#sky porpoise moon

[chknbzkt]

It’s late and nobody’s gonna see these, post sky whale darlings 🏃🏽‍♀️ 💨

[dk-thrive]

We cannot stop all the destruction, but we can light candles for one another.

The mornings are dark, the late afternoons are dusky, and before we finish making dinner, the daylight is gone. As we approach the darkest days of the year, we’re confronted with the darkness of wars, a dysfunctional government, fentanyl deaths, mass shootings and reports of refugees crawling through the Darién Gap or floundering in small boats in the Mediterranean. And we cannot avoid the tragedy of climate change with its droughts, floods, fires and hurricanes. Indeed, the world is pummeled with misfortune.

We can count ourselves lucky if we do not live in a war zone or a place without food or drinking water, but we read the news. We see the disasters on our screens. Ukraine, Israel and Gaza are all inside us. If we are empathic and awake, we share the pain of all the world’s tragedies in our bodies and in our souls. We cannot and should not try to block out those feelings of pain. When we try, we are kept from feeling much of anything, even love and joy. We cannot deny reality, but we can control how much we take in.

I am in the last decades of life and sometimes I feel that my country and our species are also nearing end times. The despair I feel about the world would ruin me if I did not know how to find light. Whatever is happening in the world, whatever is happening in our personal lives, we can find light.

This time of year, we must look for it. I am up for sunrise and outside for sunset. I watch the moon rise and traverse the sky. I light candles early in the evening and sit by the fire to read. And I walk outside under the blue-silver sky of the Nebraska winter. If there is snow, it sparkles, sometimes like a blanket of diamonds, other times reflecting the orange and lavender glow of a winter sunset.

We can watch the birds. Recently it was the two flickers at my suet feeder with the yellow undersides of their wings flashing, the male so redheaded and protective, the female so hungry. Today it may be the juncos, hopping about our driveway, looking for seeds. The birds are always nearby. Their calls are temple bells reminding me to be grateful.

For other kinds of light, we can turn to our friends and family. Nothing feels more like sunlight than walking into a room full of people who are happy to see me. I think of my son and daughter-in-law on my birthday, Zeke making homemade ravioli and Jamie baking an apple cake, their shining eyes radiating love. Or of my friends, sitting outdoors around a campfire in our coats and hats, reciting poetry and singing songs.

We also have the light of young children. My own grandchildren are far away, but I spend time with 9-year-old Kadija. My husband and I are sponsoring her family; they arrived here from Afghanistan, with only the father speaking English, only a few months ago. Already, she can bring me a picture book and read “whale,” “porpoise” and “squid” in a voice that reminds me of sleigh bells. I know someday she will be a surgeon, or perhaps a poet.

In our darkest moments, art creates a shaft of light. There is light in a poetry book by Joy Harjo, a recording by Yo-Yo Ma and in a collection of Monet’s paintings of snow.

The rituals of spiritual life will also illuminate our days. In my case, it is sun salutations, morning prayers, meditation and readings from Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Buddhist monk and influential Zen master. Also, it’s the saying of grace and the moments when I slow down and am present. Whatever our rituals, they allow us to hold on through the darkness until the light returns.

Finally, we will always have the light of memory. When I recall my grandmother’s face as she read to me from “Black Beauty” or held my hand in church, I can calm down and feel happy. I feel the light on my skin when I remember my mother at the wheel of her Oldsmobile, her black doctor’s bag beside her. Driving home from a house call, she would tell me stories from her life on a ranch in the Great Depression and during the Dust Bowl.

Deep inside us are the memories of all the people we’ve ever loved. A favorite teacher, a first boyfriend, a best friend from high school or a kind aunt or uncle. And when I think of my people, I’m suffused with light that reminds me that I have had such fine people in my life and that they are still with me now and coming back to help me through hard times.

Every day I remind myself that all over the world most people want peace. They want a safe place for their families, and they want to be good and do good. The world is filled with helpers. It is only the great darkness of this moment that can make it hard to see them.

No matter how dark the days, we can find light in our own hearts, and we can be one another’s light. We can beam light out to everyone we meet. We can let others know we are present for them, that we will try to understand. We cannot stop all the destruction, but we can light candles for one another.

— Dr. Mary Pipher, from “Finding Light in Winter” (NY Times, December 11, 2023). Dr. is a clinical psychologist and writer in Lincoln, Neb., and the author, most recently, of “A Life in Light: Meditations on Impermanence.”

[prettyblondguys]

Dracula Alone

The sun had just gone down and the moon rose to take its place, casting a melancholy light upon the old castle up on the hill. Far out in the Romanian countryside, tourists were unaware of its existence, and locals knew to stay away.

For in its many dark halls walked a man, nay, a monster. A creature of evil that had survived centuries by drinking the life essence of unlucky travelers, feasting upon their blood.

Known by many names throughout history, the one that had stuck was Dracula. Son of the devil.

He preferred to go by Vlad.

On this night the castle doors swing open, and out walks Vlad, dressed in black silk garments. Heaving a rather melodramatic sigh he looked towards the sky, raising one lace gloved hand to his furrowed brow.

"Vhat has my life become?" He exclaimed out loud.

"So many years of isolation, of craving a companion, yet all I have is the night. Yet all I have is the moon, and he," Vlad points to the moon, "is not very talkative."

He begins to walk down the hill, long but slow strides all the while talking to himself, a habit formed sometime during the early years of his solitude.

"Do I not deserve the happiness others are free to seek? After all, vhat have I done that is really so bad? Killed a villager or two? Drank their blood? Vell excuse me, but vhat else am I supposed to do?"

He clasps his hands behind his back and pauses for a moment.

"And I suppose those Americans, and the Jehovah's Vitnesses, oh and I can't forget about those gap year students. But still! I can not help vhat I am. OH VRETCHED VORLD THAT I AM CURSED TO LIVE IN!" With that he throws himself to the ground, pitiful and self indulgent tears trickling down his face. As horrible and murderous as Vlad was, he was mostly a drama queen.

His wallowing is interrupted by an odd sound further down the hill. Standing up, he starts towards it, his loneliness momentarily forgotten. After a minute he reaches the edge of a cliff overlooking a small portion of the sea. Glancing down at the water he sees something smooth breach the surface, followed closely by a second object. The noise picks back up and suddenly a snout breaks through the water. A dolphin. Two of them.

Vlad is pleasantly surprised and sits on the edge of the cliff to watch them, mesmerized.

"Very odd to be out this far, my friends. Perhaps you have come to visit me."

The dolphins swim in circles, squealing and chirping as if they were playing some game, their shiny fins lifting and falling through the inky water.

"How beautiful these creatures are, how friendly and content vith their place in the vorld. There is a lot to be learned from you two, so innocent and pure."

Their squeaks and squeals increase os they begin splashing more aggressively. "Oh," says Vlad, "there is someone else down there vith you." In between the two dolphins is a smaller finned animal, perhaps a porpoise, moving slower. He continued to watch the group, curious as to what they were doing, when suddenly one of the dolphins seemed to bite the other animal, and knocked it towards the other.

Vlad watched in shock as their fun game turned to cruelty, their happy trills filling the quiet night. After a few seconds the water changed to a color Vlad knew well.

"Vhat the fuck."

He began a slow walk back to his castle, more disturbed than he could ever remember being.

"And yet" Vlad says to himself after stepping inside and shutting the doors, "they call ME a monster!"

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter XVIII

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 6.2K

26 Yelona

The yowl of a monkey broke through a hazy dream: rocking waves, leaping porpoises, snapping sails. Kazi stiffened.

Darkness blanketed the living area, the moons having set and the sun yet to rise. Shadows played with the man who slept beside her. 

Wolffe was sprawled upright on the couch, his arm still resting along the couch’s spine, his forearm a pillow to her cheek. Chin tilted to the ceiling, his breaths were slow and rhythmic. 

For a while, Kazi watched him. Smiled smally at the curl teasing his forehead. Debated moving closer—to settle herself in his warmth and fall back asleep, to be selfish for a few more hours.

However, she wasn’t convinced they were…there. 

On the imaginary line dictating relationships they were past establishing friendship and currently idling around trying to be more. And…that was it. 

Needless to say, she didn’t want to come across as ignorant or burdensome or imperfect.

It didn’t matter, anyway. The chrono on the wall declared it was 04:02, and she didn’t want Neyti to stumble upon them. 

Carefully, she placed her feet on the floor and started to stand. The uncurling of her body, the waking of her muscles and joints, was unrushed so she didn’t wake Wolffe—

A large hand gripped her elbow. It tugged her back to the couch. She didn’t bother resisting. 

“Going somewhere?” Wolffe’s voice was hoarse from sleep. 

“To my room,” she said. Hooded eyes, bleary yet alert, wandered across her face and she frowned at his evidential exhaustion. “You should go downstairs and get some more sleep. You need it.”

A low sound rumbled from the back of his throat—the combination of a scoff and chuckle. “I see why you were single.”

She sniffed. “Asshole.”

“Mm-hmm.” 

Wolffe studied her for a moment more, and then he moved forward, flattening her to the couch, settling himself atop her body. 

Stunned, Kazi could only blink at him, caught off guard by his quickness and strength. Whatever he saw in her face must have amused him because he smirked. And then his face lowered, and she couldn’t help but smile as he brushed his lips to her mouth. A request, a tease. 

Angling her head slightly, she leaned forward, bracketing his lower lip with her mouth, winding her arms around his neck and holding him closer. His body sunk onto hers. Heavy but good; warm and safe. A cocoon to block out the world beyond and its unknowns. 

Kazi kissed him, and she smiled against his mouth, and she ran her hands through his curls, and she drank in the heat of his body, the hands exploring her skin, the tongue playing with hers.

Wolffe kissed beneath her jaw. Kissed her neck. Kissed a sensitive spot behind her ear that had her shivering. He tugged on her earlobe, and just when she was about to bring his mouth to hers again, he rasped, “I’m clean.”

The words broke through her daze, like the pincers of a spider ripping apart her cocoon. The muscles along her back tautened. 

Wolffe mouthed on that spot behind her ear. “Are you?” 

“Yes.” Swallowing, she stared at the dark vastness beyond the skylights. Tried to steady her jittering heartbeat. Forced her tone to be even as she added, “I have the paperwork.”

A head interrupted her view of the burnt-black sky and Wolffe frowned down at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She mustered a smile and reached for his shirt, trying to unclasp the first button. But her hands were shaking. They were fucking shaking, and they wouldn’t stop, and it was so fucking pathetic. All she had to do was unbutton his shirt. It was so fucking simple. And then undo her trousers. 

But she could feel him—feel his cock, hard and throbbing, between her legs, and he felt too large and she could only think about the pain years ago, and how it took her too long to be ready, and her partner’s annoyance when he realized there was something wrong with her. 

That she was broken. 

That she wasn’t enough in bed—

“Ennari.” Wolffe gripped her wrists, stalling her. He sat back on his haunches, his eyes narrowed. “What—”

“I’m sorry.” Pushing herself away, she perched on the edge of the couch, staring blankly at the windows opposite. Her stomach was furled in a harsh, unrelenting ball. Her thighs were so stiff they hurt. “I’m so sorry.”

“Kazi.” 

This was fucking humiliating. 

A lack of composure. A lack of competence. A mortifying display of imperfection. 

Kazi bit her tongue to stop the emotion collecting in the back of her throat. Took a breath and relished the familiar numbing sensation slipping through her veins, trickling from her head to her toes.

Wolffe cleared his throat. “Did I do—”

“No. It wasn’t you.” She looked at him, hating the hesitation in his face, and she clasped her hands in her lap, squeezing her fingers until they, too, were numb. “Sex is… It’s never been enjoyable and…” A choked laugh scraped her throat. “I’m afraid it’ll hurt. And I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of you. And I know it’s unfair to ask you to wait—”

“I’m more than capable of waiting,” Wolffe interrupted. 

Her doubt must have been palpable because his nostrils flared. 

“I don’t need anything physical,” he growled. “You can take whatever fucking time you need. I don’t care.” He rolled his shoulders back. “I have two hands. They’ve kept me satisfied the last two years. And they’ll keep me satisfied ‘til you’re ready.”

Tugging on a braid, strands loose from sleep, Kazi smiled weakly. “Two years, huh?”

He blinked. The corner of his mouth curved. “You judging me, Ennari?”

“I’m just surprised.” Grateful he accepted her deflection, she leaned back into the cushions, Wolffe mimicking her. Hesitantly, she set her hand on his thigh. It was hard and muscled beneath her palm. She continued. “It’s no wonder you’re so tense all the time.”

A quiet chuckle reverberated through his body; her tired smile widened. Wolffe rested his head against the couch’s spine and closed his eyes. His hand settled just above her knee. 

“You know,” Kazi said, eyeing the opposite wall, “that picture is still crooked.”

Wolffe cracked an eye open. His brows bunched together. “Get your eyesight checked. It’s not fucking crooked.”

“It definitely is.”

Grumbling under his breath, Wolffe twisted his face toward her, the hand on her thigh tightening. A few seconds later and his breathing evened.

The smoky gray of dawn still clouded the skies and sunrise was still an hour away, at least. Kazi continued to massage Wolffe’s shoulder, deciding she didn’t mind waiting to watch the sunrise. After all, she hadn’t stopped to appreciate it in a long, long time.  

The heat of late afternoon beat on Kazi. Even with long sleeves and trousers protecting her body, the sun licked at her skin, a tongue of fire. 

Wiping sweat from her forehead, she snipped a dead branch from a bean plant. Nearby, Daria pushed the brim of her hat away from her eyes. Her sister hesitated, fiddling with her shears, glancing in her direction.

Kazi ignored it, as she had the last dozen similar moments. Something was on Daria’s mind, but Kazi refused to initiate the conversation—

“How’s your job?” 

Her sheers jerked and a poorly snipped branch collapsed among the watered soil. Grimacing, Kazi blinked at her sister. 

“How are you”—Daria’s cheeks flushed and she removed her hat—“handling the Empire’s arrival?”

“It’s fine,” Kazi said. 

Awkward silence fell, as it had every time they talked alone. 

They were trying. Trying to mend the brokenness in the little time they had left. But the past continued to creep over their shoulders, a specter haunting. 

Kazi added, “Nothing crazy.”

Daria considered her for a prolonged moment. “It’s okay to be scared.”

She offered her sister a tight smile.  “I’m not.” 

“What happened on Ceaia was traumatic,” Daria said, lifting her chin. “If you’re struggling—”

“I’m fine.” Wiping more sweat from her forehead, she shrugged. “Everything is fine.”

Hurt, subtle like the muted shades of hazel amid the green of a jungle, rounded Daria’s eyes. 

“You’re lying to me,” Daria murmured. Anger softened her voice. “I don’t understand why.”

“You’ve never cared before,” Kazi retorted. “I don’t understand why it matters all of a sudden.”

Daria flinched, and she dropped her gaze to an infant melon, a gloved finger tracing the pink ridges. “I’m sorry I made you think that.”

Sincerity whispered through her tone, a combination of remorse and resignation, and for a brief moment, Kazi considered telling her everything. 

The magistrate and his threat. 

The network and its desire to use her. 

The panic spiking her chest, a fishing javelin impaling her over and over, severing flesh and muscle and bone, whenever she scrubbed data or stole it. 

The nightmare haunting her dreams—the fear she would be discovered and it would lead to Daria’s, Neyti’s, and the men’s suffering. 

A piece of her wanted to empty her mind of all the fears she was withholding. They were, after all, trying to be more honest and open with one another.

But Kazi couldn’t reveal the truth. It was her duty to protect Daria, even if it isolated her. 

“I enjoy my job,” Kazi said, gentling her voice. “I’m good at what I do—”

“I know.” Daria smiled. It was awkward and hesitant, a toothless smile, and yet nostalgia unfurled her mouth further. A pink flower blossoming. “I remember your test scores. They were some of the best. Papa would have been proud.”

Emotion, maybe wistfulness or pain (it was hard to differentiate these days), burned the back of her throat. Hotter, more volatile than the blazing sun. Kazi looked away, to the little girl nearby.

Sprawled in the green ferns, feet swaying with the breeze, Neyti painted. Her white canvas bore the smears of sketches and blobs of paint. Her head bopped to whatever music was playing from the radio. 

Beyond Neyti, the jungle sprawled. The trees hunched above, stoop-backed and weathered; vines writhed a mass of chaos. The men were out there, having spent the late morning on a hike with a scenic lunch. They’d left before Kazi and Daria took Neyti to the park, enjoying their own picnic.

“Did you ever find your purpose?” The randomness of the question, the continued attempt at conversation, had Kazi frowning at her sister. Daria was already watching her, eyes alit with curiosity. “In the capital. Did you ever find it?”

Removing her gloves, Kazi said, “I didn’t leave to find my purpose.”

Disbelief vivified Daria’s snort, and Kazi threw her sister an exasperated scowl.

“I didn’t,” she repeated. “I left to escape that lifestyle.”

“Marriage isn’t a terrible lifestyle,” Daria said, her smile playful, “and neither is having children.”

“It was a nightmare to me.” Kazi eyed her sister. “If Mama hadn’t raised you in high society, you would probably agree with me.”

Daria stilled. Her mouth flattened as she wrung her hat between her hands.

“Just because my dreams were different than yours,” Daria said softly, “doesn’t mean they were any less significant or deserving.”*

Kazi recoiled. “I never said they weren’t—” 

“You didn’t have to.” Daria concentrated on the melon’s leaves, hiding her face from Kazi; sunlight burnished her hair a celestial gold, bright and warm like a light house’s beacon. 

After all those years in etiquette classes and society balls, Kazi knew her disdain and dislike were overt. Even at home when she tried to gain her mother’s approval, her disinterest was obvious. She hadn’t realized her derision made Daria feel insignificant, though. 

“Dee.” Her sister met her gaze. “I’m sorry.” Kazi clasped her hands together, her skin clammy. “I’m sorry that I made you feel that way.”

A small, kindly smile mollified Daria’s expression. “In hindsight, they were foolish to want.”

Kazi narrowed her eyes. “That’s not true.”

“My dreams won’t ever happen.” Daria folded her gloves and set her hat atop them. Her demeanor was composed, practiced. A façade. “I was a fool to spend so much of my youth yearning for those things.”

“The disease was random,” Kazi said tightly. She might not have shared in Daria’s desire for an arranged marriage and younglings, but seeing her sister renege on her dreams—seeing her sister belittle those dreams—was unsettling. Kazi still remembered a time when they shared a bed. A time when little Daria would whisper about her dreams to little Kazi, earnest and eager. “It could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Maybe if I had spent less time wanting a marriage and children”—Daria breathed a rueful chuckle—“and more time trying to reconnect, then things—”

“Nothing would have changed.” Kazi pulled on a braid, shaking her head. “I would have been too stubborn. I wouldn’t have accepted anything you tried to give me. I’m responsible for what happened—”

“I don’t blame you—”

“You should.”

The words were out before she could swallow them and she winced. Daria was staring at her. 

“Kazi—”

Splat!

Beyond the garden, sitting upright among the ferns, Neyti threw another handful of paint at her canvas. It splattered; black dotted her cheeks like teardrops. Even the ferns were victims of her frustration.

Sharing a nonplussed look with Daria, Kazi weaved through the garden’s gate and approached the little girl. Neyti was already on her feet, tearing off the apron Cody gifted her, and throwing it to the ground. She stomped on it. For extra measure, she kicked a paint bottle.

Kazi halted a meter away. Cautiously, she asked, “Are you okay?”

Tears wobbled in Neyti’s eyes and she sniffed, wiping black paint along her nose. Her head jerked back and she glared at her paint-stained hand. A frustrated sob heaved from her chest. Flopping in the ferns, she buried her face in her hands and hunched over her knees, sniffling.

Bewildered by the outburst, Kazi took in the destruction of both nature and canvas. A massacre of blues and purples and grays bloodied the canvas, the black leaching into the vibrant colors of Neyti’s sketched figures. 

It took a few seconds for Kazi to decipher the figures, and when she did, her heart caved.

Seating herself beside Neyti, she picked at a scratchy fern. “You wanna talk about it?”

Neyti shook her head, still hiding her face between her knees.

“All right.” Kazi crossed her ankles, closing her eyes. “We’ll just sit here for a bit.”

So they did. 

Sunshine clung to their unexposed bodies. Humidity plodded down their arms and spines. The jungle laid quiet, even the insects too hot to buzz. Only a gentle patter as Daria watered the garden eclipsed the silence, and it was subtle enough Kazi found it relaxing. 

Soon Neyti lifted her head, wiping at her cheeks. She toed the edge of her butchered painting. Kazi let her stew for a few more minutes, regarding the ruined figures—the figures of her, Daria, and Neyti on what looked to be a Ceaian beach.

When Neyti shot her a furtive glance, she took the opening: “What happened?”

Neyti lifted her paintbrush. She mimed stroking it along the canvas, drawing an image only she could picture, and then she huffed, glaring at the invisible image.

“You weren’t happy with what you painted,” Kazi surmised. 

Tossing the paintbrush aside, Neyti turned her attention to the jungle, her scowl glum.

Kazi studied the painting again. “When I first started knitting, I was terrible at it.” 

Neyti continued to glower at the jungle. 

“It took me months to learn how to knit a simple scarf,” Kazi continued, watching a black bird circle above them. “My creations were awful. You can ask Daria.” 

From the corner of her eye, Neyti twisted in her direction. Skepticism, allied with curiosity, scrunched her nose.

“One winter holiday, I wanted to gift my mother a sweater.” The black bird flapped once, soaring higher as it rode the breeze. “But I couldn’t do it. None of my attempts were good enough. The last sweater I knitted had the ugliest patches crisscrossing the chest. I threw it out and went with a different gift.” 

The creak of the garden gate alerted Kazi to Daria’s presence. Her sister leaned against one of the garden’s stakes, listening. 

“The morning of the winter holiday, I went downstairs and I found my mother wearing the ugly sweater I had thrown away,” Kazi said, dropping her gaze to Neyti. “My mother and I didn’t get along real well. But she wore that sweater every winter holiday.” 

Neyti peered into her face, her eyes seeking.

“You have a place here,” Kazi said softly. “It doesn’t matter if you mess up a painting. Or fail a test in school. It doesn’t matter if you accidentally break something.” Sheepishly, Neyti grinned at her sportive chuckle and Kazi smiled back, murmuring, “You’re enough, just the way you are.”

Regaining her feet, she offered Neyti a hand, the little girl accepting. Once Neyti was standing, she leaned against Kazi, tawny cheek pressed to thigh, their fingers still interlaced. 

They remained that way for some time.

It was only when Neyti stepped away that Kazi nudged the girl’s shoulder. 

“Come on,” she said, grinning. “I think it’s time we cooled off.” 

They visited the lake. 

The water was a sanctuary to the heat and humidity, the canopy of trees a reserve against the sun.

Like most Ceaian younglings, Neyti was adept at swimming. Once she was far enough from the shore, she dove into the water, fully clothed, and swam for the lake’s center. Kazi and Daria followed her lead. Clothes and all. 

Beneath the bright sun, the lake’s depths were clear—hollowed tree trunks, spindly weeds—and the three of them dove to the sloping shelf, scrounging through the dirt in search of shells and fossils. 

Their search revealed nothing of value. But Neyti didn’t seem to care. She found a new rock with each dive and placed them along the shore. The logic behind her method was lost on Kazi.

Returned from their hike, the men joined, ditching their shirts and shoes.

Nova showed interest in Neyti’s rock collection. Daria and Cody drifted. Fox challenged Wolffe to a race. It was close, and they argued about the winner until Neyti interrupted. 

Neyti practiced her diving from Wolffe’s shoulders. Practice led to tossing Neyti into the air, which led to the men seeing who could throw her the highest. The farthest. 

As the afternoon wore on, Neyti took to the shore, yawning as she built a sandcastle. Fox helped with the construction while Daria braided her black hair. Cody and Nova swam nearby.

“I’m surprised you swim in this every morning,” Wolffe said. “In the dark.”

The sun was warm on her face as Kazi floated, and she shrugged. “There aren’t any creatures I need to worry about.”

Wolffe chuckled. “I find it hard to believe you would care.”

“I sailed in a tiny boat that could easily be swallowed by an average-sized whale. Not much in the ocean scares me.” He snorted, and she opened an eye, smiling. “One time, when I was swimming, a pod of sharks found me. They weren’t human predators, but they were known for being aggressive. I thought they were going to attack me.”

Chuckling he said, “I had a similar experience.” He, too, floated on his back, the brown of his skin warmer beneath the sun’s rays. “A pod of aiwhas came up on me. Thought I was gonna die.”

Kazi laughed. “What’s an aiwha?”

“A winged cetacean. Twice as large as your aircar.” Wolffe considered her and then smiled. “You would like ‘em.”

“Huh.” Kazi squinted at the sky, clouds of white froth foaming across the blue, trying to imagine such a creature. Ceaia had an abundance of odd, mythological-like sea creatures but she’d never heard of a winged cetacean. Her gaze slid back to Wolffe; he was studying the sky, too, ruminating based on his expression, and she couldn’t stop herself from asking the question that had bothered her since he first mentioned swimming all those nights ago: “Do you miss Kamino?”

“No.” The reply was swift. A bluntness lacking emotion; purely pragmatic. He sighed. “I do miss the oceans.”

“Would you move back, if given the chance?” A hypothetical question considering the Imperial-initiated destruction of Tipoca City. 

Scrubbing his jaw, Wolffe let his legs drop, treading the water upright. “I like the ground as much as I like the ocean.” He took in the jungle around them. “And Kamino doesn’t have solid ground.”

“You would like Ceaia,” Kazi remarked.

The tips of his fingers brushed hers. “I think I would.” 

Water rolled across her arms and legs, dragging at her clothes. Kazi ignored the tug downwards, not solely literal, but an inward tug, too, almost instinctive.

Wolffe surveyed the pits beneath them. “Can you reach the bottom?” 

“I have,” she said, letting her lower body sink beneath the surface. She quirked an eyebrow. “Do you think you can?”

An arrogant smirk humored the challenge in his eyes, and he motioned for her to lead.

With a slow, deep breath, she dove beneath the surface and propelled herself down.

Silence thrummed around her. Imperceptibly tangible. 

She dove deeper.

Though the sun was a wicked light above, the depths were cool and dark. Kazi equalized her ear pressure the farther she swam. Wolffe remained beside her, and she smiled to herself. Of course he would know how to equalize his ear pressure—it was something he probably taught himself as a boy. 

Once they reached the bottom, Wolffe searched the lake’s floor, and Kazi let her eyes drift close, embracing the silence and the darkness. 

This was her favorite part about diving. She could pretend nothing else existed down here: The galaxy’s issues, her own responsibilities, her fears and concerns were nonexistent. It was just her, and the water, and the pressure that could kill her. Oddly soothing.

But she couldn’t stay down here forever, and soon, her limit made itself known. Tapping Wolffe’s shoulder, she waved and started the slow climb back to the surface. 

The sun greeted her, a puppy licking at her face, its heat severe. 

Swimming to the shore, Kazi found a secluded spot, seated herself in the sand, and apricated beneath the canopied trees. On the perpendicular shore, Fox was sprawled in the sand, clothed once more. Nearby, Neyti was curled on her side, drawing pictures in the wet sand. Daria, Cody, and Nova were flicking stones across the lake’s surface, absorbed in their conversation. 

A few seconds later and Wolffe rejoined Kazi, a slimy, gray rock in his palm. It appeared unordinary and she was about to tease him when she noticed its spiraled protrusions.

“It’s bioluminescent,” she said, awed.

He turned it over in his palm, the spiraled pattern continuing. “Thought Neyti would like it.”

Humming her agreement, she took their momentary seclusion to study the arm closest to her. His left arm.

From his wrist to his shoulder, a tatted assortment of spirals, waves, and korus darkened his skin. A series of parallel ridges, like interlocking arrowheads, provided structure. 

“The men closest to me had similar ones,” Wolffe said quietly, referencing the line-drawn wolf’s head piercing his bicep. “They called themselves the Wolf Pack. Chose the name to annoy me.”

Stoic in its design, the wolf’s angular edges contrasted the softer, curvature design of his other tattoos. 

“Or maybe they chose it because they respected and admired you,” Kazi said. Wolffe cleared his throat, looking away. 

Lackadaisically, she traced a spiral, following it from his forearm to his elbow. The hairs on his arm rose, and a smattering of goosebumps dotted his skin. Wolffe held still as she flattened her palm to his bicep. As if he feared any movement would deter her. 

Brushing a finger along the wolf’s jawline, she studied his features. Thick lashes lowered. Lips slightly parted. His eyes wandered across her face, darker than Eluca’s soil after rainfall. 

It was the trust in his countenance—the lacking stiffness as she touched him, the relaxed manner of his jaw, and the fact that they were far enough away no one could see them—that convinced Kazi to turn around and shimmy her shirt up—

A choked noise sounded behind her. Wolffe grabbed her wrists, halting her movement, and she frowned at him.

“As much as I’d love to see where this leads,” he drawled, “my brothers aren’t far away.”

“I’m not undressing.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m showing you something.”

“Could’ve given me a warning,” he muttered, releasing her wrists. 

Instead of completely separating, as she thought he would, his hands settled on her hips. Calluses scraped her skin, his hold gentle, and she let out a shaky breath, holding still. Mirrored thumbs skimmed her lower back. A caress so soft she could’ve imagined it. 

“Nice dimples,” Wolffe murmured. His thumbs stroked lower, to a point she could only assume. The point where her skin indented on opposite sides of her spine.

“I didn’t think you’d notice them,” she said, resting her cheek against her bent knees.

Wolffe slid his hands higher, his palms bracketing her ribcage as he traced the outline of her tattoo. A low hum spoke of his intrigue. And secluded in the shadows, away from prying eyes, Kazi found herself relaxing into him. Basking in the tenderness of his touch on her bare skin.

A chaste kiss found her neck. Her breathing faltered; her eyelashes fluttered. Brushing her hair aside, Wolffe grazed his teeth down the side of her neck, kissing beneath her jaw. 

A delectable warmth seeped through her blood and swirled in her stomach. Throbbed between her legs. His hand skimmed her ribcage and moved to her stomach, resting just beneath her breasts. 

“Wolffe,” she whispered.

He kissed her jaw, soft and slow, and her heart was beating entirely too fast—

Beep!

Kazi jerked. Behind her, Wolffe stared at his wrist-chrono, his brows bunched together. He clicked a button. And then he stiffened. The hand on her stomach flexed. As if wanting to pull her closer.

“We have inbound,” Fox called out. 

Malaise knotted her shoulder muscles, and hastily, Kazi scanned their surroundings. Cody and Nova were both looking at their wrist-chronos. The former’s jaw was clenched, the latter scowling in the direction of the single road to the house.

“Wolffe,” Kazi said cautiously.

“We need to go,” Wolffe ordered. 

Anger—no, unease—radiated from him, palpable in its intensity, as he helped her to her feet. More like hauled her upright. 

Urgency zipped through the atmosphere—a cloud hid the sun; cawing birds were silenced; Nova carried a disgruntled Neyti back to the house, Cody ushering Daria after them. 

Sand shifted beneath her feet as Kazi hurried across the lake’s shore. Fox stood at the trail head, waiting for her and Wolffe. He was palming a blaster, and it was the weapon, his readiness that had her blanching, turning on Wolffe.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

“Our sensors picked up someone coming down the road,” Wolffe said, tone clipped. Authoritative. 

“You have sensors?” Kazi took in the dense foliage, its vibrant green nauseating. “On our road?” 

His expression was unapologetic. “And around the house.”

“Be grateful for them,” Fox chimed in. His voice was calm but his features were serious, hyper-focused. “They’ve given us enough of a warning to prepare.”

Kazi blinked, dubiously. “Who’s coming.”

Wolffe squared his shoulders, his nostrils flaring. “It’s a military vehicle.”

The jungle stilled, her heart along with it; even the clouds seemed to halt in their lazy drifting.

Slowly, Kazi faced the house, the structure swallowed by the yawning wilderness. 

The house and elder trees wavered. Flickered and blurred. Like she was staring at them through sheets of rain. 

Suddenly she wasn’t on Eluca. 

She wasn’t in a jungle. 

She was back in Ceaia’s capital, the night young.

Screams harrowing the alleys. 

Body parts strewn across rubble. 

Her sweaty hand clamped around Daria’s.

But she wasn’t on Ceaia, and this wasn’t the Purge, and she wasn’t going to watch her kid and little sister be hurt. 

“You need to get into the basement,” Kazi heard herself saying. She didn’t remember moving, but she was nearing the back porch, climbing the stairs and reaching the back door. She looked between Wolffe and Fox. “They don’t know about it—”

“We’re staying out here,” Wolffe said. His eyes were narrowed as he scanned the leering foliage. “Strategic positioning. Element of surprise.”

The back door swung open and Cody and Nova appeared, both armed. The former passed a blaster to Wolffe who nodded his thanks. 

Four trained soldiers. Three former commanders. Clone commanders.

A reassurance, if anything. 

Wolffe faced Kazi, and though his jaw was tensed and body stiff, his voice was calm when he spoke. “See what they want. Play along. If things go south, we’ll intervene.”

Nodding, she stepped through the door. However, Wolffe grabbed her wrist, holding her back. 

“This isn’t a repeat of Ceaia,” he said quietly. 

“I know,” she murmured.

Inside, Daria and Neyti were perched on the couch, a holofilm already playing. Towels enshrouded their frames and Daria handed Kazi an extra, her skin ashy and throat bobbing. 

Running a hand through Neyti’s wet hair, Kazi gripped her sister’s shoulder and squeezed. A silent reassurance. Neyti waved at her, guileless confusion rounding her eyes. 

Before Kazi could explain, a loud thud pounded against the front door. Daria flinched.

“We’re going to be okay,” Kazi said, ignoring the apprehension spasming inside her chest. Both Daria and Neyti stared at her, and she mustered a tight smile, gesturing to the holoscreen. “Keep watching.”

The holofilm fell prey to the roar of her blood as she approached the front door. 

The entryway tunneled around her. 

Her dragon, its black hide glittering, pawed its bookshelf. 

Not a repeat of Ceaia, Kazi told herself. 

The doorknob was cold beneath her trembling hand. 

Not a repeat. 

Three stormtroopers blemished the view from the porch. The leader, donning a black pauldron and carrying a datapad, straightened.

“Kazi Lucien?” he asked.

“Yes.” Simple confusion, apprehensive yet intrigued enough to be innocent, calmed her voice. Working with Imperials the last few days had given her the practice, at least. “Do you need something?”

“Routine check,” the leader answered. Lowering his ‘pad, his helmet angled down and to the side, like he was studying her. “I’m Officer Sterling. Have you or any others in this house participated in acts of rebel terrorism?”

Not a repeat.

Her eyes widened. “No, sir.”

“Mind if we check?” 

Stepping away from the door, she waved the troopers inside. “Of course not.”

Officer Sterling strode into the living area, his two subordinates following, blasters in their hands. Kazi followed. 

A practiced mask slid into place. Cool and familiar. Her dragon’s wing brushed her elbow.

“Search the place,” Office Sterling ordered. 

The two stormtroopers marched toward the sunroom and disappeared beneath the partition. 

Not a repeat.

“How many people are registered at this house?”

“Three,” Kazi answered. “My sister, my child, and me.”

The officer glanced at the couch where Neyti was dutifully watching her movie. A polite smile warmed Daria’s face as she looked from Kazi to Officer Sterling. Her kindly expression must have convinced Officer Sterling of her innocence because he returned his attention to his datapad.

“I only had one person registered at this house,” the officer said.

“We recently moved to Eluca,” Kazi answered apologetically, “and our papers are taking a long time to process.”

Officer Sterling assessed her, his silence unreadable. 

Not a repeat.

“All right.” The officer sighed. “You’ll need to correct that.”

Half an hour later, both floors of the house checked along with the garage, the two subordinates made their way to the front door. 

“I’ll update the status of your house,” Officer Sterling said, stopping before the bookcase. 

Kazi smiled her feigned gratitude. “Thank you.”

The officer appraised the bookcase. He took a step closer. 

Stilling, Kazi searched the bookcase for a hint of their treachery. Their lies. Their rebel terrorism. It was melded to the wall, seamless, unnoticeable. 

Officer Sterling reached for a bookshelf.

Something—a hand, or a metaphorical noose, perhaps—palmed her neck. Tightened. Squeezed. 

“Nice carving,” the officer said. He poked the dragon on the near-empty shelf, and Kazi swallowed. “That’s some good workmanship. My grandfather was a wood carver and I’ll tell ya, that skillset is hard to master.”

Chuckling, she clasped her trembling hands behind her back. “So I’ve heard.”

Officer Sterling scanned the dragon once more, oblivious to the carving’s significance, and the information it could reveal. 

Kazi kept this to herself as the military vehicle rumbled down the dirt path. A cloud of dust kicked into the air, and once the jungle claimed the vehicle, Kazi lurched down the porch steps, hunkered behind a tree, and retched.

She vomited until she was spitting bile. 

“Fuck,” she hissed under her breath. 

Spittle dribbled from her lips and she retched again. 

The Empire now had records of Neyti and Daria. Fucking official, Imperial records.

All of her attempts to protect them—to hide them from the Empire—had failed. 

A bogged adoption process through Eluca’s Adoption Center for Young Girls and Boys. Pointless.

A healer connected to Fehr and, most importantly, unconnected to the Empire. Worthless.

Now, if someone grew curious—if someone deemed it necessary to investigate her background—they would find Neyti and Daria. Dig deep enough, and they would uncover circumstantial evidence against woman and youngling: evidence the Empire would deem strong enough to condemn them. 

A cold sweat clammed her skin and Kazi pushed herself to her feet, her legs shaky. 

Nothing could be done. Her efforts had failed. She had failed. 

Only baseless hope, hope in the solidity of Carinthia’s chain codes and hope Kazi never gave the Empire reason to investigate, would keep Neyti and Daria safe.

Wiping her hand across her mouth, Kazi straightened her damp clothes and returned inside. 

Gathered at the kitchen table, the men were analyzing a holopod displaying the vacated dirt road. Daria and Neyti remained on the couch, the latter asleep in the former’s lap. 

“It was a routine check,” Kazi said, joining the men. Wolffe shared a look with Cody. “They were searching for signs of rebel activity. Sounds like they’re checking all houses.”

Fox crossed his arms over his chest. “Did they mention how often these ‘routine checks’ will occur?” 

She shook her head.

“Did they suspect anything?” Cody asked.

“No.” Rubbing her hands together, she stared at the holopod display. Her heart was jumping around her ribcage, out of control, fearful. It felt like her chest might pop. “I don’t think so.”

Fox stepped closer to her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” 

Whatever adrenaline had kept her in control, composed and competent, in front of the Imperials seemed to abandon her. Her blood was cold, and her legs too weak, and she thought she might collapse. 

Her hands were shaking and she quickly hid them behind her back, gritting her teeth as she forced her mind to numb itself. Forcibly shoved aside her fear and panic, shoved them down, until she was nothing more than a hollowed tree. Empty. Unfeeling.

“They didn’t find anything,” Kazi said, her voice distant, cold. “And they didn’t seem suspicious.”

“It was a random check?” Fox asked. 

“That’s what they said.”

“And they said nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“If they said something—”

“That’s enough.” Wolffe’s voice cut through the numbness chilling her mind, and Kazi blinked. He was staring at her, assessing, narrow-eyed, and then he faced his brothers. “We can discuss this later.”

At the dismissal, she started for the staircase, needing to lock herself away. Only for a few minutes. To compose herself, once more.

Her body seemed far away, disconnected, as she neared the first step. And it took her a prolonged moment to realize someone had reached for her shoulder, withholding her.

“Kazi,” Wolffe murmured. And it was the concern in his tone, the concern in the way he searched her face, that had her mustering a tight smile. For his sake.

“I thought something at work…” 

“You thought they’d discovered you.”

Fatigue gnawed on her bones as suppressed emotions fought with her control. Biting the inside of her cheek, she ordered herself to remain numb. To not succumb to the tears burning the back of her eyes.

“I always knew working for the network was dangerous,” Kazi said hoarsely. “But I didn’t think…”

Shrugging, she breathed a humorless laugh. 

Wolffe watched her. Unmoving. Inscrutable. 

The repressed tears were scorching and she clenched her jaw. Dug her fingernails into her palms—

The hand on her shoulder moved to her back, urged her forward, and Kazi found herself leaning into Wolffe, pressing her forehead to his chest. 

“I keep failing,” she whispered, for only him to hear. A secret she couldn’t share with Daria. A responsibility she had to endure alone.

A heavy arm wound around her shoulders. It held her close. 

And gods, did it feel nice. To rely on another, for just a moment.

Masterlist | Chapter 17 | A Muse

A/N: * Line inspired by Little Women (2019): "Just because my dreams are different than yours doesn't mean they're unimportant. I want a home and a family and I'm willing to work and struggle, but I want to do it with John."

[elrielsdaughter]

Secrets in the Shadows

pairing: elriel

summary: azriel is a vampire with ni true purpose in life or ambition, elain is the only one to catch his attention, an obsession grows within azriel and he hates more than anything elain's abusive husband.

warnings: domestic abus*, mentions of blood.

vampire! au

A/N: This is my first elriel fanfic here in Tumblr, as much as I hope you enjoy it please keep in mind that English is not my first language and I ask you to excuse my mistakes as well as letting me know them and how I can improve. ❤️

And if you like this one, please let me know so I can make a part two.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Azriel sometimes felt bad. Sometimes there was some remorse left over from the extinct human he had once inhabited.

It ran through his body and slithered like a snake leaving pity and shame in his wake, making him feel dirty and disgusting, a worthless male in the eyes of God. But he remembered that that God had abandoned him long ago, at the moment that his life had frozen and he hadn’t allowed him to cross to the other side for all eternity, stuck in his body forever, before he was devoted son of God, and now… He felt nothing towards him but hatred, he despised him over all living creatures, he who had turned his back at him.

So he would spend eternity hidden within the walls of his castle, listening to the rats and cockroaches, to the owls of the forest beyond in complete solitude hiding in the shadows of the man he had once been, but he couldn’t lead a quiet and peaceful life with no worries, he had to feed himself.

And there was no human hand that could recreate his diet without hurting something or someone, he accepted his fate with pain in his chest, the pain that subsided and became a purr when his fangs pierced skin and flesh, making him see red, the lust taking over his body fiercely.

It was an addiction, the crimson color that flowed like a waterfall and enveloped him in a deep ecstasy, it was all he could feel that still made him feel alive, apart from the crosses, the garlic, and the sun there was nothing that caused him any pain, any emotion. Nothing that could keep him on this realm more than that, blood.

Azriel would drain one victim at a time, sneaking into their rooms when not even the moonlight lit the way, making them sleep soundly as he drank and drank, night after night taking their blood and leaving nothing but the scar of his fangs on their skin. It didn’t matter after all, the doctors would say they had a problem called anemia, that the fainting and dizziness were due to low iron in their blood, not suspecting that the shadow of death was creeping slowly but surely to take their victims on any night he drank too much.

This was how he lived his days, full of rage and anger in the morning hiding in the shadows, spitting at the sky and the holy land, being a ruthless killer when the moon came.

Until she came.

Elain Archeron was like the sun, a sun that didn’t killed him, but a sun made for the only porpoise of lighting up the world.

In the two hundred and sixty years of his life, he had never felt his heart beat with so much desire, with so much yearning at the sight of any person.

She was delicate, she walked as if she were a ballerina despite her low rank, a lady, surely educated with manners and etiquette, her brown eyes so expressive and vibrant had a charisma that Azriel didn’t know how to distinguish. How much of that innocence was fake and how much was true? God had created a monster like him, and he had created a creature like her.

The girl who walked barefoot on the ground, with flowers in her hair, he watched her very often, in the mornings the tower of his castle being his observatory, maybe he was an indecent male for doing that, but he couldn’t help it. She was always busy, baking for everyone she could and carrying the food from house to house, with a smile that if Azriel saw face to face his entire being would melt into ashes.

And during the night he would get into her room, the first time he saw her he had succumbed to her skin and had touched her, delicately, she had not moved an inch and dreamed gracefully, that was enough for Azriel to fill his desires and his hunger. He bit into her, taking her thin, sleep-soft body in his arms tightly, smelling the jasmine that emanated from her skin as he drank and his soul filled with her blood, nothing but the sleepy moan made him stop once he had started, the frenzy her blood gave him was enough to make him finish, he left her on her bed, wiped the blood from her neck and rushed out the window like air.

Something bothered him, sometimes, a certain male would arrive who seemed more like the owner of the house than a guest, with reddish hair making her come and go fulfilling whims, and he would reward her with a kiss on the head or on her cheek. A husband, of course, he had never stopped to think that she was a married woman, he had never noticed the ring on her finger and he had never questioned why she lived alone in such a big house.

A misfortune, not being able to visit her as usual knowing that there was another male at her side, anger was something that was familiar to him, but he had never felt that discomfort in his chest, as if it were a heavy burden that despite trying to convince himself that he didn’t care at all, Azriel knew he would kick that arrogant redhead out of her house if he could. She was married, and next to her husband Azriel was really nobody and nothing. But he noticed things that upset him more than he cared to admit, Elain’s smile always tended to fade when he entered the room, she would smile weakly at him and would go back to doing something as quickly as possible.

As if she wanted to avoid the male as fast as possible, and he couldn’t understand why, she was married to him, and she wanted nothing to do with him.

He didn’t take long to find the answer.

“Are you doubting me, woman?” Her husband’s voice echoed in the forest, which annoyed Azriel, he was in his land and didn’t have the decency to lower his voice.

Azriel looked through the trees at the couple’s fight with his eyes fixed on them, his disgust for him increasing with each step that he approached Elain with a promise of violence, no one but the moon to be a witness.

Poor Elain was holding her hands up, trying to calm him down.

“No! Lucien, you know I would never doubt you…” Elain’s hand ventured very slowly to Lucien’s cheek, caressing. “It’s just that you and Vassa are close, it’s normal for me to have doubts, you spent the whole winter with her."

“Because there are things to resolve with her father, Elain, I explained it to you a thousand times and you still doubt me, do you think I’m not loyal to my vows?”

“It's not that, Lu…”

He clenched his fist and had to control himself not to jump on him when his hand slammed into Elain’s shoulder, knocking her into a tree trunk, her moan echoing in his ears like the sound of an injured animal.

“So what is it? Huh?” His hand ended up squeezing the nervous face of the girl, who looked at him with fear, it was fear what she felt for him. “Answer me when I speak to you, Elain.”

Azriel noticed that the girl had guts on her, with her strength she made him let go of her, pushing him away from her and causing him to trip over his feet.

“You won’t even let me talk!”

“How dare you!”

Azriel could do nothing but watch, his body tense with rage as Lucien’s body positioned itself over Elain and his fists crashed into her face, the face that Azriel loved so much, the face full of love and hope being slaughtered by the person who was supposed to love and respect her always. Her hands pushing Lucien’s body off her, Azriel smelled the blood from where he was. His anger and desire for her blood was too dangerous, he could kill them both if he misplayed his cards, but his dead heart begged and screamed at him to move, to go for her.

She crawled out of his reach over the leaves, her whimpers echoing in his chest like a stake through the heart, her husband’s demanding cry and the thunderous sounds of her poor heart aching… That was the biggest torture for him.

“Help! Please help!”

“Shut your mouth, bitch!”

You can kill her Azriel, control yourself, control yourself damn it, breathe.

But he didn��t move, his body was in shock and his mind kept screaming at him that he wasn’t going to achieve anything, that he wasn’t going to help…

“Whoever, please! Someone help me!”

Azriel moved.

Lucien reached for her, grabbing her fragil body and slamming it hard to the ground, her head taking a blow that rendered her immobile, nothing but the fear in her eyes and the blood on her face.

It wasn’t more than a second that passed, when Azriel grabbed Lucien by his neck and his nails ripped out his throat in one blow, the sounds of pain were like music to his ears before he collapsed into the ground, dead.

Elain’s startled cry made him slightly regret his decision, but she didn’t run from him, it wasn’t like she could, but her expectant eyes were looking at him with a mixture of wonder and terror.

“Who?...” she trailed off and reassessed her question, “what are you?”

Elain was talking to him, and although Azriel was full of blood from that bastard, he felt his heart explode with happiness.

“The help” His husky voice came out of him softly, almost as if he was going to scare her away.

Elain’s face seemed to relax a little, just a little, before fading into unconsciousness, Azriel with a quick move trapped her, his delicate petal massacred in his arms.

A look of hatred towards the redhead’s corpse wouldn’t be enough, he will burn him in a while, he got up from the ground with Elain in his arms and continued on his way to the castle.

[ask-runaan-anything]

Recently asked a Ethari for a hurt/comfort story, would you trouble us with one too?

Something tells me that you won’t be troubled in the slightest by such a tale. *knowing glance* So, yes I will.

Ethari and I traveled into the mountains one winter, searching for a certain ingredient he needed for his enchantments--a rare frostflower that only grows in the coldest temperatures. We set up a base camp, and we hiked out from it every day in search of this rare flower.

One afternoon, we were walking across a frozen lake--well, I was walking, while Ethari was skating and showing off his graceful gliding for me--when suddenly the ice cracked beneath us... from below.

The mountain lake had a very large and very grumpy resident. Apparently he didn’t like Ethari’s ice dancing routine.

The ice didn’t shatter on the first strike, though. I shouted for Ethari to run, and we bolted for the nearest shoreline. I pushed him ahead of me because I’m faster. The ice broke the second time the creature struck.

Ethari made it to shore. I didn’t.

I got launched sky high, while Ethari was tossed onto the snowy drifts at the edge of the lake. I managed not to get eaten when I fell back into the lake’s icy water, but...

It was icy.

I swam for all I was worth under the surface, trying to stay just out of the reach of the giant fish’s maw of teeth. After a couple of minutes, I managed to suck in another lungful of air, but I could barely feel my limbs at that point. And I couldn’t see Ethari, either. I dived and porpoised toward the shore, where I’d last seen him, skittering and twisting as the monster’s teeth chomped at my toes.

Just as the pressure wave from the creature shoved me forward and I knew I was about to get eaten, a massive boom shook the water, and the fish stopped. I stopped at the shore line and looked back as I lay in six inches of slushy lake water.

Ethari wore iceberg shoes and had run out onto the lake with an enchanted stick and some smooth lakeshore rocks. He was thirty feet past me, floating on the water’s surface with his icy footwear, shooting blasts of light at the fish and chucking freshly enchanted rocks at it. They fell into the water like depth charges and then exploded--or rather, they sounded like they did.

“Ethari!” I called out to let him know I was safely at the shore, and he hurled one more stone after the retreating fish and poled his way back to shore with his eyes fixed on me.

“Runaan, get out of the water,” he said as he hauled me to my feet. “Let’s find a place to warm you up.”

The moment his hand took mine, I realized just how cold I was, and my shivering started. Ethari spotted a cave a short distance away, and he basically carried me there. 

I squeezed his shoulder as he worked on our fire. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

His grin was taut as he focused on feeding thicker sticks into the growing flame. “One of us had to be, or we’d both be done for. Did you know it would catch you?”

“I took precautions by saving the cleverer of us, in case I needed rescue,” I said through chattering teeth.

“Mmm. A wise plan, my heart. Alright, this fire is going to live. I want you to live, too, so come here and take off those wet clothes. Good thing I’m the warm one, too. You’ll need it.”

“Y-Yes, I do...” I stuttered. My fingers were too frozen to work off my coat, though, let alone everything else. Ethari saw my difficulty and took over with his nimble fingers.

“Moon and shadow, you’re so cold, Runaan.” While he shucked off my sopping coat, he pressed his warm cheek against mine. His skin was so hot it nearly burned, compared to mine, but I leaned into it anyway. He was life--he always has been--and I wanted to live, to let him save me.

His cheek press turned into soft kisses as his fingers continued to free me from my wet clothes, and his lips found their way to mine by the time he got down to my green shirt. “I don’t r-remember kisses being listed under l-life saving techniques,” I said shiveringly.

Ethari’s smile was slow even as he kept working. “You didn’t read the advanced techniques, did you?”

“The what?” I blurted, before realizing that he was only teasing me. I leaned into him, dug my fingers into his coat as much as I could get them to move. “S-So cold, Ethari... Warm me up.”

“Mmm. What the assassin wants, the assassin gets.” Ethari freed me from the deadly embrace of my wet clothes, fetched blankets from our day packs, and stripped himself down to match before snuggling me against his chest as near to the fire as we dared to get. He even carefully pulled my ponytail to the opposite side from the fire, after he wrung it out for me.

He held me close atop his chest and I lay flush against him and shivered. I feared I would suck all the heat from his body, I was so cold, and it didn’t seem to be letting up. He wrapped a leg around mine, pressing warmth against all the skin he could get to, and his hands started gently rubbing warmth back into me.

“I sh-should’ve taken you the long way around the l-lake,” I apologized.

“You’re not psychic, Runaan. It’s not your fault. You saved me by pushing me ahead of you. And now I’m saving you.” More lovely soft kisses followed, and I got delightfully dizzy as I finally started to warm up.

“Do you think we can make it back to base camp by nightfall?” I murmured against Ethari’s ear.

“Mmm.” Ethari’s arms tightened around me. “Definitely not.”

When we left the cave the next morning, Ethari was delighted to find some frostflowers that had sprouted overnight just outside the cave. And I was delighted to be there to see his happiness.

[wide-eyedscottishlass]

Scarlett and the Professor

[continued from]

8pm sharp.  Well, at least I’m not tardy.

Without a further moment’s hesitation, Scarlett rang the bell, knowing that now there would be no turning back.  Though the sun was nearly set, the evening air was humid, as if portending a storm coming off the Caribbean after full dark.  Although Scarlett had taken a long bath before dressing, her exposed skin already felt sticky.  As if in answer to that thought, a light breeze suddenly whispered against her bare flesh, stirring the few wispy tendrils of hair that had fallen from her loose chignon.  How cooling it felt against her shoulders and arms, her back and her calves, rippling her hemline.

She had chosen a dress meant to please her lover, an Egyptian blue, rayon and silk trapeze silhouette, which loosely draped her form and fell into a high-low hemline that complimented her legs.  The color flattered her pale skin tone and dark hair, and matched the pure, bright ocean waters that surrounded this island—waters which she knew Professor Hennessy loved.  Silver and rhinestone embellishments adorned the spaghetti straps and low v-neckline, with celestial symbols of the sun and moon stitched in silver thread scattered upon the blue background.  As she donned it, Scarlett had been thinking of how she had unwittingly become the moon to his sun, locked in an unwavering orbit around him, pursuing his blazing heat, and seeming to come to fullest light only when she reflected his light.

Hyper aware of the growing night sounds around her, the nervous rasp of her own respiration, and the thundering beat of her heart, Scarlett still didn’t miss the click of the latch inside the door being released.  Warm, tawny light spilled out from behind him as Hennessy opened the door, and his classic, masculine beauty, the peerless angles and planes of his face, stole the breath from her lungs as it did each time she saw him anew.  His eyes held hers in stasis for several moments, taking her measure, raking across her form, coolly appraising her as though he saw not only right through her clothing, but down to her soul.  The first blush of the evening crept into her cheeks.

He had changed his clothes too, into a deep blue silk dress shirt, so snug across his chest that the buttons seemed to be straining not to pop off.   He had his sleeves rolled up again, and his waistcoat—in a shade lighter than his shirt—hung open.  Scarlett dared look no lower, not wishing him to catch her eyeing what lay below his belt—although she knew without needing a glance, that his bespoke trousers matched his vest, and fit him as snugly as his shirt.

Hennessy’s smile was warm and disarming, his clear blue eyes dancing with mirth.  “Well now, aren’t you the tastiest treat to grace my doorstep in about a month of Sundays!”  He backed up a little to allow her to pass, “But please do come in, Miss Scarlett--and welcome to my home.”  Though she hadn’t even tried to imagine what to expect, the place already felt to her as though it had been raised from it’s foundations to house the life force of this enigmatic, powerful, all too charming, yet dangerous, man.

Scarlett had seen some of Europe’s most opulent mansions and palaces during her gap year travels, and though Hennessy’s home paled by those standards, she was impressed enough to have to remind herself not to gawk.  The marble-floored foyer led into a two-story hall that housed a ten-foot wide, cobalt coloured, carpeted staircase, which swept upwards to an eight foot tall, stained glass window above the main landing.  A short run of stairs branched off on either side of the landing, presumably to bedrooms and bathrooms, and likely much more.  But it was the window that really grabbed her attention.

A large silver moon dominated a star strewn, indigo sky, riding above stylized waves fresh with white seafoam.  Several shades of blue-greens and blues marked the descending depths, which towards the bottom became nearly as black as true night.  A myriad of bright fish swam in the upper levels, along with several grey seals and tortoises; just beneath them dwelt jellyfish, porpoises, a few species of sharks, and a pod of orcas.  In the darker regions below cruised manta rays and bright red octopi and freakishly long eels.  Lurking the bottom was an ominous black sea serpent, outlined in the same silver that coloured the moon, so as to be visible.  It’s eyes were large and cat-like—and possessed the monster’s only other color besides black and silver.  Blue.  A bright blue that felt impossible to belong to such a menacing creature.  Why, even it’s deadly fangs and claws were silver.

Scarlett shivered at the sight, as though a goose had walked over her grave.  For several heartbeats she was overcome with deja vu—for it put her in mind of her nightmares of unseen, but too oft-dreamt, foul beasties populating the Deep, laying in wait to steal her away if she ever tread too far from shore.  Those terrors of her youth, which had only fully disappeared when she had tarried on the shores of the Aegean Sea during her Greek holiday.  And had just recently returned to plague her briefly throughout those weeks that Hennessy had left her languishing for his attention.  Still unaware that it was her ancient Selkie blood raising the alarm, she turned away—vowing that if…or when…she had cause to mount those stairs, she would avert her eyes from the troubling portion of the image, and focus solely on the moon and waves, the fish and sleek grey seals.

Hennessy looked back over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t fallen behind, casually asking her, “Have you eaten?”

“Um…yes,” she replied quietly, not adding that she’d barely had an appetite in nervous anticipation of their evening together, “I assumed you didn’t invite me here for dinner…”

“That I did not,” he chuckled, stopping just outside a wide, open doorway to the left of the sprawling staircase, “But I think we could both use a bit of refreshment before the evening’s revelries begin.” He sketched a little bow, his handsome face become mischief personified, and motioned for Scarlett to proceed him into the room.

From the preponderance of leather and wood, she guessed this was his study.  The room had a decidedly masculine air about it, with dark wood paneling all around and full bookcases lining two walls.  With a quick glance, Scarlett noted a book of poetry by Dylan Thomas (which she would later discover was a first edition), well-weathered editions by Samuel Beckett and William Blake, and even a collection of works by her beloved Pablo Neruda.  That was a surprise: she never would have imagined Hennessy reading any sort of romantic poetry, let alone the works that she knew populated that title.  It certainly didn’t fit the image he presented to the world, let alone in the private moments they had shared thus far.

The wonderful smell of old, cherished books dominated the air and hints of cigar smoke lingered in the room.  Scarlett also detected traces of Hennessy’s cologne underlying it all.  A scent with notes of bright, clean citrus, mixed with amber and something that reminded her of an old cedarwood cabinet in her cottage back home, all tinged with a  salty tang. Taken altogether, scents that evoked sure thoughts of the sea.  Fittingly, a painting above the fireplace reinforced the aquatic feel---it depicted a ship with tattered sails wrecked upon a harsh outcropping of rocks, set against a backdrop of rough whitecaps and forked lightening.  Several sirens, creatures out of myths and sea dreams, beckoned with outstretched arms to the unlucky sailors, trapping the unfortunate men between the treacherous waters and the beautiful peril of supernatural beings seeking to wreck their immortal souls.

Other smaller paintings hung throughout the room, all celebrating various aspects of the sea, including one that would easily become Scarlett’s favorite: silvery moonlight adorning the ripples and waves that washed up onto a white sand beach—which put her in mind of the warm, lovely waters of the Aegean, when she’d vacationed in Mykonos a few years ago.

A bar cart sat beside a leather divan adjacent to one of the bookcases, topped with cut crystal old fashioned glasses, a gleaming, sterling silver ice bucket, and a sealed bottle of Glenlivet 18 YO. Hennessy dropped several ice cubes into one of the rocks glasses, then cracked open the bottle of fine, Scottish-distilled whiskey, pouring first onto the rocks, and then straight up into a second glass.  He turned to Scarlett, holding out the iced drink to her, “Care for a taste of home?

She stepped forward and silently took his offering, giving a small start at the brush of his cool fingertips against her skin at the transfer.  A sudden rush of anticipation—and damned desire—bolted through her, betraying her resolve to appear aloof to his wicked charms for as long as she could manage. And of course he noticed, the Man never missed a trick; her quick intake of breath, the dilation of her pupils, enough to give her away.

Hennessy greeted her response with a satisfied half-smile and a knowing lift of his brow, clearly pleased with her quiet but visceral reaction.  “It’s meant to take the edge of, darlin’…to help you relax a bit,” he winked, raising his glass, “Slainte mhath.”  He took a long swallow, while never taking his eyes off her.

She hesitated in meeting the familiar toast, instead swirling the ice a bit, so that notes of rich cream and caramelized vanilla wafted up from the heady ramber fluid, while she wondered if there might have been something in the bottom of the glass, or even in the ice itself, before he’d poured the whiskey in.  Closely considering if Hennessy would actually sink that low.

“Oh, Scarlett…my dear girl,” he t’sked, practically reading her mind, “Do you honestly think I’d want to dose you?”  He feigned a look of hurt that soon melted into an indulgent smile, “We both know why you’re here tonight, and I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of fully experiencing the…festivities…”  he bit his lower lip, daring her to answer.

“No,” she replied, almost to herself, letting her small overnight bag slip the floor, “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”  And then, wanting to prove herself up to whatever he had planned for them in the hours ahead, Scarlett lifted her glass and thickened her brogue for maximum effect, “Gu gaothan arda agus maighdeannan-mara!” fearlessly throwing back the full portion of whiskey he had given her.  Unaccustomed to hard liquor, she had to give a little shake of her head to keep from gagging as the bite hit the back of her throat---but soon enough, she felt the velvet burn go down, and even better, the liquid courage radiating out from the pit of her stomach to even the tips of her fingers and toes.

Her boldness appeared to please him, which left Scarlett pleased as well---until she gave a wee, ladylike burp.  He did a double take as she quietly excused herself, before he laughed heartily.  “Good god, Scarlett, but you never fail to entertain!”  To that, she could only shrug sheepishly, then give him a sweet, honest smile.

Hennessy downed the remainder of his own drink and set his glass down on the bar, before drawing his closest to her yet, so that she had to look up to maintain eye contact.  Unconsciously, she parted her lips, readying herself for his kiss, but that was not his intention.  Instead, he retrieved her tumbler and reached for her overnight bag, taking it to deposit on the divan, before he moved to refill both their glasses.  Scarlett started to decline when he held it out to her, but he shook his head.  “Take it, my dear,” he insisted, sounding kindly, but clearly expecting her to come to him at once, “’Twould be a cardinal sin to waste such good whiskey.”

Close up this way, his magnetism took over, reminding Scarlett there was very little chance she could withstand anything he would ask of her this night.  She sipped at her whiskey, allowing herself to enjoy its woody-spiced flavor and slight taste of vanilla, it’s mounting warmth spreading relaxation through her veins.  Hennessy was watching her keenly, biding his time as he polished off his portion.

When satisfied she had drunk enough, he put both their glasses aside, and turned to her with a soft smile, the request that followed completely unexpected.  “Scarlett, would you take down your hair for me?”  She blinked several times in surprise, so that he added gently, “Please, my dear.  You don’t wear it down nearly enough.”

“As...as you wish...Professor.”  His gaze felt like a slow, painless dissection, as though he was reckoning even her most secret details, thoughts, and desires.  Scarlett inclined her head a bit, and pulled out the silver comb that secured her updo, along with several bobby pins, then shook her hair loose, fluffing the length out with her free hand.  

She looked back up when Hennessy drew a whistling breath, to find he’d closed what little space had been left between them.  “There you go, my good little lamb.  Pretty as a picture.”  He took her hand between his two, relieving her of the comb and pins, softly stroking the back of her hand with the fingertips of his free hand, then sliding them up to her elbow in a slow, deliberate tease.  She closed her eyes, knowing that the seduction had truly begun.

Hennessy deposited her ornaments in his pocket, another trophy in his conquest, and with his hand still on her elbow, drew Scarlett to him.  She raised her face, waiting for his kiss---though he delayed, threading the fingers of his other hand through her hair, then tracing the shell of her ear.  Just kiss me, dammit, her mind cried out, kiss me please!  She parted her lips once more, in anticipation.

“Prettier than any picture that I’ve seen in a very...long...time,” he murmured, then finally laid his lips on hers.

Of all the kisses he had yet bestowed upon her, this was the most patient.  The most thorough too, for he knew he had all the time in the world.  Scarlett’s instinct insisted that this was as much for his own sake as for hers---for though he certainly knew what this evening meant to her, and that what lovers she took for the rest of her life would ever be compared to him, he was actually about the entire experience, and not just the consummation that had been her promise to him from before they had shared a single touch.  Hennessy savored her lips patiently, precisely because he knew she was already his---and surely because he had nothing to prove or anything further to gain.

When they broke the first time to catch a gasp of air, he leaned his forehead against hers, breathing just as hard as she was.  It felt like forever to her as she waited for him to begin again, yet before he did, he cleared his throat, asking huskily, “Before we truly commence, little lamb, satisfy my curiosity please…”

“Anything,” she whispered.  Anything for you, dearest man.

He puffed against her lips, amused, “Just what in God’s good English did you mean by that toast you made?”

Scarlett couldn’t help but smile, marveling that for once she had stumped him.  “Man of the world…Master of all you survey…surely you can guess…”

“I haven’t a clue, Scarlett,” he practically growled, “And I’ll have all your secrets this night, one way or another.”

Of course you will, she thought, and brushed her lips to his, delivering the translation.  “To high winds…and mermaids! Like a blessing—for an auspicious new endeavor.”  

She felt the smile that graced his fulsome lips, as he told her, “My oh my…you are a true wonder, Scarlett.”  Then he silenced any reply she might give by searing his mouth to hers.                        🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

Now these were, by far, the most alluring, the most delicious, most prized kisses of her young life, and Scarlett gave way most willingly, moment by moment, feeling as though Hennessy was slowly consuming her.  He held her face in his hands when they started, and she had pressed hers to his chest, dependent on his strength to keep her knees from buckling.  She panted for air when he withdrew his lips, and then heard the small, hungry sounds she made when he dipped his tongue back into her willing mouth.

When he noticed that one of her straps had slipped off her shoulder, his kissed his way down her throat and onto her bare skin.  Scarlett hadn’t bothered to try and conceal the love bruises he’d given her that afternoon—she had only worn a lightweight scarf to cover them while in the taxi that had brought her here—and now Hennessy softly revisited those marks, as though in deference to their tenderness.

That was exactly the sort of thing that always set her off kilter.  Scarlett was already well acquainted with how lustfully he pursued fulfillment of his appetites.  And she’d discovered that such reckless, heedless behaviors made her want him all the more.  Hennessy’s wicked proclivities were legion, ever waiting to surge up from his depths, and though she knew he had only shown her a fraction of those tendencies, what she had experienced thus far made her want to play his wanton.  But when he was gentle, solicitous of her needs, mindful of her inexperience, it was her heart that became more deeply entangled in the spell her body had all but fully succumbed to.  Scarlett had fallen hard, imperiling her tender heart beyond anything that Hennessy might visit upon her young, oh-so-willing body.  Or so she still believed.

There was no resisting his pull upon her, nor the confidence and skill of his elegant hands as they slid across the fabric of her dress, cupping her breasts and later her bottom with the fervor that had her wishing he would just strip her bare already. Pressed tightly to him, Scarlett could feel his erection growing more swollen and was imagining what it would feel like to have him finally buried deep inside her.

Hennessy was kissing her throat, occasionally grazing her skin with his teeth, each time a surprise enough to make her gasp.  With the latest, he brought his mouth to her ear, issuing a smooth command, “Come sit with me, little lamb.”  Not giving her a moment to consider disobeying, he dragged her along to one of the leather wingback chairs that sat before the unlit hearth.  “I’ve fancied sitting you on my lap for some time now, Scarlett,” he told her, and pulled her down onto him with enough force to elicit a breathy, surprised giggle from her.  “Does this amuse you, my dear?”

She shrugged, bit her lip, and then averted her eyes coyly, “Oh, Professor...everything you do...is...is like nothing I’ve experienced before.”  His silence bade her continue, so that she turned her widened eyes back his way, “You astonish me...again and again.  And sometimes...sometimes you frighten me.”  Scarlett felt her color rise once more, but would not flinch from her confession.  “But most of all, you fascinate me, Sir...and make me want to drown in your desires.”  She breathed out slowly, hanging upon his response.

He studied her closely, searching her truth--and finding not a speck of artifice in her admission, nodded, “You understand, sweet lambkin, that there is danger as much in my undertow as in my deep waters?”  Scarlett nodded solemnly.  “And that your innocence is no protection against this?”

“Oh yes,” she sighed, her skin atingle where he had spread one hand between her shoulder blades.  “I’ve spent my life shirking risk and danger at every turn--but I want yours now more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.”  With that she leaned in to kiss him, sealing her lips to his as fearlessly as she sealed her fate...

(to be continued)

tagging: @strangelock221b @letterstosherlock @ben-c-group-therapy @tsukuyomi011 @ravencatart @emilyinnj4real @humanbornarchangel @aziracraw @aeterna-auroral-avenger @adragonscloset @naughtynecromancer  and @cinderella1181 so you can see a sample of what I’ve been working on lately 

[clarksville-ticketmaster]

Porpoise song

The start of the Mermaid au: Peter and Micky are mermaids, Mike and Davy are humans (davy to show up later)

word count:  2596

trigger warnings: Descriptive drowing

author(s) note: so @ineedyoubygeorgeharrison and i started a mermaid au! we had fun just coming up with some good old lore and drama.

Micky realized what was going on almost the moment after he woke up again. And even though his head was pounding, he could still process the fact that he was slowly being dragged towards the edge of the boat and that he couldn't do a thing to stop it. He blinked, eyes widening as he began to fight back.

“No, no, no, wait, please! I didn't do anything- Please, y-you can't do this! Mike!” Micky desperately tried to plead and shout for help as he was shoved closer and closer to his doom, swallowing thickly as he finally caught sight of the cold, dark water churning below. He struggled in a feeble attempt to free himself but it was to no avail, the ropes were bound too tightly around his wrists for him to even begin to get free and the man’s grip on his arm was firm, not intending on letting go.

“Too late for begging now, Dolenz, no one’s gonna help you,” he growled and Micky couldn't help but cringe at the smell of alcohol on his breath, automatically turning his head away from him. A drunken old jerk was all that man was, Micky had a bad feeling about him from day one. He didn't trust him as far as he could throw him and he doubted he could even pick him up.

Who would've known his feelings had been right all along?

“C’mon, man! I-I didn't do anything, let me go-!” Micky really didn't think he had done anything wrong, especially anything that would provoke a man to want to kill him. All he’d done was be himself. Unfortunately, people had the tendency to not like him being himself, as he was probably the most obnoxious person one could ever meet.

The man said nothing. The ocean waves did nothing to hide Micky's frantic breathing or the sound of his heart practically beating out of his chest as he tried his hardest to pull on the ropes, but it was only in vain. Nothing would work.

The man didn't move from where he stood on the edge of the boat, looking out as if taking in the vast ocean around him. The night made the ocean look darker and scarier, endless as it sprawled out beyond the horizon.

Maybe he was rethinking his actions, Micky hoped, maybe he had a change of mind and was feeling guilty-

"What the hell?” Mike's voice cut through. He stood frozen at the entrance of the cabin in utter disbelief at what was happening before him, looking like he’d just woken up.

Micky's head snapped up, they made eye contact for a split second before Micky opened his mouth to call out for him, to beg for his help. If anyone could talk a crazy man out of killing someone, it was Mike.

And then, he was thrown.

“No!”

Mike’s scream echoed in the air and it was the last thing Micky heard before he plunged into the sea, instinctively gasping at the sudden cold as he went beneath the waves. He knew immediately it had been a bad idea as water entered his lungs instead of air, he’d need all the oxygen he could get if he wanted to even come close to surviving.

But surviving was getting more and more difficult the longer he stayed underwater, his lungs burning for air as every part of him screamed at him to take a breath no matter how much he told himself that he shouldn't.

He thrashed in the water, his face burned. The ocean stung his eyes even as he squeezed them shut, the darkness surrounding him only making him panic more.

Micky was sinking, the water rushing past his ears was all he heard. He was freezing.

He couldn't drown. He couldn't.

No matter what he did his legs wouldn't move, he felt heavier and heavier in each passing second. He was light-headed, there was no more air. That was it for him, there would be no help. He opened his eyes slightly and the last thing he saw was the moon shining high in the sky above right before he finally drifted off, nothing could save him anyway.

So, Micky gave up. The sounds stopped, the burning feeling in his lungs faded.

It was dark.

And just like that, he felt nothing. No more pain tormented him, he was numb. The ocean was unforgiving, swallowing him whole as he drifted down to his watery grave.

Then, he woke up.

A surge of energy overcame Micky as he bolted up. He heaved, his hands scrambling to his chest. He fought back a sudden sob as it all came crashing back to him, remembering everything that had happened the night before. There was the boat and Mike and...The drowning…

He’d died, hadn’t he? He was almost certain he had, but if he had drowned...Why was he still alive?

It was only then that Micky realized he couldn’t feel his legs and panic shot through him once again as he looked down to discover that he didn’t have legs anymore. Instead, he had a tail.

Micky simply blinked as he stared down at it, still in too much shock to do anything else. Maybe that lack of oxygen had messed him up and he was just hallucinating, there was no way he actually had a tail. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch it and gasped when he did, instantly drawing his hand back because those smooth, green scales felt way too real.

“No way…” He whispered to himself, eyes wide as he reached down and touched the tail once more. Sure enough, it still felt just as real as it had before.

The green scales (scales, he thought in disbelief) seemed to glisten in the distorted sunbeams coming from above, they shined a rather pretty blue and green and-

Wait.

Micky, realizing he had absolutely no idea where he was, finally took a good look around. It hardly even took two seconds for him to figure out where he was, evident by the plants waving around gently and the actual school of fish that passed by the opening to the cave he found himself in. He was underwater and somehow, he was breathing just fine.

It was confusing and honestly, it was kind of terrifying at the same time. He was alone, for some reason he had a tail of all things, and he could breathe underwater, it was like something straight out of a story.

He hugged his arms to his chest, feeling his breathing start to quicken and- where were his clothes? He was pretty sure he hadn't been naked when that jerk had thrown him overboard.

Great, he could add no clothes to the list of things going wrong now too.

He was practically on the verge of panicking, he had no idea where he was, and worst of all…He missed Mike. If Mike were there, he’d probably know what to do, he always seemed to know what to do...

“Hello!” A rather cheerful voice cut into Micky’s worried thoughts.

Micky first registered gold.

A bright, golden tail. Attached to the tail was a kid…No, a mermaid probably near Micky’s age, giving him an equally bright dimpled smile.

He floated down beside the flat rock Micky had woken up on, his blond hair took a minute to settle around him and Micky couldn’t help but wonder if his own curls were moving along with the waves around them.

“I’m Peter! It’s nice to meet you,” Peter introduced himself, hands falling on his lap as he leaned forward. Micky, in turn, leaned away. For a moment neither spoke. For once in his life Micky was speechless.

“...Am I dreaming?” Micky said, though, it was more to himself. Peter tilted his head and Micky couldn’t help but think it adorable, maybe this mermaid was here to actually help hi-

“Ow! Why did you pinch me?” Micky yelled as he held his stinging hand, Peter pulled his arm back with a pout.

“You asked if you were dreaming, so I tried to help,” Peter explained like it was obvious, crossing his arms.

“But I..! Even if...“ Micky stuttered as he tried to come up with a retort, but came up empty. “That hurt…” He settled on a whine, cradling his hand against his chest as if he had almost lost it, frowning at Peter.

Peter’s whole demeanor actually changed at Micky’s complaint, like he was upset with himself.

“Oh, I’m sorry...” Peter muttered, looking down at the ground almost like he was ashamed of himself, and Micky almost immediately felt guilty. Good god, that kid was too sweet for his own good.

“Aw, come on man, I was just joking…” Micky found himself speaking to the golden mermaid...Wait, why was he apologizing-

“Peter!” Someone called from outside the cave. It was a soothing voice, rich in tone. Though she had only called out Peter’s name, it held an almost motherly call.

Then, she entered.

As Peter had almost been an assault of gold to the eye when he entered, she was more of a calming silver. Though not as bright or flashy, her scales looked to be faded from time. Her brown hair floated behind as she swam closer. She was pretty, Micky couldn’t help but think. As she stopped in front of him it took everything from Micky to keep his jaw shut.

Why, you may ask? It was simple, she was huge.

She could easily be taller than Mike, Micky thought, ignoring the little pang in his chest as he thought of his friend. She towered over both mermaids. Despite her size, Micky didn’t feel intimidated in the slightest.

She floated down to take a seat on a nearby rock. “Good to see you awake now,” She began pleasantly as Micky stared up at her, merely giving him a small smile at the look of awe on his face.

“Who...Are you…?” Micky asked cautiously, he didn’t think he was in any danger around her, her presence was too relaxing for that and there was no way Peter could ever be considered a threat, but he was still a bit on edge nonetheless. After all, drowning and suddenly waking up with a tail of all things was kind of overwhelming, who wouldn’t be at least somewhat nervous?

“My name is Vera, and before you start asking, yes, I am a mermaid. As is Peter and the rest of those in our group, some of them were born into this life, like Peter here…” She paused and gestured towards Peter, who simply smiled and waved in return, earning a quiet chuckle from Vera before she focused her attention back on Micky. “But as for some others, like myself and now you, we are sirens.”

Though her explanation sounded about as calm as someone discussing the weather with someone else, it still managed to freak Micky out. He was a siren? How was he supposed to know what that was?

“Excuse me, but I’m a what now?”

Vera didn't seem surprised by the question, maybe she'd been expecting it from the readily constructed explanation that she proceeded to say.

"You drowned,” she began softly. Micky knew this, he could still remember the dark and the pain, yet it still felt like a stab to the heart hearing her confirm it. Though he wasn't looking at the two of them, Peter played with the beads on one of his bracelets, and even with his face partially obscured, Micky could see a frown on his features.

“Sirens are created through tragic deaths, it wasn't your time and yet...You were almost given to the depths of the ocean,” Vera continued, sounding almost sad as she spoke. “But the ocean took pity on you, you should be thankful for a second chance.”

The ocean had given him a second chance? How? Why? How?

"Oh, so the ocean took pity on me by giving me a tail? Great!" Micky found himself saying before he could stop himself, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. So he was a mermaid, but what now?

He’d had a life before, his own goals and plans and dreams. He had family, friends...Mike. Could he never go back? Was he doomed to wander the ocean forever-

“Are you alright?” Peter asked softly, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. Micky blinked, surprised at not only the tears in his eyes but the fact he could still feel them underwater.

“...No,” Micky answered truthfully because he really was the exact opposite of alright. It was all just so much to handle at once, he didn’t think he’d be able to deal with it for a while.

“And that’s okay, I’d be more surprised if you weren’t, but we’ll be here for you if you want us to be.” Vera began gently, reassuring him. “Including myself and Peter, there’s a group of seven of us. All ready to accept you with open arms if you chose to stay.”

“If not, then we may teach you what we know, so you may go off freely and live on your own.”

So Micky could leave, he could run...Erm, swim away from these mermaids. Then what? He couldn’t simply return to his old life, no matter how much it pained him. But maybe he could find something out there for himself.

Micky nodded, not ready to give an official answer, and it seemed like Vera understood.

“Peter volunteered to teach you, as he’s a natural-born mermaid, I’m confident that he’ll show you right.”

Peter visibly perked up at the praise, showing his dimpled smile. Vera stood (could Micky still use that word?) from her spot, resting her hand on top of Peter’s head for a second before bidding them goodbye.

Micky watched her go, before turning to Peter as he moved slightly closer. “...Now what?” He questioned quietly, unsure of what was going to happen next.

“We can start with swimming in a bit! The tide isn’t set to come until later in the day so we can go to some shallow water,” Peter began as Micky tried to move his tail at the mention of swimming. It was going to take a while to adjust.

“You’ll love the others here! They’re all nice and friendly,” Peter began to ramble as Micky lifted his tail with a small yell of triumph. “There are two adults and two kids, and Jade’s baby! She’s too small to swim yet so we all take turns carrying her around, she’s really cute, you’ll have to meet her sometime!”

As Peter continued to dump all this information onto Micky (they all lived in the area around this one cave, the water was always really nice and Peter had a stash of pretty seashells and rocks hidden away nearby that were good for necklaces and bracelets),  Micky found himself slowly starting to calm down. Something about being around Peter was nice, it reminded Micky of his younger sisters. He seemed to be easily trusting and Micky was sure he could trust him. He needed someone to help him deal with the new life thrusted upon him.

So, yeah, Micky would stay.

[notasliceoflife]

Muse Favorites

Food

Favorite fast food restaurant? Marrybrown Favorite ice cream flavor? Lemon custard ice cream Favorite chocolate candy? Perky Nana Cadbury Favorite fruity candy? Koppers Swiss Petite Fruits Candy Favorite flavor Starburst? Royal Berry Punch Flavored Favorite dish at Olive Garden? Cheese Sticks Favorite kind of sushi? Sea Roll Favorite Asian dish? Raita and Pasanda Paneer Favorite Italian dish? Panigaccio and Biscuit Tortoni Favorite food of all time? French Onion Soup Favorite way to cook a steak? Wine soaked/Fried Favorite pasta dish? Rosto Favorite cookie? Biscotti Favorite fast food French fries? Burger Baron Favorite cereal? Frosted Flakes Chocolate  Favorite breakfast food? Bagel and cream Cheese  Favorite pizza toppings? Cheese and Roast Cauliflower Favorite fruit? Grape Fruit Favorite vegetable? Sweet Potato Favorite dessert? Key lime pie Favorite comfort food? Tacos Favorite way to eat bacon?  Chewy Favorite thing at a buffet? Seafood Favorite pumpkin-flavored treat?  Werthers Original Favorite dish at Thanksgiving? Pecan pie Favorite cake? Three chocolates cake  Favorite ice cream sundae toppings? Shredded coconut Favorite thing to cook? Spicy Pasta Salad with Smoked Gouda, Tomatoes, and Basil Favorite soda? Ginger Ale Favorite alcoholic drink? Tonto Favorite drink at Starbucks? Honey Citrus Mint Tea  Favorite flavor coffee? Cocoa Mocha Twist 

Television and Movies

Favorite 80’s movie? The Dead Zone Favorite Harry Potter movie? Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Favorite Hobbit from the Lord of the Rings? Frodo Baggins Favorite Simpson’s character? Sideshow Bob Favorite cartoon cat? Grimmjow! Claude Cat Favorite TV sitcom? The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air Favorite cartoon? Crayon Shin-chan/ Sonic Underground Favorite scary movie? Lake Placid Favorite funny movie? For Heaven's Sake Favorite celebrity? Johnny Depp Favorite South Park character? Tweek Tweak Favorite chick flick? Moulin Rouge! Favorite Pixar movie? Brave Favorite Family Guy character? Chris Griffin Favorite Leonardo Dicaprio movie? What's Eating Gilbert Grape Favorite actress over 50? Sharon Stone Favorite Marvel movie? Captain America: Civil War Favorite TV show? Dexter  Favorite cancelled TV series? Black Sails Favorite show on the Discovery Channel? Time Warp Favorite classic movie? Nosferatu

Music Favorite Beatles song? Matchbox Favorite string instrument? Kulcapi Karo Favorite instrument? E♭ clarinet Favorite band or music artist? Janis Joplin Favorite music genre? Acid Breaks Favorite style of dance? Samba  Favorite boy band? Shinee  Favorite disco song? Touch Me Baby - Ultimate Favorite 80’s song? Eddie Money- Take me home tonight Favorite cover song? Smells Like Teen Spirit – Paul Anka (Nirvana) Favorite one-hit wonder? Wheatus – Teenage Dirtbag Favorite song you’re embarrassed to like? A Thousand Years - Christina Perri Favorite foreign band/artist? Christian Bautista

Travel and Recreation

Favorite state you’ve visited? Osaka(Kansai region)/Georgia Favorite country you want to visit? Sweden Favorite thing about America? Vast openness with nothing around for miles. Favorite kind of vacation? To the middle of no where, alone. Favorite car? Lobini Favorite road to drive on? The Sidewalk. Favorite way to travel? Garganta Favorite beach? Bleach. Favorite place to go with family? Favorite vacation you’ve taken? Favorite fictional place you’d want to visit? Favorite ride at a carnival? Troika Favorite thing to do at the beach? Bring some board games Favorite rollercoaster? Top Thrill Dragster Favorite theme park? Family Kingdom Amusement Park, Myrtle Beach Favorite thing about traveling?

Nature and Animals

Favorite dinosaur? Argentinosaurus  Favorite breed of dog? Icelandic Sheepdog Favorite season? Fall/Autumn Favorite flower? Bird of Paradise flower Favorite animal at the zoo? Porpoise Favorite type of bear? Polar Bear Favorite natural disaster? Sinkholes Favorite reptile? Murray River Turtle Favorite animal? Addax Favorite bird? Anseriformes Favorite thing in the sky? The Moon/The pitch black sky at night Favorite thing about a rainy day? The way the air smells wet dirt Favorite sea creature? Sea Urchin Favorite color rose? Burgundy Favorite small mammal? Arizona Gray Squirrel Favorite big cat? Mountain Lion Favorite thing about spring? Greek Mythology: Return of Persephone. Favorite wild animal you’d like as a pet? Bat

Sports

Favorite sport? Judo Favorite extreme sport you’re too scared to do? Favorite Olympic sport? Favorite football team? Favorite basketball team? Favorite hockey team? Favorite baseball team? Favorite sport to play? Favorite winter sport? Favorite sport you wish you were a pro at? Favorite professional athlete? Favorite sport to watch in person?

Childhood

Favorite nursery rhyme? Three Wise Men of Gotham Favorite childhood memory? Favorite board game? Chess Favorite children’s show? Favorite toy as a child? Favorite teacher? Favorite thing about school? Favorite age? Favorite Christmas present? Favorite Dr. Seuss book? Oh Say Can You Say? Favorite Halloween costume you’ve worn? Favorite lunchbox snack? Favorite Winnie the Pooh character? Owl Favorite thing to do during recess? Favorite superhero? Toyman (Hiro Okamura) Favorite video game? The Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Seasons Favorite color Power Ranger? Black Ranger Favorite fairy tale? Murder Will Out  Favorite game to play outside?

Fashion and Beauty

Favorite department store? Favorite place to shop? Favorite store in the mall? Favorite perfume/cologne? Favorite hair color? Favorite makeup you can’t live without? Favorite shoes? Favorite occasion to dress up for? Favorite hairstyle? Favorite outfit you have? Favorite soap scent? Favorite article of clothing? Favorite place for a piercing? Favorite piece of jewelry? Favorite thing to wear to bed? Favorite luxury brand?

Random

Favorite brand of toilet paper? Favorite candle scent? Favorite extracurricular activity? Favorite day of the week? Favorite holiday? Favorite website? Favorite way to communicate? Favorite Youtube video? Favorite kind of house? Favorite car color? Favorite baby boy name? Favorite baby girl name? Favorite thing to do when you’re sick? Favorite person you’ve never met? Favorite question you’ve answered so far? Favorite thing you’ve done in the last 24 hours? Favorite place to meet up with friends? Favorite hobby? Favorite way to cheer you up? Favorite thing to look forward to? Favorite kind of gift to receive? Favorite crafty thing to make? Favorite way to relax?

[mooneyedandglowing]

The Comedian as the Letter C

BY WALLACE STEVENS                                                                 i         The World without Imagination Nota: man is the intelligence of his soil, The sovereign ghost. As such, the Socrates Of snails, musician of pears, principium And lex. Sed quaeritur: is this same wig Of things, this nincompated pedagogue, Preceptor to the sea? Crispin at sea Created, in his day, a touch of doubt. An eye most apt in gelatines and jupes, Berries of villages, a barber's eye, An eye of land, of simple salad-beds, Of honest quilts, the eye of Crispin, hung On porpoises, instead of apricots, And on silentious porpoises, whose snouts Dibbled in waves that were mustachios, Inscrutable hair in an inscrutable world. One eats one paté, even of salt, quotha. It was not so much the lost terrestrial, The snug hibernal from that sea and salt, That century of wind in a single puff. What counted was mythology of self, Blotched out beyond unblotching. Crispin, The lutanist of fleas, the knave, the thane, The ribboned stick, the bellowing breeches, cloak Of China, cap of Spain, imperative haw Of hum, inquisitorial botanist, And general lexicographer of mute And maidenly greenhorns, now beheld himself, A skinny sailor peering in the sea-glass. What word split up in clickering syllables And storming under multitudinous tones Was name for this short-shanks in all that brunt? Crispin was washed away by magnitude. The whole of life that still remained in him Dwindled to one sound strumming in his ear, Ubiquitous concussion, slap and sigh, Polyphony beyond his baton's thrust. Could Crispin stem verboseness in the sea, The old age of a watery realist, Triton, dissolved in shifting diaphanes Of blue and green? A wordy, watery age That whispered to the sun's compassion, made A convocation, nightly, of the sea-stars, And on the cropping foot-ways of the moon Lay grovelling. Triton incomplicate with that Which made him Triton, nothing left of him, Except in faint, memorial gesturings, That were like arms and shoulders in the waves, Here, something in the rise and fall of wind That seemed hallucinating horn, and here, A sunken voice, both of remembering And of forgetfulness, in alternate strain. Just so an ancient Crispin was dissolved. The valet in the tempest was annulled. Bordeaux to Yucatan, Havana next, And then to Carolina. Simple jaunt. Crispin, merest minuscule in the gates, Dejected his manner to the turbulence. The salt hung on his spirit like a frost, The dead brine melted in him like a dew Of winter, until nothing of himself Remained, except some starker, barer self In a starker, barer world, in which the sun Was not the sun because it never shone With bland complaisance on pale parasols, Beetled, in chapels, on the chaste bouquets. Against his pipping sounds a trumpet cried Celestial sneering boisterously. Crispin Became an introspective voyager. Here was the veritable ding an sich, at last, Crispin confronting it, a vocable thing, But with a speech belched out of hoary darks Noway resembling his, a visible thing, And excepting negligible Triton, free From the unavoidable shadow of himself That lay elsewhere around him. Severance Was clear. The last distortion of romance Forsook the insatiable egotist. The sea Severs not only lands but also selves. Here was no help before reality. Crispin beheld and Crispin was made new. The imagination, here, could not evade, In poems of plums, the strict austerity Of one vast, subjugating, final tone. The drenching of stale lives no more fell down. What was this gaudy, gusty panoply? Out of what swift destruction did it spring? It was caparison of mind and cloud And something given to make whole among The ruses that were shattered by the large.               ��                 ii Concerning the Thunderstorms of Yucatan In Yucatan, the Maya sonneteers Of the Caribbean amphitheatre, In spite of hawk and falcon, green toucan And jay, still to the night-bird made their plea, As if raspberry tanagers in palms, High up in orange air, were barbarous. But Crispin was too destitute to find In any commonplace the sought-for aid. He was a man made vivid by the sea, A man come out of luminous traversing, Much trumpeted, made desperately clear, Fresh from discoveries of tidal skies, To whom oracular rockings gave no rest. Into a savage color he went on. How greatly had he grown in his demesne, This auditor of insects! He that saw The stride of vanishing autumn in a park By way of decorous melancholy; he That wrote his couplet yearly to the spring, As dissertation of profound delight, Stopping, on voyage, in a land of snakes, Found his vicissitudes had much enlarged His apprehension, made him intricate In moody rucks, and difficult and strange In all desires, his destitution's mark. He was in this as other freemen are, Sonorous nutshells rattling inwardly. His violence was for aggrandizement And not for stupor, such as music makes For sleepers halfway waking. He perceived That coolness for his heat came suddenly, And only, in the fables that he scrawled With his own quill, in its indigenous dew, Of an aesthetic tough, diverse, untamed, Incredible to prudes, the mint of dirt, Green barbarism turning paradigm. Crispin foresaw a curious promenade Or, nobler, sensed an elemental fate, And elemental potencies and pangs, And beautiful barenesses as yet unseen, Making the most of savagery of palms, Of moonlight on the thick, cadaverous bloom That yuccas breed, and of the panther's tread. The fabulous and its intrinsic verse Came like two spirits parlaying, adorned In radiance from the Atlantic coign, For Crispin and his quill to catechize. But they came parlaying of such an earth, So thick with sides and jagged lops of green, So intertwined with serpent-kin encoiled Among the purple tufts, the scarlet crowns, Scenting the jungle in their refuges, So streaked with yellow, blue and green and red In beak and bud and fruity gobbet-skins, That earth was like a jostling festival Of seeds grown fat, too juicily opulent, Expanding in the gold's maternal warmth. So much for that. The affectionate emigrant found A new reality in parrot-squawks. Yet let that trifle pass. Now, as this odd Discoverer walked through the harbor streets Inspecting the cabildo, the façade Of the cathedral, making notes, he heard A rumbling, west of Mexico, it seemed, Approaching like a gasconade of drums. The white cabildo darkened, the façade, As sullen as the sky, was swallowed up In swift, successive shadows, dolefully. The rumbling broadened as it fell. The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons. Gesticulating lightning, mystical, Made pallid flitter. Crispin, here, took flight. An annotator has his scruples, too. He knelt in the cathedral with the rest, This connoisseur of elemental fate, Aware of exquisite thought. The storm was one Of many proclamations of the kind, Proclaiming something harsher than he learned From hearing signboards whimper in cold nights Or seeing the midsummer artifice Of heat upon his pane. This was the span Of force, the quintessential fact, the note Of Vulcan, that a valet seeks to own, The thing that makes him envious in phrase. And while the torrent on the roof still droned He felt the Andean breath. His mind was free And more than free, elate, intent, profound And studious of a self possessing him, That was not in him in the crusty town From which he sailed. Beyond him, westward, lay The mountainous ridges, purple balustrades, In which the thunder, lapsing in its clap, Let down gigantic quavers of its voice, For Crispin to vociferate again.                                iii                 Approaching Carolina The book of moonlight is not written yet Nor half begun, but, when it is, leave room For Crispin, fagot in the lunar fire, Who, in the hubbub of his pilgrimage Through sweating changes, never could forget That wakefulness or meditating sleep, In which the sulky strophes willingly Bore up, in time, the somnolent, deep songs. Leave room, therefore, in that unwritten book For the legendary moonlight that once burned In Crispin's mind above a continent. America was always north to him, A northern west or western north, but north, And thereby polar, polar-purple, chilled And lank, rising and slumping from a sea Of hardy foam, receding flatly, spread In endless ledges, glittering, submerged And cold in a boreal mistiness of the moon. The spring came there in clinking pannicles Of half-dissolving frost, the summer came, If ever, whisked and wet, not ripening, Before the winter's vacancy returned. The myrtle, if the myrtle ever bloomed, Was like a glacial pink upon the air. The green palmettoes in crepuscular ice Clipped frigidly blue-black meridians, Morose chiaroscuro, gauntly drawn. How many poems he denied himself In his observant progress, lesser things Than the relentless contact he desired; How many sea-masks he ignored; what sounds He shut out from his tempering ear; what thoughts, Like jades affecting the sequestered bride; And what descants, he sent to banishment! Perhaps the Arctic moonlight really gave The liaison, the blissful liaison, Between himself and his environment, Which was, and is, chief motive, first delight, For him, and not for him alone. It seemed Elusive, faint, more mist than moon, perverse, Wrong as a divagation to Peking, To him that postulated as his theme The vulgar, as his theme and hymn and flight, A passionately niggling nightingale. Moonlight was an evasion, or, if not, A minor meeting, facile, delicate. Thus he conceived his voyaging to be An up and down between two elements, A fluctuating between sun and moon, A sally into gold and crimson forms, As on this voyage, out of goblinry, And then retirement like a turning back And sinking down to the indulgences That in the moonlight have their habitude. But let these backward lapses, if they would, Grind their seductions on him, Crispin knew It was a flourishing tropic he required For his refreshment, an abundant zone, Prickly and obdurate, dense, harmonious Yet with a harmony not rarefied Nor fined for the inhibited instruments Of over-civil stops. And thus he tossed Between a Carolina of old time, A little juvenile, an ancient whim, And the visible, circumspect presentment drawn From what he saw across his vessel's prow. He came. The poetic hero without palms Or jugglery, without regalia. And as he came he saw that it was spring, A time abhorrent to the nihilist Or searcher for the fecund minimum. The moonlight fiction disappeared. The spring, Although contending featly in its veils, Irised in dew and early fragrancies, Was gemmy marionette to him that sought A sinewy nakedness. A river bore The vessel inward. Tilting up his nose, He inhaled the rancid rosin, burly smells Of dampened lumber, emanations blown From warehouse doors, the gustiness of ropes, Decays of sacks, and all the arrant stinks That helped him round his rude aesthetic out. He savored rankness like a sensualist. He marked the marshy ground around the dock, The crawling railroad spur, the rotten fence, Curriculum for the marvellous sophomore. It purified. It made him see how much Of what he saw he never saw at all. He gripped more closely the essential prose As being, in a world so falsified, The one integrity for him, the one Discovery still possible to make, To which all poems were incident, unless That prose should wear a poem's guise at last.                             iv               The Idea of a Colony Nota: his soil is man's intelligence. That's better. That's worth crossing seas to find. Crispin in one laconic phrase laid bare His cloudy drift and planned a colony. Exit the mental moonlight, exit lex, Rex and principium, exit the whole Shebang. Exeunt omnes. Here was prose More exquisite than any tumbling verse: A still new continent in which to dwell. What was the purpose of his pilgrimage, Whatever shape it took in Crispin's mind, If not, when all is said, to drive away The shadow of his fellows from the skies, And, from their stale intelligence released, To make a new intelligence prevail? Hence the reverberations in the words Of his first central hymns, the celebrants Of rankest trivia, tests of the strength Of his aesthetic, his philosophy, The more invidious, the more desired. The florist asking aid from cabbages, The rich man going bare, the paladin Afraid, the blind man as astronomer, The appointed power unwielded from disdain. His western voyage ended and began. The torment of fastidious thought grew slack, Another, still more bellicose, came on. He, therefore, wrote his prolegomena, And, being full of the caprice, inscribed Commingled souvenirs and prophecies. He made a singular collation. Thus: The natives of the rain are rainy men. Although they paint effulgent, azure lakes, And April hillsides wooded white and pink, Their azure has a cloudy edge, their white And pink, the water bright that dogwood bears. And in their music showering sounds intone. On what strange froth does the gross Indian dote, What Eden sapling gum, what honeyed gore, What pulpy dram distilled of innocence, That streaking gold should speak in him Or bask within his images and words? If these rude instances impeach themselves By force of rudeness, let the principle Be plain. For application Crispin strove, Abhorring Turk as Esquimau, the lute As the marimba, the magnolia as rose. Upon these premises propounding, he Projected a colony that should extend To the dusk of a whistling south below the south. A comprehensive island hemisphere. The man in Georgia waking among pines Should be pine-spokesman. The responsive man, Planting his pristine cores in Florida, Should prick thereof, not on the psaltery, But on the banjo's categorical gut, Tuck tuck, while the flamingos flapped his bays. Sepulchral señors, bibbing pale mescal, Oblivious to the Aztec almanacs, Should make the intricate Sierra scan. And dark Brazilians in their cafés, Musing immaculate, pampean dits, Should scrawl a vigilant anthology, To be their latest, lucent paramour. These are the broadest instances. Crispin, Progenitor of such extensive scope, Was not indifferent to smart detail. The melon should have apposite ritual, Performed in verd apparel, and the peach, When its black branches came to bud, belle day, Should have an incantation. And again, When piled on salvers its aroma steeped The summer, it should have a sacrament And celebration. Shrewd novitiates Should be the clerks of our experience. These bland excursions into time to come, Related in romance to backward flights, However prodigal, however proud, Contained in their afflatus the reproach That first drove Crispin to his wandering. He could not be content with counterfeit, With masquerade of thought, with hapless words That must belie the racking masquerade, With fictive flourishes that preordained His passion's permit, hang of coat, degree Of buttons, measure of his salt. Such trash Might help the blind, not him, serenely sly. It irked beyond his patience. Hence it was, Preferring text to gloss, he humbly served Grotesque apprenticeship to chance event, A clown, perhaps, but an aspiring clown. There is a monotonous babbling in our dreams That makes them our dependent heirs, the heirs Of dreamers buried in our sleep, and not The oncoming fantasies of better birth. The apprentice knew these dreamers. If he dreamed Their dreams, he did it in a gingerly way. All dreams are vexing. Let them be expunged. But let the rabbit run, the cock declaim. Trinket pasticcio, flaunting skyey sheets, With Crispin as the tiptoe cozener? No, no: veracious page on page, exact.                                v                 A Nice Shady Home Crispin as hermit, pure and capable, Dwelt in the land. Perhaps if discontent Had kept him still the pricking realist, Choosing his element from droll confect Of was and is and shall or ought to be, Beyond Bordeaux, beyond Havana, far Beyond carked Yucatan, he might have come To colonize his polar planterdom And jig his chits upon a cloudy knee. But his emprize to that idea soon sped. Crispin dwelt in the land and dwelling there Slid from his continent by slow recess To things within his actual eye, alert To the difficulty of rebellious thought When the sky is blue. The blue infected will. It may be that the yarrow in his fields Sealed pensive purple under its concern. But day by day, now this thing and now that Confined him, while it cosseted, condoned, Little by little, as if the suzerain soil Abashed him by carouse to humble yet Attach. It seemed haphazard denouement. He first, as realist, admitted that Whoever hunts a matinal continent May, after all, stop short before a plum And be content and still be realist. The words of things entangle and confuse. The plum survives its poems. It may hang In the sunshine placidly, colored by ground Obliquities of those who pass beneath, Harlequined and mazily dewed and mauved In bloom. Yet it survives in its own form, Beyond these changes, good, fat, guzzly fruit. So Crispin hasped on the surviving form, For him, of shall or ought to be in is. Was he to bray this in profoundest brass Arointing his dreams with fugal requiems? Was he to company vastest things defunct With a blubber of tom-toms harrowing the sky? Scrawl a tragedian's testament? Prolong His active force in an inactive dirge, Which, let the tall musicians call and call, Should merely call him dead? Pronounce amen Through choirs infolded to the outmost clouds? Because he built a cabin who once planned Loquacious columns by the ructive sea? Because he turned to salad-beds again? Jovial Crispin, in calamitous crape? Should he lay by the personal and make Of his own fate an instance of all fate? What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long? The very man despising honest quilts Lies quilted to his poll in his despite. For realists, what is is what should be. And so it came, his cabin shuffled up, His trees were planted, his duenna brought Her prismy blonde and clapped her in his hands, The curtains flittered and the door was closed. Crispin, magister of a single room, Latched up the night. So deep a sound fell down It was as if the solitude concealed And covered him and his congenial sleep. So deep a sound fell down it grew to be A long soothsaying silence down and down. The crickets beat their tambours in the wind, Marching a motionless march, custodians. In the presto of the morning, Crispin trod, Each day, still curious, but in a round Less prickly and much more condign than that He once thought necessary. Like Candide, Yeoman and grub, but with a fig in sight, And cream for the fig and silver for the cream, A blonde to tip the silver and to taste The rapey gouts. Good star, how that to be Annealed them in their cabin ribaldries! Yet the quotidian saps philosophers And men like Crispin like them in intent, If not in will, to track the knaves of thought. But the quotidian composed as his, Of breakfast ribands, fruits laid in their leaves, The tomtit and the cassia and the rose, Although the rose was not the noble thorn Of crinoline spread, but of a pining sweet, Composed of evenings like cracked shutters flung Upon the rumpling bottomness, and nights In which those frail custodians watched, Indifferent to the tepid summer cold, While he poured out upon the lips of her That lay beside him, the quotidian Like this, saps like the sun, true fortuner. For all it takes it gives a humped return Exchequering from piebald fiscs unkeyed.                               vi           And Daughters with Curls Portentous enunciation, syllable To blessed syllable affined, and sound Bubbling felicity in cantilene, Prolific and tormenting tenderness Of music, as it comes to unison, Forgather and bell boldly Crispin's last Deduction. Thrum, with a proud douceur His grand pronunciamento and devise. The chits came for his jigging, bluet-eyed, Hands without touch yet touching poignantly, Leaving no room upon his cloudy knee, Prophetic joint, for its diviner young. The return to social nature, once begun, Anabasis or slump, ascent or chute, Involved him in midwifery so dense His cabin counted as phylactery, Then place of vexing palankeens, then haunt Of children nibbling at the sugared void, Infants yet eminently old, then dome And halidom for the unbraided femes, Green crammers of the green fruits of the world, Bidders and biders for its ecstasies, True daughters both of Crispin and his clay. All this with many mulctings of the man, Effective colonizer sharply stopped In the door-yard by his own capacious bloom. But that this bloom grown riper, showing nibs Of its eventual roundness, puerile tints Of spiced and weathery rouges, should complex The stopper to indulgent fatalist Was unforeseen. First Crispin smiled upon His goldenest demoiselle, inhabitant, She seemed, of a country of the capuchins, So delicately blushed, so humbly eyed, Attentive to a coronal of things Secret and singular. Second, upon A second similar counterpart, a maid Most sisterly to the first, not yet awake Excepting to the motherly footstep, but Marvelling sometimes at the shaken sleep. Then third, a thing still flaxen in the light, A creeper under jaunty leaves. And fourth, Mere blusteriness that gewgaws jollified, All din and gobble, blasphemously pink. A few years more and the vermeil capuchin Gave to the cabin, lordlier than it was, The dulcet omen fit for such a house. The second sister dallying was shy To fetch the one full-pinioned one himself Out of her botches, hot embosomer. The third one gaping at the orioles Lettered herself demurely as became A pearly poetess, peaked for rhapsody. The fourth, pent now, a digit curious. Four daughters in a world too intricate In the beginning, four blithe instruments Of differing struts, four voices several In couch, four more personæ, intimate As buffo, yet divers, four mirrors blue That should be silver, four accustomed seeds Hinting incredible hues, four self-same lights That spread chromatics in hilarious dark, Four questioners and four sure answerers. Crispin concocted doctrine from the rout. The world, a turnip once so readily plucked, Sacked up and carried overseas, daubed out Of its ancient purple, pruned to the fertile main, And sown again by the stiffest realist, Came reproduced in purple, family font, The same insoluble lump. The fatalist Stepped in and dropped the chuckling down his craw, Without grace or grumble. Score this anecdote Invented for its pith, not doctrinal In form though in design, as Crispin willed, Disguised pronunciamento, summary, Autumn's compendium, strident in itself But muted, mused, and perfectly revolved In those portentous accents, syllables, And sounds of music coming to accord Upon his law, like their inherent sphere, Seraphic proclamations of the pure Delivered with a deluging onwardness. Or if the music sticks, if the anecdote Is false, if Crispin is a profitless Philosopher, beginning with green brag, Concluding fadedly, if as a man Prone to distemper he abates in taste, Fickle and fumbling, variable, obscure, Glozing his life with after-shining flicks, Illuminating, from a fancy gorged By apparition, plain and common things, Sequestering the fluster from the year, Making gulped potions from obstreperous drops, And so distorting, proving what he proves Is nothing, what can all this matter since The relation comes, benignly, to its end? So may the relation of each man be clipped.

[renee-writer]

If You Can't See It, Is It Really There? Part 31

They slip out on the night of the new moon. A few stars in the sky light their way. Jamie carries Bree. Claire holds his hand tight. She is thankful he knows the way. She can see nothing in the darkness. She knows Fergus is a few steps behind them but, she can neither hear nor see him. Her reality is the feel of Jamie's strong hand guiding her and the soft sound of her daughter's breathing.

They had said their goodbyes. It was quite hard to say farewell to Jenny and Ian. And sweet wee Jamie and Maggie. There are promises to write, to send carefully worded letters through Jarrod. But, the reality is that those letters will be all the knowledge they will have of each other. They will not see each others beloved faces again. She had wept in Jamie's arm as that reality hit her hard.

"I ken Mo' ghairde. But, they will know us safe. And together. And living free. Tis' better than this." He gestures around the cave," or worse, in an English prison, awaiting the gallows."

So, they are off. Filled with both grief and excitement as they head towards a new free life on the other side of the Atlantic. After hours of trecking wordlessly through the glens and over the monros, they smell her. The salty water of the ocean.

"Daddy," Bree's voice is hoarse from disuse and sleep.

"Aye lass." He whispers back, a gentle reminder of the continued need of secracy.

"Are we almost there?" And Claire punch-drunk from fatigue and stress, has to bite her lip to keep from bursting out laughing. For Bree's question takes her back to hearing the same from the backseat of their auto as they headed anywhere more then ten minutes away.

"Aye lass, can ye smell her?"

"Yes daddy."

"The boat will be waiting. Fergus," his cry is just a bit louder then a whisper.

"Aye mi'----papa."

"Run ahead son. Make sure the boat be waiting. Return only if it isn't."

"Aye papa."

He runs ahead making no sound and Claire wonders anew how her men do it. Move so soundless through?

"Are you worried?" Claire asks.

"No," she feels him smile against her. "No, just cautious."

Fergus doesn't return and they soon join him. They stars reflect off the waves allowing them to see Fergus standing beside a small boat and another man. Jamie hands Bree to her and approaches them.

"Ye must be Mr Malcolm. Ye son here said ye were on the way. I be MacDonald and will be taking you and yer family to the Porpoise."

"Aye I am. Thank ye kindly Mr MacDonald."

"No Mr. Just MacDonald. Ready to board?"

"Aye. Come Sassanech. Give me the bairn." He takes Bree and then her hand helping them aboard. He gets her seated and hands her Bree. He gestures to Fergus to seat by them. He seats closer to the railing knowing he will be seasick. They are soon off.

[trickstersantana]

[Para] Vertedero de ilusiones

Who: Santana Location:  Santana’s mind, Sciron Square 207 Time: 24 October 2018 Summary: Santana sleeps next to Quinn and something UNEXPECTED happens no one knew this was going to happend guys no one. Triggers/Notes: Ok GUYS there are so parts in spanish so hover for the translation. Thanks to @gotmattitude​ for checking it’s proper mexican sounding spanish instead of spain sounding spanish bless u. TW: Violence, blood, dead, animal harm, dead animal

Santana has always been the Mistress of her own dreams. The Goddess of Lucid Dreams. She has her ways of knowing what’s a dream and what’s not. She just checked the time and battery of her phone and it’s not there. She illusions a book and checks the writing shifts around the page, blurry around the corners.

A dream she can’t control, shaped like a dream.

“Queenie, I’m trapped on a trickster deal. I can’t hear you or anything. Make me a favor and try to not let me go out of my room.” She says out loud, looking at a discolored door of an old red car in front of her. She assumed if she tried to open the door of the car, she would just get out of her room and do weird shit in front of people.  She looks where the car is headed upon, a huge downhill, like a huge ass slide for cars who finished on a sea of spikes. But above the sea of spikes there was a giant ring of blue fire, and then a huge open door written EXIT HERE above. So you are trying to tell me that for ‘exiting’ I have to get in the car, go super fast for the slide so it jumps through the circle of fire and gets in the door. God damn it that’s so fucking extra. Who designed this bullshit. Like, she loved it as much as she knew it was super over the top, but she wasn’t going to fall for that crap.

She looked around, searching for clues or the style of the illusion, to know who did this. At first glance it looked like a dump full of...things. But it wasn’t garbage. It was just disorganized illusions. An illusion dump. She could recognize most of those things where stuff she illusioned. There was a lot of blue fire around, spears and other weapons. The scene was a mix of her past illusions too, overlapping on each other, sky included, being day or night or completely white in some parts. There was no people, animals or monster around. Geez, I know deals can leave something to the imagination of the creator, but this is too much, too specifically me. I can see shit from before NYADA that anyone who wasn’t my ‘family’ won’t know, and shit from NYADA my ‘family’ couldn’t possibly know with so many detail. Maybe they reached High Level Trickster power. God I bet it’s Darling. Darling, also know as her ‘mom’, just got her fucking Hamlet book. She probably was mendling in her life over that. God, what if the Hamlet book had the keys to do this level on illusion but I didn’t read that part yet because I was reading the other parts? That book had a lot on info on it, but she wanted even more information on it before reading it all. And now, she didn’t have access to it. What if the exit is actually the exit but Darling knew I wouldn’t go for such an obvious exit? what if THAT’S WHAT SHE WANTS ME TO THINK? Oh, maybe it’s a Darling and Zombie collab. Then it should be a solvable puzzle.

“Nah, fuck it. I’m just going to lay in the floor and binge watch illusion Xena while waiting 24 hours until this pass.” She said out loud for Quinn to hear, and lied on the floor, carefully, and illusioned a TV floating in the air, for her to see.

Many episode later, Santana stands up. “What the fuck? Where am I? Why am I watching Xena?” She groans. She saw the clear exit trap and ignored it, trying to search in illusion world, walking far away from the car. “Geez there is so much garbage in here” She says, kicking some huge chainsaw (the part that doesn’t cut, obviously). She keeps on walking until she ends up seeing a wishing well. She doesn’t remember illusioning this particular wishing well, so she runs too look at it. She looks down the well, in search of clues in the bottom of it. There is something that looks like the corpse of a woman. “Ew.” Santana said. “What the fuck. Creepy.” She keep looking, though. There was what looked like if you skinned a human alive and left it there like a fucked up costume. When she tried to look what the other things in there were, the corpse started to move. Crawling through the well. As Santana stepped down searching for a weapon, the corpse was already out the well. Long black hair, a weird decorated knife stuck on a side of her abdomen, full of blood. “¡Hola, Capi Tana!The corpse says, cheerfully, taking the knife out and throwing it away. “Ya tiene mucho tiempo que ni me llamas ni nada.” She says, fake pouting. Santana recognized the woman in front of her. Someone she didn’t see on a long time. 

“Fuck. Elise.”

“But also fuck Elise ¿no?” Elise said, playfully winking. “Pero ya sabes, cogiendo. Sin stabity stab.”

Santana sighs. This wasn’t real, so whatever. “Geez, are you trying to teach me a lesson?”

“Why are you talking in english? El español se siente más personal.” Elise said, no blood on her anymore. “Oooh, es precisamente por eso.” Elise realizes. “¿Y cómo que Elise? ¿Qué pasa con tus millones de apodos?”        

Santana sits on the well, looking down again. Maybe if she threw more things on it, it would be full. Then her wish comes true, right? Was that how wishing wells worked? She keeps thinking, touching her hair, straight and long. Wait, shouldn’t be an afro? I don’t have my hair like this anymore. “Elise am I looking like I always look to you?”

“Igualita.” It shouldn’t be like this. She should look different to Elise, right? She just took that stupid human potion like last week. Last week? Or months ago? Santana walks away from the well, stepping over guns and big lamps and cars and catapults. Elise follows her.

“I wasn’t planning to kill you.” She said, while walking. Not even looking at Elise’s direction.

“No. Teníamos un plan buenísimo para tu quedarte con uno de mis riñones sin matarme. En plan, me apuñalas, lo tomas, haces tu ritual y ¡boom! Adiós problemas. Ya eres humana. ”

“Alright. It was a shit plan! It would had probably kill you. But I was hoping it didn’t!!” She admits. She didn’t like to even think about this. But it was time. “Like, I was hoping as you trusted me, and I kind-of-trusted you, that in the moment I tried to stab you it’s like, test passed!! A light will appear and I will become human, no actual stabbing necessary you know? A la binding of Isaac.” She didn’t like to think about this because she knew it was fucking ridiculous. “But then I was like...well. You know, I thought you were a slayer, you said some...really weird shit suddenly and…” She steps on a big box that she doesn’t recognize. She opens it to find some nice decorated knives. “Alright, to be honest, deep down, I was hoping me freaking out and blowing the whole thing was the tiny part of me who… didn’t want to hurt you, in case I wasn’t stopped by magic, I rather stop myself and lie to myself too saying it was because I got paranoid.” She looked at the knives in the box, some knives had so many decorations, even in the blade, it would be super hard to cut anything with them. Like they had pins, if knives could have pins. She will have to cut the decorations on it too and it didn’t seem easy. She picked the most decorated ones, one raspberry pink, gentleman-thief like knife,with handcuffs, letters, hearts, and a lot of more shit Santana didn’t stop to look, and another porpoise grey shadow push knife, with handshakes, socks, and more shit. She didn’t usually like grey, but she liked this specific grey. 

“But that’s not what really happened.” She left the decorated knives in the box, and picket other, merigold yellow handle, simple. No decorations, just a cat draw in the blade, but as soon as she picks it up, it turns into ashes. What a shame, it was a decent knife. It had to be sharpened more but it looked like it could be used. Gone. Unused. “I didn’t stop myself. Someone else stopped me. Someone called the Cardines. Someone… God. Someone made me...ugh” No. she wasn’t going to say it. She was just looking at knives now. She picks a dark plum purple with a gothic handle, and one light blue and taffy pink that opened like a lipstick, with a heel shoe in the blade. Both broken by the handle. Useless. But there is a simple one, with a little full moon carved on the blade, and a wolf on the end of the handle. Sharpened. Usable. She was going to carry this one. She sees there is a gap for a knife that isn’t there anymore. “Elise, was this your kni- oh FUCK!” She turns around but Elise isn’t there anymore. There is that old bastard man with his sunglasses on. “Ugh. ‘Dad’. Where is Elis-where is the… there was a girl here before.”

“Estamos aquí solos, Niebla, no tienes que hablar en inglés.” Her ‘dad’ says, with his annoying grin like he is planning something, and everything goes as he plans. She know it’s fake.

“Look, dad, I’m almost going to be an adult soon and I’m going to do whatever the fuck I wa- wait, no. I’m an adult.” She wasn’t 17. She was older. But she looks 17. “Fuck. I’m older than 17 and I’m still a fucking animal. I just have 3 years left. No, I have more years.” More years suffering. She stands up, confused at where the fuck she is. There is full of things that feels familiar but she just feels in the middle of nowhere. She runs. Somewhere.

“¿Dónde vas?” Her ‘dad’ asks, and she can hear him walking slowly behind her. She wasn’t going to wait for him.

“I’m fucking going backwards in the middle of nowhere. Fuck!”

“You never did a good thing in your life, and the world would be a better place without you.”

She steps on something and falls, she hears the sound of a recorded voice and tries to find where it comes from. She stands up and walk around, but she just hears more voices instead.

“You think everything is funny, and you answer me with irony just because you don't have anything real to say. I believed in you, I thought you were really trying to change things around.”

“Oh, shut up. Where does this come from?”  

“I wouldn't have to fight you. I already know that I've won the most important part of living. And if you don't know what it is, well -- it shows.” Another voice. “You created the situation that caused you to be the victim!” She knew all of these different voices. “Who is doing this? Ugh, it doesn’t matter, I don’t give a single shit of what anyone dares to say about me!”“Do you feel that way too? Do you think you are just some kind of animal?”

But the recorded voices continued. “If you are what you are, and you are a trickster spirit, why do you never present as an animal? You are one, aren’t you. An animal.”

“You’re lucky some even refer to you as people, instead of Lusus.” She was getting annoyed. “But one day you´re going to realize that you´ll need friends by your side to back you up, and it´ll be sad when you turn around and realize there´s no one there.” She hears slow footsteps behind, clashing with the sound of stepping over metal. “I know what your most afraid of is never getting to be a real life girl ain’t it? Spoiler alert: You won’t. Ever.”

His ‘father’ gets closer to her, laughing. “Ugh, you’re the worst!” Santana says, pointing at him with her knife.

“You're seriously the worst trickster ever. Any trickster who scorns their birth is owned by humans. Go away, nothing.”

“I can’t be the worst if you are.” Her ‘dad’ answers.

“Your life is a series of seemingly unconnected episodes of deception for deception’s sake. In the end, your existence will be of no consequence.” Santana keeps searching where the record comes from. “I’m done bothering to try explaining anything to you.”She localizes the place where she hears it best. “It is not my fault that you got caught by the Cardines, Santana. Maybe the fact that you got caught means that you aren't as good as you think you are and do need to be here.” It’s buried behind a lot of illusory crap. Mostly weapons. “I don’t call you by your animal species, do I?” She starts to unbury and search. “Humans are capable of remorse. Do you feel remorse, Santana?” Her dad keeps laughing. “Remorse, you?” Like it was the funniest joke. “Evil for the sake of being evil. That's how I see a real monster to be.” A monster isn’t so bad, then. “You can sit there, and talk a big game about how my relationship is fake and all my friends are gone, and my parents don’t love me, but at the end of the day, Santana, I have my fake girlfriend and my cryptic parents and my fake friends, and you have nothing, and no one. Because you can’t. Ever. Not really. Not like the rest of us.” She keeps caving. “You’re following illogical sense. A fire witch isn’t a chimney. Just like your human form isn’t really a human body.” She sees an old tape recorder. “You are so full of shit. I find it funny that you are trying to be sarcastic with me right now when I'm actually one of the few who actually is trying to understand you around here.” She picks it up. “We wouldn't have been faced with the obligation to kick someone out if you hadn't acted the way you did.” And throws it to the ground. She steps on it, again and again.

“I'm sorry, Santana, but either way, you are still you, that's not gonna chang-” It’s the last thing the tape recorder says before being completely broken. She is satisfied. “I’m not even going to think about this ever again.” She says, while burying the old broken tape recorder back, putting even more things she founds around on top of it. But as she tries to bury something, she is getting things that weren’t on surface before. She isn’t looking what she picks, and sees she has in hand a dead rabbit. She throws it to the ground. It looks like a car hit it. “Ew ew ew ew” She complains, trying to clean her hands on her ‘dad’ shirt. “¡Mira!” Her dad laughs ”El conejo muerto que nos encontramos un día en la carretera y te dije, te dijee... que así estaríamos cuando nos muramos. Un animal muerto más, la gente nos mirará un segundo con cara de pena y luego seguirán con sus vidas sin volver a pensar en nosotros.” He says, like remembering a fond ‘father-daughter’ moment.

“Yeah, one of your depressive days when you don’t stop saying sad bullshit.” Where he complains about everything that also affects them all. She picks some joke t-shirt she founds on and hides the death rabbit with it. She tried to hide it with more things, but she will just find more creepy shit she didn’t want to find. So she just left the place, walking away, not knowing where she is going. She hears the sound of recorded voices.

“-the mighty and proud Santana Lopez.”

“Ugh, again?” She gets close to where the sounds come from, to destroy it too.

“I talk to you about shit because I want to. You’re a good friend, y'know” A voice she knows says.

“However what I've learned from all of our adventures, discussions, and friendship together is that when it comes to something important and serious, we have each other's backs and each other's stories.” She is getting closer. “You’re nice too, hah. Very surprisingly. More than that I guess if I had to be forced to compliment you by some sort of curse, I like that you’re real.” This one is not in the surface either. “Suffice it to say I know you care more than you let on. About us, about me. Don't go.” She tries to unbury it. “I have time for the people that matter.” She hears footsteps behind, over the sound of the recorder. “Santana you are a cool friend.” She keeps unburying. “I thought that mirror monster was beautiful and honest.” It’s buried deeper down than the other. “You aren't a condition that needs fixing. You've already proven to be fiercely loyal and a keeper of secrets without the aura potion. You’re super sweet when you’re nice, anyway. And same on the mutual respect thing. You’re my trusted friend.” She notices those phrases weren’t said at the same time, even when it was by the same person. But the order didn’t matter. “What do I think you are? You are my friend, and I love you and I care about you. There are things I'm afraid of, there are things that affect me more than others, but that's not a judgment towards you. Those are things I have to work out myself.” She is getting closer. “You challenge me, which I appreciate.” She sees the recorder. “They care about you, too. We might not die, but we'll be sad. We'll miss you. More so if you go off and get yourself killed.” She keeps staring at it, in silence. “We can be so much more than that. We shouldn't have to be just ‘monsters’ or not even that just a label that they want to put on us.” She takes the recorder with her. “Thanks for this, inviting me over. Not being weird. I've missed you.” Still knife in hand. “She told me that she thought I was always thoughtful, even though I thought you were a monster. Santana, I don't believe that you are anymore. You've shown me there is more to you than tricks and illusions.” She gets out of the hole where the recorder was buried in. “However I don't want to leave you behind if that's what turning my back means.”

She throws it to the ground. And stabs it with the kife. “Shut up shut up shut up shut up!” She shouts, crying, still stabbing the recorder. “Shut up! This just makes me feel worse! Shut up! I would leave everyone of you behind. I’m just tricks and illusions. I was using you! Monster is the highest status I can fucking reach!” She keeps stabbing the recorder even when it stopped working already. “No one will miss me. Shut up! I thought I wanted this, but the more they care, the more far away I fucking feel. The closer they are, the easiest is to notice there is nothing here.” She grabs her own tshirt and keeps crying. “I fucking hate it... I can’t… I can’t pretend anymore to be a person. People are telling me they care about me? And I fucking feel so empty when they do.” Someone sits next to her.

“¿Que hay debajo de toda esta basura, niña?” Her mom asks.

“Nothing! There’s nothing!” She feels so little. She looks up to her mom and she is not even going to use the quotation marks.  “Mom, help me! When is this over? When do I start enjoying life?”

“¿Por qué estás aqui?”

“I don’t need a fucking reason to be here, in the world! What? I don’t have to contribute ANYTHING to a world that only give me pain! Fucking answer me! I’m just like 10 and I’m already so fucking tired of everything” No. She is not 10. She looks like a 10 year old but she is 24. “No, no, no, fuck. 14 years more of this? When am I going to become human, mom? Mom, please, I just want to enjoy life and I can’t as a trickster!”

“¿Tienes miedo? ¿De que tampoco podrás como humana?” Her mom asks. Santana blinks and she is alone again. She keeps crying. “It’s ok, it’s ok. Soon I will be human and happy.” She never was, but she could be. Right? “And I will connect with my friends for real, and I will care for real. I will be real.” She stands up, and walks alone, trying to remember the way back to where she was at the start. She is going back in age too. She is getting younger and younger. “Oh, no.” She will reach the moment when she couldn’t even turn into a human. She sees herself as the unglamoured kid, hidding her monstrous features under gloves, coats, hat and sunglasses. “No no no no.” She runs, she runs until she sees the red car. “I can’t end as I started! Without accomplishing anything!” She stops running when she reaches the car, she tries to open the door. It’s locked. “I don’t want to die as an animal! What was all the effort I did for? Nothing?” She keeps crying, desperately trying to open the door. If she was older, she could had open it. She knew how to unlock cars locks when she was older. She didn’t knew it now. “No! Help me!” The little girl  uses the knife in her hand to try to open the car, as if stabbing the lock would work.

“Someone! Anyone! Please!”

[nayrusfountain]

Deep Blue

Species: Zora

Subspecies: Koreiop Zora

Breed: Chrome Koreoip

Nationality: Labrynna

Gender: Dame

Age: 120 years

Era: Adult Timeline

In my interpretation, Deep Blue is a special breed of Koreoip Zora, the Chrome Koreoip, which can only be rarely observe in the local waters of Labrynna and on rarer occasions stalking the shores of Hyrulian coastlines. They are also found cruising in Terminian seas but in limited quantities. It has not been officially documented whether they exist outside of Hyrulian and sometimes Terminian Realms, but eyewitness accounts reports that the creatures are supposedly abundant in the World of the Ocean King, where few humans intervene with their lives. This variant of the Zoras are consider members of the 100 holy sea guardians of the Zora, consisting of special species or breeds that are in direct alliance with Nayru herself. This gives Zoras of these particular groups an almost holy presence within their community that earns them the utmost respect and are sometimes regarded as mortal gods in some cultures.

Having been born of such a special and honorable breed of white shark Zoras, Deep Blue's family had develop a nomadic lifesytle to patrol the seas under the cover of the abyss. They function as mortal agents to Nayru, constantly relaying information to her of their progress, actively contacting and speaking with her on special nights, and exploiting her divine powers via ancient relics to ward off all the evil that plague the area. As such, Deep Blue, who eagerly likes tagging along her older relatives' mission to learn the ways of her people, is taught to earn an understanding of her spiritually and the morals of judging and punishing those who breaks the laws of Nayru.

One gloomy night during their stay at one of the secret Chrome Koreoips' cities, Deep Blue's mother, the leader of the elite forces, received a distress call via a telepathic message that spoke of an outbreak of rouge assassins trying to eliminate the Zoran Queen of the region. The massive, white-gold dame order an emergency unit of her best spies to dispatch for the capital from which the ruler dwells. Deep Blue, too young to understand the danger of the situation, thought this was another exciting advanture of "guards and bandits". She pleaded to go, but her parents informed her that the mission this time around is a matter of life or death for those involved. They then took her to her room and tuck her in for the night, promising they'll take her out over the weekend to play with the baby porpoises, which is her favorite activity.

But Deep Blue is a restless little thing, dreaming of saving the queen from the "meanies" who currently torments her. She fantasize name calling the culprits, and watch them run away like big babies and earning a medal from the ruler! Maybe even become a knight! The first Chrome knight among the common variants. Deep Blue, full of innocence, wants to help badly, and that she will do. She swam out the window and swim in the direction of the capital, having been there once. She soon arrives and makes her way into the palace where the queen resides.

But something seems off about the residence. As she entered the silent palace, Deep Blue suddenly became doubtful of her little mission. She instinctively knew that turning back would be a wise choice, right before spotting the carnage of dead Koreoips scattered further down the hallways, their blood mingling with the water into tainted mixture. There was suddenly an explosion of action as powerful Chrome Koreoips burst from the halls tangoing with sleek, fin-bladed assassins that resemble a prettier version of their cousin kind, the Makiiekdo Zoras. The little Zora watch, mystified, as two species of the same race battle it out an almost ballad like fashion as the assassins seem to dance in their fluid movements. The battle intensifies greatly, and soon more Zoras, fangs flashing and claws swinging, joined the deadly dance that spread to all corners of the room.

In the confusion, Deep Blue was snatch up and taken to the deeper ends of the palace. It was the Queen herself, removing her from the bloodbath that now drench her waters. Or so it seems. The ruler, who smugly introduce herself as Bletch (of all names) took her to one of the many rooms and locked her in. Deep Blue became immensely frighten of her predicament, and remain cowering in the corner for next several hours as the chaos of the fight slowly ebbs away. She heard nothing but silence for a while, but heard the murmurs of the guards being spoken of the Queen's success of acquiring a sacred beast. Then all had faded.

Queen Bletch was elated to see her the next day as she opens the door, stating boldly that she is her mother now. Even at a young age, Deep Blue suspected the queen was probably hit rather hard on her noggin during the raid. When the guppy decline and demanded to be returned to her real mom, Bletch suddenly emitted a psychotic snarl, lunge, and nearly bit the little pup's tiny fin off, startling Deep Blue badly. The crazed Queen ordered her to see her as her new mother, least she wants her true parent to get executed. This had Deep Blue in a panicked fit of hysteria, begging her not to hurt her beloved relative, and Bletch sneered victoriously. The queen sweeten her tone, and took her to the dining hall where she will eat breakfast. Along the way, Deep Blue noted the Queen fancying herself on the reflective blue marbles that made up the palace, revealing her vain attitude.

The petty queen soon order the temporary exile of the Chrome Koreoips to avoid confrontations with what she knew will be the bloodthirsty wrath of a very angry mother. She falsely accused Deep Blue to have been killed and eaten by the Terminian assassins during the raid. Cannibalism can happen occasionally within the predatory Zora people, and Bletch wanted to paint the Terminian Zoras in a barbaric light. Deep Blue was kept in her possession, growing up as the unofficial princess of the Koreoip Royal Family as soon as the holy Chrome Koreoips were chased out of Labrynna. Anyone who dares mentions Deep Blue's named outside of the Empire were immediately executed to prevent gossip from reaching the ears of her former family.

Deep Blue, unhappy with her outcome, came to ultimately accept her new life, regretting not heeding the warnings of her parents. As a Chrome variant of the anthropomorphic white sharks, she was an extremely valuable asset to her people, and the Queen, faking her delusions, plots to exploit her to her fullest potential. Bletch had her undergo training everyday, forced her to manipulate the divine magic of her kind at an early age, and had her trade fighting moves with her at the Queen's personal training room. Although Bletch's words was encouraging, she will quickly beat her down whenever Deep Blue miscalculated her moveset. As such, the pup at such a tender age, was mercilessly force the steel herself and herself emotions for the daily exhausting and painful process.

Deep Blue slowly lost her innocence as the brutal art of warfare became ingrained in her mindset. They beat her down and force her to kill random prisoners to nullified her emotion. She became stotic and shut herself off from the world. Her deep sapphire scales dulled in response to her environment. Deep Blue had been force to battle in the arena every weekend to gain superior skills and to learn to draw blood without feeling sick. It did work, for her training had nullified her empathy to freely express remorse over the fallen.

Decades of training ensued. Deep Blue grew up strong as she willed herself to pull through and prove her worth to her deranged step-mother. She grew up raw, raw with immerse power. But it was a power the Queen nor normal Zoras couldn't understand. For unlike most Zoran magic that can be manipulated with false "elemental water", this was a wild power, indomitable, pure, that only special Zoras like Chrome Koreoips can harness.

The essence of the Kingdom of the Moon, the nightly heaven in which Nayru resides in her palace, made up this alluring energy, and permits the chosen Zoras to preform incredible feats. Deep Blue can breach higher then other Koreoips to the point of flying, as if she can catch the moon in her great jaws and pluck it right out of the sky. She can swim faster then a marlin, her large structure shredding the waters like a torpedo. Even without training, her senses are heighten and precise. And she can endure fights better then all the Zoras in the kingdom, her blows breaking spines and tearing flesh from bone with little effort. She felt a great connection with the Goddess of Wisdom through this special magic that enchant her. The desire to serve under her holy mother grew with each year, her duty awakening from each passing moons. For a long time she believed the Chrome Koreoips were the only blessed breed among the Zoras. That the whole Ocean world depended on her and her people alone to protect it. She felt truly empowered.

One evening, as she swims toward the throne room to report back from a scouting expedition, Deep Blue overheard Bletch's future plans from the meeting room halfway to her destination, its ugliness revealing itself to her. In truth, the Queen had felt threaten by the ways of Terminian life, and sought to eliminate the problem before they become too powerful should they ever decide to invade Labrynna. This is in due to their neighbors having a more advance nation with magic based machinery that can easily give them an advantage in war should they ever decide to invade other less develop countries. The fear of an attack drove the Queen insane, and in her paranoia orginally began soughting after the highly regarded guardians that are the Chrome Koreoips to build a massive army to withstand the coming battle.

The Terminian Zoras had caught wind of her plot, because they keep sending those mako assassins to finish her reign. And now with the tension rising between the two power nations, the Queen declares war. Deep Blue was to be use as a secret weapon to combat their respective guardians, that way they can then take out their leaders and take over Terminian waters.

As much as the notion of impending war terrified her, Deep Blue knew that reasoning with her sergeant mother is futile. Bletch is irrational, more bloodthirsty then an average Zora, and refuse to listen to reason. And her fear of foreigners like Terminian Zoras clouds her judgements, making her cruel and unjust towards all outsiders.

But the Chrome Koreiop refuse to submit to the notion of the Empire's fate and vow to kill the Queen herself to prevent the impending war. She refuse to permit the needless suffering of countless innocents to go underway, and if she has to kill the xenophobic ruler to protect these poor souls, then she will take full responsibility to do so. After all, she was trained to kill when necessary.

Deep Blue carry on her duties as normal until night fell. As Queen Bletch fell into a deep slumber, Deep Blue carefully crept in with her outstretched claws ready to slit her target's throat. That was until she sensed the sudden presence of another Zora in the room, and she whirl around to be face to face with one of those Terminian Assassin Zora piercing her with his luminous eyes. His bladed fins were glazed in the filtering moonlight.

The haunting posture nearly cause Deep Blue to scream in surprised terror, but she held her tongue as the sleeker Zora slowly approached. In a dangerously soft tone the Mako Zora demanded an answer to her bizarre actions. Feeling threaten, the female Zora flare her fins and announced her authority as a member of the revered Chrome Koreoips, one of the elite species of the 100 Holy Guardian Zora. This didn't faze the killer at all, for he merely cocked his head with fascination. She wondered why until he stated his affliction as a mythical Sylovaakien Zora, another member of the divine legion of blessed Zoras. His kind serves as the primary guardians Zora of Termina, and that their task in killing the Queen is a necessity to ensure thr protection of Termina's oceans.

No amount of training prepare her for this.

Deep Blue was stunned to discover that her supposed mortal enemies are also chosen ones of Nayru. The Zora points to Bletch and questions if she will proceed her assassination attempt, willing to take the blame if it ment Termina's safety. He also inform her that he can take her to his species's hidden city to protect her, away from the rigid codes of the empire. He also revealed that he had been observing her struggles over his years as a spy and was waiting for this opportunity to personally meet help. His offers became too tempting for her to resist, yearning to be free from her "mother's" control.

Then the Queen began to stir.

In her panic, Deep Blue swam for the window, but the Zora grabbed her hand and escorted her out of the room in a flash. He rush her out of the palace and into a small portal to the Terminian world. Finally, as they materialize in the crystalline capital of the Zoran Heroes, Deep Blue saw the wise, bewildered faces observing her arrival. Many were deeply suspicious of her, while others welcomed her warmly, calling her their "dear cousin". Her escort, (who's she's becoming quite fond of, maybe even smitten considering his sophisticated mannerisms) directed her along and took an opportunity to tour her along his beautiful city, where the legendary Makos thrives in prosperity. As she marvel at the majestic architects, she even notice a few Chrome Koreoips as they engage in trades and close alliances to the Sylovaakiens.

The Zoran Heroes were mostly polite to Deep Blue, but of coarse her alliance with Bletch made them question whether she is worthy of being trusted. The Head Alpha wasn't impressed with her new friend's rash decision of bringing an outsider to their hidden kingdom, but ultimately accepted her in Termina so long as she serves their country instead. Deep Blue wasn't keen on turning her back on Labrynna, but being homeless and having no future, she ultimately agrees. She was soon sent away with the Terminian Chrome Koreoips to begin her new life in their realm, residing in a small undersea townhouse. She became a part of their elite military, once again force to fight a battle she didn't ask for. And yet, for the first time in decades, she is living among Chrome Koreoips once again. And with this, she was content.

[namu-the-orca]

“The Desert Porpoise”

Not only are vaquita very rare, they’re also very inconspicuous, meaning that finding them and taking good photographs is a pain. They do not spyhop, they do not jump, so the most iconic picture you’ll ever get is a single eye peeking out over the waterline. Which is a bit of a problem when the animal in question is highly endangered and needs some good PR to get people to care. For that purpose, this painting was made. It was commissioned by the Porpoise Conservation Society, and will accompany their articles and campaigns.

Vaquitas are in a strange place; their numbers are hopeless yet more people care about them than ever before. I tried to show that duality in this painting. It takes place at the end of a hot desert day, when the sun has set and the moon is out, but the sky is still light. A symbolic end for the vaquitas, too. Yet in the remaining light a single calf swims, bringing some hope for the species in what may prove to be their swan song.

[sacredandstrange]

Dark love is a stranger waving hello

A woman in ermine braving the snow

A crystal ball teardrop on a trembling lash

A tendril of incense smelling of ash

Forest gangbang Cernunnos thistle sun thistle moon

Piss whispers at midnight attic rat tricks at noon

Darkness creeps while you’re sleeping, seeping into your mask

It poses the questions your mirror can’t ask

Dark love is a tongue stretching out of the void

New stars are born, dead suns are destroyed

Its tip finds your pussy in Modesto, CA

Teaching you more than frail words can convey

The night licks your shadow, time dines on your pride

Pulls on your who-ness and pulls you inside out

Like the lining of a pink velvet glove

Mannequins cry as your eyes fill with love

Dark love is a hand turning over an ace

A crackerjack halo, planets grinding in space

A splash of black blood on white porcelain tiles

The shimmering skin of newborn reptiles

Ram’s horns are crushed as they rush in to kiss

The hem of an angel half hidden in mist

When you stroke your dark love your soul starts to shine

With a glow that is greater than God’s holy mind

Dark love is the song of a panther at night

The flap of a bat wing disappearing in light

The blasphemous panic of a back alley crone

Who lurks on your doorstep and chews on your bone

Her sudden appearance supplies quite a shock

Serving to unnerve like a Halloween knock

When you dive into darkness your lust is reborn

It drips from the tip of a unicorn’s horn

Dark love is the hole that gives birth to the ghost

The raging tsunami that erases the coast

A firefly glimpsed by a girl from the West

A tiny white hand in a doll maker’s chest

A dangling scarecrow in love with the moon

A wispy white sun that rises too soon

When you listen to darkness your soul starts to dance

It raves in the graveyard in a hollow eyed trance

Dark love is a footprint left draped on the stairs

A glassy eyed goon who mumbles and stares

The widening crack in a mockingbird’s egg

The shameful trickle that runs down your leg

The syncopated switch of a minotaur’s tail

The succulent ruckus when wizards prevail

When you clutch at dark love you touch the divine

Or wallow in filth like the Devil’s own swine

Dark love is the mole on a celluloid face

A mechanized dancer with music box grace

A golden key turns a pedestrian’s head

As you strut down the street decorated in red

Big icy goo burn flaming ravens below

Beyond blood beyond disco I am Satan hello

When you get lost in darkness, you find your true name

And savor the flavor of the ebony flame

Dark love is a scarab that clicks as it crawls

Through the sanctified stillness that breathes between walls

A prism speaks forth its eternal black prayer

A dragon drags daylight back to its lair

Phlegm evil Jesus dark love eat a cunt edelweiss

Razzmatazz ransom black avalanches black ice

When you fall prey to dark love you give vent to a sigh

And let warm hands caress you on the day that you die

Dark love is a doorway as slim as a slit

A Janus-faced actor reading from a ripped script

The curtain comes down at twilight’s last glow

A killer is laughing in the next to last row

Dark love sleazy blow kiss rubber raindrop at night

Kojak’s new hairdo what’s wrong is what’s right

You dream of darkness as day starts to fade

And replaces your face with a ubiquitous shade

Dark love is a magnet that pulls down the sky

Bends rainbows to snapping and blinds the mind’s eye

It twists in its grip the albino’s pale tail

Leaving welts on its pelt that can be read in Braille

Cunt swollen dark love stretches bets on a horn

Fly maggot pilots for freedom phantom steel in a storm

When you dine on dark love your fangs start to grow

With each flash of your teeth the blood starts to flow

Dark love has no edges, it won’t be tied down

It drifts past your window, a starry-eyed clown 

With lips the color of love and teeth made of glass

It chews on your shoes, leaves a crack in your ass

Bend over forever with your feet tied with twine

Chisel grease faster than the apostle of wine

When you smell dark love your nose starts to twitch

And you yearn for the burn of your Master’s quick switch

Dark love is a wire spitting out sparks

A whipping desire that leaves you covered in marks

Bleeding and pleading, not for mercy, but more

Your insatiable craving leaves a stain on the floor

You moon bathing worm, pucker your lips

Make your mouth as round as a solar eclipse

Keep your eyes peeled to behold the black sun

The Devil is clever but God won’t be outdone

Dark love is a wheel that sings as it turns

A black ray of sunshine that soothes as it burns

A slap on the ass, a flash in the pan

Red tape in the shape of the Boogie Man’s hand

When dark love decays its fruit grows more sweet

Its pure gold to behold and sheer heaven to eat

It drips from your lips and runs down your jaw

Filling your hollows with swallows and your dog bowl with awe

Dark love is the gap in a carnival tent

You wanted a ticket but your money was spent

On filth and chaos and darkness and lust

You ate so much pudding your belly might bust

And give birth to a brightly painted pinata

A statue of Pan that sings like Sinatra

With flames jumping out of his eyes, ears, and nose

As for what the Devil he’s up to, God only knows

Dark love is an expert at evoking your screams

Evoking strange scents from your brown tinted dreams

That fly hurry scurry into my beckoning nose

It’s a gift from the Devil as sweet as a rose

Vibe visor mud porpoise behind wide smiles

Scratch matches skin blister torn rectum profiles

You’re a slave to dark love until your skull turns to dust

And all of God’s angels hang their heads in disgust

Dark love turns you sideways, hides you in air

A stratum of atoms lifts up your hair

Lifts up your spirits, pulls down your skirt

Puts your curls in a whirl, puts your face in the dirt

Somewhere your tombstone is uprooted by rain

Your eyes float in a forest, your pain stains the grain

When you peer into darkness, you confront your worst fears

And shake hands with the man who manufactures your tears

[wide-eyedscottishlass]

(another snippet...in which we are reminded of Scarlett’s supernatural connection to the Sea)

Scarlett had seen some of Europe’s most opulent mansions and palaces during her gap year travels, and though Hennessy’s home paled by those standards, she was impressed enough to have to remind herself not to gawk.  The marble-floored foyer led into a two-story hall that housed a wide, cobalt coloured, carpeted staircase which swept upwards to an eight foot tall, stained glass window above the main landing.  A short run of stairs branched off on either side of the landing, presumably to bedrooms and bathrooms, and likely much more.  But it was the window that really grabbed her attention.

A large silver moon dominated a star strewn, indigo sky, riding above stylized waves fresh with white seafoam.  Several shades of blue-greens and blues marked the descending depths, which towards the bottom became nearly as black as true night.  A myriad of bright fish swam in the upper levels, along with several grey seals and tortoises; just beneath them dwelt jellyfish, porpoises, a few species of sharks, and a pod of orcas.  In the darker regions below cruised manta rays and bright red octopi and freakishly long eels.  Lurking the bottom was an ominous black beast, outlined in the same silver that coloured the moon, so as to be visible.  It’s eyes were large and cat-like—and possessed the monster’s only other color besides black and silver.  Blue.  A bright blue that felt impossible to belong to such a menacing creature.  Why, even it’s deadly fangs and claws were silver.

Scarlett shivered at the sight, as though a goose had walked over her grave.  For several heartbeats she was overcome with deja vu—for it put her in mind of her nightmares of unseen, but too oft-dreamt, foul beasties populating the Deep, laying in wait to steal her away if she ever tread too far from shore.  Those terrors of her youth, which had only fully disappeared when she had tarried on the shores of the Aegean Sea during her Greek holiday.  And had returned to plague her briefly throughout those weeks that Hennessy had left her languishing for his attention.  Still unaware that it was her ancient Selkie blood raising her alarm, she turned away—vowing that if…or when…she had cause to mount those stairs, she would avert her eyes from the troubling portion of the image, and focus solely on the moon and waves, the fish and sleek grey seals…

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