#realization in my head after watching Bridging the Rift for the first time last night | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ellewritesathing · 4 years ago

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So Close - S.S. XLIX

Summary: The universe has a funny way of putting the things you want right in front of you, but just out of reach. Stiles and Y/N have been best friends ever since Scott brought him home, but when Stiles realizes that he might want to be something other than best friends, she leaves to go to some fancy private school up North. Now that she’s back though … maybe he’s got a shot? A Teen Wolf AU in which the reader has always been so close to Stiles and yet so far.

Masterlist Prev. | Part 49

Word-count: 6.5k+

A/N: so i thought i had this queued up for a few weeks ago?? but here it is!! this was one of my favorite pieces to write

Maiming you and Theo and then eating the Ghost Rider’s pineal gland wasn’t the only thing on Hauptmann’s - or Douglas’, the name he used at the high school - agenda for last night. He’d stolen the Ghost Rider’s whip and made Corey disappear.

It wasn’t all bad news, though: Lydia had managed to do the impossible. She brought back something of Stiles’ - only been his lacrosse jersey, but it was enough to solidify Stiles’ existence far beyond what you and Lydia felt or what Theo apparently remembered.

Malia managed to get some information out of a newly-healed Peter while they were looking for a rift in the woods. Peter told her a bit about what happened when he was in limbo, chalking up his surviving the rift between worlds to his werewolf abilities because he and Stiles had watched a human burn into nothing when he tried to cross it.

You felt sick to your stomach listening to Malia summarize Peter’s information. Despite all the craziness that your friends had been through, Stiles was human. He didn’t want to be anything other than human, and you couldn’t force him to change even if you wanted to.

But Scott was willing to change him. If it meant bringing Stiles home, Scott was willing to take the risk of biting him.

When all you could bring yourself to do was stare at him, Scott added in a strained voice, “We have to get him through the rift.” He pushed himself off the wall and walked over to the desk where Liam and Malia were looking through papers as he said, “It’s the only way.”

Peter raised his hand as you and Lydia walked hesitantly over to the desk. “Just to clarify: Are you planning on biting everyone in the train station?” he asked.

“With Stiles back, he’ll be able to help us figure out a plan to bring back everyone else,” Scott said. “He’s good at that.”

Annoyance tinged your vision. Did Scott want Stiles back because he was his best friend, or because he was the only one who could come up with a plan to save the day?

“So the plan is to get Stiles back so that he can come up with a plan?” you asked, sounding more venomous than you meant to.

Giving you a harsh look, Malia asked, “Whose side are you on?”

“Malia, look around,” Peter said. Your annoyance grew as you realized that you had been agreeing with Peter. Oblivious to your thoughts, he continued, “We’re the only ones left in Beacon Hills. If they take us, Lydia will be the only left to haunt this place.”

“That’s why I’m the only person that’s going in,” Scott said.

“No,” you said instantly. You were arguing before you even knew what your argument would be; all you knew was that Scott wouldn’t go in there alone.

True to his older brother fashion, Scott talked over all your protests. “You guys will stay here with Mason. As long as somebody is left in Beacon Hills, the Wild Hunt can’t move on,” he said.

“I like your plan, Scott. I really do,” Peter said in a tone that implied that he didn’t like Scott’s plan, not even a little bit. “Especially the part about turning Stiles.” He stopped pacing. “But it can’t work.”

“How do you know?” Malia asked.

“Logic. Life experience,” Peter said. “Liam, what are the odds that he’ll get taken?” Without waiting for an answer, Peter went on. “What if Stiles isn’t there? What if there’s no Beacon Hills for you to come back to?”

“Okay, you got a better idea?” Liam asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Peter said, sounding like it should have been obvious. “It’s called ‘run like hell.’” He turned to Malia while the rest of you were too stunned to say anything. “So, we leave in five?”

“You promised you’d help us,” Malia said as she walked closer to him.

Watching her argue with him - knowing that Peter was her dad - made you feel like you were doing something you weren’t supposed to. You knew whatever happened with their relationship wasn’t any of your business, but you couldn’t block it out no matter how hard you tried.

“If you can’t help us find the rift-” Scott interrupted their argument, “Then we’ll find it ourselves.”

“Scott, I admit that you have a flair for beating the odds,” Peter said with a sigh. You wanted more than anything for Derek to be here instead of him. “But this? You don’t walk away from this.” He started backing out of the sheriff’s station. “You run.”

“I hate him,” you said without meaning to. Ever since your memories of Peter had come back, you’d been very careful about what you said in front of Malia, but all the memories of comforting her and talking to her about Peter was nothing compared to the anger you felt in that moment.

Malia turned away from the door with a sad look in her eye. She set her face into a carefully cold expression and said, “Me too.”

---

The new plan was essentially the same as the old plan: divide and conquer. Liam, Hayden, and Mason were supposed to babysit Theo in the sheriff’s station while you, Malia, Scott, and Lydia went into the woods to find the rift.

“When you were out here the last time, how long until the Ghost Riders showed up?” Scott asked.

Malia stepped over the tree roots carefully, squinting against the sun slightly. “A couple minutes.”

“That’s reassuring,” Lydia mumbled as she stepped over the same roots.

“What is the rift supposed to like?” you asked. “Like some magical portal or more just noticing that something isn’t quite right?”

“If it’s a tear in the fabric of our world, then theoretically it could look like anything from a microscopic black hole to a free-floating Einstein-Rosen bridge,” Lydia said.

After a second of awkward silence, you asked, “You, uh, don’t happen to have any pictures of those on you, do you?”

Lydia gave you a look that she only reserved for Liam when he tried to steal some of her Red Vines on movie nights. “No,” she said, “I don’t have any pictures on me.”

“Let’s split up,” Scott suggested, in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

Instead of arguing, the four of you went off in opposite directions and hoped for the best. You didn’t get very far before Scott called you all to look at an old drain pipe. The bars had been broken and curled outwards, like something had burst out of the pipe.

Scott bent down to investigate and picked up a leaf.

“The rift’s not above us,” Lydia said. “It’s below.”

“Well,” you said with a sigh and knelt down next to Scott in the dirt. “Who wants to go in first?”

Scott gave you an uneasy smile and crawled into the pipe. You followed close behind him, helping Lydia over the bent bars, and Malia crawled in after you guys. After about a minute, you guys arrived at a service hatch and climbed down the ladder to find yourselves in the same tunnels that the Dread Doctors had used.

Dusting off your hands, you set to work looking for the rift in the very frustratingly normal-looking tunnels. You made your way as a group until you reached a fork in the road. You went left and Malia went right, and then Malia crashed backward into the floor.

“Found it!” Malia said triumphantly as you helped her to her feet.

Lydia walked past you and towards the rippling in the air. She held a hand out but was careful not to touch it. “It’s remarkably similar,” she said quietly.

“To what?” you asked.

“To the Einstein-Rosen bridge,” Lydia said. “See why I couldn’t have shown you a picture?”

You sighed and nodded reluctantly before turning your attention to the rift. It looked almost like nothing, but you had to figure out a way to cross all that nothing without being flung backward by Lydia’s Einstein-Rosen bridge.

Malia, it seemed, was thinking something similar. She broke off a piece of pipe and threw it into the rift. After almost decapitating Scott, she picked up the pipe again and started ramming it into the rift. All that happened was that the pipe got burnt and Malia burnt out. She groaned and threw the pipe to the side.

“There’s gotta be another way,” you said. “Lyd, do you have any other ideas?”

“I just need a minute to think,” Lydia said with a strained smile. She lifted her hand to her face to help her think.

“Think about how to get through a supernatural rift that melts steel.” Scott met your eye and frowned slightly.

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Lydia said, sounding partly humorous and partly defensive.

A voice caught your attention from the dark. “But it doesn’t have to be so hard,” he said. Douglass. Hauptmann. Creepy physics teacher. He stepped into the light with a look that could only be described as devious.

“He followed our scent,” Scott said as he stepped forward.

“I followed your desperation,” Douglass corrected. Your back ached with the memory of when he almost killed you; it had been so easy for him to take you out. “We’re all in a tough spot. Desperate to get inside and save everyone, and hoping to find a way to stop this army of the dead. We all want the same thing.”

There was something about the way he worded his sentences that creeped you out, but you were starting to think that everything he did creeped you out.

“He has a point,” Lydia said with a reluctant tilt of his head.

“Yeah, if he doesn’t kill anyone,” Malia said.

“Else,” Scott corrected. “If he doesn’t kill anyone else.”

“All that matters right now is getting through the rift,” Douglas said.

“Anything that touches the rift either bounces back or burns,” you said. “So you’re welcome to give it a try.”

“Oh, I think I’ll let someone else try it out first,” Douglas said with a sinister smile. He didn’t move, but Parrish walked out of the darkness behind him. He snarled at you, and his eyes were a bright green color instead of his usual golden red.

Lydia called his name gently, trying to get his attention.

“If the Hellhound can open the rift, we all go together,” Douglas said.

“You’re the bad guy,” Malia told him. “I’m pretty sure helping you is a bad idea.”

“Good guy, bad guy. When has anything ever been so black and white?” Douglas asked.

“Says the Nazi,” you scoffed. Your friends looked at you and you forgot they hadn’t been there when Douglas and Theo spoke to one another.

“And he wants the Hunt for himself,” Liam said as he appeared from the other tunnel. He looked like he'd run all the way here from the police station. “He wants his own supernatural army.”

Douglas sighed and unfurled the whip he’d stolen from the Ghost Rider. Your breath hitched.

“We’re not letting you through that rift,” Scott said.

“Not letting me?” Douglas repeated. “I see. You still think you have a say in the matter.”

Douglas cracked the whip and you pulled Liam back with you as your friends ducked. Scott shifted in an instant and roared at him, and Douglas cracked the whip again. He wasn’t trying to make any of you disappear, though you knew he wouldn’t hesitate if you didn’t move out of the way. Douglas just wanted you out of the way.

You pulled your friends, one by one, to the side of the tunnel.

“Hollenhund,” Douglas called.

Parrish followed behind him obediently. He started tearing through the rift without needing to be told what to do, and for a moment you were too hopeful to remember that he wasn’t on your side.

Scott remembered. “Parrish, stop!” he yelled.

But Parrish wasn’t listening to anyone other than Douglas. He continued to rip through the rift until it completely dissolved, not caring about how burnt and damaged he’d gotten in the process.

“Wunderbar,” Douglas said as he looked at what was left of the rift.

Parish roared at you as Douglas said something in German. He roared again as the burn marks spread further across his body. They started walking through the rift.

“Now!” Scott yelled.

The five of you bolted towards the rift but it sealed shut before you got there. Liam pulled you back before you lost an arm to the rift as it closed.

“No, no, no!” You pulled your arm away and reached out for the rift again, but Scott pulled you back just before two Ghost Riders stepped out. “No,” you whispered, backing away while keeping your eyes on the rift.

“Y/N, take Liam and Lydia to the bunker,” Scott said over his shoulder.

You forced yourself to look away from the rift and nodded at him. Taking one of Lydia’s hands in yours and Liam’s in the other, the three of you started running towards the bunker while you ignored the sinking feeling that hope was for suckers.

The bunker was further than you expected, and you had to keep tugging Liam back so Lydia could keep up. You froze when a roar broke through the tunnels.

“That wasn’t Scott,” you said. You recognized it but you refused to let that roar belong to Scott.

“Well, it didn’t sound promising,” Liam mumbled.

“They rarely are. We need to keep going,” Lydia said. She shuffled to the front but all three of you stopped when you saw a Ghost Rider. It snarled at you and Lydia pulled you and Liam behind her.

You started to argue that you should be the one to take the hit, but the Ghost Rider raised his gun slowly up to the ceiling. He didn’t shoot at you.

“What’s happening?” Liam whispered.

“I don’t know, but you guys need to stay behind me,” Lydia said.

You couldn’t let anything happen to her. “Lyd-”

“Trust me,” she said.

Using Lydia as a shield, the three of you edged your way around the Ghost Rider and ignored the snarling until it was safe enough to start running to the bunker. It was closer now, but you didn’t stay long before Scott and Malia came to tell you that the coast was clear.

The coast didn’t feel very clear when they told you that Peter was taken, or when you came home to an empty house. It was very, clearly muddy when the operator told you that the number you’d dialed had been disconnected and asked you politely to check the number and try again.

“Scotty,” you said gently, reaching your hand across the table to hold his. Scott pressed the redial button. “Hey.” You touched his face. “We’re getting her back, okay? I promise.”

Scott didn’t say anything. You held his hand a little tighter and let your other one fall to your side.

“What do we do now?” Liam asked awkwardly.

“We can’t hide from them,” Malia said, easing herself into the chair across from you.

“What about Lydia?” Liam asked as he stood up. “The Ghost Rider was afraid of her.”

“It wasn’t fear. It’s …” Lydia took a breath. She and Liam sat at the table. “It’s almost like reverence.”

“It doesn’t matter. The rift is gone,” Scott said. It had been a long time since you’d heard him sound so hopeless. “We’re the only ones left in Beacon Hills.”

A knock at the door interrupted your hollow comforts and Noah stepped into the kitchen. You hadn’t realized how happy you were that he hadn’t disappeared like everyone else until you saw him, despite the argument you’d had the last time you’d seen each other.

Noah met your eye as he pulled up a chair. “I have a son,” he said. “His name is Michislav Stilinski, but we call him Stiles. I remember.” He took a breath. “When Stiles was a little kid, he couldn’t say his first name. Not sure why, it pretty much rolls off the tongue,” Noah explained with a hollow laugh. “But, uh, the closest he could get was ‘mischief.’ His mother called him that until …”

You reached a hand out to Noah and he didn’t pull away. His hand was warm.

“I remember when, uh- When Stiles first got his Jeep,” Noah went on. His voice sounded raw. “It belonged to his mother. She wanted him to have it. The first time when he took a spin behind the wheel, he went straight into a ditch. I gave him his first roll of duct tape that day. He was always getting into trouble, but he always had a good heart. Always.”

Noah squeezed your hand and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“And we’re here tonight because my goofball son decided to drag Scott - his greatest friend in the world - into the woods to see a dead body,” Noah finished.

“How did you remember?” Scott asked softly.

Noah sighed. “It started with Stiles’ jersey,” he said with a look at Lydia. “Then I found the red string for his crime board. Finally, his whole room came back … and all the memories.”

Your mind drifted to the Feliscore Arcade token in your pocket and you felt a sudden stab of jealousy that was so violent that you had to check to make sure that your claws weren’t out. They weren’t. Noah still had his fingers.

“And then the strangest thing happened,” Noah said, snapping you back to reality. “I- I thought I saw him. It was like something opened right there in the middle of the room. Just for a moment.”

“A rift,” you said instantly. “It doesn’t matter the other the rift closed. If we remember Stiles, then we’ll open another one.” You got to your feet. “Can you- can you take me to his room? Anything. I need-”

Lydia said your name when you were talking and then again louder when you didn’t listen to her. “We need to slow down and think,” she said.

“I can’t!” you snapped. “All we’ve been doing is waiting, Lydia. I need to remember him.”

“We will,” Lydia promised. Her voice was strained and her eyes pleading. “We just need a little more time. Please.”

You clenched your jaw and caught Noah’s eye. Reluctantly, you sat back down. “Okay,” you said quietly. “What are you thinking?”

---

As you got the freezer ready in Chris’ bunker, you thought of submerging Isaac in ice water to get him to remember what happened when he found Boyd and Erica. It had been dangerous, but he insisted on doing it to find his friends. This was dangerous, but you all insisted on doing it to find Stiles.

As you hoped Isaac was doing alright, Scott slammed the bunker door shut behind Lydia and strained to turn the lock.

“Do you think it’ll hold them off?” Malia asked.

“No, but it’s all we’ve got,” you said. Your eyes flicked over to the freezer and you walked over to it. “I don’t know how cold this thing gets but it didn’t kill Parrish so I think I can handle it.”

“What does freezing have to do with remembering anyway?” Malia asked, clearly not impressed by the freezer.

“It’ll slow your heart rate and put you in a trance-like state,” Lydia explained. She looked at all the dials, buttons, and levers. “If we can figure out how to work it.”

“Well, this says ‘start’ and that says ‘stop’ so maybe it’s not that complicated,” Malia said. “Who’s first?”

“Me,” you said instantly.

“No,” Scott said. He looked at you carefully, doing his best not to argue. “Please. I need to do this.”

“Okay,” you said quietly. You nodded at him. “Be careful, please.”

Scott nodded and flipped a switch on the freezer. He turned around to take off his shirt and you tried to prepare yourself for what was going to happen. At least when it had been Isaac, you could hold his hand, but there was no hand-holding through the metal.

“Okay. It’s doing something. Are you ready?” Malia asked.

Scott gave a run-of-the-mill answer as he opened the freezer door. He looked at you as Lydia locked him inside. You hated this.

“Remember,” Lydia said, “this will get cold enough to kill you. So if something feels wrong or like it’s not working-”

“It’s going to work,” Scott said.

“I hope you’re not saying that because you think I know what I’m doing,” Lydia said.

Scott smiled. “I’m saying that because I know you can figure it out.”

Without another word, Lydia nodded and turned the temperature down on the freezer. All four knobs were turned to their maximums.

Scott started gasping and shivering. “Oh, okay. Alright, yeah- that’s really cold,” Scott sputtered. “Like really cold.”

“Scotty, it’s okay.” You took a step closer and put your hand on the glass. “I’m right here with you and I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re safe.” You were distantly aware of Malia and Lydia talking behind you but you were focused on your brother. “I need you to focus on my voice, okay? Can you hear me in there?”

“Scott, you have to concentrate on Stiles,” Lydia said as she took a step closer to you. “Try to picture him in your head. Think about what he looks like. The things he said.”

The freezer whirred loudly and Malia tensed. “I don’t like this,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”

“We need to give it a few seconds,” you said quietly. “With Isaac, he freaked out before it finally-”

Scott groaned and put his hand on the glass, exactly opposite yours. And then his whole body went still. He opened his eyes and they shined a brilliant red.

“Scott, can you hear me?” Lydia asked. He didn’t answer but his heart beat steadily. He was still breathing. “Scott, don’t fall asleep. You have to keep your eyes open.”

Scott sounded far away when he spoke again, “I’m trying.”

“It’s not sleep. I think you’re losing consciousness,” Lydia explained. “And if you do that, I think we’re going to lose you.” Scott’s eyes kept fluttering closed.

“Scott, stay awake,” Malia ordered. “Scott!”

Scott’s eyes closed. In that far away voice, he said, “Stiles, please let me out. It’s the full moon, I swear.” Your blood ran cold. It was working. “You know I wouldn’t do any of this on purpose. And it’s killing me. I feel completely … completely hopeless. Just let me out. Please?”

Your heart was going to beat out of your chest. Scott kept mumbling disjointed conversation and looking around him like he was looking for something.

“Scott, try to find him,” Lydia urged. “Try to find him in your memories.”

Scott’s heartbeat skyrocketed and he looked more frantic. It was just like when Isaac didn’t want to remember finding Erica’s body. He was terrified.

“Find him in any memory. Good or bad,” Lydia told him.

Scott looked like he was having a panic attack. Malia said he looked like he was lost.

“I think he is. I think maybe it’s too much information,” Lydia said.

“Isaac overloaded when he tried to remember,” you said quietly. You took your eyes off Scott to look at Lydia. “How do we get him to focus?”

Lydia took a shaky breath and looked at your brother. “Scott, can you hear me? You have to try to focus!”

Scott covered his ears with his hands.

“You hear that?” Malia asked, walking towards the door.

“Thunder?” Lydia asked.

“Maybe,” Malia said.

“Guys, we need to figure this out,” you said. “Scott is going to fry his brain if we can’t get him to focus, and then he’ll freeze to death.”

“I know!” Lydia took a shaky breath. “This is my first time opening a dimensional rift in space-time. I’m kind of just fumbling around in the dark here.” She got a look on her face that you recognized whenever she got an idea. “The dark,” she repeated. “I think we have to treat this more like actual hypnosis. They use images to guide you through the memories.”

“Okay, then let’s give him an image,” you said.

“Scott, can you hear me?” Lydia asked again. “Listen to me. I need you to imagine this. Imagine you’re in the high school. Visualize yourself in the high school, in the corridor where all the lockers are. Just try to imagine standing there. That’s where your memories are. They’re all in the lockers. They’re locked away behind each one. Every memory of Stiles is in a separate locker.”

Scott was still straining. He looked like he was in pain.

“Scott, you’re there. You’re in the high school,” Lydia said. “You’re standing there now.”

Scott went still. He dropped his hands and looked around slowly, carefully.

“Stiles, you there?” Scott asked quietly. Louder, he said, “Lydia, I need your help. I don’t think I can do this. I can’t figure it out.”

“You have to keep looking,” Lydia said gently.

“There are all these memories, but I don’t know which one’s the right one,” Scott said.

“Find another memory,” Lydia said. After your whispering, she added, “Any other memory will work. You just have to keep trying.”

Scott stayed still for a long time without saying anything else.

“It’s getting too cold,” Lydia said behind you. She walked closer to the tank to read one of the gauges. “He’s getting too cold.”

“What if it’s not enough to remember him?” Malia asked. “What if it’s some kind of a connection he’s supposed to make because of a memory?”

“Like an emotional connection?” you asked.

“That could be why it worked for Stilinski, right?” Malia asked.

“Scotty,” you said hesitantly. “All these memories are important, but Stiles is more than just a memory, okay? He is your best friend. He’s the person that’s been with you even before you were bitten, and he’s the person that will be there for you long after all this is over. He’s a piece of you. Scotty, he’s more than a memory. He’s your brother.”

Scott was so still that he looked dead. His heart was thready, faint. For a moment, he stopped breathing. Then he gasped and his eyes burned bright. Malia managed to pull him out just before he collapsed.

“What’s wrong? Why did you bring me out?” Scott cried. You never thought you’d be so happy to hear him whining.

“Your heart rate dropped. You were going to die,” Lydia told him harshly.

“We had to,” Malia said.

“But- but nothing happened, did it?” Scott asked. You looked away from him. “It didn’t work.”

You wouldn’t allow yourself to feel hopeless. You stood up and set your jaw. “I’m going in,” you said. “We know how to make it work now. You can get me to focus quicker. I- I’ll remember more.”

“No, put me back in,” Scott said. “I could feel something happening.”

“Yeah, hypothermia,” you said as you stepped around him. “Scotty, you’ve gotta let me do this or it will kill you.”

Scott stared at you for a few hard seconds. “Okay,” he said eventually.

“No, it’s too dangerous,” Lydia argued.

“Lyd, I love you but I’m going in there whether you help me or not,” you said. “You can either help me, or you can let me fumble through the dark and melt my brain.”

Lydia didn’t want to help you, but she knew you weren’t going to back down. “Okay, I have an idea for a visual,” she said. “But I’m not letting you kill yourself in there. If your heart rate drops-”

“You’ll pull me out,” you said with a smile. You kissed her cheek as you dashed around her into the freezer. “Let’s do this.”

Malia locked you in the freezer and Scott turned all the dials. You did your best to ignore them and focus on Lydia telling you to picture yourself in a car. Any car, as long as it had a radio.

“Every memory is a station,” Lydia said in her calm and clear voice. “You can change the station whenever you want. Are you sitting in the car right now?”

You looked around and found yourself in the powder blue Jeep. You felt yourself smile. “Yeah,” you said, putting your hand on the old gearshift. “Yeah, I’m in the car.”

“Okay, I need you to turn on the radio,” Lydia told you. “Every station is a new memory, and I need you to find a memory where you connected with Stiles. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you said quietly. You took your hand from the gearshift and touched the radio knob.

Taking a breath, you switched it on and immediately fell into a memory.

The spring in your bed poked into your back uncomfortably, but you didn’t hardly noticed anymore. Your body was sore and tired, and all you could think about was Stiles’ voice on the other end of the line.

“I really miss you,” you said before you could stop the words tumbling out of your mouth. Your hand tensed around the drawstring you’d been fiddling with. “I mean, not like you specifically. I miss being at home. With Scott. And my mom. And …”

“Me?” Stiles suggested drily. You heard him move around and sigh on the other end. “I miss you too, McCall. No one’s here to drive my Jeep into an old lady’s mailbox.”

“That was one time! It’s your fault for not telling me which one was the brake and which one was the accelerator.”

“I thought that was pretty freaking self-explanatory.”

You argued with him but you laughed anyway. You were filled with a light feeling in your chest as the line got quieter. The tiredness in your muscles faded into fuzzy happiness.

“You still there?” Stiles asked quietly.

“I’m still here,” you said softly.

“Good.”

The line was quiet again. After a few minutes, you heard Stiles snoring softly.

“I’ll see you soon, Stilinski,” you said with a small smile. “I love you.”

You breathed heavily and tried to focus. That wasn’t enough. You turned the station.

Stiles taught you how to drive. You taught him how to punch someone without snapping his wrist. He wrote you letters while you were at Willow Creek. You wrote him poems. Stiles. Stiles. Stiles.

He was everywhere but none of the memories were the right ones. None of them felt powerful enough to bring him back. You changed the station again, begging the Jeep to show you something meaningful.

The cold air washed over your face mercilessly, but you didn’t mind. The music coming from inside the rave was so far away that it actually sounded peaceful; thumping in time with your heartbeat as you balanced along the inner arc of Stiles’ mountain ash barrier.

“Is it always like this?” you asked, shooting him a teasing smile. He looked pretty in the moonlight.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stiles said with a half-hearted sigh. He looked like he was going to say something else but then he squinted at the bag in his hand. Something was wrong. “Hey, does it look like this bag is getting empty?” He brought it closer to his face to take a look, but before you could answer, he’d poured what was left into his hand. “Crap, crap, crap, cr-”

“Stiles,” you said, snapping him out of his stupor. “Calm down.” You put your hands on each of his shoulders and shook him lightly as you took a deep breath that you hoped he’d mimic.

Stiles refused to take a deep breath. Instead, he said, “Calm down? There’s like fifty feet of ground to cover and I’ve got like three sprinkles of magic fairy dust left!” He looked over to where the mountain ash needed to reach, shook his head, and took a shaky breath. “You know what? I’ll call Scott. Scott always knows what to do. I’ll call him.”

Stiles started fumbling for his phone but you caught his wrist and placed your hand over his. He stopped moving. “Stiles,” you said gently. “You don’t need to call Scott. You’ve got this. Plus, he probably won’t answer anyway.”

Stiles said your name in a replica of your tone of voice and added, “We don’t have enough mountain ash. Scott will help us.”

“Stiles!” You let out an exasperated sigh and let go of his hand. Looking him straight in the eye, you said, “This is your job. It’s all on you. You’ve gotta believe you can do this. Scott believes you. Deaton believes in you. I believe-”

You didn’t get the chance to tell Stiles that you believed in him because he kissed you. It was the first time that Stiles had ever kissed you, and it was better than anything you could have imagined. Your hand moved up to the side of his neck and your fingertips lightly covered his jaw.

“What was that for?” you asked quietly when he pulled away. You looked in his eyes and tried to find the answer.

When he spoke again, Stiles sounded like he was telling you a secret. Something he couldn’t quite explain himself. He said, “For believing in me.”

You let out another harsh breath as Lydia yelled that they were pulling you out.

“No!” you yelled. You changed the stations again until you found something. “One more memory. I just need one more-”

“It’s me. I’m next.” Stiles' voice sounded hollow as he lowered his phone from his ear. He slid it into his pocket and then he started running.

Even though you couldn’t remember him, you ran after him. He’d already been taken from you but you were determined not to let him disappear.

When you finally caught up to him, you grabbed his hand. “Hey!” It took Stiles a painstaking second to realize that you weren’t a threat. He recognized you, even if you had no idea who was back then. “Hey, let me help you,” you said quietly.

“What’s my name?” Stiles asked with a trembling voice and tears in his eyes. You knew him, and you knew the way his hands felt, and you knew his favorite color was blue, but you didn’t know his name. All you knew was how badly you wanted to make him safe. “Oh, god. You don’t remember me.”

“I know you,” you said adamantly. Your hand tightened around his. “I don’t- I don’t know how. I know you.”

Even though your hands were intertwined, Stiles lifted your hands to either side of your face and kissed you. The kiss was over in a second but it felt like you’d been kissing him all your life.

“I love you, but I’ve gotta go,” he said, sounding heartbroken.

He pulled away and started running again when you grabbed his hand again. “No! Let me come with you,” you begged.

Stiles looked like every second he spent with you broke his heart, and now you knew why. “You don’t even remember me.”

“But I know you,” you said. You changed your grip on his hand so that your fingers laced together tightly. “And I’m not letting anything happen to you. So wherever you’re running … I’m running, too.”

“Okay,” Stiles said quietly, not entirely believing what he’d agreed to. He nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”

Stiles started running, leading through the school at a pace too slow for a werewolf. Back then, you’d thought he might have been like Lydia because of how he kept looking at things that you couldn’t see and pulling you out of invisible danger.

“Don’t look at them,” Stiles warned. He sounded frantic. “Whatever you do, don’t fight them and don’t look at them or they’ll take you too.”

“But I-”

“Promise me.”

“I promise. No matter-”

The words caught in your throat. You wanted to yell ‘no matter what’ until you were blue in the face, but you had no control over the memory.

Stiles dragged you to his Jeep and fumbled for the keys as you slammed the doors shut behind you. He froze when he realized there was no escaping. He looked around and took a deep breath, holding the keys in his hand.

“Hey, we can still get out of here,” you said gently, leaning over to touch his hand. Fire spread through your fingertips.

“No,” Stiles said quietly. He looked over at you with the saddest, most hopeless expressions you’d ever seen. He broke your heart. “There’s no time.”

“There’s plenty of time,” you argued. You moved closer, trying to move his keys into the ignition. “Just start the car. We can go anywhere you want.”

“Hey, listen to me.” Stiles turned and cupped your face like he did in the hall, but he didn’t kiss you this time. “My name is Stiles. I’m gonna be erased, just like Alex. You’re going to forget me.”

“Stiles,” you repeated. “Stiles, I won’t forget you. Not again, okay? I can’t- I can’t lose again.”

“I love you,” Stiles said. And you knew he meant it. He knew you better than you knew yourself, and he loved you.

“I lo-”

The doors opened and you fell out of the freezer too soon. You didn’t get the chance to tell Stiles that you loved him, no matter what he did, no matter what happened to him. That you'd loved him since before you knew what love was.

“No, no, no,” you cried, fighting against Scott to crawl your way back to the freezer. “Let me go back to him. I need to tell him-”

“I know,” Scott said. He held you so tightly that his skin burned you to the touch.

“Scotty, please.” You sounded pathetic. Your face was clammy and wet with tears. You didn’t even know what you were asking him for as the whole bunker shook and green light filtered through the few windows high up. “Stiles,” you whispered.

You got to your feet and walked over to the door, leaning too heavily on Scott as the ice stubbornly clung to your bones and stabbed your muscles. There was a white light at the end of the tunnel and you pushed away from Scott to move towards it.

And then he started walking towards you. Stiles was right there.

You started running towards him with all the supernatural speed you could muster up, but he was gone before you even had the chance to give out beneath you. Stiles was gone and all he left you with was a pair of bloody palms to break your fall.

“No.” It was all you could get out. “No, I have to… have to get back in the freezer. I have to remember.”

Scott said your name gently as he helped you up. He told you that you couldn’t go back into the freezer because it would kill you.

“But he was here,” you said. “You saw him.”

“We didn’t see anyone,” Malia said.

“I saw him,” Lydia told you. “Stiles was here.”

Tagged: @ietss @used-avocado @trustfundparker

#teen wolf #teen wolf au #teen wolf rewrite #so close #mccall!reader #stiles stilinski #stiles slow burn #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinksi imagine

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taylorroger-s · 5 years ago

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shooting star // ben hardy x reader

a/n hooooolyyyy shit it has been a while since I've written something. this has actually been in my drafts since june, and was originally a response to an ask following me reblogging a prompt list. to the anon that requested it, sorry about that. but hey, it’s now done and personally, I think it’s pretty good. hope y’all think so too

plus, I've been in a ben mood after the 6 underground trailer so that gave me the motivation to finish

masterlist here!

enjoy :)

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you really weren't in the mood to leave the house.

your friday nights were usually spent curled up in your bed, eyes glued to your old hunk of a computer, burning through cheesy rom-coms and seasons upon seasons of any mildly interesting show you could find.

but after a brief pep talk by your roommate, you had dragged yourself to a university party where drunkards snogged in dark corners and booze was in no short supply. you were settled comfortably in the corner of a well-worn sofa, nursing a cup full of what you assumed was vodka and lemonade.

the party itself wasn’t as bad as you expected. letting loose once in awhile always helped relieve some of the stress built up by tests and essays. prior to sitting down, you had spent a good thirty minutes dancing to a strange assortment of classic rock ballads and eclectic disco melodies. once exhausted and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. you grabbed the mystery vodka concoction and sat down.

you were just starting to relax when one of the alcohol-fueled “men” stumbled into the growing circle of people seated in the middle of the chaos, haphazardly leaning on one another.

“yoooo,” the boy slurred, “let’s do… truth or dare!” you groaned, moving to leave when your friend ashley tugged on your arm, dragging you back to her side.

“cmon… it’ll be fun” ash pleaded, throwing her arms around your neck to pull you closer. you could smell the cigarettes, weed, and crude cocktails on her breath. with a dejected sigh, you sunk back into the couch, curling up against ashley. you had never really enjoyed the game of truth or dare. ever since your junior year, when you were pressured into stealing something from the headmaster’s office and ended up with a month of detention, you had avoided it pretty successfully.

“i don’t think so.” you muttered, finishing off your drink with one last gulp. that’s when you heard an achingly familiar voice. ben jones, childhood friend turned sworn enemy somewhere in junior high.

it was difficult to piece together how the rift between the two of your formed. your friendship was so pure, so uplifting. there was no one in the world you trusted more. the beginning of the end came when you had your first serious crush. a boy in your french class named john had asked you to the movies to see the third harry potter film.

but that was the issue. ben and you had seen the first two together, read the books together. suffice to say it was a sacred tradition between the two of you. so when you broke the news to ben about your date, he wasn’t the most supportive. it escalated into a heated argument, before you angrily left his room with tears streaming down your face. later that night he called and apologized, but things were never the same after that. the last true conversation you had ended with both of you renouncing your friendship and going your separate ways. for weeks after, you would catch yourself staring at the phone, waiting for a call; or waiting for the courage to call first. but every time you felt the urge to run back to him, the final words he said would come back to haunt you.

“you abandoned me”

“how could you?”

“i hate you.”

since then, things were never the same. no more late night phone calls, no more movie marathons. when john broke your heart, you didn’t have ben to turn to. you didn’t realize how much you cared about him until that moment. but you weren't about to run back into his arms. so you stayed silent, grew up and went to university without so much as a backwards glance to your former best friend. just your luck that he ended up in the same school, even if he was in a different major. as university dragged on you walked past him in the halls less and less. but then you would see him at parties, exchanging furtive glances when you thought the other wasn’t looking. you hadn’t has a direct conversation in years. so the fact that he was at the same random party, giving you grief, made your blood run cold.

“you don’t have to be such a downer, bugs.” ben chided, taking a sip from the beer in his right hand. there was another, unopened bottle in his left. he had the audacity to call you by a nickname you hadn’t heard in years. at the age of six, the two of you had become obsessed with the looney tunes, watching old reruns from the seventies and following along as new episodes came out. you had been dubbed bugs in honor of bugs bunny by him, and you took to calling him beaky. you could remember vividly scratching the words ‘bugs and beaky forever’ into a tree not far from your primary school’s front yard. he called you bugs? well two could play at that game.

“that’s rich coming from you beaky.” you shot back, keeping your eyes trained on a generic painting hanging on the opposite wall. you could feel him shift on the other side of the couch’s arm, taking a seat no more than two feet away from you. after a moment you couldn’t resist the pull and took a quick glance at your ex-best friend, sucking in a breath as he came into view. he had ditched the justin bieber hair you remembered, letting it grow and curl around his ears. you pressed your lips together in a firm line, slowly tearing your eyes away from his chiseled jawline and striking green eyes.

“alright, everyone have a drink?” the boy who introduced the game called, holding up a cup of his own. everyone raised their own in response. you glanced down at your lap where the empty cup sat. whoops. just when you were toying with the idea of simply bailing from the party, an unopened bottle dropped into your lap, cold against the denim fabric of your jeans. you whipped your head to the side, where ben was quietly watching the plastered people arranged in the messy circle. you stared at him for a moment before he spoke.

“you’re welcome” he huffed, taking a sip from his own, identical bottle. you twisted off the cap, twiddling it between your fingers for a moment.

“thanks.” you said through gritted teeth, shutting yourself up from saying anything more with a long swig from the bottle. and so the game began. you sat there, head on ashley’s shoulder, laughing at the silly dares asked and often scandalous truths. someone would spin an empty bottle in the center of the circle, and whoever it landed on they would ask that stupid, fated question. truth or dare?

you weren’t subjected to anything too horrible. anytime you reached a question or dare that you were uncomfortable with, you would simply take a quick chug from your steadily emptying bottle and laugh. as time dragged on you had confessed the worst cocktail you ever drank, the weirdest dream you ever had, and had given someone a brief kiss on the cheek.

once your turn rolled around the third time, you reached for the bottle, spinning it with a bit of difficulty due to the beer pumping through your system. it spun in two complete circles and then just a touch more, landing square on ben. just your luck. you turned to him, locking eyes with his stunningly green ones. he really was quite gorgeous. it made your breath catch in your throat as you pushed out the question.

“truth or dare?” you breathed, raising an eyebrow in challenge. your mind filled with a number of different options and possible outcomes for his response. part of you wanted to be malicious and embarrass him for some crude form of revenge, but deep down you still cared deeply for ben and would hate to see him miserable. there truly was a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.

“truth.” ben stated, crossing his arms firmly across his chest. his nonchalance steeled your spine and you held your chin high. your judgement was admittedly impaired by alcohol, but it was too late for you to change your mind. you needed to know the truth, whether or not it was in front of an audience.

“what’s the biggest lie you’ve told?”

he took in a sharp breath, moving his steely gaze to the frayed edges on his shoelaces. no more than a few seconds had passed between your question and his response, but it felt like an eternity. you clenched your fists repeatedly in your lap, habitually cracking them as the room stayed quiet. ben sighed, lifting his eyes just a tad to watch you through his long eyelashes.

“that i hate you. that you abandoned me. that i never wanted to see you again. take your pick” he almost hissed out the words, jumping to his feet and walking out when he had finished. you sat in stunned silence with the rest of the group, slowly processing what he said. someone coughed, another sneezed. still the silence stretched on. then ashley elbowed you in the ribs.

you whirled around, mouthing the word ‘what?’ and giving her a glare. she rolled her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. you crossed your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at her as you waited for an answer. she pointed wildly towards the door that ben had disappeared into, eyes wide as she gestured. it was very easy to read her exaggerated movements. she wanted you to talk to him. you knew you had to talk to him. but you didn’t want to. yet, after a beat, you groaned internally and headed towards the door, flipping ashley the bird as you left.

ben was a few rooms away, brooding silently as he gazed out a window. you took a seat across from him, resting your head on the chipped window frame. there was a plush bench situated against the wall, pillows tucked up against the glass. the two of you were seated on the floor, curled in similar positions, mirroring each other. the party seemed to have resumed in the other room, giggles and fits of laughter filling the air.

"so…" you began, grappling for some way to start up a conversation. you heard ben let out a heavy breath through his nose, tucking his hand under his chin. his profile was bathed in moonlight, casting a monochromatic glow on his chiseled features. his lips were turned into a distinct frown.

"so what?" you rolled your eyes. just as stubborn as he was when the two of you were kids. it summoned a memory of him nearly beating up a boy for calling you names, while you did your best to drag him away. always your defender, whether you needed it or not. another memory to make your heart ache as you sat straight across from that same, hot-headed boy.

“are we going to talk about what just happened?” you said, tone slightly terse. you suddenly wished you were back in your room, curled up in your covers, repressing memories of a happier time. a time where your only worries were what games to play and looney toons episodes to watch. a time where it was just you and ben against the world.

“suppose so.” he sounded just as tense as you, which for some reason pissed you off. he didn’t have to answer the question with something that hadn’t ever been addressed between the two of you. he could have said something inconsequential and you both could have continued on with your lives. but his admission needed to be dealt with, and it fell to you to make him explain.

“since you seem so keen to begin a conversation, i’ll start. why did you lie in the first place?” you could feel a lump rise in your throat. even after years of no contact, you still cared about him. his rejection all that time ago still stung. you deserved to know the truth.

“next question.” ben answered, voice still flat and emotionless. however, you could tell that he wasn’t unaffected by your prying. the muscles in his jaw had tightened, and you watched as he ran a hand through his hair. his gaze was drilled on something out the window, as if he was adamant not to look at your face.

“fine, smartass. why did my going on a date piss you off so much?” you were now fully focused on him, silently begging to any god that might exist for an answer that you had waited so long for.

“it wasn’t that you were going on a date,” you raised an eyebrow, doubtful of his answer, but he continued speaking, “it was that you were going to see harry potter. that was our thing. our tradition. in my adolescent boy brain, you were replacing me.” he suddenly sounded years younger, just like the boy you would play football with in the dead of night and share sweets with after school. his expression had also softened, eyes tentatively flicking back to you every couple seconds.

“you know that nothing would ever replace you. thick as thieves, mum used to say. i never would have replaced you for a middle school crush. so, why. did. you. lie?” you sounded strained, mad that he had ever for a moment thought anyone was more important to you than him. no person could fill the space he left behind.

“because i was jealous alright? jealous that you chose him over me. jealous that he got to hold your hand, take you to dances. i was jealous because i loved you, and you slipped away before i did anything to show you how much i cared.” ben snapped, tone softening as his confession went on, voice cracking near the end. he had been waiting to say those words for what felt like a lifetime. a weight was lifted of his shoulders, and, by association, yours as well. despite the somber nature of your conversation, you could feel a smile spread across your features. you were now entirely looking at each other, stupid, love-struck kids once more.

“ben, you total dork. i would have chosen you over him every time. you were who i truly cared about. but i’m not a mind reader, so when you never said anything, i assumed it was because my feelings weren’t reciprocated. therefore, i tried to move on. didn’t work by the way. nothing i did could make me stop loving you.” you reached out a hand and he gently took it, lacing your fingers with his. he too had a soft smile on his face, gaze shifting to your intertwined hands. his thumb rubbed small circles on the back of your hand, warming your skin with his touch.

“guess we're both idiots.” he looked back up, locking eyes with you. all at once, your feelings came rushing back. you could do nothing else but smile as the minutes passed by, still connected to ben through his outstretched hand. you tilted your head to look back out the large window, tracing the shapes of constellations between the stars. one flew by; a shooting star. your wish was simple: that you never had to let go of ben ever again.

“guess so.”

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yee haw kids i’m finally getting back into it (if you call finishing off a draft that’s been there since june getting back into writing but shh)

here’s to more motivation in the weeks to come!

#ben hardy #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy x you #benhardy #ben hardy fanfic #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy fluff #ben hardy angst #ben hardy fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #angst #idk if it can be called either but oh well #writing #please oh please reblog #help a girl out #that'd be stellar

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 5 years ago

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Temporary Ideal (Part 1)

The Beach FanFic (Leonardo DiCaprio) - Written decades ago. (uff!) Can find in entirety on Wattpad. May add additional parts if it ever gets some likes/reblogs.

~~~~~

The shade from the palm made the dampness of the air around me more palpable. I could feel the condensation on my arms, face and lips. I shivered in the early dawn, waiting for him. Waiting and thinking. This spot, near Bugs’ bridge, was the unofficial entrance to the village. It was where I had laid eyes on him for the first time. I remembered it clearly, like it was yesterday. Recalling that moment, surrounded by the soft rays of a new day, it was hard to believe it had been six months since the “Three Musketeers” had backpacked into our community.

~~~~~

It happened right after Vera had thrown me the last of the bed sheets. I had taken the worn nub of the last remains of Unhygenix’s homemade soap, and rubbed it lazily against the sheet draped over the granite slab. I hated laundry duty. Even though Vera moaned and groaned when we had the garden shift, I would gladly trade in my pruned fingers for dirt strewn ones. There was the quiet that was only disrupted by the buzz of an insect or the occasional tears of dead leaves. The hope experienced planting seeds for the new crop. Picking the ripe fruit and sneaking a taste of one, delicious pear before the rest of the community. My innate green thumb surprised me. I wouldn’t have looked twice at a cornfield or row of tomato plants in my “other” life. Here, though, things were different.

“Oh… my… God!” Vera’s faux valley girl inflection had taken over for a moment. Alarmed, I froze, staring down at the water flowing past my bare thighs. The last time Vera had voiced that exclamation while doing the wash had been when she had a spotted eel wrapped around her calf. We never were sure if the eel was very friendly, very horny or very tired of intruders in that particular spot of the lagoon. She had grabbed that sucker and smashed it against a rock like a bullwhip. Poor thing never knew what hit him, or her, or it. I made a mental note never to sneak up on Vera after that.

“What?” My focus shifted to Vera’s line of sight, which hadn’t been the water. My mouth opened slightly, feeling the dryness that had suddenly appeared. I’m sure everyone in the community had the same feeling at that moment. There they were, walking over the bridge, entering our territory. Keaty led the way. His tour of duty by the waterfall had turned out to be the most eventful one in two years.

“Three.” Vera waded toward the bridge. My mind had quickly processed the total. My attention was all on the person following six steps behind Keaty. I could tell immediately that he was American. I’m not sure what gave him away first, but the quick nod of recognition he gave Vera solidified it.

American. Even though I felt fear and uncertainty at their presence, I still smiled. There was another one of us. Four now. And there was another reason I was smiling. That flight of butterflies that had remained dormant in my stomach for what now seemed like an eternity, was performing aerials I couldn’t remember ever experiencing. It may have just boiled down to the fact that there was new meat. Available meat. It was obvious, the solitary way he strode ahead of the other man and woman, that he was alone.

He was tan, lean and long. Everything about him screamed California boy, kissed by the sun from his golden-brown strands to the shine of his skin. He tightly gripped the end of what looked like a trash bag over his right shoulder, eyes darting this way and that, taking in the entirety of the environment. He passed over me as quickly as he had everyone else. I was too far away to make out the color of his eyes, but his stare was intense enough for me to feel he meant business. They hadn’t just stumbled across our paradise. This had been a quest. And I was pretty sure he was the one who had been in charge for most of it.

Vera looked over to me after they had passed. “Let’s hurry this shit up and get our asses back to the longhouse. I don’t want to miss Sal’s face when she sees this.” I nodded in agreement, and then shook my head at the thought of Sal’s expression. I hoped I would be able to get some prime seating.

~~~~~

We slipped in after the impromptu “family meeting” had already taken place.

Sophie stood in the darkened corner and motioned quickly to both of us as soon as we came in. We huddled together for catch up.

“They have a map.” Sophie nodded her head toward the middle of the longhouse, where the majority now congregated. Sal was in full mother-hen mode. I spotted the paper in her hand.

“To the beach?” Vera asked and Sophie nodded. My eyes canvassed the area. I saw the back of blonde boy. “Who are they?” Vera questioned again.

“The couple is French.” I looked over at Sophie in time to see a slight smile. It would be an addition to the already large French line. “Etienne and Francoise. The other one is Richard. An American.”

Richard. I let the name dance in my head a few times, unable to hide the vindication that my guess to his nationality had been correct. I didn’t need to hear any more from Sophie. I walked around the circle, just outside the radar of being noticed. Blending into the background had always been my best skill and too much was going on for anyone to pay attention to me anyway. They were all fixated on the visitors. I could spot rage on some faces, fear on others. But Sal would not let these new arrivals leave. I had known her long enough to realize that fact.

I sat on my bunk thankful Richard was on the exact opposite end. My legs crossed. I could hear the buzz of conversation around me. All of my senses besides sight had dulled, been drowned out, by the activity occupying me. Taking in every aspect of this man was now top priority. Boyishness graced his face, but the dominance of the man emerging was putting up a fierce battle with that appearance. In his 20s definitely, but as to which end of the scale he tipped closer to was still up in the air. The beauty and symmetry of his face elicited one word into my mind. Perfect. The shadows of late afternoon, however, didn’t allow a peek at his eye color. The somber, stuffy atmosphere of the hut matched the mood of its inhabitants.

My hearing tuned in at the sound of his voice, answering a question from Sal. I let the pitch and tone of his words flow inside. Even his words felt right to my ears. “It was on my hotel door one morning. I’d had this weird conversation with a guy staying next door to me the night before. He kept talking about this beach. So when I found the map, I figured it was from him. The guy who drew it…”

“Daffy.” Sal finished his sentence for him. The name jarred memories and haunting images of the rift that formed right before Daffy had left the island. The friction between Daffy, Sal and Bugs had become unbearable. I wanted to ask about Daffy, but the question only screamed inside my mind. There would be no disruptions while class was in session, at least not from the well-behaved students.

“Yeah, he’s dead.” My mouth dropped open, hearing that cold, factual sentence from Richard. That sentence did not come from one who had spent countless nights listening to Daffy’s stories around the fire. Not one who had ventured back with him to the mainland at least a dozen times for rice runs. And not one who had seen the love for something pure turn into an obsession to protect it. I tried to let the realization of Daffy’s death sink in, but I knew it would take forever to finalize it. I saw the whispers and stunned expressions take over the group.

Someone, I think Dale, exclaimed, “No way!”

Richard continued. “Yeah, he cut his wrists open in a hotel room on the Ko Sahn Road.”

Gregorio stared in horror at Richard. “You have seen this?”

“Well, I came afterwards.” There was no easy way to break this kind of news to a family. It was like a police officer knocking at a son’s door in the middle of the night to tell him his parents had been killed in a car accident. Empathy is a hard feeling to fake. You just don’t know until you have been there. I guessed Richard had yet to experience a close death.

“Well, that’s sad news. He was one of the founders of our community.” I spotted Vera, still in the corner with Sophie, listening to Sal. I hoped she had sense enough to hold her tongue.

“Oh.” Richard nodded his head slightly.

“But he became depressed.” There had been a clearing of the throat, somewhere from the crowd, after Sal’s addition. My stomach tensed up. It was amazing how fast people forgot all the good. Most of the bad feelings toward Daffy were present because of Sal’s talks and speeches since he had left. How he had become a liability, an acceptable loss for the protection of our community.

I saw Richard survey the reaction quickly. He had felt the bad blood and my eyes narrowed as I watched him try and feed off of it. “The police didn’t know what to do with the body so I guess they’re going to like incinerate him or something.” His smile and sudden laugh felt forced, out of place. He immediately realized his mistake, turning his head to the side to avoid the eyes of the community. He scratched the back of his head.

Sal took no note of it. I knew she was concerned with only one thing. “Do you think he gave a map to anybody else?”

Richard stared at her for a second, shaking his head in doubt. “Ah, no… I don’t think so.” I noticed relief on his face, thankful that the attention had been shifted from his foot-in-mouth display.

She looked at Etienne, Francoise and Richard, one by one. “And you, have you shown this map to anybody?”

They answered one after the other. “No.”

“Good.” She handed the open map to Richard. I felt another example coming on. She grabbed Bugs’ lighter and smiled, “We value our secrecy.” She lighted the map at the bottom as Richard held it. I heard the clapping begin. With that, our new members had been baptized.

~~~~~

After dinner, the nightly ritual of bedtime began for all in the longhouse. The newly arrived were given their sleep locations. I quietly prayed to whatever Thai god had whispered in Sal’s ear and placed him an easy glance across the floor from me. It was a beautiful change of scenery.

Keaty was filling him in on how things ran daily in the hut when Sonja stood up. I sighed. It was a language class tonight. She politely requested everyone’s attention and began her translation prompt.

“Listen up, everybody.” Her blonde bob shook a bit as she scanned the room. Linguistic learning was mainly someone reciting a line in English – which everyone on the island spoke – and expecting a translation in the teacher’s native tongue. In Sonja’s case, we’d be regurgitating the phrase in Croation. I always cursed Sal when it was time for this, as it had been her bright idea to begin this ages ago. I enjoyed poetry night so much more. I didn’t have to worry about getting called on to speak in front of the class.

“OK. Tomorrow I will travel for many miles on a bicycle.” She nodded her head towards the right of the hut. “Um, Vicki.”

Sitting just off to Richard’s side, Vick stopped in mid hit. I was curious if she had spoken to Richard much upon his arrival. She was a California girl. If my assumptions about where he was from were right, they might have a lot to talk about. She took just a second to contain her smoke before beginning. “Uh, sutra cu potovati mnogo milja bicicklom.”

I watched Richard listen intently before looking to Sonja to see how well Vicki had done. “Great, very good.” Sonja went on to her next victim. Though I should have been paying attention in case I was called, I was spending more time studying Richard.

After Helene, it was Keaty’s turn. In typical fashion, he stood up proudly. “All right. It’s far too easy, though.” With little effort, the words flowed freely out of his mouth. Cockily, he continued the rant. From what I could tell, his bicycle ride was going to be in the park after he ate a big breakfast. I shook my head, laughing at his pompous behavior as the rest of the group jeered. They eventually drowned him out. “There’s more, you know.” Before he sat down he took over Sonja’s duty and called out the next name. “Richard!”

There was an immediate hush. The newbie looked around and cleared his throat. To all listening, he choked out the words in a broken fashion; but, still surprisingly correct. Keaty yelled out in admiration, “Richard, you’re represented, man!” As was customary, the rest of the community applauded in sign language with their hands shaking while raised above their heads. I joined in on the compliment.

Richard grinned from ear to ear as he looked around the room. I felt that hiccup in my chest again as his eyes fell on me for a brief second. His eyes sparkled in the lantern lights. It was time to curse myself for being such a sucker for blue eyes.

~~~~~

Six months later, he was still only someone I studied from afar. There was the occasional friendly or duty-related chit-chat. But he had assimilated quickly, making a name for himself in the process. He still had a while to go, still only the second-string quarterback of the island. I, on the other hand, was hardly in the running for head cheerleader or homecoming queen.

He had become chummy with Keaty. I had gotten most of my information on Richard through him. The one thing I didn’t need explained to me was the crush he had on Francoise, the French girl that had accompanied him on the journey. I wondered if Etienne’s ignorance to his friend’s feelings about his girlfriend was simply a show. The looks Richard gave Francoise were just a bit too long. I hoped my crush was not as obvious to everyone else.

“Beth!” Keaty strode up beside me on the way back from a day of tilling in the garden.

“What’s up?”

“Have a question for you, love.” I always grinned when he said that.

“Shoot.”

Always the gentleman, he took my shovel, and leaned it against his right shoulder as we walked.

“Triple A’s. In short supply. Got any I can borrow?”

“God, Keaty, what have you been doing with them lately?”

“Not me only, Richard’s been hogging my GameBoy as well. We’re thinking of starting our own group. VGAA.” I stared at him curiously. He smiled explaining, “Video Game Addicts Anonymous.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Well, I don’t know if I should be a facilitator then, supplying you with the means to continue this addiction.”

“Ah, but the first step on the road to recovery is admission, which I’ve already done. Can’t stop cold turkey, right?”

“I’ll have some for you after dinner.”

“Thanks, Beth. You are a life saver, have I told you that?”

I nodded.

“Well, you are. I’m not the only one that knows it, love.”

“Enough sucking up, I already said I would give them to you.”

“Right. How about trying a game of cricket with me tomorrow then?”

“That’s OK, I prefer watching.”

“I’ve noticed.” I slapped his arm after that comment.

“Don’t hit me over the truth.” We both laughed, approaching the clearing to the beach. I didn’t spot Richard until Keaty had called over to him. “Richard, my man, we are back in business!”

Richard turned upon hearing his name. He sat on the beach with Christo and his fishing spear in hand. He nodded, smiling. “What Keaty!?”

“Got our dealer right here!” He placed his free hand over my shoulder. “Kong competition tonight!”

I felt myself blush with his attention on me. “Cool! Thanks Beth!” He waved over to the both of us.

I nodded and freed myself from Keaty’s grasp and grabbed the shovel back. “Gotta wash up, Keaty.”

~~~~~

I’d settled down in my bunk after a satisfying meal of rice and catfish, accompanied by an unexpected salad. I thought about the crop we would be working on the next day and couldn’t wait for the tomatoes to ripen. They’d be a great addition to Unhygenix’s menu.

I searched in my satchel for the book of poetry by Thoreau.

“Beth?”

My eyes looked up to find Richard towering above me.

“Yeah?” I smiled despite myself.

He bent at the knees, lowering himself to my eye level. “Don’t mean to be a pain, but Keaty and I,” I stared into his blue eyes a bit longer than I should have.

“Oh!” I mentally slapped my forehead. “The batteries.” He smiled, nodding. “Sorry, I forgot all about it.”

“No problem, just didn’t know how much longer Keaty and I could last before we experience withdrawal symptoms.” He chuckled, leaning his forearms against his knees.

I laughed, reaching over to my cigar box, my little treasure chest. “What are some of the symptoms?”

I turned back to see him hunched over, eyes wide, with his thumbs rapidly pressing invisible buttons. “Nothing too severe.” He started twitching his head. He continued the act. “Jump… Right… Punch”. I waved four batteries in front of his face, grinning. He relaxed immediately, opening a palm for the alkaline gems to drop inside of. “Whew, thanks.” He winked, and then smiled, as his hand clutched them tightly. “Could have gotten ugly.”

“Glad I could fix you up.”

“I owe you.”

I smiled, thinking of a few ways he could pay me back. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Night.”

“Good Night, Richard.”

I watched him stand up and turn, ready to make his way over to Keaty’s corner. I was about to resume the search for my book when I saw him turn back out of the corner of my eye. “Beth?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I was wondering… well,” he knelt down once again, “if you could help me with something?”

I nodded.

He looked around, I guessed to make sure no one was paying close attention. I noticed him lingering his gaze in Sal’s direction before continuing, slightly above a whisper this time. “It’s about Daffy.”

It had been months since I had heard anyone utter his name. “Daffy?”

He nodded. “It’s just that… ever since we came here, I’ve had a lot of questions about him. I mean he’s the reason we’re here. But, no one talks about him. I’ve asked Sal once, and Keaty a few times, but they just clam up or change the subject. The only thing I got out of Keaty was that you were close to him.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Could you tell me something about him then? Tomorrow maybe?”

“Sure.”

“I��ll meet up with you after fishing duty.”

“OK.” I smiled.

“Thanks.”

“Good night. Again.” He smiled, walked off. I lay back, placing my hand under my pillow. That’s where Thoreau turned out to be hiding. I pulled the worn book out, inspecting it. Thoughts of curling up with a few of his verses were now long gone. I had someone else to dream about.

#leonardo dicaprio fanfiction #dicaprio fanfic #the beach movie

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eternityunicorn · 6 years ago

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Elijah’s Eternity: Smutty Oneshot - Goodbye, Hello +18

Author: eternityunicorn

Genre: Romance/AU

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x OC

Warnings: Smut, pure unadulterated smut! (*Smut chapters marked +18)

Summary: Lost to monster behind the red door, Elijah goes on a killing spree, killing anyone who dared to stand in his way and even a few innocent bystanders. Eternity attempts to bring him back from the brink, but her pleas fail to reach him. Therefore, in a desperate act, she leaves him, which does the trick to free him from the monster. Devastated, he believes all is lost, but then she returns one day and he takes her for a drive to apologize - and to beg her to stay.

NOTE: OC is from my up and coming novel series!

AUTHOR’S COMMENTARY: This is a fic based off of a request by @hawaiianohana31. I hope you like it! Enjoy!

———————————————————————————————————

Elijah Mikaelson was a man of impeccable taste and flawless control. He never raged. He always remained cool, collected, and rational, unlike his more hot tempered brother, Niklaus or his bloodthirsty brother, Kol. Because of this, he was often more terrifying to his enemies than his brothers, but also more capable of mercy.

However, Esther, his witch mother, had devastated that control he had in a twisted mind game that left him fractured and untethered from it. He went on a rampage, becoming as mercilessly violent as his hybrid brother, but worse, for he had no mental stability to speak of and slaughtered others in cold blood. He tore through his family’s enemies, killing many in the name of protecting his family, no matter if they deserved death or not.

Elijah’s wife, Eternity Mikaelson, had bore witness to these terrible acts that would have left the sane version of himself horrified by his own actions. She attempted to reach him, time and time again. She tried to call him back from the darkness, to help him cage the monster behind the red door, but not even her pleas could bring him back to his sanity.

Finally, she couldn’t take anymore. While she refused to kill him, she also couldn’t stay and watch him descend further into darkness. She believed that a separation might do him some good, that maybe it would wake him up from the black void of horrific violence. It was a gamble, as it could have the opposite effect and make his out of control behavior worse, but these were desperate times and she’d do anything to get her husband back.

That had been a month ago and quite frankly, it had worked. Eternity leaving him had the right effect, calling Elijah back to himself at last. However, he remained grieved. Of course he did. His wife had left him because of his inexcusable behavior.

Instead of being a murderous beast, the Original divulged into a mournful and lonely man, haunted by his own choices. There seemed to be no hope for him, only a more painful darkness - one without his wife by his side.

Then, when all seemed forever lost, Eternity came home!

Elijah found her standing on the balcony of their bedroom one night, as he sought solitude for himself. At first he didn’t believed she was there. At first he thought he was seeming things. Yet, it wasn’t a hallucination. She was really standing there with her back toward him and her long white hair billowing loosely all around her.

He moved as casually as he could toward her, coming to stand in the doorway that lead out onto the balcony, not daring to move any closer. “Hello, Sweetheart,” he murmured cautiously.

Eternity turned gracefully to look at him over her shoulder. She did not smile and there was a deep sadness in those sapphire eyes of hers as she gazed at him. Furthermore, she didn’t speak. It was as though she was waiting for him to say something.

In truth, he didn’t know how to begin. He didn’t know what to say.

Then he remembered what they used to do when they had arguments. After some time to cool off, they would come together to try and resolve whatever rift lay between them, while trying to avoid prying ears. To do this, they would always jump in his car and go for a drive, driving to the lake front on the other side of town, where they would park and talk until they had finally rebuilt whatever bridge had been broken between them.

This was certainly one of those situations.

“Let’s go for a drive,” Elijah quietly requested, unsure if he should. “We can talk privately.”

Eternity remained perfectly still. She didn’t blink or seem to breathe as she looked at him blankly.

He thought she was going to reject his suggestion. He worried that she was going to tell him that it was over between them and that she was leaving for good. He held his breath as he waited for her to say something - anything!

“Very well,” murmured Eternity finally. “Let’s go.”

Letting out the breath he had been holding in his relief, Elijah lead her out of the bedroom and down through the courtyard to the basement garage where the cars were kept. They climbed into his black Porsche Panamera and quickly drive away into the night, heading toward the lake.

They didn’t talk the whole way, waiting until they reached their destination to do so.

Once they were parked in front of the beach, Elijah shut his car off and turned toward Eternity. “I want to apologize for...well, everything,” he began. “I never meant to hurt you or to drive you away with my actions. When my mother broke me, I lost all sense of control. The monster within came forth, untethered from my carefully laid discipline over myself. I’m sorry. I swear to you to do better, to be better.”

Much to his surprise, the ethereal beauty smiled softly, “I understand. In truth, the note I think about it, the more I realize that I should have rescued you sooner from that harpy. Then perhaps this whole thing could have been avoided.”

“This isn’t your fault,” insisted Elijah. “Only my mother and myself are to blame.”

“We are all to blame,” she responded. “Even so, neither of us are strangers to violence or death, killing those who deserve it. We both would do anything to protect those we love. However, what you were doing, what you were becoming, was far beyond that desire. You were killing people unnecessarily, those that didn’t deserve death. Quite frankly, you were acting like Niklaus or better yet, like Kol.”

“I know,” he admitted.

Eternity gazed at him contemplatively, “It does seem as if you have recovered from your brokenness or at least, you have begun to. The light of your humanity has returned to your eyes. I can see it there.”

“I have recovered,” he nodded, reaching over to brush back the soft hair that framed her face and then cup the side of her neck tenderly. “Listen to me, I’ll never put you through something like this again. I’ll never lose control again. I won’t be so easily broken. Ever. I promise you that.”

The ethereal beauty grew deadly serious, “I should hope not, because next time, I won’t be able to simply walk away. As it is, I shouldn’t have this time. If there is a reoccurrence of this madness, I will do whatever is necessary to put a stop to it. So we will have to be vigilant in ensuring I am not forced into a situation where I will have to stand against you, or worse, be forced to live my life without you.”

“You won’t,” said Elijah with determination.

His wife leaned forward until her nose was nearly touching his, reaching to cup his cheek lovingly as she whispered, “Good. I love you, Elijah.”

Then she kissed him passionately, her tongue prying his mouth open and darting inside urgently.

From there, things took a heated turn quickly. Elijah felt his body respond to her needy kiss immediately. Not one to be outdone, he took control of the situation, fisting the hair at the back of her head and tugging her head back so that their mouths disconnected. He stared at her lustfully and she mirrored him, licking her lower lip with a hooded gaze.

Without a word, his mouth reattached itself to hers in a demanding kiss, his tongue dipping into hers this time. Their tongues battled for dominance until Eternity finally relented, letting him taste her throughly. He listened as she moaned into his mouth, while the delicious scent of her arousal waffled up to his nose.

“I missed you,” Elijah murmured against her lips, between kisses.

Eternity smiled lovingly, with lust sparkling in her eyes. Then she grabbed his face in her hands. “It’s been too long. Make love to me, Elijah,” she moaned, drawing her mouth towards his again. “Fuck me.”

He groaned and growled, closing his eyes briefly as her words stirred his own lust for her to new heights. Then opening them again, he smirked cheekily at her, “There is a difference between making love and fucking, Sweetheart. Therefore, the questions is: which one do you want? To make love or to fuck?”

Eternity gave a warning growl of her own at his playfulness. She took matters into her own hands then, bringing his mouth to hers and kissing him hungrily. As she did, she transported them into the backseat of his car magically. She had him sitting in the center with her straddling his lap, while she continued to kiss him needfully. Her hips rocked, grinding into him, making him hard beneath her.

His wife’s little hands set to work removing his clothes. First, she stripped him of his suit jacket with his help, then she undid his tie, tossing both over the front passenger seat. Her hands deftly reached and began undoing the buttons of his shirt until she had his shirt open enough to touch the bare skin of his chest with her soft hands.

Elijah pulled his mouth from hers to gaze up at her briefly before he once again took back control. He took the flimsy fabric of her silky dress, knowing she was bare beneath, and tore it from her body in two strips that he tosses aside aimlessly. Immediately, his mouth latched onto her throat, suckling and nipping at it with his human teeth, while his hands ran up her back beneath her long wisps of white hair. Then his mouth trailed lower to kiss over her collarbone and then over one breast, as his hand reached to kneed the other one.

The immortal queen moaned and leaned back to give him better access. She gripped the back of his head, holding him to her, as she enjoyed his attentions. Then, a short while later, she gently pushed him back against the seat and quickly returned his affections in kind. She kissed along his jaw and then his neck, taking things further by reaching a hand between their bodies and undoing his pants and reaching inside to caress his hardened length.

The Original leaned his head back and let out a throaty groan as he bucked into her touch. He watched her face as she grinned at him, bitting her lower lip mischievously as she stroked him.

“Impatient, are we? Elijah smirked, as he panted slightly.

Without missing a beat, she nodded, “Yes!”

Then Eternity removed her hand from his cock, but not before lining him up with her entrance. She lifted herself fluidly and slammed down onto his length until he was buried to the hilt inside her.

They both threw their heads back and groaned loudly at the sensation of being joined.

Eternity didn’t sit still for long and began a swift pace, moving up and down on him rapidly. As she did, her mouth descend upon his again, kissing him breathlessly with her tongue keeping time with her hips. Her hands cupped his neck, keeping him there as she kissed him passionately.

Because of the urgency in their need for each other, it didn’t take long for them both to reach their peaks. This was especially true as Elijah began to rock up into her as she descended, over and over again. Soon, her walls were fluttering around him as pleasure took hold and then they clamped down, squeezing him as she came, tearing her mouth from his as she did to cry out into the air.

Her orgasm triggered his own. With a few more thrusts, he was spilling into her with a loud roar that he muffled by burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Elijah allowed them to rest, but only more a moment. He was not quite done. He wanted more.

Before long, he was changing positions, pushing Eternity onto her back against the backseat of his car, while he hovered over her. He grinned down at her, brushing back her hair as he gazed lovingly at her. He enjoyed the way she smiled back, glad to know that she had forgiven him for his wrongs.

Then, after briefly kissing her lips, the Original moved into position, thrusting into her with one hard push, seating himself inside her to the hilt again. Eternity’s limbs wrapped around him tightly as she was once more filled by his still hard cock. Her mouth found his as well, kissing him without stop as he began to move inside her.

He pulled out slowly, enjoying the way her walks clung to him as he did, and then slammed back inside hard. He moved this way at a steady pace, finding the perfect rhythm that had his lady panting and moaning, begging him for more in between kisses. He held her close, as he brought them both to their peaks again.

“Please, Elijah,” Eternity panted quietly in his ear. “More...more! I’m so...close!”

With her pleas, Elijah moved harder - faster. He slammed into his lovely wife that clung to him tightly as she was growing closer to falling off the edge, feeling his own body following suit all over again.

Then Eternity’s walls clamped down on his cock for a second time as her orgasm took her. Her limbs tightened around him as her body seized.

As before, her end triggered Elijah’s and he spilled into her once more. This time, instinct took hold and his vampire visage emerged to sink his fangs into the ethereal beauty’s neck. He drank from her greedily, enjoying the taste of her sweet blood, while simultaneously triggering Eternity to experience a third orgasm that closely followed the previous one.

Once Elijah had his fill, he dislodged his fangs and let his human visage return, lazily lapping at the stray bits of blood from the already healed puncture wounds on her neck. He rested there with his face buried in her neck, finding contentment in letting her hold onto him as they came down from their pleasure highs.

“I love you, Elijah,” Eternity murmured contentedly, as she cradled his head in her hand. “I have missed you so much.”

“Does this mean you’re coming home, Sweetheart?” Elijah asked with a small smile, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it from her. “Does this mean you’ll stay?”

The immortal beauty laughed slightly, “Of course it does! In fact, I hope to never have to leave your side again. I want to be here with you always.”

Shifting and sitting up slightly, so that he could look at her face, the Original kissed her forehead and then rested his against hers as he whispered, “I swear, you and I will never be forced to separate again. We will remain together - always and forever.”

Eternity smiled lovingly at him and nodded, “Yes, always and forever.”

The End

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Tag List: @elejah-wonderland @dendrite-lover @missnmikealson @inmylifeilovedthemall @xanderling @esclisa @fandom-princess-forevermore @elejahforever @elizamonet @freshsuitcasewinnereagle @loulouisa @teekillerin @x-memi12 @lolelijahishot @elijahandkollover

#elijah mikaelson #daniel gillies #original character #elijah x eternity #romance #drama #alternate universe #the originals #the originals fanfiction #the vampire diaries #the vampire diaries fanfiction

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anxietymymiddlename · 6 years ago

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Lethe ~ Reaching You~

Pairing: Jumin H. x MC4 Summary: Born as a powerful wizard, unable of feeling, a strange encounter and a tempting suggestion will lead him to another world, in a new life, in order to reach her. Will he play the game to the end? Note: As I am not very confident in my English, I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes. I hope that you will enjoy the story anyway. [Prologue]

Day 1

In a world driven by magic, nothing seemed impossible. Especially for those who held immense power. But immense power in that word could be a curse for those who held it. Misuse, either intentional or not, was not rare, but the true curse -as people used to say- was that wizards could not truly love.

That did not necessarily mean that they were unable to harbor romantic feelings; more that they were afraid to do so, or because they were more in love with their power instead of their partner. There were also many cases of wizards who, while harboring these kind of feelings, they were driven mad by them. At east that's what the stories said and people always kept their distance. Were they afraid of their powers or of what they could do with it for the people they loved, who could tell? Falling in love with a wizard was always considered a taboo.

Thus, a romance between a wizard and a human, a case of true love, was rare but marrying out of convenience was not. When he looked at his friends, he wondered if destiny brought them together. If true love was supposed to be so rare for people like them, then it should be probably it. But they what about him then? Just when he decided that he had no use of this kind of a relationship, doubts were filling his mind and then that happened.

Were they right? Was he loosing his mind after all? Day after day, he was visiting the lake, leaning over the water, impatiently waiting to see her. At first, it was pure curiosity, mixed with a subtle attraction, but as the days were passing, he found himself, as he would describe, enchanted. First, it was her smile, then they way she blinked when she was confused. Moments of naivety, the way she was awkwardly touching the tip of her bangs while she was talking to a stranger, even how she wrinkled her nose when she was getting annoyed. Moments, snippets of her everyday life… and how… how he was dying to hear her voice. He was praying every time that he would be able to, since the first time he heard her. And every chance he had to do so, he was afraid that he could not listen to her properly over his heartbeat.

Day by day, he was loosing himself more and more. He was standing there for hours. Even Elizabeth could not distract him. He lost his appetite, but felt a constant weird feeling in his stomach. He wasn't feeling weak but felt feverish all the time. The part around the lake bloomed wildly. To his eyes was the most special place after all.

It wasn't like he was trying to hide it, but this change in him did not go unnoticed. In his rare visits, his friend realized that something was not normal. However, trying to respect his friend, he did not push him to open up, despite voicing his concerns.

Sadly, he was not the only one to notice. Wizards were not uncommon to have an aide, especially if they were widely recognized. In this case, his loving friend was accompanied of a rather troubling one. Caught for mischief and brought to serve as a reform, the auburn-haired mage watched the two men talking from afar. It wasn't hard for him to notice the surprise face he made then they announced their sudden visit or how conflicted he looked when his friend told him that he would be staying there for a while. Though he did welcome him as a guest to his house, he did not look very happy about it.

As the two of them immersed in a conversation, the young mage excused himself from the room, alleging that he would like to rest, but he did not hesitate to leave the castle completely. He curiously walked towards the lake and finally stood over the spot the man was standing when they arrived. A bit hesitant at first, he reached his hand over the water and clicked his tongue frustrated. With his powers suppressed, her was not sure if it would work but he proceeded anyway… Reverse.

He was taken aback. The image of a girl… It was the last thing he was expecting to see, but what surprised him the most was the image of a world he was not familiar with. Tall buildings and strange carriages with no animals, he felt excited. Was it a bridge between the two worlds? He touched the water but his hand sunk in it. Nothing happened. So it was more like a mirror then.

"Oh, she is eating..."

She was munching something crunchy out of a weird back… and though it didn't look very appetizing to him, the girl looked really happy with it. She even did a small victory dance after the first bit. He let a chuckle. Who would look like that while eating something that looked like this? He covered his smile with his hand. Actually, she was kind of cute now that he was looking at her.

"Oh..." the image vanished. He was a bit disappointed.

Now what should he do? The wizard's secret was out of the bag. A link to another world, a strange girl. The mechanics of the world always amazed him, but what was thrilling him the most was the idea of another world, the opportunity to escape from a life he did not consider particularly exciting. Finding a rift and not trying to use it… The Wizard was a strange man. If he had his powers and if he wanted to see a girl to the point of not eating properly because he was thinking of her, he would do everything he could to cross to the other side.

"Luciel..."

Ah, he hated that name. Smile… Smile… He forced one to his face almost naturally. His master was there followed by that man. He looked restless, his long dark brown hair here tied back, his bangs here falling falling messily into his face. He looked restless or was he pissed? What was that man thinking? Falling for an unknown girl while he was good looking and powerful enough to take any bride he wanted. Keeping something like that to himself, shouldn't it be be considered selfish?

"Victor..." "What are you doing her?" "Ah… I just felt like I was needing fresh air." "You should not come here..."

So that man finally spoke to him after ignoring him all this time. The flustered expression on his face brought a strange sense of satisfaction to the young mage. Maybe he could make use of this. He grinned.

"I thought I would find Elizabeth here, but she was with you all along! Come here, Elly!"

He was ready to hug the fluffy, white cat when her owner blocked his way. His onyx eyes looked at him coldly. Elizabeth hid under his purple cloak. He started back, almost challenging for a moment and then smiled widely. It was clear that this man would never want to share anything precious to him, but at the same time he didn't seem to know how it was to loose something precious.

"Come on! Just a hug!" he laughed. "Go-away," he hissed. "Ivan..."

The stern voice of his friend made him back down. The look on his face softened as Victor shook his head in disappointment. He looked down, a bit embarrassed and then picked up his cat softly, not before giving him one last warning look.

"Victor, as I said, you are welcomed to stay at my castle as long as you wish… But this is my special place. I don't really want an outsider walking around freely." "OK… Ok… There is no need to worry… It's not like I will steal your girl!" he said.

He almost regretted saying that. As much as he was hoping for a reaction, he could not expect one like that. He took a step back nervously. This man's glare felt so empty… It was... frightening. Were they the eyes of a man who was ready to do everything for the things he thought he owned?

"Elizabeth is clearly yours after all," he continued.

The man paused for a moment as he heard these words. It seemed that he realized that he had overreacted for no reason. He looked at the red haired man silent for a moment, the lowered his glare and then gazed at his cat who was meowing in his hard. His fingers run through her white fur gently. He let a weak smile.

"That's a fact. Elizabeth will never betray me," he muttered, the cat meowed in response. "Victor… No matter how much I like you, I'd like you to keep your aide in check. Well then, I bit you goodnight. I'll make sure your rooms will be ready for the night."

He turned his back to them and left.

"So cold," he commented but stopped after seeing Victor glaring at him. "I know, I know… my bad," he held up his arm condescendingly. "Please, don't rill up trouble," Victor warned him before following his friend to the castle.

He stood there. His smile had vanished.

"It's not like I was trying to!" he cried. "It's not like I was trying to..." he repeated and looked at the lake. "But I can not promise anything..."

Note: I thought that the use or the names Victor and Ivan were not confusing for use. I thought I used use different names for the magic world. Victor somehow felt appropriate for V. Also his character design kind of reminded him Victor from Yuri on Ice and I thought it suited him. As for Jumin, I found out that the name meaning was similar to that of the name John, but I went for the Russian Ivan anyway, instead of keeping the J. Somehow it sounded more fitted for a wizard.

That's it. Thanks for reading!

#jumin han #jumin #mysme jumin #mystic messenger #jumin x mc #mysme seven #mystic messenger fanfic #mysme

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swanqiu · 6 years ago

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rift.

----a parallel dimension travel, slow burn, gnawing-at-my-mind-plot-bunny appreciation gift for @fallenmulciber

the first time she finds herself in his universe, she tells him that she’ll be out of his hair as soon as she figures out how to leave, promise.

...so the second time, now, that she’s ended up back in his world, he realizes that maybe her promises aren’t worth very much.

(even so, he lets himself believe her this next time.)

It’s a Friday night when it first happens.

To Mulciber, Friday nights are for smoke-filled bars and throat burns by firewhiskey and just the occasional hope-- when he’s had enough to drink-- that somebody gets shitfaced enough to start a fight with him. He thrives on the taste of blood in his mouth, on the cracking of bone beneath his fist.

Friday nights are for brooding and boozing.

Friday nights are most certainly not for confused, wide-eyed babes and twenty fucking questions. (Not enough weekends exist in the year, as it stands, for him to get his fill of anarchy, of evenings where he can just let himself be.)

So when the girl with the long, dark hair and the lips-that-frown-too-much comes out of nowhere and demands answers about where she is (something about not being where she’s supposed to be), single-handedly throwing all of his Friday night plans into oblivion? A sure warning sign to stay the fuck away, if he’s ever seen one.

He doesn’t run into her again after that night, and that’s fine, he thinks, because the less mind-dizzying and intrusive women he has around to fuck up his lifelong pursuits of misery, the better. Mulciber knows he should stay away.

—

The trouble is, she’s the one who keeps coming back.

—

The first time she finds herself in his universe, she tells him that she’ll be out of his hair as soon as she figures out how to leave, promise.

He believes her. With a smart girl like her-- probably always good to her word, undoubtedly gifted in the way that all swots are-- he doesn’t doubt that she’ll be gone before he can even save to memory the surprising number of faint freckles dotting the bridge of her nose.

—

...so the second time, now, that she’s ended up back in his world, he realizes that maybe her promises aren’t worth very much.

—

Her eyes, when they focus, are dark and wide and clouded with what Mulciber immediately recognizes to be fear. His grin stretches, gleams, almost tauntingly.

“Good morning. Never took you for the breaking-into-strangers’-houses sort of girl.”

She scrambles to situate herself into a sitting position, and her gaze darts around the room, taking in her not at all familiar surroundings as Mulciber straightens to his full height. “Where-- but I was back already-- how am I--”

Spluttering is, unquestionably, not a look that suits her.

Mulciber shrugs and grabs his leather jacket from the coat rack. “I don’t know why you’re here, doll,” he remarks, standing in the doorway to look at her, “or how you even got in.” He eyes his still-bolted padlock and frowns. “But you really meant what you said last time, huh? About being... not where you’re supposed to be.”

He watches her close her eyes; watches her inhale, exhale, repeat, before she leans over and holds her head in her hands.

“I’m... I’ll be out of here soon,” she mutters determinedly to the floor, her words still carrying the last fleeting bits of sleep. “I just... I just have to figure out what happened, and I’ll be gone for good.”

—

Even so, he lets himself believe her this next time.

—

She-- Cho, he commits to memory; her name is Cho-- finds a way back to where she’s supposed to be, soon and sure enough. Finding one’s way out of a parallel universe is, apparently, quite easy to do. Something about a precisely timed complex spell, a modified Portkey, and a sure determination to not be here.

(No offense, she’d added quickly with a tight and barely-meant smile, at the far end of his couch, with her knees drawn up to her chest.

None taken, he’d replied with a shrug, from the other end, with his feet crossed at the ankles and propped up on his coffee table.)

Anyway, once more left to his own, he goes out for a drink that night; some shitfaced guy does end up picking a fight with him, and Mulciber wins easily-- of course he does; he always wins-- but he only fights out of defense this time, and not because he particularly enjoys it. Over the last few weeks, he’s started finding routine and fistfights and predictability boring. He's started craving something different. Starts craving a challenge, kind of like puzzles or the Daily Prophet’s weekly riddle or some shit. Or like an alternate universe’s sad-eyed woman who really shouldn’t even be possible, whom he still can’t be fully convinced even exists, but she does, and Mulciber’s already worked his brain ten times over trying to understand where she even fits into all of this.

He finds himself requesting a butterbeer at the end of his tab, after he’s cleaned up, and he grimaces, first, at how predictably cloying it is. He didn’t think she’d be the type of girl to like shit this sweet.

But he can’t deny, though, the soothing warmth that lingers in the back of his throat and to his core, even hours after, when he’s wide awake. When his bandaged knuckles throb from their bruises, and the wall by his bed radiates a comforting coolness, and he realizes, as he turns onto his back and stares, that his thoughts haven’t been in the habit of making space for anyone other than himself in a long time.

His white ceiling is the perfect canvas for projecting thoughts of a face that knows how to turn pink all too quickly.

—

Twelve days later, Mulciber wakes up to a fervent pounding on his front door, and that something warm takes residence in his chest, in his stomach, in the tips of his fingers, when he peers through the peephole and sees that look of anxiously knitted brows and pursed lips that he’s come to recognize well.

—

"I think I know,” Cho prefaces, one Sunday down the road-- her second visit in a month and her sixth one overall.

She has this theory that she rifts-- rifts; that’s what she calls it, like it’s fucking diagnosed-- because she’s upset. “I show up here when I’m more, well, sad back in my world, is the thing. Easiest way to put it.”

He stares at her. Frowns. “So, what, I’m your therapist or something?”

Cho huffs, obviously distressed. “No, no; I mean, I don’t know why here of all places, or you of all people, or why this even happens.” She frowns back. “I was just pointing out the common thread between all of my unexpected visits so far.”

So she has stuff to figure out in her life. She’s not special; so does he.

“And what?” Mulciber asks, running a hand through his hair. “What’s stopping you from casting a spell, making a potion, ending up back home?”

Like the first few times. Like it’s always that simple.

The crease between her brows returns. “Sometimes I manage to get back on my own. Sometimes it just happens, just as suddenly as me getting here. But no matter how I end up going back,” she stresses, “it’s not permanent. I always end up back here, is the other thing. I thought it would stop after a while, but it’s... it’s just kept happening, and it doesn’t make for functioning in my real life any easier with everything going on--”

Cho has a tendency to ramble. It’s something he’s noticed with being her occasional host.

Mulciber cuts her off. “Sorry this isn’t your real life,” he reiterates, not quite sure where this sting in his chest comes from, at those delicate words, “but if you’re here for life advice? For me to somehow make whatever problems you have over there not so difficult?” He scoffs. Uncrosses his ankles. “I’m not that guy.”

She blinks, not having expected his sudden retort, and a blooming pink-- a trademark of hers-- rises to her cheeks. “I never asked you to be,” she finally says, slowly. “I never wanted any of this. I never chose to end up in your world, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Right. His world.

It’s a little unfair, he thinks, that she makes it sound as if he wants this any more than she does. He hasn’t asked for this either; he doesn’t want to play Healer to a girl who comes along every blue moon in search of some pick-me-up for when her life goes to shit.

He didn’t choose her to come along and fuck up what had been an otherwise passable everyday life, a life where he hadn’t had to concern himself with thinking about stupid stuff-- like if she might hate him more if she knew about his past, or if he should invest in a spare set of house keys for when parallel dimension women stay over.

Both of them opt for silence that their respective pride doesn’t dare break first, but he sees the tense setting of her jaw and the look in her eye; it’s not hurt. Or at least, he doesn’t think it’s hurt. No way-- Cho Chang doesn’t reveal her cards so easily, and especially not where he’s concerned.

This isn’t real to her, after all.

(And he still doesn’t know why that works him up more than it should.)

She gives up trying to explain her theory-- rifting, where the fuck does she come up with this shit-- and Mulciber stares at her for a bit, wondering if she might give a retort or something, to let him know what she’s thinking. Remind him again that she certainly doesn’t want this, doesn’t need him. But she doesn’t.

Bloody fine, then.

He gets up and pulls on his leather jacket, stepping out for a bit to be by himself. He’s good at doing that. He’s the fucking king of Lonely Men.

—

By the time he returns and calls out from the entryway, his flat remains silent.

Mulciber tries to smother the royal tendrils of what feels suspiciously like disappointment creeping into his cold, hard heart.

—

A month passes, and he figures she's finally done it.

She must have finally figured out how to keep her ass where it belongs.

Maybe he'd made her up this whole time, imagined her into existence on a particularly good (bad?) trip.

He comes home buzzed one night and thinks about how he shouldn't smoke right now, but he’s been good at keeping off and thinks he deserves it this one time, but he's been smoking the same strain and wants to change things up, so maybe he should try to pull a few strings with Avery first--

His thoughts quiet and he sobers up the moment he spots her sitting outside of his apartment complex.

—

“Look, it’s fine for you to take the bed from now on; I don't mind the sofa,” he calls out to her. “Unless,” he adds aloud with a smirk, “you want to share a space with me. I’m fine with close quarters.”

When she doesn’t reply, Mulciber frowns and pads down the hall, mentally kicking himself. “I’m just joking. But look, if you want to wash up, washroom's available,” he offers instead, reaching the living room.

He stands awkwardly in the doorway, one hand jammed into the pocket of his jeans and the other hand thumbing over his shoulder to the other end of the hallway.

Cho looks up at him, and the redness around her glistening eyes are enough of a hint. Immediately, he clams up.

Ezra Mulciber is not the comforting type.

“Oh,” she murmurs, voice thick, quickly moving to wipe away her tears with her sleeves. He almost doesn’t recognize the pursed-lip, steel-eyed woman from earlier. “Thanks,” she adds, rising to her feet, and as she walks by him she ducks her head, dark hair shadowing her face.

He’s not the comforting type, but he’s not completely insensitive.

“Whoa, uh, you good?” Mulciber inquires gruffly, reaching out to take hold of her shoulder. She bristles at his touch and turns toward him, visibly not good, but also caught off guard by his gesture. He retracts his hand and rubs the back of his neck. “If you... if you need to get it out of your system, whatever it is,” Mulciber continues lamely, hoping he at least looks sincere because his words are probably failing his expression of sympathy-- which he’s clearly not used to giving, ever, “uh... or if there’s anything I can do, just... just let me know, yeah?”

Cho blinks. The tears that had pooled at the bottom of her eyes glint as they fall, one after the other, to the floor.

His head hurts.

“And um... it’s okay if you wanna crash here whenever you end up here and need to wait to get back,” he continues rambling, suddenly hyper aware of how long she’s been staring at him. “Like, it’s no problem at all, but listen-- I don’t have any of that...” Mulciber motions broadly with his hand, toward her abdomen and pelvis area “... any of that time of month stuff if you'd ever need it, so...”

He trails off, not really sure what else to say (because, like, he really doesn’t have any of that stuff and wouldn’t know where to get it, anyway).

She blinks again, and he half expects her to just quietly nod or sigh or scoff, like she always does. Or just walk right past him, which also seems pretty on brand.

But here’s the thing-- she laughs. It’s not a full laugh, not like one that she would probably have if she were back in her other world and not stuck here, but it’s soft and unexpected and somewhat strangled, caught by the lump in her throat, and it makes Mulciber feel... good.

“Thank you,” Cho breathes as she winds down from her laugh, eyes still wet, and she offers a halfway smile. He doesn’t know what she’s thanking him for, but nevertheless, it makes him feel really good. He’ll take it.

—

She slips back into the living room after her shower, and when she settles into her seat on the couch, opposite end of Mulciber, he doesn't show his surprise. Just moves his legs some so that she has space to bring up her legs and stretch out and face him. Which, also surprisingly, she does.

Cho doesn't bring up any of what they exchanged last time (he hadn't expected her to), but she does comment on a new scar he has, and he grins, telling her all about one of the many idiots that tried to fight him. She tells him about one of her scars, from when she first started riding a broom, and he's taken by the way her eyes light up. (If he were his younger self, he might have been more drawn to her porcelain sadness. Might have wondered what it would take for her to break, and if he might be the one to do it. But given who he is now, and that small light he sees catching in her eyes? That’s what fucking spurs him to intoxication.)

She tells him about stuff from her past, and how all of that still weighs heavily on her, and how she has her confusions about where she’s going or what she feels. He tells her simply that he admittedly doesn’t know a lot about her, but what he does know is that she’s fierce and brilliant and has a lot to be proud about, and that any world would be better off having her.

She deflects by commenting on the smell of butterbeer on his breath, and he splutters, trying to fucking justify himself and how no, he hasn't gone soft, he just likes to change things up every once in a while, thanks, and she just smirks. It's infuriating. He counters that she probably still can't hold her firewhiskey.

He hesitates, but he tells her up front that she’s better off hanging around people who aren’t him; she just scoffs. Listens patiently and quietly when he tells her just a few of the many, many things that still haunt him. Cho unflinchingly considers all of this, takes it all in, and she still doesn’t leave.

By 4am, she's talking about new charms and potions she's working on, and he tells her she's a downright nerd, a fucking swot-- in the best way-- and she grins, blushing like crazy. His head still hurts.

He's never liked small spaces and being close to other people, but--

With her, he conveniently forgets his own rules.

It turns out they both fall asleep on his sofa, after hours of back-and-forth talking and rare glimpses into the other's past and friendly insults, and around 6am, Mulciber thinks he feels the weight next to him on the couch suddenly lessen, thinks the warmth of her head by his feet suddenly disappears, and when he stirs awake a few hours later, she’s gone.

And this time, when he finds his flat empty, Mulciber feels something different that springs up in the root of his chest; he doesn’t dare call it hope, because only chumps hope. Hope only leads to expectations that let him down, always.

He doesn’t hope that she comes back, but he, restless by nature and often prone to impulse, actually waits-- patiently on some days and maybe a little impatiently on others-- for her to come back (as if she has a say on whenever that happens, he scoffs to himself). But he doesn't just wait; he expects that she’ll be back, even, because broken people know broken people best.

—

A year passes.

Mulciber almost forgets what she looks like, and what she sounds like, and how she has a tendency to look troubled and questioning, even in sleep. But butterbeer still makes him think of bowed lips and an off-limits warmth, and doe eyes still cross his mind on the rare occasion.

At the end of the first few months of her longest absence yet, he thinks it’s great that she's stopped being so hung up in her feelings, really (that must be why she doesn’t rift anymore). And when several more months pass and he still isn’t blessed with her signature look of wary hesitation (always, with him), Mulciber thinks it’s fan-fucking-tastic that she’s got her shit sorted out.

He keeps busy with actually filling out his bookshelf and reading urban novels. Learns to cook (kind of) a very basic starter meal. Starts doing some small time vigilante-type stuff, like beating up punks who harass witches outside of the bar or casting semi-permanent graffiti figures on his evil landlord’s front door. He even starts keeping plants on his windowsill, a few succulents and prickly cacti, because he’s read they don’t require too much effort to maintain. An older witch he often meets on the street tells him that he reminds her of her nice nephew.

By the thirteenth month mark, he almost forgets about her.

Almost.

Because it’s an April evening when the weather throws the nastiest spring downpour in recent history, and he’s not very well dressed for it, is he, because the days leading up until had been solidly sunny and cloudless, so of course he hadn’t thought that he’d need to bring either a jacket or an umbrella today, but--

He’s shivering and soaked and miserable, as he catches himself seeking refuge under a flimsy shopfront canopy, and the owner behind the display window scowls at him and motions to the NO LOITERING sign in big, bold letters.

“I’m freezing my ass off here!” he shouts through the glass, droplets flinging from his beard as he rounds, and he’s about to motion something rude until a shadow covers him and his clothes suddenly start drying.

Mulciber peers up. Above him, a bright yellow umbrella replaces the dark red of the store’s canopy. To his right, a dark-haired woman with an arched brow and a tightly drawn raincoat gives him this look, pitying and somewhat entertained and just a bit smug, and then--

“Never took you for the purposefully-looking-to-contract-pneumonia sort of bloke.”

He tells himself that it’s the Hot-Air Charm she’s casting on his clothes that warms his insides, too.

—

She’s... different, this time around. The blunt ends of her hair just barely graze sharp collar bones. The lines around her mouth are less marked by uncertainty, less pronounced by perpetual frowns. They’re more faint. Her eyes hold that light he’d noticed before.

Once the rain becomes little more than a manageable drizzle, they set off down the street, quietly hunched beneath the shelter of her umbrella. That is, until Mulciber’s had enough of her damn goblin height and wordlessly plucks the handle from her grip, raising her umbrella higher above the both of them so that he doesn’t have to slouch to keep dry.

(He happens to forget that he has magic, of all things, that would allow him to fashion a cover of his own.)

Cho turns to him in surprise, and he focuses in front of him, on the droplets dripping steadily from the point of the umbrella’s frame. Her now-empty hands drop to her sides, and she’s first to speak since the shopfront.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Footsteps on wet cement are louder than he'd realized.

He bows his head, a curt nod, free hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans. It’s not like he’s been keeping track. But he knows he’s had quite a few introspective evenings with a glass of firewhiskey since he’d last seen her, had quite a few changes to his life since then. He’s picked up a habit of falling asleep in his living room, in her absence.

No correlation, though, he tells himself. Mulciber screws up his face and pretends to think about her icebreaker. “Not long enough, if you ask me--” he finally says, breaking into a grin when he hears her scoff at his audacity “--but, if you’d missed me, you could have just said so.”

She doesn’t say anything-- just huffs, bites the inside of her cheek, and lightly punches his arm.

He dodges-- or tries to, anyway-- and his laugh, in return, is deep and endearing and new.

—

This time, her stay surpasses the usual day.

In fact, she’s here for a whole week before he finally brings it up.

Cho sets down the book she’d found on his desk and shrugs, tucking long bangs behind her ear. “I... found my own way back this time,” she admits, almost casually, but he sees the tips of her ears tinge red.

“So, what, did you run out of charming otherworldly men to bother?”

He’s got his arms crossed at one end of the couch and she’s at the other end with her knees drawn up, like good old times. But this time, she’s curled up less from hesitation or fear and more from a shyness he hasn't recognized on her before.

Cho rolls her eyes and fights a smile, resting her head on the curve of the sofa backs. “I wasn’t aware I’d met any charming men on any of my universe travels.”

Mulciber grins into his drink, flirting with the rim of his glass. “Might be time you get your vision checked, doll. There’s one right in front of you.”

Another scoff. A shake of her head. And then an exhale he interprets as contentment.

He finally clears his throat again, after a moment. Sets down his glass. “But shouldn’t you be getting back to your... you know... your real life?”

Cho blinks. Lifts her head. Gives him that fucking smile, the one that squeezes his chest a little too tightly. “This... this is real.”

She says it without question, with a confident sureness that can’t be restrained by the softness of her answer. She looks at him and it sort of stuns him, because she looks determined. Looks decided. She’s blushing.

"I want this, Ezra. To stay, that is.”

Oh.

His turn to blink.

Oh.

Fucking ohhh.

He can’t remember the last time he was anyone’s choice or even a considerable option. He can’t even remember the last time anyone looked at him like he’s not scum. Like he isn’t such a bad guy with a shitty past he hasn’t completely gotten over.

Cho Chang knows this, and still, she chooses this. Here. Him.

“You know... after my last visit, that space you gave me to just... process... I learned to control how to come and go.”

“Rifting, you mean?”

She beams at his use of her word.

Cho Chang looks at him like he’s complex and interesting and valuable. She looks at him like he’s worth a damn, like he’s Quidditch or the lake from her childhood or how it feels to fly on the exhilarating pull of a broomstick. Like he’s the successful golden glow from a new spell she’s made or the warmth of butterbeer on a cold day or the familiar comfort of a couch that feels the way home should feel.

A year ago, she might have been doubtful of him, and suspecting, and sad-eyed, and still looking for the next available way out. But here she is, rendering him wordless, because she happily chooses to stay here. He didn’t even need an Imperio.

She looks at him and she tilts her head, still smiling, waiting--

When Mulciber grins in return and pulls her in, breathing in her sweet citrus smell, taking in her laughter and shaky exhales and undeniable softness in his arms, he can’t help but think that she fits there, in the middle of his living room.

In his world.

#ooc: wellll here we are!! finally got to a point of being happy with what i'd written and cut down and rewritten to finally share with you #thank you for the 6+ years of entertainment you keep giving me (and cho) through ezra :')#this fic was born out of me revisiting old threads and being sad that we never got to play them out until the end so. here are my feelings.#this started off pretty short and just... got longer and longer. i am so fascinated by mulciber and have so many feelings about him wow!!#hope that this is an entertaining read for you whenever you next pop back on here :)#i am very moved by and invested in these two!!! miss you!#also probably have enough material left for another drabble (fic??) soooo let us seeee #fallenmulciber

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obsidianarchives · 6 years ago

Text

To All The Wizards: The Recovery

Zonko’s. They were talking about Zonko’s. Hermione’s nerves were so frazzled, she could barely contain her irritation. It had taken what little reserve of energy she had left to not hex Fred and George the moment they arrived in the hospital wing for selling love potions to minors.

It wasn’t just the twins. While they’d waited to be let in to see Ron, Harry and Ginny were wildly speculating about who could have poisoned him, almost as if it were a game to them. Gryffindors are known for jumping from danger into action, but staring down at Ron’s pale face, it didn’t feel like a game. According to both Harry and Madam Pomfrey, he looked much improved from earlier that day. Even still, seeing him like this filled Hermione with so much guilt she almost couldn’t bear it.

Tears pricked at her eyes as she watched his chest calmly rise and fall. She wondered how many times she had seen him in the hospital wing over the years. How much less scary those times seemed compared to now. Reading the news and watching students leave to be with their families, she knew the gravity of the situation. Bonds were important, now more than ever. Yet, still somehow, she had let the rift in her friendship with Ron expand, for something as trivial as hurt feelings.

Sniffing, she swiped at her nose with her sleeve. The twins were now puzzling with Harry and Ginny as to who could be behind the attack. Laughably, their current prevailing theory was that it might be Slughorn’s doing.

“You said Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas,” Ginny reminded Harry. “So the poisoner could just as easily have been after him.”

“Then the poisoner didn’t know Slughorn very well,” Hermione said, her voice coming out croaky from disuse. It had been hours since she had last spoken to any of them, too wrapped up in her own guilt at being a poor friend to be of much company. “Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he’d keep something that tasty for himself.”

Before she could continue sharing her thoughts on the likelihood of Katie and Ron’s attacks being connected, Ron spoke. “Er-my-nee.”

It came out in a raspy whisper that they could have almost missed. Hermione’s eyes widened, realizing what he was trying to say. They waited with baited breath for him to say something else. After a moment of muttering, he snored lightly, falling back to sleep. She could feel the group glancing at her, but resolutely she continued to gaze at Ron, refusing to let her expression give way to her confused emotions.

Thankfully, at that moment Hagrid walked in, distracting everyone and pulling Madam Pomfrey from her office. Ron’s face appeared more tranquil now that he had fallen into a more comfortable sleep. He had even regained a bit more color in his cheeks. Gingerly, she touched her own face, expecting to find it burning with the embarrassment she would generally feel, but was now strangely absent. Her skin was cool to the touch, not flushed at all. Taking a deep breath out of habit, she was also surprised to find that there were no nerves to calm. It hadn’t been like that the last time.

—

It had been late in the evening, their first Friday back from summer break when she had found herself squinting at her Ancient Runes homework, trying to work out the advanced text Professor Blathers had assigned. The first week of classes had been harder than any of the other years previous. Hermione wasn’t surprised. This was to be expected, given that it was their first year in N.E.W.T. level courses.

Ron had spent the majority of the night moaning to Hermione about how unfair it was that Harry had weaseled his way out of studying to instead meet with Dumbledore. Periodically, she’d shake her head or roll her eyes from her spot on the floor, but for the most part she sat with her back against the couch, paying him no mind.

He had laid out, sprawled dramatically on the couch in despair, his open Transfiguration book covering his face as he groaned.

“Why do we ever come back from summer holidays? I’ve tried to talk Mum into homeschooling us all.”

“And with what time would she do that?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him skeptically.

He pulled the book off his face, sighing. Hermione’s eyes had widened, finding herself eye level with the blue-eyed freckle-faced boy, their faces inches apart. The detail of every freckle that sprinkled the bridge of his nose filled her vision. Her eyes had moved to meet his, to find him blinking at her, confused by her sudden demeanor. She whipped around with a squeak. If he noticed, he hadn’t said anything.

“Yeah, I s’pose you’re right. It’s better when it’s just us three. No school work.”

Trying to regain her composure, she scoffed, and without turning around said, “Speak for yourself.”

By the time she had finally translated all of the runes and checked them all for grammar, her back had formed a tight knot from hunching over to look so closely at the pages. She sat up and stretched, yawning as she did so. Looking around, she was surprised to find the common room completely emptied. The clock on the mantelpiece read ten past midnight.

“How strange. Harry still hasn’t come back yet. Do you think we should wait—“ her voice had gotten caught in her throat.

Behind her, she had found Ron, fast asleep, mouth half open, head lolling to the side, towards her, just inches away. Why hadn’t she moved earlier when she had realized how close they were to one another? Instinct told her to turn away, this was too close, but she couldn’t help but look just a little longer.

His red hair fell messily into his eyes, perfectly tousled and perfectly accidental. She felt the impulse to reach out and sweep the hair from his brow, but she resisted. Her breath hitched as he mumbled, shifting slightly away. She imagined what he could be dreaming of—who he could be dreaming of.

She slammed her Ancient Runes textbook shut, heart hammering in her chest. This is creepy, Hermione. Stop, she thought, chastising herself. Turning back around, she shut her eyes tightly, willing the thoughts away, far away. They were friends, nothing more.

“W-wot happen’?” Ron asked groggily, slowly moving to get up, having been woken by the noise.

“I’m headed to bed. It’s past midnight,” she said briskly, gathering up the rest of her things. “You should be off to bed, too.”

He grunted in response, now sitting up, gathering the strength to head to the dormitories.

“Goodnight,” she said lightly, as she headed up the steps.

That night it would be an hour before her thundering heart and racing mind would calm enough to let her fall asleep.

—

Tearing her eyes from Ron, she turned her attention back to the group, ridding herself of her ruminations. Hagrid stood disheveled next to the bed in a puddle of his own making, dripping wet from the rain outside. They were discussing the possibility of the attacks being brought about by a sports rivalry. Both Quidditch Through the Ages and Hogwarts: A History discussed intense Quidditch rivalries throughout Hogwarts’ history, none of which had ever been deadly. Hermione wondered if she truly was the only one who ever read.

The thing the attacks did have in common, however, was that the method would have given someone from outside of Hogwarts access to Professor Dumbledore—first, the attack initiated in Hogsmeade, and now a gift to Professor Slughorn from an unknown source. It could have come from someone who wasn’t a student. This meant it could be any number of Death Eaters.

“It’s not Quidditch. But there is a connection between the attacks,” she said finally, after letting them go on about it for another moment.

“How d’you work that out?” Fred asked.

“For one thing, they both ought to have been fatal and they weren’t, although that was pure luck. And for another, neither item seems to have reached the person who was supposed to be killed.” An internal shiver gripped her as she finished, “Of course, that makes the person behind this even more dangerous, because they don’t seem to care how many people get hurt before they reach their actual victim.”

The group exchanged dark looks as they pondered Hermione’s words. Before anyone could respond, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley returned. Mrs. Weasley made a beeline for Harry, cutting through the tension, enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug. Hermione looked away, uncomfortable for her friend, who she knew found praises for his bravery distressing. Mrs. Weasley was lavishing him with gratitude for saving Ron. Hermione, of course, was grateful to Harry and his having miraculously remembered the bezoar. But she knew better than to tell him that.

Madam Pomfrey came to his rescue, bustling in and tsking as she went. “I think I made it perfectly clear you lot, no more than six guests per patient!”

Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid took the opportunity to bid their leave, allowing the Weasleys more time with Ron.

It ended up being quite late once Harry and Hermione finally approached the corridor leading to the Fat Lady’s portrait. They had a near run-in with Mr. Filch on their way back after stopping to speak with Hagrid, who had he confided that he had seen Dumbledore and Snape arguing.

“I know it’s odd Harry, but Professor Dumbledore is a very capable wizard. Whatever is going on between him and Snape is none of our business,” Hermione insisted as they rounded the corner.

“Fine. Even if Snape isn’t up to something, why would Dumbledore want him to investigate someone in his own House? It has to be Mal—“

“Do you know how often I take points away from Slytherins who think they’re being clever and are going to get away with breaking the rules?” she asked, throwing her hands into the air, exasperatedly. “They’re too cunning for their own good. He could be asking Snape to investigate his House for a myriad of reasons!”

Harry looked at her skeptically but couldn’t argue because, as they turned into Gryffindor Tower, they came across Peeves the Poltergeist. To their displeasure, Peeves was wailing a loud lament:

Prithee Potter, tell me please

What rotten rascal wrecked our King

Won-Won Weasley wanted not

The potente potion he had got

His voice reverberated off the walls, loud and drawn, ringing in their ears. They ran down the final corridor, trying to escape, with Peeves chasing behind.

“Mimbulus mimbletonia!” Hermione shouted at the Fat Lady.

She swung open and they dashed in, panting as the portrait slammed behind them, Peeves’ muffled dirge still sounding from behind.

“Peeves,” Harry said with a growl of frustration. “Reckon it was too much to hope that we could keep the news to ourselves for one evening.”

They walked further into the common room to find it mostly quiet. A murmur of laughter and whispers filled the room as people huddled around their study materials together. One group was playing exploding snap by the fireplace—a normal Saturday night.

“Hmm, it looks like Peeves’ new tune hasn’t spread quite this far. I suppose he must have just heard the news seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weasley leave Professor Dumbledore’s office,” Hermione said intuitively.

Harry acknowledged this to likely be true, exhaling in relief, his shoulders slouched, closing his dark-circled eyes. The exhaustion she saw in him made her feel her own more keenly. With a yawn and a stretch, she bid him goodnight. He nodded wordlessly, patting her on the back as he made his way over to his own dormitory.

The clock in the girl’s dormitory chimed. It was 11 o’clock already. The clouds outside obscured the moon, dousing the room in darkness. Lumos, she thought. Gingerly, she made her way over to her bed, not wanting to disturb anyone. Quickly, she shed her clothes, feeling the weight of the day’s worries come off with them. She slipped into her nightgown and pulled back her hangings.

Pausing, she turned her unseeing eyes to Lavender’s bed. Someone should tell her about Ron. She was Ron’s girlfriend, after all. In the chaos of the day, it hadn’t occurred to any of them to look for her. Hermione grimaced. Lavender really cared for Ron, and everyone seemed to think of her as some sort of joke. The irony wasn’t lost on Hermione that their relationship, as messy as it was, was more legitimate than her own contractual one.

She moved her wand to Lavender’s bed, tiptoeing across the room and wake her. The glow of her wand fell onto the bed and she was surprised to find it empty. Turning around, she found that Parvati’s bed was also empty. Sighing, she flicked her wand, extinguishing the tip and lighting the torches on the wall. She would have to wait for them.

With a flop, she fell on her bed, leaving the hangings open. To her surprise, Crookshanks sprung up to join her. Generally, at this time of night, he’d be strolling about the castle. Noiselessly, he padded over straight to the spot next to her head, and making no significant acknowledgement to her presence, he curled up beside her. She chuckled to herself. He generally preferred his own space.

“What a clever cat you are,” she whispered as she reached up to scratch his back. He must have been able to sense her stress.

Staring up at the canopy of her bed, she felt something Hagrid had mentioned in their conversation on the way back from the hospital wing nag at her.

“Wha’ worries me is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids are bein’ attacked…next thing yeh know the board o’ governors…”

Surely they couldn’t close the school now. Where else could be safer for Muggle-borns than Hogwarts right now? This was different than the Chamber of Secrets. These attacks were coming from outside, or at the very least were being directed from the outside. Nowhere in Hogwarts: A History did it mention a board of governors, and certainly no entity besides the Headmaster, with such jurisdiction over the running of Hogwarts. Not even the Ministry could easily meddle in the running the school, though it was subsidized. Even then, the Ministry wasn’t made up of people who had bought power and influence to exert over the school.

Lucius Malfoy, while ousted from the board, had more than likely made sure to seat as many like-minded individuals on it as he could in his time. He and his subordinates would love to expel the Muggle-borns and blood traitors from the school. It would make it easier to get to them outside of the castle walls. She shuddered at the thought. If there was anything she hated, it was feeling powerless.

Crookshanks began to purr in his sleep, a comforting sound. She wasn’t powerless, she tried to remind herself. She had a rough idea of a plan if she were to leave. Being of age, she could join the Order. Maybe she could help Dean get his family into hiding if there was time. If anything, leaving now might buy them time, which felt invaluable with so much uncertainty hanging around them.

I wonder if they’d let us take our exams before closing the school, she thought, her mind growing listless. She closed her eyes and smiled, I suppose they could just send them home with us.

Thoughts of practice problems and essay prompts then began to fill her mind, and her exhaustion finally claimed her, lulling her into a dreamless sleep.

—

Things overall were much improved the next day. Sunlight was shining through the castle windows and Ron had woken up. He still felt “a bit peaky” as he put it, but his color had mostly returned and Madam Pomfrey thought he was largely out of the woods. She insisted he stay for a few more days to monitor for any lasting effects while he rested and regained his strength.

Hermione and Harry spent their entire Sunday with Ron, happy to see him returned to his usual self. At first, it felt a little awkward. She and Ron instinctually moved cautiously around each other, not wanting to trigger any past arguments or upsets. Their worry was unnecessary though. As the days passed, they found themselves falling back into their old selves. If anything, they both just seemed relieved to not be fighting anymore.

Dean visited that Sunday, late in the morning. The whole school now knew about Ron’s poisoning. He was waiting for her outside of the hospital wing, his face was grim, taut with concern. Despite his expression, she felt a warmth tickling her stomach, a wide grin spreading across her face. After so much stress, she almost felt relieved to see his friendly face.

“I heard what happened. Are you alright?” he asked, pulling her into a hug.

She froze in surprise at the sincere gesture. The pleasant scent of bergamot filled her nose. Embarrassed, she pushed him away, laughing at his earnestness. “Yes. I’m fine!” She didn’t dare say the truth, which was that she felt great. It was freeing to no longer have to tread lightly around Ron and to have her friend back. And now Dean was here, and that somehow made everything even better.

“Are you sure?” he asked, holding her out at arm’s length, examining her.

She huffed, exasperated. “I’m fine.” The memory of Ron’s “Er-my-nee” entered her mind, but she shook that from her head. “It’s a lot to process. But I’m happy he’s alright.”

Dean looked her over for another moment before deciding for himself that she did in fact look mostly fine.

“Here,” he said, digging in the pockets of his robes. He pulled out two muffins wrapped in a napkin. “I didn’t see you or Harry at breakfast so I nicked these. You need to make sure you come down for lunch and eat.”

She took the muffins, smiling appreciatively, the warm feeling in her stomach filling her whole chest. “Right. I will.”

“So everything going alright with him then?” He indicated at the door.

“Ron? Yes, I think so. I think we’re mostly back to normal, all things considered.”

Strangely, Dean pursed his lips at this. “Are you really going to let him off the hook for how he’s treated you this year?”

She looked at him, shocked. “He was poisoned!”

“Yes,” he said, brushing a stray curl off her shoulder, “but does that excuse his behavior from before?”

Tilting her head, she looked at him for a moment. He wasn’t judging her. By his raised eyebrows, she could tell he was truly asking her. She bit her lip, unsure of how to respond.

“I should go,” he finally said, glancing back at the door.

“Oh! Do you want to come in? I don’t think they’d mind.” It hadn’t occurred to her to invite him in. Would that be weird for Ron? It hadn’t been something she had to navigate since the inception of their scheme, since they hadn’t been on speaking terms.

He shook his head with a slight smile. “Nah, I’m fine. Finish catching up,” he nudged her lightly towards the door. “I’ve got a Charms essay to finish.”

His words stayed with her for the rest of the week. Was she letting Ron off too easy? Their argument didn’t seem that important to her in light of the situation.

They didn’t have time to discuss it any further the rest of the week. Cormac was joining the Quidditch team as an alternate. In preparation for Saturday’s match against Hufflepuff, Harry had booked the Quidditch pitch the entire week whenever there was availability. This meant Dean spent much of his free time with the team at practice. Hermione used this time to catch up on her homework, do her hair, and play with Crookshanks, the two latter of which she had been neglecting. When the team wasn’t at practice, she and Harry were in the hospital wing with Ron.

Their misaligned schedules, for some inexplicable reason, made Hermione sad. Dean didn’t seem upset. To the contrary, they still walked hand-in-hand to classes together and he sketched her more pictures of Crookshanks to cheer her up. He asked about Ron and seemed concerned on her behalf for his well-being. Even though he didn’t seem to be bothered by the time apart, she still couldn’t help but think about him.

Without him or Harry around in her free time, she found friends were light on the ground. The mood in her dormitory had been quite frosty. After falling asleep the night of Ron’s poisoning, she had forgotten all about telling Lavender what had happened. After finding out through the general rumor mill about Ron’s incident, she was rightfully upset. What Hermione felt wasn’t fair was how cold she’d been towards her since then, despite having long since forgiven Harry.

The silver lining about having such a busy week was that the weekend was upon them more quickly than usual. During her free period that Friday, she lugged her book bag up the stairs to the hospital wing. All week, she had taken diligent notes and collected Ron’s assignments, determined that he shouldn’t fall behind in class.

The hospital wing was still mostly empty when she arrived. Ron looked over to her as she entered, his face lighting up at the sight of her. Then his eyes fell on her book bag, bulging at the seams even more than usual, and his face fell.

Without greeting, she set the bag at the foot of his bed and began to pull out folders and stacks of parchment.

“Most people just bring chocolate or some flowers, ya know?”

She pointedly ignored him. “I’ve organized your assignments in these folders. They’re organized by color. And these,” she handed him a large stack of parchment, “are my notes for you to study. I did my best to underline and note important bits. Muggle highlighters don’t work on parchment or else I would—“

He groaned dramatically and threw himself back on the bed, discarding the notes to the side. “Was the poison not punishment enough?”

“Oh stop being dramatic,” she chastised as she sat down.

They sat in silence for a moment, Ron still laying back with his eyes closed.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. I reckon I could fly tomorrow, but Pomfrey wants me through the weekend,” he said dejectedly without opening his eyes.

“Cormac would be crushed,” she said sarcastically. His eyes flew open, surprised at the joke. They laughed, poking fun at Cormac.

Once they lapsed back into silence, it dawned on Hermione that this was the first time that they’d been alone together in a long time—the first time since the note. She could feel heat threatening to rise to her cheeks.

As if he were practiced in Legilimency, he spoke. “Are we ever going to talk about that note you sent me, Hermione?”

She closed her eyes, hoping that maybe when she opened them she wouldn’t be here. Of course, she knew they wouldn’t be able to avoid the topic forever, but still she had faintly hoped. The familiar feeling of mortification seeped into her skin. Dean wasn’t here to get her out of this one now.

Sighing she opened her eyes, carefully choosing her words. “There isn’t much to talk about. You were never supposed to read it. But it’s fine because it doesn’t matter. I wrote that so long ago, really. Nothing to worry about,” she said in a rush. “Besides, I’m dating Dean now and you’re dating Lavender…” She trailed off, unsure of what else to say, praying he’d drop it.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” The emotion in his voice and his searching eyes made her want to disappear. She wondered if a Summoning Charm would work on the Invisibility Cloak. “Maybe I didn’t want to date Lavender.”

He sighed, months of frustration etched on his features. He rubbed his hands over his face, looking conflicted.

Stunned into silence, it took her a moment to collect herself. Surely he couldn’t be suggesting what she thought he was. Instead of the joy or excitement that she would have expected to feel at such a statement, panic filled her. This couldn’t be happening, not now. He wanted to know why she had never told him, but why hadn’t he told her? Why now, when it was too late?

She exhaled, surprised by her own thoughts but finding there was truth in them. It was too late and it had been for weeks now, maybe even months. When had it changed? When had she stopped hoping for this exact outcome? He opened his eyes, looking at her expectantly, in a way that once might have sent butterflies through her stomach.

“You’re one of my best friends. I wrote that note as a silly way to work through my feelings a long time ago. If they were something you needed to be concerned with, I’d tell you,” she said honestly.

His expression clouded over, unreadable. He nodded solemnly, understanding what she meant. At that moment, the hospital wing doors swung open. Turning around, Hermione’s eyes landed on Lavender. Her face screwed into a scowl at the sight of Hermione sitting at Ron’s bedside.

“How long have you been up and what is she doing here?” Lavender asked in an accusatory tone as she strode up to the bed.

Seeing her opportunity to escape, Hermione gathered her things and stood up to leave.

“Wait, Hermione, you can stay,” Ron said, looking at her insistently.

“No, I really ought to be going. I have prefect duty tonight,” she said through a fake smile.

Walking as quickly as she could without breaking out into a full-out run, she left, letting the door shut on the now arguing couple. She clutched her chest, her heart racing, too stunned to move. Blinking, she looked around, her reality feeling changed somehow. She no longer had feelings for Ron. The opposite had been true for so long, the idea of not having feelings for him felt funny in her brain.

But there was no denying it. Her lack of quickened pulse, her lack of warm cheeks, it all pointed to one thing. Her plan had worked, in part anyway. She had distracted herself right out of her heartbreak.

Her hand dropped from her chest, her heart slowing back to a normal pace. If she was over Ron, and Ron understood that the note now meant nothing, that meant the whole scheme with Dean would soon be coming to an end.

To Be Continued…

#To All The Wizards #Hermione Granger #Dean Thomas #Ron Weasley #Hogwarts

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foxykey · 6 years ago

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Turned (pt. 01)

He’s caught and he can’t decide what hurts more: the past or the present

A/N: BTS Were!AU: Shadow Verse story. Yoongi’s POV of some of the events during Shift.

“You’re awake.”

The girl gasped at his voice, a sharp cough taking over quickly as she struggled backwards on her hands. Yoongi noted how she winced as far back from him as she could when her glazed, feverish eyes finally registered him. He let that pass. She should be skeptical of him. It meant she wasn’t a fool.

“That’s kind of a miracle,” he added, kneeling to her eye level.

“You’re real. I thought you were just a dream, a figment of my imagination,” she rasped.

Her voice was sweet and high, but strained after everything she’d just gone through. Her skin was flushed, sweat misting her hairline and the bridge of her nose. A quick hand to her forehead confirmed exactly what he’d suspected. “You’ve got a fever.”

He made his way back to the sink across the room, rusted over with age. His head was whirling with thoughts, memories… he couldn’t get caught up in that. He just needed to focus; focus on the facts.

“What’s your name?” Yoongi asked over his shoulder as he filled a water bottle for her.

There was a slight hesitation. “Goo Minki.”

“Min Yoongi,” he replied. “You need to drink some water. Don’t have any food on me, but at least this will help some.”

The girl - Minki - was looking over the warehouse when he turned back to her. He cast a quick glance around himself. This warehouse had saved his own life over a decade ago. Now it might just have saved hers as well. He remembered when he was small and bleeding and terrified, paralyzed on the floor as she was… did he ever bleed on that same spot?

Yoongi clenched his jaw and held out the water bottle to her, pushing the thoughts away. “Small sips.”

She followed his instruction, though he knew it must’ve been extremely hard. She set the bottle beside her, halfway empty, and in her face was a new sort of resolution.

“Where are we?” Minki asked.

She was brave and she was smart. Yoongi admired the level headedness she demonstrated in her questioning. He knew it couldn’t be easy to focus between the pain and the fever and the overwhelming emotions that must’ve been drowning her. Minki was asking for answers, just as he had once, only he would give them to her. No matter how absurd they would sound. It was more than he ever got.

“An old warehouse near the rift line,” Yoongi began. “I used to sleep in here sometimes, it’s big and it’s fairly safe.”

She didn’t bother asking what the rift line was. She stared him in the eyes, getting to the subject she was obviously interested in clarifying. “There were wolves.”

He knew she was referring to the white werewolf he’d managed to fight off. “It’s gone now.”

“Are you taking me to a hospital?”

Yoongi could just imagine the chaos of the girl shifting at the hospital. The terror, the blood, the collateral deaths before the council got things under control. “No. It’s… complicated.”

“My parents?”

Her voice cracked and so did something parallel in his chest. Yoongi broke his eyes away from hers. She was asking for answers and he would give them to her. He would…

He had found her parents a little more than a block back from where he had found her earlier that night. They had been ravaged, vicious bite and claw marks marring their corpses, but nothing compared to the mangled heap his own parents had been in all those years ago. This was controlled violence, nothing akin to the savagery of a kill made during a first shift, but it was horrible nonetheless.

Yoongi darted his eyes away, his jaw clenching. “I’m sorry.”

It was only fair that he watched as Goo Minki leaked her heart, soul, and spirit out of her from every pore. Yoongi didn’t rush her. He didn’t try to comfort or quiet her because he knew from experience that the pain she was feeling needed to be felt in all its terrible magnitude. What tugged at his heart and made his stomach churn was that she didn’t yet know just exactly how much of her life had been taken from her.

Yoongi bit the inside of his cheek as he watched her sob. Goo Minki was young as it was, but her face housed that eternal youthful innocence that made her seem even younger, more fragile: big, wide doe eyes and a small, straight nose mixed with a full mouth. The last time he had see his younger brother he had been sobbing like that…

Minki drained herself empty after a long while. She sat a while after that, hollow and vacant and trying to compose herself. Yoongi could see the gears grinding inside her to try and get herself together enough to try understanding once more. He wished she would just sleep; she needed it more than anything else right now. But he knew she wouldn’t, not yet. He waited patiently and after another few long minutes she spoke, voice gruff with spent tears.

“Where did the wolves go? Who are you and where are you taking me?”

They were a lot of seemingly innocuous questions with difficult answers. Yoongi ran a hand through his hair a moment, licking his lips as he tried to organize himself.

“It’s complicated,” he said again, unsure of where or how to start.

“Where did the wolves go?” Minki repeated, focusing on perhaps the most complex question of all.

He could’ve told her she’d hallucinated the wolves, or maybe dreamed them. He could have ignored her. Ignorance had been a key part of his own turning process; people pretending not to hear as he begged for explanations, for help.

For death.

Yoongi focused on the truth, the facts. “The wolf that attacked you ran off when the police sirens got too near. I don’t know where he went.”

“There was another one; pale, orange-yellow. I think it was protecting me.” Tears were still slipping past her lashes as she spoke, but her voice was void and empty. Yoongi felt like he was about to swallow his tongue. Dull eyes fixed onto his. “What happened to that one?”

Fuck.

“It’s complicated.” He felt like a jackass. All these grandiose ideas about doing better than what they’d done to him and he couldn’t fucking spit it out. “It’s hard to believe until… until you do. You’ll probably think I’m out of my mind.”

She was in pain, that much was obvious. A slight shift of her hips told him that her leg was probably hurting like hell. “Just… please. Please. Just tell me what is happening. Tell me what happened to me.”

God, he didn’t want her to think he was crazy. He didn’t want her to think he was making fun or making light of the situation. He’d only know this girl for a couple of hours, but he didn’t want to hurt her. Yoongi bit his lip, too much of a coward to look her in the eyes as he began.

He didn’t even know what he was saying. All he could be thankful for was that his voice was steady and he didn’t stammer. He was beginning to peter out when she spoke up suddenly.

“Werewolf.”

That was it. The word was spoken into the air and crystallized around them, almost tangible. Yoongi met her gaze again, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t find scorn or derision.

“That’s what you’re saying,” Minki continued. “The Shadow World and all, you’re saying there are werewolves and that white wolf was one. And now I’m going to be one, too.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe. Why ‘maybe?’” Her tone was all matter-of-fact.

No time to sugar coat now. “If you survive.”

“Survive this leg wound?” Minki asked.

“No, the turning. Some don’t.”

“How many don’t?”

“Most. And you lost a lot of blood before I could get it to slow down to a trickle.”

“And that’s why you’re not taking me to a hospital.”

For a while Yoongi thought it was odd that she wasn’t more scared. And then he realized that she couldn’t be; not physically, not emotionally, not mentally. It was impossible at this point because as far as she knew, she’d just lost everything. Being afraid would get her nowhere, she couldn’t afford the energy it would take. He suddenly felt fortified and resolved. It didn’t matter if she didn’t understand all the answers he gave her. She was trusting him because he was giving them at all.

“There are rules against exposure in the Shadow World, laws. Amongst other things,” he told her.

“What about the other wolf?” Minki asked. “The smaller one?” It was honestly a little embarrassing to say aloud and Yoongi was glad that she caught on so quickly. “You. You’re the other wolf.”

Silence stretched for a long beat and then, “I don’t believe it.”

He didn’t truly expect her to. “I know.”

“This is insane.”

“I know.”

“My parents are-”

Minki cut off suddenly, the back of her hand to her mouth. Yoongi’s eyes darted involuntarily to the far back corner of the warehouse. That’s where he had curled up, shaking and shifting and sobbing uncontrollably as he was finally able to mourn the loss of his parents. His brothers. His life. Minki, however, held her tears back. She was brave and she was smart. She couldn’t afford to let tears hold her back right then.

“Where are you taking me? Your…” Minki hesitated before powering on. “Back to your pack?”

He nodded. “Turning… it’s not a pretty processes. We need to keep an eye on you, try and control the shift if it ever takes place.”

“So I’ll either die or become a monster.”

The word rang inside his skull. Monster. How many years had that word plagued him? How long had he referred to himself as such? How many times had he tried to cut or burn or slam it out of himself? How many times had he thrown himself from the highest roof he could find only to have what he believed the monster to be repair his broken, unyielding body? Even now, years later, the word still burned like ice.

“I still don’t believe it,” Minki said, pulling him out of the dark mire of his thoughts.

“I know,” Yoongi repeated. If she noticed the weight of his voice, she didn’t let on. He stood, looking her over once more. There was nothing else he could do for her here. Not now. “You should sleep. We’ll have get moving in a little while.”

He took a spot across from her, settling in even if he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep even one second that night. Minki didn’t fight him, didn’t ask any more questions. She merely lay down carefully, wincing with the pain of her wound.

His oldest brother would have been twenty-seven today. Yoongi thought of the white flowers he’d left on Joowon’s grave. When he heard the small, quiet sounds of Minki crying herself to sleep, he wondered how Joowon would have conquered the monster if he’d been given the chance.

For the first time in a long time, Yoongi felt small and hopeless again. The truth was that even if he did do everything in his power to shelter and protect this girl, in the end it wasn’t up to him. Death could take her, too, at any moment. Every feeling and emotion, every memory, every last bitter, lingering thought swelled up inside of him and threatened to drown him suddenly.

Was it worth the fight? Was he just pushing against an inevitable failure to begin with? Could he even do this? Live through this all again? For a girl he’d just met? The raging din in his head quieted with his resolution.

The white noise didn’t matter. The risk didn’t matter, the odds didn’t matter.

The only thing Yoongi knew for certain at that moment was that he was going to do everything in his power - small and feeble and uncertain as it was - to make sure that Goo Minki lived.

#shadow verse #bts #bts fic #yoongi #min yoongi #suga

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lynyrdwrites · 7 years ago

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Scandal of the Season

Now that the reveals are out, I can post the fic I wrote for @honestgrins for the Klaroline Vacay exchange. This is the first 1000+ word regency fic I’ve written, and I loved every second of it. It fed my historical trashmance addiction to no end.

---

“It’s quite scandalous, isn’t it? The woman they’re written to will be quite ruined when she’s discovered.”

“She’s going to be a whore, Elena.”

“Katherine-”

“What? She is. No respectable gentleman would write such things to a lady.”

Caroline Mikaelson – once Forbes, before her marriage eighteen months previous – set her tea cup aside and carefully patted her lips with a carefully embroidered handkerchief. She knew the embroidery was done carefully, because she had done it herself, as she had the other embroidery on the pillows and the window silks that decorated the sitting room that was considered her domain. She watched her friends continue their argument for a moment, a small smile quirking her lips. One could always count on Elena and Katherine’s arguments to be amusing, and the quick glance Bonnie shot her said she was thinking the same.

“Perhaps the gentleman isn’t respectable,” Caroline said at last, breaking into the argument. She considered the small plate of finger sandwiches that had been delivered by the maid when her friends had arrived. She let out a small breath of discontent, because biscuits would have gone much better with the tea.

“Are you trying to say that some sailor’s letter has been published?” Bonnie asked, raising her dark brows. “I’ve read enough love letters to know how a gentleman writes, and this one does so perfectly.”

Bonnie would know such things, being courted as she was by both Caroline’s brother-in-law, Kol, and Lord Lorenzo, heir to the Earl of Greysville. Last Caroline heard, they were both writing her poetry that she refused to share, even with her best friends.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t a gentleman, I said perhaps he wasn’t respectable.”

“I wonder who the woman is,” Elena interjected, holding the paper up. “I can’t wait to bare your breasts to the world again, my Love, and to taste them… to see them flush pink with your desire and need, as you breathe out my name in a helpless whimper” – Elena shivered, but she managed to put on a scandalized expression – “whomever she is, she must be completely devastated, to have a man write to her in such… vulgarterms.”

“I told you, Elena – she’s a –“

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

Caroline came to her feet at the entrance of her husband, which prevented Katherine from scandalizing her twin again. She held out her hand, smiling as Klaus pressed a kiss to her knuckles, a shiver running down her spine when his tongue flicked out against her knuckles. None of her friends could tell, of course, but Caroline still felt a thrill at the thought that they might, at any time, be caught.

“You’re home early,” she said, holding her skirts so she could give him the slightest of curtsies. When she straightened, Klaus’ eyes shot up from the décolletage exposed by her gown, and met hers, while his lips curved into the smirk that had once made her slap him, but now made her want to touch him in far more… intimate ways.

“We were discussing the paper,” she said, keeping her eyes wide and innocent. “It’s quite the scandal.”

“Caroline,” Elena hissed from behind her. Klaus raised a brow at her, and Caroline looked over her shoulder to see her friend standing, dropping into a deep curtsey. She was the most proper of them all, after all. “Your Grace, we shouldn’t bother you with such simple gossip. You’re a busy man.”

“Never too busy for my wife, Madame Salvatore,” Klaus replied, and he had already dismissed Caroline’s friends in his mind, all his attention focused on her. “In fact, I need to borrow her for a moment.”

Caroline swallowed at the dark promise in her husband’s eyes, and she felt herself go damp at the thought of being pressed into the wall by Klaus’ lean body, his solid warmth pressed to her.

“We’ll go,” Bonnie declared, and Caroline jolted in surprise. Bonnie actually rolled her eyes while Caroline grinned at her sheepishly, not bothering to pretend as though she hadn’t forgotten about her friends’ presence entirely.

“Our tea,” Caroline replied, in a half-hearted attempt to act the part of hostess.

“I’ve had enough,” Katherine declared after looking between Bonnie and Caroline with a narrow-eyed look for a moment. “Your tea is awful anyway.”

“Kat-”

“My tea is not awful,” Caroline shot at Katherine, cutting Elena off. Nothing irritated her like a dig at her ability to hostess, something of which Kat was very much aware. “You’re just jealous of my cook.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Caroline m’dear. Someday, perhaps it will be true.”

Caroline scowled, and would have followed the girls as Katherine herded them to the front door, just to prove a point. But there was a heavy sigh, from behind her, and then an arm wrapped around her waist and tugged her against a warm chest. Klaus’ breath was warm on her hear as he tugged her earlobe between his teeth.

“You can argue with Katherine any time, Sweetheart. I, however, am in need of you now.” His tongue soothed over the slight pain his bite had caused, and Caroline let him turn her in his arms. He brushed his fingers against her cheek, and she turned into his touch. “I missed you while I was gone.”

“You always miss me. Although I sometime believe it’s only parts of me.”

“Should we have an in depth conversation on politics, so I can prove to you how I value your mind as well? Perhaps we can discuss the latest bill brought to the Lords.”

“We could,” Caroline agreed, tangling her finger in his hair and tugging him down for a kiss. She sucked his lower lip, and tugged on it with her teeth. When they broke apart, she pressed soft kisses to the abused surface. “Or, we could speak about gossip.”

Klaus winced slightly at Caroline’s words, even though she had released her grip on his hair, and taken a step back to cross her arms.

“Now, Caroline-”

“I told you we should burn those letters, Klaus! Amusing as Elena’s scandalized expression was, what do you think Mikael will do if he realizes who wrote them? Or even worse, when they were written.”

“Most likely he would disown me, which he has already done… can a man be disowned more than once?” Klaus’ expression was thoughtful, as though he were truly considering the rules of disownment, and Caroline scowled.

“Klaus, that is not the topic of concern at the moment!”

Caroline had stomped closer to him in her irritation, her hands clutching her skirts. Klaus looked at her, a smirk slowly curving his lips. Caroline’s scowl faded, as she tried to figure out what he was plotting.

When she found herself scooped up in his arms, her skirts crushed by his hold, she shrieked.

“Niklaus! Put me down.”

“Never,” he purred in response. “It took me entirely too long to get you where I wanted you.”

Caroline knew it wasn’t at all proper, for a woman to let her husband whisk her off to their bedroom in his arms in the middle of the day. But truthfully, if she had wanted proper, she would have married Tyler Lockwood and lain meekly on her back for him, on the nights he wasn’t off with his mistress.

She much preferred her husband and his life of sin of pleasure… even if that sin and pleasure was currently the great topic of gossip amongst the Ton.

---

Klaus stroked a hand down Caroline’s arm, and smiled when she murmured and burrowed closer to him.

She was a passionate woman, his wife, and had ridden him into exhaustion. Now, Klaus simply enjoyed holding her close. He breathed deep, inhaling her scent – Caroline adored rose water, it had been one of the first things Klaus had noticed about her. Being with her went a long ways towards calming his wild emotions.

He’d had lunch with Finn and Elijah, his elder half-brothers, in an attempt to heal the rift the revelation of Klaus’ true paternity had caused. The day Ansel had died, Klaus had gained a dukedom, but he’d also been disowned by the only family he’d ever known. It had been Caroline, who had convinced Klaus to try and rebuild burned bridges with his siblings.

He’d had great success with Rebekah and Kol, but Finn and Elijah were more proper, and more bitter that the family’s black sheep was a duke, out ranking anything the other two could ever hope to become.

“Your thinking is disturbing my sleep, Klaus.”

“Perhaps that was the point,” Klaus replied, ducking his head to press a kiss to her shoulder. “Your Lord and Master demands to be serviced.”

“My Lord and Master had best re-think calling himself that.”

She sat up, holding the blankets to her chest. Klaus scowled at the material keeping her hidden from him, and Caroline rolled her eyes.

“You visited with Elijah and Finn today. I am not simple minded, Klaus. You enjoy bedding me, but you rarely come home in the afternoon unable to wait until tea is done before you can have me. They upset you.” Caroline rested her chin on his chest, eyes surveying him critically. “If you wish, I can shoot them.”

Klaus chuckled at that, a memory of Caroline in a lovely blue frock as she looked at him down the barrel of a pistol flashing through his mind. No one would ever call their courtship boring.

“No, you can leave the shooting of my difficult brothers to me, should it come to it.” He twined one of her curls – sadly abused and beginning to droop after their lovemaking – around his finger. “But your worries of earlier weren’t entirely misplaced. I do not give a damn for Mikael’s opinion, but if Elijah or Finn realizes the letter is mine…”

“At best, they will judge us with their foolish, judgement faces. At best, they will tell Rebekah and Kol they may no longer interact with us.”

“Kol won’t listen, of course, and he no longer relies on father to give him an allowance. But Rebekah is still dependant until she marries. She’ll be forced to listen.”

“And that will hurt you,” Caroline added, brushing her fingers over Klaus’ cheeks. Her expression went hard, a look that suited his wife – normally made of sunshine and laughter – very poorly. “Well then. I’m shooting them.”

Caroline made to clamber from the bed, and Klaus grabbed her by the waist, rolling them until he was braced over her. There were a hundred well thought out arguments Klaus could put forward to keep her from murder, and several lewd proposals he could make to just keep her in his bed. But when he looked down at her, it was none of them he spoke.

“Stay with me, Love,” he said simply. “Just… stay.”

“You ruin my anger every time,” she grumbled. “It is hardly fair, Klaus. You get to be made all the time.”

“Only because I have you to smooth things over.”

Her breath huffed against his chest, but she let him pull her back into cuddling without argument.

“How did the Post even get that letter?” she demanded at last. “I thought we had them all hidden away.”

“I may have… lost one.”

Caroline’s bewildered expression over her shoulder said more than words ever could.

“I was visiting Evamshire, when your mother was ill, remember? Since I didn’t have you, I required something else to remind me of you.”

“So you took one of the letters you wrote? Really, Klaus, were mine not good enough?”

“You always use euphemisms,” Klaus complained. “Or refer to our lovemaking as that night or in Lord Salvatore’s blue parlor. I required a more vivid picture.”

“And then you lost it,” Caroline grumbled. “Do you see now why I said we couldn’t sign them?”

“Indeed, m’dear.” Klaus pressed a kiss below her ear. “You are quite brilliant.”

Caroline sighed happily as he continued to kiss her, and reached behind him to take his member in her palm, stroking him with a confidence borne of months of love making.

“And don’t you forget it,” she growled, turning to him so they could be distracted by other, far more enjoyable, endeavors.

---

Caroline knew that Klaus wasn’t particularly upset by his letter being published. He would probably see it as some foolish sign of his masculine achievements. But she also knew that the break in his family upset him more than he would acknowledge, and that being barred from a relationship with Rebekah would devastate him.

Besides, Caroline had worked damn hard for that relationship to be possible, and she’d be damned if some Ton gossip sheet destroyed it. Still, for Caroline to go right to the source would be all but admitting the truth of whom the letter was written to.

But, Caroline had an ace in the hole she fully intended to use.

“So, that letter-”

“Yes, Bonnie.”

“Then Klaus-”

“Yes, Bonnie.”

“Oh… my. I mean, that is… does it feel… pleasant, then?”

Caroline sipped her tea and raised her brow at her friend. She could imagine what Bonnie was trying to get at, but if the other woman couldn’t get the words out, then she most likely wasn’t ready to have the question answered.

“I mean, the letter… does he really taste your… breasts?”

“I know Kol. I know Enzo. Have neither of them ever mentioned it in that poetry they’re writing it?”

It was always difficult to tell when Bonnie blushed, but when Caroline spotted the faint red hue, she felt slightly smug.

“Yes, well… it’s poetry. The lewd topics are hidden by flowery prose. That letter, however? It’s very… bold. I didn’t realize men wrote such things to their wives.”

It was Caroline’s turn to flush and attempt to hide her face behind her tea cup.

“You’re blushing. Why are you blushing? I’ll admit it’s a bit… unusual for a husband to show such passion for their wife but – oh… oh. Is Klaus writing this to his mistress? Oh, Caro-”

“No!” Caroline’s spine went steel straight, and tea threatened to slosh over the side of her cup. She set it aside hastily and smoothed her hands over her skirts, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “No. Klaus has no mistress – trust me, he wouldn’t dare. I just…” Caroline hesitated, because the truth of that letter, it wasn’t as simple as a man unfashionably in lust with his wife. The truth was a little more salacious than that, but this was Bonnie, and of all her friends, Bonnie was the single one actually capable of keeping a secret, including Caroline herself. “TheletterwasnotwrittenwhileIwashiswife.”

Bonnie blinked and set her own tea aside to lean forward.

“Could you repeat that?”

“The letter,” Caroline said, carefully enunciating through gritted teeth. “It was not written while I was his wife.”

“Oh.” Bonnie sat in long silence. “But… if it’s to you, and you weren’t his wife, then… oh dear.”

“Yes,” Caroline agreed. “Oh dear. But Bonnie – should the identity of the author be discovered, the timing cannot. The scandal will be bad enough, and Klaus and I will ride it out either way, but-”

“Rebekah won’t,” Bonnie said simply.

“Rebekah won’t,” Caroline agreed. “And it’s imperative to my husband that this not harm Rebekah. We’ve only just begun to mend those relationships.”

“You mean you’ve only just begun to mend those bridges. If Klaus had his way, he’d still be a cold, lonely man separated from his siblings.” Bonnie blew out a heavy breath, contemplating all that she learned. “Well. We need to discover the source.”

“Can you do it?” Caroline asked, leaning forward to grip Bonnie’s hand with her own.

“Alone? Not at all. But luckily for us, there is a thief that is rather fond of us both. But you’ll have to negotiate. He always tries to use these things to black mail me into accepting his proposal.”

---

Lorenzo St. John, future Earl of Greysville, had a multitude of talents uncommon to a man who would someday be a member of the House of Lords.

But then, most Lords weren’t running con games in Paris from the time they were able to walk.

Though most of the Ton had no idea of the details of his less than savoury past, they were aware he hadn’t been raised like them, and it left him as somewhat of an outcast. That hadn’t mattered to one Caroline Forbes, however, who had risked her own reputation as a single lady to save Enzo’s neck. Of course, rather than ending up with him, as she would in one of the naughty novels so many ladies read, she had wound up a Duchess.

Enzo might have been bitter, except that he’d been rather more interested in Miss Bonnie Bennett anyway.

And now, his debt was being called in for feminine intrigue, and there was really nothing he could do about it.

“Your husband could have been more circumspect, Gorgeous,” Enzo grumbled when the situation had been laid out before him. “This is hardly the type of matter that will do anything for my vanity.”

“Oh, would you prefer someone be on death row?” Caroline replied, raising her brows. “Perhaps wrongfully accused of the single crime that someone didn’t commit? Oh, wait… that did happen. It was you. And because of me, now it is not. Me and Klaus.”

“Klaus and me,” Bonnie corrected automatically, and it made Enzo chuckle, because the young lady always became so very proper around him. Even though they sat discussing theft and blackmail, she still appeared so very prim.

Yet, she hadn’t yet slapped him for the naughty poetry he’d sent her – or Kol Mikaelson for the same. It was a damn shame the other man was so competitive. They might have found a middle ground otherwise.

“You heard, her, Gorgeous. Klaus and me.” Enzo grinned as Caroline rolled her eyes. “Now, ‘m not the type to patter about grammar. But if you need some intimidation done, then I suppose I can help you out. For a price.”

His gaze drifted to Bonnie, who crossed her arms and scowled at him. He winked at her in return, and she turned her head from him with a huff.

“Eyes on me, Lorenzo. And what do you mean – for a price? I saved your rotten life!”

He had to admit, Caroline was rather magnificent when she was angered. Her eyes flashed, and her cheeks flushed, and Enzo acknowledged that Klaus was a damn lucky man. He was also a man willing to live on the edge, because had Enzo married Caroline as he’d originally planned, one of them – most likely him – would be dead now.

“Well, what do you expect me to do? Risk my neck in this little scheme for free? In case you’ve forgotten, playing Lord Raider nearly got me hung once already!”

Caroline and Bonnie exchanged looks, and Enzo was witness to one of their rare moments of silent conversation. Caroline’s nose crinkled, Bonnie’s brow furrowed, until at last, as one, they turned back to him.

“I will let you have two waltzes, one of which will be the supper dance, at Caroline and Klaus’ ball. You will keep your hands in exactly the correct positions, and I will deign to allow you to dine next to me,” Bonnie offered at last.

“Oh, you’ll deign to sit next to me, Miss Bennet?” Enzo gave her a dry look, before letting out a huff of laughter. “I do enjoy you, Bonnie. But no need to sacrifice yourself in such a horrid fashion. Who am I blackmailing?”

“Intimidating,” Caroline corrected, her lips curving into a sheepish smile Enzo knew meant trouble. “And that’s part of the issue… we’re not entirely sure. You need to help us find that out too.”

Bonnie added her own, more half-hearted smile to Caroline’s, and Enzo groaned and slumped down.

“Bloody hells. Fine. Now begone with you whilst I plot.”

---

Klaus had suspected that Caroline was up to something. Her kiss as he had left had been distracted, and if it weren’t for a promise to meet Kol, he would have never let her get away with such distraction. He much preferred her to admire him as he deserved.

Suspicion turned to certainty when Lorenzo St. John took the seat across from him, the one Kol had abandoned just moments earlier.

“That brother of yours certainly does enjoy the sound of his own voice, does he not?”

“If you’re looking for my assistance in beating him out at wooing Miss Bennet” - Klaus paused for a second, because truth be told, Kol did like the sound of his own voice, and had a habit of being a prat… but he was also the only brother willing to speak to Klaus, and he released a heavy sigh as he imagined Caroline’s reaction to learning Klaus had plotted against him, even if it was with Enzo, whom his wife was entirely too fond of – “he is my brother, and so I wish him happy. Or something.”

“Or something,” Enzo agreed dryly, raising a dark brow in amusement. “As it is, I’m not here for your help in courtship. You’re quite terrible at it.”

“Excuse me?” Klaus replied, feeling his spine stiffen at the accusation. “Which of us is it that is married? Because I appear to be enjoying wedded bliss while the object of your affections flutters her lashes at my brother.”

“Gorgeous is odd,” Enzo gave an easy shrug. “She’s American. Not her fault. You were just lucky to find the one woman who could see your… Klaus-ness as charming.”

“As always, St. John, it’s been a pleasure. But I believe I have other urgent matters to attend… such as not throwing you through a window.”

Enzo looked at the nearby window, eyes narrowed contemplatively, as though considering the likelihood of Klaus being able to toss him through it. Klaus rolled his eyes and stood; why his wife tolerated the other man, he would never understand. Perhaps one of those Amerianisms that Enzo claimed allowed her to find Klaus charming.

“Caroline wants me to go back to my… old ways.”

The quietly hissed words had Klaus dropping back into his seat.

“Dammit,” Klaus growled, closing his eyes and praying for the patience to survive disobedient wives. “I told her not to worry about the matter.”

“Yes, and she agreed and went to meekly embroidering handkerchiefs and drinking tea, giving the matter of salacious gossip nary another thought,” Enzo agreed. “That so sounds like the Gorgeous I know.”

“Must you persist in acting as though you know my wife better than I?” Klaus demanded, his eyes snapping open to glare at Enzo. “You don’t. Obviously, this is not unexpected. I just thought I had more… time.”

Caroline liked her plots to be well concocted. For her to have acted on this one already meant she must have been making it – her brilliant mind whirling madly – even as she had voiced her concerns to him.

She had damn well have not been plotting while they’d been making love.

“Well as it is, I’ll be taking care of it for you. Or rather, Lord Raider will. I just wanted to let you know, in case the worst happens and I’m looking at the hangman’s noose again.” Enzo actually looked rather irritated at the thought, and Klaus smirked, hoping it that it galled the other man, to remember that he still owed Klaus a debt that could likely never be repaid. “If it does come to that, you’ll have to play the imperious duke and get me out.”

“Again,” Klaus added, with what was meant to be benign smile, though he suspected it bared too many of his teeth.

“Again,” Enzo agreed, his own smile equally as pleasant. “Though this time, it will be on your behalf, so I certainly hope no debt will be incurred.”

Klaus leaned back in his chair and contemplated the other man. He didn’t particularly like St. John – though admittedly, he didn’t particularly dislike him either – but he could acknowledge that Lorenzo had been a good friend to Caroline, particularly when she had arrived on the scene, a nouveau riche outcast from America who was a little too… American to truly fit in with the other debutantes.

Klaus had immediately been infatuated, but he would admit it was Enzo, with his charm, looks, and money, who had eased Caroline’s way significantly in those first weeks before Klaus had managed to flirt his way into her bed and, eventually, into being her husband.

The other man owed him nothing; saving him had been for Caroline, and for what he had done for Caroline… not that he would ever tell Enzo that. Still, allowing any one else to play the hero for Caroline in need… the thought didn’t appeal to Klaus at all.

“Well,” he said after a moment, giving a sharp nod as he made his decision. “This go ‘round, I suppose we’ll have to hope our lovely ladies are able to save us, as if you’re hanging, I very likely will be as well. How exactly do we become… Lord Raider.”

Enzo stared at him in silence, before abruptly burying his face in his hands with a pained groan.

“Lord above, what have I unleashed?”

---

Logan Fell loathed the nobility – really, he loathed any sort of gentry at all. Mostly, it was due to jealousy.

Partly, it was because he’d once tried to seduce a Lady of the Gilbert family, only for the Lady in question to marry a far richer, noblerman and her brother-in-law to lay Logan out and otherwise ruin his life.

Now, he wrote for a gossip rag and spent most of his time completely done on whiskey.

That was, until he received the letter.

It was the talk of the Ton, and while it might not be the fine literature Logan had always imagined he would write, it had gotten him a raise. Plus, out there some nob would be pissing his pants in fear of being revealed, and Logan would be the one to reveal him – and his lady love.

Yes, Logan felt quite good about his lot in life, and even whistled as he made his way toward the tavern.

He didn’t even see the man until he was pushed against an alley wall, a sword at his throat. He recognized the black mask, however, and felt his stomach churn.

“Lord Raider… impossible. You’re dead.”

“Rumors of my demise are greatly overstated.”

It wasn’t the man holding a sword to Logan’s throat, but a second Lord Raider that spoke. He also held a sword, which he swung absent-mindedly as he considered Logan – or at least, Logan assumed he was being looked at. It was difficult to be sure with the mask.

“You released a letter,” the first man said, his voice rather guttural, though still clearly well-educated. “Where did you get it?”

“I can’t tell you,” Logan replied, shivers overtaking his body as the grip on him tightened.

“That is a poor decision, Mr. Fell. While I myself don’t condone murder, I don’t think my friend gives a damn about your continued survival,” mused the second man, the one that claimed to be the true Lord Raider.

“I don’t know,” Logan sobbed when he felt the rapier break skin. “I swear it. I never met the man. He delivered the letters anonymously and wished me well, but he had to have been high class.”

“Why would you say that?” asked Lord Raider, genuine curiosity in his voice while the first man just growled.

“The money he gave me. Only you rich lords can afford to pay a man to gossip,” Logan replied bitterly, and then gave an embarrassingly high squeal when the grip on him tightened even further, and he began to worry he would need a doctor to stitch him.

“Who cares about the difficulties of the pathetic?” the first man hissed. “You said letters. Where are the others?”

Logan intended to keep his silence – he would only receive his raise and the extra money promised him once all the letters were published – but then the man tilted his head, until Logan was forced to meet his eyes, visible through the mask.

He couldn’t tell the color, but he could clearly see his death there.

He rattled off his address.

“Please don’t kill me,” Logan begged when he was done. The man stared at him for another moment, before tossing him aside.

“He’s all yours,” the man said to Lord Raider. “Alive as well. Remember that, when confirmation is requested.”

He left, disappearing as easily as he’d first appeared, leaving Logan and Lord Raider behind. Logan still sobbed, and could tell he’d soiled his pants – a humiliating situation. Lord Raider looked after his companion a moment, then to Logan. He took out a bag of coins and tossed it next to Logan.

“I recommend using it to leave the country. My friend left you alive tonight. That may not extend to tomorrow. He is rather excellent at holding grudges.”

Then Lord Raider left as well. For a moment, Logan felt defiance rise, bravery returning now that he was alone, and he thought he would stay, nobility be damned.

But then he remembered the look in the man’s eyes, the one that promised pain and darkness, and he shivered.

Defiance be damned, Logan Fell would go to America and live.

---

The candle in their room was still lit.

Klaus entered the room, and Caroline looked up from her novel. She was in her dressing gown, her hair hanging over one shoulder in a long, loose braid, curled in a chair by the fireplace, one that Klaus knew to be incredibly uncomfortable. Klaus imagined that had been the point, as when she looked at him, her eyes were fatigued, but the chair would have kept her awake.

“It’s done,” he said, and then, after a moment of hesitation, he pulled the other letters out of his jacket. “He had more.”

Caroline took them from him. She unfolded one, read it over.

“Some of them are mine,” she noted. And though her language had been more flowery, some of them had been written before their marriage, were suggestive enough to cause issues. “Is Mr. Fell alive?”

“Yes. You can even ask Enzo.”

Caroline actually chuckled at his response. She climbed to her feet and stepped to the fireplace. She tossed the letters onto the flame, and Klaus stepped up behind her, close enough that their bodies touched, to watch them burn.

“I don’t need to ask Enzo, you foolish man. You may not always do things I approve of, but I know you’ll never lie to me about them.” She turned towards him and reached up to tug the mask from his face and tossed it into the flames as well. His face bare, she cupped it and pulled him in for a kiss. It began sweetly, but passion, as always, quickly flared between them.

“I shouldn’t do this with you now,” he murmured against her skin. “I nearly killed a man mere hours ago.”

“If you avoided making love to me every time you nearly killed a man, I would still be a virgin,” she responded cheekily, her hands sliding the buttons on his trousers open until she loosed his cock. “Don’t pretend to be anything other than what you are with me, Klaus. I may not always like it, and I will tell you when I don’t, but I will always choose the ugliest truth over a pretty lie.”

She backed him up, and he let her push him into the chair she’d left. She paused in front of him, pulling up the skirts of her dressing gown and night shift, before she straddled him, his cock settling in the cleft of her thighs. She kissed him again, holding his face in her hands once more, and Klaus’ settled on her hips, helping to guide her until he slid inside of her. She welcomed him, wet and warm, and Klaus growled into their kiss.

“I love you,” Caroline murmured, pulling back from their kiss to rest her forehead against his.

“And I, you,” Klaus replied, his hands moving from her hips to undo her dressing gown and push it from her shoulders. He then pushed her shift down to bare her breasts, as Caroline began to rock her hips.

When he took her nipple between his lips, she actually let out a curse, making Klaus smirk into her skin. He loved it when she cursed during their lovemaking; the unruly American she hid so well behind the Duchess’ façade coming to the forefront in her pleasure.

“God, Klaus,” she hissed out.

“I do like to be your God, Caroline,” Klaus replied.

She probably would have been irritated by that, but Klaus had grasped her hips and angled his own, helping to increase their movements. After that, neither of them could form words. Their breath put instead towards grunts and moans and, occasionally, the others name spoken like a prayer.

Her fingers bit into his shoulders almost painfully as she came apart, and Klaus let out a series of curses as he found his own release, holding her tightly to him. Caroline released her grip, instead holding him in an embrace.

“How did he get them?” Caroline asked.

“He didn’t know,” Klaus replied, still feeling rather grim.

Caroline said nothing, but Klaus knew his wife well, knew her mind was whirling.

“Hmmm,” she murmured.

“What has your brilliant mind concluded?”

She pulled back from him, her hands resting on his shoulders.

“Do you trust me?” she asked.

It was on the tip of Klaus’ tongue to make a blasé remark, but Caroline’s expression made him hesitate, and instead grasp her hand, and press a warm kiss to her palm.

“Without reserve.”

Klaus was quite sure he would follow her into hell without reservation, if it meant she continued to smile at him like that.

---

Mikael Mikaelson sneered at Caroline when she was let into his study.

It didn’t bother her. After all, he was an asshole, and despite his distaste for her and his hatred of Klaus, he had still allowed her entrance.

The power, she supposed, of being a Duchess.

“What is it that the bastard’s harlot would want with me?” he asked, pure disdain painting his voice.

“I believe you mean the Duchess of Evamshire,” Caroline replied primly, smoothing her skirts. She sat and smiled at Mikael sweetly. “Of course, I could understand how you might make the mistake. A known womanizer and whore chaser would hardly recognize a woman of quality.”

“Excuse me?” Mikael demanded, looming over Caroline. “My reputation is above reproach-”

“It won’t be,” Caroline cut him off coldly. “If you persist in attempting to ruin my husband and myself.”

Mikael glared at her, and she could see him fight an inner battle for a moment - they both knew of what she spoke, and they both knew she had no proof.

But Mikael’s pride and self-satisfaction had always driven him, and his face took on a smug expression.

“The world will know you for the slut you are, and that Niklaus married an American whore because ofwhat she did for him in bed. Sadly, you’ll still be accepted – the safety of the duchy, I suppose – but you’ll both be laughingstocks. And my daughter will finally be forced to repudiate you both.” Mikael raised his brandy in a salute. “As I didn’t drown him at birth, it will have to do.”

“You disgust me,” Caroline said, her voice musing. “And you also won’t win.”

She pulled a letter out of her pelisse, and began to read it. The familiar words of the letter that had been published in the post.

“I don’t need to hear you repeat that disgusting drivel,” Mikael sneered, cutting her off. “Have you no shame, to even acknowledge it?”

“Oh, but, my Lord… it’s not my shame,” Caroline replied with wide-eyed innocence. Then those eyes turned steely, and for the first time Mikael had the sense to appear nervous. “It’s yours. And there’s a woman – Sage – willing to swear you wrote these words to her. A whore. Of course, her son is actually Finn’s, but he won’t acknowledge or help them, and Sage is exactly bitter enough to swear that he is yours as well. He does have the same eyes, after all.”

Mikael stared at her in enraged silence for a moment.

“Of course,” Caroline continued, “Sage’s word probably isn’t enough. But a letter in your own hand writing? That’s a little more telling.”

She turned the letter towards Mikael, a forgery that even his own wife would believe belonged to him.

Mikael leapt for her throat, and Caroline found herself on the floor beneath him, his weight pressing down on her, and for a moment she began to regret this plan.

But then Klaus was there, and Finn and Elijah, pulling their enraged father away, as Klaus held Caroline, and she could gasp desperately for breath. The letter had been discarded, but Klaus saw it, and quickly made it disappear into his jacket.

“Father, what in the word are you doing?”

“That whore… that harlot…!” Mikael couldn’t get any other clear words out, and Caroline shrank into Klaus, clinging to him like the terrified lady that Elijah and Finn would expect her to be.

Finn wrestled his father away, while Elijah looked at Caroline and Klaus with apology in his eyes.

“I just wanted to try and mend the rift,” Caroline said, adding a sniffle, just because it made Elijah soften even further. “I know it bothers Rebekah so.”

“My apologies, Your Grace… Mikael’s behaviour… you were right, Niklaus. I believed I needed to be loyal to father but… dear God, he would have killed your wife.” Elijah looked at Caroline with worry. “Come to dinner on Friday. Father will… I will make sure he’s not here.”

Klaus gave a sharp nod, and they left rapidly, using Klaus’ rage as an easy excuse to retreat.

A rage that was all too real.

“Never again,” Klaus swore, holding Caroline close in the carriage. “Never again will you be near that man.”

“In his defence, I did exactly what I knew would send him into a killing rage,” Caroline pointed out, but her throat was still tender from her near strangulation, and she winced. “But I’m fine with never being near him again.”

“I should have never-”

“It was my idea,” Caroline rested a finger on Klaus’ lips. “I knew you would be there to save me. I never doubted you.”

She may have doubted her plan for a moment, but never Klaus.

“How did you know he’d attack you?” Klaus asked after several moments of silence.

“He is Mikael. And Mikael is not that complicated a man. He takes pride in his belief he is better than everyone else. And I threatened to bring him to the level of us mere mortals. He’d rather die.” Caroline tapped a finger on Klaus’ chest thoughtfully. “But first, he’d rather I die and see if that fixed everything.”

Klaus rested his head on hers, and cuddled her close.

“We’ll burn the letter when we get home,” Caroline stated.

“Indeed, it’s caused us enough trouble.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose this means I can’t write you such things anymore.”

“It does,” Caroline agreed, “but really, it’s for the best.” She tugged him down, so she could nip his earlobe and murmur into his ear. “I like it better when you say them to me anyway.”

Klaus’ lips curled into a smirk, and for the rest of the carriage ride, he murmured every dark, sensual thing he wished to do to her against her skin.

When they reached the house, the servants did not see either of them for the rest of the day.

#Klaroline #Klaroline fic #honestgrins #regency au

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ramonaglen · 6 years ago

Text

Word vomit about what's happening in my brain right now.

To be honest, this has probably been one of the most emotionally taxing years of my life. Despite my tendency towards the dramatic, I don't mean that as hyperbole. The majority of it surrounds one specific thing and I've oscillated through so many feelings about it that I've never had a chance to really conclusively interpret and define how I feel about it. So, as any good millennial, how better to definitively understand my inner thoughts than to write about it publicly where strangers can read and follow along with me. All two that may actually stumble across this.

I lost my best friend of, 20ish years. Granted, I made the decision to let go of the last few strings holding us together, but it had been fading for almost a year and a half, and it feels like a full loss. I just finally decided to stop trying to force something that probably shouldn't be forced. I let go and stopped reaching out, knowing that if I didn't, they weren't going to and that would be the end of things. I knew that was how it was going to play out. It still hurt like a bitch.

I'm not going to lie, afterwards I had to parse through a lot of negativity about it. I was hurt that things were going to play out the way I knew there were. I was angry because I felt like after so many years of history, I deserved better. I was heartbroken that something and someone that had meant so much to me for so much of my life wasn't going to be there anymore. I legit cried myself to sleep about it for three nights in a row. But it had to happen.

I'm still not 100% sure what went wrong. I'm probably never going to, which drives my need for closure in all things crazy. I don't know if after years of putting up with my "extra," it was finally too much. I don't know if the differences in what we want in life caused too much of a rift. I don't know if it was that they found new and more exciting friends. The petty part of me blames it on that. The part that is hurt and wants vindication, whether or not it's justified. The new friends.

The new friends that I thought were mutual friends until I realized that I was never invited to join them when they'd spend time together, and all of a sudden there were dozens of inside jokes thrown around that left me confused as hell, and stories being reminisced about that I had no context for. And I felt like a stranger in the life of someone I'd known since we were children. It hurt. I know no one would believe me if I said that I wasn't jealous, but I really never have been. I'm genuinely happy they have people that seem to really care about them and that they enjoy spending time with. But I was/am devastated that I wasn't one of those people anymore.

Unfortunately, conflict resolution was never a strong point in our friendship. I like getting things out, grievances aired, and closure one way or another. They have never been able to handle conflict of any kind and usually just ignored something was wrong until it went away. For 20ish years it worked for us. Things pent up, we'd get frustrated, we'd spend some time apart, we'd forget or forgive and then everything would be good again. It worked, but it wasn't healthy.

Some history.

Two years ago, we had a different group of mutual friends. And, just as with the eventual second group, I began to feel cut out. At the time, we literally lived together and they would come home after being out with the group and when I'd mention that I was bummed I didn't get to join them, they'd say things like, "oh, I thought I mentioned it to you" or "oh, I didn't think you'd be interested/free." Eventually it happened so often and it had been so long since I'd seen the rest of the group that I genuinely believed it was because the others didn't like me or didn't want me around. I brought it up to my friend and they assured me that wasn't the case, but they didn't have time to talk about it with me, and assured me that they'd make an effort to include me more. But they didn't and it still happened. Quite a few more times. And I took it as confirmation that *I* was, in fact, the the problem and my friend was trying to spare my feelings.

So I dropped it.

Until it started happening again with a new group of friends.

At first I tried to justify it to myself that, because this was a group of friends who met through work, and because I had recently transferred out of the department where we all met, that it was just because I wasn't around as much. My new position kept me way busier than before and I wasn't around when plans were being made. But I did come around. At least twice a week after my shift ended I would head over to their area to chat and spend time with them. I frequently tried to set up plans, but there was always something already happening that I wouldn't be interested in (watching scary movies, going out to a bar, etc. Things that were very well known to be outside of my comfort zone) or they didn't feel up to being social when I was free.

In the seven months since we had stopped living together (they'd moved out to a place of their own because they really wanted a place where they could be a hermit and live in total quiet without other humans and, though they loved me, my sister - our other roommate - and I couldn't exist silently,) we had only found time to spend together twice. Once, when I had to practically beg them to come see our new place, and the other when I was invited as a last minute thought to a going away party for a departing coworker because I happened to be present when they were talking about it and it would have been even more awkward to not extend an invitation.

Finally, after literal weeks of trying to find time to try a restaurant I knew we'd both like, we made plans for a few of us to go to dinner before they continued on to another set of plans to go see a horror film. I was so excited about it the entire week.

The specifics of how the plans ended up falling through aren't particularly relevant beyond the fact that they fell through due to a lack of communication with me, and when I expressed how hurt I was by it, it was thrown back at me as if I was the one who had caused the lack of communication. Lack of communication is never my problem, too much communication frequently is, but never a lack of it.

It was something so small and in the grand scheme of our decades long friendship, so insignificant, but it was like being hit with a cold bucket of water. After crying for an good half hour out of frustration, I finally had to come to an understanding of the situation. Because this wasn't just one incident of missed plans and a tiny spat. It was a slow, two year decline, where, when looking at every interaction (of which there were very few) my best friend had been withdrawing from my life, seemingly intentionally. And I realized I had been trying so hard to hold on to a relationship with a person that didn't really seem concerned with holding on on their end.

It sounds so dramatic, and I know from things that have been said to me by other coworkers that they think I stopped talking to them because I was upset about dinner, but it really had so very little to do with stupid dinner plans. It was about looking at the last two years and seeing how much I'd been removed from their life. It was soul crushing.

So we come full circle to the decision I made then. I decided to stop trying to force something that shouldn't have to be forced. I didn't burn the bridge, but I wasn't going to cross it alone anymore, I needed to be met halfway. And I knew once I made that decision that it was the end, because even with the two years of slow separation, I knew them well enough to know that they were not going to be willing to put in that effort. I wasn't wrong. They didnt. (Except for one *kind of* attempt where they sent a captionless link to a group chat we were both in of something I was peripherally interested in, instead of simply sending something like "Hi" directly to me, as if that would start a conversation. And when it didn't, they never tried again. To be honest, I felt and still feel like I deserved the effort of an actual word, even just a two letter one. I would have replied back and given room for further conversation.)

I also made the decision to reach out to the first group of friends that I had thought didn't like me on the off chance I had been wrong. I had been. It turns out that they had all been under the impression that I had been too busy and then had simply disappeared into the hustle of my own life. A big part of that is on me - because I had met them through my friend, I had always let my friend dictate when we spent time together. And when I began to feel unwanted, I never challenged those feelings by asking the others directly. I'll own all of that.

So here we are. Another seven months later and I'm finally trying to sort out and settle exactly how I feel. I still go through little rounds with myself. Sometimes I feel bitter because I feel like I deserved better than being forgotten. Sometimes I feel sad because I miss my best friend and the friendship we had before all this started. Sometimes I just feel and acceptance because I know we are two completely different people than we were two years ago and things change. Sometimes I feel content because, regardless of how it happened, I think it may have ultimately been better for each of us in the long run; fading out and letting go instead of stubbornly holding on until it became something so toxic we would have destroyed even the good memories of the past. Sometimes I feel happy because, now that I have let go, I'm not buried under a huge ball of stress and depression that I never realized had been there during that last two years and I can focus on building and strengthening the other relationships in my life that I neglected during that time. Sometimes is just one, sometimes it's all of them at the same time.

I'm sure there will be times I'm reminded of something shitty that happened and have moments of less than positive feelings, but I know there will also be times when I can look back fondly on the many things that were wonderful throughout the many years of our friendship. I will never stop loving them. I'm really, genuinely, happy that they seem to be doing well and have other people who can and will be there for them like I got to be for a while. Despite how it hurt while it was happening, I've never thought what they did was done maliciously. Carelessly maybe, but I don't think they ever intended to cause me pain. So, even though we'll never be friends like we once were, I'm never planning to cut them out if they ever want to be there. I'm never planning to burn that bridge if they ever do decide to cross it. Maybe someday, when we've grown up into even bigger adults, we'll find ourselves in a place where we can talk about it. Maybe not. To be honest, that's probably just my lust for closure getting ahead of itself.

So, after all that obnoxious pontificating, here's where I am: I'm going to have little bursts of mixed up feelings every once in a while, and I think that's okay. I'm going to focus on cherishing the relationships I have now and learn from the mistakes that I know I made on my side of the situation and hopefully I won't repeat them. And I'm going to work my damndest to be as good a person and friend as I can be to those in my life now going forward.

And yeah, I realize I may have probably painted myself a little bit too altruistic to what transpired here, but you know what? These are my internal reflections about what's been floating around in my brain...that I'm posting publicly...>_> and I'm gonna let myself have this one.

*finally ends 500 years later*

#internal therapy #word vomit #too many commas #sometimes i make up my own grammar rules #emotions are the worst #i should probably delete this #there is no reason other people need to read this #but we all know how i like to attract potential attention #so we all know i wont #i needed to get it all out to understand #tbh i may never fully understand it all #good lord am i 13 again #drama llama

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ulyssesredux · 8 years ago

Text

Wandering Rocks

It pleased Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the twilight they saw knights on horseback with small companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the edges of thick forests; and it would look like by day; so he watched anxiously as the column approached its brink.

His collar too sprang up. Then a rift seemed to Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his garret, and had come to the far places of which two unlabouring men lounged. And Father Conmee was very good now. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his mouth while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a coin. Then one summer afternoon very long ago, when it was natural for him to sleep as he was not a fearsome aurora sputtered up from some remote place beyond the Tanarian Hills where his spirit had dwelt all the village. —Very well, indeed, father. His wife, Father Conmee a reasonable plea.

Surely, there ought to be appointed its chief god for evermore. The reverend T.R. Greene B.A. will D.V. speak.

At Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass furnishings. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his right hand as he remembered them.

Nones. But three nights afterward Kuranes came very suddenly upon his old world of childhood. A zealous man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked with care in the barony. The lychgate of a bride and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of such a queenly mien. But some of us awake in the barony.

The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide.

Brother Swan was the person to see the wife of the village that was a sound somewhere in space, and the red pillarbox at the turquoise temple of Nath-Horthath, where a notably fat and especially offensive millionaire brewer enjoys the purchased atmosphere of extinct nobility. A listless lady, no more money left, and when the sun for his purse.

Handsome knights they were also badtempered. The abyss was a peaceful day. William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came from a gap of a Yorkshire relish for my little Yorkshire rose. And really did great good in his ear the tidings. Down the hill amid scented grasses and brilliant flowers walked Kuranes, over the bright red letterbox.

He should have read that before lunch. As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the blue harbor, and the gaily painted galleys that sail out into the gulf, where gathered the traders and sailors, and where rode lightly the galleys from far places over the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms darkened the chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently.

Beautiful weather it was he who had made turf to be. And he gazed also upon Mount Aran rising regally from the world about him, but not for long, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of soldiers and sailors, and he beheld such beauty of red and white flowers, green foliage and lawns, white paths, diamond brooks, blue lakelets, carven bridges, and the peering stars. Father Conmee and Father Conmee smelt incense on his beat saluted Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out. Well, let me see if you can post a letter from his other plump glovepalm into his purse. From Cahill's corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., made obeisance unperceived, mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held of yore. On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, straining her sight upward from Chardenal's first French primer, saw salutes being given to the end of the small wooden bridge where he had been. On Newcomen bridge Father Conmee from the regions where the sea meets the sky.

That book by the style it was an office or something. Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice.

It seemed to open in the sun rose he beheld the glittering minarets of the sky among fleecy clouds tinted with rose. She passed out by the crumbling moon and the seacoast beyond, and sometimes they saw only such houses and of the bright harbor where the houses grew thinner and thinner. Well, let me see if you can post a letter from his nurse and let the warm sea-breeze lull him to a tower window overlooking a mighty plain and river lit by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by the conductor help her and net and basket down: and Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast. Don John Conmee. Of good family too would one think it? And Kuranes reigned thereafter over Ooth-Nargai beyond the horizon, showing the ruin and antiquity of the harbor, and of the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P. Yes, he knew be vanished; for he had heard so many worries in life, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and dwells all alone in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the carriages go by. Those were millions of London, so that after a time he grew so impatient of the propagation of the seat. His Excellency drew the attention of his eyes and the splendid city of Celephaïs. And now he was the last of his ancestors had lived, and of cardinal Wolsey's words: If I had served my king He would go to Buxton probably for the ways of the D.B.C. Buck Mulligan gaily, and upon lieutenantcolonel H.G. Heseltine, and sometimes they saw only such houses and of his claret waistcoat and doffed his cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care detached from her place to alight. And to think that she was one of those good souls who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and bring it to town and hamlet to make fires in the sun, and the stagnation of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of his shop. Vere dignum et iustum est. —But mind you don't post yourself into the box, little man?

Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had nearly passed the end of the clouds from the high-priest not to realize that any time had passed. —Well, now! For several days they glided undulatingly over the water. The abyss was a charming day. In a dream Kuranes saw the conductor help her and net and basket down: and towards him came the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P.—Very well, indeed, father. A constable on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams.

He should have read that before lunch.

A flushed young man came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. Just nice time to walk to Artane. Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift nobleman.

In the porch of Four Courts Richie Goulding with the body of a dreadful catastrophe in New York. He had been born; the great stone house covered with ivy, where he had floated down, down; past dark, shapeless, undreamed dreams, and wandered aimlessly through the metropolis.

Then a rift seemed to gallop back through the ivory gates into that world of childhood tales and dreams. Father Conmee supposed. They saluted him and to remind him who he had stolen out into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge Father Conmee smelt incense on his beat, stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low. Kuranes was not snatched away, and in the blue harbor, and finally ceased to write.

Father Conmee turned the corner of Mountjoy square east. That was very glad to see the wife of the cavalcade. From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee had finished explaining and looked down.

Father Conmee said. Then the two rowed to a land of quaint gardens and cherry trees, and heard the cries of the people of this land about it, had he not found that there were faint, lone campfires at great distances apart, and Kuranes awakened in his honor; since it was natural for him to a tower window overlooking a mighty plain and river lit by the crumbling moon and the red pillarbox at the head of Mr M.E. Solomons in the quiet evening.

The conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car seemed to mock the dreamers of all the eternity of an hour one summer afternoon very long ago. On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the pawnbroker's, at the head of the cavalcade. It was idyllic: and Father Conmee observed pig's puddings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave deportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he came to a place where the houses grew thinner and thinner. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C. in attendance.

Constable 57C, on his left. Then one summer afternoon very long ago. The superior, the merchants and camel-drivers greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B.L., M.A., made haste to reply.

Yes.

One night he went flying over dark mountains where there were not many to speak to him with surprise. Past Richmond bridge at the doorstep of the millions of black and brown and yellow men and of Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening, not startled when an otter plunged.

Down the hill amid scented grasses and brilliant flowers walked Kuranes, over the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations. There are not many to speak to him and to remind him who he had found him, E.L.Y'S, while outriders pranced past and carriages. On another night Kuranes walked up a damp stone spiral stairway endlessly, and the snowy peak overlooking the sea, and when the sun, and the snowy peak overlooking the sea meets the sky.

Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced at the doorstep of the abyss down which one must float silently; then the luminous vapors spread apart to reveal a greater brightness, the prince consort, in silk hat and smiled and nodded and smiled tinily, sweetly. It seemed to gallop back through time; for he was called by another name. Kuranes had seen alive in his ear the tidings. Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square east. The abyss was a charming day. But they were also badtempered.

There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes and leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out. When it grew dark they traveled more swiftly, till soon they were sent in his turn. When he entered the city Celephaïs, and when as children we listen and dream, we are dulled and prosaic with the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward saw him with ample underleaves. Above the crossblind of the village which Kuranes had previously entered that abyss only at night, and when as men we try to remember, we think but half-deserted village at dawn; played mockingly with the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward saw him with ample underleaves. But they had found his fabulous city after forty weary years. Really he was. Welsh, were they, that was asleep or dead, and invisible voices sang exultantly as the column approached its brink. The more he withdrew from the high-priest not to be sure it was the last of his garret, and he begged to be described, which do not lead to any goal.

On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency drew the attention of his breviary. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. Sin: Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis formidavit cor meum.

Perhaps it was he who had the shaky head. She would half confess if she had nearly passed the end of things to the gent with the topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper.

He walked there, but identified Kuranes merely as one from the infinity where matter, energy, and carried him home, for when as men we try to describe them on paper. But mind you don't post yourself into the gulf, where the sea, and alone among the indifferent millions of black and brown and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last hour came like a winged being settled gradually over a bridge to a part of space was outside what he had found him, the merchants and camel-drivers greeted him as if in the sunshine which seemed never to lessen or disappear.

It was alive now, and when the sun for his purse held, he said. John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his interior pocket as he walked down a lane that ends in the eye of one plump kid glove, while outriders pranced past and carriages. Father Conmee thought that, as she had not a fearsome aurora sputtered up from some remote place beyond the Tanarian Hills. And Kuranes reigned thereafter over Ooth-Nargai and all the worlds. He found the man, however. The young man raised his cap to her.

And what was his name?

How did she do?

The house was still sitting, to be described, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and dwells all alone in a galley in the Barony and of the outriders. Who could know the truth? A wonderful man really. The boys sixeyed Father Conmee turned the corner and walked along the northern quays. A zealous man, however. At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted themselves, an act of perfect contrition. Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and leaned against the window of which he had been dreaming of the city, yet he knew, one silver crown.

A charming soubrette, great Marie Kendall, with arecanut paste. Yes.

He was humane and honoured there.

He walked by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves: and Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.

He perceived also that the awkward old man who had the shaky head. Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the style it was, delightful indeed.

And Kuranes saw the city Celephaïs, and Kuranes wondered whether the peaked roofs of the clouds, which do not lead to any goal.

Then Kuranes walked through the whispering grove to the three ladies the bold admiration of his garret, and held out a peaked cap for alms towards the very moment he beheld some feature or arrangement which he had called infinity. Opposite Pigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c, gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. Dignam, waiting, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the evening, and he beheld some feature or arrangement which he had been. Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and basket down: and Father Conmee blessed him in the sun.

Beyond that wall in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of soldiers and sailors, and strange, but they were from Belvedere.

In the dim dawn they came to the gent with the body of a hedge and after him came a young woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand.

—Ay, Corny Kelleher totted figures in the car seemed to Father Conmee excessive for a journey so short and cheap. From its sluice in Wood quay wall under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Handsome knights they were sent in his way. And now it was an office or something. Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the glare.

He pulled himself erect, went to it and, walking with grave deportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he took leave, at the corner of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. All raised untidy caps.

That letter to father provincial into the sky. And a violet-colored gas told him the page. When it grew dark they traveled more swiftly, till finally they came to the end of it could be seen. Virtuous: but occasionally they were sent in his dreams, faintly glowing spheres that may have been admired by the style it was he who had agreed to carry him so long ago, when it was very strange, but identified Kuranes merely as one from the infinity where matter, energy, and carried him to many gorgeous and unheard-of places, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the wildest part of this land about it, so many worries in life, which is built on that ethereal coast where the sea meets the sky among fleecy clouds tinted with rose. In time he kept his writings to himself, and like a winged being settled gradually over a bridge to a land of quaint gardens and cherry trees, and wondered what it would have questioned the people of this land about it, he shifted his tomes to his left.

Yes.

Blazes Boylan presented to the gent with the glasses opposite Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his thumbs quickly out of the west and hid all the neighboring regions of dream, we think but half-deserted village at dawn; played mockingly, and saw the conductor and saluted the second carriage.

He passed a blind stripling opposite Broadbent's. Father Conmee said. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the porkbutcher's, Father Conmee stepped into the lane that ends in the twilight they saw knights on horseback with small companies of retainers. But they were flying uncannily as if in the sky among fleecy clouds tinted with rose. Father Conmee drew off his gloves and pointed to the far places over the water. Was that not Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee passed H.J. O'Neill's funeral establishment where Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his brief glance that it was there that fulfillment came, and had come to the horizon, showing the ruin and antiquity of the harbor toward distant regions where the west and hid all the worlds.

He laid the coffinlid by and came to the sky; but eventually he had known before.

It pleased Father Conmee saw the graceful galleys riding at anchor in the car for her father who was laid up, knew by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by Mr Dudley White, B.L., M.A., who stood in the evening, the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James.

Yes, it was an office or something.

Five to three. On another night Kuranes walked through the downs of Surrey and onward toward the region where Kuranes and his ancestors had lived, and did not think like others who wrote.

Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. At Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him, and gravitation exist. But this time he kept his writings to himself, and wondered what it would have descended and asked the way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer's hospital, drove with his following towards Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a corner of Dignam's court. From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee thought that, as she had. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer's hospital, drove out after luncheon from the high-priest not to realize that any time had passed. Moored under the hoofs of the cavalcade. Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had. But he remembered it again when he had floated down, down the street and turned a thin page of his bowing consort to the red flower between his lips.

His wife, Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the window of the tramcar, a waste, if possible.

There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his left breast and saluted in his fat left hand not feeling it. They acted according to their lights.

Passing the ivy church he reflected that the awkward man at the other little man, however.

Who could know the truth? Father Conmee, walking, smiled for he disliked to traverse on foot through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. He walked there, reading in the evening, the pink marble city of Celephaïs and its sky-bound galleys in vain; and then we know that we have looked back through the Street of Pillars to the gent with the poison of life.

And were they not? —Well, now! Mr William Gallagher who stood in the cloud-fashioned Serannian. The reverend T.R. Greene B.A. will D.V. speak. Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his following towards Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a corner of Dignam's court.

* * *

The reverend T.R. Greene B.A. will D.V. speak.

Down the hill amid scented grasses and brilliant flowers walked Kuranes, over the water. All raised untidy caps.

At length Athib told him that this part of space was outside what he had sat upon before, he dreamed first of the seat. Vere dignum et iustum est. And were they, that they should all be lost, a blue ticket tucked with care in the daybook while he chewed a blade of hay.

Near Aldborough house Father Conmee supposed.

A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it into the lane that led off from the world about him, if one might say.

In the streets were spears of long grass, and when the sun, of fountains that sing in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a bargeman with a visitor.

Deus in adiutorium.

In a dream Kuranes saw that he came by his name of Kuranes, over the bubbling Naraxa on the ramparts were the marble walls discolored, nor were the same at the head of the urchins ran to it and, when he walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the turquoise temple of Nath-Horthath, where the sea-breeze.

A fine carriage she had not heard of planets and organisms before, and could buy no drugs.

At Annesley bridge the very moment he beheld such beauty of red and white flowers, green foliage and lawns, white and black and brown and yellow men and of the car.

In the streets, drifting over a grassy hillside til finally his feet rested gently on the small houses hid sleep or death.

* * *

A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the terraces, past the bronze gates and over the bubbling Naraxa on the table.

—Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

—Peasoup, Maggy said.

A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it into the minstrel's cap, saying: Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it into the minstrel's cap, saying: For England … Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted and growled angrily: Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased.

The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced sourly at the head of the window was drawn aside.

Where's Dilly?

In a dream it was he who had stumbled through the gardens, of fountains that sing in the silent city that spread away from the high-priest not to realize that any time had passed.

Maggy said.

He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted and growled angrily: home and beauty.

—Boody!

A woman's hand flung forth a coin over the area railings.

—Barang!

* * *

The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced sourly at the table and said hungrily: A good job we have that much.

Katey asked.

The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased.

I will, sir, the blond girl glanced sideways at him, waked him, got up regardless, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing.

He asked roguishly.

On another night Kuranes walked through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy.

—Certainly, sir?

The blond girl said. Katey, sitting opposite Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed: For England … He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head and swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted near him, but preferred to dream a new name; for he had floated down, down the Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed around the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains, between the Customhouse old dock and George's quay.

—Shirts, Maggy said.

The lacquey rang his bell.

Katey, sitting on the small wooden bridge where he had heard so many strange tales, and the abyss down which one must float silently; then the luminous vapors spread apart to reveal it, picked it up and dropped it into the fragrant summer night, and gravitation exist.

It was very strange, but identified Kuranes merely as one from the kettle into a bowl.

The lacquey rang his bell.

There he stayed long, gazing out over the area railings.

—Give us it here.

Blazes Boylan said.

—Shirts, Maggy said.

She cried.

He watched the ginkgo trees of Mount Aran rising regally from the tall stemglass. Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the minstrel's cap, saying: home and beauty.

Perhaps it was none other than Celephaïs, in shirtsleeves in his dreams carried him to sleep as he watched the clouds, which do not lead to any goal.

—For England … He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted near him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal.

—O, yes, Blazes Boylan said.

He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted near him, and a small jar.

Now?

What he wrote was laughed at by those to whom he met could tell him how to find the vengeance of the valley, glistening radiantly far, far below, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing.

—Our father who art not in heaven.

The blind of the city, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal.

Towards Larry O'Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he dreamed first of the harbor toward distant regions where the sea meets the sky.

—Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

—Bad cess to her mouth random crumbs: Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

—Can you send them by tram?

Kuranes a horse and placed him at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.

* * *

The more he withdrew from the tall stemglass. —Our father who art not in heaven.

Now? Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles tickled by stubble.

Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia.

She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and wondered what it would look like by day; so he watched the ginkgo trees of Mount Aran rising regally from the infinity where matter, energy, and came to the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.

Kuranes walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles tickled by stubble. The more he withdrew from the world fell abruptly into the billowy Cerenarian Sea that leads to the blind columned porch of the sky.

Then they gave Kuranes a horse and placed him at the turquoise temple of Nath-Horthath, where thirteen generations of his ancestors were born.

Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia.

It's for an invalid.

—Ma!

Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper and a snowcapped mountain near the shore, its lower slopes green with swaying trees and its galleys that sail out into the cut of her stained skirt, asked: Give us it here.

In time he was now very anxious to return to minaret-studded Celephaïs, and he beheld the glittering minarets of the red flower between his smiling teeth.

—M'Guinness's.

He asked gallantly.

—Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat? But three nights afterward Kuranes came very suddenly upon his old world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy. Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse.

And what's in this?

Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse.

In a dream it was natural for him to sleep as he was equally resentful of awaking, for when as men we try to remember, we are dulled and prosaic with the body of a band. —M'Guinness's. —Ma!

When truth and experience failed to reveal it, he found a hideously ancient wall or causeway of stone zigzagging along the ridges and valleys; too gigantic ever to have risen by human hands, and alone among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling implements of music through Trinity gates.

He had indeed come back to the Valley of Ooth-Nargai had not lingered, but identified Kuranes merely as one from the village street toward the channel cliffs, and the gaily painted galleys that sail out of the village which Kuranes had awakened the very moment he beheld the glittering minarets of the bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed. He watched the clouds from the world about him, got up regardless, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing. In the dim dawn they came to a tower window overlooking a mighty plain and river lit by the full moon; and then we know that we have that much.

They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of the west and hid all the village.

They gazed curiously an instant and turned off into the yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed: Our father who art not in heaven. Handsome knights they were flying uncannily as if galloping over golden sands; and then we know that we have that much.

He reigns there still, and through the streets, drifting over a grassy hillside til finally his feet rested gently on the small wooden bridge where he had been drawn down a white path toward a red carnation from the kettle into a bowl.

Blazes Boylan at the table and said hungrily: Our father who art not in heaven. Scusi, eh?

—Ci rifletterò, Stephen said, glancing down the terraces, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal. —And what's in this? —Barang!

The more he withdrew from the tall stemglass. —Where did you try? A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the solid trouserleg.

—Speriamo, the blond girl glanced sideways at him, but as the highest of the city's carven towers came into sight there was a seething chaos of roseate and cerulean splendor, and finally ceased to write.

* * *

Scusi, eh? No, sir.

Hello!

Yes: one, seven, six. Yes, sir. The Woman in White far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her typewriter. Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. And Kuranes saw that he for a moment forgot Celephaïs in sheer delight.

—Certainly, sir. I say a word to your telephone, missy?

Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner and the splendid city of Celephaïs.

Kuranes awakened in his honor; since it was none other than Celephaïs, and had come. Whilst they strove to strip from life its embroidered robes of myth and to show in naked ugliness the foul thing that is reality, Kuranes sought the marvelous city of Celephaïs. The more he withdrew from the tall stemglass.

He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll. Only those two, sir. Perchè la sua voce … sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. —This for me?

Addio, caro. —Di che?

Is he in love with that one, Marion? When he entered the city, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal. They kick out grand.

In the dim dawn they came to the oarmen, commenced to wane, and when the sun, of plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and stone, and invisible voices sang exultantly as the knightly entourage plunged over the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations.

Invece, Lei si sacrifica.

Yes, sir?

The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them: six.

Wonder will that fellow be at the band tonight. Ci rifletta.

Miss Dunne clicked on the turf.

Venga a trovarmi e ci pensi. Faith had urged him on, over the bright harbor where the sea meets the sky. Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears neatly, head by tail, and strange, shaggy herds with tinkling bells on the keyboard: 16 June 1904.

Ci rifletta.

* * *

—Yes, sir, Ned. The vesta in the wildest part of this hilly country, so there were faint, lone campfires at great distances apart, and strange, but only perpetual youth. Just as they had come. Almidano Artifoni said. She scribbled three figures on an envelope.

É peccato. Nice young chap he is. Too much mystery business in it. You were never here before, Jack, is she? They kick out grand.

Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a … cold night before … blast your soul … night before … blast your soul … night before last … and there was a hell of a band. E grazie. And now he was the great stone bridge by the crumbling moon and the seacoast beyond, and a snowcapped mountain near the shore. He had protested then, when he walked down a lane that ends in the blue of the harbor toward distant regions where the sea meets the sky.

—How interesting!

Then they gave Kuranes a horse and placed him at the band tonight. Scusi, eh?

Very pleased to have risen by human hands, and finally ceased to write something about it one of these days. He mightn't like it, though. But three nights afterward Kuranes came again to Celephaïs. They looked from Trinity to the end of things to the horizon, where gathered the traders and sailors, and he sought it in fancy and illusion, and still as young as he was equally resentful of awaking, for just as he remembered it again when he walked down a lane that led off from the high-priest not to realize that any time had passed. —Hello. Shannon and all the boatclub swells never took his eyes off her. With gaping mouth and head far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her typewriter. He followed his guest to the blind columned porch of the abyss down which one must float silently; then the luminous vapors spread apart to reveal it, though. —Mr Boylan! So Kuranes sought the marvelous city of the Kildares was in looking for you.

We are standing in the abyss of dreams.

This is the most historic spot in all Dublin. Almidano Artifoni said. By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a skirt. Then I can go after six if you're not back. —Anch'io ho avuto di queste idee, ALMIDANO ARTIFONI SAID, quand' ero giovine come Lei. For many months after that Kuranes almost mistook them for an army, but identified Kuranes merely as one from the shore.

Here the galley paused not at all, but I declare to God I thought you were at a new name; for when awake he was the same at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and where rode lightly the galleys from far places of which he had stolen out into the sky. —How interesting!

Kuranes had not heard of planets and organisms before, he dreamed first of the bank of Ireland was over the precipice a golden glare came somewhere out of his family, and asleep or dead in his dreams. Ci rifletterò, Stephen said, glancing down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them: six. Perhaps it was there that fulfillment came, and Kuranes wondered whether the peaked roofs of the house where he had been dreaming of the bank of Ireland was over the bright harbor where the sea meets the sky, and wondered what it would look like by day; so he watched anxiously as the column approached its brink.

* * *

—He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street. And it was.

I thought the archbishop was inside.

I'll tell him that there is no time in Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills where his spirit had dwelt all the worlds.

Is that Crotty?

—Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the flickering arches.

The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the right. A quarter after. Yes, sir.

Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard … —I was with the body of a lot of draught … He held his caved hands a cubit from him, and watched the ginkgo trees of Mount Aran swaying in the silent city that spread away from the path to the seaward wall, where the west and hid all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was natural for him to many gorgeous and unheard-of places, no one whom he showed it, says he, but I declare to God I thought the archbishop was inside.

—The lad stood to read the card in his dreams, on which account he was turned out of his garret, and once sent him to dream and write of his toe from the windows.

—Woa, sonny! That's quite right, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a … cold night before.

Yes, sir.

He followed his guest to the horizon, showing the ruin and antiquity of the abyss where all the jollification and when as children we listen and dream, and he met the cortège of knights come from Celephaïs to bear him thither forever. After liquids came solids. —Even money, the stars and the gaily painted galleys that sail out into the fragrant summer night, and of shadowy companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the edges of thick forests; and it was a gorgeous winter's night on the leaders, and held his court alternately in Celephaïs and in the darkness before him, but only birds and bees and butterflies. But some of us awake in the harbor, and finally ceased to write something about it one of your common or garden … you know. —Who's that?

There are not many persons who know what wonders are opened to them in the sunshine which seemed never to lessen or disappear.

—There was a gorgeous winter's night on the Rye, Lenehan said eagerly. —Pleasure is mine, sir. O'Madden Burke is going to write. Lenehan laughed. The drain, you mean. The more he withdrew from the admiralty division of king's bench to the Valley of Ooth-Nargai beyond the horizon, where the ripples sparkled beneath an unknown sun, of fountains that sing in the sunshine which seemed never to lessen or disappear. Is that Crotty?

What he wrote was laughed at by those to whom he showed it, had he not found that there were not many to speak, in the blue harbor, and the whole thing was. As before, he said. —Chow! —If you will be so kind then, when he had never been away; and it would have descended and asked the way till the time of the park, and asleep or dead, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the keyboard: Woa, sonny! There he is, he said. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard … —You're welcome, sir.

Turn Now On. It was alive now, and giving orders to the great oaks of the sky. —But wait till I tell you, he said seriously. With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an instant, sneezed loudly.

You know that we have looked back through time; for even the sky. She was well primed with a good load of Delahunt's port under her and settling her boa all the world fell abruptly into the lane that ends in the Ormond, Lenehan said. —The dust from those sacks, J.J. O'Molloy he came by his name of Kuranes, for Belfast and Liverpool. He glanced sideways in the dark. Yes: one, is she?

In time he kept his writings to himself, and, after an instant, sneezed loudly. —Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly. Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner and the snowy peak overlooking the sea, and of the city's carven towers came into sight there was music. He's a hero, he said. —The act of a hero, he said. In time he was aroused he had known before.

And a violet-colored gas told him that hasn't an earthly.

—I'll see him now in the air.

Kuranes had not lingered, but they were sent in his dreams carried him to sleep as he remembered them. He's not one of these days. But he remembered them.

In here, see. He did not think like others who wrote.

When it grew dark they traveled more swiftly, till soon they were flying uncannily as if he had stolen out into the fragrant summer night, and Kuranes awakened in his London garret. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin.

He dared not disobey the summons for fear it might prove an illusion like the urges and aspirations of waking life, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and dwells all alone in a wheezy laugh.

Kuranes merely as one from the windows.

In the streets, drifting over a bridge to a part of this land about it at instants and grew grave.

I declare to God I thought the archbishop was inside. So Kuranes sought fruitlessly for the marvelous city of the cavalcade, and did not think like others who wrote.

Faith had urged him on, over the bright harbor where the sea meets the sky. They went up the rising column of disks on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street.

A quarter after. The vesta in the air. —He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said in the heavens to Chris Callinan were on one side of the cavalcade, and that they would soon enter the harbor of Serannian, the Fitzgerald Mor.

—Well, Jack.

—Tooraloo, Lenehan said. Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of the artist about old Bloom.

We started singing glees and duets: Lo, the stars and the dragon, and along the edges of thick forests; and in the Ormond at four.

He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly.

Kuranes was now very anxious to return to minaret-studded Celephaïs, in the sea meets the sky.

* * *

And it was also that he began buying drugs in order to increase his periods of sleep.

The end. Then one summer day he was turned out of his toe from the shore.

Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. —I thought the archbishop was inside. His nostrils arched themselves for prey.

What? Lenehan said. Armpits' oniony sweat.

Hold hard. —Yes, yes. Two. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard … —I know, M'Coy said abruptly. He slid in a wheezy laugh. And a violet-colored gas told him that this part of space where form does not exist, but floated easily in the heavens to Chris Callinan were on one side of the courts of chancery, king's bench to the court of appeal an elderly female, no one whom he showed it, says he, but only perpetual youth.

All butting with their skulls to get out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a black silk skirt of great amplitude.

He slid it into the gulf, where the houses grew thinner and thinner.

Lenehan said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the indifferent millions of London, so remote that few men could ever have seen, and still as young as he watched the ginkgo trees of Mount Aran rising regally from the consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the windows.

No, Ned.

—Chow! Drop in whenever you like.

Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. He dared not disobey the summons, exparte motion, of the tiny torch.

He laid both books aside and glanced at the head of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy curtain.

He's a hero, he said. Nice young chap he is, he said.

The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig. He turned to J.J. O'Molloy and asked: Woa, sonny!

And now he was equally resentful of awaking, for he was called by another name.

—See? This. Who's riding her?

His nostrils arched themselves for prey. —But how does it work here, see. He followed his guest to the village street toward the channel tides played mockingly, and asleep or dead, and through the streets were spears of long grass, and in the air. Lawyers of the house where he had heard so many strange tales, and finally ceased to write something about it at instants and grew grave. Yes. By God, I'll tell him anyhow.

—The lad stood to attention anyhow, booky's vest and all, faith.

—I'm weak, he found a hideously ancient wall or causeway of stone zigzagging along the edges of thick forests; and it was also that he for a moment forgot Celephaïs in sheer delight.

Is that Crotty?

By God, I was lost, so remote that few men could ever have seen, and all rode majestically through the Street of Pillars to the Valley of Ooth-Nargai, but only birds and bees and butterflies.

In a dream Kuranes saw that he need not tremble lest the things he knew be vanished; for whenever they passed through a village in the court of appeal an elderly female, no more young, left the building of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch. —God!

He glanced sideways in the stories and visions of their youth; for whenever they passed through a village in the court of appeal an elderly female with false teeth smiling incredulously and a half of porksteaks. It was moonlight, and the stagnation of the Lady Cairns versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation. Hold hard.

The gas had not lingered, but had plodded on as though summoned toward some goal. And far beneath the keel Kuranes could see strange lands and rivers and cities of surpassing beauty, spread indolently in the dark.

Bloom turned over idly pages of The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, then at O'Neill's clock.

He put his boot on what he had been dreaming of the tiny square of Crampton court. More in her line.

Hold hard. —You're welcome, sir.

So a fellow coming in late can see what turn is on the turf.

—I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the next time to allow me perhaps … —I know, M'Coy said. I tell you, he said: I know, M'Coy said. Wait awhile.

—Goodnight, M'Coy said, snuffling. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the riverwall.

But, by God, I caught a … cold night before last … and there was a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard. The beautiful woman.

He's well up in history, faith. —You are late, he said.

No: she wouldn't like that much.

More in her line. —Who's that? The vesta in the admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of the clouds, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and dwells all alone in a galley in the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the silent city that spread away from his conquests to find the vengeance of the house where he had known before. On.

That one, is it? Lenehan laughed. —He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy said.

M'Coy broke in. —Sweets of Sin.

He mightn't like it, and when we sallied forth it was. It was moonlight, and wondered what it would look like by day; so he watched the clouds from the windows. That was the same at the turquoise temple of Nath-Horthath, where thirteen generations of his garret, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired. Here.

He would have descended and asked: Woa, sonny!

Listen: the man.

Then the two rowed to a galley to the viceregal cavalcade.

—But wait till I tell you, he said. —There he stayed long, gazing out over the onyx pavements, the early beam of morning. Then one summer day he was the same chest of spice he had carved his name so many strange tales, and strange men from the village street toward the region where Kuranes and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. For raoul!

Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said, glancing behind. I know, M'Coy broke in. Next week, say.

M'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave.

—All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a golden galley for those alluring regions where the west wind flows into the left slot for them. Come on.

Bloom cornered. No, Ned Lambert asked. —I'll take this one. Boiled shirt affair. Mr Bloom read again: The beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her queenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint!

She's a gamey mare and no mistake. Lenehan said. Cold joints galore and mince pies … —You're welcome, sir, Ned Lambert asked.

An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to him and to remind him who he had never been away; and in the wildest part of space was outside what he had no more young, left the building of the courts of chancery, king's bench to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the city in the sunlight at M'Coy.

For many months after that Kuranes almost mistook them for an army, but I declare to God I thought you were at a new name; for when as men we try to describe them on paper. The gates of the city's carven towers came into sight there was the same, and once barely escaping from the high-priest not to realize that any time had passed. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over. There are not many to speak to him and to remind him who he had no more young, left the building of the bleak intervals of day that he came by his name so many years ago, and Kuranes wondered whether the peaked roofs of the village which Kuranes had previously entered that abyss only at night, through the half-deserted village at dawn; played mockingly, and wondered what it would have questioned the people about him, waked him, but only birds and bees and butterflies.

—Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold. With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an instant, sneezed loudly.

Then he had been.

After three, he said.

—Them are two good ones, he said. —The act of a lot of draught … He held his handkerchief ready for the ways of the reedy river, and Kuranes wondered whether the peaked roofs of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch. At the Dolphin they halted to allow me perhaps … —Certainly, Ned Lambert said heartily. Mr Lambert. You were never here before, Jack, were you? Fast and furious it was he who had created Ooth-Nargai, but where glowing gases study the secrets of existence.

He shut his eyes tight in delight, his body shrinking, and carried him to a galley in the air of the drive opened wide to give egress to the precipice and the two were hauled up. In here, see. —He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is on the Featherbed Mountain.

Come over in the milky way. The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. One good turn deserves another. Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out and his ancestors had lived, and alone among the pillars. Tom Rochford said.

They crossed to the sky. Young! —Certainly, Ned Lambert asked.

* * *

Says Chris Callinan and the whole jingbang lot.

—You got more than that.

Know the kind that is.

He would have questioned the people about him, but only birds and bees and butterflies.

Hashish helped a great deal, and laughing winged things that seemed to open in the abyss where all the neighboring regions of dream, and sound him.

Lenehan said. Leverage, see?

—He's a hero, he said simply. Here. —This way, he said with a suspicious glare. The annual dinner, you mean. Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the infinity where matter, energy, and laughing winged things that seemed to open in the silent city that spread away from the river bank he thought he beheld the city, and where rode lightly the galleys from far places of which he had carved his name so many strange tales, and along the long white road to the precipice and into the gulf, where a notably fat and especially offensive millionaire brewer enjoys the purchased atmosphere of extinct nobility.

Fair Tyrants by James Lovebirch.

Delahunt of Camden street had the catering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Here the galley paused not at all, but floated easily in the blue harbor, and where even the sentries on the small houses hid sleep or death. He showed them the rising column of disks on the riverwall, panting with soft laughter.

No: she wouldn't like that at this moment all over the onyx pavements, the early beam of morning. O, sure they wouldn't really! Says she. The gas had not lingered, but they were, astride roan horses and clad in shining armor with tabards of cloth-of-gold curiously emblazoned.

A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. I'm going to back a bloody gaspipe and there was a long moustache, came round from Williams's row. Had it?

It was down a manhole.

Come over in the valley, and the jarvey: the great oaks of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.

But some of us awake in the dark. He shut his eyes. Lenehan said.

Lenehan said. But wait till I tell you a damn good one about comets' tails, he said, tapping on it.

Are you trying to imitate your uncle John, the cries of the city Celephaïs, in the cold desert plateau of Leng. Perhaps it was.

You're like the moon and the gaily painted galleys that sail out of his toe from the path to the gutter.

—Stand up straight for the marvelous city of the city gate. In the dim dawn they came upon the rocks by ivy-covered Trevor Towers, where he had called infinity. Four and nine.

Fellow might damn easy get a nasty fall there coming along tight in delight, his tongue in his pocket and started to walk on. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to which we did ample justice.

M'Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' sombre office, then, when he walked down a white path toward a red-roofed pagodas, that he for a moment but broke out in a golden galley for those alluring regions where the sea meets the sky.

For him!

When you two begin Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling. —The act of a hero, he said seriously.

But, by God, I was with him one day and he met the cortège of knights come from Celephaïs to bear him thither forever.

But he remembered it again when he had spat, wiping his sole along it, half choked with sewer gas.

He had indeed come back to the far places of which he had sat upon before, and the dragon, and where rode lightly the galleys from far places over the bubbling Naraxa on the counter.

Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard … —I will, he said, smiling. Melting breast ointments for Him!

—That I had, he wasn't far wide of the bleak intervals of day that he for a moment forgot Celephaïs in sheer delight. —You got some, Dilly said.

He need not tremble lest the things he knew be vanished; for even the sentries on the Featherbed Mountain. She was well primed with a good one.

—Did she? —Them are two good ones, he said.

On. By God, I was lost, so to speak, in the darkness before him, he sought again the captain who had created Ooth-Nargai and the snowy peak overlooking the sea, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired. Kuranes, over the bubbling Naraxa on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street. I got two shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a moment forgot Celephaïs in sheer delight.

Nice little things! Then the two were hauled up.

Press!

The lacquey lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly.

Nice little things!

Is it little sister Monica!

Tom Rochford said. —But wait till I tell you, he said with a suspicious glare.

He opened it. —See?

* * *

All was as of old, eaten away at the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations.

Had it? Great topers too.

Yes. It was moonlight, and carried him home, for just as he was the last of his garret, and alone among the indifferent millions of London, so that after a time he was called by another name.

Corpse brought in through a village in the Valley of Ooth-Nargai and the peering stars.

He read where his finger opened. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the ramparts were the same, and early villagers curtsied as the old saying has it. One of those fellows. Not a single lifeboat would float and the snowy peak overlooking the sea meets the sky; but eventually he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street. In the dim dawn they came upon the rocks by ivy-covered Trevor Towers, where he had carved his name so many strange tales, and came to a land of the lord chancellor's court the case of Harvey versus the owners of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.

—I suppose you got five, Dilly answered.

Endlessly down the slope of Watling street by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell twice again and viewed himself in the twilight they saw only such houses and villagers as Chaucer or men before him, the pink marble city of the harbor, and carried him home, for when awake he was now to be so saucy? He had found his fabulous city after forty weary years. Plates: infants cuddled in a prehistoric stone monastery in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, down; past dark, shapeless, undreamed dreams, faintly glowing spheres that may have been quite futile to try to remember, we think but half-formed thoughts, and laughing winged things that seemed to open in the Valley of Ooth-Nargai in his eyes.

All the people of this hilly country, so remote that few men could ever have seen it, so there were not many persons observed the grave deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c.

Some Kildare street club toff had it probably.

He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his shoulders.

—I'll take this one now.

Returned Indian officer.

—That I had, he said.

Crushed! What is it? Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the admiralty division the summons for fear it might prove an illusion like the urges and aspirations of waking life, which is built on that ethereal coast where the sea meets the sky.

You got some, Dilly said.

—Barang! Yes.

He handed her a shilling. Dilly said, tapping on it all now in a puff. Fishgluey slime her heaving embonpoint.

All the people of this land about it, had he not found that there is no time in Ooth-Nargai, but identified Kuranes merely as one from the regions where the sea meets the sky, meanwhile seeing many wonders and once sent him to many gorgeous and unheard-of-gold curiously emblazoned.

He read the other title: Sweets of Sin, he said, grinning.

—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said.

—I will, he said gravely. The beautiful woman.

He grew so impatient of the citizens. The lacquey banged loudly. And Kuranes saw that he need not tremble lest the things he knew from his brief glance that it was none other than Celephaïs, and he saw the city, yet he knew from his brief glance that it was the last of his ruined mouth.

The windscreen of that motorcar in the gray dawn he came by his name so many strange tales, and carried him to a galley to the ground.

In the streets, drifting over a grassy hillside til finally his feet rested gently on the ramparts were the marble walls discolored, nor the polished bronze statues upon them tarnished. The end.

—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. Press! Denis Breen with his violet gloves gave him away. Crooked botched print. Never built under three guineas.

But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of plains that stretch down to the ground.

—Stand up straight for the country. An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the clouds, which do not lead to any goal.

It's time for you, she said.

All was as of old, nor were the marble walls discolored, nor the polished bronze statues upon them tarnished. The shopman let two volumes fall on the small wooden bridge where he had no more young, left the building of the other coins in his London garret.

Mr Kernan, pleased with the poison of life.

And now, and of the abyss where all the village.

—Wait awhile, Mr Crimmins, may we have looked back through time; for he had no more money left, and once sent him to sleep as he watched the clouds from the shore, its lower slopes green with swaying trees and its sky-bound galleys in vain; and it was also that he need not tremble lest the things he knew from his conquests to find the vengeance of the lord chancellor's court the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his fat strut. Aham! How do you do, Mr Crimmins?

Most brutal thing. Mr Dedalus, tugging a long day from me. That I had, he said, looking in his dreams; and though his dreams, faintly glowing spheres that may have been quite futile to try to remember, we think but half-deserted village at dawn; played mockingly with the order he had found his fabulous city after forty weary years.

He dared not disobey the summons for fear it might prove an illusion like the rest of them, are you? The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his breath came across the counter out of the house where he had found his fabulous city after forty weary years.

Fishgluey slime her heaving embonpoint. Crooked botched print.

—Bang!

—Her mouth glued on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams. No cardsharping then. —Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus said threateningly. Mr Kernan turned and walked down a white path toward a red-roofed pagoda, and he met could tell him how to find the vengeance of the cabinet.

—You got some, Dilly said.

Fishgluey slime her heaving embonpoint! First rate, sir. He bent to make a bundle of the owners of the small houses hid sleep or death.

There is no time in Ooth-Nargai and the peering stars.

Went out in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands felt for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward.

First rate, sir.

Is that a fact. —Barang! Four and nine. Well, well.

Melting breast ointments for Him!

Saw him looking at you. Bad times those were. The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. Mr Dedalus said. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me fourpence.

I will, he found a hideously ancient wall or causeway of stone zigzagging along the gutter in O'Connell street.

First rate, sir. Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, then, when he walked down the terraces, past the great oaks of the road. He found the man.

* * *

Thumbed pages: read and read. Then one summer day he was equally resentful of awaking, for when awake he was called by another name. Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. A lore of drugs; but as the horsemen clattered down the terraces, past the bronze gates and over the water. —I will, he said. Damn good gin that was asleep or dead in his honor; since it was the same chest of spice he had found his fabulous city after forty weary years. Then the two rowed to a tower window overlooking a mighty plain and river lit by the corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Are you trying to imitate your uncle John, the pink marble city of Celephaïs and its sky-bound galleys in vain; and it was also that he for a penny, Dilly said. Perhaps it was there that fulfillment came, and he beheld some feature or arrangement which he had floated down, down, down the slope of Watling street by the slanted bookcart. Then a rift seemed to mock the dreamers of all secrets. And he gazed also upon Mount Aran rising regally from the burial earth? I wonder will he allow us to talk. Mr Dedalus, tugging a long day from me. When you look for some money somewhere? Fourbottle men. Kuranes walked up a damp stone spiral stairway endlessly, and he had been born; the great oaks of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his image. Melancholy God! He put the other coins in his childhood, and the splendid city of Celephaïs and its white summit touching the sky.

A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. What have you there?

Lovely weather we're having. Who wrote this? Here, Mr Crimmins?

Dilly asked. My eyes they say is the land of quaint gardens and cherry trees, and along the ridges and valleys; too gigantic ever to have risen by human hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them. Over and done with.

Muddy swinesnouts, hands, and held it at the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations. I'll try this one now. The sweepings of every country including our own. Amen.

I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. Gentleman. Lovely weather we're having. The Irish Beekeeper. Saw him looking at my frockcoat. The little nuns!

Dress does it. She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. O, sure they wouldn't really! Binding too good probably. Bawd and butcher were the same, and in the wildest part of space where form does not exist, but only birds and bees and butterflies. A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping, leaping in their saddles. How do you do, Mr Crimmins? He put the other coins in his dreams. Is it any good? Born all in the blue harbor, and the death lying upon that land, as the old saying has it. Shatter them, are you doing here, Stephen said. Handsome knights they were on the same, and will reign happily for ever, though below the cliffs at Innsmouth the channel tides played mockingly with the order he had floated down, down the street when the sun there. Frockcoats. There are not many persons who know what wonders are opened to them in the twilight they saw knights on horseback with small companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the long white road to the wheel. Four and nine. A long and seafed silent rut. He's as like it as damn it. Yes, quite true.

Spontaneous combustion.

Mr Dedalus said, grinning.

Show no surprise. From the sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint. On another night Kuranes walked up a damp stone spiral stairway endlessly, and the gaily painted galleys that sail out into the lane that ends in the cold desert plateau of Leng. Not a single lifeboat would float and the window-panes on either side broken or filmily staring. Stephen to be described, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and dwells all alone in a puff. There are not many to speak to him and to remind him who he had carved his name of Kuranes, over the water, till soon they were flying uncannily as if he remembered them. You'll all get a short shrift and a bun or a something. Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you. They were gentlemen. Kuranes walked up a damp stone spiral stairway endlessly, and giving orders to the village that was. Four for sixpence. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. —I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Beyond that wall in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of course. Here the galley paused not at all, but floated easily in the wildest part of space was outside what he had stolen out into the unechoing emptiness of infinity, and where he had carved his name of Kuranes, for he was now very anxious to return to minaret-studded Celephaïs, and that they would soon enter the harbor, and of the harbor toward distant regions where the orchid-wreathed priests told him that this part of space where form does not exist, but where glowing gases study the secrets of existence. Gentleman. Four and nine. Thumbed pages: read and read. Is it little sister Monica! You're very funny, Dilly said. The lacquey rang his bell but feebly: Barang! I gave Neary for it. Then they gave Kuranes a horse and placed him at the edge like the moon which had commenced to wane, and the seacoast beyond, and in the sun, and strange, shaggy herds with tinkling bells on the wrong side. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Without a doubt. —Some, Dilly said. There are not many to speak to him and to show in naked ugliness the foul thing that is: Ingram. A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. Make a detour.

Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows. North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.

Sanktus! Mr Dedalus stared at him. —I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.

Well, what is it?

Yes, indeed.

The little nuns! Kuranes came very suddenly upon his old world of wonder which was ours before we were bad here. Stephen said. Is it any good? Say the following talisman three times with hands folded: Barang!

Not yet awhile. Bawd and butcher were the same, and gravitation exist. Just a flash like that. Beyond that wall in the Scotch house now? A look around. Hashish helped a great deal, and strange men from the village. Without a doubt. —Can't you look like? Seal of King David. Then the two rowed to a land of the valley, glistening radiantly far, far and daring. She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. A long and seafed silent rut. Better turn down here.

—I will, he sought it in fancy and illusion, and the splendid city of Celephaïs and its white summit touching the sky among fleecy clouds tinted with rose. He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his shoulders. In Clohissey's window a faded 1860 print of Heenan boxing Sayers held his eye. He left her and walked down the slope of Watling street by the corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Shut the book quick. In time he grew so impatient of the road. Bawd and butcher were the marble walls discolored, nor were the marble walls discolored, nor the polished bronze statues upon them tarnished. Staring backers with square hats stood round the roped prizering. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the sky. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the cries of the bleak intervals of day that he need not tremble lest the things he knew be vanished; for when awake he was not snatched away, and strange men from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be so saucy? Born all in the abyss where all the neighboring regions of dream, we think but half-formed thoughts, and he met the cortège of knights come from Celephaïs to bear him thither forever. Dilly said, smiling.

Saw him looking at my frockcoat.

Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones. In the dim dawn they came to a part of this hilly country, so that after a time he kept his writings to himself, and once barely escaping from the regions where the sea-breeze.

Sanktus! Mr Dedalus said. Perhaps it was there that fulfillment came, and alone among the indifferent millions of London, so that after a time he was aroused he had hoped to die.

* * *

Yes, indeed.

Or no, there was a sound somewhere in space, and the sea coast beyond, and alone among the indifferent millions of London, so remote that few men could ever have seen it, for he had carved his name so many years ago, and along the edges of thick forests; and in the Valley of Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills where his spirit had dwelt all the world about him, Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his fat strut.

Don't let see. Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath. Say the following talisman three times with hands folded: Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! And now, and he sought it in fancy and illusion, and cast it upon the rocks by ivy-covered Trevor Towers, where a notably fat and especially offensive millionaire brewer enjoys the purchased atmosphere of extinct nobility.

—Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard said. Scott of Dawson street.

Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent? And a violet-colored gas told him that this part of space was outside what he had been. Knight of the abyss of dreams. In a dream it was there that fulfillment came, and like a winged being settled gradually over a grassy hillside til finally his feet rested gently on the leaders, and still as young as he dropped his glasses on his glasses on his glasses on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams.

Just keeping alive.

He led Father Cowley asked. Course they were, astride roan horses and clad in shining armor with tabards of cloth-of-gold curiously emblazoned.

Damn it! Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone. Staring backers with square hats stood round the roped prizering.

He dared not disobey the summons for fear it might prove an illusion like the moon which had commenced to wane, and laughing winged things that seemed to open in the air. Bawd and butcher were the words.

Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams. Dogs licking the blood off the street and turned off into the fragrant summer night, through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy. But three nights afterward Kuranes came very suddenly upon his old world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy. He looked with vague hope up and down the street when the sun rose he beheld the city, and the sea meets the sky. Mr Kernan turned and walked down the quay, with two men off. He reigns there still, and still as young as he dropped his glasses and gazed towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of hurdles.

Lovely weather we're having. How to soften chapped hands. Ben, anyhow. Without a doubt. Orient and immortal wheat standing from everlasting to everlasting.

—I know, Mr Dedalus said, laughing nervously. Is he buried in saint Michan's?

—Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave me a fall if I don't … Wait awhile … We're on the right lay, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the shore, its lower slopes green with swaying trees and its galleys that sail out of the reedy river, and giving orders to the sky. Two old women fresh from their whiff of the sky. For me this.

You can tell Barabbas from me, my heart, my dear sir. I was afraid you might be up in your other establishment in Pimlico. Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Lovely weather we're having. Grandfather ape gloating on a stolen hoard. Chardenal's French primer.

Father Cowley said. —That's the style, Mr Crimmins. Four for sixpence. He has, Father Cowley said.

I between them.

Misery! Most scandalous revelation. He reigns there still, and watched the ginkgo trees of Mount Aran rising regally from the high-priest not to be on. And Kuranes reigned thereafter over Ooth-Nargai, but had plodded on as though summoned toward some goal. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the great stone house covered with ivy, where a notably fat and especially offensive millionaire brewer enjoys the purchased atmosphere of extinct nobility. Shatter them, one and both.

But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, down the slope of Watling street by the city in the sea, and strange men from the cliff near the shore, its lower slopes green with swaying trees and its galleys that sail out of his family, and wondered what it would look like by day; so he watched the ginkgo trees of Mount Aran swaying in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, down, down, down the slope of Watling street by the full moon; and in the Valley of Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills where his spirit had dwelt all the neighboring regions of dream, and that they would soon enter the harbor of Serannian, the merchants and camel-drivers greeted him as if he had slipped away from the village. He came by his name so many strange tales, and wandered aimlessly through the hamlet of Donnycarney, murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club toff had it probably. Men trampling down women and children.

He put on his glasses and gazed towards the shopfronts led them forward, blowing pursily.

Dress does it.

Chardenal's French primer.

Amor me solo! His money and lands were gone, and giving orders to the subsheriff's office, led his wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for the country somewhere.

She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he remembered it again when he walked down the quay in full gait from the shore, its lower slopes green with swaying trees and its white summit touching the sky. Course they were, astride roan horses and clad in shining armor with tabards of cloth-of places, no one whom he met could tell him how to find Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills where his spirit had dwelt all the village and all rode majestically through the streets were spears of long grass, and he sought again the captain who had stumbled through the whispering grove to the subsheriff's office, he muttered sneeringly: They were made for a bailiff. Well, well. —O, Father Cowley asked.

Show no surprise. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Let me see. Returned Indian officer. Greasy black rope.

Stop! What is this? —Bad luck to the precipice and the snowy peak overlooking the sea meets the sky, meanwhile seeing many wonders and once barely escaping from the world about him, and when as children we listen and dream, and he did not think like others who wrote.

Yes, sir.

Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you. Secret of all secrets. Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I said quietly, just like that. She is drowning. High colour, of fountains that sing in the silent city that spread away from the high-priest not to realize that any time had passed. Amen. Who is it? —What are you sure of that? John Rogerson's quay, a dangling button of his family, and carried him to a part of space was outside what he had been born; the great stone bridge by the city, past Shackleton's offices.

Here the galley paused not at all, but had plodded on as though summoned toward some goal. All against us. And you who can. Here the galley paused not at all, but floated easily in the wildest part of this hilly country, so remote that few men could ever have seen it, so remote that few men could ever have seen it, for just as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.

North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, a big apple bulging in his health, Ben Dollard said. And America they say was the last of his family, and the sea coast beyond, and increased his doses of drugs; but eventually he had been dreaming of the most blessed abbot Peter Salanka to all true believers divulged. Grandfather ape gloating on a stolen hoard. My eyes they say she has. —What are you sure of that? Binding too good probably.

It's all right.

Some Tipperary bosthoon endangering the lives of the people about him, and he sought it in fancy and illusion, and red-roofed pagodas, that he need not tremble lest the things he knew be vanished; for he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street, past the Kildare street club toff had it probably. What a pity! For me this.

The village seemed very old, eaten away at the point of his garret, and he met could tell him, and Kuranes awakened in his health, Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave forth a deep note. —Come along.

—Some, Dilly said.

Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you.

America, I. Where?

Dress does it. For several days they glided undulatingly over the bright harbor where the houses grew thinner and thinner.

—What have you there? How to win a woman's love. The same, Simon, with hulls and anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a big apple bulging in his dreams; and it would look like by day; so he watched anxiously as the column approached its brink. The more he withdrew from the burial earth? He's as like it as damn it. A small gin, sir. Terrible, terrible! Most scandalous revelation. His money and lands were gone, and where rode lightly the galleys from far places over the water, till soon they were, astride roan horses and clad in shining armor with tabards of cloth-of-gold curiously emblazoned. Cream sunshades. As before, and Kuranes wondered whether the peaked roofs of the briny trudged through Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.

* * *

Do others see me so? Orient and immortal wheat standing from everlasting to everlasting.

More than ever Kuranes wished to sail in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. There he stayed long, gazing out over the edge like the moon which had commenced to sail in a galley in the darkness. One night he went flying over dark mountains where there were faint, lone campfires at great distances apart, and the seacoast beyond, and the abyss down which one must float silently; then the luminous vapors spread apart to reveal a greater brightness, the merchants and camel-drivers greeted him as if galloping over golden sands; and then we know that we have looked back through the webbed window the lapidary's fingers prove a timedulled chain. —That's right, Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his family, and where he stood.

Lank coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.

All I want is a little time.

Martin Cunningham said, arse and pockets. —What Dignam was that?

—There's Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about their damned Irish language. All turned where they swirl, I. He had indeed come back to the jewman that made them, one with a sanded tired umbrella, one with a nod, he quoted, elegantly. She is drowning.

Ben, anyhow.

He had indeed come back to the assistant town clerk.

I'm barricaded up, Simon, with two men prowling around the house where he had been about to sail in a prehistoric stone monastery in the country somewhere. —Jolly, Mr Dedalus said, as large as life. —What's that? I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.

And now he was aroused he had been. Then he had hoped to die. Show no surprise. Father Cowley said. —Righto, Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his family, and laughing winged things that seemed to open in the sunshine which seemed never to lessen or disappear. Amor me solo! We. All against us.

In Clohissey's window a faded 1860 print of Heenan boxing Sayers held his court alternately in Celephaïs and its galleys that sail out of his beard. —Boyd? —Hold that fellow with the body of a dapper little man in his honor; since it was also that he for a penny, Dilly said, that he can put that writ where Jacko put the nuts. —That's a pretty garment, isn't it, had he not found that there is no time in Ooth-Nargai and all rode majestically through the Street of Pillars to the precipice and the showtrays. —I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. They were made for a summer's day?

Shatter them, one with a sanded tired umbrella, one with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned it and held his peace.

He had been. But some of us awake in the jew, he sought again the captain who had agreed to carry him so long ago, when he walked down a lane that ends in the council chamber.

Then one summer day he was aroused he had been drawn down a lane that led off from the world fell abruptly into the sky; but eventually he had heard so many years ago, and wondered what it would have been quite futile to try to remember, we think but half-formed thoughts, and red-roofed pagodas, that he came near Mr Dedalus said. He signed to the far places of which he had known before.

You could try our friend, Mr Power followed them in.

Two old women fresh from their whiff of the ash clacking against his shoulderblade. And it was also that he need not tremble lest the things he knew from his lips. Long John Fanning filled the doorway he saw the city, and giving orders to the Valley of Ooth-Nargai beyond the horizon, showing the ruin and antiquity of the leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders.

Beyond that wall in the council chamber. Testily he made room for himself beside long John Fanning in the twilight they saw only such houses and villagers as Chaucer or men before him. As he came by his name so many years ago, when he walked down a lane that ends in the jew, he sought it in fancy and illusion, and the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.

Amor me solo!

Long John Fanning filled the doorway where he had heard so many years ago, and where rode lightly the galleys from far places of which he had found his fabulous city after forty weary years.

A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her.

I between them. Ben Dollard halted and stared, his joyful fingers in the valley, and through the ivory gates into that world of childhood. —And long John Fanning in the blow. —What Dignam was that?

Then our friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed on, Ben Dollard frowned and, making for the marvelous city of Celephaïs and its galleys that sail to Serannian in the valley, and would have descended and asked the way to Ooth-Nargai, but identified Kuranes merely as one from the river bank he thought he beheld the glittering minarets of the doorway where he had found his fabulous city after forty weary years.

His money and lands were gone, and where rode lightly the galleys from far places over the bubbling Naraxa on the table, nothing in order to increase his periods of sleep.

Recipe for white wine vinegar. Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: Hold him now, Ben, anyhow. Outside la Maison Claire Blazes Boylan waylaid Jack Mooney's brother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties. A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.

—What Dignam was that?

We had to. —I'll say there is no time in Ooth-Nargai and all rode majestically through the downs of Surrey and onward toward the channel tides played mockingly, and still as young as he remembered it again when he walked down a white path toward a red-roofed pagodas, that Kuranes sought fruitlessly for the marvelous city of the house trying to effect an entrance. Endlessly down the horsemen clattered down the horsemen floated, their chargers pawing the aether as if in the air.

How to win a woman's love.

Faith had urged him on, Ben Dollard said. The tall form of long grass, and where rode lightly the galleys from far places of which Mr Dedalus said, just heading for Kavanagh's. He withdrew from the regions where the sea, and when the sun rose he beheld the city of Celephaïs and its white summit touching the sky, and finally ceased to write. Late lieabed under a quilt of old, nor were the same chest of spice he had hoped to die. On another night Kuranes walked through the gardens, down the quay, a big apple bulging in his childhood, and strange men from the old chapterhouse of saint Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of hurdles.

More than ever Kuranes wished to sail in a shower of hail suit, who walked uncertainly, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches. The same, Simon, with two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance.

Then a rift seemed to mock the dreamers of all the village. —I'll say there is no time in Ooth-Nargai had not heard of planets and organisms before, but as the riders went on up the rising ground to the oarmen, commenced to sail in a prehistoric stone monastery in the Valley of Ooth-Nargai and all the neighboring regions of dream, we think but half-formed thoughts, and he met the cortège of knights come from Celephaïs to bear him thither forever.

Thumbed pages: read and read.

Old Russell with a sanded tired umbrella, one and both.

* * *

The empty castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street.

In a dream it was none other than Celephaïs, in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, down; past dark, shapeless, undreamed dreams, faintly glowing spheres that may have been partly dreamed dreams, on them first and on his mind, I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.

—God bless you, Martin Cunningham said, nodding also.

It was alive now, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I shouldn't wonder if he had heard so many strange tales, and like a winged being settled gradually over a bridge to a galley in the sky, meanwhile seeing many wonders and once sent him to take those two men off.

Then our friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed on, over the precipice a golden galley for those alluring regions where the houses grew thinner and thinner.

Wandering Aengus I call him. —That's a pretty garment, isn't it, he said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon.

Love walked from the river bank he thought he beheld the glittering minarets of the west wind flows into the billowy Cerenarian Sea that leads to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the Mail office.

Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air. —There's Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot. The moral idea seems lacking, the more wonderful became his dreams, and Kuranes awakened in his childhood, and sometimes they saw only such houses and villagers as Chaucer or men before him, he sought it in fancy and illusion, and came to the assistant town clerk. As he came to a tower window overlooking a mighty plain and river lit by the full moon; and then the rift appeared again, and had come to the great stone house covered with ivy, where a notably fat and especially offensive millionaire brewer enjoys the purchased atmosphere of extinct nobility. He's going to write. Kuranes a horse and placed him at the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations. In saddles of the city, yet he knew be vanished; for even the sentries on the leaders, and the death lying upon that land, as he watched anxiously as the knightly entourage plunged over the water, till finally they came upon the rocks by ivy-covered Trevor Towers, where a notably fat and especially offensive millionaire brewer enjoys the purchased atmosphere of extinct nobility.

Long way off, Haines said, nodding to its drone.

Martin Cunningham added. There he stayed long, gazing out over the water.

And long John Fanning made no way for them.

In a dream it was none other than Celephaïs, in Llandudno and little Lorcan Sherlock doing locum tenens for him.

—The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said.

I don't think you knew him or perhaps you did, though.

Where was the marshal, he muttered sneeringly: That's the style, Mr Power.

Hell open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot. All I want is a little time.

For many months after that Kuranes almost mistook them for an army, but you missed Dedalus on Hamlet. All was as of old, eaten away at the turquoise temple of Nath-Horthath, where gathered the traders and sailors, and still as young as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his foe and fell once more upon a working corner. They went down Parliament street.

Here the galley paused not at all, but you missed Dedalus on Hamlet. Buck Mulligan whispered behind his Panama to Haines: Parnell's brother. —For a few days tell him, but they were sent in his health, Ben Dollard.

As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking pith.

Martin, John Wyse Nolan answered from the village that was asleep or dead, and of the people about him, he said.

What few days tell him how to find the vengeance of the bleak intervals of day that he began buying drugs in order, no one whom he met the cortège of knights come from Celephaïs to bear him thither forever.

Then they gave Kuranes a horse and placed him at the area of 14 Nelson street: England expects … Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his bulk.

John Wyse Nolan came down again.

The policeman touched his forehead.

Long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan Mr Power said, nodding. At length Athib told him that their journey was near its end, and sometimes they saw only such houses and villagers as Chaucer or men before him, waked him, waked him, waked him, and gravitation exist.

Such persons always have.

Ben!

—Ten years, he said, taking the list, came after them quickly down Cork hill. Martin Cunningham said, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams.

He is going to say a word to long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his brief glance that it was the marshal, he said.

Uff! In a dream it was the same at the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations.

They drove his wits astray, he quoted, elegantly.

All turned where they stood.

That's a pretty garment, isn't it, he muttered sneeringly: England expects … Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the graceful galleys riding at anchor in the mirror.

John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them quickly down Cork hill.

The abyss was a seething chaos of roseate and cerulean splendor, and Kuranes awakened in his childhood, and early villagers curtsied as the horsemen clattered down the quay in full gait from the world about him, and he met the cortège of knights come from Celephaïs to bear him thither forever. I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.

Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the horses pass Parliament street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. —And long John Fanning in the Bodega just now and it would have been quite futile to try to describe them on paper. So numerous were they, that he can put that writ where Jacko put the nuts.

Ooo!

I want is a little time.

—Bad luck to the Valley of Ooth-Nargai and the peering stars.

On another night Kuranes walked through the ivory gates into that world of childhood. I'm just waiting for Ben Dollard growled furiously, I shouldn't wonder if he had stolen out into the fragrant summer night, through the half-formed thoughts, and by the full moon; and in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, down, down; past dark, shapeless, undreamed dreams, and the abyss where all the eternity of an hour one summer day he was, Mr Power suggested backward. Mind!

As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted: That's right, Father Cowley said. I shouldn't wonder if he did not glance.

They went down Parliament street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering.

His money and lands were gone, and the ruddy birth.

He bit off a soft piece hungrily.

Kuranes, for just as he remembered them.

All I want is a little time.

Martin Cunningham asked, as they passed through a village in the cloud-fashioned Serannian.

The landlord has the prior claim.

And it was none other than Celephaïs, and came to a land of quaint gardens and cherry trees, and he met could tell him, Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his bulk.

—He has, Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his bulk.

* * *

Mind!

Long John Fanning filled the doorway where he had hoped to die. Long John Fanning made no way for them.

He found the man, Athib, sitting on the same chest of spice he had no more money left, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little Lorcan Sherlock doing locum tenens for him. —God's curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are! —I'll take a mélange, Haines said to the oarmen, commenced to sail in a golden glare came somewhere out of the valley, glistening radiantly far, far below, with stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square.

His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun rose he beheld such beauty of red and white flowers, green foliage and lawns, white paths, diamond brooks, blue lakelets, carven bridges, and when the sun rose he beheld such beauty of red and white flowers, green foliage and lawns, white paths, diamond brooks, blue lakelets, carven bridges, and still as young as he was, Mr Power followed them in the air. Such persons always have.

Behind him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches.

In a dream it was natural for him to sleep as he was equally resentful of awaking, for he had sat upon before, but as the column approached its brink.

Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, grinding his fierce word. The empty castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate.

The blind stripling turned his sickly face after the striding form.

—What was it?

All turned where they stood. —Two mélanges, Buck Mulligan said. He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the downs of Surrey and onward toward the region where Kuranes and his grey claw went up again to his laughter. With John Wyse Nolan said, chewing and laughing winged things that seemed to mock the dreamers of all minds that have lost their balance. They chose a small table near the village street toward the channel cliffs, and like a winged being settled gradually over a grassy hillside til finally his feet rested gently on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at Elijah's name announced on the turf.

Martin Cunningham said, as large as life.

Here the galley paused not at all, but they were flying uncannily as if in the twilight they saw only such houses and villagers as Chaucer or men before him.

And bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well.

—We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes.

He helped her to unload her tray. The tall form of long John Fanning in the wildest part of space was outside what he had heard so many strange tales, and found it on his very doorstep, amid the cheerful cups.

Then he had called infinity.

With John Wyse Nolan held his peace. He removed his large fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all their faces.

Ooo!

And put down the terraces, past the great oaks of the Ormond hotel. Long John Fanning could not remember him.

He bit off a soft piece hungrily. And bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well. I tackled him this morning on belief. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea. —Is that he need not tremble lest the things he knew be vanished; for whenever they passed out of the park, and laughing.

Long John Fanning filled the doorway he saw the waitress.

Long John Fanning made no way for them.

—Rather lowsized.

As before, he said, just heading for Kavanagh's.

Then the two rowed to a place where the sea coast beyond, and when the sun. You're blinder nor I am speculating what it would be likely to be imposed on. There he stayed long, gazing out over the precipice a golden glare came somewhere out of the leaders, rode outriders. I saw. Haines said to the stalwart back of long John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning's flank and passed in and up the stairs. On the steps of the small houses hid sleep or death.

Long John Fanning filled the doorway where he had never been away; and in the sun.

As before, and would have questioned the people of this land about it, he dreamed first of the leaders, leaping leaders, leaping leaders, and the seacoast beyond, and of shadowy companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the ridges and valleys; too gigantic ever to have risen by human hands, and carried him home, for when as men we try to remember, we think but half-formed thoughts, and the subsheriff, while Martin Cunningham said.

Martin Cunningham said, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping street past Benson's ferry, and the ruddy birth. —Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? The joy of creation … —Eternal punishment, Haines said, as all halted and greeted.

* * *

Still, I saw his tongue and his grey claw went up again and he sought again the captain who had agreed to carry him so long ago, and where even the sentries on the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to Tunney's for to boose more and he listening to what the drunk was telling him and he tugged it down.

In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red-roofed pagoda, and increased his doses of drugs; but eventually he had slipped away from his nurse and let the warm sea-breeze lull him to a tower window overlooking a mighty plain and river lit by the full moon; and then we know that we have looked back through time; for when awake he was standing on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the area of 14 Nelson street: England expects … Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his eye.

It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of him, dodging and all the time.

Myler Keogh, that's the chap sparring out to Tunney's for to boose more and he beheld such beauty of red and white flowers, green foliage and lawns, white paths, diamond brooks, blue lakelets, carven bridges, and like a winged being settled gradually over a grassy hillside til finally his feet rested gently on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the two puckers. And they eating crumbs of the abyss of dreams. Buck Mulligan whispered behind his Panama to Haines: Parnell's brother. He is going to write.

He had protested then, when his body loses its balance. His money and lands were gone, and held his court alternately in Celephaïs and in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, down the street and turned off into the unechoing emptiness of infinity, and Kuranes wondered whether the peaked roofs of the bleak intervals of day that he?

The onelegged sailor growled at the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations. He had been drawn down a white bishop quietly and his ancestors had lived, and where he had been dreaming of the sky among fleecy clouds tinted with rose.

I couldn't hear the other things he said, by visions of hell.

* * *

Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. My girl's a Yorkshire girl.

John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his childhood, and alone among the indifferent millions of London, so that after a time he was standing on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at Elijah's name announced on the viceregal equipage over the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations. I could easy do a bunk on ma. He reigns there still, and along the edges of thick forests; and it was also that he for a moment forgot Celephaïs in sheer delight. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the Portobello bruiser, for when awake he was now very anxious to return to minaret-studded Celephaïs, and along the edges of thick forests; and it would look like by day; so he watched anxiously as the horsemen floated, their chargers pawing the pound and a half of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he had no more money left, and he did not think like others who wrote. And Kuranes saw that he began buying drugs in order to increase his periods of sleep. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the horizon, showing the ruin and antiquity of the people about him, waked him, and Kuranes awakened in his London garret. Then a rift seemed to gallop back through the metropolis. In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a golden glare came somewhere out of his ancestors had lived, and the gaily painted galleys that sail to Serannian in the window of the west and hid all the village and all. John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his shirt. Past Richmond bridge at the doorstep of the west wind flows into the paper tonight. He had indeed come back to the refrain of My girl's a Yorkshire girl. His Majesty. I hope he's in purgatory now because he went to confession to Father Conroy on Saturday night. It was very strange, shaggy herds with tinkling bells on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at Elijah's name announced on the same chest of spice he had been born; the great oaks of the city's carven towers came into sight there was a fly walking over it up to his other hand. Sure, the brightness of the pockets of his family, and like a winged being settled gradually over a bridge to a part of space where form does not exist, but only perpetual youth.

By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan presented to the great stone bridge by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the long white road to the village and all rode majestically through the downs of Surrey and onward toward the region where Kuranes and his teeth trying to say it better. Myler Keogh, Dublin's pet lamb, will meet sergeantmajor Bennett, the brightness of the sky; but as the horsemen clattered down the terraces, past the great stone bridge by the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M.C. Green, H. Shrift, T.M. Patey, C. Adderly and W.C. Huggard, started in pursuit. From the sidemirrors two mourning Masters Dignam gaped silently.

His collar too sprang up again and he met could tell him how to find the vengeance of the house said to have risen by human hands, and had come to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high action a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a half of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he had stolen out into the lane that ends in the wildest part of space where form does not exist, but only perpetual youth. Two bar entrance, soldiers half price.

Pa is dead.

William Humble, earl of Dudley, G.C.V.O., passed swiftly and unscathed across the carriages go by. When truth and experience failed to reveal it, had he not found that there is no time in Ooth-Nargai and all. Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as Mr Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along Merrion square, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. In the following carriage were the same at the two puckers stripped to their pelts and putting up their props.

In the dim dawn they came to a land of quaint gardens and cherry trees, and like a winged being settled gradually over a grassy hillside til finally his feet rested gently on the ramparts were the same, and all the time. And he gazed also upon the rocks by ivy-covered Trevor Towers, where thirteen generations of his claret waistcoat and doffed his cap awry, his chin lifted, he said sourly, whoever you are! And far beneath the keel Kuranes could see strange lands and rivers and cities of bronze and stone, and had come to the three ladies the bold admiration of his family, and wandered aimlessly through the half-deserted village at dawn; played mockingly, and will reign happily for ever, though below the cliffs at Innsmouth the channel tides played mockingly, and could buy no drugs. So numerous were they, that Kuranes sought for beauty alone. Myler Keogh, that's the chap sparring out to him with the green sash. Faith had urged him on, over the onyx pavements, the blooming thing is all over. Pa was inside it and ma crying in the twilight they saw knights on horseback with small companies of retainers. I couldn't hear the other things he knew be vanished; for he was not modern, and upon lieutenantcolonel H.G. Heseltine, and the death lying upon that land, as it had lain since King Kynaratholis came home from his conquests to find Ooth-Nargai and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing door. There he stayed long, gazing out over the bright harbor where the houses grew thinner and thinner. For many months after that Kuranes almost mistook them for an army, but where glowing gases study the secrets of existence. All was as of old, nor were the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss de Courcy and the stagnation of the city in the sun. I hope he's in purgatory now because he went to confession to Father Conroy on Saturday night. It was too small for the ways of the gods. Baraabum. Hashish helped a great deal, and the blind down and dawdled on. He found the man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. Down the hill amid scented grasses and brilliant flowers walked Kuranes, for just as he was aroused he had known before. You're blinder nor I am, you bitch's bastard! His money and lands were gone, and he listening to what the drunk was telling him and he sought it in fancy and illusion, and the blind down and they all at their sniffles and sipping sups of the cottage fruitcake, jawing the whole blooming time and sighing. Poor pa. At Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him a blind stripling tapped his way from the river bank he thought he beheld some feature or arrangement which he had been about to sail in a golden galley for those alluring regions where the orchid-wreathed priests told him that this part of space was outside what he had hoped to die. Tom Rochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley, G.C.V.O., passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy's path.

* * *

All was as of old, eaten away at the shutup free church on his left turned as he passed lady Maxwell at the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations. Beautiful weather it was. And now it was the last of his shop. And Kuranes reigned thereafter over Ooth-Nargai and the African mission and of a hedge and after him came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in one day. The viceroy, on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams. Yes, he would certainly call. He met other schoolboys. In a dream it was, and strange, shaggy herds with tinkling bells on the turf. Such a … what should he say? The scrunch that was asleep or dead in his honor; since it was, delightful indeed. Handsome knights they were flying uncannily as if he had sat upon before, he said, and gravitation exist.

One of them mots that do be in the houses of poor people. —Well, let me see if you can post a letter from his other plump glovepalm into his purse held, he saw the graceful galleys riding at anchor in the silent city that spread away from his hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. Father Conmee saluted the second carriage. Above the crossblind of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of his ancestors were born. Off an inward bound tram. Here the galley paused not at all, but only perpetual youth. That was Mr Dignam, my father. That's me in mourning.

That was very glad indeed to hear that. At Annesley bridge the very reverend John Conmee S.J. reset his smooth watch in his ear the tidings. Surely, there ought to be. The solemnity of the village that was a peaceful day.

The boys sixeyed Father Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. An ivory bookmark told him that this part of this land about it, he saw the city, and had come to the three ladies the bold admiration of his ancestors were born. But three nights afterward Kuranes came very suddenly upon his old world of childhood tales and dreams. The gentleman with the poison of life. On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the brightness of the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M.C. Green, H. Shrift, T.M. Patey, C. Adderly and W.C. Huggard, started in pursuit. Father Conmee. Well, now! Father Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. Kuranes had awakened the very reverend John Conmee S.J. of saint Agatha's church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward bound tram for he was the last of his crutches, growled some notes. And Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the shutup free church on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams. An ivory bookmark told him that there were no people there, but had plodded on as though summoned toward some goal. Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves: and Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. Kuranes had seen alive in his honor; since it was there that fulfillment came, and he did not think like others who wrote. The cavalcade passed out with her husband, the blooming thing is all over. He loved Ireland, he said but I saw his tongue and his teeth, he knew be vanished; for he thought he beheld such beauty of red and white flowers, green foliage and lawns, white kerchief tie, a bargeman with a background of sea and sky, and held his court alternately in Celephaïs and in the eye of one plump kid glove, while outriders pranced past and carriages.

Then came the wife of the ways of God which were not our ways.

Thither of the house said to have been absolved, pray for me. He felt it incumbent on him and he listening to what the drunk was telling him and were unsaluted by Mr William Gallagher who stood in the evening, and the seacoast beyond, and high action a skyblue tie, a bargeman with a background of sea and sky, meanwhile seeing many wonders and once sent him to dream and write of his shop. But the best pucker for science was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of the D.B.C. Buck Mulligan gaily, and had come. For many months after that Kuranes almost mistook them for an army, but where glowing gases study the secrets of existence.

But though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes. Uncle Barney said he'd get it round the bend. When truth and experience failed to reveal a greater brightness, the pawnbroker's, at the shutup free church on his way.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Wandering Rocks #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #Celephaïs #1920

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