the booze helped take the pain down a notch.

He treated himself to a big gulp of Jack when Eliot finished stitching him back together. "So, what's the verdict Doc?"

"You'll live." Eliot's hands moved to his torso and Quinn held his breath. Firm hands running over his ribs, no doubt checking for breaks. Perfectly innocent. Perfectly fine. "I don't think anything's broken." Eliot moved his hands away. For a moment Quinn mourned the loss and wished for something more.

They watched the end half of some monster-in-the-closet kind of movie and shared the rest of the whiskey. By the time the movie ended Quinn had his head in Eliot's lap.

The day had caught up with the both of them and Quinn stretched out on his side so as not to aggravate his shoulder. He lay his head in Eliot's lap for a moment, figuring Eliot would push him off after a minute or two. But Eliot didn't push him away or complain about it. In fact, a little while later when they'd settled on another movie to watch, Quinn felt Eliot's fingers in his hair. Maybe they'd both had a little too much whiskey?

"You got a bed in this safe house or just the sofa?" Eliot asked, his voice relaxed and sleepy.

"The sofa opens up into a bed."

"Ah."

"Or we could just stay here like this," Quinn suggested.

"As lovely as that sounds, I don't think my back will be happy with me in the morning if I sleep sitting up." Eliot stopped running his fingers through Quinn's hair and leaned back. "How about we get up and I turn this sucker into a bed?"

"And then what?"

"And then we go to sleep. I don't know about you but I've had a long day."

Quinn pushed his disappointment aside and reluctantly got up from the couch. "We sharing the bed or...?" Quinn let the question hang in the air.

Eliot shook his head like he thought Quinn was an idiot for even asking. "Of course, we're sharing the bed. Neither of us is in any shape to take the floor. Besides, I think I can keep my hands to myself while you sleep."

"It's not your hands I'm worried about." Shit. He said that out loud didn't he?

Eliot quirked an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"Nothin'," Quinn muttered.

Eliot huffed. "If you behave yourself, I'll make you breakfast in the morning."

"Not much in the pantry to work with here." Quinn kept the place stocked with canned goods and emergency supplies only. He was regretting that decision now.

Eliot leaned back on the bed, arms tucked behind his head. "Well, then I guess you don't have to behave."

Quinn grinned. "Now that's the best damn news I've heard in a while." And just like that, neither of them felt all that tired.

[the-melting-world]

The Empress | Side A: “Promise”

Art by @markmefistov

~ In which a humble gardener is granted an audience with her patron Arcana… 

The Trio Appearances: Kipling | Khleo | Ozy

Arcana LI appearances: Asra | Nadia | Muriel 

Track Origins: “Promise” by Ben Howard

Not sure if this is the right track? The full album can be found here: The Empress

cw: mentions of death, monsters, slight horror, drowning themes, manhandling, some blood

~ 2.6k words

Kipling has made it to The Empress’ realm. Ozy hangs back in Vesuvia with Nadia, Muriel, and Asra. He opens a smaller Door that allows them to watch Kipling’s progress with her patron Arcana...

Asra and Nadia’s body language easily gave away their excitement. They crowded on either side of Ozy as he stretched open the portal to get a clear view on what was going on with Kipling and The Empress.

Abaco and Taro were excited as well. They both perched themselves on Ozy’s shoulders. Nadia withdrew to avoid getting a face full of the lemur’s bushy tail.

“Taro,” she said with a tight smile, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find a different spot. I cannot see past your charming purple coat.”

Ozy chuckled and pulled a contrite-looking Taro into his lap. Muriel, who hadn’t moved from where he was on the other side of the table, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Nadia, Asra… you’re both okay with this?”

Asra turned his fluffy head and arched a white brow. “Why wouldn’t we be, Muri? Now we get to keep an eye on Kip and make sure she’s doing okay.”

Faust nodded enthusiastically. 

Watching is fun! Kipling is fun!

Muriel didn’t look convinced. “Ozy, this doesn’t feel like spying to you?”

Ozy shook his head, keeping his eyes on adjusting the portal. 

“Nope! This is for educational purposes. If I’m going to continue to teach Kipling about grey magic, I need to know how this goes. Feel free to leave if it’s making you too uncomfortable.”

Muriel took a long look at his friends and their familiars craning their necks to get a full view of what was happening in The Empress’ realm.

“I’ll stay, but I won’t watch,” Muriel decided. As an afterthought, he mumbled to himself, “I’ll just listen.”

***

Kipling did not feel so uncomfortable around her patron Arcana after she had taken a seat in the grass down by her feet and started scratching out a poem on a slip of paper. The gardener did, however, find it difficult to concentrate with so many animals occupying the same space. They made lots of interesting, but distracting noises. Not to mention there were saber tooth tigers and hyenas walking around with baby ducklings and turtles trapped between their maws – and the latter were very much still alive.

Kip glanced nervously up at the Empress. “Um. Aren’t you going to stop your children from eating… your other children?”

The Empress tilted her antlered head. “Oh, them? They’re merely practicing at being predators and prey. They can’t kill anything yet.” She plucked one of the berries from her antlers and flicked it to the back of her throat. “The killing and the dying will come much later. When they are grown.”

Kipling suppressed the shudder that threatened to climb up her back and returned to her poem. She channelled those unsettling feelings as best as she could onto the paper.

The Empress drummed her fingers on the leafy armrest of her throne. “Do you know why you’re here, umbra?”

Kipling didn’t answer her right away. She held off until she wrapped up the last line of her poem. Then she put down her pen, folded the slip of paper and looked up at her patron. “Well, I’ve already opened my third eye, so I’m guessing you’re going to show me how to do something else that will help strengthen my magic?”

The Empress snorted. “Magic? Think again.” With a heavy breath, she hoisted herself out of the throne.

Kipling stood up too and tucked the slip of paper between the flowering vines in the backrest of the throne. Then she followed the Arcana on her leisurely stroll through the garden.

“Did you know that every human cannot function without three things? Any guess what those things might be? I’ll give you a hint. You and your friends embody each of the three.”

The hint didn’t do anything except confuse Kipling. She shook her head. 

The Empress’ nostrils flared in amusement. “No? Every human needs... a heart. A body. A mind. Which one do you think you are?”

Kipling took a moment to consider. “Am I… the heart?” 

The Empress nodded. “You are. Perhaps I am biased, but I do believe the heart serves the most essential function.” She didn’t wait to see whether or not Kip agreed before elaborating. “It’s up to the heart to communicate what the body can’t. What the mind won’t…. Tell me, do you remember your reading with Small Hermit? Can you recall why you pulled me in the reversed position?

Kip shrugged. “I guess I’m just… too smothering.” She sighed. “And it’s causing me to neglect other things that are important to me.”

The Arcana lifted her chin. “Yes. When you are under pressure, especially one that calls upon your emotions for another, you tend to cling. Your friend, Khleo… they shut down. And as for Oz’mandias–”

“He detaches,” Kip said softly.

The Empress hummed her approval. “Humans. You all have weaknesses. Don’t look so ashamed, umbra. How you overcome these flaws is what makes your kind interesting and worthwhile.”

Kipling rolled her eyes. “What are you trying to say? That I should be less clingy? That I should just let Khleo go?”

“Interesting that you mentioned letting go. Let’s unpack that. Tell me, umbra, how do you expect anything to bloom, if you never give it a chance to grow? Imagine the relief that would bring. Once you’ve cleared all of the detritus from your heart, you can give new seeds room to germinate.”

Kip let herself say to The Empress what she wouldn’t with Ozy. “But I don’t want to let Khleo go.”

The Empress gave another one of her derisive snorts. “Letting go. You don’t even know what that means.”

Suddenly, Kipling and The Empress were no longer standing in a garden. Now they were on a rock that looked out at the ocean. Kipling recognized this rock and the sea that turned its waves below and far into the horizon. She bit back the urge to ask The Empress why she had transported them to a replica of the Melting World.

“Look, umbra. See yourself there.”

Kipling turned in the direction that the Arcana was pointing. Her breath caught in her throat as soon as she registered what was happening on the edge of the rock. She saw herself and Ozy arguing. They were so young. She was fifteen. He was seventeen. 

Kipling tore her eyes away from the bickering teenagers and searched for…

“Let’s practice letting go, umbra,” The Empress said just as Kip’s eyes fell on a young Khleo, who was standing before an enormous Door. “See if you can figure out the meaning on your own.”

The Door yawned and tugged roughly on Khleo’s body.

Kipling took off. She barely stopped to think before casting herself into the portal after them.

“Khleo–”

The gardener reached and grasped at nothing at first. Then something slammed into her, leaving her breathless. It took a moment before she realized that she had been caught up in a wave. She knew this feeling too well. All her nightmares in the past had been like this. 

Kip’s cheek was pressed to the rock. Her whole body hugged the rough limestone. It scraped her skin as she shifted to look around for Khleo. She found them. Standing before the Door again. Just like they were moments ago. She could hear the younger version of herself bickering with Ozy in the background.

The Empress’ voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

“Let go.”

Kipling fixed her gaze on Khleo and stood up. “No.”

She took off again, not caring that the wave from before had snatched off her shoes and now the limestone was cutting into her heels. She knew that if she just pushed harder, ran faster, she could get to Khleo in time.

WHAM.

Another wave crashed into her, followed by another sickening bout of disorientation. But Kipling had been there before. This was nothing new to her. 

She saw Khleo. Heard the arguing in the background. She ignored it, choosing instead to chase after Khleo.

She ate seawater. Her sinuses burned in brine. She didn’t care. 

She had to save Khleo. 

The gardener lost track of how many times the Door reset. 

How many times was The Empress going to force her to watch Khleo get taken away? When would she understand that Kipling could not – would not let go?

After a particularly violent wave, Kipling let the Arcana have her way.

“Fine!” She wheezed, cheek pressed to the rock, eyes shut against the painful images that kept replaying without her consent. “You win!”

When she coughed, it felt like torture because of how many times she had been caught up in the waves. It hurt to breathe. 

Water fought its way out of Kipling’s nose. She writhed in an effort to sneeze and instead swallowed a wet, salty lump. It made her sick. She wanted this to be over so she could go back to her plants and be happy. 

“I get it now. I should just be grateful for what I have.” She would love Asra and Muriel and Nadia. She would show Ozy the love he deserved. She would let Khleo go. “I want too much! I always have.” 

She opened her eyes, thinking she would see The Empress. Bending low to place a crown of flowers upon Kipling’s head. Murmuring something about graduating to the next realm of understanding and healing.

Instead, she saw the cascade of a monstrous wave.

“N-No!”

WHAM.

And so it went on. Kipling took the beating of the hurricane and the sea.

“What do you think it means now, umbra?”

Dying, Kipling wanted to say. It means to die.

“Do you think letting go means closing your eyes and waiting for it to be over? Do you think it means forgetting about that person? Do you think it means pretending like they never existed in the first place? It’s none of those things!”

When Kipling could speak again – and it was a long time before she could – with the back of her hand, she wiped away the salty drool mixed with blood from all the times she hit the rocks and said, “You’re killing me.”

The Empress bleated in laughter, her thin lips curling back over blunted teeth. 

“You cannot expect a strong body to rely on a weak heart. What’s more, Kipling, my sweet, a weak heart could never support a powerful mind! They need you just as much as you need them. So you must know – you will learn – when to hold on…” 

The Empress snatched Kip’s head off the rock and pried open her eyes. She watched Khleo’s mouth open in an empty cry as they were taken by the portal again.

 “And when to let go!”

The gardener screamed and jerked out of her patron’s grasp. She tumbled down the rock until she landed roughly before the great Door. There was no wave this time, but her senses still burned from the sound of her younger self and Ozy screaming just off to the side.

Look around. 

Kipling didn’t want to look. Not at those two. Not at herself.

Think about what you’re letting go of. 

“No. I can’t,” Kipling wheezed as she propped herself up on her elbows. “I don’t know that person.”

You can. Because you’re almost there.

It was Kipling’s own words that she was hearing. Not The Empress’, she realized. 

She turned and looked at her teenage self. Kipling stood up.

“I never forgave her.” She said finally. “I said I was sorry to Ozy. I accepted his forgiveness. I even let go of the guilt, but I never forgave who I was then for all the damage I had caused.”

She knew The Empress could hear her. Those dark ruminant features entered her periphery. This time her antlers were covered in seashells and barnacles. 

Plucking an oyster from one of the branches and cracking it open, The Empress said, “As a child, you were one who insisted on keeping everything to herself, letting nothing out, letting no one inside. Imagine if you had held onto her. Imagine who you would be now and the people you would not be able to keep in your company. You let her go a long a time ago.” She removed a fat pearl from the oyster and wedged it inside of one of her hollow eye sockets.

“But forgiveness is a different type of letting go,” Kip said, feeling as though she was talking to herself rather than a Major Arcana. “I forgive her. She was young. I mean, I was young. I know better now.”

Kip didn’t look, but she sensed a smile from The Empress.

“Watch out, umbra. Another wave comes.”

Kipling was ready. Her gauntlets hummed to life. She saw several waves stretching high overhead, intent on crushing her against the bedrock. She saw the glyphs in the framework that intersected the fabric of everything, felt the ones that lit up just for her.

“Taro.”

A tiny Door spiraled open by Kipling’s elbow. Taro chittered and glowed as she floated into view and whizzed around the umbra’s shoulders. Just like Kipling felt the Doors, she felt the tethers to her familiar – in all ten fingers. And Taro, who had always been able to pick up on the things Kip wanted quicker than she felt them at times, knew exactly where to go.

“Hmm.” The Empress mused. “You spin silk. Like my spiders.”

Kipling directed Taro, who passed her tethers onto the glyphs, where they knotted and secured Kip’s connection to them. She never had to leave the motherboard as she tugged with one hand and engaged the dials with another. 

Doors opened under her feet, dragging down the weight of the crashing waves. Kip closed her eyes, relaxing until the locks on all of the Doors clicked smoothly into place. The water rushed violently past her head, but only her freckled cheeks were kissed by the ocean spray.

When the sea had emptied itself, the umbra sealed off the Doors and called Taro back to her. The light dimmed from the lemur’s eyes and markings as she took her seat on Kip’s shoulders. 

The gardener was in the middle of rewarding Taro with scritches when someone came up behind her.

“If I go through that Door...”

Kipling turned to see Khleo towering over her.

“Will I die?”

Kip swallowed. The Empress was nowhere in sight. She took in Khleo’s features. Their height, the slightness of their bones and thin arms. Her eyes smarted at the sight of their ghost lock chasing the salty breeze.

Their face. It was the only thing that would stay the same. Everything else about them was going to change.

“Will I die?” Khleo repeated, their dark brown eyes flicking over Kip’s head at the great Door that yawned in their direction.

Kipling glanced over at where the old Kip was arguing with the old Ozy.

“It might feel like you’re dying at times,” she said honestly. Then she took Khleo by the hand. “But I promise, that’s just you becoming strong.”

Khleo blinked and looked curiously at Kipling. “Strong like you?”

Kip laughed a little. “No, Khleo.” She wiped her eyes at the memory of seeing them in Strength’s realm.

“Strong like you’re meant to be.”

And it was then that Kipling knew what she had to do. She gently pulled Khleo towards the Door.

“I’m scared,” Khleo said, their voice breaking as it often did in those days. 

Kip nodded sagely. “Growing up is scary sometimes.”

Khleo bit their lip. “Oh.”

They didn’t look as worried as they did before when Kipling guided them to the threshold. Khleo didn’t say anything else. They did, however, offer her a small smile and squeeze her hand. Kipling smiled too before she let them go.

Then she took a step back and watched Khleo walk through the Door.

[drivingsideways]

For the ship and one word thingy, of you're still doing it(and thank you!) . Seunghyo and Seunwoo, exhaustion.

Hi anon! Sorry this is a bit late, and I'm not sure this will quite be what you were looking for, but I hope you'll enjoy the snippet. Once again, I'm setting this in my "Where Your Treasure Is" 'verse, but this works as a prequel to the first part of that series and is gen or pre-slash if you squint (or have read the rest of the 'verse!)

This is set post-canon, premising that Seon-woo gets a life-saving surgery, and Gu Seung-hyo is still with Hwajeong group but in an overseas posting. He's also dating Lee No-eul.

cw: mentions of physical disability, depression

The nurse is carefully unstrapping the prosthetics when there's a knock on the door, and a quiet voice says, "May I come in?"

Seon-woo looks up, startled. In the doorway is the last person he'd expected to see this morning, or indeed, for a long while.

"Gu sajang," he says, surprised. "Good morning," he adds, belatedly remembering his manners.

"Good morning, Ye Seon-woo-ssi. Is this a bad time?" Gu Seung-hyo asks, "I can come by later."

"Almost done," Seon-woo says, gesturing for him to enter. "I've just finished my exercise round for the morning."

The second leg is off now, and the immediate lessening of the weight makes him sigh unconsciously in relief, as he leans back into the pillows. It's been a month into the physiotherapy with the prosthetics, but he's still not used to it- neither to seeing the world from a different height, nor the strain on his back. He much preferred the chair still.

"I'll see you at 4," says Nurse Jang, with a smile, and he dredges up one for her. She's his favourite: a real sweetheart, with deft hands and a wicked sense of humour. She bows politely to Gu Seung-hyo, who bows back, before he takes the chair by the bed.

"I didn't know you were in town," Seon-woo says, "I thought No-eul-ssi mentioned you were in Indonesia."

"I have some meetings here this week," Gu Seung-hyo says, "And some free time. I hope this isn't an imposition on yours."

"My time has less value than yours, Gu sajang," he finds himself saying, "It's very kind of you to come by."

He curses himself inwardly the moment the words are out of his mouth. That had been well short of the inane courtesy that he should have responded with; that kind of self-deprecation wasn't as harmless with Gu Seung-hyo, as it might have been with another, less perspicacious man.

"Kindness has little to do with it, I'm afraid. I've been given a task," Gu Seung-hyo says smoothly, "I'm merely an errand boy."

He rises, holding out a brown paper that Seon-woo hadn't noticed before, toward him.

"From No-eul-ssi," he says, "Since she's unable to visit this week."

It's cherry tomatoes, which he knows come fresh from the little vegetable garden that No-eul's got going in her backyard in Gangneung.

Seon-woo smiles.

"Please help yourself," he says, holding out the bag to Seung-hyo, who looks hesitant but then picks one out, gingerly, as he seats himself again.

"You don't like them?" Seon-woo asks, as he roots in the bag, looking for the ripest one.

"I'm don’t usually snack in between meals," says Gu Seung-hyo.

Seon-woo nods; somehow that seems entirely in character. "It's nice though," he says, "To break the rule once in a while."

"Yes," Gu Seung-hyo says, and the corners of his eyes crinkle a little as he continues, "Though, as you know I'm rather fond of keeping them."

Seon-woo can't help chuckling at that, and the crinkles get more pronounced.

Silence reigns for a few minutes as they munch on the tomatoes; sweet with just a hint of tartness beneath. Gu Seung-hyo studies the room as he takes a second tomato, when the bag is proffered. It's not very large, but there's a long window which overlooks the garden of the rehab facility, and lets in the warm sun in the afternoons. The window sill and the small desk is covered in the detritus of Seon-woo's stay: books (from Choi Seo-hyun, mostly), a stuffed toy (No-eul), board games (which he plays with Jin-woo during his daily visits, flowers and snacks (eomma), a picture of the three of them taken at a cousin's wedding three years ago.

"This is a nice place," Gu Seung-hyo says, thoughtfully. "A good location, and they have good staff and equipment, it seems."

"Yes," Seon-woo agrees, wondering if Gu Seung-hyo's ever-ticking brain was thinking of a business opportunity. "I was lucky to get a place here after the surgery, it's always full, because they're competent but not very expensive. I have Chief Joo to thank for it, he pulled strings on my behalf."

"Did he?" Seung-hyo says, neutrally. "I'm glad it worked out."

Seon-woo nods, and attempts to concentrate on the sweetness of the tomato, and not the bitter aftertaste of pity.

It's hard though, getting harder every day, to not—

Gu Seung-hyo's studying the view from the window now, peering through the glass, hands shoved in his trouser-pockets. He's dressed in his customary three-piece suit, this time a light grey with a fine pattern, over a crisp white shirt and a navy tie. Conservative, reliable. Seon-woo wonders whom he was meeting today- some oldish government type, he assumes.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Gu Seung-hyo asks, suddenly, turning back to Seon-woo, startling him out of his thoughts. "Sorry, " he adds, taking in Seon-woo's surprised expression. "But I thought it was better to ask it straight, than attempt to infer."

"It gets better or worse," Seon-woo says, "but there's always some. It's—" he shrugs. "I'm doing as well as could be hoped, at this point."

"The prosthetics—"

Seon-woo shrugs. "They'll take time to get used to," he says, "It still feels strange. The ones I'm trying out are among the best on offer, but the cutting-edge stuff is only available if you're in some clinical trial."

"Who's doing that here, in Korea?"

"SNU, for one," Seon-woo says, "They're really out there in terms of their ongoing projects. But it's hard to say when one of those will become commercially viable."

Seung-hyo nods, thoughtfully.

He smiles at Gu Seung-hyo. "But it's boring to talk about me, you should tell me the news of the wide world."

Gu Seung-hyo's sudden smile reminds Seon-woo that he's a handsome man.

"Do I need to? Isn't that what the internet and that tablet by your bed is for?"

Seon-woo acknowledges it with a half-smile. "Then tell me stories," he says, surprising himself, "Of your adventures in the wild jungle of corporate life. I suppose the new assignment must be a relief after the drama at Sungkook."

"It's more what I'm used to," Seung-hyo acknowledges, and then easily, as if they were friends, "but I admit I miss the challenge of dealing with the eccentricities of top-notch medicos."

The crinkly-eyed expression makes a reappearance. The man was quite unfairly charming when he chose to be, Seon-woo notes; he'd forgotten that, somehow, in the year since he'd last met Gu sajang.

"Your successor isn't faring much better, I think, the last I heard."

"No doubt your brother has nothing to do with that situation," Seung-hyo says, gravely.

Seon-woo laughs, "Nothing at all."

Talk drifts from Sungkook, to other things- Seung-hyo's new role, Korean chaebols, the economy, the Blue House's current occupant and the prospects for the next elections which are less than a year away, books that they discover they're both fond of, and music, and somehow, before Seon-woo realizes it, it's lunch time. There's a knock on the door- it's the kitchen staff with a tray of food. The young woman pauses when she sees Seung-hyo and asks if they'd like another tray.

Seon-woo, mortified by the realization that he's probably upset Gu sajang's schedule irrevocably, is just going to decline, when Seung-hyo says, "It looks delicious, I think I'll have some, if that's not a bother."

"No problem at all," says Min-joo-ssi, with a pleased smile, "We have extra trays."

After she leaves, Seung-hyo says, "Do you feel like having lunch outside in the garden? It's a fine day. I noticed there are some tables set out."

"Uh," says Seon-woo, "I've already made you late."

"Not at all," says Gu Seung-hyo, blatantly lying without missing a beat- another talent that Seon-woo had forgotten he had- "I'll call someone to get a chair."

He's already at the desk phone, quickly dialing the extension after a quick check of the list tacked on the wall, and somehow, before Seon-woo can quite process it, they're outside, under the shade of a garden umbrella, watching butterflies flit, and the bees stagger, punch-drunk, among the roses that are in outrageous bloom.

Seung-hyo eats heartily, Seon-woo notices, without affectation.

He looks up at that moment, to meet Seon-woo's eyes. "You must be bored of the food here," he says, looking a bit rueful.

"They try their best to vary it," Seon-woo says, "and eomma always sends dinner or breakfast with hyung, so I don't have too much to complain about."

Seung-hyo nods, though something flashes in his eyes, that Seon-woo has no way to parse.

A silence falls between them, as they finish the meal. It's not an entirely comfortable one—and Seon-woo feels compelled to occasionally make a remark of some kind to break it, as he becomes more and more conscious of the passage of time. Gu Seung-hyo doesn't look at his watch or mobile even once.

"Do you mind showing me around the grounds?" Seung-hyo asks, after they are done.

Seon-woo looks at him in surprise. "There's not much to see," he says.

"A walk might do me some good," Seung-hyo says, "I'm afraid I might have overdone on the meal."

"You should snack more often," Seon-woo says, smiling at him, "That might prevent these situations from arising."

"Shall we?" Seung-hyo asks, rising from the chair. "Where do I put away the trays?"

So they make their way toward the rear entrance of the kitchen to hand over their trays, Seon-woo wheeling his own chair, and Seung-hyo keeping pace with him. After, Seon-woo directs him toward the southern end of the property, toward the area where there are some tennis courts and even a basketball court set up for the residents who might be able to play.

It's just after lunch, so the courts are empty.

"You used to play," Seung-hyo says.

"Yes," he says, surprised.

"No-eul-ssi mentioned it," Seung-hyo says, "She said that your brother and you made a formidable duo on court."

"Is that so?"

Seung-hyo slants a smile in his direction, "Well, her exact words may have been that you were both bastard cheaters."

"Sore loser," Seon-woo says immediately, "She hated it when she lost."

"She's surprisingly competitive about some things," Seung-hyo agrees, and the accompanying smile is a revelation, starting up an ache beneath Seon-woo's ribs.

"I hope you'll be able to play again soon," Seung-hyo says, "The next time I come by, we should have a game."

"Sure," Seon-woo says, "Next time."

"Seon-woo-ssi," says Gu Seung-hyo, "You can say no, if you don't want to."

Seon-woo looks up, startled.

Seung-hyo is smiling wryly. "I'm quite good at it, so I should warn you it won't be an easy game. You should consider it carefully."

"Is there anything you aren't good at?" Seon-woo says, a trifle acerbic.

"Cooking," Seung-hyo says, immediately, and then adds, reflectively, "And the care of tiny creatures."

"What happened to the dog?" Seon-woo asks, immediately concerned. He's seen enough photos of the creature thanks to No-eul to justify the feeling.

"Oh nothing, Nighty is, as the kids say these days, living his best life. He's eomma's dog now, barely acknowledges me."

Was that a hint of petulance? That was unexpectedly amusing. But there was something a little wistful in it, as well.

"You aren't home," Seon-woo finds himself- consoling- the man. "It's quite natural."

"I'm aware," Seung-hyo says, "And it's fine. It's good, actually. Like I said, caretaking isn't one of my talents."

Unlike compartmentalization, Seon-woo thinks. I wish I had that.

"Shall we head back?" Seung-hyo's voice breaks in. He hadn't realized that they'd been standing there in silence for a while. "You seem tired."

There's something oddly gentle about the way he says it, something that makes Seon-woo both want to punch a wall, and break down crying.

It takes him a minute to gather himself, before he nods.

"Seon-woo-ssi," says Gu Seung-hyo, "Is there something you want to say?"

Seon-woo looks up at him.

Gu Seung-hyo's face is watchful, cautious, but not closed off.

Seon-woo looks away, across the empty basketball court.

"I regret the surgery," Seon-woo says, aloud, for the first time. "I wish I had never let myself be talked into it. I should have had the courage to—let go."

Seung-hyo doesn't respond for a long minute. Then, with a sigh, he says, "But there's so much to let go of. And why should you?"

Seon-woo turns to him, but Seung-hyo isn't looking at him either. Instead, he squats, running his hands over the rough grass at the sidelines.

"I don't suppose you could understand," Seon-woo says, softly.

"No," says Seung-hyo, "You're right, I don't. But it's not your disability or its consequences that I don't understand. It's that I've always wanted everything that this world could offer, and I'm determined to have it. Whatever it takes. I don't accept any other possibility."

He turns to Seon-woo after a minute of silence.

"An uncle of mine once told me that it was better to be alive than dead, and to be born than not at all," he offers.

"Was your uncle a priest?"

"A foreman in a factory that made precision tools. He worked forty years there for the same company, before he retired to a fishing village."

"Close," notes Seon-woo, and Gu Seung-hyo gives him one of his genuinely warm smiles, that he's only seen in photographs No-eul had sometimes shared.

"I'm selfish," he says, "about the world, and my place in it. I have an outsized ego, perhaps, to insist on my significance in the face of the vast unknown. But I am convinced that there's one thing only I can do, and that is to live my life to the fullest."

"The universe has been benevolent to you," Seon-woo says, "You're her favourite. You know, as a pep talk this is remarkably bad."

Seung-hyo smiles, a quicksilver flash of amusement.

"If you wanted a pep talk, you'd talk to your psych," he observes. "Or someone who's invested in keeping you alive, for one reason or the other."

"I'm exhausted by people trying to fix me," Seon-woo admits. "You're a nice change."

"I don't think you need fixing," says Gu Seung-hyo, "I suspect you have problems that need to be fixed. Like the rest of us."

"Is that how you see yourself?" Seon-woo asks, diverted. "As a problem solver?"

Seung-hyo shrugs. "It helps me to think of the world that way," he admits. "A series of problems that I can apply my mind to."

"Sounds exhausting," Seon-woo says, not quite kindly.

Gu sajang seems unperturbed. He shrugs out of his jacket and spreads it on the grass, before sitting down on it.

"It is, sometimes," he responds. "But there's that ineffable component called luck," he adds, "Sometimes the problems sort themselves out."

"Hashtag blessed," says Seon-woo, "Do you have a social media account?"

"I've hired a very competent firm to run my PR," Seung-hyo says, "Though they insist that I post at least one cute picture of my dog or my mother every day. I believe I have a respectable number of followers."

Seon-woo laughs.

Seung-hyo looks up at him, with a raised eyebrow.

"Likeability is a problem that's not too difficult to solve these days," he remarks.

"Another win for the universe's favourite," Seon-woo murmurs, "Hurrah."

The silence that follows lasts a while, but oddly enough, doesn't feel awkward.

"Thank you," Seon-woo says, finally. "For your time today. I'm afraid I've messed up your schedule."

"You were the only meeting on my list."

"You're dressed to meet a government bureaucrat type—" Seon-woo starts, incredulously- and then stops, outraged.

And this smile- pure mischief, that makes him look ten years younger- is something he didn't even know Gu Seung-hyo was capable of, he thinks, and close on the heel of that, he looks like someone I could be friends with.

"You didn't mess up my schedule," Gu Seung-hyo says again, "I don't have those kinds of luxuries in my life."

Seon-woo huffs, looking away. He feels hot under his collar, and it has nothing to do with the afternoon heat. He wishes he had more experience in dealing with this kind of thing- the kindness of strangers was one thing, but Gu Seung-hyo's place in his life was ill-defined.

What rot, says a voice in his head, he's the enemy.

It sounds suspiciously like Jin-woo hyung.

But Seon-woo doesn't have that kind of luxury in his life, either, or the inclination for it. Whatever lay between them- Gu Seung-hyo's time at Sungkook, his ongoing relationship with the love of Seon-woo's life- that was a past perhaps best laid to rest. Life was constant turmoil, and to fight against the current of it in this matter seemed a pointless waste of energy he didn't have.

"Tell me more about this research they're doing at SNU," Seung-hyo says after a minute, and Seon-woo takes the out offered. Sooner than Seon-woo had thought, it's almost time for his second round of physiotherapy.

"I have to get back," he says, "I don't want to make Nurse Jang wait."

"Of course not," says Seung-hyo, as he rises, folding his jacket neatly over his arm. "Shall we?"

They head back, slower than strictly warranted, as the conversation continues.

Nurse Jang is waiting for them at the door.

"Ah, Ye Seon-woo-ssi, I hope you had a good day today," she says, "with your friend."

It seems pointlessly rude to correct her; what was he going to say anyway—

"Yes," he says, not looking at Seung-hyo, "I did."

But he can't resist a glance, and catches quietly pleased look on his face, though, perhaps, to a stranger, it wouldn't look any different than his normal expression.

Somewhere between strangers and friends, he thinks, that's where they were.

As Seung-hyo makes his farewell, Seon-woo says, impulsively, "Next time, we'll play a game."

"Sure," says Seung-hyo easily, "Basketball?"

"Hmm, I prefer strategy games."

There's a glint in Gu Seung-hyo's eyes that Seon-woo finds highly entertaining.

"Loser pays for a meal," he says, recklessly.

But there was something, Seon-woo thinks, to be said for making plans for an unknown tomorrow.

'Deal," says Gu Seung-hyo, holding out his hand, " I'll be seeing you then, Seon-woo-ssi."

"Yes," says Seon-woo, as he shakes the proffered hand, "See you soon."

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I'm curious about "a history of dead women in the city" (and also the Wellington one, of course)

Yusss! 

“History of dead women in the city” - oh man one day I will write this. It's part of this world I'm creating called Babel and it follows this woman as she tries to figure out what happened to her sister who died years ago. 

 A long excerpt: 

Here is a scene from our childhood: It’s a sunny day. Dappled. Portrait worthy sun. It brings out freckles. We are in the courtyard, my sister drawing and me watching her draw. On a large blanket by the well sits our parents. Our mother is laughing, her arms entwined with our father’s, they are so in love. They do not notice us. It’s one of those loves that perfumes air, that is intimate and consuming, where only they exist and nothing else.

��That is what I want,’ Bellefrey says to me. She’s drawing my round face. Squinting, holding up her thumb, making a show of it. ‘I want a man who makes me feel sublime.’ 

‘Don’t you mean loved?’ 

Oh no, she means sublime. She wants to be a thunderstorm. A tsunami. A hurricane. Something you stand in awe of. 

‘The word awesome is overused,’ she explains. ‘We use it too much. Everything is awesome. The food-stalls at the mid-summer carnival are awesome. The paintings by George Dier are awesome. The play at the Round was awesome. I’m awesome. You’re awesome. Everyone’s awesome. Awesome, awesome, awesome.’ Her voices becomes mocking at the end. 

‘But I am awesome,’ I protest. ‘I know how to make a penny appear from behind your ear.’ I sit up to perform the trick and she lets me fumble through it. 

That was over thirty years ago when Bellefrey was seventeen and me, a mere ten. 

Bellefrey wrote to me a week before she died saying that she hoped her daughter Lyra would make up her mind about the name for her daughter. The child was two weeks old and still no name. How was that to be countenanced? 

Lyra was Bellefrey’s third child, though second to survive. Perhaps she thought you should have all these things planned. Bellefrey was a great believer in organization. She planned out all the names for her children. Lists tracked down the side of commonplace books next to recipes and almanac predictions. Boy names, girl names, names that could go for either. 

As soon as she missed her third course she was to the local midwife to read leaves over her stomach so she could prepare properly. Will it be a boy? Will it be a girl? Will it die and so there is no need to prepare a name? 

Johan is her son, first born. He followed his father into the merchant trade and sells all manner of fabrics and spices. He visits me, aunty I’ve black tea pearls for you laced with lavender, hounded by dried ginger, protected by saffron. We brew fragrant drinks and he shows me his art. All those drawings of places I will never see but he has and oh isn’t that wonderful. 

Havel was her second child, a boy, but he died at three weeks. One of those deaths where the babe goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up. Gay in the morning, dead by dinner except there is no fever to blame this on. 

Lyra is three. First daughter and pulled out a screaming child with spindly legs and a too-large head. Her hair is the thick curls that is our mother’s inheritance, her grandmother’s inheritance. Married to a lawyer who aims to one day be well connected through the inns of court, she means to make herself into something. Daughter three was named Belle. She wagged a finger at me, never a word about beasts and fairy tales. 

I don’t tell her that a woman I knew said that fairytales are our collective neurosis born out in repeating tropes. Patterned to go down forever and on. 

The fourth had no name because the leaves read by her midwife told her not to bother. It was born early and without heartbeat. 

Guilluam is fifth and last. She swore he was conceived ready to escape her belly. He patted the inside of her stomach as soon as he could move. Once born he clung to her then didn’t anymore, running away at sixteen. A year before she died. 

What would her most difficult child make of all of this? I remember his sneering face. Where Johan was gentle kindness, Guilluam was sharp. He cut with a look. He cut with a laugh. He could be a harsh, cruel boy. Probably is a harsh, cruel man. 

Or maybe he’s softened. Maybe as he ages he’s gentling. Some people do that. But in all honesty, I don’t think Guilluam the sort. 

What am I trying to do? I’m trying to introduce a woman. A girl. A child. A person whom I have loved all my life and will continue to love all my life. Though I am so angry with her for leaving us it wasn’t her fault. 

See, I’m guilty as all of us are guilty. 

Bellefrey got caught up in something bigger than her death. She was hidden in the shadows of a great anger and a great brutality. 

Bellefrey died and was found months and months later wearing a green dress and purple shoes with pearls on them. 

No one knows what she was caught up in and no one knows about this great brutality, this great anger that once stalked through our less than fine and noble city. 

I do not have my sister’s blood on my hands. But I do have her gravedirt.

 --- 

 The Wellington one! I completely forgot about this one. It's part of the ridiculous Woodford Napoleon AU where Napoleon ends up in England and there are murder fairies. In this story, things are starting to come through a mysterious mirror that someone shipped to Napoleon for unknown reasons. Arthur shows up to investigate. 

 Another long excerpt:

In the drawing room rests the mirror. It was received a little over a month ago wrapped in brown paper with no information on sender or purpose. It is a heavy, old thing. Age-spotted, warped, the frame is heavy, gilded wood. Napoleon says that for him it’s Tuileries. Has he told Arthur about Tuileries? The sacking of it? 

‘Only that you said vive la revolution and someone asked if you were from the south and you said yes and that is what saved you.’ 

‘Southerners have to stick together,’ Napoleon’s sphinxian smile. Then he goes into himself, how he does when he’s formatting a memory — twisting it into some form of narrative that will make sense to those who were not there. Bertrand told Arthur once, It’s the revolution, we can’t really explain it. How we went about our day but also checked this list that was kept of everyone taken up as enemies. You went every morning to make sure your friends were still alive. Then you had breakfast. 

Napoleon shrugs at Arthur’s patient waiting. ‘It was messy. There was a man’s head on a pike. He had a beard, brown hair that curled, blue eyes. And the floor was scattered with torn drapes, rags that were once kingly gowns, shattered statues, remains of old portraits. A lot of broken glass. Windows and mirrors.’

And as for this mirror? With its growth that says: come come come. Nothing happened the first little while. Oh yes, various and sundry people of the neighbourhood came to view the mirror — to see if they recognised it.

‘And did they?’ Arthur asks. 

Yes and no for all who saw it. Mrs. Topsom said it reminded her of a beautiful manor in the Scottish highlands she once visited as a child. She did not seem comfortable with this recollection. Mrs. Phillips said it brought to mind a book she once read which told the story of a young woman trapped in a tower whose uncle froze time. Lady Preston said it was something from the Assembly Rooms in Bath. 

‘And your household?’ 

Napoleon shrugs. What is there to say on that? Nothing. It was the revolution and it was abdication and it was family homes that are no longer homes of families. 

Arthur shifts his gaze from the pensive face of Napoleon back to the mirror and he looks at it for a long moment. Studies the carvings of the frame — the flowers, vines, mischievous eyes peeking out from behind leaves. ‘I suppose it’s something from Spain, if I think on it long enough. A wealthy home we stayed in, during the campaign.’ 

‘A bit of something for everyone.’ 

‘Yes,’ Arthur agrees. Then he adds, ‘and no.’ 

The main issue with the mirror is this: that there is a staircase growing out of it. 

When Arthur approaches he can hear whispers crawling through his mind. Slithering down the back of his head.  

‘How long have the steps been here?’

‘Week and a half. It formed slowly, so we were able to document it in a thorough manner. Bertrand will give you his notes.’

Arthur hums as he inspects the object, pondering cause and effect. And, more importantly, who sent it to the exiles and to what purpose. There is nothing behind the mirror, only the wall it is propped up against. The stairs themselves are made of oak, and descend as three steps out into their world. Within the mirror they meld into an old stone walkway that climbs into a forest and is lost amongst trees and brush and forest fog. 

There are leaves on the floor. And dirt. Detritus of autumnal life. They crunch beneath Arthur’s boots. Everything smells of decay. 

‘Has anyone touched the mirror?’ Arthur asks. ‘Seen if it’s solid?’

‘We had Sir Hudson Lowe test it.’ Napoleon replies with an air of innocence. Arthur casts him a look. ‘What? Would you rather him disappear forever into the mirror or my good self? And no need to answer. You can save your blushes, we’re alone.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘It’s one of my finer points.’

‘And? Was it solid?’ Arthur asks.

‘Yes and no.’ Napoleon approaches and touches the glass. His palm rests against it for a beat, then it begins to go through to the other side. Napoleon lets his hand sink through up to his wrist before withdrawing. ‘No one has walked through yet.’

With this touch the whispering decreases. Though, there remains the feeling of being watched. It is not that they are hunted, Arthur thinks, but rather they are being inspected. Something is curious about them. 

Reaching forward, he places his palm where Napoleon’s had been. The glass is cool to the touch and when his hand begins to sink through his skin buzzes with frisson of magic, that unfurling warmth crawls up his arm as his hand enters the other side where the air is cool yet humid. That sticky feeling of late winter.

He pulls his hand away.

‘What are your orders?’ Napoleon asks.

‘To investigate.’

The whispers return. Arthur rubs the back of his head. Such an unpleasant feeling, something else in your mind speaking a language you cannot understand in a collection of voices none of which are your own.

‘Maybe we should put a sheet over it,’ Arthur suggests after a moment. ‘Just in case.’

Going over to the window seat Napoleon opens a cupboard beneath to pull out a heavy blanket. He holds it up showing the shredded fabric. 

‘We tried,’ Napoleon says. ‘Mrs. Phillips recommended salt so we put a circle around it but found strange footprints in it the next morning. We tried the blanket, but it was clawed through. We collected iron implements and made a circle around it with those and that seemed to work better than the other options. I still think they got out, though.’

‘And you’re just keeping it here in your house?’

‘Oh yes, it’s fine.’

Arthur rolls his eyes. Trust Bonaparte to think it’s fine keeping a mirror-doorway to the land of fairy in his house with potential creatures coming and going out of it at all hours.

‘We leave food out for them.’

‘They’re not pets!’

‘No,’ Napoleon pats Arthur’s cheek with a warm smile. ‘But that’s what you’re supposed to do to keep fairies happy. Come now, you should know this. Milk, bread, sometimes a brandy.’

‘I give up!’

‘Young Napoleon Bertrand has suggested names for them —‘

‘Good lord.’

‘Ferdinand, Finnegan, and Felipe.’

‘Christ’s blood.’

‘Excellent,’ Napoleon enthuses. ‘You’re cursing like a Catholic. I knew I’d be a good influence on you. Come, we shall have a late supper.’

---

Thank you so much for the ask! <3 <3 

[das meme]

[justlookfrightened]

From anonymous: I’m not sure if you’re still doing prompts, but i’ve loved every one so far. on the off chance that you are, maybe 40 for zimbits?

No. 40: “I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you.”

From this prompt list

This is the second response I wrote to this prompt. The first, a stand-alone one-shot, can be found here. This is a continuation of Jack and Bitty in Houston, which starts here and continues here (scroll down to second response).

************************

Jack got out of his ride-share and looked up at Bitty’s building.

Frankly, it wasn’t much to look at. Low-rise, probably five stories. It looked like there was parking underneath and around the back.

He texted Bitty from the front door.

Downstairs

The door buzzed at the same time as his phone, and he opened it and headed for the elevator as he read the text.

I’ll buzz you in. Fourth floor

When the elevator opened, Jack saw Bitty’s head sticking out from an open door and waving.

“Come in!” Bitty said. “Dinner’s almost ready. And my neighbors were just leaving.”

Two women, one blonde and one brunette, were getting off the couch. Both had wine glasses, and both gave Jack frank, assessing looks.

“This is Mandy,” Bitty said, nodding at the blonde, “and this is Jeni. Y’all, this is Jack. Now skedaddle. I’ll call you later.”

“Be good, Eric,” Jeni said.

“But not too good,” Mandy said, giving Jack a long look.

“Yeah, yeah, see you later,” Eric said, closing the door behind them as they left.

Then he turned to Jack.

“Um, welcome,” he said. “You can see most of it from here. This is the living room area -- ” Bitty gestured to the couch, with a coffee table in front of it and a chair at an angle. A small television was mounted on the wall opposite, over a low bookcase “-- and this is the dining area.”

The small table with four chairs was essentially in the same room as the couch and TV. It was already set for dinner with plates, cloth napkins, and cutlery. A pitcher of ice water sat between the plates, with a glass at each setting.

“The kitchen is through there,” Bitty said, indicating a wide archway that opened on a small galley-style kitchen, “and the bathroom and bedroom are through there.”

Everything Jack could see was bright and cheerful, from the art on the walls (that was definitely one of Lardo’s paintings over the couch) to the pillows and rugs, and it looked like Bitty had probably spent some time tidying, since Jack didn’t see any of the detritus Bitty used to leave all over the condo in Providence: no shoes under the table, or charger cords trailing over the arm of the couch, or empty mugs on the coffee table.

It felt completely different from Jack’s old condo, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek furniture and blue and gray color scheme.

All together, Bitty’s apartment was probably smaller than the hotel room the Aeros were putting Jack up in for the end of the season. He wouldn’t have time to look for a more permanent place until the summer, assuming the Aeros wanted to keep him.

“It’s nice,” Jack said. “I like what you’ve done with it.”

“I know it’s not much,” Bitty said. “But it’s what I could afford.”

Jack nodded. He’d assumed as much. And it was nice, even if it was smaller than any place Jack had ever lived, not counting his freshman year dorm room. Even so, he could hear the air conditioning laboring to keep up with the humidity outside.

“You want something to drink?” Bitty said. “There’s water on the table, or there’s lemonade or iced tea. Beer if you want it. I just have to plate the salad. The salmon is resting, and I can warm the apples while we eat that.”

“Apples?”

“Baked apples for dessert,” Bitty said.

“No pie?”

“No pie.”

Jack poured himself a glass of water and said, “Wow. Wasn’t expecting that.”

“I didn’t think you’d want any,” Bitty said. “You had some pie the other day at the bakery, and I know how strictly you keep to your nutrition plan. You always used to get mad at me when I offered you pie more than once a week.”

“I don’t think I was that bad,” Jack said. “It was just, you lived there, so there was always pie. Every day, it felt like. And that mini pie I had the other day was the first pie I had in five years. I think I could handle another piece.”

“Sorry,” Bitty said. “Maybe next time? Or come by the bakery this week and have a piece of whatever you want. On me.”

Bitty was laying slices of fruit and avocado on plates, sprinkling them with nuts and drizzling them with dressing.

“You don’t have to,” Jack said.

“Jack, I wouldn’t have let Quinn take your money last time if I knew it was you,” Bitty said.

“I can afford pie and coffee,” Jack said.

“That’s not what this is about,” Bitty said. “Sit, eat.”

The salad -- sliced blood oranges, avocados and some other kind of fruit, with nuts for crunch and a light dressing -- popped with flavor. Jack liked to think he had gotten better at cooking for himself over the last few years, but nothing he made tasted this good.

“So,” Bitty said, “tell me what you think of the Aeros chances.”

Jack shared his opinions -- the Aeros were good, got better with Jack’s arrival (although he didn’t say so in so many words), were a lock for the playoffs, but would need some luck to go all the way. “It’s definitely possible,” Jack said.

Bitty listened attentively, and the questions he asked showed that he’d been an Aeros fan since before the trade.

“You make it to a lot of games?” Jack said. “I saw you at the one, but that was because you were behind the goal.”

Bitty shrugged. “David -- my co-owner -- has season tickets, but he doesn’t really like hockey that much. Sometimes he uses the tickets to entertain people, but I get to go a lot of the time. I won’t if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Why would it make me uncomfortable?” Jack asked.

“Because you’re uncomfortable now,” Bitty said. “I don’t want to distract you while you’re playing.”

“You wouldn’t do that to the Aeros?” Jack chirped.

“Something like that,” Bitty agreed, but he was smiling.

The hockey talk had carried them through the salads and main course, and Bitty went to the kitchen to pull the apples from the oven.

“I almost wish I did make a pie,” Bitty said. “I was so nervous, and nothing calms me down like rolling out a crust. But these are good; I think you’ll like them.”

“Why are you nervous?” Jack asked.

“Why are you uncomfortable?” Bitty countered.

“I guess I never thought I’d be a guest in your home,” Jack said. “Before, it was always … our home. Then I never thought I’d see you again.”

“You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to,” Bitty said.

“I wanted to,” Jack said. “It’s just weird.”

“Why didn’t you ever want to see me?” Bitty said. “Were you that angry at me?”

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me,” Jack said. “At least at first. Then I didn’t know for sure where you were.”

“But you knew Shitty and Lardo, at least, knew where I was,” Bitty said.

“Not for sure,” Jack said.

“Because you never asked.”

“No,” Jack said. “I didn’t want to put them in the middle or make them feel like they had to choose a side.”

The truth was, he didn’t want to find out they’d choose Bitty if they were pushed.

“I don’t see how you could just watch me leave and never even try to find out what happened to me,” Bitty said. “I guess I thought I meant more to you.”

“Bitty, I loved you,” Jack said. “You’re the one who left.”

“After you basically laughed at me told me I should be happy with what I got when I tried to tell you how I felt,” Bitty said. “Lord, Jack, can we just stop? I don’t want to fight.”

“I don’t want to fight either,” Jack said. “I miss you.”

“But you’re still angry with me for leaving.”

Jack knew that was true. How true, he hadn’t realized until tonight.

“I don’t want to be,” he said. “But I thought things were good, and then you were gone, and I didn’t really get why, and everything was bad. Tater was mad at me. Marty and Thirdy -- they felt bad for me, but I think they were really disappointed. Everyone thought it was my fault.”

“Everyone but you,” Bitty said. “Which goes to show how little anyone else knows about other people’s relationships. Neither one of us broke what we had on our own.”

“When you left so easily, it felt like you never loved me,” Jack said. “Like our whole relationship was a lie.”

“Oh, sweetpea, it wasn’t easy to leave,” Bitty said. “And I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you. Ever. But by the end, it felt like I’d lose my whole self if I stayed.”

“Was it so bad?” Jack said. “Living with me? I mean, I don’t mean any disrespect, but my place was nicer than this. And I’m guessing your place in Philly was even smaller.”

“My place in Philly was a room at the YMCA for the first six months,” Bitty said. “Until I could save money for first and last months’ rent and a deposit. And I don’t know that your place was nicer. Bigger, sure. But all I was when I lived there was part of you. I needed room to be myself, and your condo wasn’t big enough for that.”

“It was our condo,” Jack insisted.

“No, it never was that,” Bitty said. “Jack, honey, I loved you and I thought it was enough. Turns out I had to love me, too.”

***********************

Read the next installment

**********************

Recipes Bitty makes:

Citrus and avocado salad with orange water

Slow-roasted salmon with fennel, citrus and chiles

Baked apples with prunes, almonds and amaretto

@cyn2k @wrathofthestag

[rykhafirehand]

Mending What Needs Mending

Perhaps it was the Light's way, thought Marten Weaver as he hitched his plough horse to the heavily laden cart, to send salvation in one’s bleakest hour.

 ***

 She had arrived after the storm, the one that sundered an ancient oak and slammed several of its thickest branches straight through the Weavers’ roof. Luckily, neither him not Emma had been hurt. They hid in the cellar, as they had before, when a pack of ravenous ghouls appeared to ravage their little homestead. They bore it out and rebuilt then; but that was before Tyrras left to join the army. Before they lost Miriam.

 Now they were all that was left, and little Emma was only seven. He could not count on his neighbours to help him either. Most of them had found safer places to live. Despair coiled inside his gut. He knew it had been a mistake not to follow them, but he had been too prideful and stubborn. At first, it had simply been a matter of family pride, of hanging on to the land he had finally reclaimed from the clutches of the undead hordes. Now, there was another reason, the simple stone marker sitting among the hazel bushes behind their house.

He threw himself into the work, hoping that exhaustion might help subdue his dark thoughts. Emma, Light bless her, helped to the best of her abilities, but it was unbearably slow going. After several hours, it seemed as though they hadn’t made any progress at all. Just as he sat down with his daughter to share a bite to eat, he heard the sound of hooves entering their yard. Marten motioned for Emma to remain quiet, and slowly took hold of his axe. You could never be too safe in the Plaguelands, and whoever it was, they had not called out or introduced themselves.

 His heart was pounding as he turned the doorknob and pushed open the door. When he spied the unannounced visitor, he was struck speechless.

 Marten had seen draenei before, but never one like this. Her skin was a pale alabaster white, marked with holy glyphs and uncountable faintly glowing scars. One of her horns had been shattered halfway along its length, yet its fragments remained in place, floating within a silhouette of soft golden light. She had ridden in on a giant, goat-like creature that now stood obediently by what remained of the Weavers’ fence.

 The hilt of a greatsword poked out above her shoulder, but she had not reached for it. Instead, her bright golden eyes found Marten and she inclined her head. Her voice was deep and melodic. “Greetings. My name is Paathi.” “Uh… good day,” stumbled Marten, “I’m Marten. Marten Weaver. What brings a paladin such as yourself here?” Paathi gestured towards the ruined roof. “I believe you require some aid. I would be glad to oblige.” “How- I mean no offense, milady, but wouldn’t your talents be of better use elsewhere? We’re just simple farmers.”

 The draenei turned her eyes from the damage to Marten. Despite its intensity, the gaze felt… kind. “I am vindicator. I go where I am needed.”

 ***

 As Paathi entered the house, Marten could not help but notice how her very presence lit up the corridor. They went from room to room, inspecting the wreckage. The kitchen had it worst; it lay in shambles, with most of the shelving gone and half the pottery smashed to pieces. The counter and fireplace had luckily avoided the worst of it, but some falling masonry had dented and cracked their large iron cauldron. The draenei picked it up, turning it in her hands as though it were barely a quarter its weight. “That was our only cauldron, and now it’s ruined,” despaired Marten when he saw Paathi’s thoughtful expression. She clicked her tongue and looked up at the devastated roof. “I cannot replace the thatch, but the wooden panels should not be too difficult to repair. See? All the rafters yet stand. I shall require a hand with cleaning up, of course.” “… Cleaning up? It will take ages fixing all of this!”

 The paladin tossed the cauldron in the air and caught it with ease. “It will not. Follow me outside. I shall show you something.” She glanced towards the kitchen entrance. “And tell your child to come as well.” Marten turned around, barely catching a glimpse of Emma’s dark locks as she darted out of view.

 He led his daughter to the front yard, where Paathi was rummaging through her saddlebags. She produced a small object that when tapped began emitting pulses of light. The paladin then placed this object on the ground and motioned for the Weavers to stand back.

 A beam of radiance shot down from the skies, blinding Marten. When it subsided, he saw a gleaming golden anvil with an assortment of tools where the beacon had been moments before. Paathi wasted no time, slamming the cauldron atop the anvil and striking it with a glowing crystalline hammer. “Stop!” yelled out the farmer, “You’ll only damage it further!” Paathi seemed not to notice. The paladin dropped the hammer, held the cauldron in both hands, and let a searing radiance wash over it from her fingers. Mortally terrified of the powers on display, Marten nonetheless found the courage to make a grab for his axe and whirled around, fully intent on stopping the strange visitor…

 Clanggggggg.

 “It is done,” said Paathi. Before her stood the cauldron, beautifully smooth like the day it had been bought, the crack running across it filled in with some strange silvery-golden substance. Marten stood speechless as the draenei beckoned him closer to inspect her work, completely ignoring the weapon gripped in the man’s hands. She stepped away from the anvil as he approached and folded her arms across her chest. Marten ran his calloused fingers across the cauldron’s slightly warm surface. “… How-?”

 “My kind has learned to mend many cracks. Metal… metal is easy.” Her usually impassive expression softened as she offered the farmer a soft smile.

 ***

 It was not the end of unexpected wonders for the Weavers. When offered an axe to help remove the thick branches, Paathi waved it away. Instead, she unsheathed her curved blade, bathing the room in light. It shone as though it had been forged from a fragment of the sun, which, Marten thought with childlike wonder, it may very well have been. Whatever its source, the blade made quick work of its quarry, leaving Marten and Emma with the task of picking up the pieces and stacking them neatly against the side of the house. With the branches out of the way, the Weavers went about removing the other detritus while Paathi mended the cracked walls using the same silvery-golden metal as before.

 Marten recalled that he had set aside a few wooden panels in the barn a few years earlier, just on the off chance they might come in handy, and so they did. The paladin wasted no time sawing them into correct shapes and replacing the broken ones along the roof. Evening found her forging new holders for the kitchen shelving. When she sincerely apologised for not being able to replace their shattered pottery, Marten simply hugged her and began to weep. In between sobs, he attempted to explain just how much the help meant to him. Paathi somewhat awkwardly patted him on the head and gently disentangled herself.

 At supper, she produced a crystalline lute and sang in her ancient tongue, songs of hope and joy and a brighter future to come. When offered a bed she claimed to need no sleep and instead went for a stroll, leaving her talbuk mount to guard Marten and Emma as they slept.

 ***

 “Please, take some payment, it’s not much, but…” Paathi waved him away. “You have already given me what you could spare.” And he had. Marten had meticulously gone through their pantry and shared a portion of everything he had. Besides, she had little need of money. “Anything you ask, anything at all! You saved us after all!” Paathi looked over the man’s shoulder, at the girl waving from the doorway. She offered a small wave in return. “The truth. What happened to your wife?” Marten’s smile froze and he grew deathly pale. “I saw the grave last night,” said Paathi, her voice tinged with sympathy. The farmer stared at his hands silently for a while, then spoke.

 “It was in winter, just after our boy had left for Stormwind. There was something evil on the wind, you could almost taste it… Miriam, she… she worked so hard, getting the harvest in, she must have… the spores, they come in from the east sometimes, if the healers get to you quick enough it’s fine. She was feeling poorly, so we called for them, and they did what they could… but the sickness came back two months later, and I knew what it was, I’d seen what it did in Tirisfal… I couldn’t save her, couldn’t… When she was gone, I built a pyre, nearly half our firewood and a full barrel of oil went up in smoke. You know how hard it is to light a fire in the snow? I had to, or else…” His voice grew thick and he swallowed hard. “I thought I saw her rise, in the flames… It… I… I couldn’t…”

 Paathi inclined her head and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. A soft light limned her fingers, and a feeling of peace washed over him. “I understand. You hold on to this land for the memory of her.” “Not just that,” muttered Marten stubbornly, “It’s my place, where I was born and raised. And now with your help, we can go on.”

 The paladin looked at the mended roof. “I have been alive for a thousand of your lifetimes, perhaps more,” she said, and a chill ran down the farmer’s spine. He knew, somehow, that she was telling the truth. “Sometimes we have to mend things before we can truly let them go.  But let them go we must. For our own sake, and that of others.” Marten followed her gaze to Emma.

 “Why did you help us then?” he asked. “We would have had to leave regardless.” Paathi tilted her head. “Yes. You would have had to leave. But would you have?” The word ‘yes’ stuck in Marten’s throat. He knew it would be a lie, and he knew she would know it to be one. He sighed heavily, and Paathi nodded. “Now, should you choose to stay, you have a roof over your head. But remember; a house is not the same as home. And a grave is fit to be neither.”

 ***

 He stood watching, thinking, for a long time, even after Paathi slipped out of view. Then he went inside, made some tea, poured two cups, and carried them to Miriam’s grave.

 He sat silently, sipping his tea, with the other cup placed atop the stone. “Do you remember mornings like this?” he whispered eventually. The wind murmured a reply, but he could not understand it. “We have to mend things before we can truly let them go. I thought… I thought we could pull through, as we always did. I did my best, truly, but in the end… it was for me we stayed, wasn’t it? It was for me you stayed.”

 He sat until the tears dried up and the tea grew cold.

 And then he let it go.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Idea: What if, partway through the war, all the yeerks (on Earth) died? Not killed by the Animorphs-- maybe the Andalites got their act together, maybe they were wiped out by an unexpected plague, whatever. But suddenly, the teen soldiers find their enemies just... gone.

Embarrassingly enough, it takes them almost two weeks to notice.  Well, that’s not quite true.  They notice the suspicious lack of yeerk activity in less than a week, but mostly in the form of Marco declaring it to be “quiet… too quiet” and Jake wondering what has the yeerk inside Tom acting so morose all of a sudden.  It takes almost two weeks of Tobias lurking over known Yeerk Pool entrances wondering where the heck the controllers are, two weeks of Ax mentioning that the internet chatter is more full of yeerk talk than usual, two weeks of Erek reporting no Sharing meetings anywhere in the country, and two weeks of Cassie telling them to appreciate the break for a change… and then Rachel snaps.

Specifically, she gets fed up with the tension, marches up to Tom in the middle of a school hallway, and (poking him in the chest every so often for emphasis) demands to know whether the entire Yeerk Empire has suddenly gone into hibernation or— or what.

Tom’s response is to grab her by the arm and drag her into Chapman’s office.

Rachel fights him with literal teeth and literal nails, of course — right up until the moment Tom turns to Chapman and goes “See?  She remembers that there were brain-stealing aliens too.  That proves I’m not crazy.”

Rachel stares at Tom in shock.  Chapman heaves a put-upon sigh and says, “I never said you were crazy.  I said that we should all probably forget it ever happened and move on, because if we told anyone then we’d appear to be crazy.”

“But…”  Tom frowns, petulant.  “But if we, like, got a reporter to talk about the yeerks, and enough of us agreed about what happened…”

“Then no doubt the school district would send gas inspectors out to determine why so many people in this town are hallucinating,” Chapman drawls.  “The yeerks are all dead, their bodies entirely decomposed in the Earth atmosphere by now.  The nonhuman hosts were last seen wandering off in search of that mystical colony of free hork-bajir somewhere in the mountains.  I don’t have a way to contact the andalites.  All of which means that the only proof you have is a rapidly-evaporating puddle of kandrona under the school.”  He sighs.  “Any reporter with an ounce of sense will blame the fumes from that for the gas leak, and we’re back to square one.”

“The yeerks… are dead?” Rachel asks.

“How did you not already know this, if you were a controller?” Tom says.

She should probably wait and confirm this with Jake and the others.  Probably.  But then, she’s never been very good at waiting.  “Because I’m one of the morphers who’s been fighting them.”

After all that, Rachel doesn’t even get to tell the others the news.  Because she bursts into their meeting only to find that Toby is already standing there looking grave, and Cassie’s mouth is hanging open.  By the time Toby is done telling her story — and answering all 500 of Marco’s suspicious questions — most of the details come out.

A few days ago, close to a thousand hork-bajir and taxxons had simply wandered into the free hork-bajir valley.  Toby had assumed an attack, until one of the taxxons, who gave the unusual-for-a-taxxon name of Arbron, had explained that none of them were controllers.  Because, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, all the yeerks simply dropped dead a few days back.  

Toby, not being born yesterday, had forced the entire cavalcade to wait three days under constant guard before letting them into the valley. They passed.  All signs point to the conclusion that they’re telling the truth: the yeerks inside them all have died without warning.

Marco, being Marco, maintains that this is all some elaborate yeerk conspiracy.  Until Rachel shamefacedly mentions that she blurted the whole thing out to Tom.  Until Tom, muttering about their questionable taste in tourism destinations, takes them through a Yeerk Pool entrance under the car wash and shows them the cavern: empty, echoing, deserted.  Filled with detritus and congealing kandrona and abandoned junk.

Cassie becomes the one to voice the question that’s been on all their minds, later that afternoon as they sit around her barn.  “So…” she says slowly.  “Now what?”

“We’ve gotta tell someone, right?”  Rachel looks around at them.  “Just pick any adult, show them that we can morph, and then…”

«And then come the conspiracy theorists,» Tobias points out.  «Then come the social workers.  Then come the paparazzi.  Is that really what we want?»

«Prince Jake?  What do you recommend?»

Jake runs his hands through his hair.  “Honestly?  I want to go home.  I want to finish my stupid English essay, since I guess I’ve got time for it now.  I want to go to the UCSB game on Saturday.  I want to…”  He takes a breath.  “To catch up with my brother.  Maybe even get some sleep for once, while I’m at it.”

They vote on it, for lack of a better solution.  Rachel and Marco are all for telling the world.  Cassie thinks they should wait on a decision until they talk to Toby and some of the ex-hosts about what everyone else wants.  Tobias and Jake seem exhausted even by the thought of the media circus that would ensue.  Ax, as always, abstains.

“Okay,” Jake says.  “I guess that’s two votes in favor of sharing our story, three against.  We’ll go with Cassie’s suggestion: hold off for now, revisit the idea after talking to the others.”

Things get back to normal.  Kind of.  Sure.

Rachel punches a girl she doesn’t even know in the face after said girl rudely ignores Marco.  And then, when Marco makes a breathy comment about Rachel defending his honor, she punches him too.  Detention is a relief; it’s high time someone punished her.

Cassie breaks down crying in the middle of dinner for, really, no reason at all, and finds herself crying harder when her parents hover and worry and offer explanations: it’s about a boy, it’s about the goose last week they couldn’t save, it’s about hormones.

Tobias wavers.  He practices, a little bit at a time.  Pretends to be human long enough to walk downtown.  Grows fingers and dull eyes to see what happens when he rings Rachel’s doorbell like any other boy on the planet.  Each time he goes back.  Each time giving up human shape feels more like disappointment, more like relief.

Jake wanders the house in restless circles for six or more hours a night, trying to wear himself out so that the nightmares won’t wake him yet again.  Sometimes he hears the crisp pock-pock-pock of a basketball on concrete outside, and feels less alone.

Marco’s dad comments on how many evenings they’ve spent together with a reheated pizza and the latest Madden.  Marco brushes it off with a comment about earning enough brownie points to get a car.

Ax, with a little help from some commandeered yeerk tech, calls home again.  He tries to tell his parents everything that happened, and finds he doesn’t have the words.  They assure him they’re coming for him the moment they get permission from the Electorate, and he tries to believe that that time is coming soon.

Ten days later, when it seems that every single trace of yeerk activity really has disappeared for good, a kid with messy blond hair and soft grey eyes walks into their high school to enroll.  There are some inconsistencies in his paperwork, of course — he lists his uncle as his legal guardian in spite of said uncle being less than a year older than him, he gives his home address as a P.O. box downtown, he has no transcripts from previous schools — but the vice principal proves willing to overlook all of those issues in light of everything that this kid has done to keep the planet safe.  Chapman even signs off on the form claiming that Tobias requires access to a private bathroom once every two hours all day long for unspecified medical needs.  It feels, in some ways, like the first true commitment to the idea that this peace might just last.

Which is why Marco corners Tom the next day in school.  “So,” Marco says, “I had a question.  And you probably don’t know the answer, but you’re like, my second-to-last resort before Chapman, so let’s go with you’re kinda my last hope.  Anyway, I was just wondering, in case you happened to know—”

“Supervising the invasion of the Anati system,” Tom says over him, “as of the day all the yeerks on Earth kicked it.  No one’s heard from Visser One or her forces since.”

“Anati.  That’s far away, isn’t it.”  Marco doesn’t wait for confirmation.  “And if I wanted to, say, send a message to Anati…?”

Tom considers for a minute.  “Find Alloran.  He’ll know how.”

So Marco goes to Ax.  Just to Ax.  He’s getting closer and closer to the others all finding out about this, but… it’s his mom.  His problem.  He doesn’t want to trouble the others, who all deserve their rest.

Ax, however, seems to be bored out of his mind.  He seizes on Marco’s “mission” with enthusiasm, hacking every open-circuit camera he can get his hands on in about two hours flat.

Between Tobias being at school for several hours a day and Jake having essentially ordered them all to take a break, Ax has a lot of time on his hands.  It takes him less than three days to catch sight of a very familiar human morph — tall, balding, with a commanding smile — and figure out where Alloran has been hiding.  The paper trail takes a little more tracing from there, but eventually he gets a hit on a four-star hotel whose penthouse is currently being paid for by a Yeerk Empire shell corporation… and whose penthouse guest has already been reprimanded twice for stealing too many tiny Danishes from the breakfast bar.

Alloran listens to Marco, and even seems sympathetic, but insists that, as long as they don’t know what killed the yeerks on Earth, he’s not going to contact the yeerks elsewhere to let them know so that they can start invading Earth all over again.  Which is when Marco reluctantly gets the others involved, on the assumption that one of them will know how so many yeerks ended up kicking the bucket all at once.

Chapman, when asked, immediately blames the oatmeal crisis that was underway at the time when the yeerks died.  However, he has no proof to back up this theory, so he’s not much use.

Tom blames the whole thing on inbreeding.  He does not listen to Ax when Ax points out there’s no way a lack of genetic diversity could kill a whole species that quickly.

Jake comes up with an elaborate explanation about them having all died of the common cold.  Rachel pokes fun at him for plagiarizing War of the Worlds, until Cassie points out that technically a lack of genetic diversity could in theory leave them open to all being affected by the same disease.

Marco and Tobias, it might be said, get a little too far into tinfoil-hat territory around the time they connect an experimental weapons test out of Zone 91 with a fractional shift in the pH of the surrounding atmosphere, which might have something to do with the acid rain out of Nevada… which probably has nothing to do with the yeerks dying.

Alloran makes a single, muttered comment about quantum viruses.  He refuses to explain himself, or even to tell anyone what a quantum virus is.

Marco writes the whole thing off as a colossal waste of time.  He goes home that night frustrated, defeated, and wondering if Ax is quite bored enough to steal an unused Bug fighter so that they can go on a kamikaze run for Anati.

He wakes up tied to a chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse.

“Listen to me, parasite,” a very familiar voice says.  “We can do this the easy way, where you worm yourself out of him right now and no one has to get hurt… or we can do it the very, very hard way.”

Which is right around the time that Marco remembers that he  pretended to be a controller the last time he saw his mom.  “Oh crap,” he says out loud, and then, “I’m guessing you’re not a controller anymore.”

“Edriss dropped dead out of the blue, don’t know why.  I stole a Bug fighter and came straight here.”

“Huh,” Marco mumbles.  Must be genetic.

Eva raises the dracon beam in her hands until it’s pointed at his head.  “Surrender or don’t.  Either way, I’ve got no plans for the next three days.”

Marco blinks several times.  Judging by the fuzziness of his vision and the cloying taste in the back of his throat, his mom friggin’ drugged him.  There’s no telling how long he’s been gone.  “I should probably warn you.  Jake and a couple of my other very dangerous friends are gonna be looking for me, and I can pretty much guarantee that when they find us—”

“Your threats don’t mean anything to me.”  Eva smiles bitterly.  “After all, I’m already dead.  So I suggest you be quiet, or I might be forced to gag you.”

Marco does as he’s told.  Staying quiet and staying put until his mom figures out he’s not a controller seems preferable to fighting her, at any rate.

By his extremely crappy system of internal timekeeping, it is either two hours or two days later that there’s a scraping sound on the roof of the warehouse… almost like a bird of prey landing on the corrugated iron.  Eva stands up, tilting her head to listen.  In the process, she lets the dracon beam drop to her side — which is when the grizzly bear hits her like a freight train.  Her body goes skidding across the floor, a small mountain of brown fur and claws following.

“Stop!” Marco bellows.  “Rachel, STOP!”

«I’m not gonna kill her, jeez.»  Rachel pins Eva to the ground, leaning just enough weight on the arm that holds the dracon beam that the weapon clatters out of her hand.

“She’s not a controller!” Marco says.  “Visser One is dead.”

«She has you tied to a chair—»

“Yeah, exactly!”  Marco really wishes he could hold up his hands in a placating gesture right now.  “Which we both know I could get out of in about two seconds.  So if she knew I could morph, why bother trying to capture me alone?  If she didn’t know I could morph, why capture me at all?”

Rachel pauses for a second, looking between him and Eva.  «I don’t get it.  Why did she kidnap you, then?»

“Because she thinks I’m a controller.”  Marco raises his eyebrows.  “Which means she isn’t.”

«Marco’s logic does appear to be sound.»  Ax steps delicately forward.  «In that case, we apologize for inconveniencing you, Mrs. Marco’s Mom.»

Rachel sits back on her rump with a whuff of indignation.  

Eva climbs slowly to her feet.  She looks over at where Marco is awkwardly shifting out of the way so that Ax can cut him loose.  “Mijo,” she whispers, “who the hell told you that you were allowed to fight in a war?”

Marco stands up, stuffing his hands in his pockets.  “Does this mean I’m grounded?”

“Oh yes,” Eva says, pulling him into the tightest hug he’s had in his life.  “For the rest of existence.”

It finally happens less with a bang than with a whimper.  The mall downtown is expanding to a new wing, and the construction equipment encounters a sinkhole larger than any California has yet seen.  After a trackhoe breaks through to an underground cavern the size of a football stadium, the county immediately halts all activity and sends a team of archaeologists down to excavate what everyone is clearly expecting to be ancient ruins… and instead proves to be stranger than anyone imagined.

It is with no small sense of surreality that Cassie finds herself sitting on her couch with her parents to her left and Rachel to her right, watching on TV as scientists dissect a dracon beam while a Discovery Channel personality narrates the debate about lost civilizations and secret underground cities.

“I think it’s high time we gave them some answers,” Rachel says.  “Don’t you?”  Her tone is casual in a way that Cassie recognizes as an act, covering for some of the same nerves she’s feeling herself.

Cassie thinks of Toby, struggling to keep her colony alive and hidden.  Thinks of Tom, too-casual just like Rachel when saying “I’m not crazy, right?” five or six times.  Thinks of Ax swinging by twice a day, just to see if there’s anything she needs.  Thinks of Aftran, who — she hopes — would’ve wanted this.

And then she picks up the remote and turns off the TV.  “Mom.  Dad.”  She smiles in a way she hopes is reassuring.  “There’s something we have to tell you.”

[thepartyresponsible]

welcome to the champagne fills! this one is for the anon who asked for “winteriron? maybe a follow-up on your space opera au?”

i’m giving myself a solid, respectable 66% on this one, because it’s winteriron and it’s based on the space opera au, but it’s not a followup. it’s, uh. an au of my own au?

this is what happens if bucky and tony meets during the war instead of after it.

The ship went black hours ago. When the emergency lights went out, Bucky felt the failing life support like a hand slipping around his throat. He’s been breathing through the mask ever since, trying not to notice the way every breath arrives a little lighter than the last.

The damn thing’s been half-broken for half the war, and it hasn’t mattered. With the way Steve’s always throwing himself right at the nearest nightmare, Bucky figured death would happen too fast for suffocation.

But here he is, gasping, light-headed.

Floating in the black. Space trash, detritus. Carbon, hydrogen, calcium, phosphorus. A rat in a trap.

He takes a short, measured breath and tries to ignore the way his lungs burn. Steve is going to be so pissed at him for dying this way.

Well, it’s Bucky’s own fault for taking a separate mission. If he’d stayed in Steve’s orbit, he’d have burned up like he always planned, flared out fast, hardly suffered.

Mission accomplished, he thinks. He directs it at Nick Fury, wherever the hell he may be right now.

All the data, all the records, all those locked-down details about troublesome families, they’ve been erased. The HYDRA ship is floating, life support online but engines too thoroughly sabotaged for flight. The SHIELD-allied troops will pick the ship apart soon enough, but they’ll be too late to save Bucky, in his tiny one-person pod, halfway back to safety.  

But that’s alright. Bucky’s earned his rest. He didn’t have any post-war plans anyway.

He tips his head back. There’s a dull headache beating in his temples, and he feels dizzy, weak. Sick, maybe, but he doesn’t know if that’s the oxygen deprivation or the fear.

He should make some kind of recording. Say goodbye to Steve.

But he can’t move his hands, and his pulse taps, faint and fading, in this throat.

He closes his eyes. He lets it happen. Doesn’t make himself fight. He’s been fighting since he was sixteen, and Steve said, I’m going. I’m joining up. Without you, if I have to.

And now it’s Bucky who’s going, and Steve’s half a damn galaxy away.

He’s tired. He’s done. When it fades, he doesn’t fight.

  When they pry his mask off his face, he wakes up gasping. He heaves, chokes. “Fuck,” he says, and then he throws up all down the front of his shirt.

“See?” Beside him, a dark-haired man is throwing a vindicated expression at an unimpressed redhead. “See, Pep? I told you he was gonna be fine.”

“Only you.” The exasperation on the woman’s face looks well-worn, that eye-roll runs a familiar track. “Only you would think immediately puking on yourself is a sign that everything’s fine.”

“Nah, he’s good,” the dark-haired man says. He smiles encouragingly at Bucky and then leans across the medical bay to grab a towel. “You’ve got it, right?”

“I was dying,” Bucky tells him, a little nonsensically. But he was. He remembers.

He remembers, maybe, a flare of light across his eyelids, a soft murmuring, the lazy, floating feeling of being hauled out of a ship that lost its artificial gravity field hours and hours ago.

“Sure,” the man says. He flashes a smile as he wipes the vomit off Bucky’s face, movements slow and careful, gentle. “Got pretty close, too. Maybe don’t do that again.”

Bucky takes a deep breath. Something stings at the backs of his eyelids, and he blinks it away. “Yeah,” he says, voice wrecked from gasping at the mask. “I’ll try not to.”

The man smiles at him again. He’s got a beautiful smile. It’s the sort of thing Bucky would’ve died for in peacetime. But he’s got other things to die for now.

“I’ve got,” he says. He lifts a hand, gestures. “I need to contact some people.”

“SHIELD?” The man offers it easily, like it’s not every kind of treason, like saying the word isn’t enough to get him executed, get that pretty redhead executed, get the whole ship sent to scrap. “Yeah, I let them know one of their ducklings went missing. They’re on their way.”

Bucky blinks. He stares at the man’s face, his bright smile and clever eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

The man gives him another smile, but this one’s sharper. When he steps back, he drops the towel onto the exam table next to Bucky, and he doesn’t touch him again. “When you tell people this story,” he says, “I’d appreciate it if you forget what my face looks like.”

  Later, Bucky’s in a patched-up pod, new mask on his face in case the life support fails again, and Steve shows up to get him.

“Buck,” he says. It sounds wrenched out of him. Bucky hugs him quick and fast, pounds his back to knock all those hysterical emotions back down deep where they belong.

“I’m fine,” he says. “And, hey, I got to meet Iron Man. And Rescue.”

“Would’ve been better,” Steve says, jaw tilted past obstinate right on into bullheaded asshole, “if you’d never had any trouble at all.”

“Sure, Stevie,” Bucky says. “But what kinda story would that be?”

  After the war, when the revolution’s over, when they’ve won, Bucky gets himself sent to play sheriff on a mining planet as far from the capital planets as he can get.

He steps off the train, ready to meet his deputy, and his breath catches at the bright, dangerous, solar-flare grin that greets him.

“Well, hell,” the dark-haired man says, “looks like maybe you missed the part where you were supposed to forget my face.”

Bucky stares for a long moment. The man’s familiar crooked grin settles over him like the first gasp of clean oxygen after damn near dying.

“That was bullshit anyway,” Bucky says. “Don’t know how the hell anyone was supposed to forget a pretty face like yours.”

[ilovelocust]

The Price Of Flowers - Chap 8

Note: Next chapter is the last chapter before I take a hiatus. I’m going to enjoy Christmas with my family. Then when I get home, I’m going to do some plotting for the last part of this story. Once I’ve got the last half of the story written, I’ll start posting again.

<< First < Prev.

Chapter Eight - Hurricane Lance

There is a park between his and Shiro’s place. It’s less trees and playground equipment, than wide open spaces with a running path. The student population has laid claim to it, and you can hardly pass the place at any hour of day or without seeing some small cluster of young adults playing ultimate Frisbee or just drunkly chasing each other to and fro.

Keith’s never had reason to use it, his favorite physical activities benefit more from gym mats than grass and star gazing is an out of town pass time, but now it’s a convenient shortcut between him and his destination. Unfortunately he’s not the only one who thinks so.

Maybe Lance is right, maybe the Universe is conspiring against him right now, because he’s barely entered before he’s drawn up short by two very familiar people. None other than Hunk and Lance, casually strolling down the running path he’d decided to take.

Their backs are to him, so he’s safe for now. If he turns tail and runs they’ll be none the wiser to how close they came to contact, but something stops him. This is his first chance to observe Lance since he found out about his illness. Right now he’s not trying to put his best foot forward or convince Keith. Lance is just Lance, and Lance looks fine.

He’s talking to Hunk as if he’s never heard the term indoor voice. Laughing at a joke, Keith can’t hear. His complexion is healthy, and there are no signs to show he’s dying. Exactly how for along is the Hanahaki? Lance said a while, but that’s not exactly a useful time measurement.

Maybe he’s not as bad as-Lance jerks to a stop. A coughing fit double Lance over, shaking with a hand to his mouth. Hunk is saying something, reaching out to support his friend, but Lance doesn’t seem to hear. His knees give out, falling to the ground back heaving, as if he can’t breathe.

Keith’s running without thinking, covering the distance between them to kneel down by his friend’s side. Up close he can hear the wheezing, see a few bloody petals already spread on the concrete. Lance isn’t getting air. The flowers lodged in his throat won’t let enough past, “Come on man you can do this,” Keith says, hand reaching out to pat his back uselessly, “You’re too stubborn of a bastard to die here,” He has to be. Keith doesn’t know the Heimlich maneuver, and an ambulance would never arrive in time.

His heaves grow harder, and maybe Keith’s words really help, because a second later, something finally breaks loose and Lance is hacking up a clump of petals to drop to the ground in front of him. Lance sucks in a deep breath and immediately coughs it back out with some more flower detritus, but his windpipe is clear. He’s going to be okay. For now.

That was too close, Lance couldn’t breathe. How often is this happening? How many times has Lance had a brush with death? Is this what sent his mother to Keith’s door?

Lance catches his breath and sits up. He spots Keith and a smile breaks out on his face, “Well what do you know, I thought I’d heard the voice of an angel. Couldn’t get me off your mind could eh?” Lance says cheekily, like flirting is somehow an appropriate response to this situation.

Keith frowns, staring down at the flowers that had so recently been trying to choke the life out of his friend. This is what Lance’s end will look like, “Lance, this has gone too far. We nearly lost you. You need to see a surgeon,” Keith says. If anything could reach him, wouldn’t a near death experience be it?

“Hey,” Lance touches Keith’s cheek. Keith startles glancing up at Lance. The softness there makes no sense, “I told you. When you love someone, nothing is more important. That means I won’t ever give up on you.”

“Even if you die?” Keith says, but deep in his gut he already knows the answer. It’s the one that had Hunk asking Keith to give him a chance. The one that leaves Keith responsible for a mother’s tears.

“Even then,” Lance says without missing a beat.

“You’re serious aren’t you,” Keith says, but he doesn’t understand. Lance has everything going for him. A mom who loves him. Friends who will put everything on the line for him. A promising future. The social skills to make others care about him, and he’s willing to risk it all just to get Keith to date him. Why? Why make Keith decide if gets to keep all that?

“Yep,” Lance says, popping his p, and that is that. Lance has made his decision, he won’t change. Only Keith can save him, and Lance’s mother, she’s, she’s right. If he doesn’t, he’s just as guilty as if he strangled Lance with his own two hands. Standing by while he dies, when he could save him, that is just as good as murder. Who is he to do that to Lance, to all the people that love Lance?

Keith takes a deep breath, “…okay then,”

“Huh?” Lance quirks his head to the side.

“Okay, I’ll go out with you,” Six words to seal his fate and save Lance’s life.

Lance’s eyes go wide, “Really?” He says.

“Yeah..” Keith nods.

Abruptly Keith is being bowled over, he barely catches himself before he ends up flat on his back with a happy Lance on top of him. Lips are pressed against his own in an overly eager kiss, before disappearing just as fast as they came, “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life!” Lance exclaims, and he’s standing, dragging Keith along with him, “Hunk did you hear him. He said yes!” Lance turns to his best friend.

“I heard man,” Hunk says, patient to his friend’s excitability, “Congratulations.”

“There is so much I want to do. So many things I want to show you. Have you been dancing? I should take you dancing!” Lance hardly seems to breath as rattles on, wrapping an arm around Keith’s shoulders and pulling him close, “No, no, wait, I need to tell mom. She’ll be so excited! She’s wanted to meet you forever. You can come over for dinner, she’d love to cook for you.”

That’s a terrible idea, “I don’t think, she likes me.” Keith says. After their earlier meeting, even agreeing to date Lance may not be enough to abate her anger at him.

“Don’t be silly, I love you. She’ll love you too.” Lance brushes off Keith’s concerns, “You can come over tomorrow for Sunday lunch. Wait until you taste her food, you’ll never want to eat something from a microwave again.” But he likes his microwave food, it’s all food he picked for himself that he knows he’ll enjoy. Some pop song he doesn’t recognize, sounds from Lance’s pants, “Ah, hold on, that’s her now.” Lance fishes his ringing phone from his pocket, “Mom! You’ll never believe the news!” Lance steps away, to recount the last few minutes in hyper detail. Leaving Keith and Hunk to standing there, waiting for him.

Hunk glances over him, “Thanks man,” Hunk gestures between him and Lance, “For doing this.”

Keith blinks at him for a moment. His whole body feels like it’s vibrating. Whiplash, from to much to quickly, but Hunk is waiting for an answer. Keith looks away and shrugs, “I don’t want to see him die either.”

Hunk nods, “He’s a good guy, he’ll treat you right. You’ll see.” The words don’t bring as much comfort as he thinks Hunk intends them to. What does it matter how Lance treats him. He said yes to save him, what kind of boyfriend he turns out to be hardly matters.

“Alright! We are on for tomorrow.” Lance announces, walking back, “Now come on, we’ve got to snap some photos. Mom wants to see, and oh man, I need to update facebook.” Keith finds himself being tugged along into his new life.

Next >

[loquaciousquark]

8th August. Genuinely cool today, glorious! Won’t last

I keep having to go to the keep for sundry Champion paperwork ephemera, and I noticed last week there’s a stain right at the bottom of the steps. It looks brown and stubborn despite the scrub-marks on the stone around it—in fact, it’s where Dumar’s head landed, and now that I’ve seen it I can’t stop seeing it. I asked Aveline, and she said she’s noticed it too. She tried to get at it herself with lye while I was out, but she said it wouldn’t budge. I didn’t even know stone could take up blood like that... although I suppose Kirkwall would be the place prone to that kind of thing.

There’s still no news of a new Viscount. Bran’s running the place as best he can (which, as it happens, would be a good deal better if he’d stop wasting so much time rolling his eyes at me every time he sees me), but Lady Ashbridge said on Pelarie’s visit last week that there’s rumors Meredith’s just going to run the city instead. Surely they won’t let that happen, though--how much power does one person need?

Then again...it’s Kirkwall.

I should talk to Varric.

In other news, took Sebastian to dinner the other day as thanks for accompanying me to the ball. Went to the Lime Pavilion, which has a twenty-sov minimum plate, but with Varric at the helm all my money does these days is make lots of tinier little baby monies, so I might as well get some use out of it. He had beef that came in a glass bowl with gold around the edges, and I had fish that was cut in the shape of a fish. Made it even worse that it was the most delicious thing I’ve had in months.

Spent the whole meal quietly panicking about which of my three forks to use. Serves me right for trying to cater to royalty’s nobler instincts. Sebastian covered for me well, but I’d just as soon sit with Isabela off the docks, swigging green liquor from a cracked bottle.

Haven’t heard from her even once since Cloudreach. I hope she’s alive.

16th August. Light showers all day, just enough to curl my hair into a right rat’s nest

I think I’m going to set Pelarie up with my next-door neighbor. Jule’s clever and kind and not quite as flat beneath her mother’s foot, and she’s got a great deal more in common with Pelarie than I do. Forgot to get a bit of drake ichor out from behind my ears the other day and Pelarie turned so green she might have grown gills. Her mother didn’t care for it either. Need to stop being jealous over people with mothers Besides, even if Jule’s not as flashy a catch she’s likely got a much better life expectancy.

Meant that to be funny, not bitter. Ah, well.

23rd August. Cooler again, a bit salty with some northerly winds off the Coast

Had a nice moment today I didn’t expect. I was sitting out back under the yew tree, trying to see if I felt any different with only one kidney, when I heard the back door open and out came Sandal with a bit of wood and a carving knife. He didn’t say anything, just sat next to me on the stone bench, and quietly began shaping it into something small, something with wings. It was...

It was rather lovely, actually.

Made up for this miserable All Soul’s Day at the beginning of August. Everyone dancing on their toes around Mother, as if I might turn to glass at the slightest memory of her. Can’t help but feel Isabela would have

Sandal hummed something I almost recognized while he was sitting with me. Then Bodahn came out and that moment was gone, but in favor of one just as pleasant, because he sat with us on the bench too (the benefit of a wide bench and two dwarvish sets of hips, I suppose), and with only the teensiest bit of coaxing he began telling us (me?) about some of his travels with the Hero of Ferelden.

Some days I wish I were her. Or--at least I wish I had her enemies. It must have been so nice knowing what you fought was evil through and through.

24th August. Still cool

Dreamed last night that I was trying to save Mother from the foundry, but she kept turning into darkspawn. Might know they’re evil, but that doesn’t help the horror at the twisted, slavering teeth. At least Meredith is people-shaped.

Ugh. Can’t get rid of these chills. I wonder if Varric has anything that needs doing.

2nd Kingsway. Saw the first orange leaf today and nearly cried from joy

Went to the Gallows this morning to talk to Solivitus. Had some harlot’s blush I thought he might like, which he did, but for the first time I found myself not entirely at ease with the way the templars’ eyes followed me the whole trip. I hadn’t been there since the Arishok, and Maker but was I glad Fenris and Aveline came with me. I don’t think they’d try anything without Meredith’s say-so, but this was the first time I felt that little tingling what-if in the back of my skull telling me I’d better watch my hide.

We’d be packing up tonight, if this were Lothering.

Anyway, while I was there I saw a girl that looked terribly familiar darting about between some of those market stands. Turns out she’s Pelarie’s little sister--not sixteen yet--who got caught making inkwells tip over from the back of the room while she was away at school. The Ashbridges called some favors and had her placed here, where they could visit.

More than I thought of Lady Ashbridge, even if I wouldn’t send my most hated feather boa into their care. (Meant the Gallows templars, but to be quite honest the Ashbridges too)

Pelarie says she’s been trying to send their grandmother’s necklace to her, but she’s afraid they’ll take it away. Jule (very kind about me crashing their tea) said she’d heard Gallows apprentices are allowed very few personal possessions, but she knew a family who used to send their son fritters and preserves and things all the time, so there might be some strings to pull if I can find them.

Well. What’s this damned title for, if not string-pulling?

8th Kingsway. Brisk and with the faintest smell of those crisp autumn apples from the cart down the street

Went to the Gallows again today. Saw Cullen, who sighs when I come into his office but at least doesn’t reach for a guardswhistle, and told him I wanted Pelarie’s sister to be given her family necklace. He argued with me for a good bit about keeping apprentices’ focus sharp on their studies and the risk of reminders of family ties compromising their emotional blah blah blah blah.

I said I’d work on that rumor about the blood mage cult springing up in Darktown if he’d let her keep it, and he said yes.

My skin has been crawling since I left that place, and that was almost three hours ago.

What if that were me? What if that were Bethany?

Later

For the first time in my life, I thought to myself “thank goodness she died first” after I wrote that line above and it’s rattled me so badly that I can’t

I hate

how could

Maker, I hate

15th Kingsway. One last damned heat wave. The Maker is mocking me. Or Andraste is instead, and I’ve just been rejected by every higher power who ever thought twice about sending this city even the faintest zephyr of relief

Asked Toby today if he wanted another dog in the house. He gave me the archest look I’ve ever seen on a mabari’s face and stalked in high dudgeon to the back garden, where he very deliberately pissed on the stone bench. Haven’t offended him that badly since I tied him all over in yellow ribbon and asked him to dance the Remigold with me.

I’d forgotten how drunk I was at that party

Anders and Merrill and I are going out to the southern side of Sundermount tomorrow. Anders needs elfroot and more spindleweed, and Merrill thinks there might be a supply of ironbark somewhere there she can use to create or work on or something for her arulin...oh, hells. How the Void do you spell that word?

I was considering asking Varric for a fourth just in case, as Aveline has another (and another and another and another) evening with Donnic planned. For as much as she went through getting to this city in the first place, I hate to take her away from the one shining light she’s found in it so far.

On the other hand, she does have our own glorious friendship as a second equally bright shining light. Maybe I can call that in as the cheap bargaining tactician I am.

Later.

Aveline said no.

Varric said no.

Sebastian said no.

Merrill said “arulin’holm.”

Fenris said yes, then no when he heard who was going, and then yes again when I said Anders they would probably be so interested in their own collecting that Anders they would hardly have time to needle.

Also, I begged.

16th Kingsway. I am cursed beyond the ken of mortal memory

We’re stranded on the damned mountain.

It was cloudy when we left and it only got darker, but everyone said to keep going, we could beat the rain before it got bad. Ha! Had to take a narrow path to get to this ironbark of Merrill’s, and while we were up the cliffs a freak storm came from nowhere and washed the whole path to a great lot of boulders and rotten logs. Stopped raining not twenty minutes later, but the damage was already done. Merrill’s been looking for another way down but it’s almost dusk and I think we’ll have to camp.

I keep expecting Fenris and Anders to be either furious or intolerably snippy, but every time I accidentally make eye contact (despite the enormous effort I’m exerting to avoid exactly that), they both seem perfectly cheerful. Well, as cheerful as they get. Anders even smiled at some comment Fenris made about how once when he slept outside, a handful of territorial crows chased him right out of a tree.

Almost said it could be worse. At least Merrill’s managed to get a fire going—everything’s soaked to the bone.

24th Kingsway. Still cold, damp, foggy, grey

Made it home from Sundermount, obviously, and all four of us have the most glorious head colds to show for it. Merrill and I ended up having to carve through a good deal of the detritus from the landslide with magic, which even Fenris didn’t blink at given the alternative was another night in open air. Cold, frosty open air, with occasional winds sharp enough to split a nosehair.

I was strongly inclined to see what Anders’s healing could do for this, but he says a head cold won’t kill any of us and it’s good to let the body fight on its own occasionally, which sounded so much like my father I left his clinic in perfect childlike resentment.

That was yesterday. Surely if I tell him I’m dying today he won’t mind if I touch myself up, just a little. My nose is both so stuffy I can’t breathe and running so badly I’ve taken to shoving napkins up it all morning.

How blightedly unfair. All this nonsense and I can’t even breathe to complain about it properly.

25th Kingsway. See previous, bloody unchanged, and no I’m not upset about it, why do you ask

Maker and all his holy works, but Fenris is pitiful. Never have I ever seen an elf laid so low by a little fever and a stopped nose. I went over this morning with some of Orana’s father’s soup just in case, but he was cocooned so deep in his blankets all I could see was the very tip of one dark, pointed ear. Then he told me to go away with the saddest little sneeze right in the middle of a word.

Made him finish the soup and drink an entire glass of water. He called me a Tevinter word that he claims means “sadist,” but he did at least un-cocoon long enough to say goodbye.

I keep wondering if he’s ever had anyone bother to care he was sick before—at least, that he remembers. Somehow I doubt it.

26th Kingsway, somewhere around midnight, I don’t know

Fenris’s fever worsened all day today, until by late afternoon I couldn’t rouse him properly. Anders came by around dinner and must have seen the panic in my face, because the first thing he told me after examining him was that he’d be fine. He left a vial of something thick—I recognized the elfroot and I think embrium, but to be honest I was watching Fenris struggle to turn over—and said he should have a teaspoon every hour until breakfast tomorrow. He said he’d be fine. We just have to wait for the fever to take its course.

Flames, he looks awful, even asleep. Grey in the face and he’s got a chesty cough that sounds wet. The first time it happened I had a violent flash to Carver in the Deep Roads and nearly upset the lunch tray. Anders and I both worked what healing we could, but there’s only so much to be done for something like this. Maker, my father’s death taught me that, and that was almost ten years ago.

Anders said he’d be fine. He didn’t even stay, which of itself is enough to tell me there’s nothing to worry about.

If Fenris feels half as bad as he looks, he must feel like death.

Later. Early?

Failed to occur to me that in the absence of pinned candles, the only way to make sure Fenris gets one of these doses every hour is to stay up myself.

Not much gets by my eagle’s eyes these days, but I suppose even the most avid hunter misses one once in a while.

3rd bell

Hawk’s eyes. Damn!

4th bell and a bit

Fenris woke up this time, just for a few minutes. He’s not really been present since afternoon, so it was...it was a relief to see lucidity. Tired, too, but one must make allowances here and there.

He was enough himself to complain about the sourness of the potion. I told him if he felt able to be picky about the taste he ought to be able to take another cup of soup and some water, and he called me the Tevinter sadist again.

He just went back to sleep, but he still looks terrible. His breathing is better, though.

Almost 5th bell, still dark as pitch

First time I’ve ever been truly glad I live so close to this blasted elf. Was able to run home and dig out some spare linens from one of Orana’s closets before I had to wake him again. He’s sweated his pillow through and his sheets are soaked. If he’s still improving on this next dose I’ll roll him off long enough to get the fresh sheets down.

Half past, still darker than light outside, though the horizon’s fading a bit grey

He just went back to sleep. Got the new sheets on—he didn’t understand why at first, which...I didn’t know what to say to that except that I knew he’d feel acres better on clean, dry bedclothes, and I intended to change them whether he was willing or not.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it was plain he was relieved to be out of that damp mess.

I was too, if I’m being honest.

Anyway, he wasn’t eager to go back to sleep after, despite the potion putting him just a touch loopy. We chatted about...oh, nothing of consequence, only Toby and apples and Varric’s latest pamphlet about the Championship ceremony and how the weight of that iron circlet has bent better heads than mine, and only time will tell how I carry its burden, etc, etc. Sometimes I wish Varric lent a little less effort to dramatic irony and a little more to my public credentiality. Credentials?

Talked a bit about Stinton and Pelarie and the rest, too. I told him I was doing well enough with their mothers, but that Lady Ashbridge might resent me pushing Pelarie into the arms of another woman right under her nose. Ah, but such is the uneven course of love.

He asked me about his sister twice near the end, which was how I knew the potion was kicking in at last. I had nothing I could tell him either way, and the second time I’m not even certain he was talking to me.

He asked if she was real. Maker, I wish I knew.

It’s not right that no one but me cares if Fenris is uncomfortable in illness-damp sheets.

Almost seventh bell, flames

Dozed off in the chair with the broken foot just before sixth bell. Didn’t come close to waking until a marvelously inconsiderate sunbeam punched me right in the eyes over Fenris’s windowsill, at which point I dropped my elbow off the armrest and gave myself whiplash trying not to tumble from the chair altogether.

Other arm stayed put, though, and Fenris didn’t even stir, which is the only reason I know he took hold of my hand while I was asleep—and possibly while he was asleep, which is the only reason I refuse to read more into it. His fingers were laced through mine, and the lyrium was humming ever so faintly, just enough that I could feel the—the shiver as I let him go.

I could have stayed there for hours, I think, if I hadn’t pulled the Void out of my neck sleeping sideways in that chair.

His color’s almost normal again, though he’s still a trifle wan. Thank you, Andraste. Not that I was worried.

I wasn’t worried. Anders said he’d be fine. I just wanted--someone this sick ought to have a friend take care of them until they’re well. Everyone deserves at least that much. 

Ah, I think he’s beginning to wake up.

[caraidean]

Self Doubt || Tana & Ephraim

Participant(s): Tana, Ephraim ( @flamelance)

Words: 3,400

Type: Supplementary / C-Support

Summary: After being rescued from Grado’s forces in Fort Rigwald, Tana has doubts about how she can actually contribute to Ephraim’s mission. After a brief talk, Ephraim decides to give her one more chance to prove herself - and Tana accepts, to prove it to herself as well as him. 

Tana was torn, and she knew it. She’d grown sick and tired of being passed up for others and treated as some delicate girl to be protected, yet her intended great display of independence had ended with her captured, tossed in a cell and rescued. While more than a small part of her incredibly glad that Ephraim had in fact managed to rescue her, she was bitter - knowing that it was the kind of first impression it was almost impossible to recover from. Would he even think of her as being able to look after herself on the battlefield? Or was she going to have him lingering over her shoulder for the duration of the war?

“No! Ephraim, I came all this way so I could help you!” “And yet, here I am, helping you.” “Ah, well… Yes, that may be true, but–”

“Ugh.” She said to herself in disgust, shaking her head and pouting. She kicked at the floor, sending some detritus scattering across the floor of Fort Rigwald. She found herself caught in her words, and it made her scowl again.

“But you must promise me not to try anything reckless.”

She could practically hear the unsaid ‘like coming here’ that he could have followed that up with, but at least he hadn’t gone that far. She crossed her arms under her chest, leaning against the wall and letting out another light grumble as two fingers rubbed her temple. She could feel a headache coming on, but the last thing she could do was start complaining about it. Even the slightest show of weakness could cause him to send her home, then how would she be able to help?

“I can’t believe I got captured. How stupid was I?” She said eventually, grumbling to herself as she stepped away from the wall. To her own shock and embarrassment, she opened her eyes to see Ephraim in the same hallway, her cheeks coloring as she realized he’d almost certainly heard her. Gods, could she make a bigger fool of herself in front of him?

“…sorry.” She said, lamely. “I, uh, didn’t mean for anyone to hear me.”

    Well, it wasn’t a stray Gradoan soldier.

    Touted as Grado’s impenetrable citadel, Fort Rigwald was a labyrinth of defensive structures that housed valuables supplies. Ephraim had elected to linger for a few more hours, adding anything useful he could find to the army’s convoy.

    He had not anticipated to find Tana in a cell when they stormed the fort. And he didn’t expect to find her venting her frustrations up here, either.

    “Maybe try not to kick up a storm of dust and pebbles, then,” Ephraim said, forcing a smile. “I thought the enemy had returned.”

    Moving to the opposite wall from Tana, Ephraim leans back and stares at the stone. “It’s not stupid. You wanted to help. I know I’d never be able to resist wanting to help Eirika’s army if I knew she was going to a place like this.”

    It’s what happened with Castle Renvall, in any case. Though Ephraim chose to omit that he had also been apprehended by Grado, and was only able to escape because he had the support of his most trusted knights. Tana came alone. Relying on yourself was a dangerous recourse.

    He figured he had to tell her straight now, rather than later.

    Not here, though.

    “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Ephraim suggested. “Holing up in this dusty old fort won’t do you any favors.”

“It wasn’t a storm. More like a slight wind.” Tana let out a small laugh at his forced joke, shaking her head again. She paused, listening to his words and letting out a quiet mumble of agreement. Of course Ephraim could agree with the intent - but the difference was, he likely wouldn’t have been captured. He’d have shown up and saved the day, just like he had done with her, and the fact she was reduced to just sitting around waiting to be save was incredibly frustrating

She hadn’t even participated in the battle after being freed. She’d recovered Achaeus and her heavy spear, and by the time she’d gotten suited up for combat they had already finished. So the only impression she had made today was being a foolish flighty girl who was captured and couldn’t even help after being freed.

“Yeah. Let’s.” Tana was still dejected, her normal energy gone in the face of how magnificently her foolish flight of fancy had blown up in her face. She headed away from the wall, following Ephraim wherever he intended to guide her with a defeated look in her face. She reached out, pausing when her hand was near his and pulling it back with a grumble. No, she didn’t need to hold his hand, that much was too much. She’d already made a poor enough impression without needing comforted like a little girl.

“So…where’s the army heading next?”

    “I need to speak with General Duessel,” Ephraim answered, his pace quickening. Every step into Grado territory posed new questions that he couldn’t answer. War with a country he considered their long-standing ally was baffling enough, but knowing that his friends and mentors were part of that same country made it all the more inexplicable.

    He and Eirika had enough on their plate. He didn’t want to pull Tana into this. Innes had experience leading an army, but his sister couldn’t be much more than a knight-in-training.

    Ephraim bit back his tongue. If Eirika were here, she’d know what to say, how to assuage Tana’s concerns. What should he do with her? He had enough to worry about with the war with Grado. They had to make it to Duessel with all haste.

    After some time walking in silence, Ephraim spoke, his back still to her. “You’re coming with us. We can’t afford to send you back to Frelia with an escort. So the best way to keep you safe is for you to join us.”

“The only reason I’d need an escort to return home is because they’d need to make sure I actually did it.” Tana contested hotly, the same competitive anger that Innes displayed so often flaring in her for a brief second. Most people were shocked at how different the two siblings were, but sometimes…sometimes Tana wondered if the only difference was she had a better grip on her emotions than him.

“Thank you.” She said grudgingly, wanting to apologize for a brief second - but refusing to. After a moment she broke from him in silence, letting out a weary sigh once they were out of sight of each other. Gods be good, but he could be infuriating.

   By morning of the next day the army had marched out, approaching where their scouts had reported to have seen Duessel. A town by the sea, sitting at the edge of a narrow peninsula. There was only one way in for those who could not fly over.

   “Our pegasi will be vital to this mission,” Ephraim informed Tana, when he came around to brief the army. “The objective is to ensure the general’s safety.” He looked her in the eyes. If you’re going to prove yourself, now’s the time.

   “If you came to help our army, then you’ll have the responsibilities expected of any other soldier. Are you up for this?”

Hope had flared in Tana’s chest even before he said the words, the princess telling what would be needed to seize the town immediately. The only other pegasi rider in the force was Vanessa, and even with such a small town as the prize it was simply too much for one person. She had a chance, now, and she could tell by the look in Ephraim’s eyes that he knew it too. She could redeem herself for her stupid mistake at Renvall, and prove that she wasn’t useless.

“I can do it.” She said, quietly at first before nodding seriously. She wouldn’t make a fool of herself this time. “What’s the plan?”

    “The van rides towards Duessel at once,” Ephraim explained. “For whatever reason the Grado army is fighting itself. We stand with him until we know what’s going on.”

    He pointed towards a route by the cliffs heading over the sea. The town is spread out horizontally from their perspective, and Ephraim can see signs of fortifications being built. If they were united in their efforts of waylaying his army, they would not meet him in the town where they landed.

    “You and Vanessa can reinforce Duessel the fastest, from the other end of the town. When the vanguard reaches the gates, we rejoin our forces and rout the remaining Gradoan soldiers.”

    A simple plan, trusting in the execution. Complicated strategies never appealed to Ephraim, since circumstances changed by the second in the heat of a battle. A commander should know when to adapt the strategy, rather than devise one to cover every situation.

    “We hit hard when they’re still disjointed.” Ephraim gives her a nod, and begins to walk away, towards the cavalry. “Give it your all.”

“We can fly over the walls, skirt low to the ground so they don’t see us.” Tana said quietly as he went over the map, nodding carefully. “And then we…hey, wait!”

He had begun to walk away as soon as his end of the briefing was over, not even pausing to give her a chance to provide her own input. For a second she wanted to reach over and grab his arm, forcibly drag him back, but then she realized that what she had to say wasn’t really that important. It would be acting like a child, demanding attention from him, not really contributing or proving her place. That was what her actions would do.

“Well, I guess we hope Duessel doesn’t try to stab us when we get there.” She told Vanessa, a small laugh coming from the other woman as they mounted. Tana gave Ephraim one last brief glance, a small scowl crossing her face before she shrugged and kicked her heels into Achaeus, taking off and heading to do their duty.

“…well?"

Tana’s voice was a little shaky now that the battle was over. Her endurance was still lacking, and she had to lean against the wall now that her adrenaline had run out. She’d had a few moments to clean in the sea, wiping the worst of the blood from her hands, and had been fortunate enough to avoid injury - but she still felt faint. She had to at least try and put on a brave front, forcing herself away from the wall and standing in front of Ephraim with a smile that seemed to be challenging him to talk down to her.

She tried not to think about the fact that she had never killed someone before today.

"How did I do?”

    The Grado army fought bravely. Each soldier brandished a dutiful conviction, even with their forces pinned and their backs against the sea. And so the question remained.

    What reason could they have to so boldly commit to war?

    With the vessel that would take them to the mainland still hours away, Ephraim could afford a moment to think, pondering that riddle. But Tana soon found him leaning over a wall overlooking the cape, her expression eager and hopeful.

    “You…” He thinks back to the battle. Duessel had barged onto the enemies’ flank with a couple of pegasus riders in tow. Ephraim had seen a flash of blue darting in and out of the fray when there were openings. For such a chaotic battle, Tana didn’t seem drained.

     Does she feel the same energy that wells up in me when I fight?

    “You fought well.” It wasn’t his most sincere smile, and he hadn’t the heart to put more feeling behind it, but it was the truth. She did acquit herself on the field. (A quick talk with Vanessa soon after the battle had already dispelled most of his worry.)

    “Like I said, it was important that we reached Duessel before Grado could surround him. You and Vanessa carried the day,” Ephraim continued. He turned from his ocean-watching vigil, meeting her gaze. A face naive to the vagaries of war, but willful all the same.

    “It can be hard,” Ephraim said, head turning back to the sea, “to commit on the very first day. To take a life for yourself.”

Strange. Tana thought to herself, a slight frown crossing her face. That doesn’t feel right…

She’d have thought that a compliment from Ephraim would have made her giddy, or at least satisfied. It wasn’t even the tone of the delivery, either, as even though she could tell that his heart wasn’t completely in it she should have still gotten something from it. Eventually she sighed, closing her eyes and realizing the truth of the matter - she didn’t want complimented for fighting well. For killing people. At least he seemed to recognize that, and she took some cautious steps forwards to fall into line next to him as he turned back to the sea.

"Thank you.” She said eventually, turning her head slightly to look at him. “…it wasn’t even that hard. To kill someone, I mean.”

She paused, flinching for a second. “You just…move your lance forwards, and then they stop breathing. It’s not - I don’t know, Ephraim. It’s not right. Something like that, it shouldn’t be so easy. I guess it kind of…put some things into perspective for me. If it’s so easy to do, then it’d be easy to…you know…”

Get killed.

“…I’m worried about Eirika, and Innes too. Do you think they’re going to be okay? Wherever they’ve ended up?”

    “I look up to the stars every night and hope they’re looking out for Eirika,” Ephraim muttered. “Since I can’t.”

    Imploring the divine wasn’t part of Ephraim’s code, but he’d sacrifice to every temple in Renais for Eirika’s sake. It didn’t matter if they encountered disaster on their way to Grado, if Ephraim couldn’t seek out Lyon to explain this war. As long as Eirika - and the stone in Rausten she was traveling to protect - would stay safe, he didn’t need to ask for more.

    “She’s a capable woman. I taught her everything I know, after all,” Ephraim continued with a faint smirk. “And your brother is no slouch either. He was always better with tactics, giving people directions. Frelia is blessed that he’s leading them.”

    Tana always reminded him of a flower field after morning rains, or the wind running past his face during an evening ride. It felt wrong to see that tranquility shattered by violence, those flowers spattered with blood. Hearing her speak with such nonchalance made him uneasy.

    Her own composure must’ve worried her, too.

    “Can I see your hands, Tana? I want to check something.”

    When she lifted them up to him Ephraim gently held her fingers, keeping his hands still. And waited.

    “They’re shaking,” Ephraim observed. “That’s good. It means your heart is still warm, and your blood hasn’t run cold. The world needs more people like you.”

“…that’s true. They are.” Tana said after a few moments as he reassured her, closing her eyes and letting out a slight breath. Eirika and Ephraim were both adults, and more than capable of looking after themselves. She let out a small chuckle as he admitted that Innes was the better at something, even if he was several hundred miles away at the time.

“I’m going to tell him you said that. It may give him a seizure.” She joked, although it was weak and pointless. He asked for her hands and she slowly raised them, letting him take fingers in his own and eyes flickering up to his. What was he looking for?

She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping. “Oh, Ephraim - I hated it. I thought it was going to be easy, but - not that easy. I came to help you, but what if they were only there to help someone too? I can’t…”

She shrugged helplessly, starting to feel tears coming to her eyes. “Why would Grado start something this senseless? I thought it was bad before, but now - I don’t know. Nothing seems fair. I just wanted to make sure everyone was safe and help protect them, I didn’t think I would have to kill anyone. Augh, that sounds so stupid when you say it out loud.”

She snatched her hands away, angry with herself now. “What was I expecting to have to do when I caught up with you?”

    Can you even have expectations with something as capricious as war?

    Ephraim remembered the anguish on Orson’s face. How he forced a smile in the presence of that wretch, Valter, even as he turned upon him and sold away his knightly virtue for whatever dark promises Grado had made.

    The experience might have dismayed unproven blood. But for Ephraim, whose reality had been anchored by each fight he took during his training, acceptance of the worst came easy. Tana didn’t deserve to relearn the world in this way. But she picked up that responsibility the day she picked up a lance.

    “You were willing to fight. Fighting to help us, but in the end it’s still war.”

    Ephraim wasn’t sure how to handle her distress. From the way she spoke of Innes, she was tired of others coddling her. But it wasn’t the time to be soft with Tana, either.

    “I want to get to the bottom of this, too. It’s that hope of reaching Lyon, and finding an answer, maybe even putting an end to this war, that keeps me going. We’ve already saved General Duessel. We can take some solace in that.”

    Words that satisfied their cause, but not a heavy heart.

    “You wanted to face this with me. Just as your brother is with Eirika.” He smiled for her. It was the least he could do. “And I’m glad for that.”

“I suppose so.” Tana said eventually at his words. She was starting to regret pulling her hands away from his, missing the warmth and comfort that they had been bringing to her. But to try and take them back now would send the kind of signals that Tana wasn’t prepared to send right now, so instead she kept them awkwardly in front of her thighs, letting out a small sigh and looking away. She glanced up at the mention of Lyon, the Prince of Grado - wasn’t it strange? That he would always meet with Renais’ royals, but never those of other nations, not willingly. She’d only seen him in passing, but even then she’d seen the person that Eirika and Ephraim would talk about on occasion.

Maybe he could give them an answer and help put a stop to the war. She gave him a slight smile, hands twitching and wanting to go clasp his in a show of solidarity, and ultimately she decided to let it despite having rejected the idea moments before. She gave Ephraim’s hand a slight squeeze, her smile more confident now as she took a deep breath.

“I’m glad I came as well.” She said eventually, nodding. “I hope you’re right about Lyon, Ephraim. About finding a way to end this quicker than it would otherwise.”

    Her hand coming down onto his felt like a drop of rain falling onto a puddle. It didn’t change much, but ir did feel right. Listening to Tana’s concerns had opened his awareness. War wasn’t just a heavy burden for those waging it. It weighed down more and more people as it spread, to the point where it could be unbearable for even the world to shoulder.

    “I know Lyon,” he echoed. “He’s the last person you’d think would ever support a war. He’ll speak with me. We can sort this out - I trust in him.”

    Ephraim let their hands sit together for a few moments. He’d always seen Tana as someone who wouldn’t mix well with fighting and conflict. But perhaps the visceral reactions from those with the most innocence in their hearts that shed the most light on human nature.

    He drops his hand, turning his head. The sails of a blue-sailed ship appear on the water, making their way to the harbor. A Frelian ship that would bring them to Grado. Ephraim looks back at Tana, nodding.

   “I guess it’s time. I can already hear Seth calling.” Ephraim pushes himself off the wall, heading towards the pier. “Let’s go.”

[jpowssbcu2]

Further digging deeper

Further digging deeper:

 Task 1: Select Select an artwork/installation/film/sculpture/book/article/soundtrack/object/thing

I decided to do a further digging deeper to discover new materials that I could possibly use to make my plaster heads more interesting.

Task 2: Respond Write a 200-word response to the work. This does not have to be written in an academic style. Make it personal; think about how the work made you feel or what it reminded you of instead of what it looks like.

I really like the plaster head sculptures; the process was timely but easy to do. However, they’re just hollow plaster heads ready to be sealed and possibly planted. I wish to make these heads more interesting whether I dig deeper into the materials that I could use and the purpose that these materials could have and the impact they share. The heads remind me of the busts that you’d see in an old fashion home – apart of the décor, possible mounted onto a wall or displayed on a fireplace. It would be interesting whether I can see inside the plant heads? Maybe a transparent material? Or to use a transparent material that could be mixed with items or plaster – or possibly layered with plaster?

Task 3: Research Research is more than finding out about the artist that made the work or how it was made. We want you to use these artworks as starting off points. We want you to dig deeper. Be curious!  3:1 Start by identifying key themes of the artworks. Make a list.

Plaster sculpture, Head, Plaster, Person’s head, bust, Material, Texture, Colour, Shape 3:2 Try some word association from the keywords.

Material – Plaster, Plastic, Acrylic, Polymer, Concrete, Resin, 3D Print, Vinyl, Fibre Glass, Silicone, Rubber, Latex, 3:3 You can now use these keywords to search in the library as well as various online sites.   You can start by using websites such as… • bbc.co.uk • theguardian.com   • moussemagazine.it • frieze.com   • tate.org.uk   • e-flux.com   • itsnicethat.com   What other sites can you dig in? Find your own resources relevant to your practice

I made my first search on tate.org.uk and found an artist, John Davies who used Polyester Resin with fiberglass to create a head sculpture. The sculpture is based on a life cast made of William Jeffrey’s head in 1972. A series of heads resulted from this cast, of which five were completed, all entitled ‘William Jeffrey with Device’. T01578 was the third in the series and had perhaps the most complex of the devices used. The ‘devices’ on the other four are: one, chicken wire, stretched over a wire frame, over a horn shape which covered the nose, forehead, and mouth but which left the eyes visible; two, a horn-like form from between the eyes covering the nose and part of the mouth, with feathers around the outer rim of the form; three, two pieces of dowelling, one resting horizontally on the bridge of the nose, the other parallel to this on the tip of the nose; both were fixed by wire around the ears, and the eyes look out in the space between the dowelling; four, a hat made of felt and coated with oil paint, a painted leaf-like structure over the nose with pieces cut out so that the eyes are visible. The artwork relates to mine so far as I started off with creating a series of heads to which I can experiment with. It will be interesting how I can use resin to create some works that could create an illusion of something or to layer up to create a mixed media head sculpture – possibly mixing found items into the resin.

I then started to search more into resin, but I couldn’t find many works that were relevant to mine so I just type ‘resin head casts’ into google. I found an artist called Richard Dupont who created a series of head casts that were filled with salvaged items and cast with resin. http://www.richarddupont.com/sculptures/resin-heads/featured-works#6

This gave me an idea that I can use found objects that are relevant to my idea suffocation and possibly put them into the resin as I pour it into my mould.

 I then searched ‘Concrete’ into Tate.org.uk and found work by Henry Moore. https://www.tate.org.uk/art/research-publications/henry-moore/judith-collins-henry-moore-and-concrete-cast-carved-coloured-and-reinforced-r1172059 Henry Moore made in total twenty-one sculptures in concrete, all between the years 1926 and 1934. This was a period of experimentation and rapid development in his career in which he explored this new medium alongside stone and wood. As he later commented, he was then very interested in all types of sculptural media and took up concrete in part because it was becoming a more commonly used building material and he was hopeful of being commissioned to produce concrete sculptures to go with these new buildings. Perhaps equally important was its cheapness (he had little money then) and the different ways in which it could be worked: concrete could be cast in a mould, shaped and added to while soft, or carved when hard. It could also be colored by pigments and incorporate other objects. Carving was his preferred mode of making sculptures during the 1920s and 1930s: famously espousing the doctrine of truth to materials, he publicly championed the view that a sculptor should carve word or stone directly in order to be able to respond to its properties rather than attempt to disguise them. But the story of Moore’s engagement with concrete shows him also alive to the possibilities of a material that could be modeled, carved and cast, and creates a more nuanced understanding of his approach to material and technique in the interwar years.

3:4 Can you expand your research to find links that address… • What you think the artist would have researched when making their artwork?

Artists would have researched how the materials would work; how the materials respond when being mixed with other materials and the durability and whether the materials are versatile. Artists would have researched how other artists may have used these materials or artists who have created something similar.

• How the artwork relates to current news events? Artist Henry Moore relates to an artist Stefano Boeri ‘Forest cities’. Henry created concrete sculptures as a commission to go with some buildings. However, Stefano used concrete buildings to house people and a forest of plants to create a self-sustainable town. https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/gardening-blog/2013/feb/27/bosco-verticale-vertical-gardening

Richard Dupont created a collection of resin heads. One of his resin head creations ‘Pink Head, 2011 made with solid cast UV stable polyurethane resin with studio and personal detritus, found and salvage, recycled objects, and waste’ reminded me of a news article I found on The Guardian. It talks about how if we reuse/recycle materials, we could possibly create 200,000 jobs. To see Richard is using found, recycled and other types of materials in his resin heads is a way of using less resin (saving him a lot of money) and a way to create colourful art with a strong meaning.

https://www.theguardian.com/business/2015/jan/20/reusing-recycling-waste-materials-creates-jobs

• How the artwork relates to history? “Mould making is a 6000-year old skill. That means that our prehistoric ancestors were working in the same technique that we can pass on to our children and grandchildren.” “Archaeologists have also unearthed stone moulds used for making axes from about 3000 BC. They were probably made from an identical two-piece mould tied together with a rope, with a hole on top through which the liquid metal would have been poured. Many early weapons were fabricated through casting, making this technique key to the success of the hunting and gathering lifestyle of early humans. This shows the effect that fabrication techniques have on all aspects of life.” https://smartartbox.com/blogs/smart-art-blog/history-of-mold-making-and-casting

• Can you find any online articles that relate to each of your selected keywords?

Making concrete green: Reinventing the worlds most used synthetic material.

https://www.theguardian.com/sustainable-business/2016/mar/04/making-concrete-green-reinventing-the-worlds-most-used-synthetic-material

Golden resin highlights cracks in the floor of TANK's Xchange Apartment: Inspired by the Japanese Kintsugi method.

https://www.dezeen.com/2016/07/22/gold-resin-floor-cracks-tank-xchange-apartment-kyoto-japan/

• Can you find any books in the library that relate to your keywords? “This is an informative, inspirational, and highly illustrated introduction to the design potential of concrete and its vital role in contemporary architecture. It mixes key issues such as design, aesthetics, and sustainability, with useful technical content such as how to set out the design of a concrete structure, guides to the basic principles (column sizes, slab thicknesses, and types) and how to achieve many different concrete finishes. Accessibly written: this book will appeal to both students and junior practicing architects, and function as a handy guide for more senior architects too.”

https://www.waterstones.com/book/concrete/michael-stacey/9781859463345

Rachel Whiteread is one of Britain's most exciting contemporary artists. Her work is characterised by its use of industrial materials such as plaster, concrete, resin, rubber, and metal. With these she casts the surfaces and volume in and around everyday objects and architectural space, creating evocative sculptures that range from the intimate to the monumental.

https://www.whsmith.co.uk/products/rachel-whiteread/9781849764643

 3:5 Identify the connections between the expanded research and the original artwork.  Can you summarise and reflect upon the expanded research and how it relates to your initial artwork? Think about the connections between the various links - can this provide an alternative way of thinking about your project/concept/idea… How do you relate this to the work that you are making? How can this expanded research develop your own practice?

After doing my research, I’m particularly interested in resin. Resin seems to be the most exciting material to work with and will allow me to do many things with it. However, it’s very expensive and has many health and safety guidelines. Richard Dupont resin head collection has given me an idea for my project to help develop my head casts. The concrete works haven’t really interested me to the level that I would like to use concrete in my own practices, but maybe in the future, I could use concrete to create some interesting creations. I also feel that using concrete will have many implements for my work and cause problems.

[delicatebluebirdruins]

Dream Alliance: Story from the Telegraph

Warning: Welsh words and a long post @sherlockvowsontheriverstyx (I’ve spent an hour crying over this bloody horse and his owners); @horsesarecreatures

A new documentary tells the incredible true story of Dream Alliance, a horse bought for £300 on an allotment in Caerphilly who went on to win £137,000 in prize money

Dream Alliance won £137,000 in prize money in his 30-race career, including victory in the 2009 Welsh Grand National Photo: Louise Osmond

It is late morning on a freezing day in Cefn Fforest, Caerphilly, a village in one of the poorest mining valleys in Wales. Brian Vokes, 67, unsteady on his legs and with far more tattoos than teeth, is making his way towards his allotment on a former slag heap. He has rented it from the council for the past 15 years, since the four coal mines surrounding the village were finally shut down and their tips flattened, bringing deprivation and the loss of livelihood to generations to come. Chickens and geese squawk noisily in their wire coops. Detritus – a bath here, bricks under flapping tarpaulin there – lies about the place. This is not the kind of allotment that produces elderberries and chard. Brian’s wife, Jan, 61, is there, still in her Asda uniform. She has been up since 4am, cleaning the tills with her daughter before the shop opens. Later, she will be going off to another cleaning job at a local school, where she will stay until 6pm.

Neither Brian nor Jan is interested in growing vegetables. Their allotment has served a completely different purpose. In 2000, As a child she had watched her father breed budgies. She had then bred pigeons and whippets herself. The first time she raced her pigeons, she won a national title. All of her whippets made it to Crufts. How hard could it be? Just because she was working class and living in the valleys and cleaned the tills at Asda, why should she settle for a hobby such as bingo or darts? Why couldn’t she breed a racehorse?

To say that Jan’s vision broke a racing stereotype is something of an understatement. Not only are racehorses usually pedigree (mainly thoroughbred), born with a reliable lineage, and schooled, trained and raced by the industry’s best, but their owners are typically privileged and rich. Breeding and owning a racehorse is an expensive hobby (£15,000 a year minimum to train), and only one per cent of racehorses ever actually win a race. While Brian bought a breeding mare – Rewbell, ‘probably the worst racehorse in Wales,’ he says, ‘so mental that by the end jockeys refused to get on her’ – from a young Welsh lad for a £300, and had her sired for a knockdown price too, many of the most promising racehorses cost hundreds of thousands to buy in the first place.

But Jan Vokes did exactly what she set out to do. Rewbell’s foal, Dream Alliance (known as Dream to his owners), bred and initially raised on the Vokeses’ slag-heap allotment, became famous in the racing world and, for a short time, the world beyond – not only for winning the Welsh Grand National in December 2009 (he won a total of £137,000 in prize money during his 30-race career), but also because of his extremely unlikely and humble beginnings combined with his extremely unlikely and humble owners.

The story of how Brian and Jan Vokes and their friend Howard Davies broke the mould of racehorse owners (with their 23-strong racing syndicate formed in the Cefn Fforest working men’s club – breed a horse to get on a course. £10 a week. see jan behind the bar, the initial sign read) is not a new one. And yet a documentary film, Dark Horse, released this month, proves its enduring appeal. The documentary has already won the Audience Award at the Sundance Film Festival.

Directed by Louise Osmond, the film shows how Dream Alliance’s success goes way beyond the relatively small world of horse racing. ‘It was moving, it was funny and it had this great narrative arc,’ Osmond says. ‘The film is not really about racing. It just happens to be in the racing world. What I saw as Jan’s defining quality was that she had no self-doubt, that she didn’t see obstacles like the expense or the snobbery of people thinking she had no right to be there. It is so refreshing. I’m sure she could be running some major corporation, but, in a funny way, she does her jobs to allow her to live this other life, this world with her animals where she feels completely herself.’

Perhaps, above all, the cinematic retelling of the story demonstrates that when human determination, self-belief and hard work are combined, anything is possible; class barriers collapse, be they for horse or human. ‘Dream and us, we were like kindred spirits,’ Jan explains. ‘No matter what people said, I never thought for one minute that Dream wouldn’t win. I researched it, I put a lot of thought into it. If I have a goal, then I am going to achieve it. Why should Dream’s background have made any difference? It would be just like saying the children of working-class people can’t achieve. If anybody tells me my grandson, a grade-A student, can’t go to Cambridge, they’ll have me to answer to.’

Jan Vokes had got the idea of breeding a racehorse after overhearing Howard Davies in the bar of the working men’s club where she worked, talking about once running a syndicate for another racehorse. That experience had cost him money and he had promised his wife, Angela, never to do it again. But Jan’s interest had been piqued, and she had gone home and said to Brian, ‘I want to breed a racehorse.’ ‘What do you want with a ruddy racehorse?’ Brian had replied, although he had always kept horses, having once been a rag-and-bone man. (He had been pulling a cart of manure when he first met Jan, when she was 15.)

‘Good luck with that!’ Howard, a tax adviser, had said with a laugh, when she told him of her plan. But the next time he saw her in the club she surprised him by saying she had bought a mare (Rewbell, the £300 ‘nightmare’), plus a Directory of the Turf to locate a stallion, and would he run a syndicate for them? Jan had thrown down the gauntlet and Howard, a lifelong racing fan, couldn’t resist.

At the time, Howard remembers working it out and thinking, ‘A tenner a week, 30 people, £300 a week, £15,000 a year’, with the understanding that Jan would keep the horse if it all went wrong. So they got going, recruiting locals such as pensioner Maureen Jones (‘I know nothing about horses! Nothing!’) and Tony Kerby (‘One helluva boy’, according to Brian). Tony is seen in the film, stripped to the waist, twirling his T-shirt above his head during a particularly exciting race. Nobody went into the venture to make money, but rather to buy into a collective vision.

Dream Alliance was born on March 23 2001, and stayed on the allotment for 12 months, before moving to stables in Hereford ‘to teach him his manners’, as Jan puts it. In April 2004, aged three, he was accepted by Philip Hobbs, one of Britain’s top racehorse trainers, into his yard: Sandhill Racing Stables near Minehead, set in 500 acres of land owned by the Crown Estate. ‘It’s like the Riviera down there!’ Jan exclaimed when she saw it. ‘Dream won’t know he’s born.’

• Dream Alliance: From slag heap allotment to Grand National Hopeful

Eighteen months earlier Jan and Brian had turned up at one of Philip Hobbs’s open days. Brian was on sticks, overweight and with no front teeth (‘I keep them in a jar but they’ve gone green’), adorned by his many tattoos and rings. He had got out of the car and asked a member of staff, ‘Is the governor about? I’m here for the trainee jockey’s job.’ This playful, self-mocking approach set the tone immediately.

As Louise Osmond explains, ‘They all have a really well developed sense of mischief, and something else too – this idea that they could try to do something that nobody else thought was possible. It was an escape for them all.’

Osmond discovered the story after she went racing one Christmas and was struck by the beauty of the animals and the amount of cash flying around in a time of recession. Her interest was piqued. She started looking into syndicates as a potential idea for a film, and then found the relatively few press cuttings about Dream back in the day, a story so much richer than her original idea. ‘I really couldn’t believe it,’ she remembers. ‘It had been in the papers but somehow it had stayed under the radar.’ Sick with nerves and worried the owners would all say no, she asked her producer to make the initial call. The general response was characteristically uncomplicated. ‘Why not? Let’s give it a go,’ they said.

Osmond says that as the story emerged, exposing layer upon layer of meaning, both emotional and symbolic, she could hardly believe her luck. ‘And then when we met them, they were just fantastically honest and able to express their feelings.’

Still, Johnson White, Hobbs’s assistant trainer, remembers assuming – rather snobbishly, he admits now – that they had just come for a nose round the yard while on holiday at nearby Butlins. ‘Let’s just say they don’t look like your usual racehorse owner,’ he says. Quite apart from the question of their allotment horse being up to scratch (‘If he had gone to the sales at that point, as a three-year-old, with his background and breeding, he’d have made no money at all,’ White states), there was the not insignificant issue of Hobbs’s fee: £315 plus VAT a week, £18,000 for 12 months. But in the summer of 2004 Brian, Jan and Howard were back at the yard, the syndicate having now saved enough to give Dream Alliance a proper start. ‘From the first time Jan looked at him, she’d said to me, “He’s going to win me a gold cup,” ’ Brian says.

Hobbs had agreed to look at Dream Alliance only because it was Sandhill’s quietest period of the year. He saw something in the horse that convinced him to take him on. White describes Dream Alliance’s arrival as being like ‘the snotty-nosed little comp boy turning up at Eton with his handkerchief hanging out of his pocket, not knowing anything about the world or what was going on around him. A lot of the horses he was with were worth hundreds of thousands of pounds, and here was this horse from an allotment.

‘But he had a fantastic attitude from the start,’ White continues, ‘and a very willing and straightforward nature to learn and to take on whatever we were asking of him. There was absolutely no way you could dislike him. He was so eager to please.’

But while Dream Alliance was willing, he wasn’t setting the world alight in terms of speed. Hobbs and his team decided they would give him a debut run at Newbury on November 10, to see how he fared. The syndicate drove to the racecourse in a hired minibus. Tony Kerby had his packed lunch and lagers in a Tesco bag because he didn’t want to be ripped off paying £6 for a burger. ‘If Dream had come 10th, we’d have been very happy,’ Jan remembers. He came fourth. They were over the moon.

Although Jan says in the documentary that part of the attraction of owning a racehorse was in trying to break into an exclusively upper-class sport, in reality, she, Brian and Howard are quick to point out that they have made many unlikely friends. One of Jan’s favourite new acquaintances, she tells me, owns 25 racehorses. The snobbery on that first race day at Newbury came from the staff on the gates, one of whom tried to take Tony’s lagers away from him until he realised he was an owner. Once in the owners’ and trainers’ enclosure, each with their owner badge pinned to their lapels, the syndicate members had a knees-up, the beers flowing. Brian remembers screaming at Dream Alliance during his race, and being told to shut up. ‘Shut up?’ he retorted. ‘That’s my bloody horse out there!’

Other successes followed for Dream Alliance: second at Cheltenham on his next outing; third at Newbury; then he won his fourth race, at Chepstow over hurdles in January 2006. ‘From the minute that horse started racing, he began making money,’ Brian says. ‘Although for us it was nothing to do with the money. It was the horse.’

‘But then he suddenly went into the wilderness,’ Johnson White remembers. ‘It was as if he didn’t want to try.’

Nobody knew what went wrong. There were murmurings of a bad back, although Jan now attributes it to Dream being ‘a valley boy, a jack-the-lad, not always to be trusted’. People in Cefn Fforest started taunting Brian. ‘When’s that donkey running next?’ they would shout. They nicknamed Dream ‘Sick Note’. People stopped betting on him.

But it was as if Dream himself heard it all, as if he knew the grief Brian, Howard and Jan were getting on his behalf. And he started winning again: the Perth Gold Cup in April 2007; a brilliant second in the Hennessy Gold Cup at Newbury in December 2007 behind Denman (who went on to win the big one, the Cheltenham Gold Cup, the following year). He was suddenly a horse to contend with, his insurance value £180,000. ‘It is extraordinary,’ White says. ‘It is only when you sit down and think about where it all started, and put it into perspective…’

Philip Hobbs decided to run him at the Aintree Festival in 2008, in a handicap hurdle race before the Grand National. It was the only race in Dream Alliance’s career that the Vokeses missed – Rewbell had died while foaling the night before. They watched at home. Dark Horse replays the live tele­vision coverage: mid-race, suddenly staggering, Dream was pulled up. A helicopter circled above.

A screen was put round him. ‘They are going to shoot him,’ Brian told a sobbing Jan.

Dream’s legs had concertinaed, and a rear hoof had cut through the back of his front leg, slicing a tendon, an injury so severe that most horses would have been put down on the course. The quick thinking of his jockey that day, Richard Johnson, saved his life. By dismounting immediately and holding the horse upright and very still he prevented the tendon tearing completely and irreparably. Dream’s laidback nature and intelligence stopped him from resisting or panicking.

‘Don’t put the horse down,’ Howard Davies told the vets. ‘It’s more than a racehorse. It’s a pet.’

Dream was taken to the Royal Veterinary College in Liverpool. The syndicate was presented with an option: £20,000-worth of stem-cell surgery might help the leg recover. It was highly improbable that Dream would race again, let alone win, even with the operation.

While nobody cared about Dream Alliance racing again, the vote was unanimous. Dream had earned more than enough in prize money to pay for his own surgery and rehabilitation. ‘He was one of us,’ Maureen Jones explains. ‘Certainly a more commercial owner would have chosen a different route,’ White notes.

Recuperation started just at the time when Jan’s life became extremely difficult. Her father had died the month before and her mother was very ill, needing Jan’s care, on top of all her other cleaning jobs. Visiting Dream and watching him slowly improve week by week gave her some light in her life. ‘I felt like somebody else when I was with him,’ she says. ‘Not Jan the cleaner but Jan the racehorse owner. Everything else was forgotten.’

By July 2009, with 15 months of rehabilitation behind him, Dream was back on good form, once again astounding his trainers. Watching him on the gallops at Sandhill, Brian swore he saw the horse wink at him. By the end of the year, after only one race since his recovery, Philip Hobbs was confident enough to enter Dream for the Welsh Grand National at Chepstow in December. The odds were long: 60-1 at Coral. Just before the race, Hobbs said to Brian and Jan, ‘All I can say to you today is that your horse is going to make a real fist of this.’

Dream Alliance won. ‘He paid his owners’ faith back in one go!’ ran the television commentary. To this day, he remains one of only a few horses ever to win a race after stem-cell surgery. 'FROM NAGS TO RICHES' screamed the headlines. Sick Note was a winner. Brian was permanently at the allotment showing television crews the muddy patch where Dream’s racing life had started. People would applaud Jan as she walked through the aisles of Asda. ‘And it gives everybody hope,’ says White, who despite his early professional composure and emotional distance from Dream breaks down in the film remembering that win, ‘because it proves that you don’t have to spend £200,000 to have a racehorse, that you can do it at grass-roots level.’

Today Dream Alliance lives in Somerset with the stable girl from Hobbs’s yard who was chiefly responsible for his care. He still likes posing for the camera. He even has his own Facebook page. There is interest from Hollywood in a feature-length film.

Dream attempted the Grand National in April 2010 at Aintree, the scene of his earlier accident from which he recovered so spectacularly, but was pulled up seven fences out. It was later discovered that he suffered from a lung condition. He raced a few more times, but was never placed again, and in 2012 the syndicate voted to end his career. Of the £137,000 he won in prize money, after his surgery and training fees, the 23 syndicate members who stayed the course got back £1,430 each, none of them richer materially, but each one so much richer in a more profound way. ‘We actually went there and did it. It’s elating when you can do something when nobody gives you a chance,’ Howard says.

While Jan always thought Dream would return to the allotment where he started in utero, it was decided by the syndicate to send him to Somerset where he could be regularly ridden and hunted. She was heartbroken.

But now Jan and Brian and Howard are doing it again. As we walk around the allotment, Jan takes me to the stable where Dream first lived, and shows me another stable in a different field, ready for a new occupant. The mare I see today is nicknamed Hettie, and as you read this, she will be about to have her foal. This time, thanks to its lineage (Hettie is a much safer bet than the mad Rewbell, and Jan, of course, has picked her stallion carefully), the new foal will, to quote Jan, ‘be bred in the purple’. In other words, it will be a lot posher than Dream.

There is a new 20-person syndicate in place – £15 per week, which works out at £780 per person a year – run once again by Howard with the express aim of building up a good nest egg ready for when – or if – the training bills start rolling in. A few of the old syndicate members from Cfen Fforest are back again for a second shot, but this time there are also grander people, racing friends the Vokeses and Howard have made along the way.

It will be three years before Philip Hobbs will check out the new horse. But, as Jan says at the end of Dark Horse, ‘I will have a Gold Cup in my cupboard if it’s the last thing I do. This isn’t the end.’ No pressure then.

[beautytipsfor]

About that Omarosa book: This is what complicity looks like

Everyone is the hero of their own story — but in telling that tale, people often reveal much more about themselves than they realize. That is true of autobiographies in general, and of Unhinged by Omarosa Manigault Newman more than most.  The tell-all book, released Tuesday by the famous former reality show star and communications staffer, has plenty of beans to spill on the dysfunction and casual racism of Donald Trump and his White House.  It's also the story of how the kind of person who seems to think in soundbites could help elect and participate in such an administration without ever really knowing what she was doing. And how, even after reflecting for a year, that person thinks she can avoid doing much soul-searching about her role.  In short, it's a case study in complicity.  SEE ALSO: The 10 most unhinged parts of Omarosa's 'Unhinged' Omarosa doesn't actually call herself complicit anywhere in Unhinged. She did say she was "totally complicit" in a new interview with The Daily Show's Trevor Noah, but said "I didn't go [into the White House] thinking we were going to lie" — a fact that ignores the lies told on the campaign trail, recounted in her book.  She also said she was "complicit in deceiving this nation" in a Meet the Press interview, but quickly pivoted to how everyone in the Trump administration lies all the time. There's not even a sliver of daylight into which a mea culpa can creep.  The book is full of pivots like that — so speedy in spinning our attention away from questions about her moral obligations, it'll give you whiplash.  In the chapters that function as a 2016 campaign diary, Omarosa is repeatedly "troubled" by Trump's racially-charged statements. She is "concerned" by the arrival of campaign chief and alt-right guru Steve Bannon. Disturbed by the "classic dog-whistle racism" in Trump's acceptance speech, she resolves to tell the candidate that "words matter."  But so far as the reader knows, she never actually does that. In the next paragraph, she and Trump slap each other on the back for their success in winning the nomination.  Later, prepping for three disastrous presidential debates, Trump fails to retain any of the anti-racist talking points she feeds him. But not to worry! Time to wipe her cares away by filming an episode of Say Yes to the Dress.  After the Access Hollywood tape dropped, SNL ran a musical parody that features Omarosa quitting the campaign; she watches and laughs and dances around the room, utterly missing the message.   This habit of skimming along the surface of things (and focus on racking up her "media hits") continues once Trump is in power. Scanning the sea of white faces around her on Inauguration Day, still troubled by Trump's recent attack on Civil Rights legend John Lewis, Omarosa solemnly "made a vow that day to increase diversity in Trumpworld."  How she planned to do that, we don't know; she spends the next few pages gushing about the size of her new office in the West Wing. Scouring the detritus of the Obama administration, she scores a 60-inch flat-screen TV with split-screen programming built in, so she could watch all the cable news networks (plus C-SPAN!) at once.  Did Omarosa actually swing the election? Although many post-White House autobiographies are ghost-written, that doesn't seem to be the case here. It's not just that Omarosa boasts of the "strong writing skills" she picked up from a journalism professor; it's that a ghost would surely save her from being so terribly, repeatedly, unintentionally ironic.  The greatest irony is that Omarosa presents herself as having the skills to be so much more than a malevolent mouthpiece. A hardscrabble student who took herself from food-stamp poverty to Howard University, she was ambitious and service-minded. She shook off the horror of her father's and her brother's untimely death. In her 20s, she worked in Al Gore's office before moving to the Clinton White House.  But she'd been winning beauty pageants too — a part of her biography that gets very downplayed here — and the siren call of television turned out to be stronger than that of public service. When The Apprentice was announced, she threw herself into studying Trump like he was a PhD course; her audition tape was a shoo-in.  He became a mentor and she learned exactly what he had: stir conflict, never apologize, and they'll make you a star.  It seems likely that Donald Trump would never have been elected without Omarosa Manigault Newman. Not only did his ratings suffer when she wasn't on the show, but her "diversity outreach" on his campaign probably made all the difference in the world. She got Trump into black churches in key districts when he really didn't want to go.  For some in the African-American communities of Michigan, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin, the mighty Omarosa was a persuasive voice — and as we should never, ever forget, Trump won by a grand total of 77,000 votes in those three states.  It didn't have to happen like this. In 2015, still a registered Democrat, Omarosa was hard at work fundraising for the Ready for Hillary PAC — the stand-in for the Hillary Clinton campaign before she announced. But after she did, the African-American finance committee of Ready for Hillary wasn't rewarded with the positions on the campaign they'd been promised by someone close to the candidate.  It was a slight she would not forget, and Trump called at just the right time. Suddenly she was somebody again — a surrogate in her friend's campaign, persuading herself that the anti-Mexican comments he made straight out of the gate were "racial rather than racism," whatever that means. Besides, she thought, he would never actually win.  In an alternate universe where one PAC staffer was offered a role on the Hillary Clinton campaign, Newman is writing a tell-all memoir about all the scandals in the second Clinton White House.  Back in this universe, a Democratic celebrity who once told Hillary fundraisers to "get behind this sister" ended up telling "every critic, every detractor" to "bow down to President Trump ... the most powerful man in the universe."  The latter comment is something she curiously omits altogether from Unhinged. ADD vs. the KKK Once everything starts to go south in the Trump White House, Newman cuts a pathetic figure. She repeatedly tells us she had "one foot out the door" before another month's worth of narrative goes by. Like the protagonists of Waiting for Godot, her vague desire to move never gets her anywhere.  Not even the nightmare of Charlottesville, a resurgent and murderous Klan full of what Trump called "very fine people," can cause her to do more than wring her hands. She's distracted by fears that her mentor is losing his mental faculties, by a conference she's putting on, by pointless little personality feuds with Kellyanne Conway (for whom Newman reserves her cattiest remarks) and Betsy "Ditzy" DeVos, by the whole clown car.  It's not just the shadow of the KKK that stalks the Trump administration; it's also this kind of ADD.  Omarosa hung around long enough that new Chief of Staff John Kelly was able to fire her on a technicality; some nonsense about using an official car for the Congressional baseball game. She claims the firing was really because she was hot on the trail of an Apprentice outtake tape in which Trump allegedly uses a racial slur. But this is the fuzziest, most-choppily edited part of a very edited narrative, and Newman has already changed her story on whether she's actually heard this tape or not.  The irony here is that a principled post-Charlottesville resignation would have put Newman in the glare of the media spotlight she craves; it would have made everything all about her in a good way. Why didn't she?  To hear her tell it, the answer is "loyalty," but Newman isn't exactly a reliable narrator at this stage. The reader can see she's conflicted, and it's part of a conflict that permeates her life. Is she built for service — such as the ministry she was called to in her post- Apprentice, post-Hollywood life — or for merrily skimming along the surface of things, not caring about the mess in her wake?  Instead of confrontation at a crucial moment, she opts for cowardice, which amounts to complicity — and a cautionary tale for generations. The only thing required for evil to triumph, it turns out, is that a reality show star said nothing. WATCH: Sarah Huckabee Sanders' most ludicrous moments as press secretary

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[batenchantingcollectorsong]

Everyone is the hero of their own story — but in telling that tale, people often reveal much more about themselves than they realize. That is true of autobiographies in general, and of Unhinged by Omarosa Manigault Newman more than most.  The tell-all book, released Tuesday by the famous former reality show star and communications staffer, has plenty of beans to spill on the dysfunction and casual racism of Donald Trump and his White House.  It's also the story of how the kind of person who seems to think in soundbites could help elect and participate in such an administration without ever really knowing what she was doing. And how, even after reflecting for a year, that person thinks she can avoid doing much soul-searching about her role.  In short, it's a case study in complicity.  SEE ALSO: The 10 most unhinged parts of Omarosa's 'Unhinged' Omarosa doesn't actually call herself complicit anywhere in Unhinged. She did say she was "totally complicit" in a new interview with The Daily Show's Trevor Noah, but said "I didn't go [into the White House] thinking we were going to lie" — a fact that ignores the lies told on the campaign trail, recounted in her book.  She also said she was "complicit in deceiving this nation" in a Meet the Press interview, but quickly pivoted to how everyone in the Trump administration lies all the time. There's not even a sliver of daylight into which a mea culpa can creep.  The book is full of pivots like that — so speedy in spinning our attention away from questions about her moral obligations, it'll give you whiplash.  In the chapters that function as a 2016 campaign diary, Omarosa is repeatedly "troubled" by Trump's racially-charged statements. She is "concerned" by the arrival of campaign chief and alt-right guru Steve Bannon. Disturbed by the "classic dog-whistle racism" in Trump's acceptance speech, she resolves to tell the candidate that "words matter."  But so far as the reader knows, she never actually does that. In the next paragraph, she and Trump slap each other on the back for their success in winning the nomination.  Later, prepping for three disastrous presidential debates, Trump fails to retain any of the anti-racist talking points she feeds him. But not to worry! Time to wipe her cares away by filming an episode of Say Yes to the Dress.  After the Access Hollywood tape dropped, SNL ran a musical parody that features Omarosa quitting the campaign; she watches and laughs and dances around the room, utterly missing the message.   This habit of skimming along the surface of things (and focus on racking up her "media hits") continues once Trump is in power. Scanning the sea of white faces around her on Inauguration Day, still troubled by Trump's recent attack on Civil Rights legend John Lewis, Omarosa solemnly "made a vow that day to increase diversity in Trumpworld."  How she planned to do that, we don't know; she spends the next few pages gushing about the size of her new office in the West Wing. Scouring the detritus of the Obama administration, she scores a 60-inch flat-screen TV with split-screen programming built in, so she could watch all the cable news networks (plus C-SPAN!) at once.  Did Omarosa actually swing the election? Although many post-White House autobiographies are ghost-written, that doesn't seem to be the case here. It's not just that Omarosa boasts of the "strong writing skills" she picked up from a journalism professor; it's that a ghost would surely save her from being so terribly, repeatedly, unintentionally ironic.  The greatest irony is that Omarosa presents herself as having the skills to be so much more than a malevolent mouthpiece. A hardscrabble student who took herself from food-stamp poverty to Howard University, she was ambitious and service-minded. She shook off the horror of her father's and her brother's untimely death. In her 20s, she worked in Al Gore's office before moving to the Clinton White House.  But she'd been winning beauty pageants too — a part of her biography that gets very downplayed here — and the siren call of television turned out to be stronger than that of public service. When The Apprentice was announced, she threw herself into studying Trump like he was a PhD course; her audition tape was a shoo-in.  He became a mentor and she learned exactly what he had: stir conflict, never apologize, and they'll make you a star.  It seems likely that Donald Trump would never have been elected without Omarosa Manigault Newman. Not only did his ratings suffer when she wasn't on the show, but her "diversity outreach" on his campaign probably made all the difference in the world. She got Trump into black churches in key districts when he really didn't want to go.  For some in the African-American communities of Michigan, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin, the mighty Omarosa was a persuasive voice — and as we should never, ever forget, Trump won by a grand total of 77,000 votes in those three states.  It didn't have to happen like this. In 2015, still a registered Democrat, Omarosa was hard at work fundraising for the Ready for Hillary PAC — the stand-in for the Hillary Clinton campaign before she announced. But after she did, the African-American finance committee of Ready for Hillary wasn't rewarded with the positions on the campaign they'd been promised by someone close to the candidate.  It was a slight she would not forget, and Trump called at just the right time. Suddenly she was somebody again — a surrogate in her friend's campaign, persuading herself that the anti-Mexican comments he made straight out of the gate were "racial rather than racism," whatever that means. Besides, she thought, he would never actually win.  In an alternate universe where one PAC staffer was offered a role on the Hillary Clinton campaign, Newman is writing a tell-all memoir about all the scandals in the second Clinton White House.  Back in this universe, a Democratic celebrity who once told Hillary fundraisers to "get behind this sister" ended up telling "every critic, every detractor" to "bow down to President Trump ... the most powerful man in the universe."  The latter comment is something she curiously omits altogether from Unhinged. ADD vs. the KKK Once everything starts to go south in the Trump White House, Newman cuts a pathetic figure. She repeatedly tells us she had "one foot out the door" before another month's worth of narrative goes by. Like the protagonists of Waiting for Godot, her vague desire to move never gets her anywhere.  Not even the nightmare of Charlottesville, a resurgent and murderous Klan full of what Trump called "very fine people," can cause her to do more than wring her hands. She's distracted by fears that her mentor is losing his mental faculties, by a conference she's putting on, by pointless little personality feuds with Kellyanne Conway (for whom Newman reserves her cattiest remarks) and Betsy "Ditzy" DeVos, by the whole clown car.  It's not just the shadow of the KKK that stalks the Trump administration; it's also this kind of ADD.  Omarosa hung around long enough that new Chief of Staff John Kelly was able to fire her on a technicality; some nonsense about using an official car for the Congressional baseball game. She claims the firing was really because she was hot on the trail of an Apprentice outtake tape in which Trump allegedly uses a racial slur. But this is the fuzziest, most-choppily edited part of a very edited narrative, and Newman has already changed her story on whether she's actually heard this tape or not.  The irony here is that a principled post-Charlottesville resignation would have put Newman in the glare of the media spotlight she craves; it would have made everything all about her in a good way. Why didn't she?  To hear her tell it, the answer is "loyalty," but Newman isn't exactly a reliable narrator at this stage. The reader can see she's conflicted, and it's part of a conflict that permeates her life. Is she built for service — such as the ministry she was called to in her post- Apprentice, post-Hollywood life — or for merrily skimming along the surface of things, not caring about the mess in her wake?  Instead of confrontation at a crucial moment, she opts for cowardice, which amounts to complicity — and a cautionary tale for generations. The only thing required for evil to triumph, it turns out, is that a reality show star said nothing. WATCH: Sarah Huckabee Sanders' most ludicrous moments as press secretary

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