#sorry paracelsus maybe next time

[nyatem]

My favorite little homunculus

[serafiel-jacobs]

I write sins not tragedies (Fanfic)

Murder Mystery Au 💌

The maid had entered her room to tell her that breakfast was ready and the scream was heard all across the mansion. María’s father rushed downstairs to see the commotion, to find the dead body of his beloved daughter, the blood filling her bedsheets, her blue eyes were still open staring at her chest, where a dagger used to murder her was still stuck to her body.

Gabriel Jacob was devastated, he held his daughter's body until the police came and he had to be removed from her body.

His daughter was only 23 years old.

Her body was so cold and stiff due to the rigor mortis.

The police analyzed the scene and they found the notes, or rather what remained of them, most of the writings had been burned but not all managed to be consumed by the flames. The notes that talked about the petrification disease, that mentioned the experiments, that mentioned the plans.

María Jacob was a young alchemist, she rose to the ranks so easily and swiftly that everyone saw her true potential, and how she could change the field of alchemy. But if you were to ask her loved ones, her true passion was writing, she would write letters to those she held closer to her heart.

Her now cold dead heart.

——

“Who was the moron that murdered her?!”

Simon was furious, one job, that person had one damn job and they didn’t do it right. “If I find out any of you send someone else to kill her ruining this plan, I swear I will make you wish for death”

Everyone in that room had never seen Simon like that, he was calm and collected, manipulative and sly. He had already found the information from the one who was supposed to carry her death, the man poisoned her, they had planted the fake suicide letter, and after hours of torturing the man who poisoned her, in the end, it was true. That all was according to plan.

Yet the suicide letter was never found.

Not only that but her Ergo had been extracted from her body.

So that means someone else went and killed her and the only ones that had a grudge against her were other alchemists.

This meeting had all high-ranking members of the alchemists present, as well as Laxasia next to Simon’s side.

“Please Simon we aren’t stupid,” Paracelsus said while rolling his eyes, but he could understand his frustration, there wasn’t enough evidence to convict any of them for their crimes but the police were now on their trail, if it was found out that they are responsible for the petrification disease…

“Don’t play games with me Paracelsus” Simon hates how that man never takes anything seriously.

“I’m not playing games… this time”

Simon was frustrated, he had worked so long for this, his life goal, his destiny to become a god and it could all be ruined because of this.

They needed to find out which alchemist was responsible for this, and they needed to do it fast.

——

“Father I’m home,” Carlo said, he was living with his father now that he graduated and was training to become a stalker, he wanted to find a place to live with Romeo but his father insisted on him coming back home.

Carlo could tell that his father wanted to fix their relationship, and Carlo wanted to try to fix things too, he does love his father but sometimes it’s hard, because of everything that happened.

Geppetto came out of his workshop.

Of course, even at home, his father is always working.

“How was training?”

“It was fine”

“Were you a good boy?”

“Father I’m not 10 years old anymore” Carlo was embarrassed but his father gave him a smile.

“Well, not everything was fine…” Carlo gave out a deep sigh, “I found out one of my friends died”

Maybe he and María weren’t that close but it still hurt to hear about her passing, worst of all was finding out how she died.

“Oh, I’m sorry son… which of your friends was it?” His father asked with concern in his voice.

“It was María” His father knew her, he had seen her on a few occasions. María was the daughter of an important Judge in Krat, last year was when both of them met her at an event that his father forced him to go to, and since then, they have seen each other a few times.

His father was quiet, really quiet. Carlo saw a few tears coming out of his eyes.

Carlo had shed a few tears as well, but he didn’t though his father was fond of her, their conversations were always so short, just simple greetings.

Geppetto took a deep breath and got closer to his son and gave him a hug, Carlo hugged him back for a few minutes before letting go.

“Sorry for changing the subject like this but, there is a faire coming next week, I was wondering if you wanted to go,” Geppetto thought that this would be a good idea for a father and son bonding time.

It’s an annual faire, his father had only taken him once when he was a child, other times he had sneaked out of school to go with Romeo; he was planning to go with Romeo this year as well but, Carlo could see that his father was making an effort and he could go one day with his father and another with Romeo.

“Sure, we can go”

“That’s great” Geppetto played with his son’s hair, and Carlo was embarrassed again.

When was this energy when he was a child?

“I’m going to be in my workshop if you need anything, I’ll come out to have dinner”

Seriously? Not even trying to have casual conversations anymore?

“Ugh, whatever the old man is trying,” Carlo thought to himself.

——

Geppetto was exhausted from all that work, but this was something important, something that he had to do.

He closed the box, he would have to continue later, for now, he would safeguard this project.

It was almost time for dinner, he should go and make something for himself and Carlo.

Before leaving, Geppetto picked up a piece of paper, a letter, and many more letters were stacked next to it, he had been reading those letters.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

Geppetto my beloved, I understand your concerns, but I love you, I truly do.

I don’t care about the fact that you are older than me, I have fallen for you and I know that you have fallen for me as well.

Please don’t feel guilty about the love you hold for me, I was the one who confessed first, I was the one who looked for you.

I want to keep writing to you, I know our relationship must be a hidden one, but, isn’t that a little exciting?

Maybe we can’t be together, maybe this isn’t meant to be, but for now, let’s ignore that. For now, let me show you all my feelings with these writings.

I await to see you again with all my heart.

-With love, María ♡

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

Geppetto buried his face in his hands.

He loved her, he killed her.

But he had to do it, there was no other choice.

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/57 - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/57 - Curry Talk Part 3/57 - Princess Sitamun Part 4/57 - Not At Rest Part 5/57 - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/57 - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/57 - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/57 - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/57 - A Miracle Part 10/57 - Desrosiers’ Elixir Part 11/57 - Athens in October Part 12/57 - The Man in Black Part 13/57 - Mr. Neustadt Part 14/57 - The Other Side of the Story Part 15/57 - A Favour Part 16/57 - A Knock on the Window Part 17/57 - Sir Stephen and Buckeye Part 18/57 - Books of Alchemy Part 19/57 - The Answers Part 20/57 - A Gift Left Behind Part 21/57 - Santorini Part 22/57 - What the Doves Found Part 23/57 - A Thief in the Night Part 24/57 - Healing Part 25/57 - Newton’s Code Part 26/57 - Montenegro Part 27/57 - The Lost Relic Part 28/57 - The Homunculinus Part 29/57 - The End is Near Part 30/57 - The Face of Evil Part 31/57 - The Morning After Part 32/57 - Next Stop Part 33/57 - A Sighting in Messina Part 34/57 - Taormina Part 35/57 - Burning Part 36/57 - Recovery Part 37/57 - Pilgrimage to Vesuvius Part 38/57 - The Scent of Hell Part 39/57 - She’ll be Coming Down the Mountain Part 40/57 - Stowaways Part 41/57 - Bon Voyage Part 42/57 - Turnabout Part 43/57 - The Apple Part 44/57 - Vesuvius Wakes Part 45/57 - Fire At Sea Part 46/57 - The Real Jim Part 47/57 - Return to Naples Part 48/57 - La Mela Part 49/57 - A Demonstration Part 50/57 - Out of the Frying Pan Part 51/57 - Into the Fire Part 52/57 - The Last Homunculus Part 53/57 - Transmission Part 54/57 - Metamorphosis Part 55/57 - Jones and the Cat Part 56/57 - Love and Loss Part 57/57 - Over at Last

Well, that was a continent-spanning adventure, wasn’t it?  On to the next fanfic.

Lady Andretti gave everybody else kisses and thanks for quite some time before finally breezing back out again, leaving them with Fury.  He came and thumped himself down at the table where they’d been eating breakfast, then leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

“All right,” he said.  “Now for the what-the-hell-have-you-done-this-time story.”

The last time Fury had been in touch with them was shortly after they’d commandeered the Scorpio II to head back to Naples, so the various members of the CAAP filled him in on what they’d been up to since.  Natasha still didn’t feel like saying much, so she contributed very little, letting the others do the talking as they described what they’d found in the city and on the volcano, and what they’d done about it.

“The man we called Jim suggested melting him down,” Sir Stephen said, when they got to the fate of Newton.

“I’d rather leave him where he is and let the volcano do it for me,” grouched Fury.  “Sounds like digging him up would be more trouble than the bastard deserves.”

“That works for me,” said Sam.

They carried on to their plan for using up the Stone’s energy by transmuting the entire ship.  There came a point, however, when Natasha was the only one left who was able to tell the story.  Allen would have done in for her, based on what she’d said to him, but she knew this had to be up to her.

“Jim went back,” she said.  “He thought Perenelle was dead, so this was his only chance to have a normal life span. And I went to save the Contessa’s little pets, so I didn’t see what happened to him after that.  I assume,” she added, hating to say it but knowing it needed to be said, and grateful for the training that allowed her to keep her emotions hidden, “he’s dead, like Newton.”

Fury nodded grimly.  “We’ll have to have Parliament make some kind of law against creating things like that,” he said.  “Word it carefully so the crazies don’t use it to rule out legitimate research into things like cloning, but no human beings who’ll only life for a week.”

That was a good idea, Nat thought, but it didn’t help Jim now.  Laws like that could only ever be afterthoughts, to keep the worst from happening again.

“If I may.”  Enrico stepped up.  “There may be something I can do to help your friend.  I’m sure you’re all familiar with the conservation of information, as it has become a part of modern physics.”  His accent, Natasha noted, was perfect reserved pronunciation. Perenelle had spoken English to them with a French accent, but that was part of an act she was putting on.  She supposed Alchemsits had hundreds of years to be their own dialect coaches.

“Information is never truly destroyed, even if it falls into a black hole,” Enrico went on.  “In principle it ought to be possible to reconstruct this Jim exactly as he was, and perhaps from there to help him.  I know a man who might be able to do it.”

“Paracelsus?” guessed Sharon.

“His input would be helpful, to be sure,” said Enrico, “but I speak of another who would prefer his identity not be known.  He had to die, you see, in order to pursue his studies in alchemy, and he would prefer the world not learn it was a fake.  If he could examine the remains at the bottom of the bay, he ought to be able to recalculate time and reconstruct them as they were.”

“That might not be doable,” said Fury.  “The cruise line already has people diving in to see if they can salvage what’s left.  They figure that their ship turned into their several hundred tons of gold, and we’re not about to argue with them because the alternative probably means them suing the British government, on whose behalf, may I remind you, you lot were acting.”

“Right,” said Nat.  There were some forces there was no arguing with.  Lawyers were one of them.

“Her majesty the Queen is currently in Newmarket, betting the crown jewels on horses and saying racially insensitive things to the Oil Sheiks,” Fury went on. “She seems to believe you did what you thought was best and also that it ‘must have been a right jolly lark’, but our public relations department…”

“We have a public relations department?” Clint interrupted, eyes wide.

“The crown’s public relations department,” Fury corrected him.  “And myself. We will not be dissolving the CAAP, since you did save the world again and it looks like this bullshit is just going to keep on happening, but we would like you to agree to some behavioral guidelines in the future.”

“That’s great,” said Nat, “because we have a list of equipment and budgetary requests for you.”

Fury faltered for a moment as he realized that what he’d thought would be a lecture was actually going to be a negotiation, but only for a moment.  Nat was kind of proud of having cracked him.

“Well, then this probably isn’t the best place for this discussion,” he said. Whatever was now going to happen would take hours that Enrico wouldn’t want them spending on his balcony.  “But while we’re here, I would like a word with Madame Flamel.  It seems she has skills that could be very useful to us.”  He turned to look at where she’d last been.

Natasha didn’t even need to turn her head.  She knew Perenelle would have vanished. She’d been waiting for the opportunity to do so since they’d pulled her out of the bay, and now, in a location of her choosing, it was easy.

“Sorry, Your Grace,” said Enrico.  “It’s only twice in her life that Cho Phuong’s been found by somebody she didn’t want finding her, and you’re not going to be the third.”

Fury accepted that with a surprising amount of grace.  “How about you, Dr. Agrippa?  You looking for a job?  It’d be something if we could be the first country to offer courses in Alchemy at our universities… come to think of it, if we’d nabbed Newton, we could have made him teach as a community service for his crimes!”

The man who must have been Cornelius Agrippa smiled, but shook his head.  “I don’t think I’m ready to go public yet… and I doubt you’ll find any of us who will.  We’re all too used to living in the shadows.  And Isaac was never as smart as he thought he was,” he added.  “I suppose you’ve heard the story about how he told Halley he had a derivation of elliptical orbits from first principles, but it took him six months to send it to him?  Do you know why it took six months?”

“Because he had to re-do it from scratch,” said Fury.  “Or is there another version?”

“Because he needed to find the book of Arab science he copied it from,” Agrippa said.

Fury grinned.  “Doesn’t that just figure?”

“It does indeed,” Agrippa agreed.

The next day, they all boarded a small seaplane to return to the British Isles, where it had been quietly agreed that the six members of the CAAP would lay low for a few months, doing their normal jobs if they had one and not talking to the press or anyone who might be interesting in suing for damages. That meant Clint going back to his farm, Sam going back to his bird hospital – with Redwing on his shoulder – Allen returning to his electrician’s business in Blackpool, and Natasha taking some time off her teaching position, which was too public, to do field work in Cornwall.  Sir Stephen would be helping her with that, and Sharon promised to drop in.

“Oh, I just remembered,” said Allen.  “Did you find anything to surprise your wife in Naples?”

Clint hefted his bag.  “I guess… at least, I’m pretty sure the solid gold garlic will be a surprise.  We don’t have much trouble with solid gold vampires, so maybe I’ll have it made into jewelry for her.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Sam.

Nat paused before stepping off the docks.  She’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a little shop in Naples – expensive tropical ones, like Birds of Paradise and ginger blossoms and anthuriums, that Jim had never gotten the opportunity to see.  Now she took a deep breath, and dropped it into the water.  It went under for a moment, then bobbed to the surface again with drops on the petals.  A silly gesture, and one Jim could never be aware of or appreciate.  Even if there were an afterlife, which Nat didn’t believe, Newton had said a homunculus had no soul.

Then again, Newton apparently didn’t know half of what he said he did.

Allen put an arm around Nat’s shoulders.  “Come on, Ginger Snap,” he said gently.  “Let’s go home.”

She nodded.  “Do you mind if I stay with you a couple of days?  I just need… I think I need a little down time.”  Natasha had never done that.  She wasn’t sure what it entailed, besides being desperately bored.  Allen would have to help her figure it out.

“You can stay as long as you like,” Allen said, and kissed her temple.  “You know that.”

[tryingthisfangirlthing]

Like an Explosion in Slow Motion

Myka has been through all kinds of hell due to the Warehouse; what they don't tell you is that it's hell when it's gone, too.

Rating: Either a high Teen or low Mature. References to sex but nothing graphic, some sensuality Word Count: ~5.5k Contains: Myka/Pete (but they break up), angst, hints of Bering and Wells, the Warehouse is gone and everything hurts, the Warehouse family falls apart, did I mention Angst?

Many, many thanks go to the lovely @tinknevertalks for looking over this for me, poking me to write a proper ending, and just generally making sure the mess that was the first draft of this was not inflicted upon the general public. You're the best. <3

Also on AO3

She can't point to one instant when the chain reaction started, not even in hindsight. Maybe it was the moment the new cornerstone was struck, but maybe it was the moment Paracelsus was unbronzed, or maybe even the moment one of her normal cells split and began to mutate into a tumor, or maybe… In the end, it doesn't really matter what sets off the bomb, not to those who are caught in the blast.

It hits Artie first. Slowly, slowly, as the very back aisle begins to fade from view to god-knows-where (and they won't tell them, won't tell the people from the past about the future, to keep them from trying to muscle in on it, she supposes), he stops going near those back aisles. Stops going anywhere where he can see that gap. When that gap gets wide enough to be visible from his office, he pulls the shutters down over the windows, and keeps them closed.

Claudia starts disappearing, suddenly, more and more, arriving often in the company of Mrs. Frederic (though the latter never stays). “Where do you keep going?” Myka asks her, softly, one day, in the B&B over a quiet lunch. “I thought you didn't want to be Caretaker.” “So did I.” A quiet wry, smile, precious in its rarity, because she is hardly ever quite so sincere or still. “But the Warehouse is my home, you know, and I feel like — like it's a part of me, and I'm a part of it, and I just can't — I can't leave. I'll be an agent for as long as I can, and then when I can't —” She lifts one shoulder, and her smile turns almost beatific, serene, with the knowledge and wisdom of many many years beyond Claudia’s age behind it. An alien gesture, on Claudia; everything is changing, absolutely everything, the members of Myka’s little Warehouse family included. Her heart cracks. “I can't explain it. I’ll stay with the Warehouse, and it’ll stay with me.” “I'm — I'm glad for you, Claud.” She is; she really is. “That you know what you want, and you're — moving towards it. I'm proud of you.” Claudia ducks her head, a little bashful, the girl Myka knows again. “I can’t really take any credit. In the Warehouse, things just sort of happen to you, you know?” She does know.

With his partner away, and Artie avoiding setting foot on more and more sections of the Warehouse floor, shelving and inventory falls mostly to Steve. He bears it with his natural quiet, with a sort of stoicism Myka both envies and doesn't. “I could take over for a while,” she offers, one day. “You go on retrieval with Pete, and I can stay here and keep things running. It's not fair that you're stuck here so much.” He smiles at her, tired and terribly melancholy. “No, you and Pete are a team. And I kind of prefer it here. I'm not reminded of — anything,” and he gestures vaguely, “So often.” “Okay.” And she understands, even if she doesn't really know what he's talking about. “But if you ever change your mind.” He nods, and his inhale seems a little lighter, a little less weight on his shoulders. “Thank you, Myka.” “You're welcome.” She brushes her fingers over his arm, a brief gesture intended to offer comfort where there isn't really any to be had, and leaves.

She and Pete can pretend, for the most part, that everything is normal. At least on the surface. Or at least they try. He still eats anything remotely edible in sight (which was very bad the time they were looking for that batch of Kinder Eggs) and she still argues with him over the music in the car (she wants opera, he likes Nickelback) and they still get rooms with two separate twin beds. But then they'll bag an artifact that belongs in one of the missing sections, and they’ll have to go down to the empty section of the Warehouse, and put it inside a goo-slathered box, and then as soon as the box is shut it will vanish right before their eyes. And Pete kisses her, when they get to the door of the B&B (because they both take her “never at work” seriously). He's gentle about it, and it's nice, and then she’ll let him walk her backwards up to his bedroom, and there’s nothing normal about that. Sometimes, they have sex, which is a little weird, and sometimes they don't have sex, which is even weirder: start and stop, driven by the strangeness of it all, the is-this-even-happening, and sometimes she stops it and sometimes he does, and sometimes they don't even start. (And God, she’s happy those nights, too, maybe happiest, because everything is wrong in so many tiny ways but at least she still has her partner beside her.)

Usually, she tries not to think of Helena. There's the occasional e-mail, utterly mundane things. Furniture restoration, Victorian recreation had been Helena’s most recent venture. Now Giselle has a job in New York (State) and Helena is going to try her hand at writing a book again. I fear I will always be a restless soul in this world, she writes, of it, and yet still so utterly alien. You just need to find yourself again in the now, Myka writes. That sentence doesn't even make grammatical sense; she immediately deletes it.

The Regents come for Artie, one day. Or at least that's how Steve tells it, when they get back from Capetown: that Kosan just walked in one day, while he and Artie were talking stock, and Kosan just greeted him and nodded, and Artie just stood up and walked out with him. “‘Take care of the Warehouse, Agent Jinks,’ he said, ‘It won’t be much longer now.’” “Do you think he’s gonna be a Regent?” Pete asks. “I mean, they are kind of short on them, I think, given all that's happened…” “He'd like that.” Myka decides, for her own peace of mind, that that's what’s happened.

She overhears Pete on the phone, as she slips downstairs after her shower. “But Mom, can't you —” He stops, listens, and starts again. “No, you don't know what the Warehouse means to me! To me and Myka, to us! I can't — and it'll be a help to have experienced agents break in the newbies, right? That can only be a good thing.” More quiet, as Jane responds. “Just for a little while?” Space for another response, brief, and then the sound he makes isn't quite human. It's a stage of grief, bargaining. She turns the corner, and approaches him. He hangs up, and swipes at his red-rimmed eyes with the back of his hand. “We can't expect special treatment.” It comes out all wrong, like a rebuke instead of the sympathy she intends. She tries to soften it. “But there's nothing wrong with trying. Do you want a hug?” “Yeah.” And he staggers into her arms. “I'm sorry.” Myka rubs a hand over his back. She loves him, she does, and she hates seeing him like this.

The H.G. Wells aisle fades out. Myka tries not to notice. At least her grappler doesn't leave with it.

She comes across Claudia in the office one day, sitting at the computer, typing away. And it's almost like normal, except for that little black box she recognizes as an external hard drive. “Has that been approved?” she asks, instead of a greeting. Claudia spins around, and they both grin a little sheepishly at each other. “Hey, Claud. It's good to see you.” “You caught that, huh? I'm making a backup of the database, in case something goes screwy in the moving. First move since computers were invented, after all. And I miiight be taking a copy of the ping system home with me to tweak a bit in my spare time. See if I can't improve artifact detection time. Maybe.” Incorrigible. But if anyone can do it, and keep the project secure, she can. “You're going to run a very different Warehouse to the one Mrs. Frederic does, that's for sure.” “I'm going to run a different Warehouse to the one Artie did,” Claudia corrects her, and finger-guns. Myka laughs, for what feels like the first time in a long while.

Somewhere in between all of this, Myka starts packing her things, pulls out the “M.O.B.” crate and carefully wraps up the more delicate items: her CDs, the antique books, the picture frames. Sometimes, she tears up. There's never any good way of saying goodbye.

Abigail and Steve leave next. There’s only about two days’ worth of the Warehouse left,  and any incoming pings are put into a holding queue for the next agents to take care of. Abigail just disappears during the night, and the next morning the B&B holds no trace of her, save a small note in the middle of the kitchen counter, as if she’d just gone out for her morning jog. I'm sorry I wasn't able to say goodbye. I wish you all the best, and please reach out if you need a therapist or someone to talk to. The note is signed with a nearly incomprehensible e-mail address. It's probably a little tragic, that this doesn't really surprise her. Typical Regent cloak-and-dagger. It’s a shame; she liked Abigail. “You want to head over with me or with Pete?” Myka asks Steve, keys jingling between her fingers. He’s an early riser like her, but he prefers to take his mornings slow, so it's generally a toss-up as to whom he'll go into work with. “Actually, I'm not going back to the Warehouse.” Steve sets his mug of tea on the counter, and watches her reaction. “I'm going back to the ATF. I might try things with Liam again.” She gulps in a breath with surprising difficulty, like the wind has been knocked out if her. “That's… I'm really glad for you, Steve. Uhm, do you need — do you need any help taking your things anywhere?” “No, I already took my things down to the post office for shipping last week. But thanks.” It is senseless to want what we cannot have, his mug reads. “Is that new?” She points to the mug. Why he'd have gotten that for himself when the B&B has plenty of dishware eludes her… though it is very him. “Personalized?” He arches his eyebrows a little wryly, smiling as he regards the ceramic. “No, I just found it in the front of the cupboard this morning.” One more slice of the sort of everyday magic you get so used to here. They smile at each other. “I'm really gonna miss you.” “Me, too.” He sets down his tea, and she hugs him, tightly. “Don't be a stranger.”

Pete still hasn't even started packing. It itches at her, as she sees at all his things still strewn around his room. But she does her best to be gentle. “Putting things off doesn't make them any easier,” she tells him that night, softly. “Tomorrow,” he says, “I'll do it tomorrow.” She doesn't think he will. “Thanks for being patient with me, Mykes.” “Of course.” It doesn't feel self-evident, all her patience, not any more. At least he appreciates it.

But there isn't a “tomorrow.” They wake up, get ready, drive to the Warehouse together — though they have no clue what they might do there — and it's gone. The place is the right one. That flat, dusty depression they walked across every day for the past five years, is exactly as she remembers it. Except that there's no Warehouse there anymore. “You think the football is still hanging around?” Pete asks. She laughs, at the absurdity of the small things they focus on to ignore the large ones, laughs so as not to cry. (They wait, just to see if it is. The sky stays empty.)

At the end of their return trip, a “For Sale” sign crouches at the beginning of the B&B drive, with matching crates beside it. She pulls over, gasping in a breath. “It's really gone, Pete. All of it.” Her voice is wet, and so are her eyes. He kisses her, and they cry; his sobs wrack his entire body, while her tears stream silently down her cheeks.

She doesn't know how long they sit there, in quiet mourning; it doesn't really matter, anyways. She hasn't sent her things anywhere yet, because she doesn't know where to send them to. They could go back to Colorado Springs, but that’s not where she wants to go. She doesn't know where she wants to go. Where does anyone go when their home isn’t there anymore? “I guess we still have jobs with the Secret Service.” She toys with the idea out loud. It seems flat, now, flat and bleak and lifeless, but everything else seems just as much if not more so. “I guess we do.” He looks at her, and she looks at him, and she unlocks the trunk.

They're not put back on protection detail, not right away. They're investigating, potential threats. And it's good to still work with him, good to still be putting her skills to use, but there's little of the same adrenaline and none of the wonder. She moves into his apartment, because his place is bigger and why not? The previous Myka Bering, the Myka Bering most people here still vaguely remember, would have laughed outright at the idea that she could ever be with Pete Lattimer. It's unsettling to have your own ghost haunting your footsteps.

“I think—” Pete kisses her as he backs her towards the bedroom. “We should celebrate—” another kiss — “bagging that guy.” “I don't know, Pete.” She rests her hands on his lapels, turning her head slightly to the side. “It doesn't feel like much to celebrate.” “We stopped someone who was going to try to set off a bomb!” “Yeah, and it probably wouldn't have gone off either way.” She sighs, and offers him a tired smile. “At least he's getting help, now.” “Yeah.” Pete rests his forehead against her temple, brushing his lips over her cheek. “Feels a little like the old days, helping people, saving the world.” Pulling back, he offers her that boyish grin, the one she can't help but smile back at. “You know, after some of those cases, I always wondered what it would be like if you and me —” “Okay, no! I do not need to hear your — fantasies — about —” But she's his girlfriend, shouldn't she want — she punches him in the arm, instead of trying any further to find words, to piece apart her thoughts. His eyes darken. “I know you know what that does to me.” “I know.” And he wants her, and she loves him, and it’s easy to let him have her (even if it still feels like something is missing).

It was sweeping round swiftly and steadily, this flaming death, this invisible, inevitable sword of heat. I perceived it coming towards me by the flashing bushes it touched, and was too astounded and stupefied to stir. “Morning, babe,” he mumbles, as he shuffles to the counter where she's left his mug of coffee to cool. She doesn't look up from The War of the Worlds she's reading with her cereal. “Morning.” I heard the crackle of fire in the sand-pits and the sudden squeal of a horse that was as suddenly stilled. Then it was as if an invisible yet intensely heated finger were drawn— “How come I'm always the one to start the sex?” he asks, the words sleep-slurred, so it takes her a moment to really register them. “Wait, what?” Sharp, because he wants to bring this up now? When they have to leave for work (she has to drag his butt out the door) in half an hour? “‘Start the sex’ isn't even an actual phrase—” “Mykes.” His morning ‘dial it down’ gesture. “Just let me.” She lifts her hands, nodding for him to continue. “Sorry.” “How come you don't ever really seem to want to have sex with me? I mean, am I doing something wrong? You used to tell me when what I was doing wasn't working for you.” It sounds practiced, far too clear for usual him at this hour. How long has this been on his mind? “What? No, you're fine, you're doing perfectly — perfectly fine. No complaints.” He makes sure she comes at least once, and he cares about her pleasure, and it might not be mind-blowing but she really, really has no complaints. — were drawn through the heather between me and the Martians— “Well, that's hardly a five-star review,” he mutters. She sighs, and finally gives up on reading. “Well, what do you want me to say? ...Never mind, don't answer that. We need to get going.” He stuffs a doughnut in his mouth, and she suppresses a cringe.

It's harder to ignore all the little things, when it's just the two of them. When she doesn't even have her own room to retreat to. The crumbs on the counter, how he wants to keep her up half the night and waste half the morning dozing, not just sometimes but every. single. weekend. She reads beside him while he plays his Halo or Diablo or Super Mario Brothers, but it doesn't feel cozy or family-like, like it did when Leena was baking in the kitchen and Artie was playing the piano and Claudia alternated between cheering Pete on, giving him advice, and worming her way into yet another top-secret database from her laptop balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa. Now, it just feels disconnected, like two puzzle pieces missing the bits in between.

Steve is settling in fine with the ATF again, and to hear him tell it things are going well enough with Liam. She hopes he isn't just putting on a good face, but then she's never known him to lie. The tone is just a little melancholy, that's all. Her emails probably sound the same.

She finds a message in her inbox one day, from “Next Generation,” no subject, no sender address. There's not much to it, just Claudia assuring Myka she's okay, and she’ll be fine in the future, too, and she hopes Myka’s doing well. Somehow, Myka knows this will be the last she hears from Claudia. Say hi to H.G. for me, the next time you see her. I think you should talk with her soon. I know she'd love to hear more from you. Myka wonders just how close the two of them are — or were, or still are? — and an irrational stab of jealousy threatens to gut her.

“Emily Lake” is publishing a new book, or so she writes Myka in her latest e-mail. Indulge me setting up this little game, darling. I shan't tell you the title, nor my pen name, because I'd like to see how long you take to pick it out. I'm quite certain you'll know it when you see it. This feels wrong, too. I thought we were supposed to solve puzzles together, and no matter how hard she tries she can't make that sound any less whiny. She hates it, but she leaves it in. And she starts scouring bookstores.

Twisted Time and Sparks Afly, she sees one day, by Eileen G. Wellington. A dark-haired seductress stares out at her from the cover, a far-too familiar stunner weapon in her hand and her chin lifted in something like a dare. It’s tucked onto a corner stand in a shelf, instead of put out in the center of the window like it belongs. Myka buys it without even looking at the synopsis.

“Come to bed, babe.” It's not a demand or a plea, but maybe a little of both. She looks up from the book, slowly untucking her legs from beneath her in the armchair. “What time is it?” She hasn't lost herself in a book like this in a long time, but this is the very best of H.G. Wells and better. She can see so much of Helena in this, Helena now, and a new side of her, in this story about someone from the past who wakes up to an incomprehensible future. “I don't know, two, three in the morning? Way too late. Or early. Or both. Time to sleep. Usually you're the one talking about work tomorrow.” Pete rambles when he's tired and has to speak anyways. “Oh god! Sorry, I just… book.” She gestures at the cover, and he nods. It's nice, to have that kind of shorthand figured out with someone. The one person who knows you better than anyone else, and maybe that someone is Pete now. (Or maybe it still isn't, because she just wants to finish reading.)

“This isn't gonna work out, is it, Mykes?” he asks, in the car on their way to their latest person of interest’s residence. There's no recrimination in the question, no self-pity, just a bone-deep sort of sorrow. “What do you mean? This investigation?” She knows, though, or at least she thinks she might. “Us.” He gestures between them. “This. Our relationship.” “What makes you say that?” She can't — she just can't. He's her partner. “You're not happy. Not like you were.” Gently, he says this, like he needs to ease her into the idea. “And I care about you, and I want you to be happy.” “Of course I'm not happy, Pete! It's not like it used to be!” She doesn't know where this vehemence is coming from; this isn't like her. “I'm sorry.” She forces herself to be quieter. “I miss it all, you know?” “Of course I know.” He sounds mildly insulted, like he doesn't know how she could think otherwise. “I didn't mean it like that.” And it's snippy and also not her. “I know.” Bitterness lurks there, somewhere. “A-are you mad at me, or at the world? Or at yourself?” She shakes her head at him, because she cannot stand this passive-aggressive bullshit, and it's not like him either. Road noise fills the silence, as the seconds stretch into double digits and she can see him really thinking it over. “I think I'm a little mad at everything, right now.” She isn't sure if he means it as a confession, or if it's a revelation to him as well. Another pause, and then, “We aren't good for each other, are we? Not like this.” She doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to admit that even this isn't right any longer. “I guess we're not.” He pulls over, and for the second time that spring they cry together in the car. They may have survived the blast, but they’re breaking apart on impact.

She moves out as soon as she can, puts her things in storage and puts her resignation in with the Secret Service. There are far too many ghosts here, ghosts and scars and stumbling blocks. She needs a clean break, needed it months ago. Maybe, just maybe, she understands a little better now what Helena did.

She tries to find the words to talk about Helena’s book to her, tries and fails. I did recognize it the moment I saw it, is all she says, finally, on that topic. Where are you living right now? I'd like to visit you. I'm not sure that's a good idea, Helena replies. But she gives an address anyways.

Myka is not the kind to just show up on people’s doorsteps, but it really does seem like Helena is the exception. Except it's not Helena who answers the door, it's a different woman, petite and olive-skinned, with dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. “Uhm, hi, is — is —” Myka really wants to avoid a repeat of the Nate thing; she isn't here with the Warehouse, just looking for a friend. “Does she still go by Emily?” The woman — Giselle, Myka guesses — wrinkles her brow, and glances back inside the apartment. “Hel? I think she wants you.” “She?” And then there's Helena in the foyer, drying her hands on her jeans, and when their gazes meet Myka could swear she pales and flushes at the same time. “Myka! I —” She glances at… her girlfriend, Myka forces herself to think, though it feels like swallowing chunk of ice just a little too large. “We weren't expecting you.” “No, we certainly weren't.” Giselle arches an eyebrow at Helena, but extends her hand. “Hi, I'm Giselle.” “Yeah, she's told me about you.” Myka shakes her hand. She’s happy for the both of them, really, she is. “I’m Myka. It's great meet you.” “I haven't heard a thing about you yet.” Giselle glances at Helena again. “To hear her talk, you'd think she'd met no one and done nothing until she became a forensic scientist in the middle of nowhere, Wisconsin.” “I told you, darling, I spent a great deal of time with books. There isn't much there to tell.” And if Myka didn't know better herself, she might just believe her. “You don't get up to much with a roommate-slash-research-partner, I promise. Myka, do come in.” “Thanks.” She wipes her shoes, and offers a polite smile that maybe comes out more of a grimace, and they all shuffle out of the narrow foyer. “Roommate like her? Damn, Hel, you did know you were gay back then, right?” She doesn't whisper quite quietly enough, not for Myka, who has been conditioned to listen for strange quiet voices where you least expect them. “Sorry, know you were bi already.” “I've been well aware of my ‘bisexuality,’” and she says the word like she's still getting used to the taste of it, “for far, far longer than you, I'll wager.” Helena doesn't bother to keep her voice down. “I told you, I realized I was gay in, like, fourth grade.” It sounds like an old back-and-forth. “And I keep telling you, I realized I loved women as well as men in 1884.” Giselle lets out some small grunt of frustration. “Fine, don't tell me. Again.” Myka shouldn't be happy that Giselle doesn't know everything, but her stomach flutters a little nonetheless.

“Did she do this thing back in college, too?” Giselle asks, accompanied by the quiet snick of her knife through carrot. “This ‘I'm from the Victorian Era’ joke? Like, sometimes it's cute in a quirky way —” charming, Myka mentally corrects, the word you're looking for is dangerously charming, “and sometimes it just drives me absolutely nuts. I had to sneak a look at her driver’s license to figure out her actual birthday.” “I did tell you it was the 12th of August.” Helena pushes the noodles and onions around in the wok. “And I’m right here, in case you’d forgotten.” “Yeah, but then you always followed it up with ‘1868.’” Giselle reaches for a bell pepper. “And I’ve already told you this, so now I’m telling Myka.” She glances towards where Myka stands just outside of the small kitchen area. “You know, sometimes I half-believe it, like her knowledge of the time period is phenomenal, and she still acts like the refrigerator  and microwave are these new and amazing inventions. But, I mean.” She waves her knife dismissively, a gesture that makes Myka clench. Giselle and H.G. have a similar disregard for safety, that’s for sure. “There's no such thing as immortality. Or, like, time travel.” Yes, there is, Myka wants to say. On both accounts. Some form of it anyway. She glances at Helena; their gazes slide together, and linger. There’s a sort of helpless indulgence, of people who just can't know, and it's good to have someone around who does know, a shared secret, a quiet bond. When Myka looks back at Giselle, the other girl is watching Helena and her, brow wrinkled. Myka’s been asked a question. “Yeah, Helena’s been doing that for as long as I've known her.” “I don't know if I should be relieved it's not just me, or worried.” Giselle laughs, ducking her head, a little wryly, and then nudges Helena with her hip as she adds the vegetables to the pot. “Gorgeous weirdo.” “I think that's a compliment...” Helena nudges back once Giselle is finished, perhaps a little harder than necessary. Myka is quick to reassure her, “It is.”

It's a small apartment, with a fairly open floor plan, so of course Myka sees part of and hears most of their goodbye. She turns her back, wandering to the far side of the living room to try to give them some privacy. But if you're trying so hard not to hear something… “We need to talk, Hel. I'm serious. I've been trying to give you your space and privacy, but I don't like things — people — being hidden from me. Tomorrow, or sometime this weekend, maybe.” “I didn't hide her from you. I did say I kept up with some old friends via e-mail. I never really expected her to just—” Myka can almost hear Helena shaking her head. “But you're right, I should have.” Sometimes, just sometimes Myka wants to be just as damn cocky as H.G. was: if some small part of you didn't want me here, you would never have given me your address. But she won't. She's never been that sort of person (except “never” and “that sort of person” seem to flee out the window when Helena enters the room). “We'll talk about that, too. Later. Go see your guest now.” “Wait,” Helena demands, and then there's the sound of someone being backed against the door, a muffled, needy whimper, and it's seventeen long seconds before Myka finally hears, “Now you can go.” “Bitch,” Giselle mutters, but there's plenty of affection and no trace of venom. The door opening and closing, the click of a latch, and then Helena returns, one hand on her hip and running her fingers through her hair. Myka is suddenly lost for words.

“So.” Helena makes the word almost an entire sentence as she settles on the couch beside Myka, close, but not too close. Expectation hovers in the air (in her aura, Leena might have said, and maybe that was what an aura actually was). “So, this whole ‘I'm from the Victorian Era’ thing?” It's not what she came here to talk about, but it's the easiest. Helena exhales, slowly, and leans back. “Oh, I know it's ridiculous. No one believes I'm actually over a century old, and my official documents say 1979. I just…” She stares at the ceiling, shaking her head minutely, the way she does when she's searching for words. “I knew I needed to do something differently this time. This way feels a little bit less like lying.” Myka hums, and it's not assent or dissent, just sympathy. “I guess it's hard.” She looks down at her hands, runs them down to her knees. “Of course it's difficult.” Helena snaps the edges of the consonants between her teeth, leaving them sharp, jagged. “Myka, look at me.” Despite herself, Myka glances up at her. “What did you come here for?” Myka swallows, and glances away again. When she finally finds the words, they crack wetly in the back of her throat. “How did you do it? Just — leave the Warehouse behind? How can you — I'm so lost without it.” It's a relief, to get it out, all of it, to someone who isn't struggling alongside her. “Pete and I, we're not — we just don't work without the Warehouse. Claudia’s gone, just — gone. I'll probably never see her again. Artie’s gone, too, and so is Abigail. I think — I think Steve’s doing okay, but I can't know, and we're all trying, but you can't just — forget, endless wonder like that.” Helena chokes out some mangled parody of a laugh. “Of course you can't forget. It's senseless to even try.” “You managed to get away.” And it's partially an accusation, one she didn't mean to level here and now, one she ends up voicing anyways. “You really think —” Disbelief floods Helena’s tone. “For God’s sake, Myka — Nate broke things off, Adelaide’s —” She shakes her head. “You're here. I haven’t the slightest idea what will happen with Giselle after this — that I'm here, in this time, at all —!” Gesturing demonstratively, she meets Myka’s gaze, as if that's supposed to help her understand. Myka doesn't. Helena licks her lips, and tries again. “That's the downside of the Warehouse, Myka. It might destroy you, drive you mad, or abandon you —” and they both know the Warehouse is something alive, something sentient — “but it never, ever lets you go.” Myka shakes her head. “That can't be — there has to be something. Something you can do, something —” She doesn't even know what she wants to happen; she doesn't want to forget, but remembering hurts, too. “If there is any solution,” Helena says quietly as she shifts closer, lays an arm around Myka’s shoulders, pulls her into a gentle hug Myka didn’t realize she’s been starving for, “I haven't found it yet.”

There’s a crater where the rest of her life used to be, and too much is broken, and she doesn't even know where to begin to pick up the pieces. But she's not alone, and sometimes you just have to stumble forwards from wherever you’ve landed. She starts composing an email to the address Abigail left.

[avicebro]

rate... casters then? if you haven't done it yet?

one two three WIFE hey honey i love you so much i think about you constantly you are the best. have you at 100 10/10/10 and bond level 10 now so you’re basically perfect now, just gotta max fou you. love your np charge skill. love your myths.. you’re good. i love you so much. i love you and kuzuki so much. i just want you guys to be happy and i just want to make you happy let me just.. treat you thank you for carrying me all the time MWUAh infinity/10

I personally like him a lot but I know some people find him uncomfortable which is totally understandable. Still.. haven’t finished working on him in FGO I’m sorry lol. Love his relationship with both Prelati and Ryuunosuke and can’t wait for him to meet his bfs again. so like 8/10? yeah

HEY HANS. man you could have been.. so much better. I know that it’s not your fault though and I have nothing against you. I just… love the idea that he’s defined by what people thought he was like based off of what he wrote about. Wish they would actually reference the bisexuality cause heyo it’s important to his stories /dab. Stop asking for alcohol you’re like 12. Wish he like.. actually acted like how he did in real life sometimes tho lol. Kiara fuckers don’t interact. 10/10 love him. 

HEY WILL. one of the best parts of apocrypha, hands down, just wish he was in more of it. shave your mustache off though it creeps me out. ever since i learned you share va’s with tesla i can’t think. love how you have a buster up which ties with amakusa and semiramis. love you so much, sorry for taking so long to level you up lol. it looks like you’re having fun which is what matters. i’ll take you to shinjuku for drinks or something. nice thighs please step on me. 10/10 would die for.

ship you with paracelsus. whenever you dress up it’s kind of illegal? just kind of? thought you would do more in london but alas. love art where you and paracelsus adopt jack and teach her about the fun ways of murder. your hair is an aesthetic. mephi is cute guys. make paramephi art im begging you 7/10

7/10 please stop haunting me and my dreams. who said you could be that hot.

you came home for new years! which was nice! i appreciate it a lot! i use you a lot and i’m sorry you’re just very useful. sorry waver i like el melloi more. long haired men are hot, it’s been clinically tested. wanna run my hands through your hair while you play dark souls. i’m not thirsty for you i support you in your transition and i hope you and your like 8 blond kids are having a fun time saving the world and dismantling the grail or whatever. 8/10

7/10 best cu hands down don’t @ me. like him in fuyuki. hope he comes back soon? also ugh when is he gonna get that animation update fgo? anytime soon? please? i think your final art is gorgeous by the by. one of the first servants i finished.

probably her best outfit let’s be real here. good girl. nothing bad to say here she’s a great daughter and i love her in all forms. 9/10

I think you were a ticket? I think? Ugh 5/10 I appreciate you coming home in all forms, I really do Tamo, ugh, I’m glad you like me so much but now I’m worried that Vicci will come home and I don’t know how to feel about that one. Pairs really well with my Medeas, I had you and Medea Lily stall for like, a whole bunch of fucking turns which made me wanna kms but also proved how well you two can stall so good job.

HELLO. I’m so sorry I didn’t use my free four star on you and instead went for the thirsty choice I’m sorry but thank you so much for coming home regardless for new years MWUAH. currently grailed to 98. I’m working on your skills next honey just please be patient. All of her lines about not liking being touched scare me and I want to fight anyone who does anything dirty with you EVEr. I think your art is gorgeous and you’re so pretty and I want to make sure you’re never sad again. Love art where you have been adopted by Hektor. I’ll beat up Jason for you. infinity/10

ANother good girl. Came home recently and three times at that! Thank you for that Nursery Rhyme. You’re.. very cute. I love how you’d expect her to be this like, shy, silent girl but nOPE she’s a critting, curious, buster machine and she works so well with the other authors good job NR. I can’t say I’d beat up Hans for you but we can certainly give him a stern talking to. Love writing her the most out of the authors honestly. Your LE episodes killed me. When are you gonna be in Extella. 10/10

His coat is made out of husband material. Very pretty. I want to braid your hair and be your assistant. One of the first servants that I got that I was like, okay I know nothing about you but you’re hot so I love you lol. His voice is very soothing. Love you with Mephi but the art with Hektor and Avi is also very cute. When I need to draw hair I draw you. Love you I’ll draw you more. 10/10

I’m sorry I know very little about you I’m sorry. I think your human form is very hot though. I have someone who has you at level 100 and they’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen TBQH. You’re cute in the summer race, Babbage sensei. Also dailybabbage is still the best daily blog don’t @ me 5/10

You also came home recently! Thanks! I actually like her a lot just hate her artist and her archer version. Wish she was an actual old lady instead of being.. whatever this is lol. Love her relationship with Edison, they seem like if they were two old friends who after their partners died they moved in together with an Indian demigod. Please put on some more clothes. Please take her away from her artist. Oh and I’ll beat up Sherlock for you. 7/10

You came home a very long time ago and I’m sorry you’ve been stuck at like.. 54 for a long time lol. I associate you with someone though. I really like Tedison but I never talk about it. I just assume all Americans are like this honestly. All hail our presi-king. hey fgo you wanna add bell so they can be friends instead of just constantly hinting at it? huh? anyways you’re good i just need to finish leveling you up. 6/10

gold border cause you’re level 90 in na. i have a lot of problems with you but i’m not the right person to talk about it. you’re still so bad in terms of racist designs i’m sorry. wish they had done you better. pat pat. 6-10/10 cause i’m conflicted honestly. your personality isn’t bad but like……….. the design… and the fact that they turned you into this like shaman when you just weren’t… and the fact that you didn’t like pictures being taken and i’m sorry geronimo that they did this to you you don’t deserve it

i wasn’t playing fgo when you arrived so please can i have a rerun? can i please have a rerun? i want iri. good mom. i want her to adopt caren and angra and be the ‘cool mom’. i’d like a hug please. thanks mom. 7/10

i associate you with ip so you’re good. i wish your final art was more interesting though. ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh your event is good too. love your relationship with li shuwen. i kinda forget all the time that you were in the summer race event. WHoops. oh and also you can do your NP on me thanks. 5/10

hey i have you too! sorry you’re at like.. level 41.. i’m sorry i have a lot of casters. nice thighs.. i like your face things as well. ears are cute. hope you’re having fun with your gf. wish you would work better as a catalyst for your gf tho lol. keep it up im proud of you. also ugh beat up ozy for me thanks. 6/10

10/10 MOM. maybe one day you can be your normal self again. wish that instead of da vinci lily they did it so you went to like a different painting instead but whatever. i’ll kill kirei for you dw

you’re good. i want you to come home so i can have more dumas catalysts tbh. but you’re soft and good and i hope you’re having fun. here take a head pat. 5/10

i’d probably only roll cause then i’d have the complete emiya-einzbern family. but you’re still on thin ice. i’m sorry your event is horrible. i’m sorry your anime is too. here take a head pat. 3/10

you came home recently too! and not even in the dantes/casgil gacha which confused the shit out of me lol. thank you artist for drawing a gil so that we can finally get more gil content cause takeuchi would never. associate you with a lot of people like you’re constantly showing up on my friend’s supp list. you’re good, i think i like you better than your archer version. take a nap. 7/10

5/10 thanks for carrying me you fuck. 

PLEASe. PLEase come home. Why did you send Medb twice. I wanted you. You’re the last author I need. Literally all I need is you now. Please. I’m begging you. How much must I give for you to come home? I’m on my knees. I’m sorry Agartha did.. that. I’m sorry people do gross shit to you. I’m sorry for your tag. I’m sorry people say racist and gross things about you. I’m so sorry you have to deal with this shit. Please.. I have your gf. You can be happy here I promise. 100/10

you’re like one of the few summer servants who’s ascensions make sense good job. also like your animations. if you’d come home that would be great more dumas catalysts. 5/10

I think it’s always a good sign when you’re aunt in law comes home twice. I love how they took your name seriously with the bird wings. And I love all the subtle hints to Medea in your design, as well. Circe is by far my favourite part of The Odyssey, so I’m glad she was added. I’m curious to see if they’ll add Odysseus and what she thinks about him 9/10

I don’t have much to say about you I just wish they didn’t just shove a bunch of “vaguely African things” together and call it a day. Your attacks are cool though and I wish you and your husband a good time. Hope you have fun with David, too. 5/10?

another high on my wife list. did not know how much i loved you until i rolled you. i like you and kadoc so i won’t say you’re my wife. love your anniversary art thing. hope you’re having a good day. kinda confused about the whole “i knew i died thing” considering that anastasia became so well known because people weren’t sure if she had died or not.. kinda feels weird in a series about characters being altered by how they were remembered 15/10

gold cause he’s currently 85 in jp. can’t wait to get you to 100 baby love you. didn’t care for you as much in apo but you’re cool now. wish you would be more of a jackass to me though, show me how much you despise humanity you lil shit. multiple arms? good. horns? good. 10/10 great design love you. currently at 8/10/10 why do you need so many bullets for huh? just curious. anyways. infinity/10

you’re good. don’t think you’re like, the best fate protag but you’re good. don’t deserve all the shit you got though lol. here have a head pat. 6/10

you’re only used cause you pair well with dantes. what the fuck is going on in your final art btw. 3/10

gremlin. do not trust. 7/10

oh you know. he’s alright, i guess. 

[tipsycad147]

Garden Gnomes

By shirleytwofeathers

Origin: Teutonic

Emblem: Mushrooms, especially fly agaric or fly amanita

Plant: The presence of galbanum (freula galbaniflua) allegedly invites the protection of gnomes.

Iconography: The standard garden gnome depicts an older male with a long beard and peaked red hat. He wears a big belt over leggings, a blue tunic, and boots. Sometimes they wear gardeners’ aprons.

The name “gnome” stems from the Greek word “genomos” which means “earth dweller”. They are said to be one of the elemental spirits defined by Paracelsus, as representative of the Earth Element.

Gnomes are subterranean spirits now most associated with garden statuary. They resemble tiny people. Paracelsus described gnomes as two spans high. (A span is the width of an outstretched human hand,) Unlike dwarves or kobolds, gnomes are not mine or cave spirits but tend to live beneath human gardens. They have a reputation for emerging at night to do a little helpful garden work. Garden gnomes allegedly bring luck.

Gnomes tend to be quiet, private, taciturn spirits, but they respond well to gifts and offerings. They can be persuaded to become loyal allies, guardians, and helpers. Female gnomes may be especially taciturn; they are rarely depicted. However folklore indicates that their are entire gnome communities with male and female gnomes of all ages. Gnomes maintain good relationships with birds, rabbits, foxes, hedgehogs, and squirrels.

Originally, gnomes were thought to provide protection, especially of buried treasure and minerals in the ground.  Gnomes were regarded as good luck charms by our ancestors and would often be found living in the rafters of barns where they would help watch over livestock. They are still used today.

Garden Gnomes vs “Actual” Gnomes

Modern garden gnomes are based on the legendary “Gnomes” of myth, mysticism, and fairy tales. Gnomes have historically been described as small (from a few inches to a foot or two in height) stout beings who live in Nature – usually underground. European magicians and other mystics considered gnomes the most common and important elemental spirits of the ‘Earth’ element (the other three classical elements being: ‘Water,’ ‘Fire,’ and ‘Air’).

Gnomes were said to wear conical hats and to be able to move through the earth itself as easily as we humans walk upon it, yet if any of these underground dwellers were caught out in the daylight it was said that the rays of the Sun turned them into stone.

Sometimes gnomes were said to have magical powers to protect or punish people – or to reward them with happiness. Gnomes are also said to be guardians of secret underground treasures – especially gold! Even in modern times gnomes are said by some –such as the highly influential mystic Rudolph Steiner – to be involved in the hidden processes of plant life. In fact many farms, including prize-winning wineries, follow principles based on these beliefs.

Garden Gnomes Today

More modern descriptions of gnomes usually emphasise their bright red pointed hats, solid coloured clothes, and the long white beard of the typical male. Though sightings of female gnomes are rarely reported, gnome women are generally thought to be beard-free.

The name ‘gnome’ is said to come from the Latin word ‘gnomus’ which is thought to possibly come from the Greek word ‘gnosis’ meaning “knowledge” (i.e. of hidden treasure), but is more likely rooted in the word ‘genomos’ meaning “earth dweller”

A garden gnome adds a bit of whimsy and a connection to the old world, where farmers believed the good luck charm could help their fields yield more produce and protect them from thieves, pests and other problems. They were also thought to help gardeners in the night, which we all could use!

The earliest gnome statuary was produced in Thuringia, Germany, in the early nineteenth century and was based on German folklore. Gnome statues potentially welcome and attract real gnomes, as well as Flower Fairies or other benevolent spirits. The earliest statues were carefully wrought, hand-painted terra-cotta and were exceptionally popular.

By the 1960’s, cheaper plastic and resin versions were mass-produced. The old terra-cotta ones are now extremely valuable and are family heirlooms. Garden gnome statues tend to evoke very visceral responses. Some people adore and collect them. Others loathe them so much that they feel justified destroying or removing other people’s property.

Gnomes are the subject of modern entertainment as well as old folktales. The animated children’s television show The World of David the Gnome was highly unusual in that it depicted both male and female gnomes. The gnomes in J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series are garden pests, not helpers.

Some Handy Garden Gnome Trivia:

Gnomes are banned from the Royal Horticultural Society Chelsea Flower Show. We think that’s a crying shame, personally.

There are three categories of mass-produced gnomes: Worker gnomes, who always carry tools like fishing rods, shovels, or hammers; at-ease gnomes who typically carry a pipe and cultural gnomes who have a musical instrument in hand. Rock stars.

Gnomes have a life expectancy of 400 years.

Their main enemies? Mean humans who destroy the environment and trolls – obviously.

Male gnomes always wear red caps.

The world’s oldest garden gnome, called Lampy, has been living at Lamport Hall in the UK for 125 years and is worth a cool £2 million, or €2.4m!

In the 1980s, the Gnome Liberation Front stole gnomes and sent the owners photos of them from landmarks around the globe.

Gnomes are generally vegetarian and eat foods like nuts, mushrooms, peas, beans, potatoes, applesauce, fruit, berries, tubers, spices, vegetables, and preserves for dessert.

They like to drink mead dew made from fermented honey, fermented raspberries, and spiced gin as a nightcap.

Gnomes kiss by rubbing noses. They also use nose rubbing as a greeting equivalent to human handshaking.

Forest Gnomes:

There are gnomes that live in the forest in the Philippines.  You can tell where they live if there’s a hill of dirt that’s a bit higher than everything else. And when you go by them, you’re supposed to be really, really respectful and say:

“Excuse me. I’m just walking by. I don’t mean any harm.”

Even if you’re not doing anything, or no one said anything, or you’re not sure. You’re just supposed to do it. If you don’t, there could be blow back as per the following:

“There was a story on the Philippines news channel, about a kid who had huge swollen lips. You could hardly see his eyes. He was speaking to reporters and he said that he was walking by the hills and his friend told him that you’re supposed to say sorry and he said, “No, I’m not. I don’t care. I don’t believe in that stuff.”

Then the next day he woke up with a tumour on his face. Not so much as a tumour, but as his lips were super swollen. It looked like someone blasted air into his lips. Like super Botox.”

Walking Gnomes

The following story is very interesting in the fact that this is one of the few stories from Mexico where inanimate objects, that are not haunted, come to life. The Mexican culture does not traditionally include creatures such as gnomes but instead, it consist of larger creatures and ghosts. This is because the country did not originally have gnomes until places, such as the United States introduced them to there.

“In Mexico they believe that garden gnomes come alive at night. The proof they have of it is that my grandma used to own gnomes and her neighbours used to own gnomes in Mexico. And the garden gnomes the next day would be found in different places and a lot of stuff was broken and sometimes my mom and her sister would wake up at night, and they would hear things, but when they looked outside, they would never see the gnomes there. So there’s that story that they become alive at night in Mexico.”

“Recently I was talking to one of my cousins who told that story to some friends whose parents were also from Mexico. And this friend told my cousin that he actually believes that story, because one night the garden gnomes were not where they had placed them. They found them inside the house one night in the house and they were rolling in the hallway. Since then, they got rid of the gnomes, or at least they tried to. They threw them away but the next day they were in the same place they had put them before.”

The Secret Lives of Garden Gnomes

From Neopets.com, here’s a story about what Gnomes do at night. I’m pretty sure this is a made up story, but I thought it was fun, and who knows? Maybe it isn’t altogether fictional. You be the judge:

The reason Garden Gnomes come alive at night is because they don’t want anyone to see them moving around. This is pretty practical, considering the fact that if any regular person saw them talking and moving, they’d want to put them in some sort of abnormality museum!

But what do garden gnomes do at night? Well, I was watching out my window at the gnomes in my garden one night, and I saw one, a Bruce gnome, have them all line up in a row as he paced back and forth in front of them, a small twig in his hand like he was the instructor of a military camp.

He was telling each gnome which direction to go in order to pick up free food. You see, garden gnomes thrive like ants. They all go off to find food that people may have dropped accidentally or on purpose, and sometimes they even venture into houses and borrow food with no intention of returning (also known as stealing, but they take such small portions most people never even notice).

After retrieving food they rush back to their home centre (which is usually a tunnel in the ground leading into a large, dug out room, since gnomes are not claustrophobic) and report to the leader, in this case the Bruce gnome. He then tallies their lot and tosses the foot morsel into another room in their tunnel, where they store their food. They act sort of like chipmunks, storing food and hunting for it, of course, gnomes are not carnivores though.

And, to their enormous pleasure, when they have collected a lot of food, they sit down at have a feast! Yes, a feast! It’s a feast of little sweets, candy peas, popcorn pieces, and sometimes even whole flower cakes (although they take more than one gnome to carry). But besides eating, what else do gnomes do? Well, I’m glad you asked.

You wouldn’t suspect this, but when they have leisure time, gnomes enjoy swimming. They are very pleased to find a Neogarden where someone owns a pond. They jump right in, clothes and all, and swim and dive around in the cool water for hours at a time. And when they want to dry off, they take a large leaf and wrap themselves up in it, drying off quickly.

Aside from swimming, gnomes also enjoy crafts. They may take green blades of grass and weave adorable little baskets or even blankets. They can also take pieces of bark off of trees and sticks and carve them with sharp stones into little sculptures. Gnomes are very talented in the artistic field, and if you see a stick carved into a Meepit, you know who did it.

Aside from swimming and crafts, another thing gnomes enjoy is sports. They might play their own version of soccer by kicking around a rounded stone, or even play basketball by throwing a rock into a hole. This not only provides exercise, but gives them lots of time together to just have fun.

But when they aren’t playing and having fun, what do they do? Throughout the whole day, they sleep, and at night they either have fun or look for food, so there’s only a little bit of time left for something else-note-taking! This is sort of like their education, which is actually an education of…what else? Neopets!

Note-taking is when gnomes grab their oversized pencils and paper, which they “borrow” from Neopets, then marching through the sleeping pet’s house and going to their bedroom, where they climb up on the bed and observe the neopet’s sleeping habits. They are trying to find out where Neopets came from. Maybe all Neopets evolved from Myncis!

Another sort of educational activity that gnomes practice is counting. It isn’t counting like 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, though, no, no no! It’s counting in a different way. The gnomes version of counting may be why your plushies eye was missing when you woke up.

Gnomes will trample in when you are catching some Z’s (it seems all of their educational activities are while Neopets are slumbering) and then they will be assigned a number (by there leader, the Bruce gnome) and then they shall go “counting” which, in other words, is another type of stealing. They have to pick up ten, for example (or however many their number is) trinkets, like plushie eyes, toothpicks, or buttons, and bring them back to their tunnel, storing them in a safe place. What they do with them I do not know, but I suspect they might make furniture or something of the sort using what they found.

One last thing I found out is that gnomes are a fan of bright colours and patterns. In the early morning, I saw them getting ready for bed and they were wearing long pants and long sleeved shirt PJ’s of hot pink, bright purple, lime green, and sunny yellow colour. Some had stripes, some had polka dots, and some even had swirlies! Gnomes are very interesting, no?

Now you know what gnomes do when you aren’t looking, what their secret life is all about. If you look out your window at night, you might be able to see them moving and hear them talking in their high pitched voices. But be warned-if they see you watching them, well, I won’t go there…

Sources:

House and Garden

Encyclopedia of Spirits

Love To Know

Folklore USC

Just Say Gnome

https://shirleytwofeathers.com/The_Blog/powers-that-be/garden-gnomes/