#rixon grey

[palindromepaladin]

The Village of Stones or A Watchman’s Tale

By Rixon Grey

I could not look back to my village when I left. The shame I felt for my banishment left me with too much pride to believe that I was in the wrong. I trudged forward, with heavy shoulders and an upturned chin. Never again would I be welcome to my friends or family, and a new life would be waiting for me beyond them.

           For my good luck, the land was full of fruits among bushes and trees, and it was spring time. I did not want for sustenance or clean running water. I was familiar with all vegetation around me, and had been taught about the dangers of poison and wild animals. I knew how to survive in the wilderness. Against my good luck, however, I knew not where I was headed.

           The hills around me were set into the earth like so many hairs on the back of a frightened tomcat. As I climbed the peak of one, another sprung up in the distance, as were they to my sides. The very country around my birthplace was a tumult of steep hill and small mountain. After days of travel I wondered less for why I had never before left, and why banishment was reserved for punishment worse than death.

           I walked until my beard grew thick on my chin, and until I became more familiar with the tongues of animal than of man. At night I found myself lying next to the dens of wolves, as my fear for them fell in proportion to how much their fear grew for me. I was a wild man. In my mouth protruded fangs instead of teeth, and I took to hunting hare and badger on all fours. The smell of blood overwhelmed me at the time of my wild man hunting.

           Out of this arose a pattern, hunting, sleeping, and walking. I walked because I felt that travel was inherently a human trait, as only birds traveled as men did, and I could not fly. At this point I came across horse-packed paths and wooden signposts nailed together by human tools. Though the woods around me were still thick and pocked with hillocks, and I still had no direction in my heart.

To any passerby I may look friendly enough, if not ragged. To two men and one old man I had snarled when they greeted me. I meant it respectably enough, but the anger and shock which was drawn upon their faces was enough to remind me of the home I had been turned away by.

           I resignedly strayed off human paths, understanding now that the banishment was not just from my own village, but from all humanity. I ran into the forests, deeper than ever, and into the wilder terrain.

           The lack of paths left me even more lost in the hills and valleys littering the world. Now so more than ever had I embraced the wild nature which had planted inside my heart. I ran with the wolves as they hunted; not accepting me themselves I forced myself beside them. I began to feast on predator flesh.

           A time passed, and I am now ashamed to admit that I do not know, nor will I ever, how long I stayed as a beast. Seasons did not change, but where I was I was not surprised. I was out of reach from the world of men and sense. Sometimes night lasted for weeks. Thoughts only poked their noses into my brain to try and see just how lost I was. In response my inner beast would growl and the human thoughts would dissipate.

           After however long, I stumbled stupidly upon a human path. As I was then, I would have normally ignored it, shied away from it, or would have pissed and left. This path, however, was special. It drew up within me human feelings, which shot through my heart as a geyser of hot longing and despair. Only men know sadness of the past, and I knew it then stronger than any animal lust.

           I needed to follow the path, and wander to wherever it may take me. I did so on two legs.

           The path was packed dirt. The dirt had been piled and shaped to seem more like a tapestry than a walkway for simple peasantry. Stones lined the sides, giving definition to the otherwise beautiful and free dirt. I was not ashamed to walk on a path so glorious, and instead kicked my feet with each step as if to skip like a young girl. I was flushed with excitement and feverish wistfulness.

           Winding up into the hills, the path took me around bends and overhanging hillsides. I marched and danced within valleys and fissures. The path only grew more charming the longer I traveled on it.

           The path started to slope upwards. I climbed up with lunges the side of a mountainous mound among hillocks. Grass and white flowers specked the graveled earth around me. Images of chanting women and goat-horned shamans swirled in my wilderness-weathered brain. So peaceful I was at that moment, I could have been dead and that would have been my treasured end. If only.

           The path, now dirt only, leveled out to the top of a plateau. Built into the grassy hilltop were shaggy huts. Each had thatch walls and rooftops, no stone was used to build them. Tools of wood and grass littered the ground around the hovels. The path ended in front of me and I looked down vacantly at my feet. At the path’s end, spreading out to my left and right, was a thin ring of pebbles and gravel, cutting a distinct line in the thick grass on either side.

           I took a step into the ring of stones, towards the grass village, and the air around me changed. I tasted a pressure around me, heard less noise, and could breathe in only the air which my lungs would allow. There was a haze of lightening about me, which one can feel seconds before feeling raindrops from dusky clouds.

           A thought put itself into my head without my permission: to go back and be wild once more, to forget this place. But why? I admit that the time spent as a manling among wolves had left my heart empty in the places where human love is held. So much I wanted to see a smiling face, a set of large and gentle eyes from a woman or child, that I disregarded my intuition and continued further into the village.

           At the first hovel I came to I shyly looked inside. I was aware of my ragged appearance and wanted to avoid startling anyone. However, the hut was empty, so I moved on to the next and peered in the same way. The next was empty as well, and the one after that. I looked around and around but there was no person to be seen or heard. The only noise was a clinking, like a small tool on a stone.

           I crept inside of a hut, and there I saw a wooden table and small cot. On the bedding was a pebble not unlike those I had seen at the edge of the village. It was particularly round. I had come across as many rocks as any other person in my lifetime, both wild and worked, and none had been as spherical as the one on the bed. I pondered this as I revisited the hovels I had passed by. All had similar furnishings: beds, chairs, tables, a small chest in some, and each house had stones inside. The stones were the size of my fist and round like the moon.

           The clinking continued steadily, and I knew then that only men worked on stone so arduously, surely that must have been a craftsman at work.

           I rushed to the source of the noise. While fumbling through a shock of thick grass I happened to step on a sphere of granite, similar to those in the hovels. Below my foot I heard it crack and wetness flooded between my toes. Blood. My heart curled up behind my chest bone, and I waited impatiently for the pain to come. My foot, however, did not sting or cry out for help. There was no damage on my part. I looked closer. The stone was hollow, and had shattered open.

           Bending down I rummaged through bits of broken stone and found blood still pooling around it. A shell of broken granite was faced toward the ground and I flipped it around. On the inside, like a little pearl in the shell, was a twisting organ, still twitching. I threw it away. I took deep breaths, and quickly, but the air around me was stifling my thoughts with its electrical charge.

           The clinking was mere yards away, I could tell, just around one more hut. Forgetting momentarily the stone, I walked blindly to the noise. I came to the center of the village, which was open with dirt instead of grass. All around were the corpses of sheep and goats, long dead, and little flesh remained on their brown bones. The horns of the goats were carved with runes.

           A long twisting dagger was half buried in the middle of the center, along with the source of the pounding.

           I saw a bird the size of a man, hunched over and stretching its neck to peck at something in front of it. It was turned away from me, so I was able to steal a long look at it. Its wings were small compared to the rest of it, and were covered with feathers the shade of ink. Its body was featherless and leathery, it was fat and misshapen. At the base of its spine a thin and gangly tail twitched as a cat’s does.

           I put my hand to my mouth and felt tears welling up from the fear in my skull. I moved to lean against the hovel I had been crouching by, as my legs were losing strength. The side of the hut was weak and my leg pushed through the material knee-first. Broken thatch cut deep into my thigh and knee, and I growled. Blood gushed down my leg and onto the ground. I pulled myself up and snapped my neck to the monstrous bird.

           Its neck had twisted grotesquely and its face was pinpointed to my own. Its eyes were like that of a fish, vacant, bulbous, and hungry. Guts flecked its long, thin beak, and it dribbled gore down to the ground in clumping strings. Around its feet were the living stones, each cracked open and drained of their viscera. I roared and began to flee back to the path from which I had arrived.

           My leg ached and threatened uselessness, but my animal spirit took over and drove strength down into it. I felt the tingle of my teeth turning into fangs and my hands into paws once more, I was ready to be a wolf if I had to be.

           I reached the stone circle at the edge of the village and burst through it. As I did so, my blood caught in my veins and the barrier withheld me halfway through. The blood which had soaked the side of my leg drifted down as sand and dust. I flailed my body to the side and heaved against the million barbs of the invisible wall pulling against my innards. I had peeled most of my body free, but my left hand was stuck on the barrier by the wrist. I tasted ash. Something was inside my palm, under the skin, among the bone and muscle.

           I pulled and pulled, needing desperately to escape, remembering how intelligent the face of the bird looked to me. Not in its fish eyes, but its mouth, which curled into a smile at the corners of the beak, at least that is how I saw it.

           I put all of my body weight and strength behind one final tug on my hand, and from the back of it exploded a glob of blood and grit. A pebble, no larger than a robin’s egg, black and sick, fell to join the other stones in the circle. I could not comprehend what that meant, and all I knew was escape.

           I ran deeper and deeper into the hills, into the shadows of tree and boulder to protect me, even though I never heard anything give me chase. After weeks of living close to an animal once more my wounds healed well enough, though my left hand since then has been lame. My leg never healed as well either.

I carved a walking stick out of a large branch and found myself traversing wide open plains and flat-earthed woods. I stuck to the paths of men. I wound up in a city and found that they had need of a guard to patrol a wooden tower out in their surrounding woods.

           There I stay to this day, watching with an eye much keener, and with more fear than the younger men. They tease me, and I let them, because they will never know exactly why I watch so diligently the skies instead of the ground. If ever trouble may find my new home I will always have my fangs, and a sling with stones at the ready

[xesmearmenta]

[mypatchseries]

HUSH, HUSH - CAPÍTULO 1.

Coldwater, Maine.

 Me senté pesarosamente en mi mesa de siempre, casi al final del salón de clase. Fijé la vista en la pizarra, donde un par de muñecos desnudos reposaban debajo de un par de letras que decían "Bienvenidos a la Reproducción humana (Sexo)".

 Sonreí para mis adentros. Esta clase sería completamente aburrida, ya que, al fin y al cabo, no me enseñaría nada que no supiera ya.

 Una chica que repentinamente se había quedado boquiabierta en la puerta llamó mi atención.

 Era Nora.

 La contemplé fijamente como hacía siempre, desde que había decidido entrar al instituto. Sus labios ligeramente entreabiertos dejaron escapar un suspiro.

 Un estremecimiento me recorrió el cuerpo al mirar su boca, y una vez más, me imaginé mordiendo suavemente su labio inferior. Soñé como sonaría el gemido de placer al salir de su boca… Sus manos aferrándose a mi cabello, en clara señal de que le agradaba.

 Sacudí levemente la cabeza para desechar esas imágenes, y me removí algo inquieto en mi mesa, mientras seguía contemplándola, pero esta vez con mi mirada fija en sus ojos. Esos ojos grises que me ponían tan…

 Su amiga apareció a su lado. Le susurró algo a Nora entre dientes, y ella soltó una media sonrisa. Mis ojos bajaron nuevamente a sus labios, y contemplé de nuevo aquella boca.

 Vamos, Jev. Concéntrate en tu único Objetivo: Matar pensé.

 Pero era difícil concentrarse en matar a alguien te atraía como nunca nadie te ha atraído antes. Observé de mala gana como Vee tomaba lugar junto a ella un par de mesas por delante de mí. Si tan solo yo pudiera sentarme a su lado…

 — ¡Equipo, a sus asientos! —Dijo aquel hombre que se hacía llamar entrenador, luego de haber hecho sonar esa cosa que le colgaba del cuello. Desde que lo había visto, tenía la clara impresión de que para él, la Biología y el Basquetbol tenían la misma forma de enseñanza. —Puede que no se les haya ocurrido, chicos, que el sexo es mucho más que una visita de quince minutos al asiento de atrás de un coche. El sexo es ciencia. ¿Y qué es la ciencia?

 — ¡Un aburrimiento! —dijo alguien del fondo.

 Decidí dejar de prestar atención. Por lo general me frustraba la inmadurez de algunas personas, y no quería ponerme de mal humor tan pronto por la mañana.

 Dirigí mi mirada nuevamente hacía Nora, y su patética compañera que pensaba que era la reina del mundo solo porque había perdido su virginidad con un chico excitantemente misterioso. Aún me sentía algo incómodo cuando Rixon me recordaba aquello, asegurándome que Vee no lo recordaba porque había introducido en su cabeza la imagen de una persona diferente, alguien que nunca volvería a ver. Me exasperaba lo que había sucedido entre ellos… ¿Cómo esa chica había entregado su pureza a un completo desconocido a la primera? Rixon ni siquiera tuvo que pedirlo dos veces. Tuve que contener el impulso de lanzarme sobre ellas y llevarme a Nora lo más lejos posible de su personalidad tan desfachatada. Con solo pensar que Nora pudiera hacer lo mismo con cualquier chico que se le cruzase…

 —El estudio de algo—La voz de Nora interrumpió mis pensamientos y me trajo de vuelta a la realidad. Al parecer, el "entrenador" le había hecho una pregunta.

 El hombre se acercó a su mesa, y se inclinó hacia ella. Demasiado cerca.

 Cerré mis puños con fuerza, y suspiré. Aléjate rugí en mi mente.

 — ¿Qué más? —insistió.

 —El conocimiento alcanzado por medio de la observación y la experimentación—Contestó Nora. Contuve una risa. Parecía que se fuera tragado el libro y estuviera escupiendo las palabras que sabía que eran correctas.

 El hombre aquel se dio cuenta.

 —Dilo con tus propias palabras—le dijo a ella.

 Su lengua se abrió paso entre sus labios, tocando la parte superior de este con suavidad. Otro estremecimiento se abrió paso por mi cuerpo. Maldije para mis adentros. No podía permitir que ella tuviera ese grado de influencia sobre mí.

 Tienes que matarla, Jev. Gánate su confianza y mátala pensé con frustración.

 Desvié la mirada de aquellas tres personas, y me concentré en dibujar unos garabatos en el pedazo de papel que reposaba sobre mi mesa. Recordé los motivos por los que estaba en Coldwater.

 "—Así que… para ser humano, ¿tengo que matar al descendiente de Chauncey? —pregunté.

 —No exactamente. Ella tiene que hacer el sacrificio por voluntad propia, o no tendría caso—respondió él.

 Reí sarcásticamente.

 —Oh, claro. Voluntariamente. ¿Es sumamente sencillo, no? Solo tengo que aparecer frente a ella y decirle: "Oye, descendiente de Chauncey, ¿Podrías por favor atravesarte el pecho con esta daga? Es que verás, quiero ser humano y necesito que te suicides" ¿En qué demonios estás pensando, Barba? ¿Crees que morirá solo porque un ángel caído se lo pide? —le pregunté.

 Él me miró con una sonrisa jugando en la comisura de sus labios mugrosos.

 —Los humanos son capaces de morir por amor—dijo él.

 Contuve el impulso de vomitar. Hace años que no sentía ni una pizca de simpatía por nadie.

 — ¿me estás diciendo qué…?

 —Siempre puedes enamorarla—dijo él."

 Regresé al presente y ahogué un suspiro. Necesitaba ganarme a Nora lo más pronto posible. Quería un cuerpo humano. Lo quería con todo mí… ¿Ser?

 Cámbiame de mesa. Ponme junto a Nora. Ahora Gruñí en la mente del entrenador.

 Un sonido agudo y chirriante se escuchó en toda la sala. El "entrenador" llamaba al orden a la clase. Estupendo.

 —Quiero que todos los que estén sentados del lado izquierdo del pupitre (éste es el lado izquierdo) se cambien a los del asiento de adelante. Los de primera fila (Si, Vee tú también) se irán al fondo.

 No sabía exactamente que sentí al tener la oportunidad de sentarme junto a Nora. Un poco de desesperación por matarla y obtener mi cuerpo cuanto antes, y mucha lujuria por tener tan cerca su cuerpo, también algo de obsesión al querer tocarla y todavía no poder, y ni mencionar el deseo de cubrir sus labios con los míos, aunque no pudiera sentirlos físicamente. Me estremecía con solo mirarlos, sin saber exactamente que tenia ella tan diferente a las demás.

 Nora tenía la mirada levantada, estudiando a todas las personas que daban vuelta a su alrededor, hasta que su mirada se posó en mí. Volví a estremecerme. Maldición.

 Lancé de mala gana mi cuaderno en la mesa junto a ella, y me senté. Ella me sonrió.

 —Hola. Soy Nora—me dijo.

 La observé fijamente, y le mostré una ligera sonrisa. Ya lo sé, chica. Vengo a matarte pensé. Ella me devolvió la mirada un poco titubeante por unos segundos, para después dirigirse a la pizarra frente a ella.

 Permanecí mirándola mientras el entrenador explicaba lo que había que hacer. Ella parecía incómoda. Una sonrisa amenazaba con dibujarse en mi rostro, pero la contuve. El entrenador continuó hablando. Al parecer, quería un informe detallado sobre toda la información que tenía de Nora. Era fácil. Y para mi satisfacción, este trabajo me haría mantener los ojos alejada de ella un par de minutos.

 Cuando el entrenador terminó de hablar, tomé una hoja de mi cuaderno, rasgando el papel y comencé a escribir.

 Nora Grey.

 -columnista de la revista digital del instituto.

 -le gusta la poesía.

 -Su música favorita es barroca

 -Solo hace ejercicios cuando hay buen clima.

 Con mi visión periférica, observé que giraba su rostro para observarme.

 — ¿Qué escribes? —preguntó.

 —Y además, puede hablar—susurré, mientras lo escribía.

 Se acercó a mí, pero no lo suficiente. Intentaba ver lo que había escrito. Doblé el folio por la mitad, acercándole más a mí, instándola a que se acercara aún más por sus intentos de leer.

 — ¿Qué has escrito? —quiso saber.

 Se estaba exasperando. Me encantaba.

 En un intento por más exasperación, tomé su hoja, la arrugué entre mi puño y la arrojé al cesto de la basura. Funcionó.

 Enojada sacó otra página de su cuaderno, y preparó su lápiz para escribir.

 — ¿Cómo te llamas? —me preguntó.

 Sonreí. Su rostro estaba ligeramente rojo por la cólera. Me imaginaba su cara de un tono escarlata si supiera lo que quería hacer con ella.

 — ¿Tú nombre? —insistió.

 Mi nombre es Jev pensé. Pero no vi necesario recordarle esa información. Además, hace años que nadie me llamaba de esa forma.

 —Llámame Patch. Lo digo en serio. Llámame—me insinué.

 Guiñe un ojo al decirlo, y contemple con satisfacción como se ruborizaba un poco más.

 — ¿qué haces en tu tiempo libre? —preguntó.

 —No tengo tiempo libre.

 —Supongo que esta tarea lleva nota, así que ¿por qué no me lo pones fácil?

 Me recliné en el respaldo de la silla, y crucé mis dedos por detrás de mi cabeza. Era posible que ella no hubiera captado el doble significado de sus palabras.

 — ¿Quieres que te lo ponga fácil?

 Otra insinuación. No entendía completamente lo que estaba sucediendo, pero me agradaba. Me gustaba ver como se sonrojaba, ver como se enojaba. Y Aún más, me encantaba verla asustada. Si tan solo me recordaras… pensé, irónicamente, recordando el momento en que tuve que borrar su memoria, luego de haberla conocido en aquel restaurante.

 —En mi tiempo libre… hago fotos—dije, pensativo.

 Observé con incredulidad como escribía "Fotografía" en su hoja.

 —No he terminado—dije—tengo una colección bastante completa de una columnista de la revista digital que cree en la alimentación orgánica, que escribe poesía en secreto y que se estremece de sólo pensar que tiene que escoger entre Stanford, Yale y… ¿Cómo se llama esa grande que empieza con H? —Me miraba sorprendida, con la mandíbula colgándole. Contuve una carcajada. —Pero al final no irás a ninguna de ésas.

 —Ah, ¿no?

 Me resultaba placentero hacerla sentir incómoda, pero ya había perdido el rubor. Quería que lo recuperara. Metí la mano debajo de su asiento y la arrastré más cerca de mí. Su cara se tornó roja de nuevo, pero fingió que no le importaba la proximidad.

 —Y aunque consiguieras entrar en las tres universidades, las despreciarías por considerarlas un cliché del éxito—continué—Pontificar es la tercera de tus tres grandes debilidades.

 — ¿Y cuál es la segunda? —preguntó, algo molesta.

 —No confías en nadie—lo pensé mejor—Rectifico: Solo confías en las personas equivocadas.

 — ¿Y la primera?

 —Te empeñas en tener todo controlado.

 Pude sentir como se estremecía. Pero vi que claramente no estaba dispuesta a dejarse intimidar por mí. Casi reí. Ya lo veríamos.

 — ¿Duermes desnuda? —pregunté.

 Conocía la respuesta, por supuesto. Antes de entrar al instituto, hubo varias noches en las que iba a espiarla a su casa.

 —Claro, a ti te lo voy a contar. —Sonreí.

 — ¿Has ido al psicólogo alguna vez?

 —No. —Mintió. También conocía la respuesta a esa pregunta.

 — ¿Has hecho algo ilegal?

 —Pues Claro que no. ¿Por qué no me haces una pregunta normal? Cómo… qué música me gusta—dijo ella, algo irritada.

 —No voy a preguntarte lo que puedo adivinar.

 — ¿Sabes qué tipo de música me gusta?

 —Barroca. Cuando se trata de ti todo tiene que ver con el orden, el control. Apuesto a que tocas… ¿El chelo? —pregunté, conociendo también la respuesta.

 —Error.

 Dsk. Dsk. Resultaban patéticos sus intentos por mentir. Trate de no reír. Miré una vez más sus labios, tratando de no dejarme llevar por el impulso de acercarme y besarla aquí mismo.

 Deseché ese pensamiento inmediatamente. Una vez más, como ya había pasado en varias ocasiones, contemple el acto de matarla. Algo se removió inquieto dentro de mí. Déjate de babosadas, es la única forma de ser humano pensé, antes de saber si realmente esas emociones se debían a que no deseaba matarla.

 — ¿Qué es eso? —le pregunté, dirigiendo mi atención a la marca en su muñeca.

 Sabía lo que era, por supuesto. Ella se alejó, como si repudiara mi contacto.

 Me sorprendí.

 —Una marca de nacimiento.

 —Parece una cicatriz. ¿Eres suicida, Nora? —la miré. Esperaba que contestara "Si, soy suicida y estoy esperando que un ángel caído venga a pedirme que me mate para él" pero sabía que eso no pasaría. — ¿Padres casados o Divorciados?

 —Vivo con mi madre.

 — ¿Y tú padre?

 —Murió el año pasado.

 — ¿Cómo murió?

 —Lo mataron. Ésas son cosas personales, si no te importa—dijo, con voz queda.

 Estaba incomoda, podía sentirlo. Pero por primera vez no me sentía feliz con esa situación. Ese tema parecía lastimarla. No quería lastimarla… aún.

 —Tiene que ser duro. —le dije, medio disculpándome.

 Me encontré pensando en cuanto había sufrido esta chica antes de que yo apareciera… Si tan solo yo pudiera…

 El timbre de salida me devolvió a la realidad.

 Me levanté del asiento rápidamente antes de que me pusiera a consolar a la pelirroja. ¿Qué me estaba pasando? Era justo como ese día en el restaurante… Cuando tenía la necesidad de…

 —Espera—escuché llamarla a mis espaldas. — ¡Un momento! —Continué caminando— ¡Patch! Aún no tengo nada sobre ti.

 Con el bolígrafo aun en la mano, me acerqué a ella y escribí en su palma mi número telefónico antes de darme cuenta realmente de lo que estaba haciendo.

 —Esta noche estoy ocupada—dijo ella, observando su mano.

 —Yo también—le dije.

 Di media vuelta y me encaminé al estacionamiento, a por mi moto. Sabía que llamaría, tarde o temprano. Y estaba ansioso por esa llamada.

[homebody-nobody]

these skeletons got ways of coming out

k so I actually published this a few days ago but tumblr was being a butt so I couldn’t cross-post it til now anyway This is a Pope Heyward character study that ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ASKED FOR and I wrote anyway bc I needed to fix him before I could use him as a character in the rest of this series. If you disagree with the way that I've extrapolated very little data into detailed headcanons, I don't blame you but also just like read elsewhere

title from "Brother" by Kodaline ------ ao3 ------

And that -- the intersection of John B and Kiara -- the overlay of his two best friends in his heart -- that’s what scares him.

Pope realizes some things after the Phantom goes down. Things that change the way he lives his life ------

I used to be free Of any fear of emotion But these skeletons got ways of coming out I used to believe That someday you'd see That baby you got devotion in every little motion

And I won't see the storm When the rain's coming down Never let you go Never let you go Even when the madness has broken you apart Even when the madness has broken you apart

Objectively, Pope is not an idiot. He knows this. He gets good grades, and he knows more about computers and physics and a lot of other things than the rest of any of his friends. He’s a smart kid. Even though he skipped out on his scholarship interview and his grades took a very sudden dip at the end of last semester, he has a solid GPA, a fantastic ACT score, and a glittering array of colleges waiting for his application in the fall. He’s spent his entire life waiting for his chance to get out of the Cut and prove all of those motherfuckers on Figure Eight wrong. He has potential. So why, when it comes to the simplest of things, does he feel so lost?

He was sure he was in love with Kiara. Dead certain. Everything lines up. She’s kind and beautiful and intelligent, everything that matters. He feels comfortable around her, natural, like he doesn’t have to try to be funny or charming, like he’s not constantly afraid of fucking up. Everything he’s read about being in love, all the books and the articles -- it all follows. And it’s a good story, one other people will nod their heads and smile at, high school sweethearts, best friends who found solace in each other during the most difficult part of their young lives. But there’s something about it that still feels -- wrong. Uncomfortable. Like there’s the Pope that everyone else sees and then the Pope that he is, and the one in love with Kiara isn’t the same one who lays in his bed at night and stares at the ceiling fan begging for his brain to shut up.

It’s strange, to feel so separate from himself and the life he lives. He doesn’t think it’s normal. He wishes he could talk to his friends about it. It’s not like they’re dumb, the rest of the pogues. Well, not fundamentally so, anyway. John B and JJ definitely make interesting decisions sometimes. But they all inhabit their bodies without question, so sure in their skin and the feeling that they belong with each other. He slips in and out of that too readily to feel completely comfortable at every boneyard party and through every misinformed adventure. The ease is less a standard and more a pleasant surprise; there are some nights when his friends fall quiet around a bonfire and Pope realizes he can’t stop smiling, that he loves every single one of them with his whole heart and he knows they love him, too. And then he starts doubting himself, and gets nervous and quiet and weird again, and they all brush it off as Pope being Pope -- but he’s an outsider even in their little chosen family and that starts to chafe, after a while.

Honestly, he was doing a pretty excellent job of not thinking about it until John B died. Or disappeared. Or whatever you call it when your best friend goes out in an open boat in the middle of a storm and disappears off the radio and the capsized boat is found three days later with no sign of him or his kook girlfriend. Pope’s angry at him, for that. He also really, really hates Sarah, for driving him to make that choice. For her. If it was him, he would have made John B turn around. He should have tried to stop him in the first place. He shouldn’t have helped get him to the Phantom , shouldn’t have let him go.

He hasn’t been haunted by guilt like this since JJ took the blame for sinking the wakesetter, and, for some reason, this is worse. It chews at him, a constant gnawing in the center of his chest that leaves him empty and hurting every second, swallowed by a hunger consuming itself. He hasn’t stopped thinking about John B since that deadly, neverending moment of radio static. Memories flash on a constant film reel through his head. Surfing at Rixon’s, parties at the boneyard, bonfires at the chateau, afternoons on the HMS Pogue. All the moments this summer when John B smiled and Pope followed, unquestioning.

Surfing the surge. That was so beyond stupid, and Pope knew it, even before they got to the beach and saw the huge, angry waves. But John B asked, with that insane glint in his eye that he always got when he caught hold of an idea, unable to let it go, so Pope went. Someone had to keep him alive when Kie wasn’t around. And that -- the intersection of John B and Kiara -- the overlay of his two best friends in his heart -- that’s what scares him.

The whole summer, he’d watched them, first their strange tension with an undercurrent of possibility that tugged at his stomach and made him feel sick, and then their familiar platonic intimacy as they finally became comfortable in what they were to each other. Jealousy pinched and prodded at every moment of eye contact, every kiss on his cheek or lighthearted shove of her shoulder. And the way his heart soared at the salvage yard when John B told them she’d rejected him. That had to have meant something -- and what followed logic was that Pope was into Kie, and he wished himself in John B’s place.

Right?

The night the Phantom goes down, Pope thinks he’s the one who should be dead. His parents arrive to take him home, talking to him about how worried they were, how happy they are to see him safe, but his head is still full of that gut-wrenching radio static. He doesn’t hear anything they say as he watches red and blue lights dance across their faces. They pull him into a fierce hug, JJ tugged in next to him, and all he feels is hollow.

Every step he takes echoes off the side of the tunnel of his thoughts, black and void. He stays as still as he can, spread-eagle across his bed, still dressed, just to avoid the clanging of the empty air when he moves. The barest stimulation is too much, the dimmest light blinding. His chest feels like someone has reached in and turned his ribs inside out, split them with a chest-cracker and opened him up on a steel table. In the far, unexplored regions of his imagination, he can see his own autopsy, surgery performed on a perfectly silent boy, hands at his sides, eyes still open, heart still beating.

Night falls around him, from grey dusk to the unforgiving ink-black you can only get in power outages on a tiny island fighting to breathe through the salt marsh. The only thing that drives him from his bed is the urgent cry of his bladder, and it’s easier to get dressed for bed once he’s already moving across the floor. The floorboards creak under his feet and while he would normally walk lightly for fear of being hassled for waking the house the next morning, his steps are heavy and dragging. Staring at the counter, he reaches for his toothbrush and squeezes toothpaste out onto the worn bristles. He puts it in his mouth and looks up, making eye contact reflection for the first time.

You love him.  

The realization hits him as clearly as if someone had whispered directly in his ear. It’s like an icepick through the center of his exposed, defenseless heart. He lowers the toothbrush slowly, the silence of the house ringing in his ears like sirens. His breath quickens, his bare chest rising and falling as he backs away from the counter, fear and grief and disappointment and a thousand other things he can’t name swirling in him like the storm that ended life the way he knew it. The tears start, flowing down his face silently at first and then, as he loses all control of his breath and his hands find their way into his hair, accompanied by gut-wrenching, heartbreaking sobs, broken sounds of grief and loss in too many respects.

Heyward rushes down the hall, throwing the door open, fear for his son wild in his eyes. He finds Pope doubled over, hyperventilating, face a mess of snot and tears, eyes squeezed closed, as he shakes and sobs. After a moment in the door, he pushes in, pulling Pope into his chest, wrapping firm, solid arms built from hard work and weather-beaten skin around him. “It’s gonna be alright, kid,” he whispers as Pope shivers violently against him. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Pope doesn’t remember being folded into his bed, or how the glass of water and bottle of Advil ended up on his bedside table. He wakes up well into the afternoon, the room heavy and sticky with the day’s heat, the air conditioning rendered useless with the lack of electricity. The golden light fools him into a pleasant kind of ignorance for half a moment before the reality of the previous night crashes over him ,and suddenly the comfy nest of his bed feels like a prison, sucking him down like quicksand into the mattress. He puts his hands over his face, pressing fingertips into aching eyes, trying to keep himself calm by counting backwards from four hundred, a number with each breath. When he reaches three hundred and fifty four he feels like he might be able to move again, and he reaches for the water and gulps it down, a note stuck to the bottom fluttering to the floor.

He swings his legs out of bed to pick it up, recognizing his mother’s handwriting on the pink post-it note, smudged and running from the condensation. Breakfast in the fridge , it says, don’t worry about the store. Rest. We love you. It makes his skin itch, rather than being comforting. The storm in his head turns a tide toward guilt, like he’s keeping a secret that he just learned, himself. The bed calls, but he knows that if he collapses back into it he won’t move for the rest of the day, and that he should stand before he changes his mind. The ache in his belly forces him up, and he pads through the empty house, feeling halfway like a ghost. Eggs with peppers and cheese, sausage, and hashbrowns are on a covered plate in the fridge, and he unwraps it and puts it in the microwave, watching the food rotate as his mind comes to grips with consciousness.

He’s in love with John B. The boy that taught him how to play beer pong and smoke a bowl, the surfer that pushes him while they’re out on the water, daring him to bigger and bigger tricks, making him better. The idiot that chases gold and kook girls without a glance at impossibility, simply because he has no understanding of the idea. The John B that died last night.

The microwave beeps and he takes his food to the counter, hunched over it, twisting a fork between his fingers and feeling like his stomach might feel better on the outside of him. He takes a few bites, to see if maybe just the potatoes might go down easy, but they taste like ash, and he sits back from the plate, sore and exhausted. He wanders through the house and eventually back up to his room, standing in front of his closet, knowing he should get dressed but overwhelmed by even the simplest choice. Finally, he just pulls on a plain t-shirt over his basketball shorts, and, after catching a glimpse of his hair, puts a snapback on backwards. He doesn’t feel like sitting, so he doesn’t, tucking his keys in his pocket and sliding on a pair of flip flops, leaving the house without his phone or any sort of destination, just walking as his thoughts churn and crash over each other without being much of anything at all.

The heat sends sweat rolling down his temples and between his shoulder blades but he barely feels it, keeping his eyes on his feet as he shuffles down the side of the road. Normally, he’d be listening for any sound that might indicate Rafe or Topper coming up behind him, constantly judging the proximity of the cars, quietly bemoaning the blister forming under his left big toe from the strap of his sandal. But the only thing he senses is the slap of his shoes against the asphalt, carrying him aimlessly across the island.

His own denial fights vocally to be heard under the stifling realization, but it’s something he’s been pushing down for years, ignoring even as the obvious signs wiggled their way into his every day life, like the goosebumps at John B’s touch or the expansion of his chest when John B laughed. It was always there, waiting for him to see it, quietly growing and climbing its way like ivy from his heart to his head, finally bursting from underneath his skin at the worst possible moment.

He’s going to have to tell his dad. There won’t be any way to explain the grief crashing over him without the truth. That settles itself on his shoulders right next to the realization itself and everything else he’s been holding up for months. Knowing the name of it, at least, makes it easier to handle. He’s been carrying around his feelings for John B without knowing what they were, mis-assigning them to Kiara and fucking up what’s probably his favorite friendship. He’s gonna have to tell her, too. He’s not looking forward to that.

As he walks, it settles in, making a home along with all the other true things about him. Pope Heyward. Black. Sixteen years of age. Six feet tall. Pogue. And, he guesses, gay. Maybe bi. But probably gay. Looking back, no girl has ever made him feel the way that John B makes -- he swallows. Used to make him feel. With his stupid floppy hair and his kind brown eyes and that absurd jawline. Tears cloud his eyes and the path in front of him blurs. His best friend is dead . And it took that horrible, heart-shattering tragedy for him to figure out how he felt about him.

He keeps walking for a while, choking back tears and half-planning conversations with his parents and Kie, listening to the slap of his sandals on the cracked asphalt littered with long, dry pine needles and cracked seed pods, signalling the nearing end of summer. He feels, gratefully, a little more clear-headed, less freaked out than he thought he would be. He always feels better, having a plan, no matter how vague and ineffectual that plan may turn out to be.

After a while, he looks up, and finds himself in Figure Eight -- a very dangerous place to be, given the current social climate of the island -- not very far from Kie’s house. He heaves a sigh. Better now than later. Pausing before mounting the porch, Pope spares a second of a regret for his appearance. Kiara’s parents have never been keen on him or either of the other boys, and he knows that showing up in tattered shorts and flip flops won’t exactly help his case. Anna opens the door, looking surprised to see him, and Pope is momentarily relieved it isn’t Kie’s father.

“Good morning,” she says, wary.

“Hi,” Pope replies, lacking his usual magical parent-charming abilities, exhaustion and grief sapping the energy from his bones. There’s an awkward pause as Mrs. Carrera awaits the explanation of a rattily dressed pogue boy on her porch and Pope scrambles for one. He settles on the obvious. “Is Kie here?” He doesn’t know where else she’d be, honestly, but it’s the usual go-to for when they’re dragging Kie back to the Cut for nonsense and potential delinquency, and he’s hoping her mom won’t question it.

“She’s not,” Anna says, concern coloring her tone. “She isn’t with you?” Pope feels his eyebrows draw together, a betrayal of his own confusion, an immediate admittance of guilt.

“I, uh --” he says eloquently as panic overtakes Anna’s face. “I mean, she --” He’s saved by the girl herself riding down the sidewalk on a bike that looks like it’s seen better days, rattling loudly as she cruises toward the house. “There she is!” he says, with a disturbing amount of forced enthusiasm that puts the same expression on Kie and Anna’s faces. “So, we’re all good. Thanks, Mrs. C!”

But Anna isn’t gonna let her daughter slide so easily. “Kiara,” she says, “You weren’t in your room this morning.”

“I went for a bike ride,” Kie replies coldly. “I needed to think.”

“For three hours?” Anna asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

Kie shrugs. “I needed to think a lot.” Anna looks like she wants a little more information out of her daughter, but she looks at Pope, clearly reluctant to start a fight with him around. He feels caught, standing on the porch between mother and daughter, like he’s in a room with a half-constructed bomb. Kie’s hands fidget with the handlebars. “C’mon, Pope,” she says.

“No way,” Anna interjects. Kie opens her mouth like she wants to argue, but her mother’s words cut her off. “You two can hang out on the porch for a while, but when you’re done,” and here, she looks at Kiara like she might actually commit murder if her daughter doesn’t listen to her, “Come inside. We have a lot to talk about.”

Kie heaves a heavy breath. “Fine,” she says. Satisfied, Anna turns and goes inside. Pope drops off the porch and walks with Kie as she walks the bike over to the garage.

“Hey,” he says, his heart in his throat. This is a complete turnaround from the emptiness of earlier, every inch of him hyper aware of her body language, the changes in her expression and her attitude towards him. His entire life feels like a shipwreck, dashed against the rocks after careful years of building, after months of planning the perfect voyage. “Bike ride?” he asks, because he always knows when she’s lying.

She props her bike up against the side of the garage. “I was with JJ,” she blows out on a sigh. She doesn’t look at him as they walk around to the back porch. “At the Chateau.” Pulling her hair out of it’s ponytail, she splits it over her shoulders, fidgeting nervously with the ends. “I didn’t want him to be alone.”

He’s about to say that he was alone, that maybe he wanted to have his friends around him, too, but then he remembers his father catching him in the bathroom, waking up in his own bed, water and a note on the bedside table. JJ wouldn’t have gotten any of that. He can’t even go home, not after Luke Maybank finds out what happened to his precious Phantom . With John B -- gone -- JJ doesn’t have anyone left. Except for them. And Pope was too wrapped up in his own grief and bullshit to think about something like that. He takes a second to be grateful for Kiara.

They reach the steps to the Carrera’s back porch, and she sits down on the second-to-last one. “I have something to tell you,” she says, and she still won’t look at him. Half of him wonders what she’s upset about while the other hopes she can’t hear his heartbeat, it’s pounding so loud in his own ears.

Slowly, he sinks down next to her, the morning sun radiant across her skin, amplified by the reflection off the channel. He takes a deep breath. “I have something to tell you, too.” Her eyebrows draw together. He licks his lips. She pulls her knees up to her chest. He stares at his feet. They’re afraid of each other, and the awkward tension in the air makes him hate every wrong thing he said, every lie he told her, even though he believed them when he said it. She doesn’t say anything else, and he takes that as his cue to go first. He looks up, before he says anything, taking in her kind brown eyes, the soft lines of her kind, intelligent face. He wants one last picture of her before he changes everything. “I don’t love you,” he says.

Her face contorts in an expression of surprise and offense, and he rapidly backpedals. “I mean, I do.” he says. “Of course I do, but like, like a sister.”

“A sister,” she says incredulously, confusion rising in her eyes.

“Not -- Oh, fuck, that’s not --” He drops his head in his hands, his blood rushing so loudly in his ears he can’t hear himself think. “This is not going well.”

“No shit,” she says, but there’s a little bit of relief in her voice. This bumbling, tripping-over-his-words Pope makes a lot more sense than the one that lost his shit and nearly killed Rafe Cameron the previous day. (And God, was that only yesterday?) He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, and she notices his breath start to quicken. “Pope?” she asks, leaning forward and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Kie, I’m gay.” It falls out of his mouth like a boulder, hitting the ground and shaking the earth with its weight. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it’s terrifying, to have it so concrete in front of him, no longer nebulous and trapped in his head. He can’t take it back, can’t lie about it anymore, to her or himself or anyone else. He has to live with that truth, now, no matter how he feels about it. Part of that, while intimidating, makes him feel just a little bit more free.

“Oh,” she says, and he’s too panicked to discern anything in her tone. “Okay.” He doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to see the horror or anger or whatever else must be settling there.

He rushes to explain himself, like he didn’t hear. “I’m sorry that I thought I was in love with you,” he says, even as she feels a thousand worries slip from her shoulders like coming up from diving under a wave. “I just, I was jealous, and I thought that it was John B I was jealous of, but it wasn’t, it was you, and then he--” Pope blows by his name before he chokes on it, realizing what he’s said aloud, how dangerous and loaded a once-familiar thing has become. “It wasn’t him I was jealous of,” he repeats, lacing his fingers over the back of his head, dropping it to his chest. “It wasn’t him.” He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing down the tears fighting their way up his throat.

Kie hesitates in reaching for him, but the moment her fingertips brush his shoulder, she falls against her best friend, wrapping her arms around him as best she can. “Oh, Pope,” she whispers, as tears well in her own eyes. “Oh Pope, I’m so sorry.” He falls into her embrace, all his anger and uncertainty dissipating like fog at dawn. They both cry for a while, her silently, him shaking. She does her best to comfort him, but his grief has taken on a different tone she can no longer imagine.

When his breath finally slows, he sits up out of her arms, wiping under his eyes. “You aren’t mad?” He asks, in true Pope fashion.

“Why would I be mad?” she asks, disbelief echoing in her words.

“Well, I was…” he sniffs, watching his hands fold over each other. “I was kind of a jerk about it.” He feels bad, about the way everything went down. He was drowning, in disappointment and confusion and a million other things he still doesn’t have words for that he wishes he could explain. He was an asshole to her when he should have listened and  

She knocks their shoulders together with half a sly smile. “Yeah, you kind of were.” It feels good to be joking with him like this again, after the last couple of days of chaos and anger and disappointment after disappointment. They’re best friends for a reason, her boys and her.

“And then --” he swallows, remembering the moments at the Dump after John B disappeared into the marsh, moments he still doesn’t understand. “Y-you kissed me, and --”

The smile falls off her face. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she says. She shifts her weight between her feet, her knees moving back and forth as they sit side by side on the porch steps, picking at her nails. “That wasn’t --” she looks at him, and he looks back. “I shouldn’t have done that.” She stretches her legs out in front of her, knocking her sneakers together, her hands dropping to her lap. “I have my own shit to figure out, Pope,” she says. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

Pope leans over, “You wanna talk about it?” he asks pointedly. He knows she likes to talk things through, make sense of them by pushing everything out into the atmosphere so she can see it all, pick out the pieces that make sense. He also doesn’t want to talk about him, anymore.

“No,” she says abruptly. He leans back into his own space, holding his hands up a little, and she bites her lip, like she does when she’s thinking too hard about what to say next. “I’m sorry,” she admits. “I just --” she knocks her feet together again before pulling them back up to the last step, her chin falling onto her knees. “I gotta think about it some more, I guess.” She looks at him, screwing up her face in that way that makes everyone agree that she’s adorable. “I’ve got some more I’ve gotta work out.”

“You know you can still talk to me, right?” he reassures her. He used to be the best listener, before he went and fucked everything up. Kie would talk to him about things John B and JJ would never understand, usually about parents or family pressure, things she felt guilty discussing with either one of their practically-orphaned friends. Pope understood, and it was easy to let Kie just let everything out, answering her own questions, defining problems and putting together solutions in the same breath. It’s part of the reason he assumed they would end up together, before -- well. Before. She trusted him, and he fucked that up, and now he can only hope that he can earn it back.

“I know,” she says, folding her arms on top of her knees and looking back out across the channel. “It’s not because of --” she stops, unsure of how to define it.

“Yeah,” he answers. He doesn’t want to talk about it either.

“It’s just --” she goes quiet for a second, picking through words like the wrong ones are rotten, and he watches her, the slight breeze off the water picking up strands of her hair. Her shoulder drops as she moves her head, and a few curls shift enough that he can see dark red marks tracking up the side of her neck. Hickies? “I don’t think I have words for it yet,” she says, finishing her sentence. JJ , he thinks, her confession about her absence this morning circling back through his mind. The word is JJ .

Pope isn’t blind. He sees the way JJ looks at her. He always has. It never unsettled him like the shared glances between Kie and John B, and now he knows why. It’s a little relieving, to not have to manufacture false jealousy in the pit of his stomach, to have to lie to himself in order to make his constructed, false worldview make sense. JJ and Kie -- they’re going to be something else to handle, with the inherent chaos of how they both handle their emotions and the forced bravado they both put on, but he supposes they were… inevitable, in a way. Kiara was misinterpreting her own feelings, just like he was, forcing herself to believe she loved someone who made more sense, someone that was easier to accept than confronting the truth. John B was his truth -- JJ is hers. He’s grateful, in a way, that they’ll have each other, through this -- once she gains the same clarity he’s come to.

“It’s okay,” he says, as everything slides into place. He’s not gonna rush this, not gonna make her take steps she’s not ready for. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.” She smiles at him -- a weak thing, but genuine.

“Thanks, Pope,” she says.

He shrugs. “What are best friends for?” She drops her head against his shoulder, and for the first time since Shoupe confirmed their worst fears, he feels like things might, someday, be okay again.

They stay like that for a while, and then she asks him if he wants to talk more about it, and Pope recounts the moment of clarity in the bathroom, his thought process on his walk across the island. Kie listens, because he’s still her best friend, and it’s one of his favorite things about her, the way she makes it so easy to let everything out, the way she makes him feel seen. She doesn’t say much, but she doesn’t have to, because everything is still so fresh and bleeding that he doesn’t know what he wants to hear, yet. She reassures him she still loves him, that she’ll stick with him no matter what, just like she’s always promised to do, and that seems to do the trick.

Eventually, Mrs. Carrera comes out and offers to drive Pope home, a very pointed instruction to the both of them. She goes to get the car, leaving the two of them to say goodbye on the porch. Kie stands with her arms crossed over her stomach, like she’s holding herself together. “My parents are probably gonna have me on lockdown for a while,” she says, biting on the corner of her lip.  

“Mine too,” he answers, with some inkling of what she’s about to ask him.

“Do you think you could --” she starts, and she’s staring somewhere around his collarbones, because JJ means more to her now, and makes this request, somehow, different. “I mean, with service down, it’s gonna be hard to keep in touch and I just --” She sighs, frustrated with herself, that she can’t get the words out. “When his dad figures out what happened --”

Pope interrupts her this time, reaches a gentle hand out for her arm. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he promises. “I’ll talk to my parents…” he says, automatically, his usual main resource for help or assistance, and pauses, remembering the note he left on with his father, how things might go without the overhang of a recent disaster. His parents. They’ll be out all day, at least, won’t know about his sojourn to Figure Eight. But they’ll be back, and he has a lot to face.

“Will you just make sure he’s safe?” she asks, small and scared, and, in true Kiara fashion, ashamed to be asking for help.

“Yeah,” he answers. He wraps her in a tight hug, grateful to have his friend back, to be centering somewhere at least slightly left of normal, to be spiralling down from the insane high of failure and the chaos of being half a fugitive. “Yeah, of course.”

Mrs. Carrera drives him home, and even though she tries to ask him how he’s holding up, he answers monosyllabically, avoiding small talk by staring out the window and doing his best to stave off the encroaching panic as he anticipates the upcoming conversation with his father. Anna watches him carefully, and he can feel her eyes on him. It makes him uneasy.

Watching Figure Eight slowly melt into subdivisions and condominiums and then, as houses get smaller and the weeds get wilder, into the Cut. In a matter of minutes, fantastic wealth descends into abject struggle and poverty, a jarring display of privilege and elitism that Pope and the others are no longer shocked by. They grew up in it, cut down over and over again by a system that simply wasn’t built for them, grew up before their time because the kooks never will, abdicating responsibility and ignoring the fallout. Pope’s thoughts wander to Topper’s wakesetter, bile rising in his throat. His impulsive mistake ruined JJ’s life at sixteen, and the Thorntons, well. They’ll just buy another boat.

When they reach the Heywards’, Anna cuts the engine, and Pope doesn’t move, staring at his family’s little house, shabby but well-kept, his mother’s vegetable garden in full swing, bursting with a physical manifestation of love and care in an explosion of green leaves and colorful fruits and vegetables. He thinks about the Carrera’s neatly kept lawn, the decorative plants placed carefully on their wraparound porch, the contrast between the two images. Chaos and love, wealth and precision.

“I love your mother’s garden,” Anna says, almost like she doesn’t mean to. “I wish she’d tell me her secret.”

You can’t have it , Pope thinks, selfishly. He wants this one thing, for his mother, for his family. Instead, he answers; “I wouldn’t know.” This, he realizes, is unfortunately true. When was the last time he helped his mother with her garden? Asked her what she wanted to do on a Saturday? He helps with the store, of course, but in that, he doesn’t have a choice. He’s spent so much time chasing John B, first his promise of adventure, and then his approval, and then, desperate to help him in his hour of need. When was the last time he helped with the yard work? Helped make dinner? Stayed in on a Friday night?

His parents love him violently, work hard to give him opportunities they never had. His father breaks his back, works the store, the delivery service, any hard labor job he can get, used to being a tool, something to be taken advantage of, a means to an end. He does it so Pope can go to school, have a laptop to do homework and apply for colleges on, have a phone to text his friends and stay in contact with his parents. His throat thickens with the realization that his father was right -- he has been ungrateful. He’s been disrespectful, and rude, and if it was him, he wouldn’t even let himself back into the house, much less comfort him, leave him breakfast and reassuring notes.

Anna takes the emotion in his eyes for something else, and she puts a hand on his shoulder that feels so distinctly different from Kiara’s that it’s fundamentally wrong, and he freezes under her touch. “I know this is hard,” she says, in a tone that tries for concerned mom and lands somewhere closer to patronizing school counselor. “But you’ll get through it. You have each other, and that’s the most important part.”

“Thanks,” he says coldly, reaching for the door handle before climbing quickly out of the car. When his feet hit the packed-dirt drive, he stops, feeling like an asshole. “And thank you. For the ride.” He goes to shut the door, but she interrupts him.

“Pope,” she says, and he looks up at her, making eye contact for the first time since he got in the car. “If you -- or your family -- needs anything…” She bites her lip the same way Kie does. “Just, don’t hesitate to ask.” Pope usually rankles under the suggestion of charity, pride bred into him alongside a stubborn willfulness that rivals even his father’s, but she knows life in the Cut, has faced the same things he and his family deal with every day. It’s an odd juxtaposition, her inherent compassion and her dislike of her daughter’s friends. It’s what, at the end of the day, separates her eternally from Kie.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Of course. Thanks, Ms. Anna.”

When he reaches the door, he hears tires twist in the dirt, and Anna Carrera drives away, back to her house, her daughter, her life on Figure Eight. Pope lets himself in, showers off the sweat from his trek to Kie’s, and sets about cleaning the house, both as a distraction and a desperate appeal for his parents’ forgiveness. The whole afternoon, he rehearses a million different versions of the same speech, apologies and admittances, going back and forth about copping to the sinking of Topper’s boat, afraid of his father’s wrath and the legal consequences, but still guilty and anxious to the point of nausea over it, desperate to do the right thing.

Pope was raised with a strong sense of right and wrong, a deep and little-discussed Catholic faith, and a strong sense of familial pride. What Heywards are and aren’t, what they do and don’t do -- it was all drilled into him from a young age. Heywards pay their debts. Heywards don’t complain, don’t argue, don’t talk back. Heywards work hard. Heywards work honest.

Heywards aren’t gay.

It was never said, but Pope knows his dad. He knows what counts as acceptable behavior, the future his father imagines for him. A college degree, a Good Job, a house, a wife, kids -- he knows what’s expected. He tries to wrestle with the disappointment that he’ll never own up to that image as he scrubs the stove, tears welling up as he works at a particularly stubborn grease stain. He’s already disappointed them so much, just in the past few days. What will they say? What will they think of him?

He knows he’s lucky, as a kid in the Cut with both parents still around, still willing to work, still willing to love him. There are too many kids like John B and JJ, left behind, ignored and neglected, the victims of vicious cycles and cruel tragedies. Pope still has a whole family, as small and broken as it may be. He should start acting like it.

He’s just finished dusting the living room when he hears tires in the driveway, the rattling engine of his father’s old pickup, and he freezes like a prey animal caught in an open plain. They’re home. His mother makes quiet comments on the improved state of the house as they toss keys in bowls and remove shoes, speaking calmly to each other, the soft noises of domesticity and routine. Routine he is about to monumentally disrupt, more than he ever has.

Pope has a speech planned. He has things he wants to say, sentences he needs them to hear in the same way he has them planned. Everything needs to follow the course he’s laid out, or it could be open to misinterpretation. He’s prepared. That’s what he does -- he plans, he structures, he researches and prepares. All of that disintegrates the moment his father walks into the living room.

“Pope,” he says. “You cleaned.”

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Pope says, and the words choke him, tears welling and spilling in the same instant, like a faucet turning on after winter. He tells him everything, about Topper’s wakesetter and the failed treasure hunt and the impossible hope that drew him from his scholarship interview, the desperation and the certainty that he was following, determined to be the final piece of the puzzle, the thing that saved his friends. He begs for forgiveness, crying and broken, looking for himself in his fathers eyes. Heyward doesn’t say anything for a long time, soaking in the information. His wife is struck dumb, at Pope’s heart breaks with the horror in his mother’s eyes, at his admittances of all he’s done.

“Please,” Pope begs. “Say something.”

The silence that hangs in the living room feels like a gun against his temple, his father’s finger on the trigger. “Well son,” Heyward says, “What are you gonna do about it?”

“What --” Pope’s brain stops, too overwhelmed to process this reaction from his father. There is grief and anger, guilt and fear, and a thousand other things he cannot name. He is out of words, out of ideas and out of power. He wants someone to tell him what to do, because cannot possibly summon the energy to determine a path himself.

“You sunk that boy’s boat?” Pope nods, dumbfounded, answering on instinct. Heyward looks tired. “You let your friend take the fall?”

“I --” It’s hard, to hear it in his father’s voice, to hear the disappointment there, to feel it, real, metallic, and cutting in the air. “Yeah.”

Heyward shrugs, like it’s simple. “What are you gonna do about it?” Maybe it is. Pope got himself into this mess, and now he needs to get himself out.

“I don’t --” he starts, with nowhere to go.

“You gonna do the right thing?” His father asks, his tone implying that there is one answer.

Pope straightens up, closes his mouth, swallows down all the tears, all the uncertainty and vulnerability. He has asked for guidance, and his father is providing it. There is no more room for weakness here. “Yes, sir.”

Heyward nods, and turns to Yvonne, who has tears in her eyes. “He’ll be fine, sweetheart,” He says to his wife. “We’ve got a good boy here. He’ll be fine.” He wraps his arms around her, folding her into his chest in a familiar, nostalgic gesture. Pope feels awkward, watching his parents comfort each other, but he knows that his feelings are not the most important in the room. His chest hurts knowing he’s the one who caused their pain.

But this conversation still isn’t over. “Dad, um,” he says, and Heyward looks at him with exhaustion in his wizened eyes. “there’s one more thing.”

Heyward turns toward him again, leaving one arm around his wife. “Well I don’t know if you can shock me anymore today, Pope,” he says, “so go ahead.”

The words dam up behind his lips, and his hands flex at his sides, clenching into fists and spreading out again, and there’s no way out of this, not anymore. It was easier with Kie, for some reason.  “Dad, I’m gay.” It hangs there, bigger and somehow more terrifying than anything he’s said since his parents came home. The air in the living room doesn’t move, stale and muggy in the North Carolina evening, without the hum of the fridge or the air conditioner for reprieve.

Heyward blinks. Once, twice. Yvonne shakes on a silent sob, a noise that cracks Pope’s ribs open. “Okay,” his father replies.

It is somehow relieving and disappointing all at once. Pope doesn’t lie to his parents, at least, as much as he can help it. “Is that all?” he asks, because he expected -- something more? Something beyond indifference. Maybe rage, maybe affirmation. Maybe some indicator that this was just as big of a deal as he made it out to be.

“What else do you want me to say?” Heyward asks, knowing this is the most he and his son have talked about anything in years. The last mention at vulnerability came before the ill-fated scholarship interview, less than a minute of conversation before Heyward left his son to take a job. Sometimes he kicks himself for that, wondering about what might have happened if he’d waited, been there when his son made one of the most impulsive decisions of his young life. Could he have caught him coming out the door? Talked him down? What would today be, if Heyward had been there?

Pope looks at his father through a haze of tears, his breath somewhere other than his chest, uncontrollable and foreign. “You don’t hate me?”

Heyward shrugs. “You’re still my son, ain’t you?” Pope nods, sniffling and backhanding tears off of his face. “Well then, I guess I still love you.” Pope doesn’t remember the last time his father said that to him. “Pope,” Heyward sighs, heaving himself off the couch. “You’ve done a lot these past few weeks I don’t understand. I’m not gonna pretend I’m not upset with you.” Pope looks at his father’s feet, weary and sore on the threadbare carpet. “But you bein gay? That ain’t why.”

And that, that breaks the tenuous control he has over his emotions, and he sobs, loud and hard and echoing in the small living room. “I thought maybe -- maybe you might --” Pope tries, his arms at his sides, fists clenched, chest shaking. Heyward steps forward, wrapping his arms around his son, because he may not know what Pope is going to do, what he’s going to do as a father, as a man. Even though neither of them know how they’re going to get through this, how they’re going to deal with the police department, the Thorntons, John B’s death, and the rest -- they  know this, they know the faith they have in each other, the love and respect that lives there, even after everything.

Pope’s father pulls back from the embrace, places his hands on his son’s shoulders and levels him with the same stare that Pope has known his whole life. “What are you?” he asks, the same way he’s asked a million times before. This is a routine, between father and son, in moments of desperation, a way of taking a step back up from the most crushing of lows, of taking back control, setting their shoulders and facing into the wind.

Pope knows the answer. “I’m a Heyward.”

[maikatc]

Black Sun Tale | The Pocketwatch

remember that this is a first draft with only minor edits, but enjoy! comments and reception is always appreciated. 

-

“How does it work?” Ayu’s legs almost jumped in curiosity. Such magic was exactly like what he had seen from a comic, only, without a simple trinket. 

“You open and close it– but that’s not what’s important at the moment!” Eilwen swatted her free hand around Ayu’s face. Ayu complied as she said, “What would you like to know first?”

“Oh,” he reminded himself, “yeah… I really need this one, so can you tell me about the monsters?”

“What monsters?”

“You gotta know them.” Ayu’s arms fumbled to recreate their image. “They’re big, scary, kinda ghost looking but like to stab?”

“The Iblis monsters?” An eye twitched from Eilwen’s confused look.

“That’s what they’re called?”

“Oh, my Lord-.” Eilwen placed a hand on her forehead. “You actually don’t know anything.”

“Can’t you tell me already?” Ayu’s expression lowered from her tired attitude. 

Eilwen’s brows furrowed. “I’m afraid not. Alice told me not to give information on them but I didn’t actually think you needed it!”

“I get it. I’m dumb, but damn…” Ayu picked on some dry skin; no solution to the question making him itch. “Then, why is this all happening anyways? For everybody and me, I mean.”

“Oh well that’s simple enough.” For the first time, she opened her pocket watch. And with the snap of it closing shut yet again, the flame in the middle of the room began to fade. The room melted along with the light as new ones grew into new scenery. In front of them was a boy, brightness all around him in his short stature. His light figure glowed from his white hair and skin, while his tunics and layers of silk matted him to a royal status with his circlet made of gold and shiny coal. “You already know Akeldama.”

The rare sight stunted Ayu, and in a baffled surprise, he asked, “Am I able to… touch him?”

“Why so?”

“I’ve never been able to, and its making me wonder,” he answered truthfully. 

A click of the tongue was heard. “For him, no.” Eilwen walked towards the image smiling in pride. “They’re similar to an illusion; something clear to our minds but not our bodies.” She waved over the boy. Her hand passed through his body with ease. 

Ayu processed her words. “… So, if I put my mind to it, can I punch him or something?”

“No.” The boy mumbled a swear. “But let’s move on with your question: Akeldama is some sort of being with immense amount of power and dark magic. Presumably, a devil of sorts, which would explain his terrible mannerisms in ruling.”

The scene cleared from blurry vision Ayu had not realized before. Flames formed behind Akeldama in vigorous fashion. Small houses built under the burning light and drifted away in ashes. 

“He’s killed thousands, as legends say.” Her voice was void of pity. She stared at the view with Ayu, her face dull without a sign from tragedy. “But, he also saved dozens. Horribly, if I may add.” 

Eilwen clicked her watch yet again. The scene formed into the forest Ayu stood only minutes ago. As the land filled in focus, the woman walked on. Ayu followed. 

Stepping upon soundless grass, a blur of color came from the distance. Viewing closer, the blur changed to people in all shapes and sizes. Their clothes shined in all sorts of colors as they all gathered in a circle. Eilwen entered into the clump, Ayu followed. His body shifted between people as he bumped into many. 

“Didn’t you say these were like illusions?”

“Depends on the event,” she answered. “They still can’t feel us, but one thing I know from all of time is that Akeldama is untouchable.”

Ayu’s small brows furrowed as he shuffled against the crowd of strangers. 

“He created our society from, what we could tell as, boredom. But his way in recruitment for many didn’t consist of greed or malice, but instead desperation and escape.” The chatter charged in anxiety and silence. Whispers reached out beyond all and overlapped between others’ words. “He came along offering immortality, power, and above all else, a way out of our lives. However, the offering and contracts quickly became a threat.”

“Fuck…” Ayu stopped pushing himself away from others. He paused his movement in reminiscence of Akeldama’s offerings. 

“From what Alice believes,” Eilwen added. “Akeldama does have intentions for his actions.” She made a look at Ayu. 

Ayu began tugging his hair again. 

“Only we may never find out. Even with my magic, I can only go so far as to the 1600s, and at that, some parts are blocked.”

Once they exited the circle, Ayu asked, “Hasn’t anybody tried to take over? Or kill him?”

Eilwen scoffed, “As if that would occur.” She pointed at the crowd. “All of our abilities come from Akeldama’s own magic, and he always isolates himself in his throne room in which only Alice is able to enter. And if anyone were to attempt, they’d be aware he can kill in a millisecond. A suicide attempt, if you will.” 

“So, pretty much a no.”

“Anyone would kill him if they had the chance,” she stated.

“Or put him in a choke-hole…”

She scoffed, “We wish.”

A second of thought necessitated him. “I’m gonna have to wait more for most of these, aren’t I,” asked Ayu. 

“Practically so, yes.”

His face flattened. “I’m going nowhere with this, then?”

“Regardless of knowledge,” she faced him directly in the eyes, “you’re not going to be able to stop him with your nature.”

Ayu groaned, pulling his bangs harder. “Why the fuck do I even try?”

“I’d mind you about the language but there’s no point with what we do,” she commented.

Ayu hummed with an agitated pitch. Though he realized other options are always possible. “… Then, what about Oliver? Can’t I get background on him?”

Eilwen stared into space for quite some time. Her thoughts seemed to be fixated from all Ayu could ponder. “You can gain some. But only some.” She set her watch again. “Though his family line is crucial in the development of this society.”

The forest melted in color. The circle of civilians devolving into lifeless blobs of nothing. The grey skies turned to the dark bricks of a ceiling. And walls closed in behind them. Dirt and musk engraved itself on the floors along with small blood splatters and spilled water. The only light to appear in the desolate waste of a room was a small window unreachable by height, and the small hole that poked out of the wooden door. 

In the corner was a girl, a few years senior of Ayu. Her body contorted to a ball shaking in every limb. Her light hair was ragged and greasy, dangling across her head and legs in clumps. The hair covered up the view of searing scars, as well as the chains stuck upon her wrists.

“1610: … Cecily Rixon, or as you likely know her as, Alice. She was accused of witchcraft after remedying her mother through illness, and taken to the chambers to be punished until she admitted her crimes, guaranteeing her execution.”

Ayu stared at the chilling image in front of him, though, his own chills never stopped him from moving at that moment. “So, she was hurt to death?” His feet led him on towards the girl. He stood above her and watched her cower from nothing but her own pain. 

“I-indeed.” 

He lowered his knees, then adjusted himself to where he sat across from her. He pondered as she cried up dry tears. “This was… normal, right?” 

“I wish to say it wasn’t,” Eilwen answered. “… She was about to admit to her ‘crimes’ back then, however, -”

The door opened slowly, but not to the attention of Ayu. The girl whisked her head up at the small creak of sound. Her covered up face now revealed itself to the scene. Dry skin filled up her cheeks with a cut on the side. A swell from another cheek punctured and bruised her lip. All and even a burning brand mark seeped by the end of her neck. Ayu studied it all before turning back to see who was at the door. Though, it was easily recognizable by that point. 

“He’d arrived at her darkest day.”

Her throat trembled at her own words as she spat, “I work with the devil, sir… You may take me by the grave but that won’t- that won’t stop him.” The words jumbled in its own confusion.

“You may lie as you like,” Akeldama said calmly, “but, that may never work for someone like me, as disappointing as that is.” He entered the cell. His bored expression looked down upon her as her face twisted to confusion. 

“You’re not the guard.”

“I know I’m not,” he replied. “I arrived for something else.” 

“What’s your reasoning?”

“To give you a-” He rolled his eyes. “Bargain.”

The girl never replied to him. 

He sighed, “You don’t believe this sort of life is worthwhile? Don’t you?”

No answer. 

“Your family pushed you to labor then to this state only because of some men in armor scaring them. They formed you into this state without hearing any of your pleas or thinking anything of a truth from you. You’re in this state because you could never fight back, not even speak back to them. They’re all of unfair power against you.” 

She turned away from him.

“You can do something about that; you’re able to stand for yourself and prosper.” He told her. “You can get out of this life where you’re controlled by their lies… and I’ll help.”

“What a lie,” Eilwen twitched. 

Ayu’s focus completely shifted to Akeldama. His mind numbed from his contradiction. Though, most of all, he thought, why haven’t you told that to me…?

The girl turned back around, shaky and slow. “H-how?”

He offered his hand. “Come with me and you can live a new life. I’ll give you power; I’ll give you freedom. You’ll live however you’d like, as long as you follow what I say.”

Her eyes shimmered in a flash. “What is it you’ll say?”

He looked away. “Small things. Nothing major in the grand scheme of the world. I need time to have everything set, to be frank, so you’ll need patience.” A small smile creeped from his lips with the sense of genuineness. “But take my hand, and one day you’ll live whatever you imagine.”

“I always hated seeing this,” Eilwen sighed. “Yet, nonetheless she accepted his deal, and left her life of before.”

The girl reached out, her hand almost as bony as Ayu’s. She grasped Akeldama’s, and they both disappeared. 

“She was the first to be a part of Akeldama’s reign, and the first to discover the true cost of joining him before the rest of us.” She reset the watch. “Akeldama began recruiting multiple others after her.”

Trees grew around the two and surrounded them by their branches and roots. The sky was blocked by fresh green leaves though way up above creeped a sip of grey. Ayu would have kept his face up, viewing the height of the trees, but a man passed by in a rush.

Ayu stumbled over in surprise, and once he gained balance again, he found the man at his sight. The tall man paced all over the trees, humming a tune off-pitch and off-beat. He adjusted his poignant ginger hair back over and over without an avail to fix his loose hairs. His other hand carried a bouquet of pond flowers and four-leaf clovers drenched all around, including his own suit from fallen down petals. 

After groaning, the man took off with dangling hair on his side. Eilwen walked with him. “Thirty years later in the 1640s, when we were depressingly thriving, a man named Christopher Broichet had joined, originally known as Felicette.” 

Ayu tiptoed around fake branches and rocks. “Are we gonna follow him for all this time?”

“Yes? Is it challenging?” 

“No,” he gave her. “Catching up isn’t gonna be hard at all-” He tripped as soon as he swore. 

Eilwen shook her head and proceeded. It forced Ayu to bring his weight back together and rush back. “It isn’t that long of a walk.”

“It’s not the walk,” Ayu huffed, “It’s the forest! Everything’s small and it’s kinda dark.” 

Eilwen told him, “You’ll get used to it in time.”

He ignored the comment. Grumbling while stepping over a log.

“He had caught the attention of Alice, surprisingly considering her stoic-ness at the time, but they’d quickly become the society’s lovers.”

The bark walls opened to another open field, though with a cottage by the side and a leafless tree far in the midst. Alice had sat there waiting, dressed in a fine gown and her hair tied within a bun. 

Felicette dashed towards her, clamping his heels on the ground to make a full stop once he met her. 

“I have a good reason for being late!” He handed her the bouquet. 

Alice picked up a clover from the pile almost falling over. “You must like these, don’t you?”

Sitting down with her, he smiled. “I think they heavily compliment you.”

“They do, especially with the five others you’ve gotten me.” 

Felicette eyed her. “Shouldn’t those have died already?”

“Of course not,” she exclaimed. “This is Fowls, everything lasts forever here. ‘less you’re human.”

He chuckled at her. “I’d say that’s very unlikely.” His innocent composure gently kissed Alice by the cheek.

Ayu squinted at the two, specifically Felicette. “… He’s Oliver’s dad?”

“Yes, from what she tells us.”

He tilted and shook his head, right as Felicette lifted Alice up into the tree and making her giggle in delight. No, I don’t see it. 

“They brought a nice light to the people.” Soft laughter evoked as the two sat together on the tree. “Christopher had lots of charisma to inspire the land.”

With doubt, Ayu nodded. “Do you see that with Oliver,” he asked.

A thump was heard from the distance. The two turned to see Felicette fallen from the tree. “… That’s difficult to say, especially with the intelligence difference.” Nothing necessarily interesting occurred then, so Eilwen continued her lesson. “Throughout the years, it came to notice that he, along with many others in his movement, stopped following Akeldama’s order of murder.”

“Years?”

“Akeldama was lenient on it for a few decades.” A click from her pocket was heard. “However, eventually…”

Flames appeared again. Rising smoke brought Ayu to a cough as he stumbled in the old environment. “Why does this one feel more real? -”

Eilwen swatted ashes away. “I remember it more,” she answered, “That’s all.” 

Ayu’s eyes squinted from the burning sensation only to meet a body in front of him: stabbed in multiple parts of their limbs and torso, dripping of blood and a black substance. He choked at the sight and blinked nonstop in surprise. In wide eyes, he shook up to view the dead face of Oliver’s father. 

“1701, November 1st, Christopher was executed in the eyes of all of us. Akeldama said to have done it as a warning for those who rebelled, and have people working properly again. Though, the opposite happened.” 

Ayu stared at the body which soon corroded into nothingness. … Oliver wasn’t born in the 1700s. 

“The society began to die out afterwards in lost hope. Assisted suicides began occurring and succeeding to the point that only few of us were left.”

The scene fast forwarded in front of them. The flames and houses faded into grey ashes. A sense of the world went numb again for Ayu. “Akeldama seemed prepared for this event however, because hours later, he brought something new.” 

Two figures walked in the distance. Ruins crowded over them, courting to their soft, patted steps. One of the figures revealed themselves more clearly than the other. His small stature shadowed the other with only the tiniest difference of height. Long black hair dusted around his face as he seemed to be shaking in ashes. Yet, the taller guided him with a held hand; no clear reaction in sight. 

“He saved a single child from that village he burned.” The child stumbled upon his feet next to Akeldama. “He’s never revealed his true name to us, but he’s referred to as Vittorino.”

The name rung in Ayu’s mind, though the vague memory of ‘Vittorino’ being said was something he could not find. However, at a halt of the scene, Akeldama bent down ever so slightly to Vittorino’s height, facing him eye to eye. Words were spoken to the young one, but unheard in the midst of Ayu. 

“There’s been rumors for ages,” Eilwen said, “that Akeldama picked him up because he was to be a religious sacrifice to the village. But, Vittorino never answered anything we asked.” 

The boy nodded to Akeldama before he was blurred away. Ayu blinked as he had not noticed Eilwen’s click. 

Alice appeared again, along with the young boy, in the darkest depths of the words. Laying against the tree, Vittorino hid from her. While she, peering up above him, attempted conversation. 

“To cope with her loss, Alice tried to get along with Vittorino and help him as the youngest in our society. Though, he never cooperated with her in the end, and grew more akin to Akeldama as years went by.” 

In distraction, Ayu peered his eyes to the setting around them. The abyss and blind color of the forest guided him nowhere, but the faint sense of the nightly color comforted him. A sense of ease cradled him in the unknown dark, while he wondered if that is why Vittorino hid in the land. 

“After the arrival of Vittorino, Akeldama seemed to have found another practical way of gaining followers.” Another child appeared from the dark in wandering, catching the attention of Alice. She eyed in shock with the blood found in vague sight on the kid. “Then started the second era, where he began handpicking and ‘rescuing’ children. Raising them to be sick and sinister.”

And just like that, the world disintegrated into the nothingness of the original room. “For the most part, Alice was left alone.” Ayu noticed Eilwen’s direction at him. “Then all of a sudden, she claimed she was going to have a child of hers and Christopher.”

“But-” 

“We imagined she’s gone mad, but once she explained herself, it seemed that the wish child was a blessing and a curse.”

Ayu gnawed his cheek in confusion. “But… how was he made then?”

“That is another thing I’m unable to say, sadly.” Sighing crept over her breath as she wrestled in her pockets. “And I believe that’s all you needed to know, correct?”

Ayu copied her pocketing movements. “Can’t tell if this was even useful or not. All I really know now is that Akeldama still sucks and Oliver seriously has a weird family.” 

“Well, that’s an excellent summary.” Eilwen walked across from him and onto the door, placing her hand on the handle. “Now then, Cecily should have had plenty of time to talk with Oliver. We should get going.” 

Before she could open the door, Ayu stopped her. “W-wait.”

“What is it?”

“How did you get here then? ‘Cause you told me about Alice and all her stuff.”

Eyes widened, she shuffled. “That’s rather unnecessary information.”

“But you were a part of this too.”

“I got here by the dumbest of means,” she spat. 

A light clicked in Ayu’s mind. “You were dumb too?”

“In all fairness, yes.” She squeezed onto the handle. “I was… in love with my dearest friend, and we were both poor peasants. Yet I was put in an arranged marriage for my family to have some riches, and I had to leave her behind.”

“But why did you come here?”

“Simple. I thought it was unfair for her to stay poor and Akeldama noticed. My contract was by the terms that she would take my place in life and have all the fortunes of food and luxuries.”

Ayu blinked. “That’s… really nice.”

She scowled. “It was my luck in living. If it weren’t for my contract, people would’ve claimed me as a witch for charming the noble and executed me.” Hustling against her jacket, her weak voice stated, “She took my place in the end.”

The implications in irony was far too much for Ayu to form words. 

A pause latched between the two of them, but before one could say a word, Eilwen opened the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

***

“Oh, Eilwen! You came at perfect timing!” Alice beamed with a worried smile. “I think just about wrapped up everything with Oliver.” They both were sitting down next to the cottage Ayu viewed in the past. Though before he could mention it, Eilwen walked by him and gave a few words to the other. 

“Please tell me everything went sufficiently.”

“I did all that you advised but you know I can’t speak like that!” Alice hissed in a pout.

A shake of the head and a groan later, “Everything I told you was simple and for you not to go too far.”

The women babbled to each other onwards of their time, to Ayu’s attentional dismay. In disinterest, he sat by Oliver, comfortable against the plain grass, and spoke to him. “I think I just had one of the weirdest history classes.”

With a hand on top of his mouth, Oliver replied, “Better than awkward talking and anxiety from an adult.”

“About what?”

“About me, but she was too nervous about saying anything.”

Glimpsing over to Alice excusing herself to Eilwen, and alongside memory of her past, he said, “Makes sense…” 

However, Oliver’s ears seemed to attend back to Alice and Eilwen in keen study. Ayu imitated. 

“What? You know he doesn’t like people knowing about him!” Alice exclaimed. 

But then came a sigh from Oliver. 

“What,” Ayu asked.

“Alice told me I had to ‘grow accustom’ to eating first before anything else.” 

Cringing shivered in Ayu’s reminder. And yet, the circumstances were dire regardless. “You’d have to at some point.”

“I know but,” he played with the end of his cardigan, “out of anyone here, you’d understand how tough it is.” 

Ayu shifted his gaze away. “I don’t think so.” He nodded at the women. “They seem pretty normal in thinking to me.” 

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but they could be tricking us, Ayu. They- they kill, so they can probably lie too.” 

Eilwen’s lesson flashed through his mind. I doubt it but… “I guess that’s true.” 

Silence evoked them again until Oliver asked suddenly, “What do you think I am, Ayu?” 

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” he shuffled in his seat, “I guess I’ve just been seen as a lot of things recently. Like a random kid; a monster; the son of immortal assassin parents, one being dead; a kind of intentional mistake; and a canine… it’s all messy. But what do you think?”

Ayu tapped on his feet in thought. Though the answer was quite simple. “I don’t know, Ollie. You’re just another person with a fucked-up life like me, maybe worse, right?”

Oliver shrugged and nodded.

“But I do wanna try and help a little. It’s the least I can do for anything right now.”

The boy, with his pale green eyes, stared at him for that bit of time, wide and light against the dimly grey background. And with his kindly eyes, he smiled and nodded. “Thanks.”

-

Ten Dollars | Bread and Water | Red Eye | Crimson Capture | November 1st | A Mother | A Demon | A Child | The Wolf | Bloody Fingers | A Monochrome World | Next >>>

[viralgossip]

VIRAL GOSSIP’S TRENDING ARTISTS !!

JUNE 7TH, 2018

wayfinder changed my life 🌠 @lilkayns · 6m with a name like [ REDACTED ] i really have to wonder why people ship them.

follow me ezra!! @ajpeg · 12m the claws are coming out! #TEAM[ REDACTED ]

AH! @pinkangel · 6m who fell harder, [ REDACTED ] from that stage or me when i saw her for the first time?  #toosoon?

NO BETTER WAY TO KICK OFF A NEW EVENT THAN A LITTLE REMINDER AS TO WHO’S ON TOP ↴

#10 IVY SERRANO ( @ivcsisms​ )

proud mom @ivydovey · 16m

#20GAYTEEN is the best thing that’s ever happened to me

Honestly, Ivy is just out here living her best life. In honor of it being Pride month, Serrano took to instagram to reveal that she’s bisexual! Everyone here at Viral Gossip is beyond happy and proud of our #bicon, and we can’t wait to see how many more hearts she breaks since literally anyone is up for grabs right now. Parents, lock up your adult children, no one is safe anymore!  Or maybe everyone is currently safe? After all, Arie Castillo also posted on instagram, although his post announced something different. Castillo posted a picture of our lovely queen, Ivy, as the two decided to take an impromptu trip to Hawaii in honor of Castillo’s birthday. Are the two dating? Will Castillo stop getting passed around from woman to woman? Will Ivy Serrano date me? Let’s hope for the best.

#9 KAILANI ( @kaiilanis​ )

follow me ezra!! @ajpeg · 12m

the claws are coming out! #TEAMKAILANI

Kailani was giving her followers a lot of mixed signals these past few weeks---and we really don’t know what to make of it. It was Kailani, and not ₩ON, who threw shade at Mimi Vang of Afterparty after the Wayfinder Music Festival spectacle, which fueled #KAIWON shippers into a frenzy. Yet, that took place only a few days after Kailani was spotted having a dare-we-say romantic dinner with ₩ON‘s ex, Ruby Rixon. And Afterparty isn’t the only band that the soloist is feuding with---apparently she has beef with Renegade and its lead singer Axel Leitch as well.

#8 ROSE QUARTZ ( @jettblvck​, @corinnasrose​, @jcdehq​, @kitwildc​ )

148 days!  @jetts_wife · 6m

#bett is old news and anyone who thinks #georgett is real is delusional.

If all rumored relationships were true, then Rose Quartz’s frontman Jett Blackwell would be a polygamist. Within only the past two weeks, he’s apparently been in a relationship with Georgia Lane, Beckley Byers, and a ‘mysterious hand’ (no, not his own). Those rumors enough are carrying his entire band. To elaborate, some have been speculating that Jett and Georgia are getting back together after Wayfinder (last week’s news!), even going as far as to say that the mysterious hand is Georgia’s. They all want to know if there’ll be any confirmation on Georgia’s upcoming album… but this isn’t promotion for her. On the other side of the spectrum, people are churning rumors that perhaps Jett and Beckley are getting back together. The two have exchanged flirty tweets and have sent each other pictures no one else has seen (again, no, not that kind, although it would make this a lot more entertaining). Others think that hand belongs to a mystery woman. We personally think that’s just for aesthetic.

#7 ETHEREAL ( @chloehq​, @winnisms​ )

wayfinder changed my life 🌠@lilkayns · 6m

with a name like #CHLACK i really have to wonder why people ship them.

It’s a rough time for fans of America’s favorite girl group. Fans were left reeling when two of the group’s members, Chloe Evans and Winnie Whitmore posted photos to their social media accounts that fueled rumors that both girls were leaving the group. Seeing how Ethereal’s only been around for a little over a year, they might want to change their name to Ephemeral if they’re already having breakup rumors. In other news, it looks like Chloe Evans and Jack Jericho might be a new thing---that will maybe fill our favorite white couple void that we have been feeling since #BELLIAN broke up? 

#6 BETTER NOW ( @greyhtml, @sweetshqs )

#bn2 is coming @ezrasweets · 16m

#gezra runs deep in my veins, this is the cutest shit i’ve ever seen.

It seems that Better Now is trending for every reason except their music. Where is Better Now 2? We see you two in the studio a lot but we don’t see any singles being released. Maybe the two are too preoccupied now in their new relationships, #gezra and #kori, to continue with their careers? After all, Ezra has been spotted all over town with his new girl, Gemma Clarke, that there is no time for him to be writing music. I’d say at least we have frontwoman, Sweets Mori, but she’s busy off “not dating” Afterparty’s own, Christian Kelley, that we’ve hardly ever seen the two bandmates together anymore. Was the band just a ploy to find dates? Is eHarmony.com out and creating a mildly successful alternative band to find your significant other IN? Who knows! We just hope this doesn’t lead to a lot of Misery Business.... see what I did there?

#5 GEMMA ( @gemclvrke )

notice me gemma @gemmastone1 · 12m

ugh can we please stop talking about #gezra and focus on gemstones instead???

You’d think we’d be focusing on Gemma Clarke’s upcoming album, right? Wrong. The focus of the week, or weeks, has been Gemma Clarke’s relationship status. (Where’s Alison Bechdel when you need her?) It seems she and Better Now drummer Ezra Grey have been getting to know each other pretty well, and by pretty well, we mean not even subtly hinting that they’re a couple in public. Anyone who thinks speculation is worth it is sorely mistaken. Anyone who thinks ‘confirmation’ is needed is very similar to Jared (can’t read, possibly 19). Sure, the Snapchat story wasn’t even close to a giveaway, just Gemma banging it out to BN. However, when you’re practically practicing PDA in front of a bunch of photographers and posting photos of yourself with that same person everywhere, if you’re not a couple, things just get weird. Anyway, she has an album coming out.

#4 BELLA CARISI ( @bcllahqs )

LEAVE BELLA ALONE @pinkangel · 6m

who fell harder, bella from that stage or me when i saw her for the first time? #TeamBella #toosoon?

It seems as if Bella has had a lot of ups, and one particular down, since coming off from Wayfinder. As if having to deal with speculation over her relationship from us (we can be pretty brutal) isn’t enough, now other artists are joining in (we’re looking at you Georgia “Doesn’t Stay In Her Own” Lane). But even as she deals with petty drama Bella is still out here giving her fans what they want by dropping a music video for her song ‘Jump’ (available on itunes)! Although, do her fans deserve the treat considering they don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves? Yes, we’re talking about when a drunk fan took it upon themselves to do a meet and greet of their own in the form of pulling our pop princess off the stage and into the crowd, resulting in Carisi having to go to the emergency room for checkups. Guys, we know some times people do things they regret when they’re drunk, but don’t pull people off stage! Especially if you’re not even cute, do you see the type of guys Bella gets? She doesn’t want your Coors beer drinking ass. Okay, that’s enough from us about the situation, but just know that we’re #TeamJacob all the way and we hope that Carisi regains her crown as #1 soon.

#3 ARIE CASTILLO ( @arieisms )

how can i breathe with no arie @punkinking · 6m

imagine fucking your best friends girl and STILL maintaining your friendship #iconic #westanalegend

Arie Castillo... what can we say about Arie Castillo? Or more, what can’t we say about him? There are plenty of things that I can’t say about Arie, even if they are true they’re not meant for a blog like this. So, what has our favorite daddie been up to? Nothing! If you guys want to talk about someone who uses their relationships and connections to get to the top look no further than Arie Castillo! Why is it that Georgia and Bella get their name dragged through the mud when Arie is essentially doing the same thing? It’s 2018, folks! Guys can be fame leeches too! Just look at his twitter, liking tweets mentioning Georgia, and his instagram, where he took a picture with best friend, Killian Law, right after rumors fly that Arie and Killian’s ex, Bella, did the nasty behind his friend’s back??  Yikes! Maybe if Castillo focused solely on his music this man would be #1 some day... nah, that’s not how things work around here. Keep stirring up trouble, Daddy Arie, we like you better when there’s nothing but drama attached to your name! Oh, you’re going to release an album? That’s nice...

#2 GEORGIA LANE ( @georgialanes  )

🍑 @laneegirl · 2m

find yourself a girl who’ll drag you with one hand and promo her album with the next. oh, i did, her name is georgia lane. 

It seems Georgia Lane has been one busy girl (talk about twitter fingers). With her upcoming album releasing soon (pre-order Melodrama now), her shady tweets, and just generally out here living her best life, she’s become someone we’ve slowly began to admire. We love a messy queen. Georgia has been enjoying her time in the spotlight, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. While everyone is quick to jump down her throat for her coming for Arie and Bella, are we really going to pretend that the possibility of Arie hurting Georgia isn’t a thing? Your favorite golden boy might not be so golden after all. We’re all good though, because it seems as if our favorite trouble maker might be making other artists swoon. Yes, we’re obviously talking about the notorious “hands” photos that Rose Quartz aritists Jett Blackwell keeps posting. We just have one question: dude, what’s with the hands? And obviously, is the hand Georgia? Hopefully Blackwell will have a face fetish next and finally post a picture of the mystery girl he keeps hinting at. Our money is on our messy queen, Georgia, because if we’re in love with her than it wouldn’t come as a shock if Blackwell was too. But boys and tweets aren’t the only thing she’s good at, Georgia Lane also released a music video to our new favorite track, Perfect Places! If the rest of Melodrama delivers songs as great as that one then there is no doubt that Georgia holds the new #1 album in her hands. Best Album, anyone?

AND YOUR #1 TRENDING ARTIST IS…

[myinfiniteworldofwords]

Conociendo a: Rixon

A D V E R T E N C I A   D E   S P O I L E R

Nombre: Rixon.

Libro: Saga Hush Hush

Localidad: Coldwater, Maine, USA.

Edad: indefinida (aunque representa 20 aprox)

Especie: ángel caído

Historia:

Rixon es un ángel caído al igual que su mejor amigo, Patch Cipriano. Rixon sabe todos los secretos de Patch y ha estado a su lado durante siglos

La primera aparición de Rixon fue en el primer libro de la saga, pero adquiere mucha más relevancia en el segundo libro Crescendo. Su vasallo era “La mano negra”, el padre biológico de Nora. También asesinó a Harrison Grey. 

En Crescendo, Rixon comienza a salir con la mejor amiga de Nora, Vee. 

En Crescendo, Rixon trata de matar a Nora, ya que ella es la hija de su vasallo nefilim, esta sería la única manera de convertirse en humano. Cuando Patch lo descubre, encadena a Rixon en el infierno.

En Finale, Rixon escapa del infierno y trata de atacar a Nora. Por supuesto, no tiene éxito y es mandado de vuelta al infierno. 

Fisicamente:

Nora describe a Rixon como alto y larguirucho, con el cabello negro azulado y nariz aguileña.

Psicológicamente: 

Rixon es presentado como un personaje bastante simpático, con carácter de chico malo, nunca es realmene serio, se le ve que es bastante leal a su mejor amigo, Patch. Tristemente se ciega para conseguir su objetivo (convertirse en humano) y nos deja ver como es realmente Rixon. 

Mi opini��n:

Personalmente, me encantaba Rixon, amaba su amistad con Patch, siempre juntos, siempre apoyandose. Me sorprendió bastante descubrir todas esas cosas sobre él. Rixon era esa clase de personaje que uno llega a tomarles mucho cariño. 

Sin embargo, debo decir que “lo entiendo” (entre comillas) a veces queremos tanto algo, que somos capaces de cualquier cosa con tal de conseguirlo, aunque no sea la mejor manera de hacerlo. 

En fin, me encantaba Rixon, y siempre que releo Hush Hush me encanta, aunque después lo odie profundamente jajajaja. Como todos, es un personaje con defectos y que tristemente paso de ser un personaje simpático secundario a uno de los antagonistas de la historia. 

[brandy-mckillop]

Getting Personal ;)

I was tagged by @pearlbody 

Nickname:brandy, Zodiac sign: Aquarius Height: i think im like 177cm i dont know how to convert it to feet, Last thing you googled: “walkthrough guide for digimon world DS”, Favourite music artist: hailee stienfeld and a lot of musical theatre stuff adore delano 🏧
Song stuck in my head: i have one like of alaskas the T stuck in my head “i like black tea i like black D” idk why  🤖
Last movie you watched: i dont remeber the last time i watched a movie but im going to see beauty and the beast tonight 
What are you wearing right now: a grey hoodie and a blanket 👙
What do you post: i post anything and everything excepet a lot of political stuff because ignorance is bliss fam and i have enough to deal with irl lmao  
Why did you choose your URL its my name lol:.
Do you have other blogs: Porn blog What did your last relationship teach you: here is some tea I’ve never been in a relationship.
Religious or spiritual: neither really. ✝️🤧🤕
Favourite colour: i know its a pettern and not a coulor but im really into that marble look atml
Average hours of sleep: i dont have an average lol 
Lucky number: 18, 
Favourite characters:Regina George  
How many blankets do you sleep with: 1. 
Dream job: TBD im back on the path of figuring what i want to do woth my life

I tag @the-original-sass-master @aimee-is-rixon

[my-memories-orions-blog]

Mês: Março (2ª semana)

Livro: Crescendo (Volume 2)

Autora: Becca Fitzpatrick

Ano: 2011

Editora: Intrínseca

Páginas: 288

Nota:  ✩ ✩ ✩

Opinião: (Pode conter SPOILER) 

Eu sei que ela gosta muito do Patch, mas em alguns momentos ela age de forma irritante, dizendo que não o quer mais, mas no fundo não resiste a um beijo. Quando ela dá o soco na Marcie (depois de apanhar) foi o momento mais emocionante pra mim, sério ela devia ter feito isso antes.

Obs: Vou continuar lendo esta série, por mas que o segundo livro tenha me decepcionado um pouco.

[ncragrey]

Was that [ ANA DE ARMAS ]? Oh no no, that was just [ NORA GREY ], a [ CANON CHARACTER ] from [ HUSH, HUSH ]. They are [ 21 ] years old and [ ARE NOT ] aware that they are not actually from Washington DC. Too bad they can’t stray from this city for long.

DEATH & ILLNESS TRIGGER WARNINGS

THE STORY ––- BEFORE BEING BRAINWASHED

Nora was the only child of Hank Millar and Blythe Grey.  

She’s from Coldwater, Maine, lived at at a farmhouse. 

Hank Millar was a descendant of a Nephilim ––- and in order to protect her daughter, Hank gave her to Harrison Grey, a regular human who raised her as his own child. He was murdered by Rixon, a fallen angel, but to the outside world ––- it was a robbery gone wrong. (you can’t go around saying he was murdered by something supernatural!) 

At the age of Sixteen, Nora met Patch Cipriano ––- a handsome and mysterious transfer student. Although she knew that he was dangerous, she felt strangely attracted to him. She learns that Patch is actually a fallen angel –– a “bad” angel who was banished from heaven. And, the reason why he enrolled in Nora’s school, was because he was going to try and kill her. If he had done it, he would have become a human being because of who she was ( a descendant of a Nephilim ––- LINK TO MORE INFO. )

Patch ended up not being able to do it, because he fell in love with her ––- and his love for her was far greater than his wish to become a human.

THE STORY ––- AFTER BEING BRAINWASHED

Nora was adopted by Harrison Grey when she was a little girl, after her biological father left and her mother passed away from years of illness. She never really wanted to find out what happened to her biological Dad, seeing as he clearly didn’t want her. And she knows that Harrison loves her. Harrison has always been very honest about her past, and she believes very strongly that it’s because of their honest relationship. 

She is originally from Coldwater, Maine ––- moved to Washington when she was four years old, which is when she was adopted by Harrison Grey. 

Ever since she was young ––- she’s been the type of girl that put school before anything. She wanted to make something of herself and get a good job that could give her money to help her Dad out with his auto-mobile repair shop that he owed! Her best friend, Vee is the complete opposite. She loves to go out and party ––- and it takes quite a bit to get Nora to come with, mostly because she wants to focus on school. 

 She is going to college right now, trying to figure out what she wants to do with her life ––- and she’s working at a bookstore on the side, to pay her bills and whatnot. 

Not having a mother figure out, did make her a little closed off and she gets guy friends more easily than female ones. She definitely enjoys staying in with her best friend, than a night out on the town ––- and you’ll find her sitting in her apartment window, reading a book and petting her dog, Patch, who has been around for forever. 

[palindromepaladin]

The Novicemancer

By Rixon Grey

           The first time I brought something back to life went quite well, and I think that is why the next few times went so poorly. There really is some truth to beginner’s luck, how you need to fail a few times before you can say you’ve done well in earnest. Pride outweighs sincerity often, which is a bitch for efficiency’s sake.

           More than pride though, I do have a problem with death. The last sigh, the heat leaving, when that last thought wings through all tresses of a fearful brain and it is a sheepish: oh. Admittedly I am inclined to kill those around me. Necromancers get lumped together for obsession regarding death, which is prejudiced. I, however, uphold the stereotype. Other children of the Black God always looked down at me, dismissively and with pompous disdain, ‘God, he’s one of those.’ Pride is a sin, arrogance is rude.

           I take it all in stride and try to practice my craft in solitude. This is not only due to my unfortunate craving for la mort but out of necessity. Efficiency is key. Most civilized peoples will not simply shun a necromancer, but will likely pull the ol’ torch-and-pitchfork routine of driving out evil from their provincial dwelling. Larger cities are worse, their pitchforks tend more to resemble metal spears and torches are replaced with the pop of guns. The powder reeks to hell, and it will ruin your clothes.

           Better then to live the nomadic, hermetic, lifestyle. This is pleasant enough, assuming you have a way to keep your mind busy and uncluttered with a hatred for the social. Resentment towards clustered people often leads to want for mass murder. This gets you caught, and probably hanged. Or burned, if you ambitiously go the more extravagant route of harvesting the soul of your victim’s Nanna. Villagers and peasants alike find the courage to revolt more accessible if their harasser is more intimate.

           I can say with pride that I have avoided killing a human person for months now, and have not resurrected a human soul… since my first.

           “You’re a cunt,” was the first phrase I heard by my only friend and most loathing of resurrections, Liam. I have heard the phrase more since then. Liam was, and will forever be, thanks to me, fourteen. He died gasping for air within the -evidently too deep- waters of a local pond. His mother-made socks caught on amphibious tree roots under the murky water. I found him fishing.

           “I told you I need to practice, or I may fail again.” I was standing over the mushed remains of what I believed to have once been a middle-aged man. The trail I had been heading down for a few days now was grassy from disuse, still there were wagon-tracks through his pelvic area. The tracks went straight through, and well past his corpse. How inconsiderate.

           The glass orb hanging on my belt jostled with anticipation, but I calmed it with a pet from my cold hand. Liam, his ethereal form fluffed and feathered from his inexperience as a ghost, ‘stood’ beside me. He too stared at the remains, though his warped face showed disgust plain enough. I believe my face to have been calm.

           “If you raise that thing, it’ll be in pain like the others. What makes you think you’ll put him (or her) back together the right way?”

           “I don’t. That is exactly why I need to do it. Without opportunities like this I would have to grave-rob, and you know I can’t do that.” I rubbed my hands together. The sun was beginning to set, and twilight had been growing darker and colder with each passing evening. Winter’s warning slithered out from the brittle ground, looking more to me like a warm invitation of the desolation to come. Death all around made reanimation tricky, but the objects of such experiments plentiful.

           “Well I won’t watch this. I’m turning away.” Liam supposedly turned his form around, but to be honest he looked the same amorphous thing to me no matter which way he floated there.

           I nodded dismissively and began to dig in. I underestimated the rate of decay which had lay waste to this unfortunate thing. Try making a human skeleton out of oatmeal. Sew together lumps of chili hamburger to create the sinewy musculature which allows the surgical precision I was trying to achieve. This is what I had to work with. There was fungus under the wet-paper sternum, and all I could think of was that dish I had in Aigan years ago. Aigan was a city in the Coritza peninsula famous for their morels stuffed with scamorza.

           After a half a spool of thread and suppressed gags, I figured whatever I had sewn together looked more like a human now than it ever would have again without my help. Of course, the eyes had rotted out, so the sight would be an issue to overcome, but I knew this trick from the old druid to fix up a false-sight. It would be a blessing anyway, wouldn’t want this fellow peering into any bodies of water or silver spoon.

           “It’s over, Liam.”

           “So you’ve decided not to perform the ritual?”

           “No, of course I will, I meant the gross part is over.”

           “It’s all gross, tell me when you’re really done.”

           I rolled my eyes, and pushed up the sleeves of my loose-fitting doublet. They were damp with the day’s labor. I began reciting some overtly simple charms out of habit. I knew they were only used by old world wizards and “wise” men to calm their anxieties before a big spell, but they had been so ingrained into my use of magic by the old druid that I had to make an effort to stop myself; which I did not feel like doing at that moment.

           That being done I brought the needle into the tip of my pock-marked thumb. Blood emerged like an old friend, greeting me with warmth and pleasantries before I cast it down upon the flesh construct. I have seen shaman men in their quaint villages slide a dagger across their palm, or rip out the heart of some virginal girl to gather what I had just done with a needle. Magic is funny in that way: we are all quite stupid about it.

           A few more words, with a lot of feeling, and the life-energy which used to inhabit this body was ripped from its other worldly resting place back to the planes of existence. The man quivered. Admittedly when I had dug through the corpse I discovered it in fact had once been a man, though now it was androgynous. Out of respect for its assumed personality, I have and will refer to my construct as a man.

           He seized from the discomfort of what it is to be. Every feeling thing in his body was sending signals up to his brain at once and it was too much. In a moment I tried to freeze bits of him, the legs and arms first, followed by the lower gut. Chilling his blood to temperatures even lower than the now-evening air. He would live if I could isolate how he did so. My fingers wove the cold through him, channeling the invisible fires of power which littered our world to become frigid vessels inside this man. He groaned, a noise reminiscent of a goat or swine.

           Liam gagged, which amused me in the abstruse way in which sentient beings adore the suffering of others without a hint of maliciousness. A thin smile stretched across my face. Call me married to the job, because it was moments like these that made all the toil worth my time. I could never imagine doing anything else with my life.

           Slowly I began warming the writhing thing on the ground to help the blood flow once more, after the seizing had subsided. Little by little the man came back to us. You could see it in the twitch in his ruddy cheeks, the reflexive twisting of face and fingers, his little toes gripping dirt. Birth of new life hardly interested me. This was my pregnancy budding to fruition: I had just done more with my mind than any woman with her body. Any man who has felt the pride swell in his chest after building a house has never been so ecstatic as I have with my research.

           He screamed. I nearly shed a tear. It would take time for the thing to get used to living, and of course my magic was rudimentary; eventually this thing would fall apart and go further into the earth than any natural death. Magical disposal of waste seems more efficient by far than anything nature could have concocted out of mud and running water. I bent over to help him up and this was when Liam turned back to the scene.

           “Oh God you’ve actually done it,” I could hear the jealousy in his voice, even if he could not. “Look at it, that abomination, I feel as if I’m chucking but I know I’m not. Necromancer, are you so evil that you’ll let him exist for much longer?”

           I bent at the knees and grabbed my baby’s shoulders. I am not the strongest man, surely I have sacrificed the bulk of the beast for the intellect of a learned being, however I managed well enough to hoist him up and prop him against a nearby tree. Light flickered from my finger tip, my mock candle, and I used it to examine closely the body. Oh damn.

           The guts were leaking out and spilling to his legs. Mostly made of pus and viscera, the leakage gooped down and pooled in the creases of his pelvic area. He huffed weakly and searched for his surroundings with languid turns of his head. I had forgotten momentarily to give him the sight. The guts were a priority, and then his heart, and I would have to find strength to burn light into his eyes after a while. I was tiring fast from the spells and knew that without sleep or food I would soon look close to my creation. Well, closer.

           I took both my hands and cupped them together, trying to scoop the mash and force it back into the shoddy sutures. No dice. The bulging gut contained more pressure in it than I had been able to create. The more I agitated the gut, the more the sutures opened and the more slime wet my hands.

           I grabbed the man by the legs and shoulders and began to carefully set him back on the ground. He fought me, out of fear of course, but I smacked his forehead with the thick of my palm and he quieted.

           “Just leave it…” Liam paced behind me. Even though he made no footstep, I felt his presence as I felt all the forces of the world around me. His lack of contentedness frustrated me, as it was distracting. I would have told him to leave, but were he to part from me his essence would split and he would be lost to the cosmic void. I bared his childish protesting with the stoicism a parent need muster from nothing.

           I would have to either re-suture the mass of flesh compiled at the base of his spine, or add more stitching. I chose the latter, and started puncturing flesh with the bone needle. The man beneath me struggled and started up with the screaming again. I, again, smacked him and this calmed him momentarily. Had I whiskey or any civilized anesthetic I would have used it, probably, however I had none and would have to make peace with the torture I was inducing. A life filled with agony was still better than any death. I whispered calming charms into the man’s ears.

           After what felt to be an hour of more work, stitching and shoving, forcing life into the unwilling, I tried once more to get the man to stand. He was exhausted and I sympathized. I gritted my teeth and threw the corpse-man to his feet.

           “I told you to live and you will.”

           “Necromancer…” Liam made his way over to me and placed a cold breeze of a hand at my back.

           “Liam if you are going to continue sulk, then leave me and dissipate into the ether, but if you want to remain one solid consciousness I suggest you clam up!” Parents must leave scars on their children too. I shoved him away with invisible, yet very real, real force.

I gripped tight the man’s arm and steadied him as he swayed left and right. With my other hand I patted his jaw, gently then with increasing force. Still he limply swayed and tried desperately to fall and die. My pats turned swiftly to slaps, and then with one furious backhanded strike the jaw flew off and thudded into some mud some ways away.

I swore and let the thing collapse. I started to walk away, but Liam stopped me.

“You can’t let it lay there and waste away,” his tone was stern and he knew that I would know that he was correct. It was wrong, objectively, to let it suffer like that. I spun around and shot forth a beam of green light into the skull of the agonized thing. He disappeared. I looked at Liam and nodded. He returned the gesture and strode up to me.

“You’re going to do this more, aren’t you?” He asked in reluctance for an answer.

“If I don’t, when the time comes for me to resurrect someone or thing for reasons of importance, I will be ill-prepared. That will not be allowed to happen.” At that Liam for a while was silent. We walked in near darkness, as the moon was obstructed by wispy clouds and shaggy trees.

“Well, try to be less of a cunt about it.”

I smirked. The next time will be better. It may be that more supplies are needed, and perhaps more preparation for arising problems should be implemented. Books are always a welcome addition to my repertoire; however, I did not think knowledge to be my weakness as much as application was. Practice was what I needed, and maybe a fresher body.

Pride is not efficient. Arrogance will bag you no more friends than will a head full of lice. Still, what am I if not genuine? I looked over to Liam with the same look I would give a nursing calf.

“No.”

[missmiseryforthelasttime]

Hush Hush

Páginas: 368 Año de publicación : 2009 Género: Juvenil. Fantasía

Sinopsis:

"Enamorarse no formaba parte de los planes de Nora Grey.

Nunca se había sentido especialmente atraída por sus compañeros de instituto,a pesar de los esfuerzos de su mejor amiga,Vee,para encontrarle una pareja. Así era hasta la llegada de Patch. Con su sonrisa fácil y sus ojos que parecen ver en su interior, Nora se siente encandilada por él a pesar de sí misma. Tras una serie de encuentros aterradores,Nora no sabe en quién confiar. Patch aparece allí donde va y parece saber más sobre ella que su mejor amiga. Imposible decidir si debe darse por vencida sucumbir a sus encantos,o salir huyendo y esconderse. Y cuando intenta encontrar algunas respuestas,descubre una verdad que es más perturbadora que nada de lo que Patch le hace sentir. Porque Nora está en medio de una ancestral batalla entre los inmortales y los que han caído,y cuando se trata de escoger bando,la elección equivocada puede costarte la vida."

Mi opinión de la Saga:

Es la mejor saga que leí hasta ahora. No podía parar de leer. El libro que mas me gustó fue el segundo: "Crescendo".Te adentra en este mundo de Nephilims, malos, buenos, malos que se transforman en buenos, buenos que se hacen malos y los odias a muerte para siempre.Los amas, los odias, te producen todo tipo de sensaciones que te hacen engancharte cada vez más.Creo que al final de la Saga se fue un poco al chori la autora, lo que pasa en el tercer libro es super relleno (igual a mi me encantó asique aguante el relleno jajaja).No me queda nada más por agregar que amo a Patch obviamente <3. Y le dí 5/5 estrellas.

Resúmen con Spoilers por si te olvidaste del libro anterior para refrescarte un poco la memoria

Hush Hush: Nora vive con su madre, su padre murió y su vida es "normal" hasta que en biología la ponen de compañera de Patch que es un ángel caído que quiere sacrificar a Nora que en realidad es un Nephilim (hija de un humano y ángel caído) para él volverse humano de nuevo.

Se enamoran asique no puede matarla y por el contrario la salva varias veces de Chauncey/Jules, un Nephilim que intenta matarla varias veces.

Bueno al final Nora se iba a suicidar para que Patch sea humano pero él la salva diciendole que aunque quisiera ser humano con todas sus fuerzas no podría nunca sacrificarla y se convierte en su ángel guardián.

Crescendo: Nora duda del amor que Patch le tiene ya que él se empieza a alejar y se pone celosa al enterarse que fue a la casa de su enemiga del colegio Marcie Millar. Sus celos llegan a tal punto que se mete en la habitación de ella a buscar su diario. Al final decide olvidar a Patch y justo llega al pueblo Scott Parnell, un amigo de la infancia de Nora y un Nephilim, asique le da a celos con él. Y funciona, Patch se pone celoso y golpea a Scott.

Vee, la mejor amiga de Nora, empieza a salir con Rixon, un amigo de Patch. Y al final Rixon quiere matar a Nora para volverse humano.

Descubren que Nora es hija de Hank Millar (Padre de Marcie) por lo tanto este es Nephilim. Y el creador de un Ejército que se quiere rebelar contra los Ángeles caídos ya que estos usan sus cuerpos.

Patch estaba atrás de Marcie porque los arcángeles se enteraron de su relación con Nora y lo cambiaron de protegida.

Al final Rixon secuestra a Nora pero Patch la salva y lo encadena al sorete al infierno. En el momento final se besan y aparece Hank con muchos Nephilims y secuestran a Nora.

Silence: Nora se despierta en la tumba de su padre "adoptivo". Olvidó todo lo que le pasó sobre Nephilims, ángeles caídos, y todo. Pero bueno al final recuerda todo. Creo que no pasa nada más interesante solo que muere Hank.

Finale: Nora se convirtió en líder de los Nephilims con la muerte de Hank, su padre, y tiene que destruir a los ángeles caídos. Obviamente no quiere porque Patch es uno de ellos asique elaboran un plan para convenser a todos que están separados y tratan de evitar la guerra. Los Nephilims crearon pociones mágicas para ser fuertes como los ángeles caídos. Entra un nuevo personaje que en un momento ayuda a Nora, un Nephilim llamado Dante. Pero al final era el malo y Nora lo mata en la lucha final donde también muere Scott por salvar a Nora. Al final nos enteramos que Vee también es un Nephilim y Nora y Patch hacen un juramento de amor y el Arcángel (Detective Basso) que los seguia de cerca le concede a Patch la capacidad de sentir. 

[mypatchseries]

Hush, Hush - Capítulo 19

Llegué al Delphic unos minutos después de dejar a Nora en casa, junto a su madre. Tenía el estómago revuelto, algo no andaba bien. Tenía la necesidad de permanecer con ella y protegerla, pero no podía hacer eso. No todavía. Tenía algo un poco más importante que hacer: descubrir el paradero de mi vasallo. También quería encontrar a barba, pero eso podía dejarlo en un segundo plano. Después de todo, él tarde o temprano aparecería a reclamar la sangre de Nora.

 Rixon se encontraba en la cima del arcángel. Sonreí, recordando las veces en las que me reprochaba mis continuas visitas al lugar; no me di cuenta cuando sucedió el cambio de papeles. Vuela, pajarito dije en su mente. Me miró, me enseñó el dedo del medio y bajó de un salto de la atracción. Se acercó a mí con una sonrisa petulante en su rostro.

 —Estas no son horas de llegar, Jovencito—dijo, con voz aguda. — ¿No pudiste pasar la noche con Nora?

 Bufé.

 —Estaba su madre.

 —Oh, ¿Pero lo pensaste, si quiera?

 Sonreí.

 —Tal vez.

 Rixon se acercó a mí y me dio un puñetazo en el hombro, juguetonamente. Le empujé el brazo lejos, y él enarcó las cejas, con una media sonrisa burlona. Di un paso atrás y me preparé: Se abalanzó sobre mí, golpeando mi espalda, tratando de alcanzar el punto crucial entre mis alas. Solté un gruñido y lo empuje, haciéndolo retroceder un par de pasos. Rixon reía.

 —Estás blando, amigo mío. ¿Desde cuándo me dejas tocar tu espalda? —preguntó, riendo todavía.

 Conecté mi puño con su estómago.

 —No digas estupideces, Rixon.

 —Oh, ¿Mi hermanito menor está enojado? Buh.

 — ¡Tenemos la misma edad, idiota!

 ¿Hermanito menor? Que no me joda. Entramos y salimos del cielo a la par. Y hablando humanamente… Bueno, en tal caso, yo sería mayor que él.

 Di por terminada la pelea cuando lo dejé tendido en el piso, con el labio sangrando.

 —Cuando puedas terminar una pelea sin ninguna herida, vuelve a enfrentarme—le dije, burlándome.

 Me tendió la mano y, sujetándola, lo ayudé a ponerse de pie. Nos sentamos en el suelo, junto a la entrada que daba a los túneles mientras observábamos la noche alrededor. El arcángel estaba cerrado por una falla técnica que supuse la había provocado Rixon, así que todos los humanos pasaban a un par de metros de distancia de nosotros. Pasando la mano por su boca, Rixon se inclinó hacía un lado y escupió sangre.

 —Creo que me has roto un diente—dijo, maldiciendo por lo bajo.

 —Ya.

 — ¿No vas a disculparte?

 —No.

 — ¿Por qué?

 — ¿Por qué lo haría, Rixon? —pregunté.

 Él se encogió de hombros.

 —Si esa chica te estaba enseñando a decir por favor, supuse que también te enseñó a pedir perdón—dijo.

 —Ella no me está enseñando nada.

 —Oh, pero ya quisieras.

 Le di un empujón al captar el doble sentido de sus palabras, y luego nos quedamos repentinamente serios. Sólo escuchábamos el rugido de las personas que subían a las atracciones, pero justo en ese momento, éramos invisibles.

 —A mí también me gustaría ser humano—dijo de pronto, él.

 No me sorprendí. Nueve de cada diez ángeles que caían, normalmente lo hacían con el propósito de conseguir un cuerpo humano. Con el deseo ferviente de que la historia que cuenta el libro de Enoch sea cierta.

 — ¿Has tratado de localizar el descendiente de Barnabas? —le pregunté.

 Volvió a encogerse de hombros, y escupió de nuevo también.

 —He tratado, sí. —dijo. —Sigo tratando. Y ya casi la encuentro.

 —Bien.

 —Sin embargo…—dudó. —Aún no estoy muy seguro. Hay algo en toda esta idea de ser humano que no me agrada.

 Lo miré.

 — ¿Qué cosa?

 Suspiró, escupiendo por tercera vez. Imaginé que más que sacarle un diente, le había causado una hemorragia.

 —Aún no estoy del todo seguro de que quiera morir en unos años.

 La muerte. El gran final que nadie espera. Bueno, nadie que yo conozca. Ni siquiera estaba seguro de que aceptaría morir al pasar unos años… Aunque lo más seguro es que aceptara la muerte con los brazos abiertos. Estaba cansado de no vivir. De sentir todo a través de una pared de hielo. Era injusto, como mi cuerpo recibía de buen grado mis emociones, pero no podía transmitirme las sensaciones. Me enojaba ese hecho. Por largos años deseé encontrar alguna manera de poder sentir… Tuve sexo, bebí, peleé, aposté, pero nada conseguía llenarme. Ni siquiera aquella chica que conocí al caer. Era frustrante.

 —Hemos vivido demasiado, compañero—murmuré.

 — ¿Qué tiene de malo vivir unos pocos siglos más? —preguntó.

 Sonreí.

 —Nada, supongo. Pero en unos pocos siglos, no habrá descendientes—le recordé.

 —Ya. No habrá más oportunidades para ser humanos—murmuró.

 Asentí lentamente.

 Exactamente.

 —Y tú, ¿Qué harás entonces? —preguntó.

 Fruncí el ceño.

 — ¿A qué te refieres? —inquirí.

 — ¿Vas a matar a Nora Grey? Es la única oportunidad que tendrás de ser humano—dijo, mirándome fijamente.

 Yo todavía deseaba ser humano.

 Pero también deseaba estar con Nora.

 Ahora mismo, sólo quería una cosa. Pero también solo necesitaba una. Necesidad gana a deseo, ¿no?

 —La verdad es que no creo que pueda matarla, Rixon—murmuré, pasando las manos por mi cabello. —En ocasiones quiero, lo planeo, lo evalúo, pero cuando llega el momento de llevar a cabo el plan, cambio de parecer. Es como si con sólo mirarme pudiera detener hasta la peor parte de mí.

 Por un momento creí que reiría, pero no. Se limitó a mirar al infinito, como si pensara, como si evaluara algo. Me contuve de preguntarle; tampoco entré a su mente. Llevaba años conociendo a Rixon, compartiendo con él; lo consideraba un hermano para mí. Si él necesitaba que yo supiera lo que pensaba me lo diría; no me sentía capaz de inmiscuirme en su vida así no más. Lo respetaba. Y él me respetaba a mí.

 —Estás enamorado—afirmó.

 Me sorprendió que fuera una afirmación y no una pregunta.

 — ¿Lo estoy? —pregunté.

 —Lo estás.

 Sacudí la cabeza.

 —No, no lo estoy.

 —Corrección: No quieres estarlo. Pero lo estás.

 —Que no. —insistí.

 —Que sí. —dijo él.

 —No.

 —No.

 —Sí.

 —Ahí está, lo has aceptado—dijo, riendo.

 Le di otro empujón, causando que maldijera y volviera a escupir.

 — ¿Planeas quitarme un brazo, también?

 Reí.

 No estaba enamorado de Nora. No podía estarlo. Bueno, aunque realmente no lo sabía. Nunca me había enamorado, no de verdad. Y Rixon tampoco, así que él no tenía razón en esto de ninguna jodida manera.

 — ¿Qué plan tienes hasta ahora? —preguntó él, mirándome.

 —Encontrar a Chauncey.

 — ¿Y qué harás cuando lo encuentres?

 —Voy a matarlo.

 —Es inmortal, ¿Se te olvida? —se burló.

 —Tiene que haber una manera—le espeté.

 — ¿Y si no la hay?

 ¿Siempre tenía que ser tan negativo, joder?

 —Si no la hay, voy a desmembrarle el cuerpo pieza por pieza, y las encerraré cada una en un cajón para que no pueda regenerarse, si es que lo hacen. Luego enviaré cada caja a un país diferente, y ordenaré que quemen cada pieza que entregue. Si eso no le causa la muerte, encontraré otra forma—dije.

 —Barnabas va a odiarte por el resto de su vida—dijo Rixon, riendo.

 Me encogí de hombros.

 —Lo que tú vasallo piense de mí me importa una mierda.

 —Ya lo sé.

 —Bien.

 Otro minuto de silencio. Ya Rixon no sangraba tanto, pero imaginé que estaba agotado. Sin embargo, volvió a hablar:

 —Tiene una hija.

 — ¿Quién? —Pregunté, curioso.

 —Barnabas.

 — ¿Y bien? ¿Te convertirás en humano?

 Se quedó en silencio el tiempo suficiente como para imaginar que no quería darme esa respuesta, al menos no todavía. Desvió sus ojos de nuevo al infinito, y suspiró, escupiendo sangre en el suelo una vez más.

 —No sé cómo se llama—dijo. —De todas formas, si tú no te conviertes en humano tampoco lo haré yo, hermano.

 Sonrió, pero había algo en aquella sonrisa que no me convencía. Algo que ocultaba. A pesar de saber que mentía, no quise insistir. Ya me lo contaría en su momento. Tal vez era complicado, o tal vez se había enamorado también de la chica, igual que yo.

 Bien, definitivamente no estaba enamorado. No lo estaba. No lo estoy. Punto.

 — ¿Has sabido algo de Barba? —le pregunté, desviando el tema.

 Se encogió de hombros.

 —Sólo que se fue por una temporada. ¿Por qué?

 —Pienso matarlo, también.

 — ¿Por la chica?

 Iba a decir que realmente era por mí, pero no era cierto. Después de todo, era la vida de Nora la que corría peligro.

 —Oh, sí. Por ella.

[jeremyjoron]

Pinned to Cuisine contemporaine on Pinterest

Description: With vaulted ceilings and bathed in natural light, this beautiful kitchen by Rixon Architects features handmade units in subtle green and grey tones with contrasting granite and wood worktops with Castile limestone flagstone floor tiles in 60cm width and http://amzn.to/2keVOw4 By Mon beau chez moi Pinned to Cuisine contemporaine on Pinterest Found on: http://ift.tt/2m8P82S

[mypatchseries]

Hush, Hush - Capítulo 15

Cuando llegué a la dirección que barba me había entregado, me sorprendí. Aunque reconociéndolo ahora, eso explicaba el motivo por el cual no había registros de Chauncey por ninguna parte.

 Me encontraba en una pequeña casa abandonada a las afueras de Coldwater, al sur; la pintura de las paredes estaban enmohecidas, supuse que a causa de la falta de mantenimiento y las constantes lluvias que solían ser torrenciales. Las ventanas estaban en buen estado, aunque muy gastadas. Sin embargo, la puerta principal se veía completamente asegurada y firme.

 Estacioné la moto detrás de un par de gruesos árboles, dónde no podrían visualizarla fácilmente. Me quité el casco, dejándolo reposar en el asiento trasero de la motocicleta. Caminé con paso silencioso hasta la casa, cerrando mis puños con fuerza y dejando salir toda la ira que había contenido todo este tiempo. Una idea fugaz cruzó por mi cabeza: no llevaba ningún tipo de arma, y lo más probables es que si hasta ahora Chauncey había logrado evadirme, de seguro estaba preparado para el momento en que decidiera atacarlo "de sorpresa".

 Sin embargo, luego de derribar la puerta principal y echar un vistazo a mí alrededor, descubrí que el lugar estaba completamente vacío: no había ningún nefilim a la vista, y tampoco el humano llamado Elliot. A pesar de saber que no había nadie, continué revisando el lugar. Quizás habían dejado alguna pista de su paradero. Revisé la cocina, pero solo encontré un montón de trastos en el lavadero, que estaba roto y dejando correr el agua. Tampoco había nada en las habitaciones, o en la sala. Ni siquiera en el estudio. Patee algunas cosas de frustración, rompí algunas figuras de barro y creo que también rompí una ventana. Mierda.

 Comencé mi huida de allí, furioso, y justo cuando pasaba frente a la chimenea que se encontraba en el recibidor, se me cayeron las llaves de la Ducati. Me quedé un par de segundos allí, de pie, mientras sopesaba la idea de agacharme a tomar las llaves, o hacer que estas subieran a mi mano.

 Decidí inclinarme.

 Una bola de papel se encontraba a un par de pasos de distancia, debajo de uno de los muebles que me rodeaban. Me agaché aún más, metí la mano debajo del sofá y tomé el papel. Fruncí el ceño mientras lo desarrugaba, y cuando leí el contenido, volví a cerrar los puños con fuerza.

 CHAUNCEY LENGEAIS: DOCUMENTOS.

 INVESTIGACIONES.

 Sobre mi descendiente: Nora Grey.

 *Descendiente directa de un Nefilim de sangre pura.

 *Hace solo un año que perdió a su padre en un terrible accidente, por lo que su madre y ella viven solas en una granja del siglo XVIII a las afueras de Coldwater. (Por lo general se encuentra sola en las noches)

 *Tiene cabello castaño pelirrojo oscuro, ojos grises, es de una estatura mediana y sufre de anemia.

 ¿Anemia? ¿Era por eso que Nora tomaba aquellas pastillas tan asquerosas? Continué leyendo.

 *Frecuenta el Borderline con una chica llamada Vee Sky.

 *La procedencia de la chica rubia (Vee) aún se desconoce. Hay posibilidades de que sea nieta de otro Nefilim de sangre no tan pura, como es posible que la raza haya saltado una generación y sea humana. (Investigación pendiente)

 *Actualmente cuenta con la protección de Patch Cipriano. No sabemos si definitivamente estará dispuesto a matarla. Fuentes aseguran que puede estar enamorado de la chica.

 ORDENES A SEGUIR:

 *Vigilar a Grey hasta estar completamente seguros de algún momento en que Patch Cipriano (Poderoso Arcángel Caído, ser que obligó a mi persona, Chauncey Lengais, a pronunciar el Juramento de Lealtad) la deje completamente sola.

 *Infiltrar a Elliot Saunders en el instituto: de esta forma puedo tener un mejor acceso a la chica.

 *Mantenerme oculto hasta que Elliot encuentre la forma de alejar a Patch, dónde finalmente conseguiré la ocasión de poder matar a Nora.

 *No quedarme en un mismo lugar por más de dos días.

 NOTA: Los datos conseguidos hasta ahora han sido recolectados por mí mismo, mientras vigilaba secretamente a Nora Grey. Elliot Saunders, quién imagina que sólo soy un chico de preparatoria, me ayuda con las investigaciones. Otros investigadores han renunciado a mi mandato.

 Volví a arrugar el papel con más fuerza de la necesaria. Maldito sea. Llevaba bastante tiempo vigilando a Nora.

 Seguía sin saber absolutamente nada sobre su paradero. Retrasé mi retirada, por lo cual me dispuse a seguir buscando a fondo en la casa, especialmente debajo de los inmuebles. Fue en una de las habitaciones principales dónde encontré otro pedazo de papel. Desdoblé la hoja con cuidado, puesto que estaba mucho más arrugado que el anterior. Esta letra era de computadora, me sorprendí al ver que era un fax; aunque me cabree muchísimo al leer el firmante de la nota.

 Chauncey:

 Que quede claro primeramente que con esto, estoy saldando la deuda que tenía para contigo. Te envío esta nota por fax, ya que es el medio más rápido que tengo de comunicarme contigo, que hace aproximadamente dos minutos que Patch Cipriano se ha marchado de mi despacho. En sus manos lleva un papel dónde está escrita la dirección de tu casa, junto con tu número de teléfono. Él me ha pedido información sobre Elliot Saunders, pero dado que realmente el provocador de todo esto eres tú, le he facilitado la información. Si aceptas un consejo, te recomendaría dejar todo lo que estés haciendo ahora mismo y marcharte, ya que Patch planea arrancarte las partes del cuerpo una a una. Deja de número telefónico en cualquier lugar de la calle, para que no pueda rastrearte. Vete lejos.

 Ya no te debo nada.

 -Barba.

 Estaba seguro de que en cualquier momento comenzaría a echar espuma por la boca de todo el enojo que sentía brotar desde mi interior. Maldito traidor. Me había hecho jurarle algo, y él me había traicionado. Iba a matar a ese maldito, aunque fuese lo último que hiciera; me sabía a una mierda si era mucho más fuerte que yo. Nadie jugaba conmigo y quedaba vivo. Nadie. Los mataría a los dos.

 Debajo de esa nota, en el espacio en blanco que quedaba, había unas palabras garabateadas a mano. La caligrafía era pulcra y antigua, por lo cual la reconocí de inmediato.

 Déjame darte un par de consejos:

 1: No confíes en nadie para hacer tus movimientos estúpidos.

 2: Trata de actuar discretamente, todo lo que haces llega a mis oídos.

 3: No te enamores.

 No voy a permitir que me encuentres, Patch. Llevo un par de meses huyendo de ti, y no pienso dejar que vuelvas a encontrarme. Voy a matar a Nora para liberarme del juramento que te hice, y así no volveré a soportar la pérdida del control absoluto de mi cuerpo.

 Quisiera matarte, pero me conformaré con el hecho de que morirá alguien que es importante para ti, como aquella chica que estuvo en mi calabozo, ¿La recuerdas, Patch? Sin Nora en la vida ganamos ambos.

 Te odio, maldito caído. Pero una persona importante como yo debe aprender a perdonar los errores de las personas.

 Cuida de tu espalda, quizás esté más cerca de lo que te imaginas.

 Oh, y gracias por tomarte la molestia de venir a uno de mis tantos escondites. La próxima vez, tendré la delicadeza de no revelarle mi paradero a nadie. Con respecto a tu curiosidad sobre Elliot, sólo es una de mis marionetas. Ahora mismo deberías estar cuidando de Nora.

 No vas a encontrarme, ya te lo he dicho.

 -C.L

 Tuve que respirar varias veces para contener el impulso de correr y matar todo lo que se atravesara en mi paso. Creo que lo logré de milagro. Dejé los papeles donde los había encontrado, y finalmente fui a buscar mi moto. Subí a ella, y aceleré sin tener en claro qué dirección tomar.

 Me sentía furioso, humillado y desesperado.

 Maldito Nefilim.

 Saqué mi teléfono y marqué uno de los pocos números que tenía registrado en mi teléfono; el de Rixon.

 — ¿Qué pasa Patch? —preguntó.

 —Necesito un favor.

 —Tú dirás.

 —Necesito que vigiles a Nora día y noche por las próximas semanas.

 Escuché claramente cómo escupía cualquiera que fuera la bebida que estuviese tomando en ese momento.

 —Tengo vida propia, Patch. Mi mundo no sólo gira a tu alrededor—gruñó.

 —Vamos… por favor.

 La línea telefónica se quedó en silencio un par de segundos que a mí me parecieron toda una eternidad. Cuando estuve a punto de colgar, él dijo:

 — ¿Qué has dicho?

 —Que necesito un favor—repetí.

 —No, eso no. Lo otro. ¿Me has dicho "Por favor"? —preguntó, sin poder creerlo realmente.

 — ¡Venga! ¿Es tan raro? —le espeté.

 —Sí.

 Solté un gruñido inentendible.

 —Bien, ¿Me harás el favor o no? —pregunté, exasperado.

 —Claro, no hay problema.

 —Genial.

 —Si admites que te encanta esa chica.

 Maldije por lo bajo.

 — ¿Qué estupideces estás diciendo, Rixon?

 —Mira amigo: Eso es lo que hay, o lo admites, o no hay trato. Tú decides.

 —Bien, bien. Lo admito.

 — ¿Qué admites? —inquirió, como quien no quiere la cosa. Idiota.

 —Que Nora Grey me está volviendo loco.

[mypatchseries]

HUSH, HUSH - Capítulo Cuatro

 Sobre el escritorio había un libro de jugadas, así que me entretuve con él, dibujando un partido mientras sentía a Nora acercarse.

 Cuando estuvo frente a mí, contuve las ganas de soltar una risotada. Después de todo, no sería común que el entrenador se riera de ella en estas circunstancias, y no quería que acudiera a un personal de rango mayor. Sería un poco más problemático tener que fingir ser la directora o alguien de igual importancia.

 ―Dime, Nora. ¿Qué puedo hacer por ti? ―le pregunte, de la misma forma que el entrenador lo hubiera hecho.

 Aunque claro, tampoco me preocupaba imitarlo a la perfección. El truco que puse en su mente se haría cargo de todo.

 ―Quiero decirle que la nueva disposición en clase y el nuevo plan de trabajo me incomodan―dijo ella, con total serenidad.

 Enarqué las cejas, y obtuve una postura mucho más cómoda en lo que a mí respectaba: empujando la silla hacía atrás y entrelazando las manos detrás de mi nuca.

 ―A mí me gusta la nueva disposición. Casi tanto como este marcaje hombre a hombre que estoy preparando para el partido del sábado―dije, admirando el trabajo que había hecho. Sin ninguna duda, que milagrosamente alguien haya dibujado un marcaje perfecto en el libro sería extraño para el entrenador. Pero luego de que mi malditamente perfecto ingenio le diera la victoria, olvidaría ese hecho. Estaba seguro.

 Nora dejó caer algo en la mesa, y levanté la vista para observar una copia del código de conducta del instituto y los derechos de los estudiantes sobre la mesa. Tuve que morderme la lengua para no reír. Sabía jugar muy bien su juego.

 ―La norma dice que ningún alumno debería sentirse amenazado dentro del colegio―dijo.

 Sentí como si me fuera abofeteado. Me costó un montón no mostrar signos de mi incertidumbre. ¿Se sentía amenazada? ¿Por qué? Bueno, yo la había asustado en algunas ocasiones, pero ¿Amenazada? ¿Por mí?

 De pronto desee haberla tratado mejor desde un principio.

 Bueno, pero ¡maldita sea! ¿Por qué? Mientras más rápido se hiciera a la idea de que era peligroso para ella, mejor. Pero aun así, una parte de mí no lo quería.

 ― ¿Te sientes amenazada? ―pregunté.

 ―Me siento incómoda. Y quisiera proponer una solución. ―Guardé silencio. Bueno, eso está mejor. La incomodidad siempre es más fácil de controlar pensé. E imaginé nuevamente mis labios sobre los suyos, y cerré los puños con fuerza para contenerme de abalanzarme sobre ella y… hacer cosas indecorosas. Afortunadamente, no esperó a que siguiera hablando, porque continuó―Me ocuparé de la tutoría de cualquier alumno de Biología si vuelve a sentarme al lado de Vee.

 ¿Qué? ¿Tener que compartirla? ¿No sentarme más a su lado? ¿Tener que soportar como Vee la lanzaba a los brazos de un desconocido solo porque si? Estaba loca.

 ―Patch podría necesitar un tutor. ―me limité a decir.

 Casi me sacó la lengua. Casi.

 ―Eso queda descartado―dijo.

 ¿Cómo era que de pronto quería evitarme a toda costa? ¿Por qué?

 ― ¿Lo has visto hoy? Estaba implicado en la clase. En todo el año no le había oído decir una sola palabra, pero ha sido sentarlo a tu lado y… ¡bingo! Su calificación en esta asignatura va a mejorar―Aunque tampoco era que me interesara la asignatura en absoluto.

 ―Y la de Vee va a empeorar.

 Bufé ligeramente. Al parecer no lo había notado.

 ―Es lo que pasa cuando no puedes mirar a tu lado y encontrarte con la respuesta correcta―dije.

 ―El problema de Vee es la falta de constancia. Yo le echaré un cable―dijo.

 ―De momento seguiremos así. ―miré el reloj. Mierda, el entrenador ya debería estar por regresar. ―Llego tarde a una reunión, ¿Algo más?

 Pareció pensarlo, pero no tenía nada más a lo que aferrarse.

 ―Esperemos unas semanas a ver qué pasa―Tendría que enamorarla demasiado pronto―Ah, y lo de darle clases particulares a Patch iba en serio. Cuento contigo.

 Me levanté del escritorio y salí del aula en dirección al estacionamiento, justo cuando observaba al entrenador pasar por el otro pasillo. Demasiado cerca, pero lejos de notar algo.

 Subí a mi Ducati y aceleré en dirección al Delphic.

 ―Vaya, hasta que apareces.

 Me giré para ver a Rixon bajar del Arcángel.

 ―Pensé que no te atraía el arcángel―le dije.

 Se encogió de hombros.

 ―Solo estaba probando que se siente. Tienes razón, recuerda los viejos tiempos. ―dijo.

 Comencé a caminar en dirección a mi casa.

 ― ¿Te suena el nombre de Nora Grey? ―preguntó de pronto.

 Me quedé congelado.

 ―Creo que es el nombre de esa pelirroja que tanto te gusta. Es su nombre, ¿No? ―dijo él.

 Me giré sobre mis talones, y comencé a caminar en su dirección con los puños cerrados, y el ceño fruncido. ¿Pero qué mierda? ¿Cómo Rixon conocía su nombre completo?

 ―Vaya, deja tus celos niño malo. No es conmigo con quien tienes problemas―dijo.

 Me detuve.

 ― ¿Con quién entonces, sino?

 Se encogió de hombros, restándole importancia.

 ―No sé quiénes son.

 ―Quienes son… ¿Quiénes?

 Me estaba exasperando.

 ―Chicos. Dos. Los escuché hablando sobre ella, y un ataque. ―dijo él.

 Me quedé pasmado.

 ― ¿Ataque? ¿Qué ataque? ―pregunté. Volvió a encogerse de hombros. ―Rixon, más te vale que digas todo lo que sabes si no quieres hacerle una visita de urgencia al odontólogo más cercano.

 Soltó unas carcajadas.

 ―Vale, vale, tranquilo. Lo único que escuché fue que ya habían encontrado a Nora Grey, y que lo más probable es que la atacaran hoy en la biblioteca. Al parecer saben que ella y su amiga estarán allí. Y… oye, venga ¿A dónde vas? ¡Patch! ―gritaba.

 No le presté atención.

 Corrí de nuevo hacía mi Ducati, y aceleré en dirección a la biblioteca.

 No podía permitir que algo le pasara a Nora. No todavía.

 Llegué a la biblioteca justo a tiempo, a mi parecer.

 Nora se encontraba en una de las mesas junto a Vee, y todo parecía Normal. Me encaminé hacía donde se encontraba la bibliotecaria. Si estaba en la biblioteca, bueno, tenía que tener un motivo.

 ―Quiero llevarme un libro―le dije.

 La bibliotecaria enarcó una ceja.

 ― ¿Qué libro? ―preguntó.

 Mierda.

 ―Eh, uno de historia―respondí.

 Ahora enarcó las dos cejas.

 ― ¿Nombre del libro?

 Bueno, maldita sea.

 ―Da igual. Solo deme un puto libro. El que sea―le dije.

 Ella se ruborizó.

 Unos pocos minutos luego, estaba de regreso con un libro en las manos. Me lo entregó, y nuestros dedos se rozaron. Pude sentir como su cuerpo se estremecía.

 Sí, este era el efecto que causaba en las mujeres.

 ― ¿Algo más que te pueda ofrecer? ―preguntó.

 Enarqué las cejas ante su insinuación, y solté media sonrisa.

 ―Sí, supongo que sí―le dije.

 Me sonrió esperanzada.

 ―Mira detrás de mí―le dije, cortando su ensoñación. ― ¿Notas a alguien extraño? ¿Alguien que tenga pinta de estar siguiendo a alguien más?

 Vi la clara decepción en su mirada, sin embargo comenzó a barrer la biblioteca con sus ojos.

 ―Lo siento, no…―dijo. Bueno, de seguro Rixon había escuchado mal. Me prepare para irme―Espera, allí hay un chico (Creo que es un chico) extraño. Tiene una sudadera con capucha que le cubre el rostro―dijo.

 Bingo.

 Miré unas tarjetas que reposaban en el escritorio.

 ― ¿Tu número? ―pregunté, señalando las tarjetas. Ella asintió, ruborizada. Tomé una tarjeta―Tal vez un día te llame.

 Salí de la biblioteca, y me escondí junto al coche de Vee, en la oscuridad, esperando. Pasaron unos largos minutos en lo que la desesperación me carcomía hasta que al fin las vi llegar.

 Luego de que Nora y su amiga desaparecieran, lo vi.

 Echó a correr antes de que pudiera ver quién era, o de entrar en su mente siquiera, y me recorrió el cuerpo entero un escalofrío.

 Si estaba detrás de Nora.

 Y no era humano.