#pictured is her the beautiful form and i imagine her the grotesque form to be kind of like razor stp

[lo-sulci]

Wielding the sword that promises my victory, I carve my way to the life I deserve! MAID Corporation, 3rd generation! Delta Daggersmith! I'll captivate you until the very end!~ ☆

inspired by the amazing (and two time award winning actual play podcast that YOU should listen to) @eidolonplaytest and drawn by the unparalleled @chimeracauldron, it's my maidsona! who at least appearance-wise is just me :Þ

[sarcastically-defensive17]

Hello lovelyyy! Could i request a Billy imagine? He makes fun of the reader after hooking up with her at a party and she just playa along for the sake of his reputation but it hurts her a lot. He finds her and apologizes and its all really angsty with a happy ending??✨

Facades - B. Hargrove

I love this req so so so so so so much and I am so sorry I took so long to complete it! If you hate it then I am so so sorry and I hope you let me know so i can send you pictures of baby otters to apologise!

I really hope you like it!!

TW: THIS STORY CONTAINS MENTIONS OF BULLYING, SEXUAL REFERENCES, SWEARING, BRIEF ALLUSIONS TO DOMESTIC VIOLENCE / PARENTAL ABUSE, BILLY BEING A BIT OF A MYSOGINISTIC PRAT, Y/N STANDING UP FOR THE LITTLE PEEPS AND BEING A QUEEN AND MENTIONS OF NON-CONSENSUAL STARING AT INTIMATE BODY PARTS.

IF THIS CONTENT CAN POTENTIALLY TRIGGER YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ. YOUR OWN MENBTAL AND PHSYICAL HEALTH IS IMPORTANT, SO PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. MY INBOX IS ALWAYS OPEN.

Original Story by defensive_sarcasm17.

Please do not copy, reproduce or repost without credit or in a manner that removes my username, and/or ownership from the work. Stealing is not cool, my loves.

Billy Hargrove was an asshole.

Not just your regular asshole, but the kind that knew he was an asshole and allowed his severe longing for attention to control his every action. Whether positive or negative attention, he craved it; he reveled in it.

He knew it was wrong, but simply knowing he was on somebody’s mind in any way filled him with a sense of pride. It disgusted him but the thrill was far too addictive.

And there was sweet Y/N. Anybody could tell that she didn’t fit in. She walked - no, she strut - to the beat of her own drum. The minute he arrived she caught his attention. He had never before witnessed how somebody could be so unique and beautiful, yet remain on the outside. She was a fascinating creature and he hadn’t before felt such an intense desire to get to know somebody.

She was so different to so many people, both in personality and appearance, yet she took care to avoid bringing others down. Her first interaction with him was her reprimanding him for speaking ill of another girl in their grade with his friends. She had overheard the conversation that occurred near to her locker and made sure to discuss it with him away from his friends.

The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him and herself, but she also needed to tell him that his behaviour was unacceptable. He made more of an effort to watch his tongue after that, but old habits die hard and he quickly resorted back to being an ill-mannered asshole.

Just... never to her.

Nevertheless, he was still drawn to her. Their relationship evolved, a few sneaky kisses, hanging out outside of the arcade, or the cinema, or even the one time that Billy was eating at the diner and Y/N took a seat across from him just to babble about some new thing she was doing. If she was anybody else, Billy would have told her to take a hike, but instead, he clung to every word she told.

What Y/N didn’t know, though, was that she had become a butt of some jokes amongst Billy’s friends. Her kind, bubbly personality, her eyes that were often wide in energetic glee, the way she held a cheesy smile on her lips whenever she passed Billy in the hall.

To her it was normal. Never in her the lengths of her imagination would she conclude that the way she behaved would spur other people - people that she has grown alongside - to ridicule and tease her behind her back.

So she continued on in blissful nativity, even going as far as spending a night with the brutish boy - cuddled together, fumbling blindly amongst the rumpled sheets of her double bed. What started as a meaningless conversation at one of the many parties ended in one of the best nights that either had experienced.

She was entirely enamored by him, forming an intense and strong connection with the way he would present himself to her. She quite enjoyed the Jekyll within him.

The euphoria that he felt in her presence wouldn’t fade away like it normally did, even as he took his leave from her.

But when Billy was seen by Y/N’s neighbour, Angela, leaving her house early in the morn, the news circulated with the intensity of a swarm of angry locusts amongst the school.

And when Billy turned up to school late the next day, after a long and enjoyable farewell with Y/N and a quick stop at his own abode to change and freshen up, he was hounded the minute he approached his friends in the cafeteria.

“Please for the love of all that is cool in this world, tell me you didn’t hook up with freaky Y/N,” Tommy blurted in front of almost the entire cafeteria. The frown on Billy’s face did nothing to deter the boy, and from the corner of his eye he could see Y/N still as a statue as she felt most eyes turn towards her. Her tray was clasped between her fingers and she struggled to shift her features away from shock. “I mean, look at her,” he raised a hand as if he intended to whisper, yet the silence of the room ensured everybody heard, “You’d get more satisfaction out of a bean bag chair. She’s a dork.”

In that moment, he had two options: stick up for Y/N and confess to the growing admiration he harbored for her in front of everybody, and remove the cloud of admiration he received from many women and men alike; or do what billy does best-

“Please, I won’t put my dick just anywhere, willingly,” he scoffed, avoiding the burning gaze from the girl. His stormy blue eyes hid the flurry of his neurons, all of them working overtime to one up with an excuse, an answer, anything to avoid judgement from his peers. “She ended up with my jacket at the end of the night and there was no way I was letting her keep it.”

Tommy had an evil smirk on his face, turning his gaze towards Y/N and eyeing her in a grotesque way. His eyes linger on her chest for longer than she deemed comfortable before he snapped back to Billy. “Figured as much, but, we’ve all seen the way the freak looks at you. Even now, she can’t keep her eyes off of you.”

More sniggers erupted throughout the room. Y/N placed her tray down carefully, planning to leave the room as fast as she could, but she stopped when she saw Tommy crook a finger at her. He beckoned her closer, and she wanted nothing more than to shrink down to the size of a mouse.

“Is she dumb?” Tommy grunted as he nudged Billy’s shoulder with his own. “Come here, freaky!” Some chatter resumed in the room, but all eyes were still on her. She slowly stepped towards their table, crossing the few meters difference as slow as she could.

A chuckle left Billy, but he had forced it from his chest. His mind was going through many scenarios in which he could hurt Tommy, his favourite settling on stabbing him in the hand with one of the cafeteria forks followed by a severe pummeling to the face, but the eyes on him sent his adrenaline spiking. He felt horrible about speaking so badly of Y/N, but everybody had their attention focused on him. He was making people laugh, gasp, grumble even. He saw the girls at the table next to them get closer, winking at him and whispering along themselves about Y/N.

It was intoxicating.

“Tell us, freaky,” Tommy drawled, a sinister smirk forming in his thin and cracked lips. “You’re just obsessed with my man, Billy, here. Aren’t you?” Billy didn’t meet her eyes, and she knew - she just knew - that he didn’t enjoy what was happening, but she figured he would have the decency to stop it from continuing.

She had seen many sides of Billy, including the menacing, careless, boarding-on-sociopathic side, but she had managed to convince herself that she was immune to the abuse that tumbled from his lips. Y/N was already scolding herself inside her mind for thinking such discrepancies.

“Look at her, Billy. She can’t even speak!” Billy felt Tommy shove his shoulder with the palm of his hand, dropping the appendage quickly when he noticed the glare Billy shot him. His face paled slightly before the arrogance returned and the smirk resurfaced when his gaze shifted back to Y/N.

She hadn’t moved, her eyes locked on Billy. In those situations, Y/N knew her tear ducts were far to close to her eyelids, often spilling over at the any confrontation. She shied away from it, knowing that it often resulted in heartache and misfortune - but this time she felt anger. She just wasn’t quite sure if the anger was directed at herself or Billy.

Maybe both.

To add fuel to the flame, Billy turned his steely cerulean eyes towards her, raking them along the length of her body before he decided to open his mouth once again.

“Do i make you speechless?” his voice was sultry, warm, juxtaposing with the chill that ran down her spine at the audition.

It took her back to the previous night when he whispered sweet nothings against her skin. But she knew this was not the same Billy. This was the Billy that he would show to everyone. Everyone but her.

This was his Hyde, and she despised it. This was far from her Billy, but she knew how much his reputation meant to him.

He held her gaze strongly, but she could see something else in his expression. He was hoping that she would stay quiet, retreat from any chance of spilling his secret to the entire cafeteria, but part of his mind was telling him that he deserved her to speak the truth.

“I can’t help it, Billy,” she mumbled, hoping that a confession would make everything end. Her face was stoic, jaw set in a tight clench, only relenting to let the words slip out. To the rest of the cafeteria, it would portray as nerves and embarrassment, but to Billy - he knew that something had definitely changed in the usual mild-mannered, kind-hearted woman. Shame was running through her head at an alarming rate, mixed with embarrassment and cut with a growing anger. “I’ve had a crush on you for so long. It’s hard to deny how i feel about you.”

The words hit him like a speeding truck. Despite their activities, she had never once given him an indication for the depth of her feelings, nor had he for her. He had came to the conclusion that she simply knew of his emotions without the audition of them - he treated her so differently, he thought.

Nevertheless, he wanted to believe that her words were the truth, but the fire blazing in her beautiful eyes set his skin alight and had his heart pounding against his ribcage with guilt. She was Y/N. She was kind, she knew him. She knew how much he craved the satisfaction of being on somebody’s mind as if he could sense that he held somebody’s attention.

He knew she did it to help him, and he was somewhat grateful underneath the growing guilt.

“Wow,” Tommy breathed. His face held a look of astonishment, but once again he returned to his stock standard expression. “What an absolute spaz!”

Billy found himself nodding along to avoid the heat-filled stare, swallowing the lump of bile rising in his throat, “Why is it that all the dorks think they have a chance with me? I must have a wannabe-magnet that makes them all hot for me,” his cackle was filled with faux-malice, but the students were none the wiser. His thoughts were roaming around his head, moving faster than he was sure his brainwaves could manage.

He barely noticed when a feminine voice hit his ears and said something about Y/N needing to cool off before pouring a drink over her head. The red liquid was already beginning to stain her shirt and her hair was pushed to the front of her face.

“There you go,” Carol - the girl that had Tommy wrapped so tightly around her little finger that she has a circulation issue - had been the one to spill the liquid over her head. The smile on Carol’s face was dripping with sugar, but Billy knew that it was actually salt.“The red makes you look less like an ugly cow.”

A gasp left her lips, her eyes closing quickly. Y/N knew that the tip of the iceberg was approaching. Everybody has the point in their anger when they hit a point of hypersensitivity. Their body struggling to find a way to release the pent up friction in anyway, and it chooses to take the route of tears.

When she opened her eyes they had already began to blur with tears, yet she could still make out Billy’s figure, but she didn’t stay long enough to hear their taunts any longer. Her feet carried her to her car at a steady pace, where she finally allowed the emotion to escape in any way it pleased.

<><><><><>

He had expected to see her in their next class. Her presence was the only think that kept him from flipping out during their history class. Mr Daniels, the balding, narcissistic, middle-aged douche bag, had it out for him. Billy had often joked that it was because of the hair - pure jealousy, he said. The mere sight of Y/N’s profile managed to keep him occupied, his mind running wild with thoughts of the woman.

But when he had noticed she wasn’t there, all resolve had fled his body as his body fled the school. He had been trying to reach her since he had left, the pay phone on the corner of the block had his attention for nearly an hour, all of his change spent dialing her number over and over again with the same result.

The guilt was eating away at him, shame creeping up his spine.

He was an asshole. Plain and simple.

He had spent nearly his entire wallet on the pay phone, growing more frustrated by the minute. If she were home, she would answer. She always did. She was too kind to ignore a call. Hell, she even stayed on the line with telemarketers until they stopped talking for long enough for her to apologise and bid them goodbye.

The mere thought had him slumping his forehead against the receiver of the phone. His patience had worn thin and he cursed under his breath as he reefed his keys from his pocket and set off towards his blue camaro.

He needed to see her. The image of tears running down her cheek was burned into his mind, occupying all of his thoughts as his subconscious mapped out the route to her house. He had only been there once, maybe twice after dropping her home one afternoon, but he had the way etched into his hippocampus alongside many things about Y/N.

He had barely pulled in to the curb before he shut down the engine and stomped to her door.

His knuckles were rapping on the door before he knew it.

He knocked again, and once more. But no answer. Her car was parked in the drive way, he knew she was home. He picked up on the faint sound of music playing, some indie band that she was fond of. Not Billy’s taste.

“Y/N?” He called, fighting the lump that had swollen in his throat. “Y/N, please, I need to talk to you!”

The door opened slightly, just enough for Y/N to stare at him with innocent eyes full of shame before the chain stopped it from advancing further.

“I think you’ve said enough, Billy,” her voice sounded broken. Shattered even.

Her hair was still saturated, the T-Shirt she wore was stained, and he faintly recognized it as one of her favourite articles. A from was deeply carved into her features and he had to restrain his mind from thinking about how she adorable she looks with a crease between her brows and a dimple forming on her chin with growing anger.

“Darling, please let me in. I need to talk to you about something,” he flashed a charming smile. His pink lips contrasted perfectly against his sun-kissed skin. He was a delectable sight and he knew so; he made sure to dress to impress on the daily. He craved the looks of lust and jealousy. Like neon straight into his awaiting veins, it was his drug. Even the way Y/N glared up at him made his ego hum, but his heart ached with the disappointment she showed. “What happened in the cafeteria... it’ll never happen again. I just, I couldn’t-“

The door abruptly slammed in his face silencing his words in an instant. He froze, the sound shaking his spine and clearing his train of thought, only for the sound of a chain clicking and the door reopening capture his attention back.

There she stood. Hair drenched beyond all hope, clothes stained a bright red, throwing off the aesthetic of her outfit for the day. Her makeup was smudged more than he originally thought, as if she had been furiously scrubbing at her eyes with her hands. His heart ached, but he couldn’t deny the excitement in his nerves when she gave him her full attention.

Her hand reached out to grab his shirt, pulling him inside faster than he thought possible.

“Couldn’t what?” She snapped at him, venom coating her words in a way that made him recoil. “Couldn’t resist making fun of me? Couldn’t resist having every single pair of eyes on you? Couldn’t resist taking the piss out of me, just like you have done for months?”

She wasn’t meant to know about that, he thought. She was meant to be none the wiser. His face paled, eliciting a dry laugh from her chest. She felt the pressure of the forced omission in her stomach, the muscles aching from the furious sobs that racked her frame moments before.

“All of this time, I was trying to be your friend, Billy! And you!” She waved her hand at him, pointing at him in a manner dripping with unbridled anger. “You were playing me for the fool! I’ve been the butt of all jokes between you and your asshole friends since the minute I opened my big mouth to talk to you, haven’t I?”

He knew he was in the wrong. He knew that he should have punched Tommy in the face for even bringing anything up in front of her. His friend had noticed that he had abruptly halted the jokes surrounding the girl in question, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit the real reason why. He was falling head over heels, but he just didn’t know it yet.

Now he felt like his heart was ripping in two at the sight of her blotchy cheeks and red rimmed eyes, and he was the reason.

“It started as a joke, Y/N. I never meant to hurt you,” His voice was full of pain. Self-loathing. “Yeah, Tommy and I used to make fun of you for a while, but...” his words faded away.

The chuckle that left her lips this time was a hearty one, more like she was laughing at an actual joke than their humourless situation.

He didn’t realise how intently he was staring at her sock covered feet until he brought his eyes up to her face. She was genuinely laughing, but the tears that he didn’t realise were falling down her cheeks made his arms twitch from the need to hug her.

“My god,” she huffed, bringing her palms to her eyes and pressing hard, almost as if trying to hold her tears back. Her voice deceived her, and she sobbed for - what felt like - the millionth time that day. “I’m such an idiot.”

His hands connected with her shoulders and he brought her in against his chest. The hug was all he could do to comfort her, for he knew so little about his own emotions to even begin to understand another’s pain.

“Every time we spoke, every time we hung out together...” she pulled herself back from his chest. She couldn’t stand the contact that she craved so much, for she knew that it was unrequited. “Every time I kissed you.. last night. It was all bullshit!”

“Princess,” his own voice began to shake, feeling overwhelmed and anxious, “Every moment I have ever spent with you has been because I want to.”

She worked her hands into her now half-damp hair, pulling it back from her face in a tight grip, “Why? You and your friends needed some new material?” She released a heavy breath, her lips trembling. “Nancy told me about all of the jokes last week, yet I still went home with you last night. I still played along while the entire cafeteria stared me down because I know how much your reputation means to you. I know that I am at the very bottom of your priority list, Billy. Everything you do is for a purpose, and your purpose with me was just to make me feel worse than literally everybody in that school already does.”

He reached for her hand slowly, as if he were afraid she would pull away from him forever. He was never sure of his emotions, but this time, he knew that he would watch the world burn just to make her happy. He hated himself. He hated Tommy, and the girls that embarrassed her further. He hated Neil, and he hated his own narcissism. He hated the world for making such a beautiful soul so miserable, but he especially hated how he knew right from wrong and still chose the latter.

His fingers laced with hers, but her hand remained slack in his grip. It was better than nothing, he thought.

He cleared his throat, the organ feeling as stiff as a piece of cardboard, his mouth dry. The next words would be difficult, but they were honest. She deserved honesty.

“When I first met you, I didn’t know who you were, and I didn’t really want to. You were kind and thoughtful and you pulled me aside to chew me out for talking shit about some girl, but you did it where you knew my friends wouldn’t hear, just so you could spare my reputation. For the first little while, yeah, we made jokes. I made fun of the weird way you dress and the horrible music you listen to, and how you are the nicest person I have ever met, but the it stopped. The things you did stopped being funny to me, and the way I felt when I was around you changed completely.”

“Billy, what are you talking about?” Her tear-filled eyes wrinkles, her brows furrowing deeply.

“Tommy and the rest of the assholes, they noticed that I didn’t want to talk shit about you, or that I didn’t like when they would talk about you in the way - in the way we talk about other girls. Its hypocritical, but they dropped it. Until today. All because Angela couldn’t keep her big mouth shut.” He caught the look that she sent him, frowning slightly. “Sorry. Because Angela told them that I left here this morning, and they wouldn’t shut their stupid mouths the minute they saw me. I told them that I had nothing to say about you, but they wanted answers and I said shit that I never wanted to say.”

She watched him intently. Tommy had made a lot of comments about her over the years she had known him. The other guys had too, but she did notice that they started backing off lately. She hadn’t paid much attention to the fact, secretly hoping that they had begun to mature, but to think that Billy made them stop - well she didn’t know what to think.

“Why did you make them stop?” her mind was running faster than her mouth, but she still couldn’t put it together. If Billy was anybody else, she would maybe think that he reciprocated the feelings she expressed for him in the cafeteria but he isn’t - he is Billy Hargrove, and he doesn’t have feelings for anybody.

He laughed for a second. A soft, disbelief fueled cough. His eyes seemed to shine bright in the dull lighting of her house. Neither of them had realised the time that has passed, it was now nearing the afternoon. He looked down at her, his stomach full to the brim with an odd sensation.

“You really don’t know?” he seemed to have stepped closer to her, only slightly. His shoulders were slightly shrunken in. She shook her head softly, the crease returning to between her eyebrows as she thought. “I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

Never in his teenage life, had Billy feared rejection from a woman. His mother had given him all of the rejection he needed for a lifetime, but now, as he stared into Y/N’s eyes, his lungs seemed to constrict.

It was as if her world froze for a moment. Not only did Billy Hargrove, possibly her best and only friend, confess that he has feelings for her, but he said that he loved her. To say she was at a loss for words would be an understatement, but she stood in front of him gaping like a fish, mouth opening and closing every time she wanted to say something.

“I don’t mind if you don’t feel the same,” He spoke, slightly lower than when he confessed to her. He turned away from her slightly, releasing her hand and using it to rub the back of his neck. His skin felt like it was aflame and he started to sweat. “I just wanted to let you know, especially after what happened today. I-I’m sorry for the shit I said, and I am gonna kick Tommy’s ass for this. And I’m sorry that you had to say that stuff today. I know that you just said it to help me, and I appreciate it but you didn’t have to -”

His words fell short when he felt arms wrap around his waist. It was a soft, slow gesture, new, but not entirely uncomfortable. If he had to put money on it, he would say that she could feel exactly how fast his heart is beating.

“Those things I said today, about my feelings for you...” she began, head pressed against his chest.

“Yeah, princess?”

“They were all true.” He pulled her back slightly to look at her. It was his turn to look confused. “Last night was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time, Billy. Being around you just makes my heart swell and everything better.”

His heart started to beat impossibly faster, but there was still hesitance in her voice. “I feel like there is a ‘but’ coming.”

“But I can’t deal with this split-personality bullshit, Billy.” He had never heard her curse before. It was music to his ears, exciting, entrancing, but he also knew that she meant business. She was incredibly serious. “The person you are when you are around me, that is the guy I am obsessed with. Who you are when everybody else is around... I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of that now, and I hated it.”

“I know, darling. I’m so sorry for that, I promise, I will be better. Even if you won’t have me, I will be better. For you.” His eyes held an honest strength. It was as if he were selling his soul to her, right there in her entry way, where they had stood since she wrenched the door open in a fury. “But, if you will have me, how about I take you out tomorrow night? If you don’t want to, then I understand.”

“I would love that,” she smiled up at him, the expression growing wider as a matching one took over his face.

He couldn’t help but lean forward slowly, giving her an opportunity to pull away. When their lips connected, he melted into the touch, moving with such intensity it was as if he were repeating his apology and his promise into the kiss.

She had never felt more wanted before, and he had never felt more safe.

When their lips parted she rested her forehead on his for a moment, basking in the silence and the ambiance that surrounded them.

But of course, Billy had to ruin it.

“So, you are obsessed with me, huh?” She could feel the smirk against her cheek as he nuzzled his nose into her temple.

She turned away from him so fast that the wet ends of her hair slapped his face.

“Where are you going, princess?” He followed after her, long strides catching up with her faster than she wanted.

“I’m going to have a shower. If you want to join me, you can leave that bad attitude at the door along with your shoes,” She sent him a sly wink, a smirk on the lips that Billy wanted to taste once again.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, and his shoes went flying into the hallway.

TAG LIST:

@snookiebrookie @theanswertoeverythingisl0v3 @another-lonely-heart @starshonerose @mantlereid

If you want to join my tag list for billy or any other person/character I write for, let me know!!

[maplecornia]

chapter 9

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 2.61K

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst | bts x female!reader | ot7

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: this chapter makes me laugh, especially the scene with Jojo and Namjoon.

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language

tags:@kookaine |@fangirl125reader |@kookiebbyxx |@taradevonne

You’ve been waiting for an hour.

Tilting your head back, you sigh, extremely bored.

You've tried everything you could think of to bypass the time. Reading, writing, watching YouTube, then switching over to Netflix, even attempting to doze in the slightly uncomfortable waiting room chair.

None of them have worked.

Currently, you're doodling in your sketchbook, but no concrete idea comes to mind for the sketch. Leaving you with tiny flowers, faces, and body parts on the page as though it were a practice sheet.

Peering over the sketchbook, you scan the room for any sign of life, but as the day has dragged on, so has the crowd.

You don't see any sign of Kim Namjoon anywhere, and the receptionist hasn't called you over ever since you turned in the forms she gave you. Uninterested, your eyes glazing over, you pull out your phone, peering at the time.

12:30 pm.

Heaving a sigh, you tilt your head back, the music playing through your GalaxyBuds. Yet it does no good to lift your spirits.

You suppose it's only fair, you made him wait, now it's his turn.

Setting your phone down once more, you purse your lips, as your gaze falls on a flower swaying in the wind outside.

It's the only flower you can see amongst the bush. It stands almost forlornly in the midst of multiple of its fellow brethren withered around it. Still, it stands strong, unwilling to fall victim to the harsh weather outside.

A thought crossing your mind, you turn to your sketchbook, quickly turning the page and beginning a vigorous sketch before you lose your idea.

Unbeknownst to you, as you progress halfway through the sketch, Kim Namjoon bursts into the lobby, looking out of breath and flustered.

He wears a bright white T-shirt, one with a small black Nike emblem across his left pectoral muscle. It hangs sort of loose around his neck, his collarbone visible as cooling sweat causes him to glisten like a bright star.

It's not as noticeable, considering that he wears a thick black sweatshirt zipped down around his shoulders. It's simple, with thin white stripes running down the sleeves and white soft underlining to it.

The black sweats he wears seem to fit with the outfit, the same white stripes running down each pant leg. Each piece of clothing has a Nike emblem on it and pairs well with the white Nike AirForces he wears on his feet.

They’re simple but rich clothes and bring to mind the same clothes Jungkook was wearing before.

The cooling sweat on his skin and the way his hair falls a bit messily underneath his cap could lead to the presumption that they were doing a major dance practice before all of this.

No matter the case, he didn't expect the meeting to take this long, and he feels terrible for making you wait, despite everything. As he looks for any sign of you, he doesn't find any.

Worried that you have already left, he knocks on the front desk, gathering the attention of the receptionist that helped you earlier. Kim Jojo raises her head, and as she catches sight of RM, her eyes widen just the slightest bit, but not enough for him to notice.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Namjoon, what can I--”

“Yes, yes hello.” Namjoon interrupts her, too panicked to care about formalities.

He wants to catch you before you get tired of waiting and leave. First impressions are everything to him, and if he has a bad one…Shaking the worry away, he leans forward over the counter separating the receptionist from him and she flinches away at the sudden closeness.

RM either doesn't notice or doesn't care, but either way, he meets her with an intent stare, every word uttered from his lips urgent and careful.

“Has anyone by the name of Lin Yen come in?” The receptionist opens her mouth to respond but before she can say anything, he holds up a finger.

A thought having crossed his mind, he reaches into his back pocket, bringing out his phone. He tries to bring up the picture of you while Jojo stands there, half in shock, half in annoyance. As soon as he finds it, he lets out a little victory shout, one that startles her.

Grinning, he presents it to her, and she peers at a strange picture of you. After she looks at it, Jojo pulls back, her brows crinkling in confusion.

“She looks like this. If she came in, could you please tell me? I've been waiting since 8:00 this morning to meet her.” Jojo sighs, trying to gain her composure before responding.

“Mr. Namjoon--” she begins, but Namjoon interrupts once more.

“She’s my new assistant, you see, and I need to begin her training today. She needs to know the ropes before our busy season comes back around.” He explains, pulling the phone back and trying to pocket it once more.

Instead, he ends up knocking over a container filled with an assortment of pens and pencils. Surprised, he fumbles to pick it up but ends up spilling it all over the floor. Cursing under his breath, he reaches down to pick up some pencils that have fallen.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Jojo picks up the container, righting it on the counter with a loud thud. Startled, RM glances up at her eyes wide, and she smiles sweetly.

“Please, just leave it.” She says between her teeth. He shrugs, almost reluctantly standing. She sighs in relief, carefully putting the pens and pencils back in their place.

“Now...Mr. Namjoon, please listen--” once more, she cannot finish, Namjoon unable to shut up to save his life.

“I’m sorry, but if you need any more information on her I could--”

“Kim Namjoon!” This time it's Jojo's turn to interrupt him, her patience finally wearing thin.

RM instantly falls silent, a bit surprised at the outburst.

Jojo takes a steadying breath before continuing.

“Now, the person you are talking about has already come in. I told her you were in a meeting and had her wait in the waiting room for you to return.” At the information, RM turns to the waiting room where he catches sight of you for the first time in real life.

He notices you vigorously sketching out your idea. Smiling, he can't help but smile at the familiarities he finds in you. You look exactly like the picture Jaejin sent, despite how weird it was.

“I had expected to receive a notice of your return, so I could send her to you, but now that you're here….” Namjoon turns away from you and flashes his contagious smile at Jojo who is once more taken aback.

“Thank you,” Namjoon says with gratitude, reaching across the desk and holding her hand as he bows before turning away.

Jojo, watching him go, turns beet red before collapsing behind the desk in exhaustion. Another fellow receptionist cries out with alarm before tending to her in concern.

You, once more, having no awareness of the events happening around you, continue to sketch. Having finished the rough sketch you begin to define every line, detail, and curve. As you work, you bite the inside of your cheek, sometimes licking your lips in your trance of concentration.

When you're lost in your mind of imagination and creativity, nothing from the outside world can distract you.

And yes, that also includes a very tall, very real version of Kim Namjoon striding towards you.

You don't look up as he comes within a few feet in front of you. You don't even notice as he bends to your eye level, trying to catch your attention. It doesn't break your concentration, even as you reach for an eraser, lightly humming to the music playing in your ears. He smiles, almost laughing at your concentration before he covers his mouth, trying to be quiet so that you don't notice he’s there.

Trying to tease you, he carefully (as much as he’s able) sits down next to you. He was planning on pulling out one of your GalaxyBuds and surprising you, but as he catches a glimpse of your work, he’s stopped cold.

It's breathtaking.

You have created an awestruck image of a woman, on her knees. She wails out in agony as she sits amongst a pile of ash, flecks of it falling around her as though there's a fire burning nearby.

However, that’s not what catches Namjoon’s eye.

Amongst the ash, if anyone looks closely, they'll be able to see that there are small, scattered remains of bones hidden.

She sits amongst them, wailing, the look on her face one of pure anguish and sorrow as the ash from the fading bones stains her skin and her dress.

As though she has lost everyone she’s held, dear.

RM can't seem to look away, entranced by the grotesque beauty of the image and the talent of the artist.

He admires the way you set it up, the way you created the girl imperfectly, but still real. Because after all, who in real life is perfect? As he watches your pencil move expertly across the page, he can't help but think that with each stroke, the creation grows more and more lifelike.

As though she were truly crying out in the pain her heart brings. As though she were alive and breathing.

Almost against his wishes, his hand reaches out to touch the paper, if only to make sure that the actual sketch is truly a mere fabrication of pencil and paper.

As his fingers graze the parchment, that is when you snap out of your concentration.

Eyes widening, you jolt up straight, immediately turning to look at your side.

As soon as your eyes meet Namjoon’s, his hand flinches off the paper. He lets out a soft gasp as he flinches away, surprised by your sudden attention.

Just like with Jungkook, you're frozen in place.

Unable to move.

Unable to function.

Unable to speak.

And just like Jungkook, Namjoon is the same way.

But for a different reason.

He was caught in the act, and he doesn't know what to do.

Your eyes hold him in a sort of bind.

For a moment he forgets what he was doing there, he forgets what his purpose is, for a moment he even forgets why you are there.

For a split second, it's just you and him in a pocket in space.

Your eyes holding his, his eyes holding yours.

Kim Namjoon.

The leader of BTS. The first member of the group you have grown to love. Talented, handsome, a practical genius, he is just as mature and intimidating as you expected him to be.

Despite how close the two of you are sitting, he still seems larger than life, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even real.

He doesn't seem like it after all.

His skin seems too real, too perfect. His hair is too soft, too smooth. His eyes are too warm and too brown.

Almost exactly like the milky chocolate brown you’ve seen so often in so many photos, except for one thing.

As you stare into them, you can see life so clearly alight in them. How they reveal so many emotions at the same time. There are so many that it's almost impossible to read them at all. Serene and peaceful, they are poets' eyes.

So emotional, yet so mysterious and secretive at the same time.

Dreamboat eyes.

“Kim Namjoon?” you whisper, almost unsure if it's him or not.

As you do, his face makes that mixed expression between confusion and amusement as he chuckles softly, looking away and breaking the connection. Holding his hand up to his mouth, he nods, clearing his throat, but not saying anything for a moment.

“Yes, that's who I am, and you must be...Lin Yen?” your heart jumps at the fact that he knows your name.

Speechless, all you can do is nod mutely as he utters another adorable chuckle, one that always seems to remind you of Goofy.

“Jaejin didn't tell me you were an artist.” As soon as he says that, you notice that your sketchbook is still open, and showcasing your imperfect, unready sketch.

Panicking, you fumble to get it closed. Blushing, you hug it tightly to your chest, as though it could erase the fact that he just got a sneak peek into your very soul.

“What's wrong? It was good!” RM asks, worried.

Biting your bottom lip in trepidation, you shake your head, hiding your face.

“Don't lie….” you mumble.

You know it wasn't close to being done, and it wasn't nearly as perfect as it could have been. You're quite disappointed in it at the moment. You feel as though it was too rushed due to the many ideas pouring out from your brain at the exact moment.

As you take an ashamed peek at Namjoon, you find him staring at you, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“What's wrong, are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head as though you were a shy child. You smirk, playing along and nodding very slowly before he continues.

“I see. You should know, however, that you are very talented.” At the compliment, you snort in disbelief, shoving the sketchbook and pencils back safely in your satchel.

“Please.” You sigh. “I know I'm no Picasso, and certainly not talented.”

Finished with packing your art supplies, you are reminded of the reason you are here. A blush of shame appearing on your cheeks, you turn to Namjoon, a bit guiltily.

“And I’m also not known as the bird to rise before the worm.” RM seems a bit confused before you stand and bow to him in apology.

“I am so sorry for being late today. You see I….”

Remembering the receptionist's words from before, you decide to keep the reason to yourself.

“....I have nothing to say for myself. I'm sincerely sorry.”

“Please, there’s no need for that,” Namjoon responds, standing himself and tapping you on the shoulder.

At the touch, you stand straight, only to find an extremely tall man standing before you, looking more intimidating than before. Heart beating fast you gulp, stepping back a bit.

Luckily, he doesn't notice your act of distance and just smiles at you before continuing.

“After all, I was late as well, so let's call it even, huh?”

You smirk and nod, thankful that he’s not too angry about it, but it doesn't completely erase your guilt.

“But now that you mention it….” Namjoon starts and intrigued, you glance up to see him back up a bit as well.

Confused, you raise an eyebrow before he holds out his hand to you.

“My name is Kim Namjoon, I’ll be your boss during your time here. First and foremost, welcome to BigHit entertainment, I hope you enjoy your time working here with us.” He introduces himself, warmly.

Catching on, you take his hand, shaking it gently, and trying to ignore the fact that yours is much more like a child's compared to his.

“Hello, Mr. Namjoon! It's a pleasure to finally meet you, my name is Lin Yen and I look forward to working with you!” you respond, returning his grin with one of your own.

After you're finished introducing yourself, he releases your hand and steps back, taking your satchel in his hands and handing it to you.

“Well, Ms. Lin, are you ready to begin?” He asks, and you accept the offer, hiking the satchel on your shoulder before looking up at him in expectation.

“Where do we start?”

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: first day at work is finally starting, yall excited? eheheehehe get ready for some namjooon and yen moments to come

chapter 10 here

check the Infinite Stars masterlist for more chapters

check my BTS masterlist for other BTS content

check out my masterlist for other kpop fanfics

[halfway-happyyy]

Until We Meet Again

this is absolutely something that nobody asked for, but here it is. short ‘n sweet and full of fluff.

A grotesque concoction of alcohol- some variant of overpriced vodka and lemon liqueur if she had to guess, set the delicate lining of her throat ablaze and she winced as she set the empty coupe glass on the tray of passing waiter. She glanced down at the watch face on the underside of her wrist and frowned at it.

An hour late to the event, and an hour left to go.

Eliciting a dejected sigh, she gazed past the expansive tent above her and at the night sky beyond it that blanketed the fountains of the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood in inky darkness. The cacophonous roar of hundreds of conversations and pulsating music was unbearably loud and she cursed herself for leaving her phone at home. She could picture it now, lying face down on the glass coffee table just inside her front entrance and in total darkness and for a fleeting moment she found herself inexplicably jealous of it. She had given up on trying to locate her friends fifteen minutes ago- though she thought she had just spotted Keane through throngs of expensive suits and dresses in a straight bee-line for the bar and thought that she ought to head there. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the crowd before her in search of him, but stumbled back awkwardly when the bottom of her gown caught on something and ripped.

“Oh my gosh, I just ripped your dress. I am so sorry.” She peered up at the man towered above her, at the glassy blue orbs that somehow still glittered lively under the minimal lighting from the chandeliers around them. Everything about him was immaculate. From the perfectly combed back sandy blonde hair, to the blonde mustache that grew above his pink upper lip, to the black silk bowtie that sat snug against the base of his throat.

She found his visage oddly familiar, but could not place where she might have known him from if her life depended on it. She found herself shrugging. “Honestly don't worry about it. It's one of the many reasons I try to shop thrift before big events.”

Though he offered her a shy smile, his glassy blue gaze remained unsure and it was obvious that he still wasn't convinced. “No really- is there any way it can be fixed? I can get someone over here right now to look at it for you...”

She glanced down at the sizable rip in the fabric and knew with a slight pang that the damage was irreparable. “No, please. It's really fine.”

He chewed at edge of his lip as he mulled something over and cocked his head to the side, his gaze narrowed. “At least allow me to pay for it?”

She had purchased it off the rack at one of her favourite thrift haunts on Melrose for thirty bucks, two weeks ago. She couldn't, in good faith, agree to that. “Listen- this dress has probably had a fantastic life, you know? She finished it this evening at an Emmy award after party. How many other dresses can say that? She's good. This is the end of the line for her.”

They stood in thoughtful silence for a moment, the only sign of his defeat came in the form of a resigned sigh. “Alright. But please know that I still feel slightly terrible about it.”

“I can live with slightly terrible,” She smiled knowingly at him. “Are you having a good night, then?”

He gazed at her, a funny expression coloured his features and she suddenly felt very vulnerable. “I am having a great night, actually.” He eventually confirmed. “Are you having a good night? That is- despite the gown crisis.”

She hugged her arms tight to her chest and glanced around in awe at the sheer sumptuousness of the tent in which she was currently in. Massive, golden lion statues guarded pillars around the room and gilded archways had been erected over ponds so that guests could traverse them at their leisure. No matter how many evenings she spent this way, she doubted that she would ever grow accustomed to it.

“I've never really been one for big parties, but it's been alright so far I suppose. Even despite the gown crisis.” She found that she enjoyed the way a subtle, rosy hue tinted the apples of his cheeks at her slightly teasing lilt. Her stomach gurgled warningly just then- a gentle reminder that she had not consumed an adequate amount of food and she eyed the lavish, twenty-foot replica of a dragon above her head with mild contempt. “God, I'd fight that dragon for a plate of fries right about now. Every year I tell myself I'm going to be on time for one of these events, and every year I let myself down.”

He dropped his head to his chest and elicited a hearty laugh. “You missed out this evening I'm afraid. It was Wolfgang Puck on the buffet.”

“Damn it,” She giggled under her breath. “Every single year.”

He gestured out at the mass of conversing industry people and raised his voice so that she could hear him. “You work for HBO?” He asked.

She shook her head. “Nah, I snuck in an hour ago under the guise of free food and booze.”

“Neither of which you have yet to receive…” He grinned.

“Not exactly,” She giggled. “I snuck a cocktail minutes before the old dress debacle. Tasted somewhat like what I would imagine lemon pine-sol tastes like.” Genuine laughter rose up from the base of his throat like a favourite song and she waited for it to subside with an unabashed smile on face. “I'm a freelance photographer.” She admitted, eventually.

He cleared his throat, poised to ask her another question when his gaze lit up and he cocked his head to the side in thought. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I think I've found a way to repay you for your dress.”

Her eyes widened in mild horror and she shook her head in protest. “Oh- no. Please don't…” But her objections were for naught as she watched his imposing figure vanish into the thickening swarm of people. She chewed anxiously at the soft flesh of her inner lip as she awaited his return and when ten minutes elapsed, she began to grow skeptical.

Too tall. Too Scandinavian. Too beautiful.

But then, and to her pleasant surprise, she spotted his face through the crowd and her heart thrummed in her chest as he approached her. There, in the flat of his palm and high above the heads of everyone else so as not to drop the dish- was a plate heaped high with piping-hot French fries. “This is akin to Christmas,” She sighed longingly once he had rejoined her. “But somehow a little bit better. Thank you very much.”

Wiping the proverbial sweat from his brow, he managed a nonchalant shrug. “Oh, they were exceedingly difficult to procure, but I was persistent.” He handed her the plate with a lux serviette underneath and a fork on the side. “Wolfgang and I uh… we go way back.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she spotted a vacant table a few yards away and decided to be brave. “You know… If he supplied you with a second fork, I'd be happy to share some of these with you.”

His gaze followed hers to the table and he smiled sadly. “Alas Wolfgang let me down and I was not offered a second fork, but I would be delighted to sit and chat with you for a few more minutes.”

Sinking into the refuge of the chair beneath her, she was suddenly aware that she had barely been offered a chance to do that all day long. She was content to listen to him speak while she tried not to inhale her entire plate of perfectly fried potatoes.

“I'm sure your date is probably wondering where you've wandered off to.” She offered, after a few moments of comfortable silence had lapsed.

He smiled and shook his head. “I’m sure she’s used to it by now. Probably been wondering that very same thing for most of my life.”

She cocked her head to the side, and narrowed her gaze at him. “Have we met before? You seem so familiar.”

His expression dimmed and that same shy smile that he had given her half an hour earlier presented itself again, causing butterflies to take flight in the pit of her belly. 

“I don't believe so,” He gave his head a half-shake. “I would have remembered your face anywhere.”

Utterly grateful for the dim lighting around them, she opened her mouth to counter his last statement when a man she didn't recognize appeared at his side, in a hurry and out of breath. “Alex- you need to take this back now. I am sick of people congratulating me for it and I am entirely out of answers as to how it came to be in my possession.” Without another word, the man placed an Emmy award unceremoniously in front of Alex's amused figure and hurried away.

She nodded at the unsuspecting statuette of a woman laden with a golden atom and quirked an eyebrow in mild amusement. “You are having a very great night indeed, hm?” She simpered.

Sensing that her cue to leave had arrived, she rose from the table to bid Alex goodnight.

“Your company has been a pleasure this evening… I am sorry about your dress.”

She glanced down at the French fry plate, the few scattered crumbs the only indication that something had once been there. “Your penance was plenty.”

“Two questions before you go,” He murmured.

She peered up at him expectantly.

“A photographer without her camera?”

She shrugged and offered him a wry smile. “Everyone gets a night off every once in a blue moon. Next?”

His gaze travelled to the fabric napkin poking out from beneath the empty plate, then back to hers. “Thanks to Paul, you now know my name. What's yours?”

She tilted her head to the side, a half-smile tugged at her lips. “It's Grace.”

“Grace,” He repeated it in a whisper and she ignored the way that it caused goosebumps to bloom in patterns over her bare arms. “Goodnight Grace.” He rose from the table with his award at his side but faltered and turned back to her, remembering something. “Oh- and Grace? Maybe don't leave behind the serviette.”

Puzzled, she watched a hive of bodies swallow his frame, and when he was gone, she reached for the weighted crème fabric, smiling softly to herself. There, in loopy black script from a fountain pen was Alex's name and phone number and a short note that read,

“Until we meet again…”

[radaedan]

AAAAAA Your welcome! Glad I could help! And how happy I am to rope someone to join my Xiuhcoatl's cult😈

Regarding Xiuhcoatl's imprisonment and its negative effect on his mental wellbeing, yes! That's exactly what I pictured! Isolation & imprisonment would gave him lasting mental damage. I imagine that's also why he gravitated towards dissolving everyone's individuality for his solution. If everyone is the same and one existence, he wouldn't be lonely anymore, wouldn't be isolated in that same prison of lava again. Yet, the Abyss said "sike!"😭

YESSS YESSS AND YESS FOR THAT MOTHERLY LOVE!!!! YOU GET IT🥳 The Sovereigns' love always read to me as motherly love (look at Neuvillette's relationship with the melusines & Apep's boss description), but that suffocating, controlling, paranoid love is so Xiuhcoatl-like. You nailed it. And you're right, Xiuhcoatl wasn't in his best state of mind, but damn does he tried tried his damnedest best🥲

Also, I want to point out that Kukulkan said that the dragon civilization's blind worship toward Xiuhcoatl happened after Xiuhcoatl's false death. So there's a possibility that the issue wasn't that damning before his false death, and only worsen with his paranoia and mental degradation.

And damn, you're actually from Mexico? Oh damn I feel embarassed, you probably know more about the myths and culture more than me, so forgive me if I have offended you or said something incorrect about the culture🥲🙏 if I made a mistake, feel free to correct me! I highly appreciate it even.

And ohhhhhhh, Oaxacan and Tehuana huipilis are so beautiful! I saw some in the internet searches, and oh damn, I love how bold and playful the colors, the floral designs and the jewelery are, they are so lovely! Please do draw Xiuhcoatl's in Oaxacan and Tehuana huipilis! I adore when people incorporate their cultures into their works. I can just imagine how beautiful our Lord Sovereign look in them🥰

(Another thing, I would adore to see Xiuhcoatl wearing the resplandor/huipil grande. The second version would look so cute😆 but the first version... woah... pretty... Besides its wonderful design, the image reminds me of the frilled lizard.

Just a coincidence though😅 since Xiuhcoatl is a dragon, and what are dragons if not a winged snake/lizard/reptilian😅 Also, I read that the resplandor/huipil grande is supposed to represent the Virgin Mary's halo. Is that true? Because if it is.. hmm... the motherhood theming, man, the motherhood theming! The Sovereign's tragic motherhood theming is so ajdjsnsns. Of course, no pressure though! Draw Xiuhcoatl however you like!)

Plus point too on the male birds remark. Since Xiuhcoatl's other godly inspiration is probably Quetzalcoatl, which was also inspired from the Quetzal bird. Would love to see Xiuhcoatl's having male birds' tendency for vanity😆 like, yesss, slay my Sovereign.

I also like your thinking about Xiuhcoatl's floral design! A rotting flower plucked before its rot infect the rest of the garden.... huhuhu😭

One last thing, I think I have a visual inspiration to describe my Xiuhcoatl's design:

Dark Sun Gwyndolin from Dark Soul! It's not a one-to-one inspiration (bcs the obvious difference in cultural inspiration), but it's close enough in my imagination. You see, one of the Dragonlords, Ixlel/CL-9, is implied to having human form, and she could be described as "eldritchly beautiful".

Back when it happened, beneath that giant, grotesque statue, I met a young woman within Och-Kan's fire. Slowly and calmly she walked towards me, as if the fire were nothing more than a gentle spring breeze. Her face... I have never seen anything like it. Even the purest of crystals could not be fashioned into the likeness of such skin, nor could the purest of turquoise be carved into such eyes. Yet for reasons I cannot explain, that face, which should have been the very picture of beauty, was... so nauseatingly repulsive. - Artisan Memo (III) Page 5-6

So maybe if Xiuhcoatl had a human form, he also could be eldritchly beautiful? If so, I imagine him to look a bit like Gwyndolin: incredibly beautiful, but having that uncanny feeling to them. Having sun/moon motif & backstory. Ambiguous gender identity. And considering the name of Coatlicue, the possible inspiration of Xiuhcoatl, means "skirt of snakes" and Gwyndolin have snakes sprouting from his skirt, it just feels so apt to me.

Thank you for your insights!

Hi!! 👋

I've been reading a bit of your opinions of Xiuhcoatl, and I'm starting to think about him as a character (and since there's never enough information about him, heh) I wanted to know how you could describe him?

There's a lot of things that I still find confusing since part of his lore is tied to so many different names that I get lost while reading and analyzing, so I prefer to consult a professional the matter (you 😼)

Me??? A professional??? Jdndjdnd if posting deranged yappings about a character makes one a professional of the character, well, that makes me a pro I guess😅 what can I say, I just love Xiuhcoatl so much.

For starter, I gotta preface the history of our Lord Sovereign the best as I can, as in 5.5, so we all can start from the same page:

1. His History

Xiuhcoatl was one of the Dragon Sovereign, original rulers of Teyvat before the Primordial One coming. He presided over Pyro, and he was the first lifeform that emerged from the Primal Flame. He also had authority over Phlogiston, an advanced form of Pyro and the original form of the seven elements. He probably also the creator of the Iridescent Inscriptions, basically the code used the Phlogiston to do their commands, just like a computer code. According to Kukulkan, Xiuhcoatl was the one that transmitted knowldege, heat, and wisdom to his kind using his horn, an ancient version of the Flamelord's Blessing.

It's heavily implied that Xiuhcoatl aided Nibelung, the leader among the Sovereigns, in the construction of the three moon. The dragon civilization is rumored to have spaceships and space lift, so yeah, it checks. However, with the invasion of the Primordial One, everything went to shit for the Dragons. Nibelung left Teyvat to seek power that could help them fight the Primordial One, and he brought the Forbidden Knowledge a.k.a the Abyss. He and Xiuhcoatl became infected by it, the Primordial One recovered the Irminsul that Nibelung wrecked and turned its root, the ley lines, as "the girdles that protect the planet" as per Kukulkan's words. The Primordial One then imprisoned Xiuhcoatl in the volcano's lava for an unknown period of time, making it Xiuhcoatl's false death.

Xiuhcoatl later awoken, though his body and mind were eroding by the abyssal infection. Knowing his time was limited, he constructed the Tzitzimimeh (Astral Assamblages) that powered the Tollan city and possibly this next device, and the Huitzilopochtli, the device that could evaporate the world into nothingness, and according to Xiuhcoatl, evolve everyone. It's still unknown whether the white agony we could saw in the quest alternate ending is really Xiuhcoatl's intended aim, but we'll talk about it later. He also constructed the prototype Secret Source Servant, the biggest one, to manage the phlogiston flow and the city's information. The other little critters we see in the area are his descendant's creations, based on his.

During these devices construction, the Dragons managed to knock back the Primordial One's forces back to the "mountain valley", however, the Primordial One itself was sleeping, and could wake up and fight back later.

Yet Xiuhcoatl's mind and body eventually devolved enough to lost his memories and turned him into a 'walking corpse'. Kukulkan left the dragonkind and turned his hope towards humanity, giving them the knowlegde of the Phlogiston. The human forces then managed to invade the Tollan Volcano, killed the Dragonlords, and finally, Xbalanque fought Xiuhcoatl. Xbalanque managed to pierce Xiuhcoatl's eyes, one of which is the control hub of the Huitzilopochtli. They died together in the fight, but Xbalanque was revived, seemingly by Ronova. Xbalanque then stole Xiuhcoatl's Pyro Authority, ascended as the first Pyro Archon, and made a pact with Xiuhcoatl by splitting the eye used as Huitzilopochtli's control hub as to keep the peace between the dragons and humankind.

Several millenias passed, came the journey of our traveler. Natlan was in an all-out war against the Abyss, led by Gosoythoth. In the story's climax, Gosoythoth took the form of Xiuhcoatl by harvesting his leftover memories/conciousness in the ley lines. The traveler and Mavuika defeated Gosoythoth, and thus putting our noble sovereign to rest.

That's the end of Xiuhcoatl's story... for now...

Wowie that's a long-ass read😅 sorry if it's confusing to read instead. I tried my best😓

2. His Physical Appearance

We already have murals and the namecard of of his dragon form so I can't say much about it. (Why he looked similar to Nibelung is a whole another question.) But if you ask me how I imagine his human form... well... I imagine him to look... feminine.

"Radaedan are you a femboy liker-" jhdndnssjs I have proofs you know! You see, other confirmed Dragon Sovereigns have motherhood theming to them. Which makes sense, since they are the original rulers of the world, Teyvat's real "parents", in this post for more elaboration.

Also, we have to get his twin duality with his twin brother Kukulkan. Twins in mesoamerican cultures are considered holy. They represent duality of life, two halves of a whole, and it often manifested in their power, names, physical appearences, and/or gender. Take the Maya Hero Twins, Xbalanque and Hunahpu for example. The whole sun/moon aside, some experts speculate that Xbalanque's name has feminine connotation in it. In fact, there's a whole debate regarding the Xbalanque’s true gender. You can find it here. So, I like to imagine Kukulkan filling the masculine role, while Xiuhcoatl filled the feminine role.

And then there's this whole Tzitzimimeh and Huitzilopochtli. The Tzitzimimeh in the Aztec mythology could be described as star demons, devouring humans during bad time and such. But they are also protector of pregnant women, mothers, and children. One of the goddesses of these Tzitzimimeh is Coatlicue, mother of Huitzilopochtli, his sister the moon goddess Coyolxauhqui, and his brothers the star gods Centzon Huītznāuhtin. According to the legend, Coatlicue was impregnanted by unnatural mean, and thus was attacked by her daughter Coyolxauhqui and the Centzon. To protect his mother, Huitzilopochtli bursted from her womb already grown up and armored and defeated his sister and brothers. Considering his moon and stars theming (the creation of the Astral Assamblages, his namecard describe him as "awaiting beneath the moonlight", him probably aided in the moons construction) and him being the creator of the Huitzilopochtli to fight the Abyss (Abyss itself also has many stars and moon theming), it's safe to say that Xiuhcoatl is also based after Coatlicue. See this post regarding the Tzitzimimeh and Xiuhcoatl, though it's a little aged.

Now to the physical details... I imagine him to have long hair, having green feathers instead of ears like Kukulkan, and dressed with huipil, a common mesoamerican women clothing. During his prime, his human form would like to have elaborate hair-dos and lavishly colored huipilis, but when his mind and body degraded he would let his hair loose and his clothing more simpler and worn out. (Yk, Neuvillette treated his elaborate clothing as "inconvenient, but I must reflect my station", so I like to imagine that Xiuhcoatl genuinely enjoyed dressing up to the nine.)

[Aztec woman, Codex Tudela. Source: Mexicolore]

[Not Aztec but Tlaxcaltec, but you get the idea. Source: Kamazots on Deviantart]

[Source: above;Daniel Parada, Mexicolore. Below; Wikipedia "Mestizo". The yellow boxed above and below is my personal favorite. It's so cute (why tf tumblr fuck the image's quality oh my God I'm so sorry guys)]

Like, do you see the vision.

"All that I see is that you just exposed yourself as a femboy liker-" ItS jUst mY pERsOnaL OPinIOn!!!😠😭

Alternatively, please see this absolutely amazing design by @kajenus ! They're so lovely, and my king is so handsome I want to cry😭 please do check it. They also have a theory that the Sovereigns look similar to the first generation of archons, and I agree. (Haha imagine if Xbalanque saw my Xiuhcoatl's human form and gets a heart attack because Xiuhcoatl looks similar to his mother.)

3. His Personality

Now here's the most fanficky territory (I digress, the previous one is😅) get ready to get brain aneurysm from my wacky interpretations.

From what we saw from the wq, it's obvious that he loved his kin and people deeply, no doubt about that. And his resilience, ingenuity, loyalty, such and such. Sooooooo, I only want to focus on his flaws and bad traits here. Namely: (parental) entitlement and the "saviour complex" mentality.

"Entitlement? Wtf are you talking radaedan" shhh listen first. You know how the Dragon civilization worshipped him so much, even when he was reduced to nothing but a walking corpse? Do you think that kind of behaviour sprouted out of nowhere? No, I think, intentionally or not, Xiuhcoatl nourished that behaviour.

Honestly, when I read this, I kinda got reminded of my mom😅 have you ever got into a fight with your parents, you're trying to sound logical and cool, and then they slapped you with, "I'm your parent, how dare you talk back to me like that!" Or even worse, when they pulled, "Oh, just wait until I'm dead, you're going to regret this!"

I think, for all Xiuhcoatl's love for his kin and his people, he felt entitled for them to love him back.

With all his motherhood theming, I think it would be deliciously angsty if he had that parental entitlement. Yeah, he suffered a lot. Yeah, he sacrificed a lot for his people. Yeah, he loved them so much. But... for them to love him back, they have to be completely obedient and always worshipful of him.

Maybe that was an exaggeration, but you know, even Kukulkan complained about it. Heck, it was one of his driving forces to steer his hope to humanity instead.

A Somewhat Strange "Person": Instead, this is what I believe — that we dragons are too powerful. We are a race imprisoned by force. The weak worship the strong, sons follow their fathers, peons serve their sovereigns. A Somewhat Strange "Person": Races that by nature pursue power are bound by the very power that all too clearly orders their societies. A Somewhat Strange "Person": After the Pyro Dragon's [Xiuhcoatl] faked death, all that the descendants of the ancients knew was to kowtow before the throne, watching our civilization deteriorate by the day, marching inexorably towards decline. - "Moment of Awakening" Quest

Xiuhcoatl was the Sovereign. He was the top of the Dragon Society. Yet, he let this "weakness" of the dragon societies grew. The weak followed the strong. Then Xiuhcoatl was the strongest among them. And he wanted them to follow him without question.

You know, there's a term in feminist theory called "benevolent patriarchy". The term refers to a system that oppressed women while insisting they did it to protect women. The "strong" men occupied all important works in society and limit women's opportunities because women are more "fragile/special/in need for special condition". "It's a really hard work, so you know, you women have it pretth lucky because you don't need to lift a finger!" It's almost parental in its opression. Women are helpless children who must be protected by their parents (men), so it is natural that they don't have voice, sort of.

For the dragon society's case, it goes like this; Xiuhcoatl (and the dragon elites) was the "strong man". He mulled and beated himself to death to search a way for his kin to survive. It's a hard work, and it really is a mercy for the dragonborns that their Sovereign took the burden as his and his alone. They didn't need to think for themselves, needed not to seek the path for themselves, because everything had been decided by their "benevolent" Lord. So really, all they needed to do is just listen to him and do as he says.

Father did everything for them, so they better listen to his orders.

And where does it get them? A fractured society, obsessed to be the most strong and most loyal to their dying Sovereign. Who worshipped the zombie king in his altar instead of unifying their forces and seek the solution by themselves.

This heavily tied to Xiuhcoatl's another flaw (that I perceived); his "Savior Complex".

This is not the first time a lore character showcased that complex. I've mentioned once that the Narzissenkreuz questline foreshadowed Natlan. I want to elaborate more; I think Xiuhcoatl have many similarities with Rene de Petrichor.

Both are geniuses and having obsession to save everyone using the collective sea of conciousness. They did love their people/loved ones, but that love was twisted through their "I-gotta-fix-this-alone-without-anyone's-help". Rene's savior complex stemmed from his childhood. He often played the "dragon" to Alain's "knight". In a way, all the bullshit he did was a recreation of their childhood; Rene playing the part of the "evil dragon" so he could save everyone.

With Natlan’s heavy symbolism with stories... and how our Little One remarked during the final battle against the "evil dragon" of the 5.5 world quest (paraphrasing because I forgot to screenshot😭): "It's how the stories go; fighting the evil dragon in the end..." The connections couldn't be more obvious, isn't it?

Wowie this is a very long ass read. But tl;dr: I think Xiuhcoatl was a fatherly person, but too much for his own and his people's good, bordering on savior complex. He did love them, but that love mean imposing the burden of the dragon society upon himself without letting his people help him or discuss any alternate solutions with them. A self-made tragedy, in a way.

He was also a femboy- HUH WHO SAID THAT WHAT BLASPHEMY DIFAMATION OFF YOU GO TO JAIL-

Thanks for the ask! Hope this fit your intended question! Have a nice day/night wherever you are!

[chiseler]

Great Zilches of History

Film is light. There are times, though, when that light may take on a Stygian cast, burning with a flamme noire severity, a weird and otherworldly keenness. Or it may burn lurid and loud — especially if it’s a very old film, acting like a séance that summons the unruly dead. The darkness in cinema best typified by that form we call film noir is in its essence an extension of the peculiarly American darkness of Edgar Allan Poe.

Early, nitrate-based film stock, with its twinkling mineral core, gives Poe's crepuscular light its time to shine and thereby illuminate the world. No longer held in the solitary confinement of a page of reproduced text or an image, frozen, rendered in paint or ink. Poe's singularly tormented vision is finally written alchemically, in cinematographic rays beamed through silver salts; into moving images of such aggressive vitality as to blast every rational thing from one's mind. A Black & White image flipped into negative makes black fire, or black sunlight such as illumines Nosferatu’s Transylvanian forests, through which a box-like carriage rattles at Mack Sennett speed. But with the slightest underexposure, a little dupey degradation of the print, or even a little imagination (such collaboration is not discouraged), this liquid blackness will spread everywhere and anywhere, the most luminous pestilence known to creation.  Be it in the laughing nightmare of Fleischer cartoons of old (Out of the Inkwell, indeed) or John Alton’s vision of the night, we are left to wonder: is daylight burning out the corner of a building, or is it the blackness of the building which is eating into the sky? 

As with many such questions, film permits us no easy answer. We are simply to watch as the characters smudge. As their shadows pulsate and flicker, emanate out beyond themselves. But if Poe represents the loss of control over one’s existence and the ensuing panic, then cinema, consciously or not, takes existential dread as a given.

God, a vague and unseen deity, died at the moment cinema was born, replaced by a new celestial order. Saints and prophets made poor film characters, giving off the feeling of having stepped out of a stained glass window, flat, Day-Glo icons moving uncomfortably through three-dimensional space. Movies rather rejoiced in dirt and rags, texture and imperfection, so that the most lacklustre clown easily outperformed all the icon messiahs. At 45 minutes, Fernand Zecca’s The Life and Passion of Christ (1903) is one of the earliest feature films, but compared to the same filmmaker’s less ambitious, more playful shorts, it’s a beautiful snooze. A different execution climaxes his Story of a Crime (1901), in which we get to see, by brutal jump cut, a guillotine decapitation before our very eyes. This, as Maxim Gorky prophesied, is what the public wants. Or maybe the events of 1901, cinematic and otherwise, allow “the public” to define itself in ways heretofore unthinkable. The year brings Victoria Regina’s propitious death. And with her passing, Edgar Allan Poe’s pronunciamento on celebrity, “the ludicrous heightened into the grotesque," comes to new and anarchic fruition as an incendiary schnook, one of history’s finest.

When he shot President William McKinley at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo on September 6th, 1901, the currents of fear and vengeance unleashed by Leon Czolgosz would carry him on a journey from reflexive beatings at the hands of police and a post-Victorian mob – ladies in bustles shedding all restraint, transformed from well-honed symbols of middle-class decorum into yowling banshees, screaming “GIVE HIM TO US!” – straight to the electric chair, from whence his corpse would be taken for additional punishment, a process where ghoulish prison authorities at Auburn separated the head from the body, and then poured sulfuric acid on what remained, before secreting the sorry residue of America’s anarchist son into an unmarked grave.

Despite attempts to erase Czoglosz from history, a visual document survives, oozing with pathos and bitter recrimination. It is impossible, looking into those eyes, not to feel unnerved and, yes, sympathetic with him – his desperate act, after all, was as critical a part of America’s greed-engorged industrial fantasia as the near daily spectacle of peaceful strikers, his friends among them, being slaughtered in the name of profit. 

Cinema’s misspent childhood years in late-Victorian fairgrounds are followed by a grimy adolescence in Edwardian nickelodeon parlours. The medium, which finally comes of age amid gaudy palaces built in its honor, morphs many times. However, All Talking Pictures are the final death knell for the Victorian standard, belching from the screen a thousand inbred tongues that invade the ear willy-nilly. They remind us that when Queen Victoria breaths her last Naturalism sheds decorum, taste, breeding, good table manners.

Edgar Allan Poe essentially owns motion pictures via ongoing necrophilic obsession, since celluloid preserves the dead better than any embalming fluid. Like amber preserved holograms, they flit in and out of its parameters, reciting their own epitaphs in pantomime; revenant moths trapped in perpetual motion. Film is bona fide illumination — as opposed to religion’s metaphorical kind – representing the supremacy of alchemy and necromancy over sackcloth and ashes. The inmates, emboldened under the spell of Klieg lights, were not only running the asylum, but re-shaping the world in their own image.  Both Church and State with their blunt instruments of repression proved impotent against the anarchy of this freshly liberated ghetto.

Holy men were unceremoniously defrocked, their doctrine of abject compliance to class-based norms re-written into storylines enriched by grease-painted floozies, costumed villains, and snooty dowagers brought down a notch by the drunk hobo in her drawing room. Amidst widespread labour unrest and mass poverty, followed soon by the Great Depression, filmgoers of the silent era had a front row view of the plutocracy’s helplessness against a swelling tide of restless humanity. Charlie Chaplin’s itinerant laborer may have accidentally thwarted a plutocrat’s plan for world domination and/or a house renovation, just as Groucho Marx seemed to have spontaneously derailed a social climbing matron’s equally fierce ambitions.

All hail the magic mirrors! Celestial mandalas! Giant eggs and butterfly women! Segundo de Chomón’s The Red Spectre (1907) ruthlessly assaults our eyes with a wraith-magician dissolving through his coffin lid in a red, hand-tinted, flame-flickering hell. His presence, caped, skull-masked, was to herald a new thespic truth, that from this moment forward the art of acting would be reduced to how you respond to light, and how light responds to you. The Specter of Chomon’s dark bauble is in every element Poe’s Red Death — japing and performing tricks for us, his adoring fans and welcome guests, before announcing our doom — literary metaphor slammed against a literal backdrop of amber stalactites, pellucid as an ossuary.

That was a long time ago, in the first decades of the 20th century, before artifice and studios and the commercial paradigm of stardom finally swallowed cinema in one ravenous bite. It was a period when one could see, if one paid close attention, the dreariness of ordinary life at the centre and around the edges of every motion picture brought forth. It lived onscreen in film’s early days, exposing the pretense, however fitful, of opulence or period as simply that: pretense, a fundamental desire to escape reality. But this “escapism” had always been erroneously attributed to the audience’s needs, when in fact it was rather those bankrolling the nascent medium not yet sufficiently in control of itself to impose any order.

The censors were on to something, even if they could never fully articulate what precise blasphemies were being committed. 

Take Hitchcock’s Vertigo, for instance, which isn’t pure noir but is pure Poe: what would the surgical excision of an influence look like? Granted, the noir genre seems an unlikely Poe derivative, but what of Laura — fatalism, romance and necro-fantasy (with Lydecker as Usher)? DOA is the kind of concept Poe might have dreamed up; one of the great noir scribes, Cornell Woolrich is channeling Poe through an all-thumbs pulp sensibility. And how hard would it be to cast Val Lewton as the horror noir hybrid, with premature burials, ancestral disease, lunatics taking over bedlam? Jean Epstein, who adapted The Fall of the House of Usher in 1928, complained that Baudelaire’s translations fundamentally mistook Poe’s innocence for ghastliness. 

The dead in Poe, writes Epstein, are “only slightly dead.”  

To the extent that Epstein was correct, the whimsy that Poe bequeaths to cinema finds itself absorbed in almost material terms — not as sensibility but as a texture whose particular nap or weave is never granted names. In Mesmeric Revelations a voluntary subject is quite near physical death and under the ministrations of his mesmerist, answering precise questions about the nature of God. Before dying, he says God is “ultimate or unparticled” matter: “What men attempt to embody in the word ‘thought,’ is this matter in motion”. The same unnamable textures apparently survive on television, a case of Poe resonating inside our minds, a collective consciousness replaced by cathode rays. 

Deep within the 18 hours of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks: The Return, there is a moment that, on its incandescent surface, could have been lifted weightless from the great post-war dream of material deliverance; as if the zeitgeist of the mid 20th century had somehow got lost and ended up in this one: Daytime, the top on the convertible is down, the radio tuned, The Paris Sisters singing I Love How You Love Me as a reincarnated Laura Palmer lifts her face to a cloudless sky.  Within this tapestry of an early Phil Spector production — his trademark reverb eternally evocative of Romance and Death (two conditions Spector knows well) — the voice of Priscilla Paris could be a siren sound from the American Beyond, or a dream goddess lullaby from the whispering gallery, or sweet nothings from the crypt.  We don’t know.  We’ll never know.

In this oneiric echo chamber, Poe smiles down upon American blondness, muscle cars soaked in sunlight, candy for eye and ear; the terrible ecstasy of unending motion and immortality.

If Lynch’s Return means going back home, then home is that Lemon Popsicle/Strawberry Milkshake species of innocence proffered by America's music industry between 1957 and 1964. The horror genre always has to have some component of innocence to devastate, be it the existential kind which inspires the malevolence everyone paid the price of a ticket to have vicarious transit with; or the mere victimisation of the unsuspecting. Either way, there was no other period in American popular culture when innocence, of any variety, was so lavishly examined, toyed with, killed.  The free floating chord that opens The Everly Brothers song, All I Have To Do is Dream, remains a lamentation in sound: the sudden recrudescence of Poe’s beating, tell-tale heart.  Adoring such guilt-free teenage odes to sleep, death and sexual desire, David Lynch finds a muse in Amanda Seyfried. Specifically her visionary eyes melting Phil Spector’s dark edifice of sugar in a deathless, Sternbergian close-up — iridescent search lights, ever more urgently scanning the sky above, waiting for the sun to swallow her whole. We can only bear witness, and internalize this shimmering ingenue, this angel in a red convertible, trading places with Old Sol; as if whatever she just snorted has entered our system through hers.  But in that ephemeral instant she achieves oneness with all things; the transcendence of stardom — true, temporal stardom  — shorn of fame and the imperatives of show-business.

To this day David Lynch’s favorite film remains Otto e Mezzo, directed by Federico Fellini: Western Europe’s sorcerer of confectionary delights and unending motion; the man who put the “dolce” in La Dolce Vita. Fellini, he states, "manages to accomplish with film what mostly abstract painters do; namely, to communicate an emotion without ever saying or showing anything in a direct manner." Even if one were to take him at his word — and we must, of course, for no filmmaker has ever been known to misrepresent themselves to us — this seems a strange instance of gravitational pull, particularly in the light of the formal strategies of both men as they developed through time. Lynch has always favored a blunt pictorialism that, in its bluntness, borders on the language of Imagism: the studied simplicity of the language used to complex, powerful effect. Fellini, in 8 1/2 and throughout much of his career, by contrast, unleashes upon the viewer an insanely fluid, brutally precise camera ballet. Any good cinephile might be tempted to resolve the disparities and move toward a brighter, less subterranean comprehension. But, ultimately, such understanding would be a didactic burden no moviegoer needs. For here, in these conflicting dialects, you have a fleeting taste of ideologies swirled together like ribbon candy: a blur of four-wheeled luxury from the New World zooming past regional splendor into that fraternity of man: the socio-economic nirvana imagined by Karl Marx in the Old.

Careening from one via to another at harrowing, white-knuckle speed, Fellini was once heard to lament that “Some of the neo-realists seem to think that they cannot make a film unless they have a man in old clothes in front of the camera.” George Bluestone, recording these words for the pages of Film Culture in 1957, was sitting in the literal passenger seat of that ideal metaphor for post-war ebullience in action: expert, 20th century precision hurtling them through Roman streets with graffiti-scrawled churches proudly bearing the hammer and sickle; that famous Black Chevy skirting the Italian Scylla (the Vatican) and its equally dogmatic Charybdis (the Party). At that velocity, anything could make sense.

“Appearances aside" Bluestone wrote, "the Chevrolet is at every moment under Fellini’s control. He weaves in and out of traffic, misses pedestrians by inches, swerves away from Nomentana’s interminable monuments, dodging yellow traffic blinkers as if he were trying out a darkened slalom.” It is every bit a performance. Rome, after all, is the land of Bernini’s The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, Apollo and Daphne — marble-cum-flesh, even as flesh itself gives way to forms that leave the viewer in terrified awe. While reliving his own mythic, carbureted experience, Bluestone does some weaving of his own, quoting Genevieve Agel’s one-line pronunciamento (and, in the process, defining what would soon be labelled 'Felliniesque'), “Fellini is a visionary of the real”, as the passenger positions his driver somewhere between corporeal reality and ecstatic truth while the big man (no old clothes for this maestro) drives and drives. “As one hand lightly guides the wheel, the other gestures — it acts.”

Spirits of the Dead is one of those compendium films, with voguish directors (Malle, Vadim, Fellini) entrusted with bringing to the screen a Poe story each. Only the Fellini episode, Toby Dammit, is notable, but it's very notable, a hallucinatory yarn owing as much to Mario Bava's Kill, Baby, Kill! as to Poe's Never Bet the Devil Your Head, its ostensible source. The title character, played by Terence Stamp with white-blond hair and dark roots and constant beads of witch hazel perspiration, is in Rome to attend an awards ceremony and to play Christ in a western, but he's fatally distracted by his new sports car and a vision of the devil in the form of a little girl. Toby's ride through a hellscape of nocturnal Rome seems lifted from Jules Dassin’s 10.30 p.m. Summer (1966), but works even better for Fellini than it did in the Duras adaptation. An oppressively subjective film, Toby Dammit narrows down to the view in the Ferrari's headlights, a ghastly floodlit interzone where human forms are gradually replaced with mannequins and cut-outs, as the city becomes unreal, an elaborate movie set, an uncanny valley laid out for the staging of an epic stunt/snuff film.

Fellini and Lynch celebrate bodily extremes in intriguing if differing ways, which should, in our time, naturally gallop beyond the pale, but nevertheless become wholly, weirdly digestible. It is perhaps the innocent glee of these artists, their wonderment at the vast variety of shapes the human body can assume; an innocence which suspends toward erasure our awareness the way physical representation functions in the 21st century. Lynch presents the disabled as childlike, mysterious, magical beings without ever worrying about lending them agency (The Elephant Man’s John Merrick functions both as passive whipping boy and chic spectacle for the whole of Victorian London), or the mendacity of adult sophistication (the latest Twin Peaks iteration includes a pint-sized hitman who whines like a puppy when his icepick is broken). Is it any wonder Lynch evolved a style which placed them front and center in unmoving shots, without irony or pity? 

Poe, while certainly a pioneer of fake news, also had a way of vindicating the lumpen masses of humanity (to the middle-brow’s abiding chagrin).  

The Mystery of Marie Roget, a Parisian murder mystery, presented as a fictional sequel to The Murders in the Rue Morgue, was simultaneously trumpeted as a correct solution to the real-life murder of Mary Cecilia Rogers in New York. When a news article presented fresh evidence while the story was still being serialised, Poe made minor changes to the final instalment to keep his fiction in line with the facts.

He later published a story about an Atlantic crossing by balloon, accomplished in three days, in The New York Sun in 1844. "Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason's Flying Machine!!!"  The piece was presented as truth, and only revealed as "The Great Balloon Hoax" a couple of days later. “The more intelligent believed," wrote Poe, "while the rabble, for the most part, rejected the whole with disdain.” He saw this as a new development: “20 years ago credulity was the characteristic trait of the mob, incredulity the distinctive feature of the philosophic.” 

What had changed? Perhaps the acceleration of scientific and social progress meant that the more literate and scientifically-minded had become inured to startling new developments, so the most surprising events now seemed credible. And since these same technological leaps were always presented as social benefits, the working class was growing skeptical, since they rarely saw any improvement in their condition.

by Daniel Riccuito, R.J. Lambert and David Cairns

Special thanks to Richard Chetwynd

[atrayo]

Channeled Angelic Wisdom of the Jewels of Truth Series and Favorite Quotes of the Month of September

Hello All,

I always have the bad habit of waiting until the tail end of the month to make a channeled angelic entry here to Atrayo's Oracle. Since I'm also a PC gamer I'm also tied into enjoying the retail release of Amazon's Game Studio of New World come this Sept. 28th. I'll be gaming with my online gamer community of 17 years now that I've been a member of online. They're called "The Older Gamers" one has to be over the age of 25 yrs old to become a member. I'll be the guild leader for the US/EU branch on an East Coast North American server. (shameless gamer plug)

Tonight's trio of Jewels of Truth statements is channeled angelic wisdom, metaphysics, and mysticism. On the topics of a Multi-Dimensional Soul where I channel a historical figure named Josephus the old. Next, there is To Be the I Am which dispels one of the pet peeves I hear often in New Age circles. Where innocently someone remarks we're born into this reality just to learn and grow like this realm is an elementary school for souls. I roll my eyes when I hear this due to my cultivated relationship as an angelic channeler via claircognizance. (claircognizance is the psychic ability to channel knowledge and wisdom beyond one's lifetime.)

Lastly, the final topic is a zinger on two counts! It's titled the Younger Dominions of God. Where not unlike the metaphysical author of Neal Donald Walsch of "Conversations with God" a famous book series. I also channel this statement from God him/her/itself, which I've done on past occasions. This topic blew my mind when it flashed before my mind's eye as an inspiration. Basically, our Creation and the afterlife of heaven and hell are the godly early forms of the Supreme God of all gods Absolute. Meaning these are the terrible two's, tween years, and teenage raging hormone years on a human equalivent scale of God itself.

The Creator, Sustainer, and Destroyer of Macro Supreme Realities dimensionally speaking. These realms of ours of the endless Infinite hells, Creation (ie our Meta-Universe), and the Majestic Heavens are the stratification of the evolutionary growth of God in a meta sense if compared to maturation. These realms astral or otherwise are the goldilocks years of God(dess) akin to a nursery for all souls, angelic kind, including elder angels.  As the lesser deities of countless faiths or dead religions as mythologies to us in our modernity.

Before I go too deep on the topic allow me to just write down the channeling from the Creator him/her/itself.

Also, a shout out to Tessa Luna Lluvia my original online mentor as an expert psychic-medium. She's kindly listed my books of the Jewels of Truth Series on her website. (bottom 8th row of the book listings)

As always no matter if these topics seem too fringe for your imaginations and spiritual belief systems. Allow them to just kindly expand your horizons of the immense grandeur of God Everlasting. Amen.

Multi-Dimensional Souls

3081) Here are the many fields of splendor possible within the grasp of the human condition by far. Nay beyond humanity itself can this spectrum of countless possibilities co-exist to exemplify all lifeforms in unison as Children of a Living God(dess). What I "Josephus the Old" will explain is that the godly soul of all spiritual beings when incarnated experiences a buffer of contrasts when alive on Earth.

For example, when a person commits wrongdoing as grotesque evils. That reincarnated soul as an individual entity has siphoned poorly from the evils metaphysically from the godless Hells, hereto unknown to humanity. Again another primitive example is a godly pious person of righteousness does good in the world without seeking high praises of whatnots. That individual spiritual entity of God has channeled the God Blessed Heavens robustly and directly upon this Earth. Whether this happens unwittingly or not.

The final example is whether a person is neutral and allows good or evil to flourish without personal involvement regardless of what occurs. Such a soul enters into a form of Limbo upon the world swayed easily without guile or reservation as a direct cause and effect. Akin to a sub-set of Karma upon the earth reality sphere of governing elements metaphysically.

The trio of the fates as conundrums of paradoxical fits and starts are prevailing winds of the afterlife set upon all mortal kind be it human or otherwise as creatures. With direct inputs and outputs upon the world and the meta-universes be they cosmic or of a metaphysical unholy/neutral/holy matrix of experiences as existential realities go.

To this end do not allow the oversimplification of these crude examples to paint only a black, gray, and white picture as a canvas of these meta-realities. There is a relativistic spectrum of contrasts akin to manifold kaleidoscopes of endless pigments of possibilities. As configurations of good, neutrality, and evil encompass universally as archetypes of behavior in all lesser Universes combined!

We have exhausted our range or scope of expressions without first mentioning as all souls are in the One Supreme Loving Image and Likeness of God. Denotes all Souls as a united continuum are multifaceted dimensionally as metaphysical entities before being people with physical bodies with an aura upon your current age or eon of your Earth.

As God(dess) is everything as Omni-Present denotes your souls in God are also everywhere God is forever. No matter you as the lesser children of God realize this in your global religions or not. It makes your magicks work as expressions of divinity constantly. Amen. ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo. (Channeled Source Entity of Josephus the Old.)

To Be the I Am:

3083) Many in New Age spiritual circles inquire from fellow advanced participants and elders what is Life? Most respond with confidence that it is a school for young souls to evolve and grow further. This canned response is only partially true, however, it is incomplete in its scope of a response generically.

Life and Death as contrasting phenomena are far richer than such a one-dimensional interpretation of our spiritual unified reality with God(dess), and the Heavenly Host Infinitely meets at large always and forever. There are actually seven dimensions of spiritual being, if not more overall as archetypes of a universal basis of our united divinity with God(dess).

For Instance, the aforementioned scope of Life as a school is true but as one dimension so as to learn and grow as eternal souls having a human experience. Next in no particular order of grace of any of these roles is to Love like God(dess) and the Angels. Unconditionally in moderation so as to avoid fanaticism or zealotry as obsessive traits of passion and/or of true love.

Next comes to be of Service in moderation not necessarily as a selfless saint or angel that lives to extremes. However, to cultivate humanity or divinity on Earth with mutual compassion and empathy for those in need or of want. To serve in a volunteer capacity versus being employed in commercial industries denotes a deeper form of caring.

To be just as civilized and law-abiding or hospitable in the world. Followed closely with having a noble personality of character as benevolent in the human-divine holy nature like God and the Angels in the endless Heavens.

Next is to create or destroy like God in the universe. If destroy is too strong a negative connotation then let it be to uproot, erase, or recycle like God at the human micro-scale of being alive. As God(dess) is the Creator, Sustainer, and Destroyer of macro realities en masse by Infinite scales and over the corridor of eternities.

The last two dimensional roles go hand in hand as fellowship or socialization with positive impacts of compassionate norms be it caring for one another as God has cared for each of us. Lastly to worship Inclusively like God(dess) as an unceasing with positive moderation with mutual respect and adoration to positive foreign beliefs and other cultural traditions of God in our shared world. Amen. ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo.

Younger Dominions of God:

3080) To the one that reads these simple words come away with a wider understanding of what "I am that I am" is as the Constant Creator, God of all Totalities United! What "I am" is not simple but complex beyond human total comprehension. So in childish terms of "I am" is utilized all around for all levels of basic comprehension as my living beautiful souls.

What you call as Creation as a meta-construct of reality as the Universe(s), Galaxies, Solar Systems, etc... This is merely one of my countless younger expressions of my Ultimate Majestic godly nature, fully seeped upon material physicality and so much greater yet still.

What humanity denotes as the afterlife of Hell as the underworld. The neutral reality of metaphysical limbo or purgatory as either a realm of heightened enlightenment or for the uninitiated as numbing detachment as apathy. With the stupendous exalted Heavens are all grade school versions of my adolescent corpus of my total Supreme Creation as the Absolute Self.

The Infinite and timeless Hells, Limbos, Creations, and Heavens are each stratum of my youthful forms of expressions. As the Creator, Sustainer, and Destroyer of cosmic and ethereal realms of pure totalities of "I am" essence and personified substances. For To Be the I am that I am as the God of all gods plural in a Supreme Fashion has other greater dominions of realism. Each by far beyond the rudimentary tenure of my youth as the Hells, Limbos, Creation(s), and the Heavens can contain forever as my meta corpus.

For example, every dominion where good, neutrality, and evil are located is a moot point having never existed prior. There is no such power struggle of contrasts of differences. A Uni-polar reality versus a multi-polar existence of Principles that tranquility reigns constantly. Only in the realms of my godly youth does contrast stand out in stark terms of the illusion of a good versus evil approach as an eternal useless struggle.

In my youth like environs of ethereal and otherwise physical existence goes. That my younger created lesser children such as humanity and other permutations of my infinity of expressions. Truly mirror my existential struggles of archaic yesterdays as eternities of long ago. I have matured far greater and this creates, sustains, and destroys for another set of challenges and opportunities elsewhere in my Meta-Verse of cosmic and ethereal Superiority as the Apex God of all gods. Amen. ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo. (Channeled Source as God(dess)

You can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in. ---Junot Diaz.

Nature is not a place to visit, It is home. ---Gary Snyder.

Grace is the ability to redefine the boundaries of possibility. ---Manning Marable.

One of life's most fulfilling moments occurs in the split-second when the familiar is suddenly transformed into the dazzling aura of the profoundly new. ---Edward B. Lindaman.

What you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing: it also depends on what sort of person you are. ---C.S. Lewis.

Ivan "Atrayo" Pozo-Illas, has devoted 26 years of his life to the pursuit of clairaudient Inspired automatic writing channeling the Angelic host. Ivan is the author of the spiritual wisdom series of "Jewels of Truth" consisting of 3 volumes published to date. He also channels conceptual designs that are multi-faceted for the next society to come that are solutions based as a form of dharmic service. Numerous examples of his work are available at "Atrayo's Oracle" blog site of 16 years plus online. You're welcome to visit his website "Jewelsoftruth.us" for further information or to contact Atrayo directly.

[constancecunningham]

A Ghost is a Wish || Constance, Blanche, and Agnes Bachman

TIMING: Current/the Winter Solstice

LOCATION: The Common

PARTIES: @harlowhaunted, @constancecunningham, Agnes Bachman (written by @chloeinbetween)

SUMMARY: Constance and Blanche visit the seasonal lights in town to make their yuletide wishes and find themselves haunted. Constance makes a choice.

CONTAINS: mild gore, violence

Beneath the copse of glowing evergreens in the Common, Constance could almost believe in Christmas. The lights, steadier than flame and enchanted with colors she hadn’t realized could burn, spilled over the ground and painted the faces of spellbound children. Here, icy violet, th see ere pale green and rosy pink; there was no sense to it that she could discern beyond the thrill of beauty itself. “Your world has brought such wondrous magic to the mundane,” she said to Blanche, so close to her ear she could almost imagine the tickle of her hair. “Is it always like this? Such wonderful displays in the open for even the most wretched to see up close?” It was so magnificent with the light so bright in the evening it puddled on the floor in a magic carpet. Constance twirled in it and imagined the ground truly had transformed into the richest, softest fibres, the kind that would send you to sleep in an instant with their comfort. “It seems to me this should be the site of a great commemoration, a pageant or a gift. What would you ask for, Blanche Harlow?”

The colors shown through Constance’s transparent form, illuminating her in a strangely beautiful way that made Blanche happy only she could witness her. She was far happier than she had been in a long time. It was strange how such a simple outing could release the tension and stress built up for weeks and weeks on end. “I didn't believe in magic for the longest time,” she told Constance, jogging a little to catch up with her. “But I always thought the lights in the trees here this time of year was the closest thing to it.” Christmas with the Harlow’s wasn't an extravagant affair unless there was some holiday themed dinner party her parents hosted for work. After Blanche turned eleven, they rarely even bothered to get a tree unless they had to. More than once, Adrien and Blanche had woken up to a cold, empty house with money on the counter to order dinner and two wrapped presents - one for each of them. The Common was the only place where she could really appreciate the spirit - no pun intended. Blanche considered Constance’s question, her face flushing a deeper pink as it had taken to doing whenever she said her full name. “I’ve never been good at remembering what I want when I'm asked,” Blanche smiled ruefully at Constance, and she had the urge to reach out and grab her hand. A pang of sadness hit her when she remembered her hand would just pass through. Blanche looked down at the ground, thinking quietly.

“I also tend to wish for things I can't have.” She kept the bitterness out of her voice with surprising ease, and she seemed to recover almost immediately, looking up at Constance with a warm smile. “And you?  Wha - What  would you ask for?” Blanche asked.

“Sometimes a dream is the best thing to want,” Constance said. “So long as you know it. A gift you never receive can never disappoint and never betray.” Not for the first time, Constance felt that it would have been a mercy if Agnes’ false kindness had never touched her at all. At least when she was starving for food and kindness at once, her happiness could never grow more dangerous than a fairy tale. What good was learning what love could be if it only lasted for three years before growing teeth? What use had she for hope when it was doomed to be dashed? And yet for the first time, Constance hesitated when Blanche asked her what she would ask for. Naturally, there would be more peace in the world if Morgan Beck was stamped out for good. The distress she caused her friends, the harm she passed with her duplicitous, hypocritical Bachman nature would end, and Constance’s suffering would have been worth something. But if she could have two wishes, if the gifts could be guaranteed, or remain a dream forever… “It would have to be something wonderfully impossible, wouldn’t it?” She said, smiling back at Blanche. “Perhaps…I would like to climb into one of those pictures on your computer, like that lake in Prague, with the flowers falling onto the shimmering water? Perhaps simply to be alive again for a day before it all ends, in a body that touches and feels things like the living do…” There was at least one thing Constance knew she would enjoy touching. Oh, how sweet to dream such safe, impossible dreams…

Constance drifted closer to Blanche, another question on her lips, but she froze, aghast, when she saw a face drifting through the evening crowd. Agnes was much changed, more of a woman than Constance ever had a chance to be, the cruel wretch. But the broad features remained, haunting in their preserved beauty. “What are you doing here?” Constance growled.

Cold fear dropped over her as she watched Constance’s expression change from wondrously thoughtful to the twisted fury Blanche had come to associate with the Bachman family. It took her a moment to understand why, but she soon saw the familiar form of Agnes gliding through the crowd. “No,” Blanche said, her horrified voice barely a whisper. “Go away,” she pleaded, louder this time. It took a moment to shake herself of the ice that gripped her, before she planted herself in front of Constance, looking between them with a mixture of fear and a steely determination that she was unwilling to let go of. The only moment of hesitation was deciding who she was going to speak with first. She turned to Constance. “Please,” Blanche said softly, only for Constance to hear. “We don't have to do this. Not here. Let's go back to the lights.”

She had weighed her options over and over since that first night with Morgan by the poolside. Twice, Agnes had begun the trek back to Texas by herself, before turning back. Her heart tore in two opposing directions. Lights did not flicker and objects did not rattle when she felt things, the tempest of her emotions locked under her corset even in death, but they still twisted inside her until she felt like nothing but her indecision. It threatened to swallow her whole. The more she thought, the more only one solution seemed available to her. An end to her line’s suffering, the protection she hadn’t afforded her children in life, an end to her regret… and some kind of peace for Constance, if she would have it. She had moved through town for days, searching and at once hoping she would not find Constance at all,  until she finally spotted her at the Christmas market. Agnes had been surprised to see how young she was, frozen in time decades before Agnes had been. The carefully prepared words fled her mind. All plans fled her mind. She didn’t respond to the living girl beside her, didn’t even consider her as relevant.

“Constance,” Agnes said softly, her face the picture of regret.

Agnes was always going to get more life than Constance had ever had. By design, she had granted her at least three more years before the floodgates opened on her suffering. But she had not imagined this. Agnes had wrinkles around her translucent eyes. She had a manner of dress Constance had never even seen. As far as she knew it was something out of a fashion plate, a grotesque extravagance she didn’t deserve. How worthless had her sacrifice been, that Agnes could gain this in the time between her undoings?

The tree lights flickered and flared, humming faintly.

Agnes’ face was as sad as Constance had ever seen, heavy and bent. How many times had Constance seen her present herself like that? So sorry and sad and wanting Constance’s comfort, her forgiveness. Constance drifted through Blanche to face her. “You have no right,” she declared, her voice rigid with fury. A section of lights sparked behind her and went dim. Control. Concentrate. This would not be her undoing. “Whatever reason you have come for, you have no right! Not like this! Like you’re sorry!”

“Constance please!” the desperation in Blanche’s voice caused her to raise her voice, flinching as Constance phased through her. It was hard not to feel the hot fear as her skin turned to ice, whirling on her heels as she watched Constance’s fury. “Please stop!” Blanche rushed to her side, looking at her. Lights were flickering, and Blanche's shouting caused several families to look over at her in concern. Blanche didn't care, the negative energy in the air sinking into her, resting like broken glass under her skin. She knew this feeling. The last time she had felt it was during the first failed exorcism when Cordelia’s spirit shifted into a poltergeist. Constance was already so close…Panic bubbled in her. “Don’t do this. We can go back - let’s enjoy the lights! Let’s enjoy the stars! Please! Please!” Before she realized what was happening, her voice broke and a large knot was tied in her throat. She couldn't properly breathe and her eyes were wide with unshed tears, and she looked to Agnes. “Go away,” she pleaded with her now too because she could feel the change in Constance’s anger, teetering so close to the point of no return. “Please. You don't know what you’re doing to her. You don't know what you’ll do. Please go away so we can go back. Please.”

Agnes did not shift in response to the flickering lights, nor Constance’s rage. She had always been the summer breeze to Constance’s fiery light, in joy and in grief. “I am sorry,” she said softly, knowing they would still hear. She looked to Blanche, still unsure after their last meeting, but Blanche had been right. She had been cowardly to avoid this before now. “I need to set this right. There must be an end to this suffering, for Constance too,” Agnes said desperately to Blanche, before turning back to the ghost of her ex-lover. She was no stranger to all of Constance’s tempers, some earned and some not in the life they had almost built together. Constance looked like a magnificent storm, too young by half for what she had suffered. “I am sorry, Constance. I want to do better by you in death than I ever did in life. You deserved better.”

“Better?” Constance spat. “Better is if I had used you for the curse! Better that you had never brought me to your home with your worthless—” Constance choked on the word. How pathetic, how cruel that she still could not speak of anything so impossible as love when there was no end to how loud or long she could scream and no point in holding back anything. Still, the word was burned out of her mouth. She felt its ghost in her, a hateful feeling that would fall into Agnes and her soft, quiet tears if she let it.

Constance clenched herself. Behind her, lights cracked and a tree fell to darkness. The decorations of ribbon, plastic, and glass quivered, rattling the branches. A child cried.

“What could you know about better?” Constance hissed. “What do you understand about right? Nothing about you is right, you, your cursed life—-” A horrifying thought struck Constance. It was hiding in the shape of Agnes’ cheeks, the way she frowned. Constance remembered those faces from long nights whispering her room, dreaming their way out of that house. But she also knew it from a crowded classroom, a bedroom window, a picture in the newspaper of Morgan Beck. They weren’t just any Bachman features. They were Agnes’. “Morgan is one of yours, isn’t she?” Not a great niece or a cousin or some other distant branch from the same guilty family, but her direct spawn. “Is that the real reason you’ve come? To stand by your blasted family again?” Of course, of course it couldn’t be for her.

The magic of the night was broken the second lights started exploding. No one was paying her any mind, and Blanche felt like she was going to be sick. Things were spiraling out of control too quickly, and she didn't know what to do. The only thought in her mind that it wasn't supposed to end like this, not this time. Constance would choose right, and her soul would be able to truly be at peace. She would be close to the edge, but never fall. “You don't understand,” Blanche pleaded with Agnes as the weight of Constance’s rage hit her. “You don't understand what you're doing to her. Go away, this won't help. None of this will help!” Blanche once again stepped between the two, trying to create a living barrier that would knock Constance back to how she was before. “Stop! This isn't the place for this. This isn't the - this isn't the - you can’t!” her voice cracked on the last word, and Blanche knew at that moment what she would ask for. There was a scream as glass ornaments started exploding, and the child’s cries grew louder. How could Blanche understand and articulate it in a way to defuse the fury that was raging through the Common? The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, and she clutched the fabric of her jacket around her, looking between the two helplessly. The betrayal and anger and love wasn't completely foreign to Blanche, but she has never been hurt the way Agnes hurt Constance. People were starting to panic, confused and afraid. “Constance, look at me, please. You don't have to do this. You can't. Let’s leave. Let’s go. Go with me, please.”

In life, every time they argued, it had been a one sided affair. Constance would be angry, Agnes would make herself smaller and offer no resistance, and with no where for her anger bounce against, Constance would be even more annoyed. Those had been minor arguments, forgetting when they had arranged to meet, disagreements about local gossip, the meals which they had packed for their summer picnics. Nothing as grand or as terrible as this. Constance was owed so much more than another spineless moment. “You are right. I cannot change the past, no matter how might I might wish to.” She glanced at Blanche. “I understand better than I have for decades. You helped me understand,” Agnes said truthfully, talking past her to Constance again as the world rattled with Constance’s rage. “No! No, Constance, I came here for the both of you. To do what I didn’t before, to protect you from my family.” And her family from Constance, too.

Control. Concentrate. Control. Behind Constance, glass shattered and children cried. Snow boots pattered on the ground as people backed away or shuffled back to their business. Such cruel noise, such destruction. Blanche was calling, screaming, and pleading at her side.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” Constance snapped. She turned her attention for an instant. Blanche’s face was pink and wet with tears. Her eyes, so large and uncomprehending, were that of a wounded animal. Perhaps she didn’t understand, perhaps she couldn’t. If she did, she wouldn’t be trying to stop her. “We shouldn’t have to be the ones who leave,” she snarled. “You know. You know what she did to me! What all of them did! Why would you ask that of me?” Of everyone Constance had met, Blanche had been the one she thought would let her free, would stand with her. Not help her, she was too gentle for that, but to stand, to make it so she did not feel so alone… Constance’s face twisted with hurt. Perhaps she should never have wished for anything at all, impossible or not.

“Protect me,” Constance said bitterly, her voice warbling. She would be crying herself if she had any tears left to give the world. “How would you even know what that word means, when I bent myself broken protecting you!”

The streetlamps around them flashed with panic.

“What is there left to protect me from? What is there left to do to me?” She screamed. She flew to Agnes until their forms nearly blended into one. “What is it? I should be glad to know the truth from you for once! What is it? How do you protect me? How do you do anything for me? You stole my life and even my curse wasn’t enough to keep you from tormenting me! I gave everything to make what you did to me stop hurting! And look at this! What is this! How are you still--” Looking at me, pitying me, haunting me. Constance stared hard into Agnes, pleading for answers she knew would never come. But worse than the ignorance was the helpless pull inside her, still wanting someone, maybe anyone, to love her. But oh, that was never to be in this or any other world. Constance screamed and at last let go.

You helped me understand. The irony wasn’t lost on Blanche as the sting of Constance’s rejection settled like a heavy stone in her chest. She had questioned Constance and her motives time and time again, and Blanche wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab her by the shoulders. She would feel her warm skin and hold her as they cried under the ruined lights and they could move on and heal and all would be well. “You don’t know what you’ve done. What you’ve chosen,” Blanche whispered. Her words to Cordelia echoed in her mind. The only tragedy is a woman who ruined other people’s lives to the point where she ruined herself. Blanche wanted more for Constance, she deserved more than to perish in the ruins of her past. She wouldn't see that though, she would only see what she thought she wanted. With one final scream, Constance was lost, and Blanche’s hope was gone.

She couldn’t focus on the lights exploding or the horrible wind that had picked up around them, scattering residents and tourists alike with ear splitting screams. Blanche could only feel the raw power radiating off Constance. Focus. A small voice hissed through the static that raged in Blanche’s mind. What do you do now? Blanche realized she was crying and she was more than angry. She didn���t quite know what she was. Grief stricken, maybe? Her skin felt like it had been set on fire and her insides had melted and she was so - Focus! The voice snarled, louder this time. It was loud enough to make her stagger backwards, reorienting herself.

She could see and feel the electricity in the air as she finally moved, fumbling from her purse. “Agnes go. I’ll find you later! You need to get out of here, now. Find Morgan.” Blanche blinked tears out of her eyes as her hand gripped the iron rod. She rushed forward, much like she had in Morgan’s classroom, ready to fight. She didn’t want to - god, she didn’t want to. Constance needed more. Deserved more. Why didn’t she just listen? She did everything right, and Constance still -- Focus. There would be time, Blanche realized, for grief later. There would be time to scream and cry and figure out why it felt like someone knocked the wind out of her. She could figure out where to go from here later. Now she had to dissipate Constance before she killed someone. Again. Unable to choke anything out other than something between a battle cry and scream, Blanche swung her iron.

“Your soul. Constance, I know I’m much too late for everything else, I can’t change that, it would have been worse not to-” Agnes shied away from Constance’s rage, even now it could no longer touch her. There was a tiny pulse in the air, no more notable than the click of a necklace chain giving way. She didn’t understand what happened, other than the tears on Blanche’s cheeks and her insistence that she needed to go, but she fell back, still pleading with the face of fury beating down on her. “Constance, we can be better than this. Both of us. We can end this now. I forgive you.” Her eyes widened as Blanche jerked forward, and only now did Agnes actually move away, avoiding the iron so she wouldn’t be forced away.

Constance unspooled on the wind, the threads of her soul, her sad, desperate softness fluttering away like her hair from its ribbon. She heard Agnes speaking, her high little voice like some trained bird. But for once nothing in her reached out to harmonize and rescue her voice from being swallowed by the world. Constance reached out to the world now and the wind roared, drowning out every sound in the common, ripping ribbon off the branches and blowing broken glass.

“Forgive me?” She screamed. “I never betrayed anyone! I never hurt anyone until you! You did this to me, you wretch! I wish I’d done half the things you said I did! I wish I’d murdered all of you and had done with it!” She couldn’t stop Agnes’ heart or dash her to the ground, but she could rip the glass from the streetlights and tear the shards through her form. She saw Blanche coming with the iron and shoved her back. “I would curse you too if I still could!” Blanche’s body flew and crashed into the Christmas trees. “You think I didn’t know you could betray me too? That I hadn’t learned my lesson yet? That I was your precious fool?”

The wind was too loud for Constance to hear anything at all, but around her, humans scuttled for cover like ants. Some fell, silly parcels spilling on the ground. Mouths opened in fright, but they didn’t understand what was unfolding before them, and they did not understand her hurt. But she could make them. She toppled the lamp posts, snapping them in half like they were only twigs and sparked the Christmas lights into flame, torching the branches with flames greater than all the candles in the world. Constance only had to bid them to rise and they flared, engulfing the trees all the way to the top. With a twist of her hand, Constance snapped a web of rainbow lights free and sent them flailing, thrashing, into puddles of melting snow. Power rippled white into the ground. The wind fell and in the quiet, the common drummed with  the sound of falling bodies. Constance raised one of the burning trees and hurled it into a gazebo where a thick crowd had thought to take shelter. “I am going to do what I should have months ago, and I will take the blood of anyone who tries to stop me as well, since she doesn’t have any left for me to take!” Constance roared. She pointed an angry finger at Agnes. “This is your fault,” she hissed. “All of this is you! Forgive yourself for it, I dare you!”

Blanche should have known that it wasn’t going to be as easy as it had been in the classroom. She was knocked backward before she was thrown off her feet completely by an invisible force. Her body crashed into the tree. Branches and lights tore into her as her torso slammed into the trunk of the tree before she bounced down to the ground, hitting the frozen earth with a hard thump. In an instant, all the air in her body was gone, and Blanche could only gasp for breath. With no air to respond to Constance’s screams, she could only let out a wheezing objection - Blanche didn’t betray Constance. She was upfront from the beginning since Maxine had died, since Constance had almost killed Nell. Blanche wasn’t about to let her hurt all of these people, no matter the devastation she felt in her heart. If Blanche was truly going to do what she had to, it didn’t matter if it was bad people like Lydia Griffin or August Thompson. And it didn’t matter that Constance Cunningham had been twirling under the Christmas lights, beautiful and good, because she had lost herself.

There was that voice again, as Blanche lay there, barking orders at her as the initial shock from the collision. Focus! Move! Blanche hurled herself out from under the tree as it went up into flames just she realized just how much pain she was actually in. Pain was practically a pastime for Blanche at this point, so she staggered to her feet, eyes blurred from hot tears. Stumbling forward, she saw the flamed tree uprooted from the ground, soaring - soaring - soaring towards the cowering people in a gazebo.

“No!” Her hand flew out. It was too late, she only managed to knock it off course a little, hitting the side of the gazebo instead of head on. There was an eruption of flame. Screams pierced Blanche’s ears and she staggered back. The crowd was scattering, running far away from the electricity crackling off the lamp posts, far away from whatever horror had been thrust upon the common. The energy was going to make her sick and the pain was getting worse.

Focus. Make the next choice. Focus, dear.

With a start, Blanche realized she recognized the voice, and she knew what she needed to do right then. Lunging for her fallen bag, Blanche hissed for Agnes to follow her, before she forced her aching body to sprint as she fumbled for her phone.

She needed help. Now.

[chronicparagon]

Harmony accepted Zek's gesture, even giving his hand a tender squeeze as she heard his words.

Yes. Of course...

He is no stranger to destruction and some of humanity's cruelest affairs. Zek is a sniper whose tale is one written in smoke, tears from broken families, and spilled blood of the innocent. He is no stranger to death as he lost those he held dear, and took lives with a swift pull of a trigger.

It takes so much strength to face each day without loved ones who are not in the world of the living. It takes courage to see another dawn despite the nightmares and terrible memories plaguing the mind through the dark nights. Zek has that strength and courage, that is plain to see. However it dawned on her that she has done the same. Her warm hold tightens just a little.

"That's true..." She answers, "We are alive despite everything. We are alive and our paths crossed. I can't imagine never knowing you..." Harmony knows she has deep feelings for the sniper. She has for such a long time but she fears that if he saw how she looks, he will turn away in disgust.

"We're stronger now, but...I...Zek..." Her hands slip away from his own and a soft sigh leaves her. "These scars...They are a symbol of survival. However, they also caused rejection and fear in others including my people and strangers alike. I fear that you will...I mean...You may not...How can I put this?" She shrugs her jacket off her shoulders and though the dread is stronger by the second, she knows he must see the true extent of the marks.

"I don't see you as shallow. It's just you deserve so much. You deserve to be around warmth, love, and beauty. Maybe I would have been beautiful but...Ah-See, people was afraid or disgusted by what I hide. I'm scared that you will feel the same." With that, Harmony's jacket slides down her arms and she pulls it off. It reveals the black tank top beneath it but also signs of her grim past.

Uneven patches of scarred tissue cover the upper right of her back, right shoulder, and down her arm. Ridges, creases, and dents form a grotesque picture of old burns that nearly claimed her life all those years ago. They are darker than her tan skin with patches branching over her complexion, just as the massive flaming branch that pinned her down.

Her head lowers and her eyes close so she can't see Zek's eyes. She doesn't want to see disgust, fear, or rejection there. "Quite a portion of my body has these burns. My back, my arm..." Closed eyes tighten to hold in the welling tears. "I'm sorry...I shouldn't have hid them. But I didn't want you to turn away just as others did before. I can't blame them, though...I know they look bad..but they won't hurt you. I promise. I'm still me!"

@strykingback

OST- The Reapers Rest (Autoplay Warning!)

The sniper knew it all too well.... fire. How it too had scarred him. The moment when the original Forde village was attacked by that damnable PMC he brought to its very ruins. However, unlike Harmony who had traveled with whether if their goals were aligned on taking down a PMC, Hunting down something, or helping out other villages in need. He enjoyed her company.. but even he knew that there were moments of weakness she and himself had.

"It's fine... because while I do not fear it... It only reminds me of what happened when I was all but a child. The flames of burning houses, the smells of smoke.... and much more. Then there was only just me... a lone survivor of the Slaughter of Forde Village. Now forged into this...." He said moving to hold Harmony's hand tightly... almost like a gentle embrace of a gentle plant wanting to protect something, no someone.

Yet at the same moment.... Zek could never understand what Harmony went through... as he himself wondered something to himself. "Yet you are here and so am I. While the scars of the past will never leave us... its our own individual strengths that led us here to being alive now." He continued.

[normallee]

Reflections of Revenge || Nessa and Norma

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Carnival PARTIES: @dance-with-sum1 and @normallee SUMMARY: Nessa and Norma have so much fun in the hall of mirrors!! Just like two very normal humans often do!

Nessa had been dying to go to the Carnival since she started hearing it’s haunting melodies float around town. It was almost hypnotizing, and she couldn’t wait for her night off. Usually she hated taking her required night to herself, much preferring to at least check in at the club before heading off for a quick bite, but now that there was new excitement in town she couldn’t wait! Wandering through the neon lights made Nessa feel truly alive. It was almost the same energy as being in a club, with thrashing bodies, blood pumping, energy exploding. Only now she felt like she was in one of those teen movies she loved, just without the romantic date. She shrugged off the fleeting thought of loneliness and skipped towards the Hall of Mirrors, her long skirt flowing around her hooved feet. “How many tickets, good sir? Oh- and do I need someone to ride with? Er- walk through with?”

Norma was getting bored of her usually feeding grounds. And a bored valkyrie who couldn’t use her powers was nothing but a sorry sight. Lucky for her, the carnival on the beach had opened up. It seemed like a good opportunity to blend in, too. Humans went to this place of “fun.” So did many crying children as she discovered. If only she could incite just one temper tantrum. Alas, she had to feed off the scraps. She sighed and noticed a lot of the crying children were leaving the “Hall of Mirrors.” Odd, she knew many humans were unfortunate looking, but she didn’t imagine reflections would cause such reactions so consistently. Might as well explore it. She walked up to the entrance to see another woman standing there. “Great. You two can go in together. Enjoy,” the man said, practically shoving them both inside the door before slamming it shut. “Well that was speedy service,” she said as she looked around. “I’m Norma, by the way. I believe it is usually considered rude to not introduce yourself when thrown into strange circumstances with one another. Or so I've been told.”

Before she knew it, Nessa was thrown inside the attraction with a strange woman named Norma. Well, she wasn’t strange anymore! She was Norma! “Nice to meet ya, Norma! I’m Nessa! I guess we’re gonna try to navigate this thing together, yeah?” Her bright smile flashed across 3 or 4 different mirrors and she watched as her eyes widened. This was gonna be fun. “You wanna lead the way? Or I can! I’ve never done a Hall of Mirrors before, have you?” It was hard to see where the path led, but that was sort of the whole point. Nessa let her hooves lead her in the most organic route possible, but she still ended up crashing into a hard wall. “Oops! That’s not the way!” She giggled, hoping the other woman was having as much fun as she was.

Norma returned her smile and grabbed the woman’s hand and shook it. A lot. As was customary, of course. “Very good to meet you, Nessa!” It was comforting to hear that there were other humans who had not done such silly and tacky endeavors like this. In normal circumstances, she would never have come in here. She wouldn’t need to. But now, well, it sure was riddled with ambient waves of chaos energy. The whole carnival was, but there was a ping or two more here. “This is my first, too, I think you should try first. You were in line first and I’ve been told lines work in particular orders.” It was more of yelled at than told but all the same. Norma followed behind the giggly woman, wondering if she should just reach out and insight a little more chaos, get them more lost than they were. It was so tempting. And not quite worth the bounty hunters it would bring. She sighed and took in what she could. “Oh no, it’s not. How about we,” Norma spun around in a circle a few times then stopped and pointed in a direction. “Go that way.” As they walked, Norma wondered if they were alone, she kept seeing flashes of red. Lots of red. She could feel the vibrations of energy humming a little louder as they went.

Nessa radiated joy and exuberance as they made their way further into the maze. She liked this woman, Norma. She spoke a little literally, but that was fine! Nessa did that too from time to time. She wondered if her companion was something a bit more than human. Wouldn’t that be exciting?? “I’m so glad we get to experience this together then!” Nessa bounced forward, all the while remaining on the tip of her- well toes if she had them. After running into a few more dead ends, Nessa and her 4 reflections spun around, a pout beginning to form on each set of lips. “I don’t think we’re going the right way, are we?” She caught a wisp of movement out of the corner of her eye and spun, smacking her face right against the plastic, mirror wall. “Aw heck!” She rubbed her forehead and turned to Norma. “Did you see that? I think they let someone else in here before we got a chance to get out! What a rip off!”

Norma was more than happy to follow along the random, distinctly incorrect paths the other woman chose. It was chance and chaos, and though not as good as the strife of a sobbing child, it was still satisfying. “I did see something. I do not believe it was your skirt, either. This is rather unfortunate. We should demand our hard earned cash back if they let someone else in. They should be ashamed!” Norma hoped her outrage was sufficient. The mirror they had stopped at featured a very wiggly looking Nessa and a very stretched out Norma. “Look at how they’ve changed our features,” she said pointing at their reflections. “It’s quite humorous.” She laughed as she started moving around, watching how it affected the distorted view. As she waved her arms in uncharacteristic mannerisms, the picture changed and shifted. She was no longer in her modern clothes or in a hall of other mirrors. What she saw reflected was no longer Norma, but Xmucane from long ago. She was beautiful, far more so than she was now, in her own option. She was covered in blood, the tips of her hair soaked, arms covered, her entire outfit splattered red only where it wasn’t dripping. In her hands were intestines. After a moment of gleeful examination, her reflection reached out towards the mirror, almost like she expected her hand to cross through to the other side, grabbing right at Norma’s heart. For a moment, she was lost in it, longing for her old self. Then she remembered that she wasn’t alone. “Oh, um, wow!” Norma started as she tried to throw herself in front of the mirror. “That is so strangely specific and oddly life-like!” Perhaps this Nessa was too dazed from smacking her head on mirrors to make the connection.

Nessa nodded, her usual optimistic attitude beginning to skew towards irritated. They would definitely file a complaint with the Carnival manager. But then she was distracted by their goofy reflections, warping this way and that. Nessa bleated in excitement and immediately went about dancing to make her elongated extremities ebb and flow in unnatural patterns. “How fun!!” Her eyes darted over to Norma’s reflection, expecting to see her stretched to seem 10 feet tall. Instead, she saw a macabre scene, blood and gore and entrails abounding. Her mouth began to water but she reminded herself it was just special effects. Cocking her head to the side, Nessa began to examine her own reflection. Nothing but the run of the mill wiggly warping. That wasn’t fair. “Wow! They really went all out on the effects, huh?” Nessa pouted, spinning around to try to find a better mirror. Not only did the workers let someone else in on their fun, she didn’t even get the special treatment of a grotesque display! “Let’s try this way, maybe?” Speeding through the mirrors, Nessa screeched to a halt and found herself face to face with a beautiful woman reflected in one of the walls. “Oh!” Her stomach dropped and she let out a frightened bleat before backing up the way she came as quickly as possible. She couldn’t have found her here, she was miles and decades away from that hunter. “This way!” Nessa grabbed Norma’s arm and dragged her deeper and deeper into the maze.

Before Norma could lament her lost past, Nessa was dragging her away. When they spun around, Norma could no longer see herself at all. Or Nessa. She looked around but there was no one standing beside them. Touching the edge of the glass, there was no doubt the woman was on the other side of some surface or another. Odd. Norma pressed her finger a little more to the glass and felt a ripple. There was no further chance to explore it, Nessa pulled her away and they were once again racing through a maze of reflections. The chaos and frantic nature of their running calmed Norma. This felt right. Beautiful, even as their reflections were being chased by flashes of entrails and the face of this mystery woman. “Who was that?” Norma asked as they paused a moment to catch their breath. She looked around and behind them, pointed. “I think that’s the exit,” she said.

Nessa rarely felt fear. Since moving to White Crest, she hadn’t felt the need to run or hide, she’d found a new fae community, and she’d put the thought of hunters, or at least that hunter, far behind her. Of course they were still a danger, but she hadn’t been hunted in years. Barely paying attention to the reflections, or lack thereof, Nessa continued to haul them through the maze at a near breakneck speed, her hooves clicking loudly against the metal floor. “Who?” Nessa’s frightened eyes looked back at her companion. “A monster.” She gritted her teeth and pressed forward, grateful that she wasn’t alone but worried what that woman might do to Norma if she was caught in her company. “Oh!” Nessa spun and pushed Norma ahead of her, throwing one last frantic look behind her as she all but shoved them forward towards what she desperately hoped was the exit and not just another dead end.

Norma tried to keep the curl of a smile from forming on her face. The strife coming from the woman there with her smelled so sweet. If she just reached out and touched her, maybe she could just get a small taste of it, feel the anger and fear of this “monster” resonate within her own bones. But before she could even think any further of allowing that for herself, she was turned around and being shoved towards the exit sign. Norma sighed, almost too happy to keep running around in this mess, but she had to admit, the chaos was likely at an end and dwindling away. They may as well leave and she could collect whatever meager scraps of strife she could find elsewhere. Once through the door, she had to squint and moment and let her eyes readjust to the light. “Well, I believe that was good human fun! I quite enjoyed that experience.” Something still lingered in her mind, though. Almost like… concern? Perhaps? Possibly. It was also possible she was just so ready to pry any information that could be used against someone from her years of doing just that. “That monster, however, that you mentioned. What was that? Do I have cause for concern?”

Nessa practically flung herself out of the Hall. That was supposed to be fun, not traumatic. Her eyes darted around, looking for any sign that her hunter was hot on her trail and indeed the person let in after them. After a few minutes of waiting, however, it was clear she was nowhere to be found. Nessa let out the breath she hadn't realized she’d been holding and tried to smile up at Norma. “I dunno about fun persay, but it certainly wasn’t what I’d expected. Those horror effects were top notch!” She tilted her head, wondering if Norma had been a plant. How else would they have been able to make a grotesque double of her racing through holding various entrails? “Oh...no, I don’t think so.” Her face darkened at the memory. Luckily she hadn’t had to do too much to get away from that hunter, but there were others who were far more seasoned. “She...well she had a grudge against me.” And others like me. But her skin didn’t prickle around Norma like it did when she was around other fae. She could be some other supernatural, but that wasn’t for her to worry about. “Weird, though. I guess I must have mistaken one of the people they let in behind us. I haven’t seen that woman in years. There’s no way she could be here.” The words were more to comfort herself, she realized. But she smiled again, feeling a bit more at ease with each human person who came out of the Hall of Mirrors after them. The past was the past, and Nessa didn’t want to revisit it if she didn’t absolutely need to.

Norma took in the situation, tried to absorb what this Nessa was saying. Someone with a grudge. Norma could relate. Immensely. She too had someone after her with a grudge. Nessa was lucky enough to know who, it seemed. “That is very odd. But their effects there were rather specific and bordering on intrusive.” Almost like it was magic. Oh no. In all her attempts to avoid the supernatural, it seemed that she still constantly walked right into it. Oh well, she should be safe from any bounty hunters so long as she didn’t use her powers. So she hoped. She supposed she would simply have to wait and see. “Well that is good to hear your mortal ife is safe and sound.” Norma glanced around, unsure of what to do next. Not far away there was what looked like food and refreshments. “Anyway, would you like to get some overly sweet and nutritionally unsatisfactory food with me? I believe there are many stands just over there.”

[victoodles]

Fleur Sauvage

yeehaws but softly. back again, read it on AO3 and i hope you enjoy

Arthur is uncomfortable.

The sleeves of his stupid tuxedo are too tight and the cotton of his stupid bowtie is too itchy against his neck. But mostly, it’s because he’s surrounded on all sides by pompous displays of how the other half live.

Arthur has been encircled by wolves before, ravenous beasts of varying shapes and sizes. Unfortunately this time around he can’t shoot his way through the pack. If he had a say in the matter, he would take fangs and claws over coiffed hair and expensive suits any day of the week.

But he doesn’t. He rarely does, so here he stays.

The air is heavy with cigar smoke and foreign chatter. Arthur always presumed other languages would have an essence of beauty to them. Though as he overhears these gentlemen prattle on, cackling at their own self-proclaimed witticisms, he finds it to be extremely grating. Dutch insists though, as he is prone to do, that they continue to meet with the true master of Saint Denis.

Angelo Bronte.

A man with all the charm of a cottonmouth snake and twice as deadly. Every word that falls from his mouth is dripping with so much venom, Arthur is surprised listening to him hasn’t been fatal. Among those words is the promise of money; a key to freedom from the shackles of a modern word.

Now Arthur is the one to insist that Dutch reconsider his faith in this “parasite", as Arthur so fondly described. Dutch disregards it, telling him that home is just “one more score” out of reach. Arthur thinks that these grandiose fantasies are going to get them in over their heads more so then they already are. Hosea shares the sentiment but their unconditional loyalty has them tethered to this plan for the time being.

Angelo cackles from his perch on the manor’s balcony. He finds himself (both literally and figuratively) above the party-goers and that seems to fill him with malicious glee. They are merely bugs under his expensive shoes, and he’ll go well out of his way to stomp on them.

He sorts through the crowd one by one, expressing his contempt and expansive knowledge of Saint Denis’ denizens. Each one has a filthy secret that Angelo pours forth like fine wine. A jeer follows every name until his gaze falls upon a certain young lady, arm secured around Hosea’s.

“And who is this? I’ve never seen her before,” Angelo turns to his men with a smirk, “I’d certainly remember one so pretty.” Arthur tracks Angelo’s leering gaze to you, and his ire is sparked like flint. Taking a step forward to act, he aims to silence this lecherous cretin permanently.

Unfortunately, he is promptly stopped by Dutch’s hand, a silent plea to contain himself. It’s a small one and Dutch hopes Angelo doesn’t notice, they’re already on thin enough ice. Thankfully, he doesn’t.  

“Is she one of yours?” It’s posed as a question but Dutch knows he expects an answer - the right answer.

“Yes,” he answers immediately, “she’s like a daughter to me.” Dutch is careful not to give out too much information but still emphasizes you are no part of their meeting. “Just wanted to show her a good time away from the debauchery of our lifestyle. We think she deserved it, didn’t we Arthur?”

Every muscle in Arthur’s body is wound tight, ready to fight if you’re put in Angelo’s crosshairs. He clenches his jaw and manages to grit out an affirmation.

Another smirk spreads across Angelo’s lips. “Is that right?” He says something in Italian to his men, most likely a derogatory comment, before turning his attention back to the outlaws.

“It’s quite a crime to keep a flower like that out of reach. Such a beauty should,” he pauses to take another drag of his cigar, licking his lips lasciviously afterwords, “be enjoyed by all.”

Angelo seems to revel in the heat of Arthur’s rage; he’s garnered what you mean to him by reactions alone. Arthur’s trigger finger is suddenly restless; he wishes he had the sense to conceal a weapon. Dutch speaks again before Arthur sets this whole party ablaze.  

“We shall keep that in mind, Signore Bronte. Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Dutch begins to lead Arthur back inside.

“Yes, yes go! Enjoy, my friends!” He says with a dismissive wave before he returns to his own festivities. Angelo wears a mask of gracious host but Arthur can see the cracks in it, revealing the true monster underneath.

That doesn’t matter right now though. Arthur needs to get back to you.

As the two of them head back downstairs (Arthur a little more briskly in contrast) Arthur starts up with Dutch. “I told you bringing her along was a bad idea,” he growls. It’s clear Dutch doesn’t have the patience to placate Arthur right now.

“And I told you that we needed her! She still can speak their pretentious language. Discover leads that we couldn’t with our “barbaric” intellects.” Dutch says sardonically, paired with a roll of his eyes.

“Dutch,” Arthur warns but is once again interrupted.

“I will keep her safe, son. As I have done for all of us.” Dutch smiles fondly then. “You’ve got yourself quite a woman there, a true sheep in wolf’s clothing. I gather she won’t need much assistance from either of us.”

Arthur is momentarily rendered speechless. It was true, you were beyond capable of fending for yourself. But he still did not want to take any chances.

A man who held the world in the palm of his hand? What could someone with that type of power do to a woman closely associated with a (potential) enemy gang?

Arthur didn’t think himself overly imaginative but he could picture possible outcomes vividly. Too vividly.

One of many servants opened the main doors before those thoughts could evolve into more grotesque nightmares. Arthur is cruelly reminded of the events transpiring just beyond. However his racing mind is thankful for the distraction. He finds on the other side a dapper Hosea and Bill, looking even more miserable than himself.

But no you.

Arthur opens his mouth to inquire and Hosea has the answer before he can ask. It seems everyone’s in the habit of cutting Arthur off tonight.

Hosea tilts his head towards the courtyard. “Down there. She’s getting a head start on the mingling,” he informs his frantic son. Arthur’s feet carry him so fast he barely catches Dutch’s request to stay out of trouble. Wishful thinking but he’ll try his best regardless.

To Arthur, you stand out amongst the throng of people, clear as day. Your pink dress (you tell him it’s peach) compliments you completely. From the way it hugs your waist to the roses embroidered along the skirts. How fitting of a design, a wild rose with her own kind.  

An array of golden hair pins - courtesy of Miss Grimshaw’s heydey - keep your complicated braid in place. They shine like stars in the lamplight, twinkling faintly with every turn of your head. Your decolletage is bare of any jewelry, save for some cream colored lace along the sleeves of your gown. Arthur is oddly more distracted, eyeing the exposed skin hungrily.

Your beauty doesn’t hold a candle to any of the satin clad or feathered fan socialites. You are elegance personified and he aims to immortalize that within the confines of his journal later.  

Arthur makes his way forward, drawn to you as he often finds is the case. Obstacles in the form of other guests stand in his way and he wades through them. He doesn’t mean to push and shove; he is quite colossal when next to these dainty women. An apology comes in the form of a flute of champagne as to not stir up any more trouble before he presses onward.

Your company is being enjoyed by the mayor himself and his entourage. The gentlemen are enraptured by whatever it is you’re regaling them with. Hanging onto every pretty word and starring at you like you hung the moon. Arthur finds himself in the same position more often than not.

Laughter, airy and delicate, tugs at Arthur’s heart as he approaches. It envelops him; it’s a warmth he still isn’t accustomed to, especially in his line of work. But you coax him into it, and he learns his hands are still capable of gentleness.

You notice Arthur, a grin playing on your lips, and you stop mid-sentence to acknowledge him.  

“Oh Tacitus, my darling,” You coo, waltzing up and wrapping your arms snugly around Arthur’s neck. He fights to contain his guffaw at your act: the high society primadonna. It’s your favorite role to play whenever Hosea needs you for a swindle. And you play it exceptionally well.

A kiss is placed on his cheek, tantalizingly close to the corner of his lips. It’s a promise of more to come.

The mayor and his colleagues chuckle at this impromptu display of affection. “It seems your new bride is quite taken with you. What a shame for us, eh gentlemen?” The mayor asks, feigning disappointment which earns him a wave of laughter. You titter yourself, finding a new place around Arthur’s arm this time.

Arthur looks at you bemused, but humored. You take that as your cue to subtly fill him in on your little game. You smile affectionately at Arthur before turning attention back to the mayor. “I’m terribly sorry my good men, but my heart utterly belongs to my Tacitus,” you keen, dramatically casting a hand over your chest. If he wasn’t an actor in this play, Arthur would quite enjoy watching the performance.

"Mon coeur, it is broken!” The mayor jests and you playfully swat at his hand.

“Ne sois pas bête!” You tease back.

This French tit for tat goes right over Arthur’s head but he does understand something. Dutch was absolutely right in bringing you along. Not even an hour later and you already have a major city official wrapped around your finger. Color Arthur impressed (and slightly jealous). But then he remembers he is your “husband” after all, and the petty emotions are assuaged.

“And,” the mayor finally turns his focus to Arthur, “whose pleasure is it to have this delight of a woman for a wife?” Arthur sheds his skin of an outlaw and adapts, following your lead.

“Good evening,” he says smoothly, extending a hand out. “Tacitus Gilgore.” The mayor seems pleased at the gesture and eagerly shakes Arthur’s hand. You’re beaming at Arthur’s side at the interaction.

“Well it certainly is a pleasure Mister Gilgore. Henri Lemieux, mayor of this fine city.” There’s a hint of disgust in his words; Arthur doesn’t blame him. Henri gestures to his surrounding accompaniment and begins to introduce them. Arthur tunes it out - they don’t matter. Finding the mayor was his goal, not these buffoons.

Though his attention does perk up at the mention of a familiar name. “And this is Monsieur Evelyn Miller.”

“Like the writer?” Arthur inquires, earning another giggle from you.

“Yes darling,” you chirp enthusiastically. “He wrote all those books your father positively adored.” Your conversation takes a turn. “Tacitus is the sole inheritor of his father’s oil company,” you inform with a coy smile. A few of the men raise their eyebrows, impressed. The mayor included.

“Ah an oil proprietor?” Henri inquires. “Well, congratulations are in order. A beautiful wife and a flourishing business? You sir, are a very lucky man.” He reaches out and takes Arthur’s hand firmly in his.

“I look forward to speaking more with you, Monsieur Gilgore. But for now,” he relinquishes his hold on Arthur, “why don’t you and your young bride enjoy yourselves?”

Arthur places his now free hand on the small of your back. The satin feels soft under his calloused palms but he yearns more for skin to skin contact. Time and place, unfortunately.

“I think we will. Thank you for your hospitality, good sir.” Arthur takes his leave with a tip of his head before he escorts you away from the crowds. He thinks he deserves some semblance of peace for now. While the excess of unwanted company isn’t ideal, as long as you’re there he feels calm.

An impressive gazebo at the apex of the courtyard is devoid of any guests. It seems the majority of them strive to be in the limelight of this affair for reasons Arthur can’t seem to care about. Regardless, he is grateful for the temporary isolation as he leads you there.

The crowd begins to progressively wane much to Arthur's delight. A few still linger and you placate them with your arsenal of bonjour's and merci's. Once again Arthur finds himself grateful for you. He's reached his "mingling" threshold for the night a long time ago. Your's on the other hand seems to have just begun as you keen and wave to every passing sir and madam. It's rather amusing and Arthur chuckles lightly.

"Another minute there and I think he woulda' handed you the key to the city," Arthur teases. It's a rare occurrence for his bark have no bite, just playful nips You welcome it eagerly.

"That would've been ideal. I could have given it to Dutch so he can sell all of Saint Denis for a few mangoes." You respond back coolly. Arthur snorts.

"Seems like a fair trade."

You nudge him for his cheekiness. "Mind your tongue, Gilgore," you jab. He concedes to your wishes (as always).

"My apologies to my lady." Arthur's inner gentleman (the one he vehemently refuses is there) is showing. You want to say something, acknowledge the sides he wants to reveal. 

But now isn't the place for him to sink into that place of vulnerability. The predators here are too hungry. So you continue on as if it were a game still, keeping things lighthearted.

Placing a finger to your chin, you pretend to mull his words over. "I suppose," you begin, twirling out of his arms and swiftly dashing up the gazebo's steps. "I can forgive you," you spin around a column, "if you come sit with me for a moment?" You plop down on one of the many benches facing the river, tapping the empty space next to you. 

Arthur finds your impishness endearing, but now isn't the time. There's work to be done, people to mislead, men to k-

You can practically hear the discordance in his head. "Just for a moment," you plead, hoping it will alleviate some of his tension. It does, and he wordlessly complies as he sits down with you.

While Arthur doesn't claim to be an expert on the finer things in life, he is awestruck at the view. The gazebo seems to be on its own wooden isle in the middle of the water, surrounded on all sides by flowers. Gentle waves lap at the platform and it creates a steady, lulling rhythm. Petals drift lazily along the river, continually cascading down from the gentle push of an evening breeze.

The swamp he detests is transformed into an ethereal landscape as the lanterns’ reflections sparkle on the water’s surface. It appears that the rich can even buy the better parts of nature as well. Who would’ve thought.

The two of you are settled in comfortable silence, admiring the picturesque scenery as the party’s twittering becomes mere background noise.

Arthur speaks first. “So,” he begins bashfully. In this suit, he looks as awkward as he feels. A familiar hand on his knee, while slightly flirtatious, is a kind reminder he can be himself. It’s a freedom he still has trouble getting accustomed to at times. He lets his shoulders relax, “You think yer folks are around ‘ere somewhere?” It’s a question made in jest and you answer with a dry laugh.

“My parents wish they could be invited to a mayoral affair,” you say with a scoff. “Would’ve tried to sell me off twice as young if it meant they could eat the leftovers.” Though you try to hide it, Arthur picks up on hurt in your voice.

You hear it too, and you turn your head away from him for a moment. On instinct, you look out to the shoreline and see the manor you once called home. It's the same despite the ten years that have gone by: imposing and grand. You wonder if mother and father are awake, scornfully starring over at what they have continually failed to achieve. A jovial party serving as a painful reminder. The irony makes you feel a little bit better.

Walking up to that house every day for sixteen years had instilled fear into your core. Now, it was just an ugly scar across Saint Denis. The pain wasn't permanent, but you would always remember it. You're regarding the house apathetically, not being able to bring yourself away.

Arthur notices and begins to worry. “Hey,” Arthur begins gently, tracing circles over your knuckles. His voice summons you back and you look at him expectantly, gaze tender. You render him speechless; he’s ensnared and the simple control you exude over him has his nerves singing.

Arthur manages to compose himself and finds a way to bring your smile back. “What will people think if they see my beautiful wife so upset?” Again you laugh, this time sincerely. He finds himself smiling back, "They'll say I'm a beast of a man."

Tears threaten to spill from his sincerity. You try to shoo them away. “Oh lovely Tacitus,” your accent is back full swing. “You are just the kindest husband. How in this cruel world did I find myself so blessed?” While the titles are just pretend, he’s finding himself addicted to their honied sweetness. He wants more and your lips have the power to temporarily quell his want.

Leaning closer, falling further in love.

His lips are a whisper away, practically feeling the heat of your blush radiating off you. There’s a crowd of people just beyond a few white pillars but he doubts anyone is paying them any mind. And if they do, well, Dutch didn’t specify his distaste for getting into an upper class brawl.    

“I ask myself that question every day,” Arthur says reverently, a hand coming up to rest on your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut as his places his lips against your own with a gentleness reserved for you. This is a song and dance he is pleasantly more accustomed to, moving against you effortlessly. Each pass of his lips draws a sigh from you satisfied than the last.

Inhibition rears its ugly head again once Arthur thinks he actually has the luxury to enjoy himself. He pulls back slightly, much to your dismay but you don’t pursue. Like a deer, you don’t want to startle him. Instead you wait, a patience that Arthur is grateful you provide.

Arthur almost forgot why they’re here, and loyalty has always come before his happiness. “I gotta,” he mumbles. “Gotta do something for Dutch. I-” his words fall short when you silence him with another kiss. It appears chaste, but there's a fire behind it that’s nipping at his lips as the tip of your tongue traces over them.

Your poor cowboy would deny himself everything, so long as Dutch said the word. So you took some of the weight off his already bad shoulders for him.

Arthur’s eyes go comically wide as you withdraw from him, hand sliding down between your breasts. Realization (and relief) sweeps over him when it returns with a small envelope in tow, labeled "Classified".  

“What? How did you-”

“I wasn’t just talking to those old men for the caliber of their conversation,” you simper, tucking the envelope securely back into your bosom. “Managed to pilfer these documents pertaining to Cornwall off poor Monsieur Lemiux,” you purse your lips in a faux pout. Arthur continues to stare at you in awe.

You may have been planted in a gilded garden, but you had uprooted yourself, new roots digging their way deep into the forest floor. Growing thorns and blooming within the wild: free and untamed.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing indeed.

“So,” Arthur’s musing is ceased by you. Let him enjoy himself, as many this night have told him do. Yes he was on a mission, but let him have a moment to breathe. With you.

“Worry about what you ‘gotta’ do for Dutch later. But for now-” you lean in and purr against the shell of his ear, “let’s just be.”

The softness of your words is paired with a clap of man-made thunder cutting through the sky followed by a brilliant array of colors. Fireworks begin to dance across the night and gasps of wonder fill the air. The stars are met with blooms of blues, greens, and yellow to rival them. It's quite the spectacle; Arthur had never seen fireworks before. He had only heard Hosea' numerous tellings about taking Bessie to see them. The concept fascinated him; gunpowder igniting but instead of death, it brings magic.

But as they continue to burst, casting vibrant shades of gold and red across your face, Arthur thinks he’s found a new kind of magic to believe in.  

[pjstafford]

Can you Imagine Going Through Life Looking Like That?  Review of Humbug Blog 19 of the Disability in The World of The X-Files Series

Humbug is the twentieth episode of the second season and the first episode written by Darin Morgan and directed by Kim Manners.  It is an episode about “otherness.”  It changed the nature of the X-Files as the first comedic episode of the X-Files; thus allowing the X-Files a diversity in form that most series don’t have.  It, also,  inspired this blog series.  

From my perspective, Humbug takes the viewer through a fun journey which you don’t realize is a journey of self-discovery until you are through to the other side.  If it is a journey of “otherness”, the other is defined as having physical differences.  We begin by seeing how Scully perceives the grotesque other as an object of pity.  We then enter into a town inhabited mostly by side show performers; circus geeks and freaks with many physical differences.  We hear humorous repeated messages that to perceive people based on nothing more than a physical appearance reduces a person to a stereotype and a caricature and is the same as judging someone by their skin color.  Being so immersed in this world of the “other”, we get to the point where we can see through the “other’s” eyes.  Then, we can see Fox Mulder for what he truly is:  a man of such freakishly good looks that he falls outside the box of “normal.” Can you imagine going through life looking like that?  I pity the man.  

In this entire episode, there is no evidence of anybody with a physical difference being unable to do or accomplish anything.  The preacher with no arms turns the pages of the Bible with his feet.  The short of stature, Mr. Nutt, simply steps onto stools or other things to change his stature when needed.  You have at least one character, Mr. Blockhead, who was not born with a physical difference, but is trying to join this elite group of carnival and side show performers by learning how to withstand pain and through his mastery of the escape.   When  Jim Jim the dog face boy finds that he is losing his hair, he  is reduced to the more banal role of the town’s Sherriff, but he doesn’t go off to escape his past and shows no shame when confronted with his past.

The episode plays with the concept of false  perceptions from the cold open to the show’s conclusion.  The opening scene is one of typical suburbia about to be overtaken by a hideous looking creature.  Two boys are playing in a pool where they are being observed through the trees by some sort of creature.  When the man who has gone through his whole life being known as the alligator man due to a skin condition jumps into the pool, you find out that he is the boys’ father and a sense of normalcy is restored.  Then the boys go in to get ready for bed and the monster actually hiding in the trees attacks the father.  

The next scene is the typical scene in the FBI basement where Mulder provides Scully with the details of the case.  However, Scully can’t seem to focus on anything but the initial picture of the deceased and his skin condition.  When Mulder asks her what she thinks of the case she can only say “Can you imagine going through life looking like this?”  This sentiment is not new for The X-Files.  I previously reviewed the episode Miracle Man where a man brought back from the dead is so dismayed by his appearance that he goes on a killing spree to discredit the boy who brought him back to life.  In that episode a physical difference is seen as such an affliction, we are left to ponder if death might be preferable.  In Humbug, despite the fact that the deceased is a successful man with a wife and children and appears from our brief glimpse in the pool to be happy, we hear in the intonation of Scully’s voice the pity that wonders how horrific a life must be when a person looks different.  

It is only a short time later that Scully and Mulder finds out the town where the murder occurs is actually a town founded by Barnum and Bailey performers (based on an actual town) and Scully jumps rapidly to the conclusion that the mystery can be easily solved:  “…and their isolation from everyday society caused by their physical deformities could have built up pathological resentments so intense that…”   She is quickly interrupted by the Sherriff who assure her that inside they are as normal as anyone.  “Its just been my experience that many people have a harder time accepting these people’s deformities than they do themselves.”  This is when the show shifts to allow us to see through the eyes of the “other.”

The case not being easily solved, the agents are forced to find accommodations.  In checking in, they meet Mr. Nutt who Mulder immediately asks if he has done any circus work.  Mr. Nutt is indignant. “.. You took one quick look at me and decided that you could deduce my entire life.”  Mr. Nutt then judges Mulder for his all –American features, his dour demeanor, his unimaginative neck tie.  “But do you see the tragedy here?  I have mistakenly reduced you to a stereotype.  A caricature.  Instead of regarding you as a specific, unique individual.”  In a later scene Mr. Nutt will judge Mulder again.  “Not all women are attracted to overly tall, lanky men such as yourself.”  Both of these scenes set the stage for the later scene when we will all see Mulder as the other.  

Another scene which pokes fun at all the scenes in all the other episodes where a person is considered to be a suspect because of a disability is the scene where Mulder and Scully observes the Sherriff, who they now know was once Jim Jim the dog face boy, burying something and then they decide to exhume whatever was buried. Mulder says “we’re being highly discriminatory here.  Just because a man was once inflicted with excessive hairiness, we’ve no excuse to suspect him of aberrant behavior. “   Scully: “Its like assuming guilt based solely on skin color isn’t it?”  The acknowledgement that these assumptions are wrong does nothing to dissuade them from exhuming what turns out to be a potato.  

The killer turns out to be the conjoined twin of Lanny.  Throughout the episode Lanny has his twin conjoined head inside Lanny’s stomach; creating a abdominal bulge.    Here again the perception is not what it appears. The viewer and the agents have presumed that the head inside of Lanny must be dead.  However Leornard, Lanny’s twin, is alive and can detach itself from Lanny.  It is the murderer, but the murders are not intentional.  He does not mean to harm.  He is simply looking to replace Lanny as a brother.   Lanny cries and says “It hurts to not be wanted.”  Then, Lanny says “you cannot change the way you were born.”  

This brings us to the conclusion of the episode.  The character Blockhead says to Scully, “Twenty-first century genetic engineering will not only eradicate this Siamese twins and the alligator skinned people, but you’re going to be hard-pressed to find, uh, a slight overbite or a not-so- high check bone. You see, I’ve seen the future and the future looks just like him. “   He points to Mulder who is standing in a classic model mode. He then says the phrase used earlier by Scully:   “Imagine going through your whole life looking like that”  

Finally, the last line is uttered.  In keeping with the episode it once again plays with the perception issue.   The character the Conundrum has gone through the entire episode without speaking.  When the agents wanted to question him, Blockhead said the Conundrum doesn’t answer questions but only poses them– such implying that, perhaps, he does not talk. Now  the Conundrum  has eaten Leonard, the murderous twin of Lanny, and so has an upset stomach.  When the agents says they hope it is nothing serious, The Conundrum says clearly and without any sign of speech or mental impediment “It’s probably something I ate.”  

Let’s put the icing on the cake of the perception lesson. This is an X files episode about murder in a carnival side show performer town.   Given what we have seen thus far up until this episode in regards to disability in the world of the X-files, this could have been a horror fiasco of flagrant, serious stereotypes and caricatures.   Instead, we have this beautiful surprise.  The X-files can do comedy and they can recognize their own failings.   This is a brilliant episode.  It adeptly leads the viewer through this expert journey of judging until we are left wondering if our hero isn’t a little bit of an unnatural himself; a little too handsome.  This episode doesn’t excuse some of the episodes before and there are bad episodes yet to review, but this episode is a stand- alone hour of television which everyone who loves diversity should view.  

[another-sonic-blog]

I am but a shadow and you are light Pt.4

Shadow thought that he would be happy for her. And to some extent, he was. They were perfect for each other, their green matching eyes complemented even more that they were to be together.

Green and green

Not red and green

So why did it still hurt?

Even when he knew for a fact Amy would never accept his feelings.

But deep down, on his sweetest dream, he had a small hope that they could be together.

And even now after a week of seeing Amy walk down the aisle, him holding hands with Rouge, he still had hope.

That damn little spark of hope.

It was still there but slowly, just like a candle, it began to run out and suddenly.

There was no more.

He had to be honest with himself, he didn’t love Rouge but did, indeed, enjoy her company.

Rouge, on the other hand, could imagine herself with Shadow for a long time.

But she knew that his heart still belonged to the pink hedgehog. She will try to make him fall in love with her. Even if he could just give her a little bit of the love he felt for Amy, that would be enough for her.

“We are going to need more people in the frontline, Sonic and Shadow need to rest!” One of the generals screamed as more soldiers were approaching the frontline. G.U.N Vs. Infinite’s army, which consisted of fake replicas of G.U.N’s soldiers. It was complicated for GUN soldiers mostly because they didn’t know exactly who to attack.

“We haven’t been able to find infinite! He keeps going doing fakes! He is going outnumber us soon! We need to find him!” Sonic said as aggressively put his hands on the table.

“Numbers don’t win wars.” Shadow simply said. They took a rest on the military’s camp, in a tent.

“No, but they surely help.” Sonic replies.

Canons were heard, the exploding of bombs and screaming of people. Sonic couldn’t take it anymore.

He needed to finish the war now.

Shadow didn’t respond, deep in thought as he saw Sonic’s gold ring, beautifully displayed on his ring finger.

“What if you make Infinite come out of his hidden spot?”

Both hedgehogs turned around and found a snaking Amy and Rouge looking straight at them.

“What are you doing here? Amy, it’s dangerous.” Sonic walked towards Amy and hugged her as he said this. He missed her, but he also didn’t want to put her in danger.

“I’ve missed you, you haven’t written to me since our wedding day.” She responded.

“I know but still-“

Amy didn’t concentrate on Sonic’s words. She got lost in thoughts as she saw Rouge walking towards Shadow and planting a kiss on his lips, which he accepted gladly.

She wasn’t a fool, she knew they were dating even if Shadow tried to deny it most of the time.

“Are you listening to me?”

Amy zoomed in, and regain her attention to Sonic.

“Yes, I did. Don’t worry I’ll stay in the tent all the time so please, don’t be angry that I’ll be staying here.” Amy tried to calm him and watched him take a sigh, defeated.

Sonic looked into her eyes, he was so blessed to have her and he was just too proud to have her.

"Shadow! Sonic! They need you in the front!" One of the commanders said. Shadow immediately stood up and walked past Amy as Rouge followed him. He acknowledges Amy's presence by giving her a look.

Sonic and Amy were now alone.

"I need to leave, but I-"

"Don't say anything, it's better if you tell me when you come back but I do want to say something to you." Amy took a sigh, completely in love with him.

"Ever since that night, when, in a voice all new to me, Under my window you revealed your soul Ah! ever since I have adored you!" Amy said, her eyes shining.

Sonic felt something inside of that that it wasn't right.

"I love you only for your soul!"

Those words resonated in Sonic's ear like a bomb. He felt his world crumble.

"What?" He softly said.

"Nowadays people only want nice looks but your letters...Sonic I love who you are!"

"No...no, I prefer for you to love me by my looks!"

Amy saw Sonic's face change, had she not explain herself well?

"I mean to say that even your beauty was to depart, I'll still love you!" Amy said clearly.

"No, the first love was best!" Sonic walked away from Amy but she took steps towards him. "If I was ugly you wouldn't love me!"

"Don't say that! I swear I'd love you still!"

Sonic only nodded finally realizing what he had done. He walked past Amy as he left her in the tent. She didn't know what she said to make him change emotions.

"Shadow you will be upfront, Infinite is right here, you need to-"

"Pardon me, I need to talk to Shadow." Sonic interrupted the commander as he took Shadow by the arm, pulling him away from the meeting.

"She loves you", Sonic simply said.

"What?"

"Amy! She loves you." Sonic took a moment to look at Shadow's reaction.

How could he be so blind? In all of his life, he had never seen Shadow's face light up like that.

"You love her...don't you?" Sonic asked him, looking at his eyes.

Shadow hestitated, he didn't answer and that's all Sonic needed to know that it was true.

"You love her madly?" He asked again.

"More than madly." Shadow finally said.

Sonic wasn't angry at him but more at himself. He grabbed him and forcefully dragged him to where Amy was. "TELL HER!"

"No!", Shadow said as he tried to go against Sonic.

"Why not?!"

"Look at me!" Shadow was referring again to his bad looks. His horrible scar and red eyes like the devil.

"Tell her!" Sonic keeps saying as he dragging him.

"No! Stop tempting me!"

"I'm tired of being my own rival! Let her choose one of us!" Sonic said out loud.

"You," Shadow said as he finally gave up.

"I hope so."

Sonic then saw Amy ran towards them. Sonic ran off into the battlefield and he left Shadow alone with Amy.

"Where is he going?" Amy asked as she finally reached Shadow.

"He went to the front line, they needed him there," Shadow said.

"Maybe he thought I lied," Amy said sadly as she watched Sonic ran far off, losing her sight on him.

"And did you?" Shadow questioned.

"No, I love him. Regardless of his looks." Amy looked at Shadow straight at his eyes, feeling secure about her answer.

"Even if he was ugly?" Shadow asked.

"Even if he was ugly." She answered.

"Even deformed?."

"Even deformed."

Shadow took a pause and held her hands. "Were he ridiculous and grotesque, would you love him?"

Amy didn't even think for a second, there was no doubt on her heart that she loved Sonic for his soul.

"More than ever."

Shadow couldn't believe it, was happiness actually possible for him? Even when all of this time he thought he wasn't worth loving?

"Listen, Amy, I need to tell you something, I-"

"Shadow! Sonic needs back up now!" One of Shadow's commanders yelled. Shadow looked at Amy one last time before departing to help his blue friend.

.

.

.

Shadow was late.

The one bleeding to death was supposed to be him, not Sonic. His body would be able to handle it but Sonic couldn't. He wasn't thinking clearly, he was obviously angry. Sonic wasn't thinking rationally and because of that, he decided to fight Infinite by himself.

Now, he was a puddle of blood.

He carried Sonic all they back to his military camp. Shadow placed Sonic on the ground, his head resting on a tree trunk.

Amy approached them quickly, "We need to get help no-"

Amy was interrupted by Sonic grabbing her hand.

That's when Amy knew Sonic didn't want any help.

"Sonic... I...I-" Amy couldn't get the words out of her mouth, tears starting to form in her eyes.

"I love you." Sonic softly whispered. As he grabbed her hand.

Amy began to cry louder, on her own misery, she didn't notice Shadow getting closer to Sonic's ear.

"I told her everything. You are the one she loves." Shadow whispered.

Sonic smiled as he accepted his destiny.

He held Shadow and Amy's hand tightly. What a great way to go.

A hero and loved.

Finally, Sonic the hedgehog closed his eyes, accepting death as his friend.

Amy cried without stopping, the love of his life was gone.

Shadow held her in his arms as she continued crying.

"Shadow, Infinite is getting closer we need you right now!" The commander yelled again.

Rouge quickly came into the picture, as she and Shadow tried to pick up Amy from the ground.

"Get her away to somewhere safe!" Shadow told Rouge.

"No! Stay with me! What if something happens to you?!" Amy screamed at him as Rouge pulled her away.

"The fight is on! I need to go!" Shadow said decided.

Amy continued crying, there was no stopping him but she needed reassurance. "His letters...You alone knew him...Was he not a marvelous spirit?"

"Yes, he was," Shadow said as he pushed her away.

"Wasn't he a supreme, lovable poet?"

"Yes, he was"

" A sublime being?" Amy began to cry more as the words struggled to come out. Tears falling on her eyes, misery in her voice. "Wasn't he a deep, saintly heart, a magnificent and pure soul?!"

Rouge was finally able to put Amy away from Shadow.

Shadow watched as he saw Rouge walk away from me.

Shadow realized that all of those words she said witch such passion, pain, emotion...they were for him. She was in love with him.

He needed to make a decision.

But honestly, it wasn't a hard one.

Keep the loving memory of his only friend and make the love of his life believe that her only love was death?

Or try and have a happy life with Amy by telling her the truth?

This was no decision...it was logic.

and Shadow had finally decided.

Shadow sighed, happily accepting his fate as he whispered to himself,

"Farewell, Amy."

.

.

.

.

.

A/N: Next chapter will be the last chapter.

[momo-de-avis]

Wordtober Day 14: Overgrown

I was a girl when I first developed my passion for painting.

Papa would take me to the Salon and I would marvel at the stacks of canvases hung on every wall, as high as the ceilings went. Though I tended to pay no mind to the classical portraits of ladies or the massive sculptures from the Académie, I became enthralled by the revolutionaries. The naturalists, that is. The men who left the city by train, taking their pochades to paint the natural elements, who captured the forests of Barbizon for posteriority with a curious, famished eye.

I wondered deeply about these matters until it was all I thought about. How does one develop the ability to capture something within just a small frame of time, only to compose it in timelessness and thus devote it to posteriority? And what frame of time could that be? In a passing moment, as we gaze upon nature, what instant, between every flicker of existence, will we decide to depict? Is it possible to freeze one single second and represent it in several instances of daylight, to pour onto a canvas all the beauty we see unravel before a simple leaf, a dense forest, the still waters of a lake, or even the skies?

The artist opens his pochade, sets up his easel, and looks up at the sky. And there, he sees it: one cloud hovering above hues of blue, dancing slowly to the wind’s cadence, cast in heavenly shadows of grey and white and yellow. Then, he picks up his brush and begins to paint, but time has already moved on—and he rushes to capture all those passing moments and lock them into the surface of the canvas.

That is probably why I was always more inclined to paintings of storms. There’s something daunting to de la Peña’s canvases, in the way he paints one vivid golden arm reaching out between the thick clouds to set the brown rocks alight, like hope cast onto something hopeless to come. And probably why I enjoy the desolation of Daubigny’s depiction of Les Sables-d’Olonne. In either of them, there’s something massive, something imposing. It seems that, instead of painting the present, with bits of the past scattered behind, they focused on the future instead. A storm to come; a confusion of grey and yellow hues that announce the incoming night.

There’s one particular painter that has fascinated me for long, though I’ve only ever seen reproductions on bulletins owned by collectors, and on one occasion, one poor copy by some petulant little student of some small studio. It’s called A Monk by the Sea and it’s by this widely ignored little painter from Prussia called Caspar David Friedrich. It’s a massive canvas, from what I’m told, containing just three things: the sea, the shore, and a monk.

If you look at the skies, you’ll see that, much like Daubigny’s, there’s a combination of darker hues with lighter ones, and though the brushwork is far more formal and even academic, you can outline the very rim of the clouds that hover above the horizon. But they contrast greatly with the darkness below, and it gives us the sense of a looming future, a daunting and terrifying one. A storm is coming. And on this bland, sandy-like shoreline, a solitary monk stands alone. He wears simple vestments, long and crisp, and he stares. He just stares at this storm that is slowly forming in the far horizon, at these gigantic clouds that announce nature’s violence, and he is… unafraid.

Burke called it the Sublime. That which is so daunting, so terrifying, it is, at the same time, beautiful. Something able to make us quiver on our legs in trepidation, yet we cannot but reach forth and touch it.

I always did have an inclination for the more mystical of paintings. Friedrich’s in particular touched me differently. It was, obviously, that element of the sublime, but something else. Like in Constable’s landscapes, and even some of Corot’s, it’s nature’s double meaning behind every piece of beauty we admire. Have a look at Couple Contemplating the Moon and see for yourself how those beautiful branches twist like tendrils in the backlight of the incoming night, and wonder: what will happen to this couple once night settles and they are left alone with this disfigured tree, in the complete darkness? Or why is the spectral image of the Abbey in the Oakwood so enticing we almost want to wait for night to settle and the soul of nature to dance in ghostly shapes before us���even when we’re terrified of it?

Yes, I have always loved the art of painting. But there was one problem to my passion, which is my gender.

Of course, I was not exactly barred from painting, I was just left with little options, and watercolours bored me to death. Even less the motifs my family insisted I painted, those proper of a lady: boring landscapes of sunshine over green grass and still lakes and swans and other birds of sorts—I despised it all.

I knew I had a talent, of course. And I knew how to use it, I just needed the right outlet. Watercolours certainly weren’t it—I wanted proper oils, and I wanted to wear long gowns and cover myself in paint, forgetting the entirety of this world who said painting outside, like the men who took the train to Barbizon, was improper.

In truth, my father minded little of it, and it was my sister who raised much a scandal, though it seems obvious today she was also quite envious. For she married none other than an artist.

She always was quite the uptight lady, however. Proper in every aspect, yes, but incredibly dull. Composed in her folded skirts and wearing hats in the summer, carefully adjusting her little laced glove as she opened her umbrella while her husband paddled a boat on the lake. She always did think of me as far too scandalous, but I minded little so long as I could paint—and it just so happened she married a painter.

Gustave wasn’t so much a master as he was an excuse. He proposed to tutor me and for a while Adolphine was eased by the thought that it was her husband the one to guide me, perhaps considering he’d steer me towards those boring watercolours she adored in order to tame my character. But I was better than Gustave. Though he dominated the technique, of course—for a classicist. For him, it mattered only that I copied the masters and understand a composition, study drawing, that mark of intellectualism of a true artist, and the colour comes after, for it is line that is truly scientific—I cared not for any of that! Colour is the true science, I told him! And screw what Adolphine deemed proper, have a look—I screamed at him—at Delacroix or Gros instead, and dare tell me colour is not scientific! How dare he, when even Vasari praised the science of colour for Titian and the Venetians!

Eventually, he gave in, as my condition—as he put it—appeared to his eyes as none but a whim, and perhaps the best thing to do was to simply answer to my fits of rage before they could develop into something… far worse.

I began to suspect at this point that my family saw me as ill and mad, and it would be no time until they threw me into a hospice. It was common of me to hear them muttering behind closed doors, whimpering like dogs, particularly Adolphone, who wailed: oh, my sister will be the disgrace of us, what shall I do?, she will not leave those paintings alone, and what things does she paint?, she never even shows me!

No, Adolphine, I never showed them to you. 

My sister couldn’t possibly bear with my creations, considering my inclination for the grotesque. I remember staring at a Fuseli once and thinking how beautiful his nightmares were. The little goblin-like creature that sat on that fair lady, slouched over her bed in slumber was, to my eyes, not her tormentor but her guardian. And I pondered about it—imagine having a guardian, a protector who watched over your dreams as you slept. So I began to experiment with these pictures that suddenly appeared in my mind at night—just twisting shapes of humanoid presences that always seemed non-threatening to me, and they danced to my will and bowed before me. Once awoken, I would run up to the attic without eating, open my pochade and begin to paint; I would lock the door as to not be interrupted and be cast into this strange world of oils and shapes that composed themselves before my eyes, and time would pass completely indistinct.

Every time I painted, time ceased to exist—or maybe I did. But whatever the truth, I existed outside of this world, and whatever there was to the streets outside my window, it was entirely gone. It was far more than a deep trance—I could feel an intense compulsion I had to answer, or else I’d grow mad! I had to rush up the stairs and begin to paint immediately—and I did. The moment my fingers touched the hardened wood of my brush or the easel, I would cease to exist and transform into something else.

On my canvases, shapes gained form under the dark hues of my nightly landscapes. Explosions of light in the skies, in gold and dull yellow, made way to something lingering in the corner, something large and imposing with wide jutting horns and claws raising above a prey below; and sometimes, the setting sun on a pasture cast an arm of pink and purple onto the skies, enough to illuminate an anthropomorphic silhouette that danced before a farmer, who prayed the Angelus alone; and then, the same creature could be seen upon the corner of a street of Paris as a flaneur tipped his hat back and looked up, right into its big, bulbous, bright white eyes.

There was another thing present in all: the creature, as it appeared, did not hide; it stood right in front of its prey and it gazed upon them in a moment of not doubt, but profound contemplation. And below the enormous hunter, the prey would look up in peace and silence, accepting of their fate, with not a hint of fright nor a bellow of horror. Much like the monk staring longingly at the incoming storm, alone, like a castaway, on an unknown sandy shore—contemplative, silent, peaceful.

When Gustave first saw my canvases he was shaken. I saw sweat pouring from his forehead and laughed in amusement as he moved frantically about the studio, and I could see how much he longed to grab hold of my paintings and destroy them but would not dare to do so. More: how much they frightened him. How he would draw near gently but there was a line he never crossed, invisibly traced on the floors, as he’d freeze on his quivering legs, eyes locked on the monster’s eyes, my monster, cold sweat pouring still as he breathed deep and heavy, and stuttered a compliment that never really came.

I knew he thought my paintings to be outstanding in technique and composition, it was the creature that terrified him, but that only made me feel more confident in my work. That was my creature, my creation, and it stared back at me as if I was its very own God.

It was around this time that I first heard about the disappearances, though I minded them not. Men and women snatched off the streets, to never be seen again, and mere rags from their clothes left behind.

Eventually, Gustave learned to be more at ease with my paintings, though he still would not dare to cross that invisible line he had placed between him and the paintings. Except one time.

He drew near very slowly, quivering at every step, and gazed deeply upon a small figure in the corner, a small man illuminated by a single strand of light coming from a street lamp as he looked up at the creature that stood tall on the left side of the painting, firm and steady on its legs. Something about him lured Gustave, and I watched curiously as his eyes drew away from the ambience of the painting to focus on that one lonely man.

And then, he said: “This man looks eerily similar to Hubert Leblanc.”

I learned later that Huber Leblanc was a frequenter of the Salon and an avid art collector known for being the major buyer of Gustave’s paintings, who seemed entirely disinterested in the revolutionaries of the Beux Arts and instead preferred the boring artworks of a much classical tone. He had even been gifted one of Adolphine’s terrible watercolours, which he treasured delightedly. But at the time, I thought nothing of it. I had never met this Monsieur Leblanc, had no interest in meeting him, merely heard my brother-in-law’s mention of his name and my sister’s adulation of his character, and sincerely cared not for him.

So I kept on painting. I locked the door of my studio and let the word fall into its own insignificance as I painted more and more of my beloved creature in all sorts of different settings: sneaking between the columns of the Palais de Tokyo as a woman gazed up in plenitude to accept her fate; lurking at the edges of the Île de la Cité, obfuscating the Notre Dame de Paris entirely, as an onlooker accepted his fate, stood frozen on the Pont de Saint Michel; standing on the roof of Les Halles, gazing down at an unsuspecting woman who raised her head with a basket of fish on her hand, her eyes meeting the creature’s, waiting placidly; a passer-by exiting the Théatre de L’Odéon, stood frozen in the middle of the Rue Monsieur-Le-Prince, as the monster awaited his arrival at the end of the intersection, an umbrella fallen from the victim’s hand as he watched the creature’s eyes and awaited his ending.

I was ravenous in my dedication. I ate little, for time passed and I saw nor heard a thing, and outside my door, the servants would leave trays of food that would go foul. My sister would knock on my door insistently, but I heard nothing. Whenever we did sit at the table for supper, she’d complain about my behaviour and leave a hint that perhaps I needed some assistance, but her implications angered me and I was driven into a fit of rage.

One afternoon, I heard my sister gasp and turned to find her pale and frozen on her chair as she folded a newspaper and threw it aside with a gesture of disgust. She placed the back of her hand carefully against her sweating forehead and closed her eyes as if she were about to faint, wailing between her heavy pants, as if stricken with a case of consumption—horrible, horrible!, she chanted; such a horrible thing this is, God have mercy on us all!

I picked up the newspaper and read the headline. Seven people had gone missing from the streets of Paris, and at last they had uncovered the body of two: torn to shreds, nothing but gnawed bone, their flesh gone, limbs scattered across the construction site of the Ópera Garnier, abandoned into a rush—a sight so gruesome it had caused several people to faint and be rushed to the doctor.

What struck me as odd, however, was the locations upon which these people had disappeared. A woman vanished from the Palais de Tokyo. A man snatched from the Pont de Saint Michel. An angler caught and taken from Les Halles, leaving behind a basket of fish. An umbrella left behind by an unsuspecting man gone from the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.

I rolled up the paper and rushed up the stairs. When I opened the door, I saw them: those same locations, painted in hues of black and blue, and sometimes gold, as they told a tale of a person about to go missing, devoured by an enormous black creature that stalked them patiently through several Parisian landmarks. The umbrella left behind was there, fallen on the cobblestones to his side, as was the basket of fish on the angler’s hand.

So I wondered: could my creation be so spectacular it existed beyond my canvases?

It was at this moment that my door swung open and Gustave came running inside, cast into pallor and dabbing his trickling sweat with a white handkerchief he then placed inside his pocket. He ignored me, went straight to my paintings, and gazed upon the figures that lay there, waiting to be devoured alive by this beast, with peace and serenity—and again focused on the tiny little man who stood—I finally recognized—in the middle of the Place Dauphine.

He turned to me with eyes bulging in terror. “That is Hubert Leblanc,” he said. “He disappeared from the Place Dauphine two weeks ago.”

I laughed, unsure what other reaction to have, as he stood in frozen dread before me, unable still to face the monster in my paintings, and said nothing. He turned around then and grabbed the canvas off the easel, with—I knew—the intention to have it destroyed. It burned my insides in horror just to think of it, so I lurched myself at him, and we got into a tussle. Gustave was strong, gripping the canvas until his fingers made dents on my painting, and I shoved him against a wall as I screamed to let go of the painting, but he shouted back in madness: “You did this! You are responsible for this! You are cursed, and have cursed us all!”

Adolphine appeared at my door, screeching in horror at the sight, and began to scream for the servants to come to her aid as Gustave and I tussled still. Finally, he dropped the canvas and I shoved him out of my door, past Adolphine who nearly tumbled onto the ground, and as he tripped on his feet, he fell back onto the stairs and down he went.

I watched from the top of the stairs as he groaned in pain down below, gazing at me in horror. The painting was salvaged, carefully placed against a wall, and Adolphine covered her mouth with a hand, again nearly about to faint. The newspaper was fallen on the floor of my studio, and she picked it up slowly to read its cover. Then, she glanced at the paintings on my studio, the same ones she had never seen, and her pallor turned her into a living ghost. Out of strength, she sought a chair to sit on and fell to it with a tumble of weakness, barely breathing, but her eyes glared only at me.

The servants assisted Gustave, and the doctor was called in as I screamed one last warning: stay away from my paintings. Adolphine, once recovered from her affliction, cursed me and expelled me from her house, saying I had but three days to pack my belongings and leave, lest I wanted to be put into a hospice for the rest of my days.

And throughout it all, I felt… calm.

At night, with Gustave laid in bed, bandaged and tended to by the doctor and his wife, and Adolphine weeping in her privacy words that fluttered back to my ear—oh, she always was such an insolent one, I do not know what to do with her, I don’t want to kick her out, but what else am I to do, Gustave?—I locked myself in my studio and watched my paintings. It was only then that I took notice of the transformation that had occurred in my style: the creature grew in size, becoming bigger and bigger with every new one, sometimes so big I had to relegate it to the background—and as a consequence, so did my canvases, which had grown several meters wide.

Then, an idea occurred to me.

With but one lantern shedding light on the space around me, I grabbed my brushes and began to paint. Though I was in a state of trance still, I was in enough control of my being that, this time, I knew what I would paint. It was my own studio, in a small canvas, and the victim was, this time, me. I drew the shape of the creature in black blotches countered by the flimsy yellow light of my lantern, put the brush down and waited.

I was blinking my eyes wearily, about to fall asleep, when I heard the faintest growl emerging from the corner. As I stood, I saw it then: two big white eyes staring back at me, from a big gaping mouth, fangs began to glisten in yellow and white. I stood, yet I did not tremble. I looked at the creature, at my creation, and smiled as my heart thumped strongly against my chest.

Truly, I was the most exquisite painter alive in Paris, for how many could say their creations had come to life?

The monster stood silently before me, and I felt its heavy, thick breath slapping my face, though it smelled of nothing but emptiness. Its long arms swayed freely, the sharp claws touching the floors enough that scratches were left on the wooden boards, and its legs bent at the knees to fit his jutting horns inside the tight space of my attic, though they too scratched the ceilings. I suppose to any an onlooker it would have appeared as terrifying, yet to me it was… a beautiful sight. For it was my creation, and I was its God.

For a moment, we just stared at one another, and time passed by us unnoticed.

Then, the monster tilted its head slightly and in a guttural yet smoothing low tone of his voice, it spoke: “You are my mistress.”

“What are you?” I asked.

It took a long time to answer. “I am what exists in the corner of the eye. I am the drips of paint left at the bottom of the easel. I am what has been in your mind for very long, set free by a movement of your brush. But I must be fed.”

“You must be fed?”

I felt trapped inside my own canvas, locked in my own creation, my own world, and swore then I’d never leave it.

“I must be fed, mistress,” it muttered. “The day I die shall be the day your painting ends. You might lose your hands, you might lose your fingers, you might go insane enough that painting will bring nought but horrid pain to you. But if I die, you cease to become an artist. Thus, I must be fed to exist.”

I did ponder on it for a moment, on whether or not it was worth to be labelled the most talented painter of Paris if it meant innocents gone and mauled by some mysterious creature. But I knew I would never achieve that status, for I was still a woman who refused mere watercolours, and not even an aristocrat, but someone living in her sister’s attic, who had been lucky enough to marry a successful mediocre painter. No matter how talented I truly was, the city would forever cast its eyes on the men, like Rousseau and Daubigny and Cabanel. But me, I would forever be master Gustave’s apprentice, with no one sparing a second to think of my talents as mine alone, but certainly passed on to me by some man, like charity.

It was either that or becoming some skinflint painter’s muse, bound to be labelled a whore only to die of syphilis. 

No, Paris would never chant for my name as they chanted for the other artists. So I wondered then if it was worth quitting my passion, the one thing that made me feel so alive, while this unsuspecting city slept in terror before these mysterious disappearances, unknown that they happened at the hands of the most masterful artist Paris had ever seen—and a woman at that.

“All you have to do is paint,” the monster said. “Paint my food, and eat I shall.”

“How?” I asked.

“How have you been doing it so far?” It drew near, and there I felt the pulsating definition of the Sublime: how beautiful it was, yet what dread it caused me, something intricate to itself that made my body shudder in cold fear—yet all I wanted was to draw nearer and nearer, to feel its shape closer to mine.

It was an instinct, I learned at last. My talent surpassed that of the easel and the brush, it was something deep into the occult. I had a link with this beautiful creation that was my pet, and in my ravenous hours of work, I could see the present and the future all the same and paint it into a storm to come that would end the lives of those who became nothing but food for my beautiful creation.

I thought about Gustave, and I thought about my sister wanting to put me in a hospice.

So without saying a word, I picked up my brush and began to paint. The monster stood quietly in a corner, watching me in my creation, but in no time I forgot about its presence. Instead, with a smile of delight upon what I considered already to be my magnum opus, I painted my largest canvas yet, locked inside my attic, where the shape of a bed appeared, and by a trembling candlelight, a sleeping man lay, bandaged and bruised from a fall down the stairs, his wife weeping silently by his side, her hand holding his.

It was morning when I was finished. The monster hadn’t moved. He looked at the canvas and its slit of a mouth widened into a smile.

“Eat I shall,” it said.

I did not see it leave. I was so tired I did not retire to my chambers, buy lay on the floor to rest. 

I suppose I was already asleep when it happened, for I did not hear the screams.

___

Past Challenges:

Wordtober Day 1: Ring

Wordtober Day 2: Mindless

Wordtober Day 3: Bait

Wordtober Day 4: Freeze

Wordtober Day 5: Build I

Wordtober Day 6: Build II

Wordtober Day 7: Enchanted (Encantada)

Wordtober Day 8: Frail

Wordtober Day 9: Swing

Wordtober Day 10: Pattern

Wordtober Day 11: Snow

(Skipped Day 12)

Wodrtober Day 13: Ash

[toffeetaffy]

Beast at My Side

They Call This Summer

This story was originally published under the working title 'Temporis'. Purists should consider this very much AU.

--- It is immediately obvious that I have said the wrong thing.

She looks puzzled—or perhaps surprised—but certainly not happy. I don't know what answer will make her content so we appear to be settling for bemused silence. Later I can make another attempt at a response that will satisfy her, but for now at least, I'm far too cold. I feel the chill deep in my bones. They call this summer.

She's still staring at me, watching me shiver in my thick sheepskin coat. Her bare arms as pale and as perfect as her heart-shaped face. This is what she's trying to tell me. This is what should frighten me.

"Can we go inside, Bella? I'm freezing."

The incredulity is etched plainly in her features. If my previous response had startled her, the current question had her nothing short of alarmed.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" She stutters then gapes, her mouth working open and closed soundlessly for a time. "I don't think you understand what I'm telling you. I know it's a lot to take in..."

When she trails off she looks completely lost. In that moment alone can I see her as she used to be: fifteen years old, all gangly limbs and shy smiles. We're not fifteen any more. We can never be fifteen again.

My teeth knock together noisily, ruining the force of my exasperated sigh. She's disappointed, and I know how she feels. I came here expecting a cheerful reunion; to find the awkward, somewhat sullen girl that had been my only friend, and hold her in my arms while I told her how beautiful she had become. How she had grown into her skin. But you know what they say about best laid plans.

"You want me to be shocked? You want me to be appalled?"

She doesn't seem to know how to answer me, just watches as I finger the gash over my eye, my fingertips coming away stained with fresh blood. It had been some sort of attempt to protect me. Bella's husband, Edward, had shoved me out of the way of what he had perceived to be impending danger. 'Déjà vu', Bella had laughed. Edward had not found it amusing.

"Shocked would be appropriate! Do you even understand what I've said to you?" She asks me again, I feel like she has asked me a thousand times.

Behind her shoulder, Edward evaluates me with a pinched face and one narrowed eye. He's appraising me, and every time he considers me, my words, it means something. Even if I don't know what that is. Their daughter wrenches her hand free from his, and with a single wave in my direction, dashes off into the woods. She is terrifying and beautiful. At her mother's behest she had laid her hands upon me and shown me their story. Her secrets still echo in my mind.

"Of course I'm happy that you're here," she starts again. "Very happy. And I'm glad you're being so... understanding. It's just that I also want you to be cautious—be careful—where I wasn't."

I know what it is that she's saying. I can turn around, climb in to my shitty old Kombi, and drive back to wherever-the-Hell it is that I came from, or, I can stay. I can stay and hope that her secret doesn't kill me.

To her credit, she doesn't flinch when I wrap my arms around her, my cold lips whispering against her ear. "Please Bella, inside. Before my fingers fall off."

I start towards the house. Its tall, off-white walls are spotted with windows that glow with promised warmth. Edward strides out ahead of me and holds the door open with a sweeping arm. An antique gesture. Inside there stands a couple, arms wrapped around each other. From her correspondence alone I can tell that these are Bella's parents-in-law. Her emails were often dotted with romantic descriptions of the Cullen family. The patriarch in particular.

"Edward, Bella. We were wondering when you were going to invite your guest in." Her voice is a soft hum, she has a mothers smile.

She shakes my hand gently, once. I can barely feel the pressure, the tips of my fingers are purple from the cold. When she introduces herself and her husband, her face shines with curiosity. They don't get many visitors, she explains. Of course they don't.

Bella tells her new family our shared history. At length she talks about how close we were in Arizona, how our mothers had become friends, how we exchanged secrets in the sun. She even goes on to tell them how my emails and phone calls stopped her from 'going crazy' in Forks.

"Until you stopped calling," I say, "I didn't hear from you for months."

Bella and Edward both have the decency to look ashamed. We don't really talk about the dark time. Those four months when Bella lost the love of her life, and the will to live. Knowing what I do now, I should wonder if there isn't so much more to tell, some darker truth buried within those stolen weeks. The subject is quickly changed, and as I remove my coat the low sound of central heating reaches my ears.

"I should take a look at that." The patriarch gestures to my face, the cut across my eyebrow.

Edward explains, "Carlisle's a doctor." I knew that already.

My fingertips are still stained with blood.

I nod my consent and the doctor disappears. While we wait for his return, Edward hangs my coat by the door, Bella guides me to the sofa, and Esme offers me a drink. Bella tells her that I drink tea, that even as my accent fades my drinking habits remain wholly English. I don't have time to ask if they even have tea in the house before she is gone from sight, leaving me alone with my friend and her husband.

"I'm sorry I missed the wedding."

The invitation I am certain was sent only as a nicety, she never truly expected me to attend. She tells me as much before wondering aloud—not for the first time—what I'm doing here, why I'm not back at college. It's difficult to explain. How can I not tell her this, when she has told me everything? For years she hedged around it. Wanting so badly to tell me the secret that in the beginning was not hers to share. When finally it was, she left electronic clues, and spoke in cellular riddles that my rational mind could not comprehend. Secrets like hers did not exist.

When the doctor returned, Edward rose from his chair. "I should go and find that daughter of ours. Before she gets herself in to trouble." He leaves with a smile on his face. Toothy and charming. Probably the only genuine part of him that I have seen.

Carlisle sets his things down and waves me to him, a reassuring nod soon after. With gloved hands he cleans the gash and I gasp when it stings sharply. Quietly he apologises, and assures me that I won't need stitches. He sees my fingers tipped with blood, long ago dried, and takes my hand gently in his. Something in his slow, unnecessary exhalation of air makes me feel sad. I clear my throat and he releases my fingers.

"Bella, could you show me to the bathroom?"

She smirks. "Need a human minute?"

I loathe the expression at first utterance. I loathe the face that shaped it, the lips that formed it, the voice that spoke it. All perfect and grotesque. All at once Bella and never less like her. I nod because I'm too nervous to speak, too angry to form a polite sentence.

The whole house is immaculate. Right down to the polished porcelain of the lavatory. When finally my hands are clean I splash some water on my face. I look tired. I feel exhausted.

Back in the living room everyone is seated again, and on the coffee table rests a dainty china cup, nestled in it's saucer, teabag dangling over the edge. I thank Esme as I sit down and take an experimental sip. My throat loosens, my lips hum. She spares me only a glance before turning her attention back to Bella, and the girl upon her knee. They have their fingers laced together, and Bella's eyes are closed, lids fluttering.

"She prefers it to talking." Edward explains.

I lean closer to the girl, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her small, pale face. "I imagine I would, too."

She smiles at me, wide and bright; the very picture of childish glee. But she isn't a child. Not just a child.

"You never told us what brought you here." Bella says, "Are you taking a break from college?"

I'm certain now that she has seen through each of my evasions. This heavenly creature is too canny to be Bella, but I'm desperate to have my friend back so all I can do is pretend.

"I might go back. I'm just not sure yet. Bella," I fairly whine, "I don't know what to do. I don't know who I am." I want to tell her I'm scared. Not just of her secret, of her family, but of life. Of living. But here, in front of her husband, her child, her in-laws, and in the wake of her revelation... it seems too trivial.

Perhaps you'd have to be a mind reader to know my discomfort, to sense how desperately I wanted to talk to Bella. My Bella. Alone.

"You haven't even seen the cottage yet. Bella should take you for a walk, it really is lovely down there." Edward gives me a small, knowing smile. My cheeks heat.

I'm finishing the last sip of my tea as Bella hands her daughter off to Esme and snatches up my coat, telling me the story of their marital cabin. She plucks the now empty china cup from my fingers, whisking it and it's saucer away. I haven't even had time to stand before she's at the open door, waving my coat excitedly. Whether or not she witnesses the shocked exchange of her family, I do not know, but it is hard to imagine she misses something even my dull eyes can see. I thread my arms through the heavy sheepskin and she sweeps me out of the door in another extraordinary display of speed. --- It is immediately obvious that I have said the right thing.

She's doubled over with laughter, shaking and heaving as I tell her the story of how I left college to start driving aimlessly all over the country. My journey of self discovery seems silly sitting here, next to her. We exchanged stories for hours wandering around her cabin, their family home, and along the banks of a river, weaving tales through the trees. Standing at the bottom of an especially beautiful cedar, I told her I wished I could climb to the top. She told me how she often did. When I asked her to haul me up, even to the lowest boughs, she shook her head sadly. It's dangerous, I'm fragile, Edward would be furious.

In the years we exchanged phone calls and emails Bella spoke a great deal about Edward. In the beginning at least, she seemed to tell me everything. It's because you can't see me, I would tell her. Can't see me judging you. She would laugh at the truth in that. And I knew it to be true because I felt the same. Over time she grew more distant, gradually able to tell me less and less about her life. I had blamed Edward. When the dark time came and the emails stopped, I worried for a time that he had killed her. The portrait I had painted of Edward was abusive and cruel. Even now, it is not what he is, but how, that makes me feel as though I was right all along.

If telepathy is his shield, manipulation is his sword.

"So where are you off to next? Think you can stay in Forks for a while?"

"Oh yeah," I nod with sarcastic vigour. "I'll blend right in 'round these parts. You know, between the zombies and the regular old pasty locals." The rich brown of my skin and the natural curl of my hair had never been more pronounced than in the lush, green town of Forks.

Bella laughs, baring her perfect teeth. "You'll wish I was a zombie by the time I'm done with you!"

She runs circles around me, flinging herself tree to tree, pretending to chase me. I'm trying to do what she asked of me, trying to exercise caution, but when we reach the porch of the main house and collapse in to a giggling pile of limbs I can barely even remember what it is I'm supposed to be afraid of.

She's a monster, I think. "You're a monster," I laugh out loud.

I'm nervously excited when she tells me I should stay for a few days. It seems her sister-in-law Rosalie and her husband Emmett are away for a while. A second honeymoon, she tells me. They have been together since the thirties, and desperately in love the entire time. She tells me that Rose is the most beautiful creature in all of creation and I don't doubt it for even a second. There is no more room in my life for scepticism.

The peculiar living situation of the Cullen family had been relayed to me over Bella's first few months in town. She herself thought it no more gossip worthy than her neighbours new lawn mower. But me? I had thought it thoroughly scandalous! An opinion not entirely changed since the revelation of their true familial nature. They weren't just a family. They were a nest. A coven? If there is a word for what they are collectively known as, Bella has not told me what it is. I don't think she wants to.

In the space of three heart beats she has run to my van, collected my bags, and offered me a hand. I take it. She smiles. It's like we were never apart.

She puts my bags in Rosalie's room. It's beautiful. It seems surprisingly feminine for a shared space, and is pristinely clean. Bella points out the spacious bathroom before flopping down on the enormous bed. They don't sleep, she tells me. I don't need to ask why the bed is here.

We lay there on our backs, the late afternoon sun filtering in through soft curtains. Her skin sparkles. Her perfection pains me.

"I want to hate you." I say.

"I know." Is her reply.

It's a strange scene in the kitchen. Esme and Ren are working in tangent, preparing dinner for the 'breathers'. Ren, Bella tells me, is the name I am to address her daughter with. If there's more to that story—and I'm certain there is—she doesn't wish to share it. We're having veggie burgers, Ren informs me. When I ask if that's her favourite, the child's mouth clamps shut and her mother grimaces. I can only imagine. --- In the very early hours of the morning Ren is fast asleep in the cottage, watched over by a vigilant, loving grandmother, while Carlisle is beginning his shift at the hospital. Bella and Edward left hours ago to get their own meal and share some time together. I cannot sleep. The potent mixture of excitability and fear races through my blood, keeping me awake. I wonder, not for the first time, if any of them can hear the erratic beating of my heart.

There is every chance that I am alone in the house but still I tiptoe down the stairs. There's water in the fridge. I take out a single bottle and press it to my throat, cooling my nervous blush. I catch my reflection shining back at me, warped and distorted in the polished steel of the toaster. What a mess. Setting down the water bottle, I probe my injured eyebrow experimentally. My fingertips come away clean.

"I am sorry about that."

A sharp stab of fear tears down my spine. Every single vertebrae rattles in turn until my whole body is shaking in earnest. When I turn to face him, fully illuminated in the moonlight, my tremors are yet to subside.

"It was hardly your fault." My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. I have no idea how long I've taken to respond.

"No. True enough." He smiles, lips never parting.

Earlier, Ren had laid her hands on my face, spilling her families secrets into me. I was dumbstruck. A little cold, and more than a little afraid, I stumbled back, tripping over my own feet and striking my face against the headlight of my van. It had been a tiny cut. Jasper had reached for me, Edward had pushed me away. At some point the tiny cut tore open. Soon it will just be an ugly scab.

He's staring at me with that same tight lipped smile. It's almost a smirk. Almost. It makes me yearn to know what would have happened if he'd gotten his hands on me.

"You weren't planning on biting me, were you Jasper?" I want the question to be playful but it sounds thin and fearful. His gaze slides down my throat and back up my face. I'm drowning in his eyes.

"No, Lena." Is all he says.

And whether it's the intensity of his stare, or the fear of what I suspect is his lie, I shiver again. I feel the chill deep in my bones. They call this summer. ___ ← prev  -  next  →

[vaetherborn-blog]

Entry #2

When in a Hick Town, Do as the Hicks Do

Before me was a village. I crept toward it, carefully placing my footsteps so as to not make too much noise. As I approached, I realized I probably didn’t need to be so careful; the townsfolk were pretty unassuming, just milling around going about their business. I pulled my shawl up over what would have been my nose, securing it so it wouldn’t fall down to reveal my featureless face. That would have been a one-way ticket to a lot of screaming people.

Or so I thought.

It has been my experience that towns and villages are usually composed of people who look mostly the same. Not with all of the same features of course, but towns of elves and towns of humans and towns of dwarves are pretty common. There are also masses of sky pirates and the like, which are not always the same race, but at least are always dressed the same way. This village, however, was nothing like the towns I’ve visited before. No one looked like they belonged. Difference races, different clothing styles, different languages all intermingling together to paint a picture that looked more like a jigsaw puzzle that had been put together wrong. It was a small village, but it seemed much more alive with how many different people were roaming the streets.

I was so distracted by my people watching that I almost missed them. Two girls, talking loudly near the middle of town. One was short, with dark gray skin and long pointed ears and a quarterstaff in one tense, white-knuckled hand. The other was impossibly tall, her skin ashy white and her hands on her hips. The pale girl was confused. The dark-skinned girl was annoyed. When I approached, her annoyance only seemed to grow.

“Another one?” She raised her eyebrows at me.

“Another one what?” I shrugged, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Another one…not from here.” She rolled her eyes and waved an arm, gesturing for me and the other girl to follow her. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” The other girl asked.

“There’s a priestess we can talk to. She’ll help you out.” She started walking away from us, and with nowhere else to go, we followed. She led us across the village, to a grandiose monastery that looked oddly out of place in the layout of the little settlement. She pushed straight through the front doors and led us across the large front room, to where a beautiful woman in priestess garb stood, talking to a redheaded woman who looked like she’d been living in the woods for days.

“I’ve got two more right here,” the dark-skinned girl said as we approached the priestess. The priestess turned to us, taking us in with a tired curiosity that said she was more than used to dealing with strange people coming into her monastery to bother her. The dark-skinned girl explained that she’d found us in the village, and that we needed something to do or somewhere to be. I was growing more irritated with every word the girl spoke on my behalf, but I stayed quiet. With nothing to add to the conversation, I didn’t know what I could say to alleviate the situation.

The priestess explained to us that this plane was an in-between for travelers who could pass between the planes. It had formed many hundreds of years ago, and most of the residents of this village had lived here for several generations – including the family of the dark-skinned girl, whom she referred to as Xunjra. As far as the priestess knew, there was no way to get out of this plane, unless a hole opened up and you could walk through it. We inquired further, about whether there was anyone who would be able to help us find a way out of here.

Before she could reply, the room fell silent. Darkness engulfed us, flooding the room like thick water, plunging me and my companions into yet another twisted reality which we weren’t familiar with. From the darkness came three large, foggy figures, looming over us in an eerie stillness that chilled even me to my core. There was nothing but silence as we looked up at them, their hulking forms casting an intense dread on us that was as inescapable as the dark realm that we were currently trapped in. For a few moments, this was all we could see; the fog and the figures, as intimidating as I imagine a god may be to their followers.

The darkness faded, and we were standing before the priestess once more.

We panicked, asking her repeatedly if she had any knowledge of these figures, but she was as clueless as we were. She gave us the name of a man and the name of a town. Joriyah. Anzel. Which way they were and how exactly we could get there was beyond her. The terrain, she explained, was so often shifting and uncertain that there was no way to know exactly where this town was or how we could even start to get there. The pale-skinned girl (whose name I learned was Shandu) said she wanted to try to find this man, and asked if the rest of us would like to try as well. The redhead (Maura) agreed immediately, spouting some nonsense about her god sending her here for some kind of grander purpose and feeling that finding our way out of this plane (or discovering how it came into existence) was somehow tied into that.

I had nothing else to do, so I said yes.

Xunjra took us back out of the monastery and showed us to her parents’ business, a bustling opium den. Opium. That’s what the pink mist have been called in passing. I eagerly partook, and crept into a back room with Xunjra’s least favorite sister to indulge my life-draining needs. Xunjra came to me to let me know she had a job. What kind of job? It turns out that while Xunjra is a monk trained and cultivated by the monastery, she works as a hired assassin for the many folks who came into this town. I was high as an airship and in no place to turn down the chance to earn a quick buck, so I asked her to take me with her. She allowed it.

Maura, Shandu, Xunjra and I crept through the forest towards a small cabin that didn’t look like it was being lived in. Xunjra’s target was a troubled woman whom the townsfolk believed was starting to go mad. She hadn’t been seen in several days, and apparently someone believed this was a good enough time to have her offed – if she disappeared, no one would notice any more than they already had. We came up on the cabin to find all of the windows boarded up and nothing but a dim light glowing from underneath the front door. I pushed it open just slightly, enough to see inside, and to our collective horror, the woman was inside; but she wasn’t what we were expecting.

Chittering around this one-room cabin were four monstrosities, each with a scrap of this woman attached to them. They shuffled about, not noticing the door budging open, mumbling to themselves several similar but different words. “I’mrakul,” “wemrakul,” “Emrakul,” they burbled, over and over again. Something about this chilled me to my core, sapping the last of Xunjra’s parents’ opium from my body. I was suddenly sober and in a cold, damp forest staring into a cabin at a woman who had been corrupted to the point of being nothing but four grotesque creatures that only marginally resembled a woman who was once human. The grave loneliness that I’d been escaping swam its way back into my chest and, for just a moment, I was paralyzed.

Then, I moved inside.

A crack in the floor caught the toe of my shoe and I tripped, hitting my knees a foot away from one of the monsters. It turned on me, letting out a howl and striking at me with one of its claws. The others moved on me as well, and I was knocked to the floor. My allies burst through the door, and in a few quick seconds, the monsters were dead.

“Nice one, V,” Xunjra snapped, wiping some gore off of her quartstaff.

“I—I just tripped,” I replied, rising to my feet. “You’ve never tripped?”

“Let’s just go,” she sighed, leaning down to snap a finger off of the last humanoid hand left on the monsters. She shoved the finger in her bag and turned to walk out, the rest of us following behind her. I put on my best snarky attitude and tried to defend my mistake in the cabin, but it was no use – they didn’t care why it had happened, just that it was a mistake. I fell back, crossing my arms and trying to look pissed. On the inside though, I was shaking. I was terrified and lonely and my chance at making a different impression than the one I’d made in Kaladesh was looking to be squandered. Everyone hated me. Everyone would always hate me.

We met Xunjra’s employer in the tavern and sat around to have us some drinks – at least, the others had drinks. I sat around and tried to banter with the patrons of the bar. I played cards and read tarot and told some mean-spirited jokes that were received pretty well by the drunken few who bothered to listen to me. I even tried to convince a woman that I she should go home with me – though I obviously couldn’t give her what she would want from someone she was going home with, and I also didn’t have a home to go to – by giving her a golden ring from one of my fingers. She smiled, took the ring, and walked out of the tavern.

Ring count: 12.