#the grim dark archives au

[lets-try-some-writing]

Your Grim Dark Archive sure is something, I mean ths in a positive way, just, Good God, I love it so much. That post abut Primus and Unicron in this au give me the vibe that they are both playing a simulation where Primus has a very specific design and outcome he wants while Unicron just want to throw phenomena at Life to see what they would do

The beef between the brothers is a bit more serious than the agitation seen between siblings fighting over what way to murder a Sim. However, that is the basic premise. Primus desires that all match his design and Unicron desperately wants to help his brother see the glory of freedom and unpredictability.

They are incapable of destroying each other, but Primus, if given the chance, would obliterate his brother's ability to act simply because the universe is HIS art project and it will match his vision. Unicron, on the other hand, does not want to hurt his brother or his brother's creations if he can help it. He just wants to make things better, to return to being one so that things can be as they should.

It's a tragedy that can sometimes look like a comedy.

[evieelyzabethh]

Can I request modern au viktor dating headcanons (perhaps streamer au where viktor is dating streamer reader) 👉👈

streamerau!Viktor whose girlfriend starts out as a relatively small creator. Your streams don't get a lot of reach, but it's never bothered you much anyway. You did it more for the passion of gaming rather than making serious money off it. Your set up had been customized and built prior to the idea of even getting a twitch account, you already had countless hours logged into your Minecraft and Sims 4 worlds, as well as having a pretty lengthy collection of games all on your own

streamerau!Viktor who is the reason you even start. One day, he jokingly teased that with how many hours and how much money you had put into your hobby, you might as well try and make some money off it. He's very aware of what it takes to go viral, a pretty face, and you have the prettiest one he's ever seen. He is also quite confident in your skills to go viral. You have the personality, you have the skills, you have the knowledge. He's not even a gamer himself and he still enjoys watching you play and hearing all the interesting fun facts and history that you know about.

streamerau!Viktor who is such a visual opposite to his girlfriend. Part of the differences are played up for the camera, the comically pink and purple set up, the light-up headphones, even the type of content you create, spending less time in COD lobbies and more on cheap cozy games on Steam. He hardly ever steps into your recording office, fearing his tall, lanky, and dark demeanor may come off as some creepy ghost in the corner of your pastel-led room.

This isn't to say you only play those games, but that is simply what gets the views and is the least hostile space. When you do venture out of the typical cozy game aesthetic, it typically adventure puzzle games, like Tomb Raider or Uncharted, or maybe a story-based horror game like Mouthwashing or Until Dawn. In the very early days of your streaming adventure, you and Viktor would play vintage games from your collection, like Mario Kart or Mortal Kombat on your N64 or Sonic on your Sega Genesis. Once you start getting traction, he asks for them to be deleted. He's doesn't want his face all over the internet nor his reactions.

streamerau!Viktor who is quite aggressive when he plays games. He is the first to get loud, the first to blame the controller, the first to claim his screen was lagging and that's why he lost. He is a bit of a sore loser. He also just isn't a fan of games that don't require some sort of skill or technique. He hates luck-based games, or games that depend heavily on rng. Y'all played the first FNAF game ONCE and he lost it because Chica hung around the door so he couldn't open it to alleviate his battery usage and was incredibly pissed when he lost because of that.

streamerau!Viktor who is more into more card games (my personal headcanon is that he is a great Spades partner) but still tunes into every single one of your streams. He thinks it's funny to leave very obvious 'pro-tips' like "don't mine at night with nothing but a wood sword" or "maybe try killing the creepers" or "next time, you should do a back flip off the ledge". Though he doesn't play with you, he does get alluded to in passing, typically by Grim rather than his actual name. The nickname came from one of your Sims streams where you laughed about how much your boyfriend looked like the Grim Reaper and then everyone started calling him that until it eventually got shortened to just Grim. At some point, someone dug through the archives to try and find him. The old streams were long gone at this point, but Viktor had somehow snuck into the corner of a few videos.

Speaking of which, Shadow Man Viktor definitely became a meme on the internet after he was spotted, specifically to that one Berleezy audio (IT IS HOT AS HELL IN THIS FUNKY ASS, HOT ASS ROOM IM IN...IS THAT THE GRIM REAPER???). He doesn't find out about it until you tell him. Viktor is thoroughly not a social media guy; he often gets confused when you make internet references on the stream and asks about what they mean later. That or he quietly texts you "I'm employed, what does that mean?" He never moved over to shorter form content when Vine and TikTok got really popular, and he definitely brags about having a longer attention span because of it. He would be more annoyed with the whole ordeal if his face wasn't obscured, but you can't tell who he is by the low-quality stills. This being said, your followers anxiously await the heavily teased boyfriend reveal.

[blackbird5154]

Hey! We've started posting our new multi-chapter fic about Terzo and Copia that we've been working on for the past six months. Unwittingly, it has become an alternative to the RHRN storyline, as the plot originated before the movie came out. An alternative with a lot of blood, darkness, and gore, but with an attempt to give the characters the development we think they deserve. It's called 'The Chains That Bind Us'.

Actually, this story began when V @grim-kazoo-player and I shared a sudden coincidental feeling with each other: Terzo is alive. Not as a person in lore chronology, of course. But as a complex of ideas. Ideas have a certain persistence and vitality; they outlive their bearers. As V's namesake from Alan Moore's comic said, "There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to kill. There's only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof." A little time passes, and already a whole crowd of people in identical masks goes to storm the cordons, and the English Parliament goes up in flames.

As another author we like states, the gods are alive as long as they are worshipped. Every idea created by man is fueled by belief in it. Amazingly, the Third Papa's fame has not faded even after seven years of his absence; the echo of his thunder still rumbles across the planet, igniting hearts. This sense of the uncompleteness of his story was what breathed life into this work.

The fic is written in Russian. If you don't read Russian, you can use an automatic translator. Also we are very much waiting for your comments: in Russian, in English, in Quenya (we can read runes), in any language you use. The Ghost Empire is international!

Characters: Copia, Terzo, Sister Imperator, Omega, Nameless Ghouls

Tags and warnings: AU, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Bromance, Magic, Revenge, Pre-Slash, Violence, Psychology, Psychological Horror, Trauma, Psychological Trauma, Tortures, Depression, Character Study

Summary: The fifth era is about to end. Copia realizes that his time is coming to an end, but sees no escape from the threat looming over him. Will he suffer the same fate as his predecessors? In a moment of hard thinking about the future, a mysterious visitor bursts into his life.

[liminalpebble]

Between the Lines, Chapter 1 (An AU Loki Story)

Masterlist

AO3 link

Pairing: Femme reader x Loki Pre-Thor 1 AU

CW: Allusions to sexual slavery dubcon/noncon within the society. Power imbalance. Eventual smut with questionable consent. Minors DNI.

AN: This will be a multi-parter but not a particularly long one, so if I leave you hanging between chapters, I promise it won't be particularly long before it all comes together.

Between the Lines

Summary: The exchange of concubines amongst the noble houses of Asgard is nothing new to the royal family, however, it is to Asgard's solitary younger prince. Since Loki had always openly declared the tradition barbaric and loathsome, he shocks the court to its core when he changes his mind.

The trickster had yet another surprise in store when he selected you, a librarian from a noble house to occupy his bed.

You're stunned, intimidated, even afraid, of the sly second prince, but you know as well as anyone that to deny a royal decree is to court death.

And so you go, only to find that this mysterious man is not at all what you expected.

Chapter 1

The stiff satiny material of the fine gown chafed at the tender skin of your throat, your neck, your collarbones. It itched, it tore, it pricked, all for the sake of being attractive. The absurdity of it irritated you just as much as the starched bodice locking you in. It was a far cry from the comfortable cotton clothes and soft sweaters you'd wear to work in the archives each day...your beloved sanctuary of books and dark wood shelves. You already missed the sweet, musky smell of pages and wood polish embracing you as you cataloged and discovered...every day you discovered, learned, waltzed with beautiful words on illuminated manuscripts and lovingly preserved them. But not anymore. Those joyful days were apparently behind you.

You swallowed at the boulder of sorrow in your throat, but failed to erode it. A chilly draft swept through the cavernous, gilded hallway; grazed over your generous amount of exposed skin; a horrible, unwanted, vulnerability. Yet, even as you shivered you could feel nervous sweat blossoming. Your hands shook.

You'd heard stories...everyone had. Stories about the pleasure slaves the older prince surrounded himself with; the beautiful young women he subjected to his whims like play-things, and he was notoriously rough with his toys, like a spoiled brat. The thought made you shudder. Still, a quiet hope fizzled in your chest saying, maybe he's not like his brother. Everyone certainly says he isn't.

Each flickering torch sat fast in its sconce along the expanse at perfect intervals, each clicking footstep marked the uniform persistence of every second, measuring your progress towards his chambers like the tick of a clock.

As you faced the threshold to his chambers, Loki watched the last of grains of sand settle at the base of an hourglass on his desk. You clapped the heavy doorknocker and it rang like the deep chime of an hourly bell. It had the same grim finality. Time's up, it said.

“Enter,” ordered a silky, baritone voice from the other side.

At least the girl is punctual, Loki mused as he set a ribbon between the pages and closed his book.

You braced yourself, struggling to remember the precise instructions. You tried to look regal as you opened the heavy door, tried to sound confident, unwavering, but you knew your voice would falter...you hands would shake.

You knelt, averting your eyes so you could only mark his tall form gliding closer in your periphery, an elegant dark line interrupting the golden glow around him.

“Your Majesty, I come to serve.”

You twitch as long, cool fingers coax your chin upwards. His eyes meet yours, staring down through long dark lashes. Two aquamarine searchlights; unnervingly placid and frigid like a winter sea, and every bit as deadly and beautiful...every bit as likely to drown you in his undertow.

“Hmm. You are so so frightened, aren't you darling?”

“Uh...no...Sire...I just...”

He smirks...a singular, humorless curl at the corner of his thin lips. “Now, now. No lying. I can always tell.”

His long hand cages your cheek, moves in a serpentine arc to comb into your hair, then grip firmly. It's a sharp gesture, like fangs snapping shut. It stings, but if feels so alarmingly good that it punches the air out of your lungs in a helpless little gasp.

He smiles with teeth now as he watches your lips part; a gentle expression but unmistakably carnivorous. Blood wouldn't look out of place in a mouth like that, you think, and he's going to eat me alive.

You finally dare to look fully. He's all jet black hair, sharp angles, and tightly woven garments; precise and lethal and calculated. Fear boils up, hot and insistent, but with something alien simmering beneath it...something pleasurable, and you could swear he knows. He sees it. You wouldn't be surprised if his sharp ears could even hear your pulse quicken, maybe even hear you thoughts. The old saying volleyed around your memory.

Where there are wolf's ears, wolf's teeth are near.

The bone-color fingers release and glide over your cheek, your supple lips, down the path of your chin, and the valley of your throat. Two fingers travel at a leisurely pace over the cusps of your breasts, a ghost of a touch over your plump, corset-tightened flesh, quickly retracted.

He clears his throat, then takes your hand carefully and guides you to stand. Those bright eyes stab even deeper from such a close distance, like a good dagger. But you're chocked when his expression turns soft, the lines around his eyes creasing as his tight-lipped smile turns genuine...real.

��Come. It will be a long night, and we have so much to learn,” he purrs out as he guides you further into his world.

@lokischambermaid @lokisgoodgirl @peaches1958 @thenerdyoldersister @thedistractedagglomeration @muddyorbs @mischief2sarawr @icytrickster17 @goblingirlsarah @sweetsigyn @unlucky-number-13 @mochie85 @acidcasualties @alexakeyloveloki @loz-3 @jennyggggrrr @ladyofthestayingpower @mischiefmaker615 @loopsisloops @sailorholly @coldnique @smolvenger @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @gigglingtiggerv2 @anukulee @azula-karai-27 @eleniblue @marcotheflychair

(if you want to be added or subtracted from this list, please let me know. I know I always forget someone or add someone who doesn't want to be and it all get lost in the tags soups, so I apologize in advance.)

[ghostlyglimmer]

The Black Dog of Amity Park

CHAPTER 1

Summary:

After a fight with her parents, Sam Manson seeks solace in Amity Park’s old, neglected cemetery, rumored to be haunted by the mysterious church grim dubbed 'The Black Dog of Amity Park'.

Notes:

I'm super excited to finally bring this giant AU that's been rattling in my brain to the world! I hope you guys enjoy! Church Grims are my FAVORITE spectral entity. I find them to be so comforting.

The late summer sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving Amity Park cloaked in twilight. The soft glow of streetlights barely illuminated the cracks in the sidewalks as Sam Manson stormed out of her house, her boots thudding against the pavement. Her parents' voices still echoed in her head, dismissing her individuality and belittling her ideals. For years, they had tolerated her "phase," but tonight's argument had gone too far.

She wiped at her eyes with the back of her gloved hand as she made her way toward the Amity Park Cemetery. It was her refuge, a place where the living rarely ventured after dark. The rumors of the Amity Park Hound—a spectral, black dog with glowing green eyes—kept most people away.

But not Sam.

The cemetery greeted her with an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. Wrought iron gates creaked as she pushed them open, revealing rows of headstones in various states of neglect. Weeds choked the pathways, moss clung to the stones, and several markers had fallen over, left to decay in the dirt.

Sam frowned, a pang of sadness swelling in her chest. "This place deserves better," she murmured. It wasn’t right for the final resting place of so many to be forgotten like this.

She crouched down beside the nearest headstone, her hands brushing away the weeds that clung stubbornly to its base. The name etched into the stone was barely legible, worn away by time and neglect. "Don’t worry, Mrs. Peterson," she said softly, as though the name could still hear her. "I’ll fix this."

As she worked, her voice filled the empty graveyard. She spoke to the names on each stone, offering quiet reassurances and apologies for the neglect they’d endured. Pulling weeds, scraping off moss, and even propping up a toppled headstone, she poured her frustration and sorrow into her labor. Each sniffle betrayed her emotions—anger at her parents, sadness for the forgotten dead, and a strange sense of peace she found in their silent company.

Unbeknownst to her, glowing green eyes watched from the shadows of the treeline. Danny, the Amity Park Church Grim, stood with his hackles raised, his black fur bristling. His haunt had been plagued in recent years by delinquents looking for a thrill, knocking over headstones or leaving graffiti in their wake. He’d been ready to chase her out.

But this girl was different.

His ears perked up, his fur relaxing as he watched her. She wasn’t here to destroy anything. Quite the opposite—she was cleaning. She cared. Her small hands worked diligently, carefully, as if each stone belonged to someone she had loved. Her quiet voice carried on the wind, and Danny tilted his head as he caught the sniffles between her words.

She was crying. Why?

Danny's glowing eyes softened, his tail beginning to wag slowly. He liked this girl. For the first time in years, someone was showing his haunt the respect it deserved. She wasn’t just fixing stones—she was honoring those who rested there, as he had once done himself.

Sam paused now and then, brushing her arm across her face to wipe away tears she hoped no one could see. The sniffles reached his ears, and Danny tilted his head, his curiosity deepening. He wondered why this girl would come here, alone and upset, to do something so kind and so utterly thankless.

From his place in the shadows, Danny didn’t move closer. He didn’t want to interrupt or scare her. Instead, he settled in to watch, his large, dark frame blending with the treeline. His glowing eyes followed her every motion, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a strange warmth in his spectral heart.

This girl wasn’t like the others. She cared for his haunt, cared for the souls who rested there. And though she didn’t know it, she’d earned the silent protection of the Church Grim that night.

[fictionlag]

First chapter of my post apocalyptic hualian au "Defective".

The sun was setting... Cheng sprinted down the cracked asphalt, his respirator mask securely fastened to protect him from the toxic air. The echo of his footsteps reverberated off the derelict buildings, a stark contrast to the silence that usually enveloped the city.

As he ran, Cheng glanced up at the towering skyscrapers, their barred windows staring down like hollow eyes. The metal bars, once a measure of security, now clung to the shattered glass, rusted and weakened by time and neglect.

He passed several abandoned stations for flying hoovers, the sleek, futuristic vehicles now lying in disrepair. Some were still docked, while others lay crashed and broken, their lifeless forms a grim reminder of the past.

Street signs and billboards, their messages faded and obscured by grime, flickered past in a blur. Dysfunctional screens meant to display city maps occasionally buzzed to life, their distorted images offering no real guidance.

Cheng’s route took him past several underground hideouts, their entrances hidden behind piles of rubble. He knew better than to linger; the people who occupied these makeshift homes were as dangerous as the environment itself.

He leaped over the remains of a vending machine, its glass front shattered and contents long gone. Empty wrappers and broken pieces littered the ground, evidence of the desperate search for sustenance that had occurred here.

Beneath a crumbling bridge, Cheng saw the gaunt figures of sick people huddled together. He pushed forward, his heart heavy with the knowledge of their suffering.

Above him, the flying road lamps flickered erratically. Their weak, intermittent light barely cut through the growing darkness.

Certain walls he passed were marked with cryptic messages, scrawled in the secret language of the Resistance. He could hear the distant hum of a patrol drone, its searchlights sweeping through the streets behind him.

It had been six months since he had seen another human being in person, a fact that weighed heavily on his mind as he navigated the labyrinth of debris and decay.

As he moved, one of the small advertising robots detected his presence. It whirred to life, its sensors locking onto him as it began to follow, hovering just a few feet behind. The robot’s spherical body projected a bright, holographic display into the air, showing vibrant images and text that promoted the latest in post-apocalyptic innovation: the Dreambit Dolls.

"The new programmed and fully functioning Dreambit Dolls, created in the lab with human genome and a developed, bionic brain."

The holographic display scrolled the words across the air in front of Cheng, accompanied by images of eerily lifelike dolls. Each one was designed to perfection, their synthetic eyes glinting with a semblance of human emotion. The robot continued its persistent advertisement:

"Wide variety. Excellent quality. Money warranty. Whether it's business, companionship, or house care, we have a Doll for you!"

Cheng paused, momentarily captivated by the hologram. The vibrant lights flickered and flashed, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across his face, making him momentarily dizzy. He shook his head and forced himself to keep moving. The robot’s message pursued him relentlessly:

"We are fighting against the decline of the world population. Don't be afraid to order now and reclaim happiness! Let's build the future together!"

The irony was not lost on Cheng. The idea of reclaiming happiness in a world so far gone seemed almost laughable. Still, he couldn't help but feel a pang of curiosity. What would it be like to have a Dreambit Doll? To have some semblance of companionship in this forsaken place?

Pushing the thought aside, he focused on his task. He had one last package to deliver before his shift ended. The delivery route took him through some of the worst-hit areas of the city. Buildings lay collapsed, their rubble spilling into the streets, creating treacherous pathways that Cheng navigated with practiced ease.

As he approached the delivery point, he noted the remnants of what had once been a bustling marketplace. Now, it was a desolate square, littered with broken stalls and the charred remains of what used to be everyday goods. He reached the designated drop-off point, a dilapidated building that somehow still stood amidst the destruction.

Carefully, Cheng placed the package at the foot of the building. His eyes scanned the horizon, half-expecting to see another human being, but there was only the pervasive silence of the city. With a sigh, he completed the delivery on his device, marking the end of his shift.

The advertising robot hovered nearby, its message still playing:

"We are fighting against the decline of the world population. Don't be afraid to order now and reclaim happiness! Let's build the future together!"

Cheng turned to leave, but something made him pause. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Instinctively, his hand went to the knife strapped to his belt, a necessary precaution in this unforgiving world. But when he looked closer, he saw it was just a rat.

The sky had darkened to a deep, foreboding gray as Cheng finally made his way back to his capsule. The capsule was a compact, cylindrical structure, tucked away between the remnants of two collapsed buildings. It was about the size of a small shipping container, its exterior battered and scorched from the past conflicts. The entrance was sealed with a reinforced steel door, designed to keep intruders and the elements at bay.

As Cheng entered, he was greeted by a small but efficiently designed living space. The walls were a pristine white, creating an illusion of openness despite the capsule's compact size. The furniture was minimalistic and functional, each piece serving a clear purpose.

A sleek, white sofa with sharp edges and a low backrest sat against one wall, its cushions perfectly arranged. In front of it, a simple coffee table made of translucent material added to the airy feel of the space. On the opposite wall, a flat, integrated entertainment console housed the capsule's communication and entertainment systems, its surface unmarred by buttons or cables.

To one side of the living area was a compact kitchenette, its design seamlessly integrated into the capsule's aesthetic. The countertops were smooth and white, reflecting the minimalistic theme. A single induction cooktop and a small sink were the only visible appliances, both embedded into the countertop to maintain a clean look. Above, sleek white cabinets concealed all necessary utensils and supplies, their handle-less doors opening with a touch.

In another room a narrow bed with crisp, white linens was tucked into a recessed alcove, its frame blending into the wall. The bed was perfectly made, with no extraneous pillows or decorations to disrupt its simplicity. A small, built-in shelf above the bed held a few essential items.

After closing the door behind him, Cheng removed his respirator mask and took a deep breath, appreciating the clean, filtered air. The familiar hiss of the airlock sealing shut was a comforting sound.

He walked over to the kitchenette, his footsteps silent on the smooth, white floor. Retrieving a can of beans from a concealed cabinet, he opened it with a sleek, modern can opener and ate quickly. The food was cold, but it was nourishing, and he ate quickly, not savoring the taste but simply fueling his body for the next challenge.

After finishing his meal, Cheng reached for his Searcher, a device about the size of a paperback book. The screen was slightly cracked, but it still worked reliably, a lifeline in this broken world.

Cheng powered it on, and the familiar startup chime echoed through the quiet space. He navigated to the Dreambit catalogue, his curiosity piqued by the persistent advertising robots he had encountered earlier. The catalogue loaded, displaying a wide array of options in vibrant, enticing images.

The catalogue was divided into several categories: nurses, domestic helpers, various specialists, and a category labeled "companionship partners." Each section was filled with images of Dreambit Dolls, each more lifelike than the last.

Cheng's finger hovered over the screen as he scrolled through the options, each doll meticulously designed to cater to specific needs. The companionship partners category caught his eye. The images here were different—softer, more intimate. Each doll was crafted to provide comfort and company in a world where isolation was the norm.

He continued scrolling down, the images blurring together as he moved through the seemingly endless options. His mind wandered, contemplating the possibility of having such a companion in his life. It was then that he suddenly stopped, his eyes focusing on one particular image.

The picture of product 2468 captured his attention like none of the others had. The first image that caught his attention was of the Doll sitting in a bubble-like cage, surrounded by lush greenery and vibrant flowers. The serene environment within the capsule, combined with the Doll's soft features and flowing white garment, created a vision of tranquility that was captivating. Intrigued, Cheng clicked on the image to see more.

The next picture was a close-up of the Doll holding a pink rose, its delicate features and soft expression exuding a sense of calm. The white garment and the elegant way it held the rose added to its allure.

Finally, he viewed a detailed close-up of the Doll's face, with the rose held close to its lips. The deep, expressive eyes seemed to look directly at him, offering a silent promise of understanding and companionship. The elegant earring added a sophisticated touch, highlighting the care and precision with which the Doll had been crafted.

Cheng’s fingers hovered over the "purchase" button. He hesitated, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. He knew that buying product 2468 would cost him all of his savings. Money that he had scrimped and saved in the hope of a better future. But as he thought about it, a bitter laugh escaped his lips.

“What would I do with that money anyway? Go clubbing? Travel?” Cheng scoffed at the absurdity of the idea. The world was in ruins, and nothing worked the way it used to. His laughter echoed softly in the quiet capsule, a sound tinged with resignation and despair.

The more he thought about it, the more the decision seemed clear. His money couldn’t buy him the world that once was, but it could buy him a piece of hope in the form of product 2468. He could bring a touch of beauty and companionship into his life, something that had been sorely missing. With a resolute sigh, Cheng made the decision. His fingers moved with newfound determination as he selected the option to purchase product 2468. The screen displayed the total cost, and without a second thought, he confirmed the order, draining his savings in an instant.

A message appeared on the screen: “Thank you for your purchase. Your Dreambit Doll will be delivered shortly.”

As he sat there, the soft hum of the capsule’s ventilation system the only sound, Cheng allowed himself to imagine the future. A future where he wasn’t so alone, where the presence of product 2468 could bring a touch of humanity back into his life. The decision had been impulsive, but as he looked around his minimalistic, modernistic home, he felt a sense of peace. For the first time in a long while, he had something to look forward to.

A couple of days had passed since Cheng had made his impulsive purchase. His anticipation for product 2468’s arrival grew with each passing hour. He had cleaned his minimalistic capsule repeatedly, ensuring that everything was perfect for his new companion.

On the third morning, a soft chime emanated from his NeCAll, the small, ornate necklace that hung around his neck. The necklace, a sleek and elegant device with a single button, functioned as his communication link. A small exclamation mark flashed on its surface, indicating an urgent message.

Cheng’s heart raced as he pressed the button, the tiny speaker embedded in the pendant crackling to life. An automated female voice, smooth and almost too perfect, began to speak. This voice was commonly used by people operating remotely, its artificial tone betraying no emotion.

“Hello, is this Cheng?” the voice asked.

“Yes, this is Cheng,” he replied, his voice steady despite the flutter of nerves.

“I am calling to inform you that the product you ordered is defective, but we can send you a similar one,” the voice announced.

Cheng’s mind raced. Defective? How could this be? Product 2468 had seemed perfect, the very embodiment of what he needed in his life. “Defective?” he echoed, his voice carrying a mix of surprise and concern.

“Yes,” the automated voice continued, “it’s a rare case. It ran away from its previous owner.”

Cheng frowned, processing the information. The idea of a Dreambit Doll running away was almost unthinkable. These products were designed to be loyal and dependable, yet this one had somehow deviated. His initial shock gave way to a strange sense of determination.

“No,” Cheng said firmly. “I don’t want another one. It’s okay. You can send it to me.”

There was a brief pause, the silence filled with the faint hum of the pendant. “Are you sure?” the voice asked. “We can provide a fully functional replacement at no extra cost.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Cheng replied, his voice resolute. “Send me product 2468. I’ll take it as it is.”

“Understood,” the automated voice said. “We will process your request and deliver the product as soon as possible. Thank you for your understanding.”

The line went silent, and Cheng released the button on his NeCAll. He sat back, taking a deep breath. He had no idea what to expect from a defective Dreambit Doll. Despite its apparent flaws, he was determined to give it a chance. In a world as broken as his, perhaps a little imperfection was exactly what he needed.

[silverior968]

So, here's the TFP/Skulduggery Pleasant AU fic I've been working on and eluding to since may. Very Optiratch focused, although I'm trying to expand and add more characters and dynamics and such. For SP fans I can jingle the keys of Larrikin, Skulduggery and Ghastly making appearances and a bunch of worldbuilding about different magic disciplines, The Caves and Proto-Cleavers

In terms of where in the timeline the fic is, the latest chapter takes place in 1620, and so far only the oldest of the characters are around (because the rest of them quite simply haven't been born yet)

Also, here's a drawing I made related to the AU, a bit farther down the timeline than the current most recent chapter but still nowhere near present day

Unfortunately the giant Pyrenese dog with the Wolf collar is symbolic in nature, there are no giant dogs in the fic. It would be an altogether less grim affair if there were giant dogs, I think.

[Image ID: A digital painting of a younger, human Ratchet from the AU described above, accompanied by the front half of a giant great pyrenees dog. The background is a muted cyan color. The dog is farther away in the background, leaping forward with its teeth bared. Its white fur is stained red with blood, mostly originating from a rusty anti-wolf collar on its neck, which means that most of the blood doesn't belong to the dog itself. It has a sad look in its eyes. The rest of the dog disappears where its silhouette crosses over Ratchet's, who is likewise charging forward with a scythe wielded with both hands, bent backwards for a swing. The scythe's blade has gone black in certain parts, and is covered in blood. One of his legs is bent in front of him and the position of the scythe makes his arm cross over his face as an intentional reference to "The Fallen Angel" by Alexandre Cabanel. He's wearing an outfit that consists of white trousers, black boots and a white tailcoat with gold details, like buttons and epaulettes. The outfit is also stained in blood, with two large red spots on his side and thigh, from which Vitakinetic life energy is spilling out as white sparks. As an added effect of Vitakinesis ( the Skulduggery Pleasant version of healing magic) his bones are glowing white through his skin and his pupils are white. He's drawn as a white man with pale, lightly freckled skin and red hair. His irises are cyan-colored, and there are distinct dark spots under his eyes. He has very thick eyebrows and long, slightly wavy hair. The artist's signature, "Silverior968" is overlayed over the image in white. The color palette is inspired by the album cover for "The Albatross" by Foxing. / End ID]

[woodsfae]

Babylon 5 S03E16 War Without End: Part One previous episode - table of contents

From the preview image that Tubi chose for the episode I see that Sinclair's back?? My old friend!! As well as our first glimpse at Minbar outside the Grey Council chambers, I believe! It's beautiful: very sculpted in a sort of sci-fi Rivendell way which fits the Minbari's space elf vibe. 

Entil'Zha is being presented with a sacred box, which has waited for over 900 years..in which there is a letter for Jeffrey David Sinclair! Dun dun dun. Prophecy is real, Babylon 5 is a high fantasy as much as it is sci-fi. 

Another prophecy, this one of the sci-fi variety: Babylon 5 gets a transmission of Ivanova calling for help, saying "they're killing us." 

This show gives me so many fanfic ideas and I haven't looked to see if anyone else has done them yet, because I'm avoiding spoilers. So I really don't go looking for info on B5 or interact with fandom works much. But this episode reminds me that I keep toying with the idea of an AU where Sinclair never leaves at the end of s01 and the whole plot plays out with him. I miss him, he got into my heart so fast and I had no inkling he was leaving the show till well after I was attached. 

It's nice to see Sinclair has had Minbari friends in his time running/recruiting/training the Rangers from Minbar. 

Partner just asked me what my predictions were for Sinclair and then when I went on a ramble just stared at me and told me to write it down. So here: my prediction of Sinclair's fate. In a separate post, because it's a bit too much of a tangent.

I've paused for long enough for only being six minutes into, so we're going to move on now, but if you wanna hear meta thoughts on what I think might happen with other characters end games, I could ramble about it.

Ivanova: this recording is fake. my analysis is based on logic: I didn't do it, ergo it is fake. Garibaldi, living for some sci-fi shenanigans: what if it's time travel.

They have Garibaldi positioned poorly before a dark path in the backdrop and it looks like he has one, huge pouf of hair sticking out one side of his head, lol.

Sinclair's back on Babylon 5! Zack Allen is in plainclothes, so perhaps all staff have the option? Or Zack wasn't invited to their special senior staff matching uniforms? 

Delenn being a drama queen. It's one of the qualities they hire for on the Grey Council. 

Lennier: "It must be done or the dream will die, and countless others will die."

o m in o u s

Eight days since the last Vorlon attack, per Marcus. 

Sinclair looks so good in Sci-Fi Rivendell clothes. Eeeek, I missed him, I love it. 

Oh it's Zak? Zap? Zathras? Yes! Zathras! Wow, I wasn't sre he'd be back, let alone that he'd be in shenanigans with DraalPlanet, OR that DraalPlanet would be doing something with time travel! 

And Sheridan! Is also wearing Minbari fashion! Some very snazzy robes over his uniform. 

Ivanova's message from the future is so grim. The captain is dead. "They" are coming in all over the place. External cams: Shadows. The Shadows have weapons lock. Explosions. Seems pretty straightforward and I bet it'll play out exactly like that with no twists. :P /hah

As Sheridan is doubtlessly about to find out, it's always going to be a normal evening when you are asked to swear you trust someone with your life before events can commence. 

Delenn has a powerpoint presentation about the Shadows. And a battle where the shadows were driven from their home, Zha'Dum. But the Minbari were losing at the time. Until Babylon 4 appeared! Delenn says without Babylon 4, they would have lost the war. 

Even while Babylon 4 was in construction, the Shadows attacked to destroy it. And the White Star was there! Delenn says they must go through the temporal rift that Draal is widening, protect B4, steal B4, and send B4 around in time. End Presentation! Everyone agrees with her flawless logic. And because she brought receipts in the form of video archival footage from DraalPlanet's surveillance system: Epsilon 3. 

That I didn't see coming, either. But like Garibaldi, I am so on board for the sci-fi hijinks. 

Oh, Delenn's plan goes farther! She and Sheridan will take B4 on the entire time travel trip and personally fight in the historical fight against the Shadows. Ten thousand years ago, right??? Damn, Sheridan and Delenn are going to stride through time and strike titanic, decisive blows in a war that felled entire species of sci-fi space gods!! That's so fucking epic. 

Ivanova is floating the idea that she was calling for help from an alternate timeline. But Garibaldi thinks it's the timeline they're planning now, where they take B4. 

I'm sure that SInclair's quippy references to Sheridan are super funny, but sadly I do not get the references. 

Zathras is here again. I...don't get Zathras. He's ehh funny. But extremely plot useful! Sinclair is meeting Zathras for the second time, but for Zathras it's the first time. But Zathras is well-informed, because he's very super honored to meet Sinclair and Sheridan, but also that's on the list of things Draal told him not to mention. 

Ahh, this Sinclair has already lived through the destruction of Babylon 5! He's already experiencing the world nonlinearly and is trying to do differently on this loop - damn! Or he's having visions from an alternate timeline but at some point you gotta agreee those are almost the sme thing, structurally, experientially, and thematically.

Time travel requires the use of devices that act as anchors. Zathras is handing them out and they're all being clipped visibly on a belt or sash, thus guaranteeing that someone will lose theirs. Sinclair? 

Aww, Sinclair sees Delenn and Sheridan holding hands and smiled. That makes me wistful for the Sinclair/Delenn endgame that exists in my personal, unwritten AU. 

Garibaldi is due an arc of making good, upstanding decisions and not doing police brutality so it hits extra hard when he blows up with Babylon 5. Or he makes it two more seasons, idk. I wouldn't mind if they lost a few characters and he was one of them.

Especially not if we could swap him for Talia back. I can't decide if I think she (or her personality that got overwritten) will be back or not. 

The White Star has been ugraded with Vorlon skin, so it deflects attacks better, which Sheridan affects to be unimpressed by.

Garibaldi guesses "Hello, old friend," as the password which Sinclair used to lock a goodbye/sorry video Sinclair left for him. Which makes me softer for Garibaldi. That's what I think of when I think of Sinclair, too! 

Oooo, Sheridan's time stabilizer got hit and now he's unstuck in time. Space is big. Hope he lands on something with an atmosphere. Delenn can pick him up later, I'm sure.

Sheridan always automatically turns to Delenn for backup, but Sinclair automatically turns to Ivanova, and I love that. 

Sheridan just time traveled to the future where Londo is the Emperor of Centaur! And it's "just in time to die."

Are they currently losing a war in the future? Perhaps Centaur is now a holdout in the war for existence against the Shadows in an alternate future and Sheridan will be meant to save the future as well as the past? 

So funny how taken aback Delenn is that Sinclair speaks Minbari now. He lived there! Marcus, who was being trained as a Ranger there learned Minbari as what he implied was a necessity. But Delenn is so surprised. Their heart to heart is so sweet. *shipping intensifies*

Back to the future! Sheridan and Londo seems like he's blaming other people for his own support of the Shadows' agenda coming back to bite Londo and Centaur in the ass. "Ohhh if only you'd joined me in collaborating I wouldn't have had to face any consequences!" He'll get everything he ever thought he wanted and learned that being Emperor lost him everything he'd ever cared loved.

That's a pretty good hook and a cliffhanger. And a ton of interesting information was revealed! It's too late for Part Two tonight but I pinky-promise I will watch it tomorrow. I wrote up some predictions after I did a Sinclair one and an other-characters one before I watched...

War Without End: Part Two

[pupstim]

Throwing words into the void but sometimes I like to sit and think about QSMP Au's. Mainly with q!BBH of course.

One recent one (Beside the creature Stardew) is The Magnus Archive. I think it would be such a fun AU to take into the QSMP. I adore eldritch creatures and TMA is full of it. On the fence a little bit of who would have what affinity and if they would have an affinity at all.

I say this because I'm thinking of a q!Badboyhalo in this sort of situation. What his affinity would be. The biggest obvious answer is of course death. Or The End as the fear is known as. He's a grim reaper so of course that's his affinity. But my mind is churning and turning and I just can't help but think that's just so... obvious? He'd definitely have some of The End clinging to him, but I kind of feel like The Hunt and The Spiral would really fit him as well.

The Spiral is all about deceptions and lies. Twisting words or meanings until they're almost unrecognizable. And Honestly there's no better fitting of the definition than q!BBH. He's a lying liar who lies, sometimes on purpose, sometimes for fun, sometimes just because he's so used to lying that it's his first go to when interacting with someone.

The Hunt is a little bit odder and personally just my personal perception of him. q!Bad is just relentless, oddly like a hunter in my mind when he puts his mind to it. His ability to just find people and sneak into all sorts of spaces. Hunting down items, animals, occasionally even people if I remember correctly. He also just draws them in. Everything is essentially prey to him and I could totally see him hunting down a particularly stubborn spirit as the grim reaper, to how relentless he is when he wants something. It's like an animal sinking their teeth in something and refusing to let go.

I am still not good with words, but it's the mental image of q!Bad who's the/a grim reaper or death, close affinity to the End. People can feel it on him when he passes by, he practically is dripping in it. But also the fact that occasionally his sights will be set onto you, and you cannot help but feel hunted. An unshakeable feeling of being prey, and teeth closing in on your flesh. Of knowing that your end is near and it's coming right for you. There is no escape.

But you don't know really where it's coming from. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere and I can totally see q!Bad hunting someone down, getting closer to them, twisting words and meanings, talking circles around his prey, leading them along with falsehoods, practically down a maze. Maybe as well his smile is sometimes too sharp, his teeth too long, his proportions just don't fit right in the darkness. Sometimes when he's basking in the confusion of the Spiral he probably looks just all wrong, making people do a double-take to him.

Hrgh it's super late and my words are leaving but just the mental image of a q!bbh who's just a few shades of wrong. Avatar of 3 or at least very closely related to two other than The End. I don't think it'd ever be a very cohesive story, there's not really a plot to go with it. But it'd be fun to write about all the islander's different interactions or think more about who would go with what entity and such.

[foundtherightwords]

The Hollow Heart - Chapter 8

Pairing: Hellcheer, Gothic AU

Summary: To escape her mother's control and the stifling society of Gilded Age New York, heiress Christabel Cunningham impulsively marries Henry Creel, a charming and seductive stranger, and accompanies him to his remote mansion on the West Coast. There, as Henry grows cold and cruel, Christabel must uncover her husband's sinister secret before it's too late. But can she trust Kas, her husband's enigmatic assistant, who seems to be her only ally in this strange place, or is Kas's loyalty to his master stronger than his attraction to Christabel?

Chapter warnings: none

Chapter word count: 4.2k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Chapter 8 - Sweet Music and Loud

Christmas drew near. There was no snow, but Christabel was thankful that the cold was keeping the fog at bay. When it got too cold for her daily walk, she busied herself with Christmas decorations, determined to give Creel House a festive air, despite Henry's utter lack of interest.

She was learning to pick her battle with him. Like the matter of finding her a lady's maid—Henry kept putting it off, so she'd stopped mentioning it. After all, she reasoned with herself, they never went anywhere, so there was no need to dress up, and thus no need for a maid. As for Christmas, Henry had flatly refused to go to church for Christmas service or to any of the Christmas concerts in town, but he'd agreed, albeit in an absentminded kind of way, to let her decorate the house. So she'd asked Kas to cut down one of the cypress shrubs of the right size and shape of a Christmas tree and put it up in the drawing room. At least they've come in useful, she thought with grim satisfaction while draping garlands of popcorn and cranberries over the tree.

Kas seemed fascinated with the decorating. He helped her make the garlands, wove some loose cypress branches into wreaths and hung them on doors with red ribbons, and even found some ivy vines to put around window frames. It appeared Henry had never bothered much with celebrating Christmas before. She felt rather sorry for Kas and made a mental note to get a present for him.

For all their efforts, Creel House remained dark and sullen, a Scrooge that refused to be swayed by the holiday cheers no matter how many spirits of Christmas paid it a visit. But Christabel wasn't deterred. Some more decorations, something sparkly to catch the light of the candles, and a good crackling fire in the hearth, and Creel House would be ready for Christmas.

She'd stopped fighting with Henry about her money as well. She'd relented and agreed to transfer her inheritance into his account at a local bank. Since most of her father's bequest was in the form of shares and stocks and would require some paperwork to transfer, she'd offered to put her idle money into the account first. That seemed enough to appease Henry, and he even drove her to the bank himself.

"You shouldn't leave all that money lying in the vault, darling," he said, on their way into the city. "Let me invest it, and I'll give you a much better rate of interest."

Sitting next to him on the passenger seat, Christabel only shrugged. She didn't care what he did with the money, as long as it meant he'd stop nagging her about it. Besides, she was still smarting from his refusal to stay longer in the city for her to do her Christmas shopping.

This annoyance only grew when she saw how the city was decked out for the holidays—even the street lamps were wrapped in tinsels and ribbons. It was strange seeing the familiar sights of excited shoppers hurrying down the streets and Christmas decorations under an unaccustomed blue sky, so different from the gray skies and white snow of New York, yet they still made Christabel so homesick that she almost cried.

But there was nothing to do but accompany Henry into the bank, nodded at all suggestions from Henry and the bank manager, and signed all the papers they gave her. Seeing Henry was in an amiable mood, she convinced him to let her pop into the department store across the street while he wrapped up some business of his own with the manager. She'd spied the shop when they drove up and had been hoping to find some decorations for the tree there, perhaps a present or two as well.

There was so much to see in the store—she didn't realize how much she'd missed such a simple, frivolous activity as shopping—that Christabel only became aware she'd been inside for too long when the clock struck twelve. Henry was certainly going to be angry with her; she was surprised he hadn't come in to drag her out himself. She quickly paid up and reluctantly left the store with her purchase.

Crossing the street, Christabel soon found out why Henry hadn't come to find her—he was locked in an argument with an older man.

"I'm telling you, you're mistaking me with someone else," Henry was saying, in the same even tone he'd used with that man, Thompson, on the train.

"I'm not mistaken!" the other man shouted. "I'd recognize you anywhere, you bastard! You have not aged a day!" He must be in his forties at least, disheveled, with unkempt blonde hair hanging limp about his face, a scruffy mustache, and a desperate look in his blue eyes.

Their raising voices had started to draw attention, and the bank manager and a guard were coming out to see what the commotion was.

"Sir, please stop harassing our customer," the manager said to the older man. "This is a place of business. If you don't leave, I shall have to call the police."

"Call them then," the man said. "I'd love to have a word with them as well. Tell them to arrest this—this criminal"—here he poked a dirty-nailed finger in Henry's direction—"on charges of kidnapping and murder!"

"The man is clearly insane," Henry told the manager in a low voice, but the other man still heard.

"Insane, am I? Let's see how insane I can be when I tell the police that you've kidnapped my sister!" His eyes landed on Christabel as she ran to Henry's side. "Or have you found someone to replace her already? It's been what, nearly fifteen years now?"

"Sir, Mr. Creel has been an esteemed client of our bank for nearly a decade," the manager said, stepping between the man and Henry with a placating gesture. "I can assure you, whatever you're accusing him of—"

"His name is not Creel!" the man shrieked, making a lunge for Henry. "His name is Ballard, Peter Ballard! What have you done to my sister, you son-of-a-bitch? What have you done to Maxine?!"

The manager nodded at the guard, who quickly stepped in, seized the older man by the arms, and marched him away.

"No, listen to me!" the man screamed, trying in vain to fight off the burly guard. "His name is not Creel! He's Peter Ballard! I'm not mistaken! He still looks exactly as he did fifteen years ago!"

Those screams reverberated through the street, as clear as day, even as he disappeared around the corner.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" the bank manager asked, holding Christabel's elbow.

"Yes, thank you," she answered shakily. Somehow she'd managed to keep hold of her shopping.

Henry did not spare her a glance. He nodded brusquely at the manager's apology and reassurance that it would not happen again, got into the car, and started the engine, forcing Christabel to scramble to follow him or be left behind. It was like the train trip all over again. She was frightened out of her wits, and he saw nothing but his own anger.

It wasn't until they were halfway back to Creel House that Henry exploded. "That is why I don't like going into the city," he said through gritted teeth, gripping the steering wheel so hard that Christabel was afraid he was going to pull it clear off. "It's full of lunatics!"

Christabel wanted to point out that Henry seemed to have a talent for attracting lunatics whenever he went, but she knew it would be a good way to direct his anger toward herself. So she stayed quiet, while the island with its perpetual shroud of fog loomed in the distance.

***

On Christmas Eve, Christabel tried her best to be cheerful, but she could feel her spirit wilting just like the pitiful tree standing in the corner of the drawing room. Despite her efforts, it still looked bare and even more scraggly than it had outside. The strings of popcorn were ragged like the teeth of some long-dead animals, the cranberries shone dully like dark drops of blood, and the glass baubles, imported from Germany as the proprietor had assured her, which had shone with such brilliance in the store, now seemed gaudy, out of place. No present adorned its base save for the one she'd bought Henry. She'd sent her mother a Christmas card and a letter but received no reply. When she asked Henry if they should give Kas a present as well, he'd waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it," he'd said. "I've given him a Christmas bonus."

She hadn't asked whether he had a present for her.

After dinner, she could no longer stand the thought of the single, lonely box under the tree, so she retrieved it and placed it in front of Henry, who was finishing up his port in the dining room. "Here you go, darling," she said. "It seems rather silly to wait until tomorrow."

Henry barely glanced at it. "What's this?"

"Your present, of course!"

He tore off the wrapping paper, revealing a silk cravat and a cravat pin set with a ruby. "It matches mine, see?" she said, holding up her stained glass rose pendant.

"Yes, very nice, darling," Henry said absently, draining his glass of port and getting up.

"Aren't you going to try it on?" She tried to smile, but tears were stinging the corner of her eyes.

"What for? We're not going anywhere. Now, are you finished with this Christmas nonsense? I have work to do."

He went upstairs, and a moment later, she heard the attic door slam shut.

Alone in the dining room, surrounded by the torn paper, with the cravat and the pin tossed carelessly on the table, Christabel took a deep breath, waiting for the tears to flow, but they didn't come. They were caught in her chest by wounded pride and by anger, anger at Henry for his utter indifference, and at herself. Had she really thought that he would've behaved differently, just because it was Christmas? How naïve could she be? 

Not wanting to go upstairs to her dark room and its ghosts, and unwilling to let Kas see her crying over silly little presents, she gathered up the cravat and the pin and went into the drawing room. The tree with its incongruous ornaments stood like a silent reminder that no matter what she did, it would never be good enough. Everything and everyone in this house was rejecting her.

She had to do something, she had to scream or break something to get rid of the iron fingers squeezing her throat, of the unshed tears burning her eyes. Storming over to the tree, she grabbed one of the glass ornaments that she had chosen with so much care and excitement, and hurled it to the hardwood floor. It exploded into thousands of tiny pieces, glittering like shards of starlight in the flickering flame of the candles.

The sharp pop of the ornament shattering made Christabel realize how childish she had been. Suddenly exhausted, she knelt down and reached for the little broom and shovel by the fireplace to clean up the pieces. That was when her eyes alighted on a large parcel under the tree, which she hadn't seen when she'd come into the room. She was quite certain it hadn't been there when she'd gone in to get Henry's present.

Christabel pulled the parcel out and placed it on the hearthrug. It was rectangular, quite heavy, and wrapped in ordinary brown paper, with a label that said "Mrs. Henry Creel, Creel House, Outside Lands, San Francisco" in an unfamiliar hand. There was no return address. Somebody must have sent it to her, and Kas had put it under the tree for her during dinner. But who? Not her mother or any of her old friends from New York, surely. They had all cut her off.

She unwrapped the parcel impatiently. The wooden lid of a box or a small trunk showed underneath. As soon as enough of the paper was peeled off, she unclasped the lid and lifted it up. Inside the box was a phonograph, along with about a dozen wax cylinder records.

Heart beating faster with excitement, Christabel assembled the phonograph and slipped a wax cylinder into place. As the first soft notes of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" flowed from the horn, the lump in her throat immediately vanished and she almost burst into tears, though they were tears of joy this time. It seemed too long since she had heard anything other than the murmurs of the sea, the moans of the wind and the foghorns, and the echoes of her own thoughts. She'd almost forgotten how soothing music could be. Under its magic, even Creel House seemed to change. The tree looked charming and festive, and the dark was no longer sinister and oppressive but cozy and comforting.

She sat on the hearthrug with her arms around her knees and listened to all the records. When the clock struck twelve, she went up to her room, got ready for bed, and listened to them again. There were popular songs, carols, and little pieces of orchestral music. Each was only about two or three minutes long, but it was more than enough to ease her mind and fill her heart.

Most of the records were labeled with the names of the songs on them. The last four, however, were unlabeled. They contained guitar music, gentle melodies like the pattering of summer rain on a window. But now, in the quietness of her bedroom, as she listened to them again, Christabel noticed another sound in the background, a strangely familiar one. She played the records once more, putting her ear close to the horn in case she'd misheard. No, it was faint but unmistakable—the sound of foghorns. Two sharp, quick ones, followed by two more, slower and lower. The same foghorns that had been bellowing outside her windows, haunting her dreams.

Those records had been made here, at Creel House, or at least somewhere very near here.

By who? There was only one person who could have made them, and it wasn't her husband.

Christabel went to her window and looked out. The lighthouse was dark. She thought about going down into the hothouse, or perhaps the kitchen, but decided against it. Questions and answers would have to wait until the next day. For now, she let herself get lost in those sweet melodies once more and drifted off to sleep with more ease than she had in over a month.

***

Christabel woke with a strange but pleasant lightness. It took her a while to figure out why she felt that way—she'd slept through the night without being woken by nightmares. She wondered if the music had anything to do with it.

As soon as she finished breakfast, she took the present she'd bought for Kas and went down to the lighthouse. She knocked quietly on the peeling door, her stomach turning with something quite different from its usual cramps. It was apprehension, she knew. After the gruesome story she'd heard about Patrick McKinney's death, the lighthouse had taken on a sinister air for her, as sinister as Creel House itself. She didn't know what she was going to find inside. And how Kas would react.

"Yes?" came Kas's voice from behind the door.

"It's Mrs. Creel. May I come in?"

There was a pause, then she heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, and the door opened a crack. "I'm sorry," Kas said. "I can't open it any further. It's quite sunny out today. Please, come in."

"It's all right," replied Christabel, slipping through the door. "Thank you."

For a moment she stood silently, taking in the inside of the lighthouse. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting. An extension of Creel House, perhaps, only even more dilapidated. But this funny little circular room had nothing in common with Creel House, except for the thick curtains at the window.

For one thing, it was light and airy, despite the curtains. The whitewashed walls, the candles blazing on every available surface, and a glowing stove gave it a homey, cozy air. An old armchair with stuffing coming out of the back, a small table by the stove, and a little bed behind it made up all the furniture in the room. The rest was taken up by books, books on shelves nailed to the wall, books on the floor by the chair and next to the bed, and on the chair and the bed themselves as well. Scattered here and there on the shelves were little curios, shells and fossils and even little animal skulls, peeping out from between the spines of the books. Somehow they managed to look friendly and inquisitive, despite having no eyes and no flesh. A spiral cast-iron staircase took up most of the back wall. It, too, had been commandeered as an impromptu bookcase.

"What's upstairs?" Christabel asked, pointing at it.

"The lamp room. But it's not used anymore. Nothing up there but bats now."

There was even a little Christmas tree on the table, a miniature cypress draped with popcorn and cranberries, quaint and charming, a far cry from its bedraggled cousin in the big house. "That's nice," said Christabel.

Kas shrugged. "I thought I'd get into the holiday spirit as well. Is there something you need?" he asked, watching her with a half-curious, half-wary look. "Do you wish to change something about Christmas dinner? I have everything ready as you've ordered."

"No, I don't need anything." Christabel hesitated, wondering how to bring up the phonograph in a polite way. She looked around at all the books. "Have you read all of these?"

He nodded, his eyes still fixed on her questioningly. She picked up a book on the table—Coleridge. Kas must have been reading it when she knocked. There was a seagull feather between the pages, and when she opened to the bookmarked spot, the familiar lines of "Christabel" met her eyes. She raised her eyebrows at Kas, and he responded with an embarrassed little smile.

"I've always wanted to know what happens to her, to Christabel," she said, putting the book down. "I wonder why my father named me after an unfinished poem."

"Perhaps he wished for you to finish your own story."

She hadn't considered it that way. The distant memory of her father suddenly became much nearer and dearer to her.

"I came to say thank you for the phonograph and the records," she said. "They're from you, aren't they?"

A faint touch of pink flushed Kas's pale cheeks. "Well, you mentioned that you miss music, so when I saw it for sale... Was that too forward of me?"

"No, not at all," she quickly said. "I'm touched that you remember. Still, it must have cost a lot."

The moment she mentioned it, Christabel realized how tactless it was of her, but Kas didn't seem to notice. "I have nothing else to spend money on," he said with a shrug.

"And some of those records are you playing, right?"

He nodded again, looking embarrassed. "If you don't like them, I can shave them clean and record something else—"

"No," she interrupted, "I love them."

Kas smiled again, just a flash, but it lit up his whole face.

"Where did you learn how to play?"

"From a Spanish missionary, when we first came to San Francisco."

"And is that your guitar?" Spotting the instrument leaning against the bed, Christabel picked it up without waiting for Kas's answer. It was clear that he took great care with the guitar, for the wood glowed like honey, and every tuning key gleamed. The words "Dragon Slayer" were carved into the body. She looked at Kas, amused. "You name it?"

Another quick grin flashed across his face, and for a moment, he looked almost boyish with enthusiasm. "You know how the knights in the old legends often name their swords, like Excalibur and Night's Edge and Protector of the Realm and things like that?" he said. "This is the same."

"The guitar is your weapon?"

His eyes darkened with a strange shadow. "Some monsters can be vanquished by music," he said enigmatically.

Christabel thought of how light and refreshed she'd felt that morning, how the ghosts seemed to have kept their distance all night. Is that why you gave them to me? Or is it a mere coincidence? She looked into Kas's eyes. The candles were brightening them into a soft brown, making them shine as brightly as the guitar. Something in his gaze sent a strange warmth coursing through her, burning her cheeks and making her chest flutter. She turned away, searching for a source of diversion.

"Where did you find these?" she said, pointing to the skulls.

"In the woods, on the beach. Anywhere during my travels with Mr. Creel, really."

"Why do you collect them? Most people would find them macabre."

"Would they?"

"Of course. Death is frightening." She thought of Henry in his Red Death costume.

"Is it? I don't think so. I think it's beautiful. If nothing dies, nothing grows. Death means a new beginning."

She stared at him in wonder. Henry had also said things like that when they'd first met, but always with such pomposity, as though he was proclaiming some grand wisdom. Kas sounded like he was stating a simple fact. Who was this man, who was a servant and yet didn't act like a servant, who could say such beautiful things in such an understated way, who confounded her and comforted her at the same time?

She was so flustered that she'd almost forgotten her true reason for coming to the lighthouse, and only when she put her hands in her pockets for want of something to do that she remembered it. She took out the little paper package.

"I wanted to give you this as well," she said. "Your Christmas present."

Kas's face lit up with disbelief. "You didn't have to—"

"No, please." She gestured for him to open the package. "It's my pleasure."

Kas undid the paper. Inside was a pair of leather gloves, lined with fur. Christabel had agonized over what to give him, something that was personal enough without being too personal. When she saw the gloves advertised in a catalogue, they had felt just right.

"I hope they fit," she said. "I notice that your hands are always cold, so..." She trailed off, for Kas was still bent over the gloves, running his fingers over the soft leather, and she couldn't see his face. Was he angry? Had she offended him again? "I'm sorry," she said uncertainly. "I must have overstepped. I didn't mean—"

"No." He finally looked up, and she was taken aback by what she saw on his face. He seemed on the verge of tears. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. It's just—I've never gotten any presents before. Thank you." He tucked the gloves into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Thank you," he repeated, hand tentatively reaching out for her.

Thinking he wanted to shake her hand, Christabel gave it to him. But he didn't merely shake her hand. Taking her hand in both of his, he held it for a long time, caressing her fingers just as he'd caressed the gloves. His hands were warm now, and their gentle touch sent her nerves all fluttering, from the tips of her fingers to her chest, from her chest to her stomach, and from her stomach to her knees, making her tremble and breathless. Then, to her astonishment, he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm briefly, before squeezing her fingers closed and laying them against his cheek for a moment, as if to trap the kiss in her hand.

A bell above the door rang loudly, shrilly, and Kas dropped her hand like a hot coal.

"Mr. Creel is ringing for me," he said. "I must go." He took down a cloak from its hook behind the door, which covered him from head to foot. But even this wasn't enough—he also picked up a large parasol. Thus equipped, he opened the door wide to let in the brilliant sun and stood by, waiting for her.

"Well, Merry Christmas," Christabel said unimaginatively and went out. Even then, she didn't return to the house right away but remained in the garden, watching Kas hurry across the sunlit space under his dark cloak and parasol, while her palm still tingled with the memory of his kiss, as though she'd been touched by the gentlest brand of all.

Chapter 9

A/N: Kas's guitar is based on Eddie's acoustic guitar, which has "This machine slays dragons" painted on it (which, in turn, is based on Woody Guthrie's "This machine kills fascists" guitar.)

[dhr-ao3]

The Nine Lives of Hermione Granger

The Nine Lives of Hermione Granger https://ift.tt/ZzjwlWT by slyther_rin AU where Draco is the Grim Reaper, and Hermione has cheated Death for the last time. Words: 1537, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, Blaise Zabini Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Dark Comedy, Romantic Comedy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/LrjsyVa November 20, 2024 at 01:40AM

[lets-try-some-writing]

It only took like, four five months for me to update this bad boy.

[sareen-momos-stuff]

Look up, my little baby clown where are you right now?

Rated: Explicit

Porsche realized as he hopped onto the car that he had saved not one but two Theerapanyakul's life in a dark alley. And both changed his life. One became like a second brother and the other his boss then lover and now probably ex-lover. He chuckled humourlessly.

He looked at Kim as he drove with a grim face - leaving the city and their old life behind. Leaving Kinn and all the madness that comes with the Theerapanyakul's name with a sleeping Chay in the backseat.

How easy it was for Kinn to trust Tawan and throw Porsche away! To forget all the moments they had spent together.

Well, if Kinn didn't want him then he didn't want him either. Kinn can get back with his backstabbing, fake smiling bitch, Tawan!

Porsche will take Kinn's younger brother as compensation!!

Kim was much more adorable than Kinn anyway. Porsche would just marry off Kim and Porchay so that they could officially be brothers!! Then all three of them will go and live by the sea!! Open a bar where he will be the bartender and KimChay will sing!!

Yes, that's what he will do!!

.

.

.

An au where Kim met with Porsche before Kinn and that changes everything and nothing at all.

[soupedepates]

omg, please tell me something about the "uwu" or the "mythology coffeeshop au"!

"uwu" is a project in a dark academia/grim fantasy setting, with prophecy! drama! romance! backstab! magic! and more! However I am still at the plotting stage, I have my main characters (protagonist Procnée, antagonist Penthée, main support character Euryale, support characters Prométhée, Alcibiade and Io) and my main plot point, but it feels empty

"mythology coffeeshop au" is actually Erato's Ventures at the Eternal Flame Café (I'm publishing it on AO3). This is my way to cope with my anguish (I am about to take an entrance exam)

this is mainly antics and funsies at a cozy café starring gods and heros, told by autistic and angery Erato (aka Rat for family and friends)

[crow-talks-hockey]

Killing Strangers - A Colorado Avalanche Mob AU (parts 17-19)

Nate’s expression was grim as he slipped on a new suit, black and silky. He looked to himself in the mirror, hands braced against the countertop and knuckles going white. Below, the voices from within Sid’s home floated up through the vents. He brushed back hair from his brow and stepped back. The light was harsh above the mirror, illuminating the dark tiles and gloomy feel of the room. Absently, he ran a finger along the first scar Larkin had given him now nearly two and a half months ago. Meaning Cale had died almost four weeks ago. He still felt no better about it. Guilt and rage still burned every time he let his mind rest, every time he took his hand away from a blade or a gun and chose to go back home. Was this home now? He wasn’t sure. Nothing and nowhere felt right anymore.

His body still felt tired and worn from his ordeal, but the wounds were nearly healed, the phantom shocks of pain residing into nothingness with time. He didn’t feel rusty when he fought anymore. He felt… good. Physically. He’d rested for a couple weeks, let his health slowly recover, got his strength back to nearly what it was before. In all ways he should be fine. But he wasn’t. He hesitated now when he went outside, unable to keep looking over his shoulder. Paranoid. The Nathan MacKinnon, Gabriel Landeskog’s wild dog, ruthless, immoral, and violent, was paranoid.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

The Offer - part four of a Magnus Archives x Malevolent Dark World AU

The Dark World gives and the Dark World takes away. This time, what it apparently gives is tainted with nostalgia and childhood fears.

Part of Just a Little Side-Quest, a Magnus Archives x Malevolent Dark World AU.

AO3

--------------

The Mystery Machine was a faithful little van. It rumbled forward, withstanding attack after attack, as the things that wanted to eat Jon found them.

(They hadn’t sniffed out John yet. Maybe they couldn’t, entangled with Arthur. Jon couldn’t tell, and was afraid that trying to know would somehow mess it up.)

Things ricocheted off the roof and sides like something out of a Hitchcock movie, but somehow, never went for the windows, and never got through. They rumbled out of the ground like burrowing insects. They torpedoed out of the sky like falling stars. They crawled, slinking, out of the Chasm like poisoned and vomited food.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said because he knew it was his fault, or at least happening because of him, because he was luring monsters like flies to spilled honey.

“It’s not your fault,” Martin kept saying.

But it was.

Jon debated. Should he leap out of the van, send the others on ahead, somehow? No; for reasons he couldn’t discern, they needed him here. They’d never make it to the cities without his guidance, and he knew that, absolutely knew they’d be trapped, one by one, in some horrible morass of someone’s making (possibly their own).

Martin drove. And Martin shifted gears. And Martin refused to look at the dashboard, willing the fuel gauge to remain on full.

Jon flinched with each attack, curled on himself in the front seat, and breathed (unnecessarily) too fast.

#

Even with a van, even with help, their progress seemed to slow to nothing.

They couldn’t see anything on the horizon; the red forest had disappeared, and so had any notable landscape marker. There were no buildings, no mountains, no smoke; there was the Chasm—they could always find that—but no more bridges, and no sign of any other living thing.

“Keep going,” Jon urged them, pointing for Martin’s benefit. “It’ll change soon enough. This part is felt to be the wilderness by too many who live here, interminable and without end, so it seems that way, but it isn’t. It just fakes it really well.”

“Really well,” muttered Martin, because it did feel interminable.

Maybe it was because the sun beat down (except it didn’t), and the AC didn’t work (or technically exist), and they all felt weary and dehydrated (except they were not), and had taken no time to rest. Or maybe it was because monsters kept coming, banging with startling irregularity into the sides, mindlessly chasing Jon.

I know this place, said John. It will end eventually. Though there’s no way to know which section we’re going to come out in.

“Try not to imagine anything too grim?” Jon suggested.

Fuck you, said John in an amicable tone.

“This isn’t all that terrible,” said Arthur, stretched out on the horizontal seat in the back. “Look, it isn’t even too different from… everything before. You’ve no idea what our life was like before we died.”

Our life, Jon thought, noting the singular. “Lots of monsters, were there?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Because I… well, I don’t know. Kayne implied my parents were in a cult, or something, and… I don’t know, apparently I was special.” He sounded utterly dismissive. “Mostly because of this little guy in my head.”

Little!

Arthur smirked. “Minuscule.”

Fuck you.

Arthur’s left hand rose to flip him off even though he couldn’t see it, and Arthur laughed.

“Part of the King in Yellow,” said Jon because he suddenly knew.

Arthur sat straight up, his practical, sturdy boots making a muffled thud on the shag orange carpet. “What did you say?”

Jon hunched. “I… sorry. I wasn’t trying… to pry.”

“Easy, gents,” said Martin lightly.

Arthur frowned. “You listen to me, you Archivist—”

It’s okay, Arthur, said John, more gently than Jon had ever heard him, and Arthur stopped. It’s okay. We’re beyond his reach now. It’s all right.

It was an awkward moment, but it passed. Arthur sighed. “Right. Yes. The King in Yellow.”

“Who’s the King in Yellow?” said Martin.

“Some sort of god. He’s horrible.”

“All right,” said Martin.

“John is a piece of him who… who’s made his own choices. He’s not part of that anymore. I don’t… I don’t care what you think. He’s good and… he’s good.”

Oh, Arthur… John whispered, gripping his wrist.

“Arthur,” said Martin slowly. “I’m in love with the literal end of the world over here, riding shotgun, and you really think either of us are going to pass judgment on either of you?”

There was a pause.

Arthur suddenly laughed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just… habit. Back home, you say something like, I’ve got a piece of a god in my head, and either they try to exorcise you, or they try to take him for themselves.”

A few wanted to return me to the King, John pointed out.

“Only his acolytes,” Arthur volleyed back.

“There are some of those here,” said Jon distantly, looking out the window. In the far distance, an enormous chunk of sky had gone dark and foreboding and shaped exactly like Disney’s black cauldron. Clouds bubbled over its impossible top as though ready to spew planet-sized undead warriors.

He shuddered and looked away. Whoever’s weirdness that was, he hoped it wouldn’t reach them.

Martin glanced at him. “Are you all right?”

Jon sighed. “I don’t know. I feel…” He shifted. “I feel like I’m not… doing this right, somehow.”

“You’re not godding right?” Martin said, deadpan.

Jon gave him a dry look. “That’s not a word.”

“Well, I just made it one.”

“Godding is absurd. Etymologically, it doesn't even—”

Fuck!

Martin hit the brakes.

Unbelted, Arthur bounced off the front seat, but being apparently made of steel these days, was fine. “What? What the fuck is it?” he said, pulling himself up by Martin’s seat so John could see.

Arthur, there… it’s a farmhouse! It just appeared! It’s gray, with old, weathered siding and flaking paint. There’s a small porch next to a box-like room with a tiny window. Behind it, the house looks to be about two stories. There are lights in the windows, Arthur. Like candles flickering.

“Fuck,” said Arthur. “Did I do that?”

“What? Why would you have done that?” said Jon.

“I was just thinking we really needed a break,” said Arthur, guiltily. “I mean… I was thinking this place seems as barren, from what John said, as Kansas did in the Wizard of Oz, and we’re likely headed toward something like the Emerald City from what you’ve said, and… we could use a place to rest. We’ve been driving for four days.”

It hadn’t been four days. Not really. Their minds said four days and three nights because a lifetime in a world that rotated between sunlight and darkness had embedded itself in them, and could not be eschewed.

They were fine. They were. Except they struggled to believe, and maybe the reminder of time spent driving hadn’t been a good one because the van abruptly sputtered and died.

“Oh, no,” moaned Martin. “We’re out of fuel.”

“We don’t have to be,” said Jon a little desperately.

Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been willing fuel into this thing for days. I’m… whatever muscle exercises faith is tired, okay?”

“Okay,” said Jon softly. “I can take a turn.”

“You’re no better off than I am,” said Martin. “We’re all tired.”

“Like I said,” said Arthur. “We need a break.”

“And that somehow translated to the Gale’s depression-era house from the Wizard of Oz?” Jon blurted.

“Gale?” said Martin.

“Dorothy Gale. Did you see the Wizard of Oz?” said Jon dryly. “Because that’s what this is right out of.”

“I sure didn’t,” said Martin. “I read the books when I was ten, got freaked out, and never watched the movie.”

“Really.” Jon turned to him with a tiny smile. “You, for once, not seeing a piece of media I saw?”

“Yes, well,” said Martin, going slightly red. “I had a couple of nasty dreams about it. Getting chased by Mombi, so.”

Jon bit his lower lip. “That’s… adorable.”

“Don’t you even try flipping that on me,” said Martin faux sternly.

Fucking… hey! Focus up, lovebirds!

“Sorry. Right. Sorry. Just a moment. Let me see what this is before we go walking into it.” And Jon… looked.

He’d been trying not to look too far, too hard, to rein himself in, to avoid drawing the attention of the fucking monsters that kept chasing them. But now…

It was like stretching a limb that had been curled for hours. It was like opening a cupboard that needed to be aired. It was like inhaling fully after shallow panting for far too long. It hurt just a little, and then, it was glorious.

He saw clearly, and spoke, and his voice vibrated through them, made the metal of the van creak, and rumbled, somehow, deep in the ground. “Within the house one being dwells,” Jon said. “A hag of light and dream, of nightmare and whimsy. She is, now, and cannot be unmade, and will welcome us… if we follow the rules. She knows we are here, and plans to make us offers we must not take. Regardless, her power prevents the god-eaters, and we may rest there for a time.” And Jon shook himself.

Everyone was staring at him, or at least in his direction.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “That… that was weird.”

“A little bit Exorcist, yeah,” said Martin, putting his hand over Jon’s. “Good thing I’m into that.”

Jon smiled up at him. “What would I do without you?”

“She’s a what?” said Arthur, moving right along. “A hag? So not the wicked witch?”

“No, for some reason, that’s not what we got.” Jon scratched his head. “She’s… hard to explain. Sort of a twentieth to twenty-first century literary hag concept, condensed. She’s not real, except she is. She’ll act like a sweet old woman who wants to dote on us—and it’s a good idea to let her because we must not give offense—but she’ll also offer deals, and we shouldn’t take those, because she’ll always get the better end of them. Just… it doesn't matter how smart we are. That’s how this archetype works.”

“So it's Mombi. I've conjured Mombi," said Martin, looked spooked.

"Not exactly," said Jon. “We need to be respectful.”

Respectful, John huffed.

“Yes, respectful. It’s part of what she is. If we play by the rules, we’ll be fine, and insulting her is a guaranteed way to turn her hospitality into hostility.”

“I’ll handle the talking,” said Arthur.

I can talk fine! said John.

“Yes, you can, but if she’s a human-literary archetype, I’ll have a better chance at navigating her conversation, don’t you think?”

A pause. I suppose, John admitted.

Jon sighed and rubbed his arms. “Can we go inside? I’m tired.”

“You shouldn’t be tired,” said Martin. “As you keep reminding us.”

“I… it’s not because I believe I am. Something… something’s wrong,” Jon admitted quietly.

Martin inhaled and held it. “You don’t know what?”

“Not yet, and I’m afraid to reach for it.”

“Well, then, let’s go in before we all subconsciously decide the fake sun sets again, and leave ourselves in darkness,” Martin said, and opened the squeaky van door.

#

A woman welcomed them on the porch.

She was white, and old, with her long hair back in a silvery bun, and a worn but well-kept dress of homespun, complete with a little apron. “Well, now, boys, I was wondering if you’d bother to come visit Auntie Em. I was beginning to think I’d need to wave a flag to draw you in.”

“Oi, that’s a bit ominous, isn’t it?” said Martin brightly.

She beamed at him. "What a cutie-pie you are!"

“Madam,” said Arthur in his most dulcet tones. “We hate to be a bother, but we need some shelter for the night.”

“Oh, no bother at all. I’m too far from the main merchant roads to get much company here, so I’ll consider your honest conversation a good enough trade for food and shelter.”

“We don’t need food,” Jon muttered rebelliously.

And the smell hit them: a waft of warm, delicious something, something garlicky and tomato-rich, something that included a hint of browned cheese.

Martin swallowed saliva. “Um. Maybe we want food?”

Auntie Em laughed. “In you go, now. Let’s throw those nasty things off your trail, shall we?”

Jon looked back. Dark shapes marred the otherwise empty sky, far off, but getting closer. “Oh, no,” he said softly.

Two steps up her porch, said John.

Auntie Em gave no indication whether or not she’d heard him.

#

It was a perfect replica of the farmhouse from the Wizard of Oz movie. Lace curtains and scuffed wooden floors, simple furniture with home-made pillows bearing an alphabet or quotes from the bible, an old-fashioned cast-iron stove and simple, metal implements hanging on the walls. The front screen door even bore a stylized Z.

The floor creaked as they walked. The patterned wallpaper was faded, but clean.

“I hope you don’t mind wooden chairs,” said Auntie Em. “I had more creature-comforts until about five minutes ago, but that’s life in the Dark World, eh?” And she cackled.

“Sorry about that,” said Arthur. “I think that was my fault.”

“It’s fine, deary,” said Auntie Em, directing them to a small, oval table with four place settings already laid out. “I haven’t seen anyone from an Earth in… gracious, quite some time!”

Outside, something ran into the wall. They all jumped.

All but for her. “Calm yourselves. They can’t get inside. Not even with such a naughty little treat sitting at my table.”

Jon went red. “Protection and food for honest conversation? No trickery in phrasing. No... putting us to sleep for a million years, or something.”

“No, no. Protection and food for honest conversation both as would be offered by a true human. It hardly costs me even that much, deary, but yes. That’s what I want.”

“We accept your terms,” said Jon with such formality that John snorted.

With a flourish and puff of scented steam, Auntie Em produced what was in her oven (not bothering with hot pads), and placed it on the table between them.

“Lasagna?” said Martin, baffled.

Arthur gasped. “I was… how did it…”

What’s lasagna? said John.

“It’s this dish Mrs. Russo used to make for us,” said Arthur. “I haven’t had it since university. It’s got layers of pasta, and sauce, and cheese, and beef, and pork.”

“It does smell amazing,” Jon admitted.

“Thank you,” said Martin, who knew how to charm wicked, powerful people. “We really do appreciate your generosity.”

She waggled her finger at him. “Don’t oversell it, deary. I could twist those words if I were in a bad mood.”

“But you’re not in a bad mood, are you?” said Martin. “Not with a sparkle like that in your eyes. I swear, you don’t look a day over a thousand.”

Arthur stared in his direction, startled. “The fuck!”

Auntie Em cackled. “He meant it as a compliment, deary, acknowledging both my intelligence and my immortality. Clever boy!”

“He is, at that,” said Jon, and squeezed Martin’s leg under the table. “And one hopes he’s a little less clever before he enchants something.”

“As if I’d want a Web-touched servant,” she said, and began serving them big scoops of lasagna onto their plates with a wooden spoon. “Couldn’t mind my own business, could I? Always be scheming something, wouldn’t he?”

Arthur looked lost. “Web?”

Later, said John.

“I have extra bedrooms,” said Auntie Em. “But I want some answers in return.”

“I don’t suppose you also have a shower,” said Martin.

“Well, I did. Now, I have a claw-foot tub.”

“Good enough,” said Martin.

“You’d have to pump the water and bring it in with buckets,” muttered Jon, “and I’m not letting you outside while those things are out there.”

“Oh, they wouldn’t care about him,” said Auntie Em. “Besides, I can give you soap and steaming-hot basins of water in your rooms if your answers are interesting enough.”

Arthur was already eating, chowing down, breathing around the heat of it.

The sounds John made were indecent. Oh, you were right about this stuff.

“Do you know which Earth you came from?” said Auntie Em.

“Which Earth?” said Martin. “I mean… I think we came from two different ones, maybe? We certainly came from different times.”

“Colloquially, we’re from Earth 5-28-46b,” Jon muttered at his fork before biting.

Martin blinked at him.

“Sorry,” murmured Jon. “Just knew.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, that is interesting; an ended Earth!”

“It didn’t end. We saved it,” Martin said, a little sharper than he wished. “At great cost, I might add.”

“No, we didn’t,” whispered Jon.

Martin stared at him again.

She seemed delighted by this. “Sweet tea?”

“S… sweet tea?” said Martin.

“Mm,” said Arthur. “Yes, please!”

“Now, that’s an enthusiasm I can get behind,” she said. “Yes, deary, that Earth ended.”

Martin shuddered. Swallowed. “Right, so we’ll talk about that later,” he said with inimically false brightness, and dug in.

“You didn’t come from that Earth,” said Auntie Em. “Poor little blind boy and your interesting passenger. No, you didn’t; not theirs.”

“Really?” said Arthur. “I thought we were just… earlier than they were.”

“I’d suspected as much,” said Jon. “We didn’t have gods like you did, and you didn’t have gods like we did.”

“Good for us?” said Arthur, who wasn’t sure it mattered. “What was the difference?”

Later, said John.

They were piling up quite a few topics of discussion for later.

Martin startled pretty badly at the taste of sweet tea, but stayed polite.

“Which Earth was his, deary?” said Auntie Em to Jon.

It only took him a moment. “378-42-9,” he said. “Alpha.”

“Oh! The one where you had a tiny Shub-Niggurath,” said Auntie Em. “So deeply strange! Everyone was talking about it.”

“Tiny?” blurted Arthur. “That thing… just its children were enough to make anyone insane!”

“Any human, deary,” said Auntie Em, “and that is a fairly small experimental group. She was small enough to die, which she isn’t always.”

Arthur looked stunned.

“You’re handy,” said Auntie Em to Jon again. “Know quite a lot, don’t you?”

Jon took his time chewing and swallowing before replying. “Some things. But there’s always more to learn.”

“A good answer. So, little blind boy, tell me why you have a piece of H'aaztre inside you.”

Arthur choked.

“Easy,” said Jon, patting his back.

“That name again,” said Martin.

“Coming out swinging, aren’t you?” muttered Jon.

“Well, to be frank,” said Auntie Em, “I’ve seen plenty of pieces of gods before, but never one quite like this. You aren’t normal.”

A pause.

Me?

“Yes, you, deary.”

Uh. John clearly hadn’t expected to be addressed. I’m just me.

“He’s made choices,” said Arthur in a tense voice. “Good ones.”

“No need to get your hackles up,” said Auntie Em, sounding amused. “You can’t blame me for being curious, especially given where you’re headed.”

Arthur felt like all the warmth left his body in a rush, replaced with cold water. “What?”

“You’re headed toward the cities, aren’t you? I’d assume so, or you’d have hunkered down and made a home like I did,” she said.

“What does that matter?” said Arthur, low.

“Well, who do you think runs the cities down here, hm?” said Auntie Em, grinning like the hag she was, her teeth abruptly gone brown and misshapen, even though Arthur couldn't see them. “Who did you think has enough force of will and imagination to tame any part of the Dark World beyond their front porch? Only gods could do that.”

“Gods are here?” blurted Arthur.

“Gods are everywhere. Like cockroaches. You can’t get rid of them,” she said cheerfully. “Why do you think I live way out here, eh? Not for my health!” She cackled.

Arthur was silent for a moment. “Did you know?” he said, which could be directed toward any of his companions.

I… I didn’t remember.

Jon frowned. “Not until she said that.”

Arthur had lost his appetite. “Are you telling me the King in Yellow is in charge of one of those cities?”

“I am! Since we’re having honest conversation. Seconds?” she asked again.

“I’m full-up,” said Martin quickly. “Jon?”

“Thank you. I'm satisfied.”

“I’m not quite yet,” said Auntie Em. “One more question for these poor old ears, if you don’t mind.”

“Just one?” said Jon, suddenly suspicious.

“Yes, just one,” she said. “What will you accept in trade for this little piece of a god?”

Jon startled. That had not been addressed to him.

“Nothing!” said Arthur.

“Really?” she said. “There’s nothing you want?”

“No!” said Arthur, defiant.

“Then why are you heading toward the cities?”

Silence.

“You promised honest conversation, deary,” she said to them all, and if the farmhouse creaked as if in a strong wind, perhaps it was coincidence.

It wasn’t Jon’s to tell. Martin didn’t know all the details.

Arthur swallowed. Silent.

Arthur…

“No. Nothing. There’s nothing I’d trade.”

“If you’re going toward the cities,” said Auntie Em, gathering plates with quick efficiency, “there’s something or someone there you need. And given the nature of this ridiculous place, there are only two types of beings who are always to be found in cities: gods… and children.”

Silence.

Auntie Em sighed. “You’re trying my patience, deary.”

“Why do you need to know this?” said Jon.

“Who wouldn’t want gossip regarding a weird little piece of a god?” said the hag. “I’ve been alive for a very long time—no, don’t you get pedantic with me,” she said as Jon opened his mouth. “I’ve never seen a piece of a good do this.”

“Do what?” challenged Arthur.

“Grow.”

They all stared at her, or in her direction.

“Grow?” said Arthur.

“What do you want in the cities?”

Arthur’s lip quivered. Pain twisted his face; for a moment, he seemed aged, anything but strapping and stubborn, and he hung his head. “My daughter.”

“Was that so hard?” said the hag. “Dessert?”

“Um, thank you,” said Martin. “But I really think we all ought to retire now, yeah?”

“A good idea,” said Jon. “Arthur?”

Arthur took a moment.

His left hand rose as if on its own and cupped his face, gentle. You’re all right, Arthur. She knew because it’s that common a thing. You’re all right.

Arthur inhaled as though he’d forgotten how (which he did not need to do, but the symbolism of it mattered) and looked like himself again. “I… yes. Sorry, I… yes.”

“Right behind you. Bedrooms all. Enjoy,” said the hag, and threw the rest of the lasagna out the back window, where unseen creatures that might be pigs ate it with terrible sound.

#

Each room had a single bed.

Martin refused to consider splitting up more than they already were. “We’ll make it work. Besides, you’re like… a stick.”

Jon laughed. “Fine.”

“Night,” said Arthur, and closed his door.

“Is he all right?” said Martin, soft.

“He’ll have to be. Tonight…” Jon sighed. “We’ll all be offered things tonight. I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Martin murmured.

“Hardly matters now. We’re locked in,” said Jon.

“Really? We couldn’t just… leave?”

“No. We’d find ourselves back in the house the moment we walked through the door. Until morning—for whatever value of that word—comes, we’re stuck.”

“I don’t think I like the Dark World,” said Martin loftily.

“I’ll be sure to lodge a complaint with management,��� Jon said.

“Wh… can you do that?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Well, I didn’t know, I mean, you’re a god now, or whatever.”

“That doesn’t mean I know management, whoever or whatever that is, whose attention I really don’t want to catch!”

Martin laughed and kissed his cheek. “Like a spicy kitten.”

“You're impossible,” Jon pronounced, smiling again, and they got ready for bed.

#

Arthur?

Arthur said nothing, using the basin and soap and steaming water provided to clean himself.

Arthur.

“I just don’t like it, okay? I don’t like that she asked that.”

Nosy.

“No, there was purpose behind it. And calling you gossip…”

I am gossip, apparently. I don’t know.

“I’m worried, John. That’s all.”

If I were anything to talk about, those monsters would be coming after me, too.

“Maybe they just haven’t spotted you yet,” murmured Arthur. “After all, you’re hidden in me, not just… laid out there like an eyeball on the ground.”

Lovely image.

Arthur sighed. “Goodnight, John.”

John knew when arguing with Arthur would get nowhere. Rest well, Arthur. See you when you wake.

#

John didn’t sleep. He couldn’t; he had no idea if that was due to godhood or being a piece or sharing a body or whatever, but he couldn’t sleep. Even Arthur’s coma had been damned near interminable, lying awake and helpless for over a month.

So all of that meant this couldn’t be a dream.

It was a woman with black hair and pale skin; she was lovely. She smiled, and John felt like he knew her, but couldn’t place her at all.

He couldn’t seem to think about anything else. Hello, he said, smooth and chocolatey.

“Hello, Great Old one,” said the woman, her own voice as syrupy as his. “Feaster From Afar. Him Who Slept Beneath. The King in Yellow.”

Yes. Yes, that’s who he was. He felt preened, admired. What do you here, graceful one?

“I wish to make you a trade,” she said, and her gown (its edges fading into blue mist) rippled around her slender form. “Something you want very much for something I want very much.”

Of course, said the King in Yellow, because that was what supplicants came to him for.

“In return, I will make him happy,” she said, and gestured.

For one blank moment, John didn’t know who him was.

Arthur. It was Arthur, sleeping there, curled on his side and vulnerable. Arthur, beautiful and imperfect, to whom the King had clung even as he died. To make him happy… What do you want in return to make him happy?

“Come to me. Join me. Be one with my body, and I will ensure his happiness forever in this place.”

Oh! Quite an invitation. Well, that was…

Something about it was off. How will you make him happy?

“I’ll give him what he wants: his child.”

Something was still off. And when I come to you, join with you, what happens?

“You will rule your kingdom as you are meant to rule,” she said, which was of course what he’d do, but something was still off.

Where will Arthur be?

“With his daughter.”

I want Arthur to be with me.

“He will be with his daughter.” She was soothing, alluring, patient.

Not with me?

“He will be happy—happier than you’ve ever seen,” she said.

And though John couldn’t really feel the places where he and Arthur entwined, he felt them, felt his entanglement tighten, like knots pulled so tight that distinct threads torqued into one mass. I want Arthur.

“Even if he is unhappy?”

I will make him happy. I am the King in Yellow.

“Not without me, little one,” she said, and he feared, horribly, that she was right.

What if it was? Was he being selfish?

“You are being selfish,” she said, playfully, and wagged her index finger.

He looked at Arthur. Asleep. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Imperfect. Messy. Ridiculous.

It didn’t take much thought. Not much thought at all. I am selfish. It’s my right, as the King in Yellow. I will keep him, even if he wouldn’t be as happy… and I will find a way to make him happy.

She sighed. “As you wish, you silly little fool.” And with those sharp words, the bubble of the dream popped, and John remembered everything.

He gasped, left arm flailing, startling Arthur awake, who sat up, his own hand in a fist, ready to deflect blows.

It’s all right! Arthur! We’re all right. I… it’s okay! Nothing’s attacking us. Breathe!

“Nothing… what… fuck,” said Arthur, shaking. “Fuck!”

That didn’t sound like just-woken-up-Arthur. Arthur. Did you… dream?

“Like he said,” said Arthur. “She came to me. She… she offered. She offered, in trade for you, she…” He started crying, a weary and weak sound, and folded over his own lap, hiding his face in his hands.

John didn't need to ask what was offered. He knew.

How many times was Arthur going to choose him over her? How many times… could he? When would the final time, the too-much time, be reached?

John held him, trying to stay calm, trying to forget the things he’d learned about himself when he’d forgotten who he was. Selfish. What a choice to have made…

#

Jon woke with a start.

It was dawn. Well, dawn in appearance, anyway, and the light through the warped-glass windows was lovely, if weak. Martin wasn’t behind him, though, and he sat up.

Martin sat at the foot of the bed, staring off at nothing.

Jon inhaled. “Are you okay?”

“I’m…” Martin wiped his face, still not turning around. “I’m going to be.”

Jon’s heart (or whatever he really had in there) beat like a war drum. Was this the hag’s offer? Why couldn’t he remember being offered anything? “Martin?”

“I… I need a minute, okay?” Martin said, just a pinch sharply, and stood. His face was red and swollen; he’d felt like he’d cried for a while, and so he reflected that, as close as memory allowed. “I need a minute.”

Jon stared.

Martin sighed. “It’s not… all your fault. We’ll talk about it in the van. All right?” And he walked right out of the room.

#

Jon cleaned himself up, giving Martin time to process or pace or whatever he needed to do. The water was still hot, and the soap refreshing. Their clothes were cleaned; he hadn’t remembered asking for that, but maybe one of them had assumed it would happen, so it had.

Finally, he peeked around the door.

Martin sat at the table with the hag, talking low over steaming cups of tea.

There was no chance to eavesdrop. She gestured to him. “Come on, now! Come along. Don’t leave us waiting.”

Jon felt weirdly guilty as he approached, as if he were late to a meeting. Arthur was already in there, standing by the enormous stove, sipping from another teacup. “Um,” said Jon.

Martin turned and managed a smile, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “Ready to go?”

“Sure?” said Jon. “Are you—”

“Thank you,” said Martin, rising. “Best of luck out here.”

“Oh, I don’t need luck,” she said. “Between fantasy movies and fairy-tales recycled again, I have all the fuel I need.” And she winked.

Martin left. Just left.

Ahead. A little to your—there you go.

Arthur kept his head down as he left, too.

Jon stared after them. “What happened?” he whispered.

“I couldn’t get to you,” she said mildly, hands on her little white teacup. “I didn’t realize what you were. That would’ve changed things quite a bit last night.”

Jon took a step back. “You… you didn’t?”

“No. Nor would I have, really.” She sipped her tea. “There hasn’t been a new god in at least ten thousand years, and your projected appearance of an 'just an avatar' is very good.”

Jon swallowed; his mouth tasted bitter. “I…”

She waved her hand. “What’s done is done. I assumed the maggots were all after our little golden friend, but no… they’re after you. I’ve got to say, you fooled me. I didn’t know what you were, though they did. The maggots went for your window all night.”

Just an avatar? “You couldn’t… get to me?”

“To make my offer,” she said. “So I thought I’d do it now: safety for Martin in exchange for your blood.”

Oh, this felt like a terrible thing. “I don’t have blood.”

“Don’t be pedantic.”

“Pedantic is very much who I am,” Jon snapped. “And I don’t understand what you’re offering.”

“He can be hurt. You know that.” She looked at him, and through the rising steam (surely more than there’d been), her eyes flared an unnatural, pupilless blue. “You know he can.”

“Are you threatening him?” said Jon, low, feeling like his skin was crackling with static.

She snorted. “Of course not. Do you think I want you to hurt me? I simply understand what I see. He’s one human soul, without a life-line like a piece of a Great Old One inside him, traveling across a land he should instead hide from. He can be hurt. I offer you protection for him in exchange for a bit of your essence—which, like blood, will grow back. No permanent harm to you. A valuable trade for me. Something we both want out of it.”

Fuck, thought Jon, who’d forgotten in all of this that she could tempt him with things he’d want. “I know better,” he said slowly. “You always get the upper hand in deals.”

“Do I?” she said. “Or is that merely your fear?”

“I know this archetype,” he said, more firmly. “Of course I want that! Of course it seems like a good trade! But I know it isn’t!”

She tilted her head. “Let’s just hope no one gets wind of him as you travel. What a weak point! Those maggots are too stupid to try a hostage situation, but larger things might. A new god… you’re very interesting, Jonathan Sims.”

“Are you threatening to tell people?” he said.

“No,” she said. “Like I said—I have no interest in upsetting a god, and I've no doubt you'd hurt me. I’m merely offering before someone more… opportunistic comes along.” She smiled. The steam dissipated, and her eyes went back to faded gray-blue, sweet and smile-lined. “Pity. I would’ve loved to offer things to you in your sleep, but…” She shrugged.

“You couldn’t? What does that mean?”

“I’m not strong enough to penetrate your mind,” she said.

“Unless you have,” he said, “and this isn’t happening.”

This was the first real laugh he’d heard from her, he knew. Genuine; a slightly inhuman guffaw, almost surprised. “You are paranoid!”

“I’m leaving,” he said, face hot, and hurried for the door.

“Good luck,” she said.

She said… like Jonah.

He heard it.

He knew she knew, and wasn’t sure how, if she’d supposedly not gotten into his head.

It had to be coincidence, or she was lying. Hadn't it?

Martin was in the van, gripping the wheel, staring ahead grimly.

Arthur was waiting. “Everything all right?”

“I… hope so?” said Jon.

He snapped at us.

“Martin snapped at you?”

“Said to keep our distance,” said Arthur. “Bit unusual.”

Jon’s stomach felt like lead. “I’ll… see what I can do.”

“Sure,” said Arthur, and climbed into the van’s back.

Jon slid into the front passenger seat and peered at Martin.

Martin started the van. The gas gauge said full. Without a word, he started driving.

“That way,” said Jon, pointing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Martin, soft.

“What?” said Jon.

“That our world ended.”

Jon sighed, exasperated. “I thought… wh… it didn’t come up. I didn’t hide it from you!”

“It feels like you did.” Martin’s hands on the wheel were white-knuckled.

“I didn’t,” Jon said softly. “We knew it was a possibility.”

“But I thought we went somewhere,” Martin said. “And left it alone. We died, and took the Fears with us, or whatever.”

“Fears?” whispered Arthur.

Later, said John.

Jon’s sigh was slow and heavy. “Our world died and it didn’t. It split; we made a new timeline—one with the wreckage of what I’d done, and one that was… dead. Empty.”

“What… everybody died?” Martin said, tense.

“Yes. We all went through the Web’s stupid portal, and it was too much. No one survived.”

Martin wiped his face. He drove.

He drove.

Something unseen bumped fruitlessly into the side of the van.

He still drove.

“What was the point of any of it, then?” Martin suddenly said. “We did it to save the world!”

“A version of it lived,” said Jon. “And… the point was to try.”

“If we’d done it their way right off, would it have still died?” he said, and his voice was ice.

Jon wanted to say he didn’t know. He shouldn’t know. It was a hypothetical. But… he did know. “No. It wouldn’t.”

Martin swallowed. “So you damned the world. Really. Your choice, not Jonah’s.”

“Yes.” There was no use playing around it. “I… she miscalculated.”

“She.”

“She’d always planned for us to go in the portal. You know that,” said Jon, because they had talked this bit out. “Her escape was always the plan. You… doing what you had to do, to stop me, was part of that plan. I’m the one who wasn’t.”

“You’re the one who—what the fuck does that mean?” Martin said, and was close to shouting.

“It means the Eye truly loved me in a way she hadn’t anticipated, and when I chose to die at your hand, chose to go through that portal to whatever new world… I was too powerful. Instead of a cannonball breaking the surface of a water, it was an ocean liner.”

“That simile makes absolutely no sense, Jonathan Sims, and I know you can do better.”

Jon sighed. “So this is what she showed you last night?”

Martin paused. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “She offered to send me home. To the living version of our world. But without you.”

“What?” said Jon, sitting up. “How was that a trade?”

Martin was silent.

“Don’t make me know this,” Jon said. “Please just tell me!”

“She offered to send me back, alive—which is a thing she can apparently do—without any memory of you.”

That was the trade?

The van began to list, tires straining, as if carrying a poorly balanced load, too heavy for the shocks on Jon’s side.

“So… so you…” Jon started.

The van lurched.

“What the fuck is happening?” said Arthur, thudding back against the inside wall.

Martin hit the brakes and they stopped, the van tilted precariously, as if somehow Jon’s heart had translated into real, physical weight.

Martin stared at him. “Are you… don’t be stupid! No, Jon, you’re not listening. I…” He stopped and sighed. “I phrased it really badly. Let me try again. Okay? Stop. Whatever… whatever this is, stop.”

Jon just stared at him, owlish.

“What she offered me was your freedom,” he said. “All right? You… you without some stupid human to drag around, and to protect, and care for. You… you getting to become whatever it is you’re supposed to be—maybe with your own cities, or whatever—and the bonus was me not having to remember anything, because I damn well…” His voice choked up, and he stopped. Tears fell. He wiped at them, angry. “Because I wouldn’t want to live without you like that, so it was supposed to sweeten the deal. And I was mad because she made sure I knew our world was dead, so she’d be sending me to some alternate place. Some… some parallel world, or something. I was mad because you didn’t tell me. I wasn’t… oh, gods, I’m an idiot, of course that’s what you thought.” Martin grabbed Jon’s hands between his own. “I’m sorry I said it like that. Of course I don’t want to trade you. She offered me your… I don’t know, glorification, or something, whatever you’re meant to be, and as a side-benefit, I wouldn’t have to hurt over it. That’s all.”

The Mystery Machine slowly righted itself as he spoke, and finally was back to level.

Jon exhaled. “Of course. I… I’m sorry. I know you better than that. I don’t know why I jumped to that conclusion. I’m so sorry.”

“The hag can make people live again?” said Arthur, sitting up.

“Never for a good price,” Jon said. “Martin… she offered me your protection if I’d give her some of my essence.”

Martin blinked at him. “The same deal.”

“I suspect it was the same deal, yes. So you’d lose yourself… your mind, damaged.”

“And she could probably… control you, or something, with your… essence.”

“She called it blood, but I don’t have any.”

“Well, I don’t have tears, either, but here we are,” said Martin, smiling weakly.

“That means people can be sent back to live,” Arthur said, more loudly.

I was. You know it’s possible.

“Yes, but you’re a god! I mean just… people!”

There are… occasions. But rare. Usually they come back wrong.

Arthur set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest. “What would the price be?”

From her? Too high. Calm down, Arthur. We have time to find solutions. This isn’t one of them.

Jon sighed, then managed a very weak laugh. “I think you were right? This was a bad idea.”

Martin snorted. “The magical culture-surpassing immortal hag was a bad idea? Wherever did you come up with that one?”

“Late to the party, as always,” said Jon, and leaned into him.

Martin clung. Clung. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean that the way it all sounded.”

And Jon thought that even if Martin had, he was choosing to stay with him. Choosing to love him. Even if Martin had meant it in anger, he meant this now.

It was still more than he ever thought he’d have. And definitely still more than he deserved.

“Surprised the Web,” Martin said softly. “Bet she’s pissed about that.”

“She is,” said Jon. “Downright stroppy.”

“Fuck her.” Martin kissed Jon’s forehead. “Let’s go. Which way?”

Jon pointed. “I… I just know.”

“I don’t doubt you.” Martin drove.

Arthur stayed quiet for all of five minutes. “I think it’s time we all got a little deeper into one another’s backstories.”

“It is.” Jon swallowed. “So you want to know about the Fears.”

John made a shuddering sound. Horrible things.

“I do,” said Arthur. “Explain.”

That wasn’t going to be easy. Jon suddenly yearned for Gerry Keay’s ease of chatter. “Let me pull my thoughts together and I will.”

“I’ll wait.”

Martin drove.

For a long while, there was only silence.

Notes:

Just for fun, a quick glimpse inside Dorthy Gale's house.