#the light parts on the medals are the black lines and shapes

[the-olympics-olympics]

@santhipoma great question!

Each medal has a unique cropped section of this artwork by Kwakwaka'wakw/Tlingit artist Corine Hunt:

This picture of multiple medals makes it a little more clear I think:

Here's an interesting article that talks a little more about it: https://olympicfanatic.wordpress.com/2010/02/05/vanouvers-thoughtful-designs-for-its-medals/

[jgvfhl]

The Number Lads Reap the Rewards

The dust is finally settling after the Number Lads turned the Republic on its head to expose Palpatine's schemes. They even get to dust off the extra fancy dress uniforms for a special ceremony... Which uniforms, you might ask? THESE lovely designs by @touchstarvedasclones!!! Don't they look wonderful??

Words: ~6k Warnings: None! Link to Master List of Chapters on tumblr Link to full story on Ao3

The small meeting room inside the Senate dome didn’t seem as small as Sevenset had expected. Then again, the definition of small rooms in the GAR might have been a bit smaller than those found inside the Republic’s official government buildings. This room alone could have housed about four small briefing rooms and a couple supply closets, just looking around. It was roughly oval in shape, with two square alcoves protruding out of either end. A circle of hanging light fixtures hung from the center of the room, illuminating it all with a pale yellow light. An oval table stood in the middle of the room with several chairs around it, and there were huge windows on the far wall facing out over the Coruscant cityscape.

It just seemed like overkill for a dozen people. Or, what would be a dozen people as soon as everyone got here. Trees, Elevensies, Loops, Nines, and Zero were the only ones here so far, as well as himself, of course. They had taken a bit to relax in the strange environment, especially for him and Elevensies after their service in the Guard. If they had ever been in a room like this, they had basically tried to blend in as a wall decoration so the important people could talk in peace.

Then Zero had pulled one of the chairs out and sat down, grabbing one of the bottles of water clustered decoratively in the center of the table. “If they’re gonna go through the trouble of making me wear the fancy dress uniform, I’m gonna sit at their fancy tables,” he’d explained.

Sevenset could get behind the sentiment, and the others had quickly found seats around the table as well. The dress uniforms of the GAR were… surprisingly nice, considering how utilitarian most of their existence was in the service. He should specify: these were the really fancy dress uniforms, not just the dress greys everyone got to have something other than their armor to wear in public. The base for the uniforms they had on now was the same for everyone: black pants, black knee-high boots, black gloves, a black belt, and a white collared jacket with the Republic cog embroidered over the right breast, and a grey stripe down the outside of each sleeve. Sevenset already hated the collar of his jacket. It was as high as his undersuit’s collar, but much stiffer, and the material was less worn and therefore scratchier.

Each uniform came with a drape of fabric matched to the chosen paint color of the individual’s battalion or legion. It was a smooth material with a dull shine, and the colors had a mottled, almost tie-dye effect on it. At least everyone had their familiar color schemes still. Well. Almost everyone. Sevenset, as part of Rancor Battalion based on Kamino, had a pale blue sash wrapped over his left shoulder and tucked into his belt at his right hip. He kind of missed the red. His jacket cuffs were pale blue too, matching the sash like everyone else’s uniform. So far, he and Zero were the only ARCs, so their sashes were the only ones lined and trimmed in pale grey instead of black.

That changed quickly, however. The door slid open, and everyone paused their conversation to look at who had arrived.

“The party’s here, fellas!” Do-si-do announced as soon as he was through the door.

They, Sevenset silently corrected himself even as he launched out of his chair to go tackle his friend in a hug. “Let’s kriffing go!” he cheered, squeezing them tightly.

Do-si-do laughed, a little breathlessly, until they were released. “Gotta be careful with those ARC arms, dude, Force,” they grinned. They rubbed their chest. “And that medal is pointy,” they added, pointing at the medal Sevenset had to wear with his full dress uniform.

Sevenset matched their grin, slinging an arm around their shoulders. “Regs say I gotta wear it, no matter the trauma associated with it,” he said as he took in the others who had arrived with them.

“Domino!” Elevensies smiled and waved at the twins.

They looked even more identical than usual in their matching royal blue uniforms, including matching medals already glittering on the right breast. The ribbons were different colors than Sevenset’s. His was blue and purple, with a hexagonal medal, for “bravery” during the Zillo beast shitshow. Theirs had a red ribbon with a gold stripe and a silver, vaguely square medal hung from one corner. The only difference between the twins that Sevenset’s well-trained eye could spot was the barely visible outline of a knee brace underneath Echo’s pantleg. But his gait was steady and even, so his old injury must not be bothering him too badly today. They were both smiling and healthy, and Sevenset couldn’t ask for much more than that. Echo went to greet Nines and Zero, and Fives came over to Sevenset, offering a closed fist to him.

Sevenset readily bumped his own fist against it. “Glad to see your captain let you two out long enough to attend the ceremony.”

Fives rolled his eyes. “Force, you’ve no idea. I guess I feel bad for him, considering the shit Echo and I have pulled before, but I really thought he was gonna go grey before my eyes when he came to see me in the Jedi Temple.”

Sevenset and Do-si-do laughed. “I remember!” Sevenset said. “He looked about ready to chain you to a bedpost somewhere to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh, he wanted to!” Echo called over. “Unfortunately for him, I can’t perform all of Fives’ duties myself, so he needed someone to pick up the slack.”

Sevenset snorted at the icy glare Fives shot at his batchmate for that remark.

“Oh, Do-si-do!” The pilot leaned around Sevenset to see who had spoken. Elevensies waved, his curls bouncing with energy. “Your hair looks so good!”

Do-si-do smiled widely, standing a little taller where they stood. Sevenset leaned onto their shoulder a little. He had to agree, of course. Their bright white curls had been swept up and twisted along the side of their head, curling into a bun near the base of their skull. A thin silver chain was wrapped through the twist, glinting when it caught the light.

“Uh, yeah, my sergeant helped me with it,” they explained, gently putting a hand to the bun. “I guess she’s pretty good with that kinda stuff, and she said she’d help me figure it out if I wanted to.”

Fives patted them on the arm. “Nice. Glad you’ve got the support you deserve, yeah?”

Sevenset squeezed their shoulders from the side, smiling proudly at them in silent support. Before the conversation could continue, the doors slid open again, and three more people entered.

Almost as one, the whole group of troopers gathered said, “Commander!”

And almost immediately afterwards, the words, “Aw, what the kark?” were out of Sevenset’s mouth.

“Hi, Fours!” Elevensies said, either ignoring the outburst or oblivious to it. “And Fours’ commander.”

Fours waved with a small smile. Commander Bacara said nothing and promptly found a wall to stand against and look intimidating.

Commander Sixes looked at Elevensies briefly, then fixed his gaze on Sevenset. “Something bothering you, ARC?”

He spluttered for a couple seconds, then composed himself and gestured to the commander. “Is this why you were later than the rest of us? Were people stopping you every three steps to tell you how good you look, or what?”

Do-si-do snorted and covered their mouth with a hand. Fives rolled his eyes as he drifted nearer to his brother. The commander just stared at him for a second longer.

“Do you think about the sentences in your head before they come out of your mouth?” he asked.

“Not usually.”

The commander nodded. In Sevenset’s defense, he’d never seen the command class version of these fancy dress uniforms, and he was still upset to know the commander could pull off a perfectly manicured beard and mustache on top of his very cool scars and everything. It just didn’t seem fair! The commanders’ uniforms were structurally identical to everyone else’s, differing only in the collars and the lining color of the sashes. Commanders got gold collars and gold lining and trim. On top of everything, each commander had about four medals already pinned to his jacket, all in different colors and shapes. It looked really cool!

“Why isn’t your drape black, Commander?” Nines asked, pointing out the deep blue color hung across the commander’s shoulder.

He glanced at it. “It’s my paint color.”

“You have paint?” Do-si-do asked. “On black armor?”

“Didn’t used to be black,” the commander told them. “The uniforms were made before the Death Wings even existed.”

“You didn’t have them updated?” Loops asked. “Commander Wolffe had ours updated after the Malevolence.” The drape over his shoulders was a mottled combination of the 104th’s current grey paint color and their original maroon shade.

The commander shrugged, taking part of the fabric between his fingers and rubbing it. “I like the blue.”

“Can’t argue with blue,” Fives said with a smirk. Echo smiled and nodded.

For the next few minutes, the room descended into a quiet hum of conversation. It was the first time they’d all been in the same room together, since Zero had been off-world for the whole chips fiasco in the Clubhouse. Sevenset couldn’t help but remember what Commander Sixes had told him once, after Elevensies first meeting. He’d managed quite an impressive thing, bringing these troopers together the way he had, and the galaxy was better off for it. That was pretty freakin’ cool, if he did say so himself. Sure, not all of them were like him and Do-si-do, besties for life that they were. But, for people who never would have met otherwise, they all got along well enough.

Zero was entertaining Elevensies and Nines with the latest escapades from his battalion, somehow involving a large moth-like creature and its nest. Fours and Trees were happy to sit between conversations and listen in whenever they felt like it, but they were never the most talkative of the bunch. The Domino twins and Loops had cornered the commander and were peppering him with questions about the Death Wings, since he couldn’t just sign off and leave the way he could on a transmission.

Do-si-do poke him in the ribs gently. “Hey, do you think they’ll let one of us give a speech?”

Sevenset scoffed. “Why? They never cared to listen much before.”

“Yeah, but that was before we were all badass and saved the galaxy from the Sith,” his friend said. “That’s totally worth a speech.”

“We’re already getting medals.”

Do-si-do frowned. “Yeah, but I kinda want an opportunity to say a nice ‘get karked’ to all the Senators who didn’t ever like us very much.”

He laughed. “Okay, fair enough. But the general public is already kind of doing that.”

“It’s true!” His friend’s face lit up. “Did you see some of the stuff the holonet is saying now? It’s hilarious!”

“Yeah, I’ve seen some of it.” Hilarious most of the time, anyway. He’d also seen way too many comments calling what had happened a coup, or an overthrow of elected power. The security footage from the chancellor’s offices from that night had leaked to the public about three weeks after the fact, and that… had not been fun to watch. Well, obviously, the footage of General Windu, Echo, and Commander Sixes absolutely destroying Palpatine had been wonderful. But there had also been no small amount of backlash. It had ranged from criticism of the Jedi for starting the violent confrontation (which… hello? His back would beg to differ), to criticism of the Senate for electing a Sith (like they knew?), and far too many comments about Echo and the commander of varying kinds that he hasn't bothered to read.

The sliding doors opened yet again, breaking them out of their conversations abruptly. They were all used to dropping everything at a moment’s notice regularly. The sudden silence was probably a little creepy to most natties.

“At ease, troopers,” General Windu said with a smile. He stood beside newly-elected Chancellor Bail Organa and his wife Breha, both dressed to the nines in dark blue velvet and silver accents for the ceremony. Even Windu’s robes seemed a bit nicer than usual.

“We're here to accompany you to The Decahedron for the ceremony,” Chancellor Organa explained. Sevenset had always liked him as a senator. He hoped he stayed that way.

Originally, the medal ceremony had been scheduled to take place in the Senate Dome. However, after some of the Jedi expressed concerns about such a public event in front of so many people—concerns Sevenset suspected had come from the Jedi’s commanders—the location had changed. The Decahedron was an extension from the main chancellor’s offices, built as a kind of display room for public view. The chancellor could make speeches there, host visiting dignitaries to show off the fact that they were getting along for the cameras, or, case in point, conduct medal ceremonies.

Sevenset had seen the glass-paneled room countless times on patrol, but had never been assigned to be security on the inside. As always, he was curious.

“If you’ll follow us,” General Windu said, gesturing out the door.

There were a few mumbles of “yessir” out of habit, including from Do-si-do beside him. Sevenset suspected that was going to a hard habit to break. They all filed out of the room behind the Jedi and head of state. It was a short walk to a large and very well-upholstered speeder that took them right to the landing platform in front of The Decahedron. The chancellor and the first lady did their best to make conversation, but the ARCs and Do-di-do seemed to be the only ones interested in joining in. The Organas still struck Sevenset as just… very good people. Certainly an upgrade from the previous head of state, but that bar was resting on the floor as it was.

The landing platform in front of The Decahedron was crowded with reporters and cameras and Corries doing their best to contain them. It took Sevenset a moment to recognize two more troopers in full dress with drapes colored red for the Guard. He’d only ever seen Commanders Fox and Thire without their helmets a few times each, and Thire had no visible identifying marks on him from the neck up. At least Fox had a scar on one cheek and an undercut with the top dyed a dark wine-red color. They stood on the platform where the walkway into The Decahedron began.

They all filed out of the speeder, the Organas and Windu leading the way and taking the brunt of the camera flashes and clicking at first. Sevenset really did not like the attention. He wanted his helmet so he had something between himself and the dozens of natties all trying to press closer. Luckily, the Guards were doing their jobs well, and the crowd of people never closed in at all. He did keep close to Do-si-do, though, just to feel a bit more secure. He glanced behind him at the commanders, and bit back a snort of laughter at the perfect demonstrations of a resting bitch face they were giving. It shouldn’t be funny, knowing Commander Sixes had been getting more attention than the rest of them for what he’d done. But it was a little funny.

The two Guard commanders merged into their group as they passed them, slipping in behind the other commanders as they walked. As a group, they followed the Organas and Windu up the walkway and into the glass-domed Decahedron room. There were more cameras and reporters inside, but there were fewer of them, and they were far better behaved. They sat quietly, murmuring amongst themselves, in chairs along one curved wall of the room, facing the large dais and desk on the other side. There was a large case sitting on the desk. Two lines of seven chairs were arranged at an angle out from one end of the desk, and a group of four chairs were arranged to mirror them on the other side. General Yoda was already seated on one of them.

General Windu turned to the group of troopers behind him and gestured with an open palm to the fourteen chairs. “Please, take a seat, gentlemen. Your chairs are labeled with your names.”

Sevenset followed those ahead of him over to the chairs. He watched Loops and Trees pick up pieces of paper from the seats and stare at them, their eyebrows climbing as they did. Sevenset scanned over the papers he could see, looking for his designation. Natties would say “names” and mean “numbers” all the time, so it took him a while to spot his chair.

It was second from the end closest to the desk and in the front row. He walked past Fours, Commander Bacara, and Domino and picked up the paper. They actually had used their names. It was nice paper too, thicker than usual and with half the Republic cog imprinted on the bottom portion. His name—his chosen name—was written in deep red ink at the center.

Fives reached over and tugged on the hem of his uniform jacket. “Take a seat, mate,” he said quietly.

Sevenset stopped gaping at his name and cleared his throat. He resisted the urge to look around at everyone, just like any other day at work, and took his seat. Containing his grimace as best he could, he tried to adjust his uniform subtly so he could sit in relative comfort and not fidget too much during the ceremony. He missed his armor. But the chairs were comfortable, at least, but that made sense. They were wooden, not the usual synthetic metaloid or something similar, and the cushions matched the dark red carpeting in The Decahedron.

The first lady squeezed her husband’s hand and then took a seat beside Yoda. Judging from the warmth in their brief smiles, they were familiar already. General Windu stayed standing with the chancellor.

Chancellor Organa gave a polite smile to the assembled reporters and staff, even making it to the Corries stationed around the edges of the room. “Thank you all for coming. If my chronometer isn’t lying to me, I believe it’s time to begin.”

A group of three people, a human, a nautolan, and a rodian, came forward with some larger-scale transmission equipment. The whole ceremony would be broadcast across Coruscant and select places around the galaxy. The camera crew set up efficiently, checking their connections. Eventually, the rodian settled on a small stool behind the main holoprojector, and the human and nautolan stood by, the former holding a microphone and the latter with a datapad. The rodian gave a thumbs-up to the chancellor and the Jedi.

“People of the Galactic Republic, thank you for joining us” Chancellor Organa began, clasping his hands behind his back. “This is only the third public address I’ve made as your new head of state, but I maintain it is the most important of them so far. Just over a month ago, it was discovered my predecessor held designs for the collapse of our armed forces and very possibly our government itself. His success would have meant an assured victory for the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and an unknown cost on the part of our own ways of life.” He paused, letting the words settle. “He did not succeed. I would say fortunately, but I believe fortune had little to do with it.” He stopped again, this time turning his head towards General Windu.

The Jedi picked up the speech. How many times had the rehearsed this? “The Republic and the Jedi Order have long owed a debt of gratitude to the soldiers who have been defending us from the Separatists for years now. But these troopers in particular,” he said, looking over to where they sat beside him, “deserve recognition today. They, with the help of a few steadfast citizens, uncovered evidence of Palpatine’s treacherous behavior, and brought it before the Jedi Council, not out of obligation to their superior officers in the military, but out of the deep concern that no one else would believe them.”

Sevenset was suddenly reminded that General Windu, prior to becoming the head of the Jedi Council, had been in theater. Someone in the Guard had mentioned it to him, so he’d gone digging, and had unearthed a treasure trove of… frankly impressive performances. Clearly, all the diplomacy, bureaucracy, and war hadn’t dulled his skills.

Windu went on. “The Jedi honored that trust, as we have striven to do on the battlefield, by trusting them in return. They all risked their lives to ensure Palpatine, Count Dooku, and their allies could no longer harm anyone else by twisting the wills of good people. The medals they will receive today are merely a fraction of what they and their brothers in arms deserve from the Republic for what they’ve done for us. But I have hope we can achieve those things in time.” He finished with a small smile directed at them all.

Yeah, you and me both, buddy, Sevenset thought during the brief silence that followed. Only a month had passed, after all. Clones still didn’t have citizenship or much of a salary. The war was still happening, although without Dooku (and without Palpatine), things were going a lot faster than they had been. Grievous was still very much a problem, but Sevenset had overheard Zero and Nines earlier talking about the 118th being tasked to go after him with the 212th soon. Given the 118th had an entire company of slicers, and a whole other company of “punch first, ask questions later” kind of troopers, Grievous wasn’t going to have a fun time with that.

General Windu had opened up the case of medals on the desk with a wave of his hand. Sevenset recognized six blue and purple ribbons immediately, matching the medal of bravery already pinned to his jacket. There were four medals with pure black ribbons save for a single white stripe down the center, and silver charms in the shape of a crescent open upwards. The last four had white ribbons with a red stripe and a black stripe down the center, and a circular silver charm. He’d seen them all before on various soldiers, but he only knew the significance of the first one.

While the chancellor went to stand by the desk, General Windu walked over to them and lowered his voice so the microphones wouldn’t pick it up. “Those of you with your names written in blue, would you please come stand in a line just in front of the dais here?” He gestured with a hand to the edge of the carpeted step in front of him. Behind Sevenest, from the back row of chairs, six people stood up. Commander Bacara, Fours, Do-si-do, Trees, Loops, and Zero filed out in a line as only soldiers could manage without rehearsal, and lined up facing the holoprojector under the direction of the Jedi.

“These six troopers risked great personal harm to protect dozens of civilians when Dooku attacked Coruscant,” the chancellor said, standing on the dais to be seen over their heads. “Through their skill and courage, and with the help of the the Jedi and some Mandalorian allies, they defeated Count Dooku, marking a great victory for the Republic. Furthermore, they helped protect valuable evidence of Palpatine’s wrongdoing from falling into Separatist hands. They have more than earned these medals of bravery.”

One by one, Chancellor Organa went down the line, pinning the medals in place as Windu floated them over to him from the desk. The reporters’ cameras and holoprojectors lit up as he went, and crescendoed when he finished and stood beside the line.

“Thank you for your service, gentlemen,” Chancellor Organa said.

The line of six saluted sharply, if slightly out of sync, and there was a quiet smattering of applause from those present. The chancellor smiled and directed them back to their seats. Sevenset caught Do-si-do’s eye and grinned at them. They beamed back, standing tall. Beside them, Loops rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide the small smile on his face.

General Windu again came over to where they sat as the first six got settled. “Those of you with your names written in black, please line up where they did,” he told them quietly.

Sevenset tried not to crane his neck around to see who was moving, but he had plenty of experience from the Guard to keep his curiosity in check. Eventually, he saw Elevensies, Nines, Commander Fox, and Commander Thire step down to stand in front of the dais. The chancellor had moved back to stand on their far right and waited while they finished shuffling into a line.

Finally, he drew himself up again and faced the cameras. “Most commonly, this next medal, the medal of great sacrifice, is bestowed posthumously,” he explained, his tone considerably more somber. “However, the events of the past month were anything but common. Knowing what we know now about the nature of Palpatine’s plans and how they involved the clone troopers in our armed forces, I and the Jedi Council agreed these soldiers deserve this honor. Giving up one’s free will is a great sacrifice, and as sorry as I am—as we all are,” he added, glancing around to the two Jedi— “that it happened in the first place, I am happy you are all here to receive these medals personally.”

Again, Chancellor Organa went down the line as Windu floated the black-ribboned medals to him. Sevenset thought the rest of the Coruscant Guard commanders should be offered the same honor, considering they'd been under Palpatine’s thumb just as long. And maybe the two other Guards that had been in the room with Elevensies? But he was glad Fox was getting some recognition for what he'd gone through here. He wished Elevensies weren't… he wished the kid didn't have to be here. A medal of great sacrifice shouldn't be anyone’s first honor.

The four of them saluted when the medals had all been handed out, and filed back to their chairs like the previous group to the noise of clicking and the bursts of camera flashes. He glanced down his row of chairs to see Commander Sixes nudge Elevensies with his elbow. The kid gave him a small smile in return. They’d have to find something fun to do after this. He had a feeling the Nittas would be involved, if the Chaos Batch had any say in it—or Do-si-do for that matter. They had become obsessed with those ladies’ noodles.

Finally, General Windu returned to stand before them, his attention focused on the first four of them in the front row: Sevenset, Fives and Echo, and the commander. “The last four of you who have yet to receive honors,” he said, keeping his voice low. He once again gestured to the step in front of which everyone else had lined up. “If you would, please.”

Sevenset set his face as neutral as it would go, drawing back on his months of being a piece of living wall art in the Guard. He got to his feet with the others, and they followed the commander to line up shoulder to shoulder. He looked at the holoprojectors and the camera equipment, and was immensely aware of the tattoos visible on his head and neck, normally covered by his helmet. He’d kept his piercings to their least distracting today, which had even struck him as odd as he did it. Usually, he went the opposite. But something about being stood up in front of the entire galaxy had him wishing he could melt into the carpet.

Chancellor Organa spoke up from where he stood beside the commander. “These four soldiers, as many of those watching may recognize, are those to whom we perhaps owe the most, although it is by a very slim margin and hardly for me to judge. Two of them risked their lives to bring to light potent information about the creation of clone troopers and about the true nature of my predecessor. Two of them then put their lives on the line to assist Master Windu—” here Sevenset barely saw him turn to look at the Jedi in question— “in confronting Palpatine, and eventually disposing of him.”

Sevenset bit back a smile. That sure was one way to describe it. He’d finally seen the security footage of the fight, and it had been truly satisfying to watch the commander’s scythe wrench off Palpatine’s head like that. Echo had told him what had been said just before, and Sevenset had almost hurt himself laughing with his injuries only partially healed.

General Windu floated over the first of the white, red, and black ribbons into the chancellor’s hands. “We honor their courage, their intelligence, their strength, and their loyalty with medals of heroism.”

Ah, so that was the final unknown honor. Well. At least he was getting his wish and becoming a hero of the Republic. That wouldn’t have any horrible negative side-effects at all, like never being able to show his face in public without getting swarmed by natties, surely. He pushed the thoughts away, mentally cursing himself for managing to overthink an award before it was even in his hands. Or on his chest, in this case.

He waited as patiently as he was able to while Chancellor Organa went down the line attaching medals first to the commander, then Echo, then Fives. The cameras were going off more frequently than they had for either of the first two groups, but that made sense. Their names and faces had been all over the holonews for weeks, and now they were in dress uniforms. Natties always seemed to enjoy those, right along with the kamas and pauldrons.

But finally, the chancellor stepped in front of Sevenset. Sevenset reminded himself that he had always liked the Organas. The fourth and final medal of heroism floated through the air over Sevenset’s shoulder and the chancellor plucked it out of the air. He gave a soft smile that shone right up through his dark brown eyes that looked so much like a clone’s eyes. His gaze dropped to the space on Sevenset’s jacket where his medal of bravery hung.

“I recall you earned that during the Zillo beast attack,” he murmured quietly as he prepared the new medal. “Your designation came up in conversation, and it is rather memorable.”

Sevenset wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer, so he didn’t, out of an abundance of caution. The chancellor didn’t push it. He finished attaching the medal and stepped away to his left, smiling broadly for the audience.

“Thank you for your service, gentlemen,” he said.

Sevenset saluted, catching the other three doing the same out of his periphery. There was more polite applause as Sevenset realized it was up to him to lead them all back to their seats. He did so when the chancellor stepped back up onto the dais to rejoin General Windu at the desk.

The rest of the event was fairly nondescript. Chancellor Organa and General Windu together gave a brief final address before the broadcast ended and the main camera crew started packing up their things. Then, there were pictures taken—far too many of them, as far as Sevenset was concerned, and mostly, he knew for publicity’s sake. Most of them involved the fourteen troopers clustered around the large desk on the dais, with Chancellor Organa seated behind it, Yoda seated on it, and Windu and Breha Organa standing beside the chancellor. At least most of the reporters had cleared out by the time those were all finished. The Decahedron was slowly emptying, and Sevenset was glad of the fading attention, for once.

Finally, once the media and the press and everyone else had gotten the pictures they wanted and were packing up, the mirilarian woman Windu had introduced as Chancellor Organa’s press secretary stepped forward. Sevenset had noticed her earlier, directing reporters around. She was hard to miss, with light pink skin, teal eyes, and an amber headscarf.

“We have all the holographs we need,” she said. “Are there any that you gentlemen would like us to take for you?”

There was silence. Trees and Commander Bacara both tilted their heads at her. Most of them just stared.

“Clarify that, please, ma’am?” Commander Thire asked. Sevenset recognized his tone as the Talking to Polite Natties standard voice. (Very different from the Talking to Asshole Natties voice.)

The woman nodded and said, “I mean, if you’d like some pictures to keep, to commemorate the event, we would take them for you, develop them, and give them back.”

Again, there was silence, but it was shorter this time.

Do-si-do moved to put a hand on Sevenset’s shoulder and grinned. “Numbers family picture, Sevens?” they asked.

How could he say no to that? He smiled back. “Sounds like a plan. What do we think, Numbers?” he said, looking around at all of them.

Fives and Echo were grinning, and Elevensies was ready to bounce out of his boots.

“Yes please!” the young Guard beamed.

Zero and Nines nodded, and Loops gave a shrug, but Sevenset knew the small curve in his mouth meant he was onboard. Fours nodded once, even if he still looked like he’d bolt given the chance.

Trees shook his head, mouthing something under his breath. “Yeah, fine.”

Sevenset looked to the commander, along with everyone else, all brimming with all the excitement they usually mustered. He clasped his hands under his chin, just to be dramatic, as was his right, now that the ceremony was over. “Pleeeease?” he said. “Wouldn’t be the same without our favorite commander…”

Commander Sixes very subtly rolled his eyes. “Alright, quit the wet tooka impersonation,” he said, fighting a small smile behind his mustache. “Let’s get it over with.”

Those among them who typically cheered did so (Trees, Fours, and Loops so rarely did), and immediately began herding everyone towards the step up to the dais so they could use the levels to make it easier to see everyone. The tension from the ceremony was shedding from Sevenset’s shoulders as he stood between Do-si-do and the commander on the dais, smiling fit to burst as the rest gathered in two rows around him.

“We gotta do a silly one after the nice one,” he told Do-si-do.

They grinned. “With you in the picture? I thought this was the silly one.”

He jostled them carefully, not wanting to bump into Echo on their other side. “You’re terrible, and I love you.”

Do-si-do kissed the tips of his gloved fingers and blew it at him, and he laughed.

The commander reached over and flicked Sevenset’s ear. “Stand still, ARC. Don’t want to ruin the picture ‘cos your face got stuck in an ugly way.”

He rolled his eyes and frowned at him without a trace of malice or discontent in the expression.

“Well,” the commander went on, still watching the photographer set up the shot, “any uglier than usual anyway.” He looked over at Sevenset, and grinned.

Sevenset’s jaw dropped.

“Alright, everyone set?” the photographer asked while Sevenset’s brain caught up with reality. “Picture after the count of three, everyone say flimsi!”

Elevensies bounced on his toes where he stood on the lower level between Trees and Nines. “Oh, can we use Corrie instead?” He looked to his commanders, who smiled, barely.

Sevenset couldn’t wipe the smile off his face even if he’d used polish remover. “Hells yeah, Elevens! Corrie it is!”

The photographer smiled and nodded. “Alright, Corrie after three. One… two… three!”

“Corrie!”

IT'S WHAT THEY DESERVE!!! *weeping* look at them all, i'm so proud ;-; @23-bears (ik you already read it on Ao3) @theultimatesandwich @mercurydancer @rndmpeep @xylionet @thechaoticfanartist And I really REALLY want to draw that photo from the end, so that might be up next month in lieu of a chapter. There are a lot of them to draw all at once lol.

[notmuchtoconceal]

Jacek was dreaming. Jacek was inside Joey's dream.

Joey's face was the only thing he could see. The only anchor he had to himself and the world around him.

He wanted to speak. He was shaking.

Every nerve swaggered to cross the finish line. The knots which became of his nervous system could not set sail, could not hold up the shipwreck of what exposed timbers his bones and muscles had become in the absence of he couldn't say what.

Before him, sprawling the void in which the nothing he was too was everything, cause and solution stood out suspended, for he could be no cause, all things occurring in reaction to him.

Joey leered at him with the cold implacability of an ice wall dazzling like crystal in the sun. He was dawning. Setting.

Miasmas of dust kicked up in the ever encroaching dusk, as though one minute would be too long, no longer; snatched away by improbable circumstance of their mutual choosing, for he knew without knewing he knew what he chose.

Choice.

What burned like midnight oil in an attic window as though he were calling for someone across the plain, and now having spoken without speaking, he could find ample cause to remain silent.

Joey stood forward. Strutting to a waltz with every step -- to music he could now hear -- as was the manner he made his own.

His elegance struck him as inhuman, stacked and resonant as a subwoofer stacked atop a center speaker as a power humming in its own right -- a power of which he could recognize for he carried himself so fully in his upright stride, the breadth of his chest parted the black waters all around as though mounted upon were the effigy of a merman, hand-carved and painted from with the blood red sap of the trees which gave themselves willingly to the sea.

There was no sign. Of his gimp leg.

The supremacy of his posture and asymmetrical dedication to which he performed his weight training -- in the lulls between compositions, letting his mind recede, center itself, engulf -- braced where his knee would twist, the way his shoulders would sway; cloak where he would be easy to topple with a sweep of the leg, or tackle to the ground at an acute angle,for he walked always as he spoke, with such deliberation it had attained a mechanical precision which cut him between the lines of wide rule in which he was only scrawl.

"Brother Jacek," he said, half turning away -- failing only not to grin. His teeth shone polished as sandstone blocks, blunt enough to hold shackles which could bolt him in place, his pearly incisors the dissection pins which would peel him down. "How nice."

Broey rose his backhand.

Tapped him once. Twice.Thrice with escalating force against each cheek, as though a singing bowl teased for pitch.

In his shivering, pleading mute and impotent, he would see at what peak he could turn a cry of pain to a whisper of the sublime coming through the slit beneath the crack of an attic door, left open only to let in the incense of moonlight smoldering through clouds.

Brother Jacek showed Broey his teeth.

He couldn't look away. Didn't want to.

Though he and Broey wore the same uniform, the coal black of his brother's leather gleamed in a million glittering points as though he lumined the night sky with glances and whispers which begged only for he forced the night itself to beg; to coerce his sprawl naked and wounded, to reveal what clusters of light he hoarded like jewels, and dissipate him mercilessly, for in his endless infinities he had no air or life of his own, was colored simply by an atmosphere habitual to us. Each medal and ribbon and patch pinned to his chest, or stitched to his sleeve, jangled and hummed with the melody of his waltz, and aligned by the weight of our eyes to constellations whose shapes made only sense to us, beguiling the innocent and sloth-stained sight of strangers who kept their gazes ploughed to the earth.

The same uniform.

He was a gentleman and a cosmonaut of psychic space, and he was but a brute; lurching for he was so heavy, not hunchbacked as much as beaten down to dogtown, for he cast the impression of blunt stitches, staples and partitions of skin which gave the medieval cast of a doublet or the curious fornications of graverobbers playing God.

Sheared in the same way.

The taper around his ears. The layers of the blade. What crisp pomades fragranced their adherence in place.

Clothes didn't make the man. Clothes got made by them.

Jacek was feeling drunk. On Broey's smile.

Jacek didn't wanna move.

The look in his eyes, which he could regard only as quizzical -- mocking him, as if half-imploring why (though he never dared implore; had no reason ever to) -- for what was self-evident was simply not-so, for he was so polite, he needn't disgrace himself or the other, tempted to say aloud such gross and obvious things as --

"How could anyone possibly be this fucking stupid?"

Jacek's dick pulsed.

Felt like he could fall down.

Broey was his brother.

Broey was his rock.

In three fluid motions, upon which each he could hear the smack, Broey unclasped the belt of his jacket, then of his breeches, and slid his hand down into his warm fragrant briefs to cup his warm salty balls, of which Jacek could smell already on the air, as the savory of an oven beckoning the yardbound to a homecooked meal.

Jacek was going slow.

Jacek's mind was slowing down.

He could feel his mind rip in half like a piece of paper tore down the middle as the creaking of Broey's leather filled his brain.

The belt buckle rung like a typewriter bell.

*** Ding ***

He had finished another line. He was drooling.

Broey's muscular hand, the levers of his bones upright through the white and lotion'd skin, crushed his eyes sandy with flecks of yellow hair, clasping his jaw tight in a muzzle of long, finely-formed fingers possessing of a shape somewhere between the gigantism of seafloor crustaceans and the succulence of French pastries.

The smell invaded his nostrils.

He would have let em in anyway.

The pendulum of his mind was always divining out truths. Down onto the mirror, he looked and it had no etchings from the blade.

Something like a beef broth well-seasoned with garlic, rosemary, black pepper; he was a muddy and sweetly-fragrant patchouli which blended and clashed, vaguely chemical in its pungent distillation.

He was drooling.

Into Broey's palm.

His cock was drooling.

Into his briefs.

Meeting Broey's eyes.

Trembling.

He got to smell him. He didn't wanna cry.

He was smiling. Wanted to.

It didn't matter. How Broey's grip crushed him in his gaze. Only Broey had words to describe his own gaze. Jacek didn't have words of his own. Jacek didn't words good. Nobody wanted to read the words that Jacek wrote without relishing in horny thoughts of his freakish and substandard nature for his unwashed and backwards position made him safe, if not to laugh at, then get fucked by.

If Jacek didn't have a dick, he would have no friends.

If Jacek wasn't built like a carthorse, nobody would wanna know him.

When Jacek thought of Broey, he could see him clearly. When Jacek looked at Broey, he could keep looking and never see.

For hours and days, he could look.

Get crushed. Be plied and fondled like meat.

The words would never come.

Didn't matter. He got to smell.

Broey's balls.

He got to be. Broey's good boy.

His index finger to his cheekbone. Stroking. His middle and ring finger. Clamping teeth together beneath the skin. His pinky. Tickling him beneath the jaw. With his thumb, he twisted the rain to irrigation in desert wastes, for what downpours came so fleetingly, but their heaviness he captured well enough to outlast the years.

Jacek gagged. On his own drool.

Spit up.

Broey backhanded him diamond-hard across the cheek.

Drizzles fell. Whirls of steam half-suspended. His spit hung on the air, morning mists in cascading light which had no source, as Broey's dick baste reeked low-tide on beachfront wastes of cattle-carcass.

Eyes downward. Meeting the slobber on his boots. Standing in a puddle of his own drool. Face greasy with the sweat of his brother's balls. Sinking into his own mouth-soppings, begging to kiss his reflection. Kiss the floor, lick up the ash which had become muddy with his fat and eel-like tongue from a cigar tithed between the reality of Broey's animate and well-probing digits.

He had a lot of imagination.

He could prolly imagine something more humiliating.

If he wanted to.

"I fucked… your boyfriend, big bro."

He didn't know why he said it.

Broey only laughed.

"As if I was going to?"

Broey's knuckle leapt up and collided with Jacek's abdominal wall. A limestone bulkwark bent inward. Obsidian twist and frieze'd into a flow. Jacek would have hurled back… if Broey's palm weren't on his shoulder. Scaffolding him. Around the hand-carved wooden banister of his delts. Anchoring him with heat and life.

The leather of his jacket cushioned him. His uniform protected him. Stitched him in place like a quilt, through which his dirty blood was an herbal tea. Warm and snug. He looked to Broey.

Broey had a face.

Jacek wanted to be inside a mask. Crushed within the corners out which he could not see out. To cover his face. Inside, he was so warm. Gooey. Outside, he was cold. He was wet for he had been drooling, for his mind was empty and he didn't wanna move.

When he remembered the pendulum swing back and forth, looked down into the mirror after he finished another line, he saw he had a face and the memory of himself were the mask he couldn't take off.

He didn't wanna compare it to Broey. It wouldn't make sense.

What he was in the eyes and mouth. Hanging heavy. Dim. Suspicious. Revealing in himself only the gleam of an insect carapace fit to be crushed beneath the boots he yearned to lick, as if in his smallness, he were vulcanized rubber worth getting to if he could savor his own fetid white guts projectile'd out and smeared.

Jacek wished his hands were tied behind his back. Wished he could feel the rope criss-crossing his abs, tight beneath his pecs, binding his shoulders to a knot together to hold his spine upright.

Jacek was heavy. So heavy.

Broey's hand around Jacek's throat. Fingerpoints spade the base of his jaw. Pulling him. A streak of his boots in the puddle of drool. Splashing now, half-animate, as the jump of a rainy day.

"Why don't you kiss me?" Broey said, and allowed his eyes to linger. Merciful in their mercilessness. "Eyes alert. Poised. Steady. Open-mouth. The flecks of my beard against your marbled chin."

Broey had a beard. Lush. Thick. Copper woven with platinum and gold, tipped in blood and drenched in pheromones. Beneath the leather shirt and tie, his chest rose hairy as forest hillocks and his pecs were plump. Jacek wanted to suck. To twirl his nipples with his tongue, tasting every fine slick and coiling hair on his chest, as he looked up into Broey's eyes and felt him cutting through the bone.

"The efficacy of a surgical saw… in laughter, Brother Jacek?"

He was dim. Horny to suck.

"Can't spell slautter, bro."

Jacek's hand reached out. Didn't know why he was stuck.

He could feel -- and see before he could feel -- Broey's cock chub up. The club plastered to his thigh inside his breechers, begging to bash in skulls at first twitching. Yet in his clumsy hands, rose hard as a basalt pillar on a stony beach marred by perpetual overcast.

The weight of Broey's grip. Crawling down his neck.

Grabbing him by his trachea. Hitching him like a wagon.

"Where's your collar?"

Jacek wanted to be shaved. Wanted Broey to shave him. Smear his prone, naked body in whipping cream and guide the blade in long, musical strokes, leaving him silky, silten, totally owned.

Looking up at his master. Spread-eagle and muzzled. So comfortable in the shackles made up of the same leather of the uniform which was his universe, chainlink clattering like percussion on the cold surgical steel of the wall of the padded cell cut from the same hide as it was cut from the same empty room.

"I forgot."

Jacek wanted his mouth stuffed. Jacek wanted a gag so big his jaw would go numb and he would have no choice but to collapse facedown in a puddle of his own drool and risk drowning as he cried out for help, thrashed about breathless as a fish on land.

"… You forgot?"

Cried for his brother to save him.

His big brother. His twin brother.

Jacek. One hand still on Broey's dick. Another moving up his back. Gently. Reassuringly. Full-on imploring. Doing what Broey would never do. To show him his inferiority. Sweetly. Quietly. Leaning in.

"Forgot"

He said it with water in his eyes. He didn't know. Didn't know anything. Didn't know what to do, or why he wanted.

Broey didn't yawn. Didn't laugh. Didn't sneer.

Didn't even roll his eyes.

"Forgot."

The humiliation was unbearable.

It would be better if Broey had beaten him. Crushed his weight into the soft earth. Buried him for a thousand years. Left him muddy in the rain he brought. Pinned his thighs beneath his knees, pulled his shoulders back so far, wrapped his head so tight, he would be bent inward, twisted, blind, sucking himself off as he screamed in protestations which urged him only crueler and loftier.

"Someday, Jacek. Someday."

He wanted to die. Wanted to die, and knew he did it to himself.

What obstinate whimsies beckoned him to death, for he would totally forsake himself as time slipped by, turning up only as numbers in code, falling down a screen dissolving.

He didn't understand. Himself or anyone else.

This wasn't the life for him. He wasn't crying.

His face back in Joey's grip. One side half-turned away, he could see the room. Saw the room they were in. Might have been outside.

Rectangular blocks of the wall sharp as corrugated metal, porous as granite, three levels of elevation in which they were the center. Dimension intruded into dimension. One side open to rows beyond, another upright in columns which held drapery velvet and thick, smothering the silence. Vast geometries in the garish and interloping colors of the floor in which he saw the faces of animals snarling through the bars of cage or unfurlings of leaves.

Around the corner, where a stair met an opening, a balcony met an aisle, around the perimeter, motion congealed from nothing.

In the faint oppression of the darkness beyond, peeping out with a wanton smile, he saw Laika. Saw Laika.

Might have been the real one.

Nothing in Jacek's eyes gave it away. No spark of recognition flourished. No muscle in his faced betrayed his ignorance.

He regarded him. Laika. Regarded Jacek. His hand was down his pants. Furious snappings of the wrist coming as bullet-trains out mounted artillery. He could see him huffing. See curt smiles come between huffs of the dead trance which tethered his eyes to him.

"The things you do? … You do do them, correct?"

A sequence of words in his ear.

"Correct. Um…"

The fuck was it he just said?

"Yeah, I -- I do."

Broey's eyes. Empty as Laika's.

"You knew you were to wear you collar. You didn't."

Broey's eyes. Laika's behind him.

(He was emphasizing that like it means something.

He was emphasizing that like it means something.

He was emphasizing that like it means something.)

"What am I to make of that, Brother Jacek?" Broey said it -- forwardly and unafraid, for nothing could diminish his patience, tolerance, wisdom. "You fail to look for cause and succeed in never finding any. Am I expected to believe -- expecting always more of you than any decent man could ever be asked -- that there is no cause, and I make one simply by proposing potentials?"

(He's looking too deeply into it!

He's looking too deeply into it!

He's looking too deeply into it!)

Maybe he forgot.

So Broey would have an excuse to talk at him.

His dick was leaking.

"Uh… huh?"

He wanted to kiss Broey so bad. Wanted his face smeared all over his. Stuck together. Like two wolves fighting over a steak tossed to them, bloody over the carcass of a fresh maul, all the crisper in always-winter snow. Wanted to wrap his arms around him and drop to his knees and suck his dick til he was shooting out his eyes.

Fucking Laika.

(Fucking Laika!)

Laika was watching him now.

"Brother Jacek," Joey said, drawing out the pleasure of your name. He was leaning in close. Moving his hands across the wide warm stone of your back. "What am I to do with you? You who make me wonder what I am to you, failing with such deliberation in such simple suggestions we each know would only make us both happy if you complied, I can assume only you don't wish to be, either happy or much of anything else?"

Jacek. Wanted to wrestle.

Jacek. Wanted Joey to show him he owned him.

"Broey," he said. "Um…"

The words were coming.

"I wanna wrestle."

(I wanna wrestle.)

Jacek lunged forward. Standing so close, Broey's legs were not unnaturally splayed in the posture which lent itself so well to pose, which few realized the intended purpose gave him balance by distributing the unevenness of his gait, but before Broey could hit the ground, he grabbed Jacek and twisted him, so now Broey was on top, and Jacek carried that momentum into a roll across the floor, pushing Broey on his back, already back up, knotted in embrace as a flurry of arms crept around one another as the roots of a tree uprooted by storms; Jacek's head in Broey's elbow, the crook of both Jacek's arms down Broey's trunk and around his waist, pulling him up as Broey's arm locked with his, and they toppled to the air, feet in each other's face, and twisted once more so Jacek was on top before Broey's gimp leg wrapped around his like an octopus sucker and shlorped, seeming to dislocate or turn to protoplasm as the stitching of their boots coiled like snakes nudging skulls and ankles coiled together when they looked at one another, faces flushed, hearts racing, Jacek pinned beneath Broey, who was taller, more agile, lancing him with eyes of surgical steel, despite Jacek's power and bulk, so restful and at peace, here beneath his brother, alive in his eyes, never more alive than at the point of vivisection, needing to lash, but calmed in the morphine high of his euphoria as his cock began to swell, began to throb, began to hunger for itself.

Joey laughed. A bead of sweat running down spun gold displaced, the pinks of his skin brought out the whites of his eyes.

"I know what you need… lil bro."

From the left interior pocket of his jacket, Broey produced a pair of neatly folded, though indisputably rank boot socks turned crisp white to the savory brown of oven-crisped cheese.

The force hit Jacek's nostrils before the taste. The previous day's march fragrant through his photoreceptors as swamp cypress and what slime clings to their barks, hat sprouts from blistering rain, congealed from the seeming nothing of in the ever-blooming infinity of the soil. In the porthole of his mind, blades came down against the hardwood, mincing all these bits of disparate vegetation into slivers to make for a hearty broth which was the tangible experience from which he beckoned and ran; all things return't to soup.

In his mouth. Coarse fibers spreading across his tongue. Pushing to the back of the palate. Overhang spilling out like coils of intestines from a gutted deer. He could smell. He could taste. Behind his eyes and in his head, dances of phoenix feathers came on flaming wind, and vortices of heat opened with a gratitude he could not name, for he was so stupid, so stupid and these sensations, to the intellect which was his, and which he spit upon despite all they gave, seemed to make him only stupider; for he could not confess in Broey's eyes to being a meager beast, a pawn, some frail insect chessman, though he knew Broey was far less stupid, being just as, and had already made these negotiations, made himself stalwart against the self-deceptions lesser men need to make virtues of their failings.

He groaned. He glowered.

Laika was watching.

The succulence of pounding meat rang out in his ears.

Laika liked it when he was a tough-guy bein shamed.

Broey still twisted his leg. Inducing some splinter in the natural cleavage of the bonemeal -- for he could shatter stone with a pinky by seeing the farthest points where material conjoined -- threw Jacek from his back and onto his belly as he ground him down with his knee, manipulating him as a single block of putty onto which he would crush whatever image it would be his fancy to make him into. The cuffs from his belt clinked around his wrists, no chain between them so his hands were now a butterfly which fluttered on two long pole-props from the crushed symmetry of his bulging shoulders.

Looking up. Beckoning the completion of the gag.

Hand still clenching Jacek's mouth, he had not time to move his own -- would have submitted gracefully had he anyway -- and leather warmed by Broey's flank came around his jaw; the belt of his jacket buckling behind his head, pulling tight, pushing the socks deeper in his mouth and stuffing them in place so as he breathed all he could taste, all he could smell, were his brother's feet, and he could picture his brother stepping on his face, crushing his skull, every bead of sweat slipping through his wrinkled soles exciting him unto a rapture which was a symphony of flavor only fit for worms.

Hoisted up now. He was watching Broey.

Broey weren't doin this.

Over his face. Palm like a washerman. Flat, snappy, veiny but for the blunt of the callouses where he hung on too tight. The ammoniac of leaky dick smeared over him as snail oil, marking him, staining him with the run-off of a perceived lesser to establish the superiority he had given willingly by force of sheer volition. Taken from him.

"It's me! It's me!"

Laika was cheering.

Whispers in his ear. Coming loud as sonicbooms.

Joey pressed his boot to Jacek's balls. Jacek was collapsing in, remaining held up. Laika's hands were on his back. His hands were down his shoulders, Laika's hands were on the collar of his jacket, pulling buttons to the point of snap. Jacek would grovel, looking up in Broey's eye, had not every caress come first with the blistering heat of desert wind followed by the gentle reprieve of spring.

"Strip him."

Was all Broey said.

Laika's fingers plummeting the zip so hard it lodged beneath the belt. Yanking his tie like a choke-chain, Broey kaleidoscope'd in the tears welling up; hear his blood beat through his ears, saw his heart on fire as the oxygen left his brain and vacancy rutted in his empty skull.

Weren't enough. Weren't enough.

Laika smacked each of his cheeks rhythmic like bongos and slid his habitually gentle yet persistently engaged fingers through the knot to tear it away, tear it up, knot it back over the bridge of his nose, so it composed a poor blindfold Jacek cheated by craning his head up, exposing his neck so he could still see Broey; inviting in Laika's grip as he tore the buttons down his shirt to the white cotton rib of his tank beneath, under which his pecs were wide and flat and pointed as boulders tossed to cobblestones through flooded swamps; smooth obelisks in formation beckoning touch down the subtle cones which tapered to the curves of flatlands.

"I didn't think any of this through," Laika said, "not even for a fuckin second!" Nibbling on his earlobe and tugging, digging in the points only hard enough to pull away. "You don't seem like the type to 'preciate it, and I don't seem like the type to try!"

From his front right pocket, Laika produced a golden thread, which before his veiled eyes, he could see was composed of finely minuscule segments welded together, interlocked like the vertebrae of a snake skeleton. Coming up through the cleave of his chest, around, then down, around the bottom, back and up again, he became a bundled marionette of meat fit only to be sliced.

"It's me! It's me!"

Broey slapped Laika hard against the face. The sound of contact echoed far and gobs of spittle splashed on Jacek's cheek.

"I am the forest, and he be the trees for which you missed me!"

Boot still to Jacek's balls, Broey drew closer. Jacek's chest hard against the cap of Broey's knee, stod mounted like a pedestal.

Laika pushed forward. His boner ground in Jacek's ass through the mutual insulation of their breechers. His caress did not relent.

"Three times," he said. "You will state me. Three times he will refute, three times I will debunk. Tell me true, tell me curtly and at length. Where is the betrayal to which I was promised?"

Jacek could get a glimpse. Of Laika's face.

Laika liked that he could see.

He was watching to see Jacek watch.

"Only facts I care about're your feelins, Joe! I'm a stupid, duplicitous, lyin whore and I ain't got no sense a loyalty and even less a compassion, 'specially for all livin things, despite the fact I wouldn't harm a fly, I'd go fuckin nuclear on a mosquito! Holy fuck! Destroy all life on earth, I don't give a flyin fuck if it evolved from swimmers! One thing I can't fuckin stand, it's rival bloodsuckers! I'm not even gonna ask to bury my face in your crotch and impale my skull on your dick! Eternal rest is the sleep of the dead. I got all eternity to spend humiliated in tribute to you, my man!"

Joey's head past Jacek's.

Laika's head further in.

Their lips both were to his ear. They had no need to whisper. They whispered through him. Just to hear their words lacerate his brain.

"You're the only good boy I know."

"I'm the only good boy you got!"

Bending his neck back so it snapped like a nutcracker, in the struggle the veil came half off and he saw now Laika's face buried in Broey's beard. Felt the nail-hammered sole of Broey's boot crush his balls tolopside his dick. Throbbing. Felt Laika's bulge grind harder to the cleave of his ass, he yanked him up by a sliver of spun gold which threatened to chop him to bits as their lips interlocked, and Laika gained a free hand as Broey took him by the throat, and pretzeled up right and down; he stood crushed between them as their lips savored spit and the fine comb of Broey's beard tended to discord, their faces crushed together like jigsaws as he was the glue of the antlers and they pressed together harder and harder, any minute, any minute …

Any minute he was gonna bu

[teacupfulofstarshine]

pattonella part 12: in which the author hijacks her conveniently comatose character for magical shenanigans

cw: comatose character, minor angst, mention of sleep deprivation

the song referenced in virgil’s visions (linked in the first one) is "soldier, poet, king" by the oh hellos because ya girl is a predictable bitch 

wordcount: ~3.8k

part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5 // part 6 // part 7 // part 8 // part 9 // part 10 // part 11 // read it on ao3!!

“you should rest, prince logan.” 

“i will not leave,” logan says. his back and neck hurt like hell from sitting in the same place for hours on end, and his voice rasps from the near-constant litany of song he’s been providing to virgil, but he makes no move to leave his chair. virgil’s hand is pressed between his, cool and limp. 

“virgil will be alright,” remy says. “the magical exhaustion coma sucks, yeah, but it’s not going to kill him. we’ve pumped him full of as much healing magic and medicine as he can stomach, and he’s going to be okay. he’s going to wake up, and you’ll want to be awake and coherent enough to see it.”

“i will persevere.” 

“you will collapse from sleep deprivation, is what will happen. you don’t have to leave the infirmary, but you’re going to be in the infirmary if you don’t eat something and sleep.” 

logan opens his mouth to protest, but remy draws himself up to his full height (which is not much) and says, “you may be the prince of this kingdom, but i am your doctor, and so help me gods you are going to eat a damn meal and you are going to take a damn nap before i force-feed you a sleeping potion.” 

logan blinks, startled, and remy holds firm, crossing his arms. “did i fucking stutter?” 

“no,” logan says, voice quiet. remy sighs, reaching out to mess up logan’s hair. logan sputters indignantly, but remy has always been a parental figure to him, so he doesn’t protest. 

“your worry is admirable, prince logan, but virgil would not want you to run yourself ragged like this. remember his concern when you had a concussion?” 

“of course i do. he doted on me every hour of the day, remy. how can i say that i did not do the same for him? virgil is - he - i -” logan’s jaw works open, closed, open closed as he tries to form a coherent thought from the tangled mess of virgilworryconcerncarelove? buzzing around in his head. 

“you don’t have to say it,” remy says. “i’m married, remember? i’m familiar with what it means to love someone.” logan startles, practically jumping out of his chair. remy laughs, shifting his hand to gently squeeze logan’s shoulder. “no need to sound so offended.” 

“it’s not offense,” logan says. “it - it’s just -”

he trails off as his gaze slides back to virgil’s peaceful face and the even movement of his chest. “virgil has not had many positive things in his life. he had to deal with a suboptimal family life, constantly sacrificing himself to protect patton, and i - i just want him to see - to know that he does not have to constantly sacrifice himself for people to earn their love. i need him to know that he does not have to throw himself into the line of fire to protect his loved ones. and - and i do not want him to feel rushed into admitting that he cares for me. i do not want to presume that i know he loves me, because i do not!” 

“trust me, prince logan, that man is head over his god damn heels for you.” remy smirks, confident, and logan exhales shakily. 

“but i do not wish to rush it. i know that we are supposed to be marrying so that thomas can officially become the crown prince, but - but i cannot force him to marry me. i hope that he wants to marry me, i - i want to marry him, eventually. i do.” it’s the first time logan has ever admitted it out loud; remy’s eyes widen and his face softens. “but i cannot force him to marry me if he does not love me. i will not trap him in a loveless marriage.” 

“please,” remy scoffs. “you cannot look at this man, laying in a hospital bed because he drove himself to magical fucking exhaustion to keep you safe, and tell me that he does not love you.” 

logan squeezes virgil’s hand tightly, exhaling. his eyes feel like lead. 

“you need to sleep,” remy repeats. “the bed next to virgil’s is open. get in and lay down and go to sleep, okay? i promise i’ll wake you at the first sign of trouble.” logan looks at virgil again and sighs, closing his eyes. 

“very well, remy.” he leans over and kisses virgil’s forehead, carefully sweeping his bangs off his face. “you wake me at the very first sign of trouble, you understand me?” 

“of course, prince logan.” remy bows, deep and sarcastic, and logan suppresses a smile. 

*~*~*~*~*

virgil frowns, looking around. he’s in the middle of a blank black void; it looks like the place where he sees his visions, but no visions appear to him. “hello?” he calls. something floats towards him - a girl’s voice, high and ethereal, singing softly. 

there will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword . . .

suddenly, a vision slams into him: roman, clearly no older than two years old, wearing a red baby onesie and holding a little wooden sword. he toddles toward virgil without seeing him, waving his little sword around and giggling. a pair of hands reaches down and gently stabilizes roman when he nearly trips over an unseen obstacle. 

past, his brain whispers. 

he will tear your city down, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .  

another vision: roman, sitting cross-legged on a bed with patton settled into his lap. he’s rubbing patton’s back and murmuring softly into his ear, probably reassuring him. virgil can’t hear anything they’re saying, but he catches the shape of patton’s mouth as he very clearly says “virgil.” roman smiles, kissing his forehead, and virgil smiles. he’s glad someone is taking care of patton while he’s unconscious.

present. 

oh lei, oh lai, oh lei oh lord; he will tear your city down, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .

a third vision: roman, much older, probably fifty or so. his hair is streaked with gray, and he’s managed to grow a full beard. it’s neatly trimmed and also greying. roman wears formal attire, a suit with a breastplate and a cape. he has various badges and medals attached to his chest and a sword that virgil recognizes as ceremonial hanging from his waist. roman looks to the side and smiles, offering his arm. patton steps forward, taking his arm, and virgil gasps as he sees the way his brother has aged. 

somehow, patton still looks similar, even though he’s clearly aged. his hair is long, less gray than roman’s and more silver and braided off his neck with flowers. there are crinkles of laughter around his eyes. he’s wearing a sparkly blue-and-gold dress with red flowers embroidered on it, and he has a small golden circlet matching roman’s more ornate one. patton is still wearing roman’s pendant around his neck, and when roman places his hand over patton’s on his upper arm virgil spies a matching gleam of wedding bands on their fingers. 

future. 

the visions fizzle away, and virgil sinks back down into sleep, still clinging to the image of his brother and his husband in the future. 

*~*~*~*~*

patton wakes up slowly. he’s still getting used to the idea that he doesn’t have to sleep on the floor, that he doesn’t have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn and drag himself into bed at midnight. he wakes up warm and comfortable, sinking into a downy mattress, vision hazy from sleep and lack of glasses. 

he yawns, blinking to try and clear his eyes as best he can, and freezes when he hears someone else breathing beside him. he feels a weight on his waist over the duvet, and someone stirs next to him, the arm on his waist starting to pull him closer, and then patton remembers. 

roman is home. roman is home and he’s here with patton, in patton’s bed, snuggling him and keeping him warm. patton flips over onto his other side, and comes face-to-face with roman. the youngest prince is still asleep, his hair flopped into his eyes, mouth open. a small puddle of drool is growing slowly on the pillow, and he’s not wearing a shirt, revealing his smooth, tanned collarbones. 

patton kind of wants to bite them. 

he snuggles closer to roman instead, blushing bright red, pushing his face into roman’s hair. roman snorts in a breath and presses himself closer to patton. his nose is chilly when it brushes against the warm skin of patton’s neck, and patton shivers a little. 

he dozes in the comfortable warmth of the bed (his bed, roman’s bed, their bed) until roman wakes up with an undignified snort, narrowly avoiding cracking his head against patton’s chin. “mm-mngh-wh-pat?”

“morning,” patton says. he’s practically giddy with joy, and he can’t stop the laughter from spilling out of him, high-pitched and embarrassing. roman smiles at him, sleepy and lazy and so, so besotted, and patton’s pretty besotted himself. 

“oh, vision of loveliness, star that outshines the rising sun,” roman begins, carefully propping himself up on one hand while keeping the other draped around patton’s waist. “loveliest of flowers, shining with the morning dew, face covered with a galaxy of freckles, visage that could launch a thousand ships and set a city ablaze with the light of your smile -”

“stop, stop!” patton laughs, burying his face in his hands. 

“pull your hands from your face like a flower unfurling to the sun, how will i kiss your pretty face if you hide it from me?” 

“but i’m embarrassed!” 

patton feels roman gently wrap his fingers around patton’s hands, carefully peeling them away. “there’s my lovely patton, there’s your pretty face,” roman croons, leaning in to brush their noses together. “may i kiss you, my dearest?” 

patton giggles again. “you may.” roman takes his time, carefully pressing a kiss to the center of patton’s forehead, then the left side, then the right; he kisses patton’s eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, and almost every freckle he can find. finally, he leans in and presses his mouth against patton’s. both of them still taste like sleep and morning breath, and it’s not the best tasting kiss patton’s ever had but he still treasures it. 

“i’ve missed waking up to that,” roman says. “you are much better to wake up to than a field tent.” 

“was this a one-time thing?” patton asks. 

“kissing? i certainly hope not.” 

“no, no i mean - this.” patton gestures to the bed. “you sleeping in here, with me. is this a one-time thing? do we have to sleep apart?” 

“not if you don’t want to.” roman looks bashful, eyes skittering away from patton’s to look at his chin. “do - do you want to?” 

“absolutely i do,” patton says, words spilling out in a rush of breath. “i hate waking up alone, i - even though i didn’t really have a bed or a bedroom before i was always with virgil, and i - please, ro, please -”

“oh, darling, of course.” roman reaches up to touch patton’s face. “i wanted to make sure you knew that you had your own space as necessary, because you didn’t have any of that before. but if you don’t want to be alone, you never have to be alone again. i promise, patton, i promise, i promise i promise. i swear it to you on my birthright as the third prince of this kingdom.” 

patton feels tears running down his face, and roman carefully wipes them away. “no tears, my darling. i am here now.” 

by the time nate comes in with breakfast, they’ve fallen asleep again, tucked into each other. 

*~*~*~*~*

virgil rises back to awareness slowly, opening his eyes to the same black void he’d seen earlier. he frowns; another vision? they usually don’t come so close together. before he can ponder it any longer, the same haunting female voice from before comes echoing around him. 

there will come a poet whose weapon is his word . . .

a vision, suddenly: logan, barely a year old if that, laying on his back. he’s wearing a dark blue footed onesie patterned with stars, reaching up towards a mobile dangling above him. he’s giggling, opening and closing his little fists repeatedly as he tries to grab the little wooden moons and stars and swirling carvings. he kicks his little feet, and virgil feels his heart swell with joy. 

past. 

he will slay you with his tongue, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .  

another vision: logan, looking the way he did when virgil last saw him. he’s sitting at virgil’s bedside, holding virgil’s hand. he’s pale, with circles beneath his eyes, and he’s murmuring something to virgil’s comatose body. virgil reaches toward the vision, but it evaporates before he can touch logan. 

present.

oh lei, oh lai, oh lei oh lord; he will slay you with his tongue, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .

a third vision: logan is sitting at a desk, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. he pushes a hand through his bangs, sighing; his hair is longer now, gathered into a ponytail at the base of his neck and shot through with silver. he looks tired, reaching for his quill to sign whatever’s in front of him. he turns his head to the right, as though someone has called for him. 

virgil can barely believe his eyes as he steps into view. he’s wearing a dark blue shirt with a purple vest, both embroidered with silver. his hair is longer and starting to grey, but he leans in to kiss logan’s head and logan reaches up to touch his face with love in his eyes. virgil gasps as he recognizes that just like his vision of patton and roman from earlier, future-him and future-logan have matching wedding bands. 

future. 

*~*~*~*~*

logan wakes up blearily, rubbing his eyes. he jolts awake the second he regains control of his faculties, throwing off the thin hospital blankets and jerking around to look for virgil. he sighs in relief when he sees that virgil is in the bed next to him, still slowly breathing, still sound asleep. “how long was i out?” he rasps. 

“like, four hours,” remy says, carefully placing a fresh washcloth over virgil’s forehead. “not nearly long enough, but i’ll take it.” emile comes in from the garden, carrying a steaming teacup in his hands. 

“is that for me?” logan asks. emile nods, handing him the cup. he sips it slowly, letting the honey-sweet taste slide over his tongue. “thank you, emile.” 

“you’re welcome. it’s no replacement for sleep, but hopefully it’ll help you a little bit.” 

before logan can respond, there’s a noise from virgil’s bed. logan nearly spills his tea as he twists around to try and see what’s happening. virgil’s face scrunches up, nose wrinkling, and his mouth moves slightly. 

“wh - virgil -”

“. . . soldier . . . mighty sword . . . tear . . . city down . . .” virgil mumbles. his fingers curl in the blankets as his face smooths out again, sinking back into sleep. 

“what was that?” 

“it is possible that he’s having some sort of vision,” remy says. logan frowns, reaching over to gently touch virgil’s shoulder. 

“i’m not sure that i enjoy the sound of that vision . . .” virgil turns his head just slightly, catching logan’s hand between his shoulder and his chin. logan’s heart melts into a puddle of emotion-goo as he leans over to kiss virgil’s forehead. 

“oh, my dearest one.” virgil makes a soft, incomprehensible noise and his face smooths into calm sleep again. logan reaches his other hand up to carefully stroke virgil’s cheek. “rest well, my darling, and heal. i long for the day i can see your eyes again.” 

“sap,” remy teases. 

*~*~*~*~*

virgil isn’t sure why he’s surprised that a third set of visions comes. his normal visions come in threes - past, present, and future - and it makes sense that he would have a trio of visions. a trio of trio, a group of three threes; three is one of the most potent magical numbers, and the kingdom has three princes for a reason. 

there will come a ruler whose brow is laid in thorn . . .

the first vision strikes: thomas, no more than four years old, playing with a cluster of roses. carefully, with his pudgy little child-fingers, he weaves them into a crown and plops it onto his head. it sags askew, flopping into his face, but he just laughs and pushes it back up onto his head. 

past. 

smeared with oil like david’s boy, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .

the second vision: thomas, flopping onto his bed in exhaustion. someone comes up and sits on the bed next to him, an advisor that virgil vaguely remembers from earlier, when he’d stormed in on the court with a vision of roman’s death burning in his eyes. he thinks their name is joan? they place a hand on thomas’s back, and thomas sighs, sitting up and smiling at them. his mouth forms the shape of the words thank you , and joan offers the crown prince a hug which he eagerly accepts. 

present. 

oh lei, oh lai, oh lei oh lord; smeared with oil like david’s boy, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . . 

the third vision: thomas, sitting on the throne. he’s older, wearing the king’s crown in place of his crown prince circlet. it fits perfectly. he wears a shirt woven from rainbow threads that shimmers in the light, and he has a golden scepter twined with flowers in his hand. someone comes up and kneels before him, and thomas inclines his head. he looks like a true king - wise, just, strong. a good ruler. 

future.

virgil lets himself fall unconscious again. 

*~*~*~*~*

“how long has he been here?” 

“three days,” logan says. “to be more precise, it has been seventy-three hours, eighteen minutes, and twenty seconds. he has been unconscious for one-hundred twenty-one hours, eighteen minutes, and twenty-four seconds.” 

“that’s not good, is it?” patton says. he holds one of virgil’s hands and logan holds the other. roman stands behind patton. one hand resting on his shoulder. patton tips his head and sighs when he feels the warmth of roman’s hand press against his cheek, a comforting, grounding weight. “that he’s been unconscious for so long.” 

“not particularly. statistics show that the longer patients are comatose, the . . .” logan swallows, hard, but patton leans forward and he continues. “the longer the patients are comatose, the less likely it is that they will recover.” 

patton feels his heart sink down to the deepest pits of his stomach. nate, standing at the foot of the bed, makes a soft upset noise. “would you like some tea, lord san - um, uh, i - i mean - patton, sir?” 

despite how shitty he feels, patton lifts his head and smiles at his servant. “tea would be wonderful, nate.” he looks up at roman. “do you want anything, dear?” roman’s eyes widen in shock, and patton gasps when he realizes what he’s done. “i - i mean, um -”

roman’s entire face softens like a newborn lamb, and he leans in to kiss patton gently. “tea sounds lovely, my darling.” patton blushes a bright, burning red, turning to look at logan to try and quell his blush. 

“i would not say no to some tea,” logan says. “could you, perhaps, see if the cook has any sweet buns prepared fresh as well? with some of her fresh jam?” 

nate bows. “of course, your royal highness.” 

“there is no need for such formalities. you may simply call me logan.” nate jerks upright, stammering. 

“wh - n - i - i couldn’t possibly! i - i mean - uh - that - that is to say - i - um - wh -”

“it is alright,” logan says. he smiles kindly at nate, which puts patton at ease. “i understand that it may be a bit of a shock to switch from formal titles to none at all. however, i must insist that at the very least, you call me prince logan.”

“prince roman works just fine for me as well.” 

nate looks overwhelmed with all this new information, but he manages to stammer out an “o - o - of course!” before turning around and all but sprinting to the kitchens. 

“you make him nervous!” patton laughs. 

“i find that is a common theme.” logan seems disgruntled. 

“i’m not scared of you!” that brings a smile to logan’s face, and patton considers his job done for the moment. 

nate returns quickly with a tray containing a steaming teapot, teacups, sugar, cream, and honey. another serving girl follows him with a basket of steaming buns covered by a cloth. there’s a jar of jam and a butterknife tucked into the basket as well. 

“thank you,” logan says, taking a roll and tearing into it with vigor. 

“of course, your royal highness.” the serving girl curtsies and sets the basket down at logan’s feet. “will you be needing anything else, your royal highness?” logan shakes his head, mouth full of bun, and the serving girl ducks out of the infirmary. 

nate carefully pours tea for patton, adding the cream and honey that he’s learned patton loves, and then offers a cup to roman. “how do you take your tea, your - prince roman?” roman smiles. 

“two sugars, a splash of cream, please, nate.” 

they sit and sip their tea quietly for a while. logan on his own eats about five or six sweet buns before he takes a break for air or tea. in all the excitement of the tea and snacks, patton almost misses virgil’s eyes squeezing shut. 

almost. 

“virgil?” 

logan sets his teacup down so quickly it sloshes out onto the floor, leaning forward. virgil groans softly and turns his head back and forth. “virgil, dearest, beloved, it is alright. take your time, i’m here.” patton watches the way logan tenderly brushes hair off virgil’s face, hears the soft way in which the prince speaks to his brother, and leans a little further into roman, smiling; he’s glad that virgil has found someone so lovely to love. 

after a few more minutes of fussing, virgil slowly opens his eyes halfway. “mmmngh . . .” 

“hello, beloved,” logan whispers, tearing up. patton notices that he’s tapping his feet against the floor, rocking back and forth just slightly in his seat, and he hears roman make a soft, approving noise at his brother’s happy-stims. 

“lo?” 

“yes, beloved. it is me. patton is here too, and roman. we’re all here for you.” 

virgil’s head turns toward patton, and he can’t stop himself from crying either. “virge,” he chokes, all but throwing himself forward to hug virgil. he feels virgil press his face into his hair, and patton hugs him as best as he can. 

it feels like he’s just been cut loose from a massive anchor bound around his ankles. 

[miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb]

Microcanid Breeds N°9: Blaze Guardian

If there is a microcanid even fiercer than the Silver Ribbon, that is the Blaze Guardian. Shaped much like a chihuahua, these small critters are one of the smallest breeds yet the most aggressive when it comes to protecting its owner or something they are trusted with. The biolight lines cross its brownish body are proof of that, being actually petite windows to the overheating systems within that glow in red as the creature becomes more agitated and angry. These same systems are responsible for feeding the sharp dental plates of this breed with scorching heat to the point that they shine; a single bite is enough to melt away the surface armor and the inner structures of a bot’s servo, leaving behind a terrifying burnt wound. Despite the entirety of the proportions being small and simple in nature, the black optics of the creature are rather large for the skull, and become blazing red when triggered.

The main health issues within this breed are the problems with melted parts or overheatings, stress-induced fatigue and health conditions, complications with the dental plating and paws and optic damage. It is required a calm and relaxing environment for the breed, to ensure that most of these illnesses can be avoided. They might also develop a glossa-biting mania due to stress, which can lead to the loss of the entire piece as well as burns in the mouth.

This is normally a sweet little creature, whiny and demanding of affection and love when calm. A perfect fit with newborns and sparklings as well as carriers since they are light in their weight and gentle in their tiny sparks. They might be very stubborn but training is easier when there is a bond of trust and love between pet and trainer. They are prone to grumpy behavior and displays of dominance with other pets or microcanids that bother them, and this particular issue becomes more intensified as the animal grows older, so caution is advised. Never try to approach or handle this critter without the supervision of the owner unless if you are a professional, for their bites are extremely unpredictable and dangerous.

When the city of Kaon was yet to fully develop, the streets were safe. However, as time passed and industrial advancement reached the area, so did violence and crime. It slowly reached the limits, forcing the police forces to strike back, but even that was not enough to protect sparklings from kidnapping and abuse. Parents would often hide the fact that they had a son or a daughter just to keep the house protected from invasions or attacks. At around the times of Nova Prime, a neighboorhood in the city-state began fearing not only the threat of bandits, but of a new danger: Blaze, the street microcanid. This canid in specific was nothing one could see in others of the species; instead of being tame, this animal was brutal, chasing away and furiously lashing out at even far bigger cyberdogs or bots. Construction workers and factory employees were warned against even entering the same alleys as Blaze slept in, and even sometimes the police officers were assalted by the ruthless, miniature beast. Many tried killing Blaze, yet no one succeeded. The prefecture even tried setting up rewards and prizes far more expensive than the average bounties, but not even the local mafia had the courage to do so. One day though, a small group of sparklings met Blaze and began feeding the creature, slowly taming and befriending it. Eventually, Blaze became an affectionate pet, even if only for the sparklings who fed and played with it. Then, an unforgettable incident occurred: at a public orphanage, a suspect tried to kidnap a newspark by grabbing one by their leg and dragging them through the gated fence and out into the sidewalk. As he was about to leave, Blaze suddenly appeared, striking the bot without warning and biting his wrist so hard the entire servo fell off. The caretakers rushed to the area along with police officers nearby as soon as they heard the commotion, and were shocked and awed at the sight. Thanks to Blaze, a sparkling was saved and a wanted sparkling killer was finally caught by the authorities. After that day, Blaze became a hero for the whole city, as its story hit the news and the audios of the prefecture as quickly as the wind. The official microcanid breeders and breeds registration office of Kaon took no time to take Blaze in as their mascot, while the police battalion and the prefecture awarded it with medals of honor and a spot in their halls of fame. Some time later, Blaze’s first puppies were given to the police officers responsible with arresting the sparkling kidnapper as a tribute, and as they produced descendants, a new breed was developed by the registration office in collaboration with the police deputy and his battalion’s veterinarians, which was cataloged as “Blaze Guardian” to preserve the memory of Blaze for eternity. Eventually, the breed received its first breeders club in Kaon and became available to the public as the official microcanid breed of Kaon, becoming famous amongst worried and overprotective parents as well as endangered schools and orphanages. Even as the War started and the population of Kaon was hit with all sorts of military weaponry and tactics, forcing civilians to flee, these tiny yet brave warriors continued to protect loyally their owners, as well as their homes and belongings. Nowadays, the breed is still being bred and cared for by colonies not too far from Cybertron, although decepticons also sometimes are seen raising Blaze Guardians as tribute to Megatron’s homeland or to protect their bases and bunkers. According to some legends, Alpha Trion and Alchemist Prime have hidden the ancient relics of the Thirteen Primes in feral Balze Guardian nests, to keep them safe from any sort of robber. Not even Optimus Prime would be able to take the relics from the canids as the legend claims... 

[pl-panda]

My revolution

Disclaimer: I don't own Assassin's Creed unity, Miraculous Ladybug or Batman and I especially don't own The song My Revolution by Miracle of Sound,

--------

My revolution!

A hooded figure raced over the Parisian streets. His black and deep red hooded coat tailed him. The inner part was inlaid with red satin. He leaped onto a merchant's stand, garnering some attention. From there, he followed by launching himself forward and swinging on the flagpole that stood from the side of the building. The figure then grabbed the windowsill and pushed himself up. Getting a somewhat firm stand he used it to move himself to the next one and then up onto the room.

An eagle flew past him and soared high into the sky.

-----------

Voices joined will never tire Brothers all are we Streets they run with blood and fire The price of liberty

Two people dueled on the top of a mansion. In the distance, the sun was slowly rising, but it was mostly dark. The first man had a full black coat with a hood pulled up. He was fighting against a woman with visible Asian heritage. She had her dark hair cut short and wielded the Katana with rarely-seen grace and conviction. Her opponent was using a saber with a guard decorated with an ornate symbol of a bird with raised wings. She managed to parry his attack, but when she moved in for the riposte he monkey-gripped the top of her blade and diverted it. For a few seconds, her brown eyes met his emeralds. There was the opening that could end her.

Instead of striking her down though, he pulled her closer. She sank into the hug, and later the kiss.

-----------

My revolution carries me In a moment lost in time My revolution sets me free I will flow across the lines

The hooded man raced over the rooftops, not bothered by chimneys or ups and downs. While the hood hid his face, the determination was still clearly visible. He leaped over the edge and grabbed the top of a street lamp, using it to launch himself forward and through the window. He toppled the guard and allowed the extendable blade from his wristguard to slice through his throat before running forward. The other guard didn't have time to register what just happened before another figure entered and sank their blade in him. The two now unbothered carried forward.

----------

Bring out the brother in me I'm searching for unity Everything is changing Inside of me

Damian sat with the Japanese girl inside a small bakery. They were both enjoying sweet bread that was served there. Neither's face showed much emotion, but both had the corners of their lips curved up. No words were exchanged between them as they just soaked each other's presence in this rare moment of freedom in their lives.

The city's under my feet The ruins of the elite Everything is changing Inside of me

Kagami's face suddenly turned sour. "Please forgive me, Damian, but I can no longer enjoy your courting. I can assure you that my heart has not changed, but it is necessary that I uphold my family's values." With that, she stood up and left her companion alone. The small smile disappeared from her face, replaced by anger.

----------

Secret truths are buried deep Two fathers on two sides With every lunge and leap Closer to my kind

Damian stood alone on the rooftop overlooking the plaza in front of Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris. The crowd gathered to watch as city guards led the mysterious person toward the gallows. The convict was hidden from the view by dirty rag they used as an impromptu cloak. He could see Agreste standing with a slimy grin on his face. How did that man become captain was... money. Money was the answer. But not for long. From the smoke, three more figures joined him. The first one on his right wore a deep gray and black coat with blue finishing. A large spear was sheathed on his back. The next one wore a light-brown open coat with a bloody red hood. There were several pistols sticking out from underneath and he already held two of them ready. The last one, on his left, instead wore a dark red jacket and a black cloak over it. Twin belts crossed over his chest and held everything in place. He carried no visible weapons, but there was no doubt he was armed.

A lone eagle soared over the place when the four of them leaped down and melded with the crowd.

-----------

My revolution carries me In a moment lost in time My revolution sets me free I will flow across the lines

A man in black ran through the rooftops, followed by a girl maybe half his age. Her red hair stuck out from under the dark grayish hood. For a moment her black cloak shifted, revealing yellow lining.

"Stray your blade from innocent." The words echoed in her head. The two figured leaped over another gap and followed through the rooftops as the crowd marched the streets of Paris. "Never endanger the mission" They jumped down and pushed through the people of capital as they made their way onto the bridge, never slowing down. The wooden gate was closed and unless someone did something they would never enter the fortress

Damian joined the two runners. He and redhead leaped over the edge and grabbed the chains that held the watered bridge up. A quick slash of their blades cut the chains. The man in black joined them as the three climbed up the walls of Bastile.

Lone Eagle flew beside the crowd, observing everything.

----------

Bring out the brother in me I'm searching for unity Everything is changing Inside of me

Damian stood on top of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame as the storm roared over the city. He slowly picked the lock on the doors before entering the tower. The first guard that encountered him met a quick end by his blade. The next one was lucky enough to just end up knocked out. He would still probably be killed by their employer in a much more painful way, but he did not care. Those people chose their fate by following the vile captain.

Without making any sound or being spotted, Damian made his way to the gallery that overlooked the ceremony. His blood boiled. Kagami stood there in a pure white dress. It was nothing short of beautiful, but the cut was nothing seen before. She had a clearly improper low-cut that served as a window on her chest and at the same time the neck went high up and almost reached her skull. The sleeves were also long, extending up to her hands and seamlessly melded with gloves. He noticed she was very uncomfortable next to 'her groom', who stood there in full musketeer outfit and had all his medals high on display. What got Damian's attention was that Kagami tried her best to stay away from the young man. When she turned to the sight his trained eyes spotted one more thing. Through the delicate fabric, he could see a handprint on her neck. Now the shape of her dress made sense. She was a trophy for the show and at the same time behind closet doors... He knew she was a fighter and would rather die than surrender.

The city's under my feet The ruins of the elite Everything is changing Inside of me

And for that, she suffered. He failed once. Now he would succeed. Taking advantage of the applaud for the priest's words, Damian leaped onto the chandelier and the next one. He was now directly over them. The moment the couple once more turned toward the priest he let go of the line, allowing his body to fall. Mid-flight he rotated and pulled his arm back. A blade flashed and before anyone realized what happened it was sunk in the heart of Adrien Agreste. The young man was dead, but Damian had no time to reunite with Kagami. Several guards ran toward them, but that was not his biggest problem.

---------

Révolution dans les rues Je vois le chaos en dessous La justice est une rivière rouge Je te cherche, où es-tu?

The young man in black and red walked through the crowd just as captain Agreste was giving a speech. He pulled his saber and swirled it, having the crowd immediately part before him. Several guards ran toward him. Damian only accelerated. He swung his weapon, cutting the first one before he even got a chance to take a stance. The expression of surprise frozen on his face

The second guard tried to deliver a cut, but Damian stepped out of the path and struck him with the handle in the back of the head before thrusting his blade forward and piercing the jugular of the third guard.

He ran forward, used the sword-holding hand of one of the next guards to propel himself up. He managed to at the same time deliver a kick to the gun held by the other guard and cut the throat of the first guard with his hidden blade.

Damian then chased the stairs up onto the elevation and leaped. His blade quickly sunk into where the heart was supposed to be. Apparently, Gabriel kept something there because he coughed blood for a moment and passed away

Damian cut Kagami's tied hands and tossed her a sword from one of the fallen guards. Guards poured into the plaza en masse. The two young adults stood back to back as they slowly circled, looking for some escape. With over three dozen guns aimed at them, it was not easy. Damian did have a plan. He slowly moved them under the rope. The officer of the guard raised his sword to give the signal to fire when he suddenly thrust his hand forward. A projectile flew from his wrist toward the lever. It must've had enough strength to flip it because just as the loud sound of musket fire filled the plaza, the two of them fell into a trapdoor under the rope.

---------

My revolution carries me... My revolution sets me free...

The three hooded figured leaped over the edge of Bastile and toppled the guards that stood there. None of them stayed there as the woman tossed a ball in between the gathered guards on the courtyard. They managed to fire once, killing the first line of civilians. It was not enough to stop the crowd as more and more revolutionaries poured inside.

--------

My revolution carries me In a moment lost in time My revolution sets me free I will flow across the lines

From the crowd that still watched the events, the other three men emerged, cutting through the guards. Red Hooded one fired his guns at the guards, dispatching them without any miss before pulling out what could be described as ax-mortar. The grenade left the top of his weapon and exploded, creating a large cloud of smoke. Damian and Kagami used the opportunity to dash into the crowd and disappear. He pulled her on top of the roofs as they ran, finally free from everything and everyone. United. Together.

An eagle sailed over the Paris until it soared high up, over the Notre Dame and the clouds.

--------

Bring out the brother in me I'm searching for unity Everything is changing Inside of me

Kagami grabbed the sword from her dead husband-to-be and attacked Damian. He of course managed to parry the attack, but he had no idea why was she fighting him. Especially since she didn't put too much fight. With a quick flick of his wrist, he cut the fabric of her dress, causing one of her sleeves to fall, revealing a bruised forearm. This only ensured him that this was the correct decision. Why was she fighting him then?

The city's under my feet The ruins of the elite Everything is changing Inside of me

Seeing the question in his eyes, she stopped and pulled back, taking a defensive stance. The guards were surrounding them now, but neither fired out of fear of hurting the girl. For a moment, she stared into his face, trying her best to convey everything. There was never much need for words between them. To her relief, he seemed to understand. He gave a curt nod before dropping a ball that exploded into a cloud of smoke. She thought everything would be better now. Right before guards grabbed her and started to drag her out of the church.

----------

My revolution... It's gonna carry me Carry me

One of the guards almost got Damian from behind when another figure leaped from out of nowhere. She wore no cloak, but her black and brown coat was equipped with a black hood. The yellow finishes only added to the mystery. She was the only one who wore a mask in addition to the hood. He gave her a nod before turning back to fight. The girl already disappeared in the carnage.

When he was about to cut a soldier, his enemy suddenly fell with a dart sticking out of his neck. Angry, he looked over to see the man in black/blue coat give him a shrug before sinking his blade into the guard in the window and tossing him out.

--------

Révolution dans les rues Je vois le chaos en dessous La justice est une rivière rouge Je te cherche, où es-tu?

Kagami and Damian sat on top of the Louver. It was long since robbed and one of its wings burned down. In the distance, the sun was setting in the distance as they enjoyed each other's company. Like usual, there were no words needed. The mere presence of their companion was enough. Damian slowly pulled her into a kiss that lasted long after the night was upon them.

-----------

This work is part of an ongoing... something between me and @ethelphantom​. For every angst Constagami she posts I will be making a fluffy Damigami. Was this fluff? It had happy ending so I count it.

[hansrusellagero]

Artistic Swimming - Full Team Event from Rio 2016

The pool must be at least 20m wide x 30m long, and at least 2.5m deep. One area, 12x12m or larger, must be at least 3m deep and the slope between the change in depths has to be completed over a distance of 8m or less. The pool's water must be clear enough so that the bottom of the pool is visible from above and at least 27°C (80.6°F,) plus or minus one degree. The amount of light underwater is also very important, since goggles aren't worn in competition, so there is a required minimum brightness of 1500 lux.

Synchronized swimming is played in a specially designed pool. The water in the pool must be clean and the temperature of the water must be around 25 degree Celsius. The size of the pool must be a minimum of 20m by 30m, and within that a 12m-by-12m area must be at least 3 m deep. Let us now discuss the equipment used in synchronized swimming. In synchronized swimming, the athletes have to perform a lot of underwater movements. There are chances of water entering into the nose of the players. In order to avoid that, the athletes use a small clip of hard plastic or wire. It also has a thin rubber coating. Athletes can use goggles only for trainings. This is only used for figure test. Like goggles, athletes also cannot use the bathing caps during routine competitions. During figure test, only a white or black bathing cap is worn by athletes. The most important equipment for synchronized swimming is the underwater speakers. Swimmers cannot perform under water if the music is not audible. Music plays an important role in synchronized swimming because it is a rhythmic sport. We know that impedance of water is 3600 times more than that of air. There is also a 62 dB (decibel) offset between the sound that travels in air and that in water. To overcome this problem, the underwater speakers used in synchronized swimming depend on Piezoelectric Technology. One of the most important aspects of the swimsuit is that it must be comfortable for the athletes and it must be non-transparent. During the figure test, a black swimsuit is recommended for the athletes and during routine competition, a routine suit for each athlete that suits the music is recommended. It may also happen that athletes perform in two events like duet and team event. In such a situation, the athletes will be provided with two different swimsuits.

The basic skills you will need in synchronized swimming is sculling and treading water with a kick called the "eggbeater". There are also many positions that you can learn to combine into a routine. Additionally, there is an element known as “lifts” in synchronized swimming, where swimmers create a structure of sorts with their bodies and lift themselves from the water in the same formation, they created underwater. Sculls are hand movements used to propel the body and are essential to synchronized swimming. Some commonly used sculls are support, standard, torpedo, split-arm, barrel and paddle scull. The support scull is most often used and is made up of two repeated movements. You need to hold your upper arms against your body and your forearms at 90-degree angles. Then, you move your forearms back and forth to create enough water pressure to hold your legs above the water. This move is much like how a manual eggbeater works, with one leg rotating in a clockwise manner and rotating the other leg in an anti-clockwise manner. Synchronized swimmers use this kick because it leaves their hands free to perform strokes. Due to the opposite motion of the kick, it is a stable and efficient way for swimmers to attain the necessary height to perform moves above the water. Crane Position - Hold your body in a vertical position with one leg held vertically above the water surface, while the other leg is held parallel under the surface in a 90-degree angle or "L" shape. Ballet Leg Double Position is lying flat on the water surface, draw your knees towards your chest with shins parallel to the water surface. Straighten your legs above the water surface to assume a Surface Ballet Leg Double position. Side Fishtail Position is a position similar to the crane. One leg remains vertical, while the other is extended to the side parallel to the water, creating a side "Y" position. Knight Position is when the body is held vertically with your head in line with the hips and pointed to the bottom of the pool. One leg is lowered to create a vertical line perpendicular to the surface. Flamingo Position is similar to the ballet leg position where the bottom leg is pulled into the chest so that the shin of the bottom leg is touching the knee of the vertical leg. Split Position is when the body is vertical, one leg is stretched forward along the surface and the other leg is extended back along the surface.

Synchronized swimming demands advanced water skills, requires great strength, endurance, flexibility, grace, artistry and precise timing, as well as exceptional breath control when upside down underwater. Competitors show off their strength, flexibility, and aerobic endurance required to perform difficult routines. Swimmers perform two routines for judges, one technical and one free, as well as age group routines and figures. Synchronized swimming is both an individual and team sport. Swimmers compete individually during figures, and then as a team during the routine. Figures are made up of a combination of skills and positions that often require control, strength, and flexibility. Swimmers are ranked individually for this part of the competition. The routine involves teamwork and synchronization. It is choreographed to music and often has a theme. Depending on the competition level, swimmers will perform a "technical" routine with predetermined elements that must be performed in a specific order. The technical routine acts as a replacement for the figure event. In addition to the technical routine, the swimmers will perform a longer "free" routine, which has no requirements and is a chance for the swimmers to get creative and innovative with their choreography. The type of routine and competition level determines the length of routines. Routines typically last two to four minutes, the shortest being the technical solo, with length added as the number of swimmers is increased (duets, teams, combos and highlight). Age and skill level are other important factors in determining the required routine length.

While there are a range of rules and penalties for specific routines, the basic rules of artistic swimming are; No Touching the Bottom; One of the things which makes the lifts all the more impressive is that artistic swimmers are not allowed to touch the bottom of the pool at any point during their routines. No Bling; presentation is a unique and important part of artistic swimming but there are certain restrictions on what swimmers can wear. For example, artistic swimmers are not permitted jewelry, theatrical make-up, or inappropriate costumes. No Goggles; another restriction during artistic swimming routines is goggles. However, swimmers in figures competitions are permitted to wear them. Team Means Team; teams normally contain eight swimmers, but the minimum number for a team is four. Teams lose marks for every swimmer they have under the full complement because it is easier to synchronize the fewer people there are in a routine. Stick to The Schedule; routines can be anything from two and a half minutes to five minutes long, depending on whether they are performed alone or as part of a team. However, swimmers are penalized if they take 15 seconds fewer or longer than the specified time.

Team Egypt had a lot of movements from flips to turns and did a great job in doing formations. Team Australia had an artistic start starting off with graceful flips with a lot of coordinated successions and flips. Team Italy had a wonderful theme of seasons and then successfully interpreted a lovely rendition of it with slick pattern changes. Team Brazil had a great energy with their formations, pattern changes and a lot of successions with each and every single one on the team that is very appealing to the audience eyes. Team Ukraine with the phenomenal formations and their movement’s originality with tricks that seem risky and thrilling, making the routine magical as their theme intended. Team China started off the routine with a powerful flip synchronized moving formations and ending their routine with turns and formations of pure spectacle. Team Japan had artistic formations and fabulous flips with beautiful lineups of synchronization. Team Russia started the routine with an incredibly high flip and with near perfect synchronization with great athleticism and energy to carry on the routine winning them the Gold Medal.

[katherinewilliams221b]

For A Greater Good 2/18

Gif not mine just the text

Summary: Kate Williams, young healer and member of the Order, joins Durmstrang's staff at Dumbledore's request. Her mission? Find a Death Eater and survive long enough to tell the story. Set in 1996.

Pairing: Charlie Weasley x ofc

Masterlist

[Part 1]

--

Dear Charlie,                            7 Jan ‘96

I arrived yesterday in one piece. I wanted to write just as soon as I got here, but you can’t owl anytime you want. They have a strict and very controlled system, and they are very protective of their owls. You can use the owlery as many times as you want during Sundays.

The headmistress considered giving me a little more freedom in that regard, but I don’t want to tempt luck and make people ask why I have privileges.

I will stick to their rules and only send letters on Sundays, and with their owls. Please do NOT send Whiskey here, and warn your family not to use Errol either, I don’t think they could survive the weather here and Durmstrang won’t like my using foreign owls.

She assured me that the letters arrive within the day, so that’s good. They have a training program for the owls, but I saw them, and they are bigger than usual. Maybe a cross-species with a magical creature?

I am trying to convince the headmaster to let me use her fireplace from time to time to talk to you. I was told that this school uses spells to keep the place warm and protected from the snow, and they don’t use the fireplaces. Ever. I will have to be very careful, and I’m still trying to figure out how to be discreet.

They obliviate you when you arrive. They say it’s because they don’t want the school to be found, so I expect to be obliviated after my return.

They gave me a language potion! I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that I will be able to talk to anyone. Can you imagine that? The possibilities? I would investigate how that magic works right now if I had time. Can you do me a favour? In the tower next to our house, where I work, I have a small blackboard with some notes. Can you write something in the lines of “translator charms” or similar? Just so I remember.

Tomorrow I will start as a healer. You wouldn’t believe how big is the hospital wing! The headmistress, professor Rhode, told me it is common that students experiment by themselves and they have this room fully equipped for patients. Not even St Mungo’s have this quality. I wish I wasn’t in these circumstances, so I could explore the place with more detail.

I know what I have to do if you know what I mean, but I still have to put everything in order and figure out how exactly I’m going to face the task. I have no idea where to start, and I will be anchored in the hospital wing, so I won’t have much freedom.

Oh! I have a bedroom to myself on the top floor of the castle, and the views are breath-taking. You would love this place: the grounds, the mountains, the forest, and the lakes! I can see a ship from here, the one you told me they used to get to the Three Wizard Tournament last year, I believe.

Things are going to be calm for now, classes start again in less than a week so there’s not going to be not much to tell the next days.

I’m going to have lunch now and then get a map of the castle to be able to move around here.

Love,

K

 With a kiss to the envelope, she handed the letter to the owl that hopped in circles in front of her. He chirped with excitement at his new quest and accepted the message before lifting into the air.

Kate leaned on the rail at the top of the owlery and admired the mountains. Her uniform was suited to the cold weather and let her enjoy the views.

The owl flapped its wings and disappeared through the low clouds that painted the horizon. She remembered Hogwarts and its owlery; how she used to spend many afternoons watching the sunset while the owls were still asleep. Even the not so pleasant smell of it had become something so familiar that she missed it when it wasn’t there. Kate’s smile vanished at the thought. There were too many things she wished that were there, but weren’t.

The whistling of an eagle caught her attention. She tried to focus on the bird, but it was flying in circles above the forest. She turned around and looked for an owl that wasn’t sleeping; she didn’t want to scare the poor thing.

She chose a horned owl that seemed curious about her movements and placed her hand in front of its beak to let it recognise her.

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall,” She drew her wand out and murmured “Strigiforma.”

A pair of opera glasses appeared in the owl’s place and she hurried to catch them before returning to the rail.

It wasn’t an eagle; it was a hawk. Kate didn’t know much about birds or their behaviour, but flying in circles above a certain spot didn’t seem very usual. Perhaps there was a prey in the forest, for it seemed riveted by the trees.

On its way back towards the owlery, the hawk seemed to advert Kate’s presence in the tower.

Faster than her eyes could register, the bird flew straight into Kate’s direction, only to change its course in the last second, passing over the roof.

Still confused with the events, Kate set the glasses on a nest nearby and turned them into its original form.

The owl scoffed indignantly and turned around to avoid her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She rounded the nest and offered her hand as a peace offer. The owl looked at it and then away, keeping its head as high as possible.

“I will bring you some treats as compensation, I promise.”

--

Durmstrang Castle looked no smaller than Hogwarts from the inside. Kate managed to get to the library with great difficulty and had to suffer the taunts of some students when she asked for directions.

The library was a circular room, one of the towers, and was probably four stories high. Long tables occupied the centre of the room and each floor, visible from below, had small study areas.

Elegant chandeliers illuminated the place, but judging by the size of the windows, it would not receive much natural light throughout the day. This did not seem to bother the few people who were there. Perhaps they were used to the shadows, Kate thought.

Her attention was drawn to the golden, well-kept staircase upholstered with a red carpet that went up to the different floors with it. Just behind it, partially hidden behind black curtains, an empty table held the weight of more books than it should. It looks like my desk; she thought with a half a smile.

As she approached, she read the plaque propped up on one tower of books.

“If that book is not your thing, try to give the bell a ring.”

She scanned the place until she found a tiny bell hanging from the edge of the desk. With her index finger and thumb, she caught the string and hit it against the metal. Not hearing any noise, she tried again.

From the top of the tower, a bat hanging from one of the giant chandeliers broke loose from its resting place and plummeted to where Kate was standing. Flapping a couple more times, it flew over her head, causing her to jump. As it reached the desk, the bat changed shape, and a man dressed in an elegant black robe appeared.

“I heard you the first time.” He said with smiling eyes. “You don’t look like a student.”

“I am a new healer. Maybe you can help me, I’m looking for a map of the castle.” Kate looked at his face and could not help but feel a little envious; his skin seemed to glow, he had not a single wrinkle and his features were refined, almost translucent, as if made of glass. At first glance, it seemed that he was much older than Kate, but on closer examination of his features, it might have not been the case.

“Of course, I can help you. It’s my job.” A cloud of black dust appeared before her, and again the bat shot up. Kate followed its path up the first floor until it was out of sight.

After a minute, in which Kate shifted in her place several times, the sound of chains alerted her. She turned to the desk to find the librarian looking at her again. Her surprise must have been palpable, because the man snorted with amusement.

“Castles are particularly good at hiding secrets. Here, that’s for you.”

With a bow, he extended his arm and offered her a scroll. Kate went to accept it but held back before doing so.

“Am I allowed to borrow material?”

“I trust you will return it.” Kate nodded and accepted the scroll.

“I will. And thank you...”

“Corentin. At your service.” He said in a French accent before he turned into a bat one last time and flew to the lamp.

--

Kate went around every corner, every corridor and every room she could. She was able to recognise many of the places Astrid Rhode had shown her, and she discovered many more.

After a while, she entered what appeared to be a trophy room. Multiple shelves of medals and cups adorned the walls. Quidditch, duelling, and arts. It was clear that Durmstrang had taught many powerful and skilled wizards and witches.

At the end of the hall, a gigantic painting that occupied practically the entire wall showed a portrait of a woman. It stood still, unlike many of the paintings that decorated the corridors. Still, Kate felt as if her eyes followed every movement.

“Nerida Vulchanova.” She read on the plaque “Architect and founder of the Durmstrang Institute.”

“Remarkable woman, Vulchanova,” said a voice behind her back.

A woman with a complexion as dark as her robes and a shaved head observed her from an armchair in the shadows. When she stood up, Kate recognised her from the documents Astrid Rhode had given her.

“Mer Yankelevich. You may call me Mer.” She reached out her hand and Kate accepted it, trying her best to pretend she didn’t know her. “I teach charms. Haven’t seen you around here before...”

“Kate. I’m a new healer.”

She didn’t seem to care what Kate could say to her. She immediately turned her gaze to Nerida’s painting.

“Did you know that this castle could not stand without magic?” She made a dramatic pause that Kate found extremely unnecessary. She focused on the teacher’s mind and found arrogance and a strong feeling of superiority. She was gloating over her knowledge.

“The castle was built in the 13th century, and you can tell by its style and the size of its walls However, it has a peculiarity that no other building has. It can be seen right here in this room. Can you guess what it is?”

Kate watched as the long earrings Yankelevich was wearing seemed to wriggle with the question and a strange feeling invaded her body. She turned around, inspecting the room more closely.

Before she could make any comment, the teacher decided to speed up the conversation.

“Sometimes the things we are looking for are right in front of our eyes.” She went to the large windows behind Kate and leaned against the sill.

“When a wall is thick and low, it’s harder to knock down than a tall, thin one. Durmstrang Castle is only four stories high, and the walls are extremely thick, as you may have noticed. Their task is to support the castle.”

She touched the glass a couple of times with her razor-sharp long nails and smirked at Kate’s expression at the sound.

“It looks like it’s made of water.”

“That’s because none of the castle windows are made of glass. Nerida Vulchanova knew perfectly well that you can’t put windows in walls that support the entire weight of the vaults.”

Kate’s stomach jumped at the words. While she knew that her brother’s memories will always accompany her until the day she died, sometimes a word or a person could trigger the darkest parts of her mind. She had learnt to control it, and slowly but surely those memories hurt less than the day before.

Yankelevich reached for the handle and opened the window, letting in the cold wind of January.

“If these windows were made of glass and not magic, all the walls and ceilings would fall down. Fascinating, isn’t it? They are also soundproof.”

“Incredible, yes. Are you interested in architecture?”

“More than teaching, perhaps. I’m passionate about finding hidden places.”

“I’m sure Durmstrang is full of them.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” The teacher walked to Kate again, her back to the portrait. “I mean, here, in the trophy room.”

Kate raised the map and was about to explain how she explored the castle afternoon, when sounds of a fight alerted them. They looked at each other and hurried to the door.

“Say that again! Say that again!” a boy, probably in his third or fourth year, shouted while he pushed another student backwards.

“Your Dad deserved it! You are just a bunch of blood traitors! You and your stupid family!”

Everything happened so fast, it looked like someone had pressed a switch and from one second to another, both students were on the floor trying to punch and kick each other.

Kate’s eyes widened at the sentence. She was left frozen in place, unable to react fast enough to the situation.

She saw how they managed to get up, but they were still fighting. Some other students came to enjoy the show and the corridor rapidly filled itself with deafening screams of encouragement.

Kate stumbled as she was being pushed further away from the wrestling.

The map slipped from her hand in the commotion and she struggled to get on her knees to find it. From the corner of her eye, she saw how something fled from somewhere among the crowd. A book?

“What the...” Kate murmured when huge black clouds covered the ceiling of the hallway.

Sounds of a storm right above their heads made everyone stay motionless in their spots.

“What, in Vulchanov’s name, is happening here?” Headmaster Rhode’s voice sounded as if she was holding a megaphone. However, her hands were raised, controlling the rumble and lightning of the storm.

With a wave, the clouds dissipated as well as the students that opened a path for her to walk.

Kate noticed the blood in one of the boys’ nose and tried to reach them, pushing aside the curious souls that didn’t want to miss Astrid Rhode’s fury.

“What do you think you are doing? Fighting like a pair of water demons instead of duelling like civilised young wizards. I’ll throw you myself in the lake if that’s what you want?”

A pair of ‘No, professor.’ bounced against the walls and echoed in the tense stillness of the place.

“Let me see the nose,” Kate ordered. After a quick examination, she drew her wand out before saying “Episkey”

The cracking noise made more than one student hiss.

“Now everyone out of here. I don’t want to see you. Prepare everything for the new term that’s starting in a few days. Go.”

The corridor cleared, and Kate noticed the book that rested on the floor. Before she could grab it, Mer Yankelevich bent down and took hold of it.

“Advanced guide for curse-breaking.” she read “Someone’s been inquisitive these holidays. I’m going to return this to Corentin, now.” she added, laughing.

Astrid nodded first at the teacher and then at Kate, adding a hidden meaning unknown for Yankelevich.

She couldn’t identify what Rhode was trying to tell her until the headmaster’s gaze shifted almost imperceptibly towards Mer Yankelevich’s back. Kate inhaled and crouched, pretending to tie more securely the shoelaces of her boots.

When the charms teacher rounded the corner, Kate darted after her, trying to jog, avoiding touching the heel to the ground.

She pressed her back against the wall, turned her head slightly to spy to the other side and observed how Yankelevich opened a door to another corridor instead of heading to the library’s direction.

Kate spent the rest of the afternoon considering Mer Yankelevich a procrastinator or a liar, inclining herself for the latter.

[Part 3]

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Bloody Chamber

Angela Carter (1979)

I remember how, that night, I lay awake in the wagon-lit in a tender, delicious ecstasy of excitement, my burning cheek pressed against the impeccable linen of the pillow and the pounding of my heart mimicking that of the great pistons ceaselessly thrusting the train that bore me through the night, away from Paris, away from girlhood, away from the white, enclosed quietude of my mother's apartment, into the unguessable country of marriage.

And I remember I tenderly imagined how, at this very moment, my mother would be moving slowly about the narrow bedroom I had left behind for ever, folding up and putting away all my little relics, the tumbled garments I would not need any more, the scores for which there had been no room in my trunks, the concert programmes I'd abandoned; she would linger over this torn ribbon and that faded photograph with all the half-joyous, half-sorrowful emotions of a woman on her daughter's wedding day. And, in the midst of my bridal triumph, I felt a pang of loss as if, when he put the gold band on my finger, I had, in some way, ceased to be her child in becoming his wife.

Are you sure, she'd said when they delivered the gigantic box that held the wedding dress he'd bought me, wrapped up in tissue paper and red ribbon like a Christmas gift of crystallized fruit. Are you sure you love him? There was a dress for her, too; black silk, with the dull, prismatic sheen of oil on water, finer than anything she'd worn since that adventurous girlhood in Indo-China, daughter of a rich tea planter.

My eagle-featured, indomitable mother; what other student at the Conservatoire could boast that her mother had outfaced a junkful of Chinese pirates, nursed a village through a visitation of the plague, shot a man-eating tiger with her own hand and all before she was as old as I?

'Are you sure you love him?'

'I'm sure I want to marry him,' I said.

And would say no more. She sighed, as if it was with reluctance that she might at last banish the spectre of poverty from its habitual place at our meagre table. For my mother herself had gladly, scandalously, defiantly beggared herself for love; and, one fine day, her gallant soldier never returned from the wars, leaving his wife and child a legacy of tears that never quite dried, a cigar box full of medals and the antique service revolver that my mother, grown magnificently eccentric in hardship, kept always in her reticule, in case--how I teased her--she was surprised by footpads on her way home from the grocer's shop.

Now and then a starburst of lights spattered the drawn blinds as if the railway company had lit up all the stations through which we passed in celebration of the bride. My satin nightdress had just been shaken from its wrappings; it had slipped over my young girl's pointed breasts and shoulders, supple as a garment of heavy water, and now teasingly caressed me, egregious, insinuating, nudging between my thighs as I shifted restlessly in my narrow berth. His kiss, his kiss with tongue and teeth in it and a rasp of beard, had hinted to me, though with the same exquisite tact as this nightdress he'd given me, of the wedding night, which would be voluptuously deferred until we lay in his great ancestral bed in the sea- girt, pinnacled domain that lay, still, beyond the grasp of my imagination ... that magic place, the fairy castle whose walls were made of foam, that legendary habitation in which he had been born. To which, one day, I might bear an heir. Our destination, my destiny.

Above the syncopated roar of the train, I could hear his even, steady breathing. Only the communicating door kept me from my husband and it stood open. If I rose up on my elbow, I could see the dark, leonine shape of his head and my nostrils caught a whiff of the opulent male scent of leather and spices that always accompanied him and sometimes, during his courtship, had been the only hint he gave me that he had come into my mother's sitting room, for, though he was a big man, he moved as softly as if all his shoes had soles of velvet, as if his footfall turned the carpet into snow.

He had loved to surprise me in my abstracted solitude at the piano. He would tell them not to announce him, then soundlessly open the door and softly creep up behind me with his bouquet of hot-house flowers or his box of marrons glacés, lay his offering upon the keys and clasp his hands over my eyes as I was lost in a Debussy prelude. But that perfume of spiced leather always betrayed him; after my first shock, I was forced always to mimic surprise, so that he would not be disappointed.

He was older than I. He was much older than I; there were streaks of pure silver in his dark mane. But his strange, heavy, almost waxen face was not lined by experience. Rather, experience seemed to have washed it perfectly smooth, like a stone on a beach whose fissures have been eroded by successive tides. And sometimes that face, in stillness when he listened to me playing, with the heavy eyelids folded over eyes that always disturbed me by their absolute absence of light, seemed to me like a mask, as if his real face, the face that truly reflected all the life he had led in the world before he met me, before, even, I was born, as though that face lay underneath this mask. Or else, elsewhere. As though he had laid by the face in which he had lived for so long in order to offer my youth a face unsigned by the years.

And, elsewhere, I might see him plain. Elsewhere. But, where?

In, perhaps, that castle to which the train now took us, that marvellous castle in which he had been born.

Even when he asked me to marry him, and I said: 'Yes,' still he did not lose that heavy, fleshy composure of his. I know it must seem a curious analogy, a man with a flower, but sometimes he seemed to me like a lily. Yes. A lily. Possessed of that strange, ominous calm of a sentient vegetable, like one of those cobra- headed, funereal lilies whose white sheaths are curled out of a flesh as thick and tensely yielding to the touch as vellum. When I said that I would marry him, not one muscle in his face stirred, but he let out a long, extinguished sigh. I thought: Oh! how he must want me! And it was as though the imponderable weight of his desire was a force I might not withstand, not by virtue of its violence but because of its very gravity.

He had the ring ready in a leather box lined with crimson velvet, a fire opal the size of a pigeon's egg set in a complicated circle of dark antique gold. My old nurse, who still lived with my mother and me, squinted at the ring askance: opals are bad luck, she said. But this opal had been his own mother's ring, and his grandmother's, and her mother's before that, given to an ancestor by Catherine de Medici ... every bride that came to the castle wore it, time out of mind. And did he give it to his other wives and have it back from them? asked the old woman rudely; yet she was a snob. She hid her incredulous joy at my marital coup--her little Marquise--behind a façade of fault-finding. But, here, she touched me. I shrugged and turned my back pettishly on her. I did not want to remember how he had loved other women before me, but the knowledge often teased me in the threadbare self-confidence of the small hours.

I was seventeen and knew nothing of the world; my Marquis had been married before, more than once, and I remained a little bemused that, after those others, he should now have chosen me. Indeed, was he not still in mourning for his last wife? Tsk, tsk, went my old nurse.

And even my mother had been reluctant to see her girl whisked off by a man so recently bereaved. A Romanian countess, a lady of high fashion. Dead just three short months before I met him, a boating accident, at his home, in Brittany. They never found her body but I rummaged through the back copies of the society magazines my old nanny kept in a trunk under her bed and tracked down her photograph. The sharp muzzle of a pretty, witty, naughty monkey; such potent and bizarre charm, of a dark, bright, wild yet worldly thing whose natural habitat must have been some luxurious interior decorator's jungle filled with potted palms and tame, squawking parakeets.

Before that? Her face is common property; everyone painted her but the Redon engraving I liked best, The Evening Star Walking on the Rim of Night. To see her skeletal, enigmatic grace, you would never think she had been a barmaid in a café in Montmartre until Puvis de Chavannes saw her and had her expose her flat breasts and elongated thighs to his brush. And yet it was the absinthe doomed her, or so they said.

The first of all his ladies? That sumptuous diva; I had heard her sing Isolde, precociously musical child that I was, taken to the opera for a birthday treat. My first opera; I had heard her sing Isolde. With what white-hot passion had she burned from the stage! So that you could tell she would die young. We sat high up, halfway to heaven in the gods, yet she half-blinded me. And my father, still alive (oh, so long ago), took hold of my sticky little hand, to comfort me, in the last act, yet all I heard was the glory of her voice.

Married three times within my own brief lifetime to three different graces, now, as if to demonstrate the eclecticism of his taste, he had invited me to join this gallery of beautiful women, I, the poor widow's child with my mouse-coloured hair that still bore the kinks of the plaits from which it had so recently been freed, my bony hips, my nervous, pianist's fingers.

He was rich as Croesus. The night before our wedding--a simple affair, at the Mairie, because his countess was so recently gone--he took my mother and me, curious coincidence, to see Tristan. And, do you know, my heart swelled and ached so during the Liebestod that I thought I must truly love him. Yes. I did. On his arm, all eyes were upon me. The whispering crowd in the foyer parted like the Red Sea to let us through. My skin crisped at his touch.

How my circumstances had changed since the first time I heard those voluptuous chords that carry such a charge of deathly passion in them! Now, we sat in a loge, in red velvet armchairs, and a braided, bewigged flunkey brought us a silver bucket of iced champagne in the interval. The froth spilled over the rim of my glass and drenched my hands, I thought: My cup runneth over. And I had on a Poiret dress. He had prevailed upon my reluctant mother to let him buy my trousseau; what would I have gone to him in, otherwise? Twice-darned underwear, faded gingham, serge skirts, hand-me-downs. So, for the opera, I wore a sinuous shift of white muslin tied with a silk string under the breasts. And everyone stared at me. And at his wedding gift.

His wedding gift, clasped round my throat. A choker of rubies, two inches wide, like an extraordinarily precious slit throat.

After the Terror, in the early days of the Directory, the aristos who'd escaped the guillotine had an ironic fad of tying a red ribbon round their necks at just the point where the blade would have sliced it through, a red ribbon like the memory of a wound. And his grandmother, taken with the notion, had her ribbon made up in rubies; such a gesture of luxurious defiance! That night at the opera comes back to me even now ... the white dress; the frail child within it; and the flashing crimson jewels round her throat, bright as arterial blood.

I saw him watching me in the gilded mirrors with the assessing eye of a connoisseur inspecting horseflesh, or even of a housewife in the market, inspecting cuts on the slab. I'd never seen, or else had never acknowledged, that regard of his before, the sheer carnal avarice of it; and it was strangely magnified by the monocle lodged in his left eye. When I saw him look at me with lust, I dropped my eyes but, in glancing away from him, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. And I saw myself, suddenly, as he saw me, my pale face, the way the muscles in my neck stuck out like thin wire. I saw how much that cruel necklace became me. And, for the first time in my innocent and confined life, I sensed in myself a potentiality for corruption that took my breath away.

The next day, we were married.

The train slowed, shuddered to a halt. Lights; clank of metal; a voice declaring the name of an unknown, never-to-be visited station; silence of the night; the rhythm of his breathing, that I should sleep with, now, for the rest of my life. And I could not sleep. I stealthily sat up, raised the blind a little and huddled against the cold window that misted over with the warmth of my breathing, gazing out at the dark platform towards those rectangles of domestic lamplight that promised warmth, company, a supper of sausages hissing in a pan on the stove for the station master, his children tucked up in bed asleep in the brick house with the painted shutters ... all the paraphernalia of the everyday world from which I, with my stunning marriage, had exiled myself.

Into marriage, into exile; I sensed it, I knew it--that, henceforth, I would always be lonely. Yet that was part of the already familiar weight of the fire opal that glimmered like a gypsy's magic ball, so that I could not take my eyes off it when I played the piano. This ring, the bloody bandage of rubies, the wardrobe of clothes from Poiret and Worth, his scent of Russian leather--all had conspired to seduce me so utterly that I could not say I felt one single twinge of regret for the world of tar-tines and maman that now receded from me as if drawn away on a string, like a child's toy, as the train began to throb again as if in delighted anticipation of the distance it would take me.

The first grey streamers of the dawn now flew in the sky and an eldritch half-light seeped into the railway carriage. I heard no change in his breathing but my heightened, excited senses told me he was awake and gazing at me. A huge man, an enormous man, and his eyes, dark and motionless as those eyes the ancient Egyptians painted upon their sarcophagi, fixed upon me. I felt a certain tension in the pit of my stomach, to be so watched, in such silence. A match struck. He was igniting a Romeo y Julieta fat as a baby's arm.

'Soon,' he said in his resonant voice that was like the tolling of a bell and I felt, all at once, a sharp premonition of dread that lasted only as long as the match flared and I could see his white, broad face as if it were hovering, disembodied, above the sheets, illuminated from below like a grotesque carnival head. Then the flame died, the cigar glowed and filled the compartment with a remembered fragrance that made me think of my father, how he would hug me in a warm fug of Havana, when I was a little girl, before he kissed me and left me and died.

As soon as my husband handed me down from the high step of the train, I smelled the amniotic salinity of the ocean. It was November; the trees, stunted by the Atlantic gales, were bare and the lonely halt was deserted but for his leather-gaitered chauffeur waiting meekly beside the sleek black motor car. It was cold; I drew my furs about me, a wrap of white and black, broad stripes of ermine and sable, with a collar from which my head rose like the calyx of a wildflower. (I swear to you, I had never been vain until I met him.) The bell clanged; the straining train leapt its leash and left us at that lonely wayside halt where only he and I had descended. Oh, the wonder of it; how all that might of iron and steam had paused only to suit his convenience. The richest man in France. 'Madame.'

The chauffeur eyed me; was he comparing me, invidiously, to the countess, the artist's model, the opera singer? I hid behind my furs as if they were a system of soft shields. My husband liked me to wear my opal over my kid glove, a showy, theatrical trick--but the moment the ironic chauffeur glimpsed its simmering flash he smiled, as though it was proof positive I was his master's wife. And we drove towards the widening dawn, that now streaked half the sky with a wintry bouquet of pink of roses, orange of tiger- lilies, as if my husband had ordered me a sky from a florist. The day broke around me like a cool dream.

Sea; sand; a sky that melts into the sea--a landscape of misty pastels with a look about it of being continuously on the point of melting. A landscape with all the deliquescent harmonies of Debussy, of the études I played for him, the reverie I'd been playing that afternoon in the salon of the princess where I'd first met him, among the teacups and the little cakes, I, the orphan, hired out of charity to give them their digestive of music.

And, ah! his castle. The faery solitude of the place; with its turrets of misty blue, its courtyard, its spiked gate, his castle that lay on the very bosom of the sea with seabirds mewing about its attics, the casements opening on to the green and purple, evanescent departures of the ocean, cut off by the tide from land for half a day ... that castle, at home neither on the land nor on the water, a mysterious, amphibious place, contravening the materiality of both earth and the waves, with the melancholy of a mermaiden who perches on her rock and waits, endlessly, for a lover who had drowned far away, long ago. That lovely, sad, sea-siren of a place!

The tide was low; at this hour, so early in the morning, the causeway rose up out of the sea. As the car turned on to the wet cobbles between the slow margins of water, he reached out for my hand that had his sultry, witchy ring on it, pressed my fingers, kissed my palm with extraordinary tenderness. His face was as still as ever I'd seen it, still as a pond iced thickly over, yet his lips, that always looked so strangely red and naked between the black fringes of his beard, now curved a little. He smiled; he welcomed his bride home.

No room, no corridor that did not rustle with the sound of the sea and all the ceilings, the walls on which his ancestors in the stern regalia of rank lined up with their dark eyes and white faces, were stippled with refracted light from the waves which were always in motion; that luminous, murmurous castle of which I was the chatelaine, I, the little music student whose mother had sold all her jewellery, even her wedding ring, to pay the fees at the Conservatoire.

First of all, there was the small ordeal of my initial interview with the housekeeper, who kept this extraordinary machine, this anchored, castellated ocean liner, in smooth running order no matter who stood on the bridge; how tenuous, I thought, might be my authority here! She had a bland, pale, impassive, dislikeable face beneath the impeccably starched white linen head-dress of the region. Her greeting, correct but lifeless, chilled me; daydreaming, I dared presume too much on my status ... briefly wondered how I might install my old nurse, so much loved, however cosily incompetent, in her place. Ill- considered schemings! He told me this one had been his foster mother; was bound to his family in the utmost feudal complicity, 'as much part of the house as I am, my dear'. Now her thin lips offered me a proud little smile. She would be my ally as long as I was his. And with that, I must be content.

But, here, it would be easy to be content. In the turret suite he had given me for my very own, I could gaze out over the tumultuous Atlantic and imagine myself the Queen of the Sea. There was a Bechstein for me in the music room and, on the wall, another wedding present--an early Flemish primitive of Saint

Cecilia at her celestial organ. In the prim charm of this saint, with her plump, sallow cheeks and crinkled brown hair, I saw myself as I could have wished to be. I warmed to a loving sensitivity I had not hitherto suspected in him. Then he led me up a delicate spiral staircase to my bedroom; before she discreetly vanished, the housekeeper set him chuckling with some, I dare say, lewd blessing for newlyweds in her native Breton. That I did not understand. That he, smiling, refused to interpret.

And there lay the grand, hereditary matrimonial bed, itself the size, almost, of my little room at home, with the gargoyles carved on its surfaces of ebony, vermilion lacquer, gold leaf; and its white gauze curtains, billowing in the sea breeze. Our bed. And surrounded by so many mirrors! Mirrors on all the walls, in stately frames of contorted gold, that reflected more white lilies than I'd ever seen in my life before. He'd filled the room with them, to greet the bride, the young bride. The young bride, who had become that multitude of girls I saw in the mirrors, identical in their chic navy blue tailor-mades, for travelling, madame, or walking. A maid had dealt with the furs. Henceforth, a maid would deal with everything.

'See,' he said, gesturing towards those elegant girls. 'I have acquired a whole harem for myself!'

I found that I was trembling. My breath came thickly. I could not meet his eye and turned my head away, out of pride, out of shyness, and watched a dozen husbands approach me in a dozen mirrors and slowly, methodically, teasingly, unfasten the buttons of my jacket and slip it from my shoulders. Enough! No; more! Off comes the skirt; and, next, the blouse of apricot linen that cost more than the dress I had for first communion. The play of the waves outside in the cold sun glittered on his monocle; his movements seemed to me deliberately coarse, vulgar. The blood rushed to my face again, and stayed there.

And yet, you see, I guessed it might be so--that we should have a formal disrobing of the bride, a ritual from the brothel. Sheltered as my life had been, how could I have failed, even in the world of prim bohemia in which I lived, to have heard hints of his world?

He stripped me, gourmand that he was, as if he were stripping the leaves off an artichoke--but do not imagine much finesse about it; this artichoke was no particular treat for the diner nor was he yet in any greedy haste. He approached his familiar treat with a weary appetite. And when nothing but my scarlet, palpitating core remained, I saw, in the mirror, the living image of an etching by Rops from the collection he had shown me when our engagement permitted us to be alone together ... the child with her sticklike limbs, naked but for her button boots, her gloves, shielding her face with her hand as though her face were the last repository of her modesty; and the old, monocled lecher who examined her, limb by limb.

He in his London tailoring; she, bare as a lamb chop. Most pornographic of all confrontations. And so my purchaser unwrapped his bargain. And, as at the opera, when I had first seen my flesh in his eyes, I was aghast to feel myself stirring.

At once he closed my legs like a book and I saw again the rare movement of his lips that meant he smiled.

Not yet. Later. Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure, my little love.

And I began to shudder, like a racehorse before a race, yet also with a kind of fear, for I felt both a strange, impersonal arousal at the thought of love and at the same time a repugnance I could not stifle for his white, heavy flesh that had too much in common with the armfuls of arum lilies that filled my bedroom in great glass jars, those undertakers' lilies with the heavy pollen that powders your fingers as if you had dipped them in turmeric. The lilies I always associate with him; that are white. And stain you.

This scene from a voluptuary's life was now abruptly terminated. It turns out he has business to attend to; his estates, his companies--even on your honeymoon? Even then, said the red lips that kissed me before he left me alone with my bewildered senses--a wet, silken brush from his beard; a hint of the pointed tip of the tongue. Disgruntled, I wrapped a neglige of antique lace around me to sip the little breakfast of hot chocolate the maid brought me; after that, since it was second nature to me, there was nowhere to go but the music room and soon I settled down at my piano.

Yet only a series of subtle discords flowed from beneath my fingers: out of tune ... only a little out of tune; but I'd been blessed with perfect pitch and could not bear to play any more. Sea breezes are bad for pianos; we shall need a resident piano-tuner on the premises if I'm to continue with my studies! I flung down the lid in a little fury of disappointment; what should I do now, how shall I pass the long, sea-lit hours until my husband beds me?

I shivered to think of that.

His library seemed the source of his habitual odour of Russian leather. Row upon row of calf-bound volumes, brown and olive, with gilt lettering on their spines, the octavo in brilliant scarlet morocco. A deep-buttoned leather sofa to recline on. A lectern, carved like a spread eagle, that held open upon it an edition of Huysmans's Là-bas, from some over-exquisite private press; it had been bound like a missal, in brass, with gems of coloured glass. The rugs on the floor, deep, pulsing blues of heaven and red of the heart's dearest blood, came from Isfahan and Bokhara; the dark panelling gleamed; there was the lulling music of the sea and a fire of apple logs. The flames flickered along the spines inside a glass-fronted case that held books still crisp and new. Eliphas Levy; the name meant nothing to me. I squinted at a title or two: The Initiation, The Key of Mysteries, The Secret of Pandora's Box, and yawned. Nothing, here, to detain a seventeen-year-old girl waiting for her first embrace. I should have liked, best of all, a novel in yellow paper; I wanted to curl up on the rug before the blazing fire, lose myself in a cheap novel, munch sticky liqueur chocolates. If I rang for them, a maid would bring me chocolates.

Nevertheless, I opened the doors of that bookcase idly to browse. And I think I knew, I knew by some tingling of the fingertips, even before I opened that slim volume with no title at all on the spine, what I should find inside it. When he showed me the Rops, newly bought, dearly prized, had he not hinted that he was a connoisseur of such things? Yet I had not bargained for this, the girl with tears hanging on her cheeks like stuck pearls, her cunt a split fig below the great globes of her buttocks on which the knotted tails of the cat were about to descend, while a man in a black mask fingered with his free hand his prick, that curved upwards like the scimitar he held. The picture had a caption: 'Reproof of curiosity'. My mother, with all the precision of her eccentricity, had told me what it was that lovers did; I was innocent but not naïve. The Adventures of Eulalie at the Harem of the Grand Turk had been printed, according to the flyleaf, in Amsterdam in 1748, a rare collector's piece. Had some ancestor brought it back himself from that northern city? Or had my husband bought it for himself, from one of those dusty little bookshops on the Left Bank where an old man peers at you through spectacles an inch thick, daring you to inspect his wares ... I turned the pages in the anticipation of fear; the print was rusty. Here was another steel engraving: 'Immolation of the wives of the Sultan'. I knew enough for what I saw in that book to make me gasp.

There was a pungent intensification of the odour of leather that suffused his library; his shadow fell across the massacre.

'My little nun has found the prayerbooks, has she?' he demanded, with a curious mixture of mockery and relish; then, seeing my painful, furious bewilderment, he laughed at me aloud, snatched the book from my hands and put it down on the sofa.

'Have the nasty pictures scared Baby? Baby mustn't play with grownups' toys until she's learned how to handle them, must she?'

Then he kissed me. And with, this time, no reticence. He kissed me and laid his hand imperatively upon my breast, beneath the sheath of ancient lace. I stumbled on the winding stair that led to the bedroom, to the carved, gilded bed on which he had been conceived. I stammered foolishly: We've not taken luncheon yet; and, besides, it is broad daylight...

All the better to see you.

He made me put on my choker, the family heirloom of one woman who had escaped the blade. With trembling fingers, I fastened the thing about my neck. It was cold as ice and chilled me. He twined my hair into a rope and lifted it off my shoulders so that he could the better kiss the downy furrows below my ears; that made me shudder. And he kissed those blazing rubies, too. He kissed them before he kissed my mouth. Rapt, he intoned:' Of her apparel she retains/Only her sonorous jewellery.'

A dozen husbands impaled a dozen brides while the mewing gulls swung on invisible trapezes in the empty air outside.

I was brought to my senses by the insistent shrilling of the telephone. He lay beside me, felled like an oak, breathing stertorously, as if he had been fighting with me. In the course of that one-sided struggle, I had seen his deathly composure shatter like a porcelain vase flung against a wall; I had heard him shriek and blaspheme at the orgasm; I had bled. And perhaps I had seen his face without its mask; and perhaps I had not. Yet I had been infinitely dishevelled by the loss of my virginity.

I gathered myself together, reached into the cloisonne cupboard beside the bed that concealed the telephone and addressed the mouthpiece. His agent in New York. Urgent.

I shook him awake and rolled over on my side, cradling my spent body in my arms. His voice buzzed like a hive of distant bees. My husband. My husband, who, with so much love, filled my bedroom with lilies until it looked like an embalming parlour. Those somnolent lilies, that wave their heavy heads, distributing their lush, insolent incense reminiscent of pampered flesh.

When he'd finished with the agent, he turned to me and stroked the ruby necklace that bit into my neck, but with such tenderness now, that I ceased flinching and he caressed my breasts. My dear one, my little love, my child, did it hurt her? He's so sorry for it, such impetuousness, he could not help himself; you see, he loves her so ... and this lover's recitative of his brought my tears in a flood. I clung to him as though only the one who had inflicted the pain could comfort me for suffering it. For a while, he murmured to me in a voice I'd never heard before, a voice like the soft consolations of the sea. But then he unwound the tendrils of my hair from the buttons of his smoking jacket, kissed my cheek briskly and told me the agent from New York had called with such urgent business that he must leave as soon as the tide was low enough. Leave the castle? Leave France! And would be away for at least six weeks.

'But it is our honeymoon!'

A deal, an enterprise of hazard and chance involving several millions, lay in the balance, he said. He drew away from me into that waxworks stillness of his; I was only a little girl, I did not understand. And, he said unspoken to my wounded vanity, I have had too many honeymoons to find them in the least pressing commitments. I know quite well that this child I've bought with a handful of coloured stones and the pelts of dead beasts won't run away. But, after he'd called his Paris agent to book a passage for the States next day--just one tiny call, my little one--we should have time for dinner together.

And I had to be content with that.

A Mexican dish of pheasant with hazelnuts and chocolate; salad; white, voluptuous cheese; a sorbet of muscat grapes and Asti spumante. A celebration of Krug exploded festively. And then acrid black coffee in precious little cups so fine it shadowed the birds with which they were painted. I had Cointreau, he had cognac in the library, with the purple velvet curtains drawn against the night, where he took me to perch on his knee in a leather armchair beside the flickering log fire. He had made me change into that chaste little Poiret shift of white muslin; he seemed especially fond of it, my breasts showed through the flimsy stuff, he said, like little soft white doves that sleep, each one, with a pink eye open. But he would not let me take off my ruby choker, although it was growing very uncomfortable, nor fasten up my descending hair, the sign of a virginity so recently ruptured that still remained a wounded presence between us. He twined his fingers in my hair until I winced; I said, I remember, very little.

'The maid will have changed our sheets already,' he said. 'We do not hang the bloody sheets out of the window to prove to the whole of Brittany you are a virgin, not in these civilized times. But I should tell you it would have been the first time in all my married lives I could have shown my interested tenants such a flag.'

Then I realized, with a shock of surprise, how it must have been my innocence that captivated him--the silent music, he said, of my unknowingness, like La Terrasse des audiences au clair de lune played upon a piano with keys of ether. You must remember how ill at ease I was in that luxurious place, how unease had been my constant companion during the whole length of my courtship by this grave satyr who now gently martyrized my hair. To know that my naivety gave him some pleasure made me take heart.

Courage! I shall act the fine lady to the manner born one day, if only by virtue of default.

Then, slowly yet teasingly, as if he were giving a child a great, mysterious treat, he took out a bunch of keys from some interior hidey-hole in his jacket--key after key, a key, he said, for every lock in the house. Keys of all kinds--huge, ancient things of black iron; others slender, delicate, almost baroque; wafer-thin Yale keys for safes and boxes. And, during his absence, it was I who must take care of them all.

I eyed the heavy bunch with circumspection. Until that moment, I had not given a single thought to the practical aspects of marriage with a great house, great wealth, a great man, whose key ring was as crowded as that of a prison warder. Here were the clumsy and archaic keys for the dungeons, for dungeons we had in plenty although they had been converted to cellars for his wines; the dusty bottles inhabited in racks all those deep holes of pain in the rock on which the castle was built. These are the keys to the kitchens, this is the key to the picture gallery, a treasure house filled by five centuries of avid collectors--ah! he foresaw I would spend hours there.

He had amply indulged his taste for the Symbolists, he told me with a glint of greed. There was Moreau's great portrait of his first wife, the famous Sacrificial Victim with the imprint of the lacelike chains on her pellucid skin. Did I know the story of the painting of that picture? How, when she took off her clothes for him for the first time, she fresh from her bar in Montmartre, she had robed herself involuntarily in a blush that reddened her breasts, her shoulders, her arms, her whole body? He had thought of that story, of that dear girl, when first he had undressed me ... Ensor, the great Ensor, his monolithic canvas: The Foolish Virgins. Two or three late Gauguins, his special favourite the one of the tranced brown girl in the deserted house which was called: Out of the Night We Come, Into the Night We Go. And, besides the additions he had made himself, his marvellous inheritance of Watteaus, Poussins and a pair of very special Fragonards, commissioned for a licentious ancestor who, it was said, had posed for the master's brush himself with his own two daughters ... He broke off his catalogue of treasures abruptly.

Your thin white face, chérie; he said, as if he saw it for the first time. Your thin white face, with its promise of debauchery only a connoisseur could detect.

A log fell in the fire, instigating a shower of sparks; the opal on my finger spurted green flame. I felt as giddy as if I were on the edge of a precipice; I was afraid, not so much of him, of his monstrous presence, heavy as if he had been gifted at birth with more specific gravity than the rest of us, the presence that, even when I thought myself most in love with him, always subtly oppressed me ... No. I was not afraid of him; but of myself. I seemed reborn in his unreflective eyes, reborn in unfamiliar shapes. I hardly recognized myself from his descriptions of me and yet, and yet--might there not be a grain of beastly truth hi them? And, in the red firelight, I blushed again, unnoticed, to think he might have chosen me because, in my innocence, he sensed a rare talent for corruption.

Here is the key to the china cabinet--don't laugh, my darling; there's a king's ransom in Sèvres in that closet, and a queen's ransom in Limoges. And a key to the locked, barred room where five generations of plate were kept.

Keys, keys, keys. He would trust me with the keys to his office, although I was only a baby; and the keys to his safes, where he kept the jewels I should wear, he promised me, when we returned to Paris. Such jewels! Why, I would be able to change my earrings and necklaces three times a day, just as the Empress Josephine used to change her underwear. He doubted, he said, with that hollow, knocking sound that served him for a chuckle, I would be quite so interested in his share certificates although they, of course, were worth infinitely more.

Outside our firelit privacy, I could hear the sound of the tide drawing back from the pebbles of the foreshore; it was nearly time for him to leave me. One single key remained unaccounted for on the ring and he hesitated over it; for a moment, I thought he was going to unfasten it from its brothers, slip it back into his pocket and take it away with him.

'What is that key?' I demanded, for his chaffing had made me bold. 'The key to your heart? Give it me!'

He dangled the key tantalizingly above my head, out of reach of my straining fingers; those bare red lips of his cracked sidelong in a smile.

'Ah, no,' he said. 'Not the key to my heart. Rather, the key to my enfer.'

He left it on the ring, fastened the ring together, shook it musically, like a carillon. Then threw the keys in a jingling heap in my lap. I could feel the cold metal chilling my thighs through my thin muslin frock. He bent over me to drop a beard-masked kiss on my forehead.

'Every man must have one secret, even if only one, from his wife,' he said. 'Promise me this, my whey- faced piano-player; promise me you'll use all the keys on the ring except that last little one I showed you. Play with anything you find, jewels, silver plate; make toy boats of my share certificates, if it pleases you, and send them sailing off to America after me. All is yours, everywhere is open to you--except the lock that this single key fits. Yet all it is is the key to a little room at the foot of the west tower, behind the still-room, at the end of a dark little corridor full of horrid cobwebs that would get into your hair and frighten you if you ventured there. Oh, and you'd find it such a dull little room! But you must promise me, if you love me, to leave it well alone. It is only a private study, a hideaway, a "den", as the English say, where I can go, sometimes, on those infrequent yet inevitable occasions when the yoke of marriage seems to weigh too heavily on my shoulders. There I can go, you understand, to savour the rare pleasure of imagining myself wifeless.'

There was a little thin starlight in the courtyard as, wrapped in my furs, I saw him to his car. His last words were, that he had telephoned the mainland and taken a piano-tuner on to the staff; this man would arrive to take up his duties the next day. He pressed me to his vicuña breast, once, and then drove away.

I had drowsed away that afternoon and now I could not sleep. I lay tossing and turning in his ancestral bed until another daybreak discoloured the dozen mirrors that were iridescent with the reflections of the sea. The perfume of the lilies weighed on my senses; when I thought that, henceforth, I would always share these sheets with a man whose skin, as theirs did, contained that toad-like, clammy hint of moisture, I felt a vague desolation that within me, now my female wound had healed, there had awoken a certain queasy craving like the cravings of pregnant women for the taste of coal or chalk or tainted food, for the renewal of his caresses. Had he not hinted to me, in his flesh as in his speech and looks, of the thousand, thousand baroque intersections of flesh upon flesh? I lay in our wide bed accompanied by, a sleepless companion, my dark newborn curiosity.

I lay in bed alone. And I longed for him. And he disgusted me.

Were there jewels enough in all his safes to recompense me for this predicament? Did all that castle hold enough riches to recompense me for the company of the libertine with whom I must share it? And what, precisely, was the nature of my desirous dread for this mysterious being who, to show his mastery over me, had abandoned me on my wedding night?

Then I sat straight up in bed, under the sardonic masks of the gargoyles carved above me, riven by a wild surmise. Might he have left me, not for Wall Street but for an importunate mistress tucked away God knows where who knew how to pleasure him far better than a girl whose fingers had been exercised, hitherto, only by the practice of scales and arpeggios? And, slowly, soothed, I sank back on to the heaping pillows; I acknowledged that the jealous scare I'd just given myself was not unmixed with a little tincture of relief.

At last I drifted into slumber, as daylight filled the room and chased bad dreams away. But the last thing I remembered, before I slept, was the tall jar of lilies beside the bed, how the thick glass distorted their fat stems so they looked like arms, dismembered arms, drifting drowned in greenish water.

Coffee and croissants to console this bridal, solitary waking. Delicious. Honey, too, in a section of comb on a glass saucer. The maid squeezed the aromatic juice from an orange into a chilled goblet while I watched her as I lay in the lazy, midday bed of the rich. Yet nothing, this morning, gave me more than a fleeting pleasure except to hear that the piano-tuner had been at work already. When the maid told me that, I sprang out of bed and pulled on my old serge skirt and flannel blouse, costume of a student, in which I felt far more at ease with myself than in any of my fine new clothes.

After my three hours of practice, I called the piano-tuner in, to thank him. He was blind, of course; but young, with a gentle mouth and grey eyes that fixed upon me although they could not see me. He was a blacksmith's son from the village across the causeway; a chorister in the church whom the good priest had taught a trade so that he could make a living. All most satisfactory. Yes. He thought he would be happy here. And if, he added shyly, he might sometimes be allowed to hear me play ... for, you see, he loved music. Yes. Of course, I said. Certainly. He seemed to know that I had smiled.

After I dismissed him, even though I'd woken so late, it was still barely time for my 'five o'clock'. The housekeeper, who, thoughtfully forewarned by my husband, had restrained herself from interrupting my music, now made me a solemn visitation with a lengthy menu for a late luncheon. When I told her I did not need it, she looked at me obliquely, along her nose. I understood at once that one of my principal functions as chatelaine was to provide work for the staff. But, all the same, I asserted myself and said I would wait until dinner-time, although I looked forward nervously to the solitary meal. Then I found I had to tell her what I would like to have prepared for me; my imagination, still that of a schoolgirl, ran riot. A fowl in cream--or should I anticipate Christmas with a varnished turkey? No; I have decided.

Avocado and shrimp, lots of it, followed by no entrée at all. But surprise me for dessert with every ice- cream in the ice box. She noted all down but sniffed; I'd shocked her. Such tastes! Child that I was, I giggled when she left me.

But, now ... what shall I do, now?

I could have spent a happy hour unpacking the trunks that contained my trousseau but the maid had done that already, the dresses, the tailor-mades hung in the wardrobe in my dressing room, the hats on wooden heads to keep their shape, the shoes on wooden feet as if all these inanimate objects were imitating the appearance of life, to mock me. I did not like to linger in my overcrowded dressing room, nor in my lugubriously lily-scented bedroom. How shall I pass the time?

I shall take a bath in my own bathroom! And found the taps were little dolphins made of gold, with chips of turquoise for eyes. And there was a tank of goldfish, who swam in and out of moving fronds of weeds, as bored, I thought, as I was. How I wished he had not left me. How I wished it were possible to chat with, say, a maid; or, the piano-tuner ... but I knew already my new rank forbade overtures of friendship to the staff.

I had been hoping to defer the call as long as I could, so that I should have something to look forward to in the dead waste of time I foresaw before me, after my dinner was done with, but, at a quarter before seven, when darkness already surrounded the castle, I could contain myself no longer. I telephoned my mother. And astonished myself by bursting into tears when I heard her voice.

No, nothing was the matter. Mother, I have gold bath taps. I said, gold bath taps! No; I suppose that's nothing to cry about, Mother.

The line was bad, I could hardly make out her congratulations, her questions, her concern, but I was a little comforted when I put the receiver down.

Yet there still remained one whole hour to dinner and the whole, unimaginable desert of the rest of the evening.

The bunch of keys lay, where he had left them, on the rug before the library fire which had warmed their metal so that they no longer felt cold to the touch but warm, almost, as my own skin. How careless I was; a maid, tending the logs, eyed me reproachfully as if I'd set a trap for her as I picked up the clinking bundle of keys, the keys to the interior doors of this lovely prison of which I was both the inmate and the mistress and had scarcely seen. When I remembered that, I felt the exhilaration of the explorer.

Lights! More lights!

At the touch of a switch, the dreaming library was brilliantly illuminated. I ran crazily about the castle, switching on every light I could find--I ordered the servants to light up all their quarters, too, so the castle would shine like a seaborne birthday cake lit with a thousand candles, one for every year of its life, and everybody on shore would wonder at it. When everything was lit as brightly as the café in the Gare du Nord, the significance of the possessions implied by that bunch of keys no longer intimidated me, for I was determined, now, to search through them all for evidence of my husband's true nature. His office first, evidently.

A mahogany desk half a mile wide, with an impeccable blotter and a bank of telephones. I allowed myself the luxury of opening the safe that contained the jewellery and delved sufficiently among the leather boxes to find out how my marriage had given me access to a jinn's treasury--parures, bracelets, rings ... While I was thus surrounded by diamonds, a maid knocked on the door and entered before I spoke; a subtle discourtesy. I would speak to my husband about it. She eyed my serge skirt superciliously; did madame plan to dress for dinner?

She made a moue of disdain when I laughed to hear that, she was far more the lady than I. But, imagine-- to dress up in one of my Poiret extravaganzas, with the jewelled turban and aigrette on my head, roped with pearl to the navel, to sit down all alone in the baronial dining hall at the head of that massive board at which King Mark was reputed to have fed his knights ... I grew calmer under the cold eye of her disapproval. I adopted the crisp inflections of an officer's daughter. No, I would not dress for dinner.

Furthermore, I was not hungry enough for dinner itself. She must tell the housekeeper to cancel the dormitory feast I'd ordered. Could they leave me sandwiches and a flask of coffee in my music room? And would they all dismiss for the night?

Mais oui, madame.

I knew by her bereft intonation I had let them down again but I did not care; I was armed against them by the brilliance of his hoard. But I would not find his heart amongst the glittering stones; as soon as she had gone, I began a systematic search of the drawers of his desk.

All was in order, so I found nothing. Not a random doodle on an old envelope, nor the faded photograph of a woman. Only the files of business correspondence, the bills from the home farms, the invoices from tailors, the billets-doux from international financiers. Nothing. And this absence of the evidence of his real life began to impress me strangely; there must, I thought, be a great deal to conceal if he takes such pains to hide it.

His office was a singularly impersonal room, facing inwards, on to the courtyard, as though he wanted to turn his back on the siren sea in order to keep a clear head while he bankrupted a small businessman in Amsterdam or--I noticed with a thrill of distaste--engaged in some business in Laos that must, from certain cryptic references to his amateur botanist's enthusiasm for rare poppies, be to do with opium. Was he not rich enough to do without crime? Or was the crime itself his profit? And yet I saw enough to appreciate his zeal for secrecy.

Now I had ransacked his desk, I must spend a cool-headed quarter of an hour putting every last letter back where I had found it, and, as I covered the traces of my visit, by some chance, as I reached inside a little drawer that had stuck fast, I must have touched a hidden spring, for a secret drawer flew open within that drawer itself; and this secret drawer contained--at last!--a file marked: Personal.

I was alone, but for my reflection in the uncurtained window.

I had the brief notion that his heart, pressed flat as a flower, crimson and thin as tissue paper, lay in this file. It was a very thin one.

I could have wished, perhaps, I had not found that touching, ill-spelt note, on a paper napkin marked La Coupole, that began: 'My darling, I cannot wait for the moment when you may make me yours completely.' The diva had sent him a page of the score of Tristan, the Liebestod, with the single, cryptic word: 'Until...' scrawled across it. But the strangest of all these love letters was a postcard with a view of a village graveyard, among mountains, where some black-coated ghoul enthusiastically dug at a grave; this little scene, executed with the lurid exuberance of Grand Guignol, was captioned: 'Typical Transylvanian Scene--Midnight, All Hallows.' And, on the other side, the message: 'On the occasion of this marriage to the descendant of Dracula--always remember, "the supreme and unique pleasure of love is the certainty that one is doing evil". Toutes amitiés, C.'

A joke. A joke in the worst possible taste; for had he not been married to a Romanian countess? And then I remembered her pretty, witty face, and her name--Carmilla. My most recent predecessor in this castle had been, it would seem, the most sophisticated.

I put away the file, sobered. Nothing in my life of family love and music had prepared me for these grown-up games and yet these were clues to his self that showed me, at least, how much he had been loved, even if they did not reveal any good reason for it. But I wanted to know still more; and, as I closed the office door and locked it, the means to discover more fell in my way.

Fell, indeed; and with the clatter of a dropped canteen of cutlery, for, as I turned the slick Yale lock, I contrived, somehow, to open up the key ring itself, so that all the keys tumbled loose on the floor. And the very first key I picked out of that pile was, as luck or ill fortune had it, the key to the room he had forbidden me, the room he would keep for his own so that he could go there when he wished to feel himself once more a bachelor.

I made my decision to explore it before I felt a faint resurgence of my ill-defined fear of his waxen stillness. Perhaps I half-imagined, then, that I might find his real self in his den, waiting there to see if indeed I had obeyed him; that he had sent a moving figure of himself to New York, the enigmatic, self- sustaining carapace of his public person, while the real man, whose face I had glimpsed in the storm of orgasm, occupied himself with pressing private business in the study at the foot of the west tower, behind the still-room. Yet, if that were so, it was imperative that I should find him, should know him; and I was too deluded by his apparent taste for me to think my disobedience might truly offend him.

I took the forbidden key from the heap and left the others lying there.

It was now very late and the castle was adrift, as far as it could go from the land, in the middle of the silent ocean where, at my orders, it floated, like a garland of light. And all silent, all still, but for the murmuring of the waves.

I felt no fear, no intimation of dread. Now I walked as firmly as I had done in my mother's house.

Not a narrow, dusty little passage at all; why had he lied to me? But an ill-lit one, certainly; the electricity, for some reason, did not extend here, so I retreated to the still-room and found a bundle of waxed tapers in a cupboard, stored there with matches to light the oak board at grand dinners. I put a match to my little taper and advanced with it in my hand, like a penitent, along the corridor hung with heavy, I think Venetian, tapestries. The flame picked out, here, the head of a man, there, the rich breast of a woman spilling through a rent in her dress--the Rape of the Sabines, perhaps? The naked swords and immolated horses suggested some grisly mythological subject. The corridor wound downwards; there was an almost imperceptible ramp to the thickly carpeted floor. The heavy hangings on the wall muffled my footsteps, even my breathing. For some reason, it grew very warm; the sweat sprang out in beads on my brow. I could no longer hear the sound of the sea.

A long, a winding corridor, as if I were in the viscera of the castle; and this corridor led to a door of worm-eaten oak, low, round-topped, barred with black iron.

And still I felt no fear, no raising of the hairs on the back of the neck, no prickling of the thumbs. The key slid into the new lock as easily as a hot knife into butter.

No fear; but a hesitation, a holding of the spiritual breath.

If I had found some traces of his heart in a file marked: Personal, perhaps, here, in his subterranean privacy, I might find a little of his soul. It was the consciousness of the possibility of such a discovery, of its possible strangeness, that kept me for a moment motionless, before, in the foolhardiness of my already subtly tainted innocence, I turned the key and the door creaked slowly back.

'There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer,' opined my husband's favourite poet; I had learned something of the nature of that similarity on my marriage bed. And now my taper showed me the outlines of a rack. There was also a great wheel, like the ones I had seen in woodcuts of the martyrdoms of the saints, in my old nurse's little store of holy books. And--just one glimpse of it before my little flame caved in and I was left in absolute darkness--a metal figure, hinged at the side, which I knew to be spiked on the inside and to have the name: the Iron Maiden.

Absolute darkness. And, about me, the instruments of mutilation.

Until that moment, this spoiled child did not know she had inherited nerves and a will from the mother who had defied the yellow outlaws of Indo-China; My mother's spirit drove me on, into that dreadful place, in a cold ecstasy to know the very worst. I fumbled for the matches in my pocket; what a dim, lugubrious light they gave! And yet, enough, oh, more than enough, to see a room designed for desecration and some dark night of unimaginable lovers whose embraces were annihilation.

The walls of this stark torture chamber were the naked rock; they gleamed as if they were sweating with fright. At the four corners of the room were funerary urns, of great antiquity, Etruscan, perhaps, and, on three-legged ebony stands, the bowls of incense he had left burning which filled the room with a sacerdotal reek. Wheel, rack and Iron Maiden were, I saw, displayed as grandly as if they were items of statuary and I was almost consoled, then, and almost persuaded myself that I might have stumbled only upon a little museum of his perversity, that he had installed these monstrous items here only for contemplation.

Yet at the centre of the room lay a catafalque, a doomed, ominous bier of Renaissance workmanship, surrounded by long white candles and, at its foot, an armful of the same lilies with which he had filled my bedroom, stowed in a four-foot-high jar glazed with a sombre Chinese red. I scarcely dared examine this catafalque and its occupant more closely; yet I knew I must.

Each time I struck a match to light those candles round her bed, it seemed a garment of that innocence of mine for which he had lusted fell away from me.

The opera singer lay, quite naked, under a thin sheet of very rare and precious linen, such as the princes of Italy used to shroud those whom they had poisoned. I touched her, very gently, on the white breast; she was cool, he had embalmed her. On her throat I could see the blue imprint of his strangler's fingers. The cool, sad flame of the candles flickered on her white, closed eyelids. The worst thing was, the dead lips smiled.

Beyond the catafalque, in the middle of the shadows, a white, nacreous glimmer; as my eyes accustomed themselves to the gathering darkness, I at last--oh, horrors!--made out a skull; yes, a skull, so utterly denuded, now, of flesh, that it scarcely seemed possible the stark bone had once been richly upholstered with life. And this skull was strung up by a system of unseen cords, so that it appeared to hang, disembodied, in the still, heavy air, and it had been crowned with a wreath of white roses, and a veil of lace, the final image of his bride.

Yet the skull was still so beautiful, had shaped with its sheer planes so imperiously the face that had once existed above it, that I recognized her the moment I saw her; face of the evening star walking on the rim of night. One false step, oh, my poor, dear girl, next in the fated sisterhood of his wives; one false step and into the abyss of the dark you stumbled.

And where was she, the latest dead, the Romanian countess who might have thought her blood would survive his depredations? I knew she must be here, in the place that had wound me through the castle towards it on a spool of inexorability. But, at first, I could see no sign of her. Then, for some reason-- perhaps some change of atmosphere wrought by my presence--the metal shell of the Iron Maiden emitted a ghostly twang; my feverish imagination might have guessed its occupant was trying to clamber out, though, even in the midst of my rising hysteria, I knew she must be dead to find a home there.

With trembling fingers, I prised open the front of the upright coffin, with its sculpted face caught in a rictus of pain. Then, overcome, I dropped the key I still held in my other hand. It dropped into the forming pool of her blood.

She was pierced, not by one but by a hundred spikes, this child of the land of the vampires who seemed so newly dead, so full of blood ... oh God! how recently had he become a widower? How long had he kept her in this obscene cell? Had it been all the time he had courted me, in the clear light of Paris?

I closed the lid of her coffin very gently and burst into a tumult of sobbing that contained both pity for his other victims and also a dreadful anguish to know I, too, was one of them.

The candles flared, as if in a draught from a door to elsewhere. The light caught the fire opal on my hand so that it flashed, once, with a baleful light, as if to tell me the eye of God--his eye--was upon me. My first thought, when I saw the ring for which I had sold myself to this fate, was, how to escape it.

I retained sufficient presence of mind to snuff out the candles round the bier with my fingers, to gather up my taper, to look around, although shuddering, to ensure I had left behind me no traces of my visit.

I retrieved the key from the pool of blood, wrapped it in my handkerchief to keep my hands clean, and fled the room, slamming the door behind me. It crashed to with a juddering reverberation, like the door of hell.

I could not take refuge in my bedroom, for that retained the memory of his presence trapped in the fathomless silvering of his mirrors. My music room seemed the safest place, although I looked at the picture of Saint Cecilia with a faint dread; what had been the nature of her martyrdom? My mind was in a tumult; schemes for flight jostled with one another ... as soon as the tide receded from the causeway, I would make for the mainland--on foot, running, stumbling; I did not trust that leather-clad chauffeur, nor the well-behaved housekeeper, and I dared not take any of the pale, ghostly maids into my confidence, either, since they were his creatures, all. Once at the village, I would fling myself directly on the mercy of the gendarmerie.

But--could I trust them, either? His forefathers had ruled this coast for eight centuries, from this castle whose moat was the Atlantic. Might not the police, the advocates, even the judge, all be in his service, turning a common blind eye to his vices since he was milord whose word must be obeyed? Who, on this distant coast, would believe the white-faced girl from Paris who came running to them with a shuddering tale of blood, of fear, of the ogre murmuring in the shadows? Or, rather, they would immediately know it to be true. But were all honour-bound to let me carry it no further.

Assistance. My mother. I ran to the telephone; and the line, of course, was dead. Dead as his wives.

A thick darkness, unlit by any star, still glazed the windows. Every lamp in my room burned, to keep the dark outside, yet it seemed still to encroach on me, to be present beside me but as if masked by my lights, the night like a permeable substance that could seep into my skin. I looked at the precious little clock made from hypocritically innocent flowers long ago, in Dresden; the hands had scarcely moved one single hour forward from when I first descended to that private slaughterhouse of his. Time was his servant, too; it would trap me, here, in a night that would last until he came back to me, like a black sun on a hopeless morning.

And yet the time might still be my friend; at that hour, that very hour, he set sail for New York.

To know that, in a few moments, my husband would have left France calmed my agitation a little. My reason told me I had nothing to fear; the tide that would take him away to the New World would let me out of the imprisonment of the castle. Surely I could easily evade the servants. Anybody can buy a ticket at a railway station. Yet I was still rilled with unease. I opened the lid of the piano; perhaps I thought my own particular magic might help me, now, that I could create a pentacle out of music that would keep me from harm for, if my music had first ensnared him, then might it not also give me the power to free myself from him?

Mechanically, I began to play but my fingers were stiff and shaking. At first, I could manage nothing better than the exercises of Czerny but simply the act of playing soothed me and, for solace, for the sake of the harmonious rationality of its sublime mathematics, I searched among his scores until I found The Well-Tempered Clavier. I set myself the therapeutic task of playing all Bach's equations, every one, and, I told myself, if I played them all through without a single mistake--then the morning would find me once more a virgin. 

Crash of a dropped stick.

His silver-headed cane! What else? Sly, cunning, he had returned; he was waiting for me outside the door!

I rose to my feet; fear gave me strength. I flung back my head defiantly. 'Come in!' My voice astonished me by its firmness, its clarity.

The door slowly, nervously opened and I saw, not the massive, irredeemable bulk of my husband but the slight, stooping figure of the piano-tuner, and he looked far more terrified of me than my mother's daughter would have been of the Devil himself. In the torture chamber, it seemed to me that I would never laugh again; now, helplessly, laugh I did, with relief, and, after a moment's hesitation, the boy's face softened and he smiled a little, almost in shame. Though they were blind, his eyes were singularly sweet.

'Forgive me,' said Jean-Yves. 'I know I've given you grounds for dismissing me, that I should be crouching outside your door at midnight ... but I heard you walking about, up and down--I sleep in a room at the foot of the west tower--and some intuition told me you could not sleep and might, perhaps, pass the insomniac hours at your piano. And I could not resist that. Besides, I stumbled over these--'

And he displayed the ring of keys I'd dropped outside my husband's office door, the ring from which one key was missing. I took them from him, looked round for a place to stow them, fixed on the piano stool as if to hide them would protect me. Still he stood smiling at me. How hard it was to make everyday conversation.

'It's perfect,' I said. 'The piano. Perfectly in tune.'

But he was full of the loquacity of embarrassment, as though I would only forgive him for his impudence if he explained the cause of it thoroughly.

'When I heard you play this afternoon, I thought I'd never heard such a touch. Such technique. A treat for me, to hear a virtuoso! So I crept up to your door now, humbly as a little dog might, madame, and put my ear to the keyhole and listened, and listened--until my stick fell to the floor through a momentary clumsiness of mine, and I was discovered.'

He had the most touchingly ingenuous smile.

'Perfectly in tune,' I repeated. To my surprise, now I had said it, I found I could not say anything else. I could only repeat: 'In tune ... perfect ... in tune,' over and over again. I saw a dawning surprise in his face. My head throbbed. To see him, in his lovely, blind humanity, seemed to hurt me very piercingly, somewhere inside my breast; his figure blurred, the room swayed about me. After the dreadful revelation of that bloody chamber, it was his tender look that made me faint.

When I recovered consciousness, I found I was lying in the piano-tuner's arms and he was tucking the satin cushion from the piano-stool under my head.

'You are in some great distress,' he said. 'No bride should suffer so much, so early in her marriage.' His speech had the rhythms of the countryside, the rhythms of the tides.

'Any bride brought to this castle should come ready dressed in mourning, should bring a priest and a coffin with her,' I said.

'What's this?'

It was too late to keep silent; and if he, too, were one of my husband's creatures, then at least he had been kind to me. So I told him everything, the keys, the interdiction, my disobedience, the room, the rack, the skull, the corpses, the blood.

'I can scarcely believe it,' he said, wondering. 'That man ... so rich; so well-born.'

'Here's proof,' I said and tumbled the fatal key out of my handkerchief on to the silken rug. 'Oh God,' he said. 'I can smell the blood.'

He took my hand; he pressed his arms about me. Although he was scarcely more than a boy, I felt a great strength flow into me from his touch.

'We whisper all manner of strange tales up and down the coast,' he said.' There was a Marquis, once, who used to hunt young girls on the mainland; he hunted them with dogs, as though they were foxes. My grandfather had it from his grandfather, how the Marquis pulled a head out of his saddle bag and showed it to the blacksmith while the man was shoeing his horse. "A fine specimen of the genus, brunette, eh, Guillaume?" And it was the head of the blacksmith's wife.'

But, in these more democratic times, my husband must travel as far as Paris to do his hunting in the salons. Jean-Yves knew the moment I shuddered.

'Oh, madame! I thought all these were old wives' tales, chattering of fools, spooks to scare bad children into good behaviour! Yet how could you know, a stranger, that the old name for this place is the Castle of Murder?'

How could I know, indeed? Except that, in my heart, I'd always known its lord would be the death of me.

'Hark!' said my friend suddenly. 'The sea has changed key; it must be near morning, the tide is going down.'

He helped me up. I looked from the window, towards the mainland, along the causeway where the stones gleamed wetly in the thin light of the end of the night and, with an almost unimaginable horror, a horror the intensity of which I cannot transmit to you, I saw, in the distance, still far away yet drawing moment by moment inexorably nearer, the twin headlamps of his great black car, gouging tunnels through the shifting mist.

My husband had indeed returned; this time, it was no fancy.

'The key!' said Jean-Yves. 'It must go back on the ring, with the others. As though nothing had happened.' But the key was still caked with wet blood and I ran to my bathroom and held it under the hot tap.

Crimson water swirled down the basin but, as if the key itself were hurt, the bloody token stuck. The turquoise eyes of the dolphin taps winked at me derisively; they knew my husband had been too clever for me! I scrubbed the stain with my nail brush but still it would not budge. I thought how the car would be rolling silently towards the closed courtyard gate; the more I scrubbed the key, the more vivid grew the stain.

The bell in the gatehouse would jangle. The porter's drowsy son would push back the patchwork quilt, yawning, pull the shirt over his head, thrust his feet into his sabots ... slowly, slowly; open the door for your master as slowly as you can ...

And still the bloodstain mocked the fresh water that spilled from the mouth of the leering dolphin. 'You have no more time,' said Jean-Yves. 'He is here. I know it. I must stay with you.'

'You shall not!' I said. 'Go back to your room, now. Please.'

He hesitated. I put an edge of steel in my voice, for I knew I must meet my lord alone. 'Leave me!'

As soon as he had gone, I dealt with the keys and went to my bedroom. The causeway was empty; Jean- Yves was correct, my husband had already entered the castle. I pulled the curtains close, stripped off my clothes and pulled the bedcurtains round me as a pungent aroma of Russian leather assured me my husband was once again beside me. 'Dearest!'

With the most treacherous, lascivious tenderness, he kissed my eyes, and, mimicking the new bride newly wakened, I flung my arms around him, for on my seeming acquiescence depended my salvation.

'Da Silva of Rio outwitted me,' he said wryly.' My New York agent telegraphed Le Havre and saved me a wasted journey. So we may resume our interrupted pleasures, my love.'

I did not believe one word of it. I knew I had behaved exactly according to his desires; had he not bought me so that I should do so? I had been tricked into my own betrayal to that illimitable darkness whose source I had been compelled to seek in his absence and, now that I had met that shadowed reality of his that came to life only in the presence of its own atrocities, I must pay the price of my new knowledge.

The secret of Pandora's box; but he had given me the box, himself, knowing I must learn the secret. I had played a game in which every move was governed by a destiny as oppressive and omnipotent as himself, since that destiny was himself; and I had lost. Lost at that charade of innocence and vice in which he had engaged me. Lost, as the victim loses to the executioner.

His hand brushed my breast, beneath the sheet. I strained my nerves yet could not help but flinch from the intimate touch, for it made me think of the piercing embrace of the Iron Maiden and of his lost lovers in the vault. When he saw my reluctance, his eyes veiled over and yet his appetite did not diminish. His tongue ran over red lips already wet. Silent, mysterious, he moved away from me to draw off his jacket.

He took the gold watch from his waistcoat and laid it on the dressing table, like a good bourgeois; scooped out his raiding loose change and now--oh God!--makes a great play of patting his pockets officiously, puzzled lips pursed, searching for something that has been mislaid. Then turns to me with a ghastly, a triumphant smile.

'But of course! I gave the keys to you!'

'Your keys? Why, of course. Here, they're under the pillow; wait a moment--what--Ah! No ... now, where can I have left them? I was whiling away the evening without you at the piano, I remember. Of course! The music room!'

Brusquely he flung my négligé of antique lace on the bed. 'Go and get them.'

'Now? This moment? Can't it wait until morning, my darling?'

I forced myself to be seductive. I saw myself, pale, pliant as a plant that begs to be trampled underfoot, a dozen vulnerable, appealing girls reflected in as many mirrors, and I saw how he almost failed to resist me. If he had come to me in bed, I would have strangled him, then.

But he half-snarled: 'No. It won't wait. Now.'

The unearthly light of dawn filled the room; had only one previous dawn broken upon me in that vile place? And there was nothing for it but to go and fetch the keys from the music stool and pray he would not examine them too closely, pray to God his eyes would fail him, that he might be struck blind.

When I came back into the bedroom carrying the bunch of keys that jangled at every step like a curious musical instrument, he was sitting on the bed in his immaculate shirtsleeves, his head sunk in his hands. And it seemed to me he was in despair.

Strange. In spite of my fear of him, that made me whiter than my wrap, I felt there emanate from him, at that moment, a stench of absolute despair, rank and ghastly, as if the lilies that surrounded him had all at once begun to fester, or the Russian leather of his scent were reverting to the elements of flayed hide and excrement of which it was composed. The chthonic gravity of his presence exerted a tremendous pressure on the room, so that the blood pounded in my ears as if we had been precipitated to the bottom of the sea, beneath the waves that pounded against the shore.

I held my life in my hands amongst those keys and, in a moment, would place it between his well- manicured fingers. The evidence of that bloody chamber had showed me I could expect no mercy. Yet, when he raised his head and stared at me with his blind, shuttered eyes as though he did not recognize me, I felt a terrified pity for him, for this man who lived in such strange, secret places that, if I loved him enough to follow him, I should have to die.

The atrocious loneliness of that monster!

The monocle had fallen from his face. His curling mane was disordered, as if he had run his hands through it in his distraction. I saw how he had lost his impassivity and was now filled with suppressed excitement. The hand he stretched out for those counters in his game of love and death shook a little; the face that turned towards me contained a sombre delirium that seemed to me compounded of a ghastly, yes, shame but also of a terrible, guilty joy as he slowly ascertained how I had sinned.

That tell-tale stain had resolved itself into a mark the shape and brilliance of the heart on a playing card. He disengaged the key from the ring and looked at it for a while, solitary, brooding.

'It is the key that leads to the kingdom of the unimaginable,' he said. His voice was low and had in it the timbre of certain great cathedral organs that seem, when they are played, to be conversing with God.

I could not restrain a sob.

'Oh, my love, my little love who brought me a white gift of music,' he said, almost as if grieving. 'My little love, you'll never know how much I hate daylight!"

Then he sharply ordered: 'Kneel!'

I knelt before him and he pressed the key lightly to my forehead, held it there for a moment. I felt a faint tingling of the skin and, when I involuntarily glanced at myself in the mirror, I saw the heart-shaped stain had transferred itself to my forehead, to the space between the eyebrows, like the caste mark of a brahmin woman. Or the mark of Cain. And now the key gleamed as freshly as if it had just been cut. He clipped it back on the ring, emitting that same, heavy sigh as he had done when I said that I would marry him.

'My virgin of the arpeggios, prepare yourself for martyrdom.' 'What form shall it take?' I said.

'Decapitation,' he whispered, almost voluptuously. 'Go and bathe yourself; put on that white dress you wore to hear Tristan and the necklace that prefigures your end. And I shall take myself off to the armoury, my dear, to sharpen my great-grandfather's ceremonial sword.'

'The servants?'

'We shall have absolute privacy for our last rites; I have already dismissed them. If you look out of the window you can see them going to the mainland.'

It was now the full, pale light of morning; the weather was grey, indeterminate, the sea had an oily, sinister look, a gloomy day on which to die. Along the causeway I could see trouping every maid and scullion, every pot-boy and pan-scourer, valet, laundress and vassal who worked in that great house, most on foot, a few on bicycles. The faceless housekeeper trudged along with a great basket in which, I guessed, she'd stowed as much as she could ransack from the larder. The Marquis must have given the chauffeur leave to borrow the motor for the day, for it went last of all, at a stately pace, as though the procession were a cortege and the car already bore my coffin to the mainland for. burial.

But I knew no good Breton earth would cover me, like a last, faithful lover; I had another fate. 'I have given them all a day's holiday, to celebrate our wedding,' he said. And smiled.

However hard I stared at the receding company, I could see no sign of Jean-Yves, our latest servant, hired but the preceding morning.

'Go, now. Bathe yourself; dress yourself. The lustratory ritual and the ceremonial robing; after that, the sacrifice. Wait in the music room until I telephone for you. No, my dear!' And he smiled, as I started, recalling the line was dead.' One may call inside the castle just as much as one pleases; but, outside-- never.'

I scrubbed my forehead with the nail brush as I had scrubbed the key but this red mark would not go away, either, no matter what I did, and I knew I should wear it until I died, though that would not be long. Then I went to my dressing room and put on that white muslin shift, costume of a victim of an auto-da-fé, he had bought me to listen to the Liebestod in. Twelve young women combed out twelve listless sheaves of brown hair in the mirrors; soon, there would be none. The mass of lilies that surrounded me exhaled, now, the odour of their withering. They looked like the trumpets of the angels of death.

On the dressing table, coiled like a snake about to strike, lay the ruby choker.

Already almost lifeless, cold at heart, I descended the spiral staircase to the music room but there I found I had not been abandoned.

'I can be of some comfort to you,' the boy said.' Though not much use.'

We pushed the piano stool in front of the open window so that, for as long as I could, I would be able to smell the ancient, reconciling smell of the sea that, in time, will cleanse everything, scour the old bones white, wash away all the stains. The last little chambermaid had trotted along the causeway long ago and now the tide, fated as I, came tumbling in, the crisp wavelets splashing on the old stones.

'You do not deserve this,' he said.

'Who can say what I deserve or no?' I said. 'I've done nothing; but that may be sufficient reason for condemning me.'

'You disobeyed him,' he said. 'That is sufficient reason for him to punish you.'

'I only did what he knew I would.' 'Like Eve,' he said.

The telephone rang a shrill imperative. Let it ring. But my lover lifted me up and set me on my feet; I knew I must answer it. The receiver felt heavy as earth.

'The courtyard. Immediately.'

My lover kissed me, he took my hand. He would come with me if I would lead him. Courage. When I thought of courage, I thought of my mother. Then I saw a muscle in my lover's face quiver.

'Hoofbeats!' he said.

I cast one last, desperate glance from the window and, like a miracle, I saw a horse and rider galloping at a vertiginous speed along the causeway, though the waves crashed, now, high as the horse's fetlocks. A rider, her black skirts tucked up around her waist so she could ride hard and fast, a crazy, magnificent horsewoman in widow's weeds.

As the telephone rang again. 'Am I to wait all morning?'

Every moment, my mother drew nearer.

'She will be too late,' Jean-Yves said and yet he could not restrain a note of hope that, though it must be so, yet it might not be so.

The third, intransigent call.

'Shall I come up to heaven to fetch you down, Saint Cecilia? You wicked woman, do you wish me to compound my crimes by desecrating the marriage bed?'

So I must go to the courtyard where my husband waited in his London-tailored trousers and the shirt from Turnbull and Asser, beside the mounting block, with, in his hand, the sword which his great-grandfather had presented to the little corporal, in token of surrender to the Republic, before he shot himself. The heavy sword, unsheathed, grey as that November morning, sharp as childbirth, mortal.

When my husband saw my companion, he observed: 'Let the blind lead the blind, eh? But does even a youth as besotted as you are think she was truly blind to her own desires when she took my ring? Give it me back, whore.'

The fires in the opal had all died down. I gladly slipped it from my finger and, even in that dolorous place, my heart was lighter for the lack of it. My husband took it lovingly and lodged it on the tip of his little finger; it would go no further.

'It will serve me for a dozen more fiancées,' he said. 'To the block, woman. No--leave the boy; I shall deal with him later, utilizing a less exalted instrument than the one with which I do my wife the honour of her immolation, for do not fear that in death you will be divided.'

Slowly, slowly, one foot before the other, I crossed the cobbles. The longer I dawdled over my execution, the more time it gave the avenging angel to descend ...

'Don't loiter, girl! Do you think I shall lose appetite for the meal if you are so long about serving it? No; I shall grow hungrier, more ravenous with each moment, more cruel ... Run to me, run! I have a place prepared for your exquisite corpse in my display of flesh!'

He raised the sword and cut bright segments from the air with it, but still I lingered although my hopes, so recently raised, now began to flag. If she is not here by now, her horse must have stumbled on the causeway, have plunged into the sea ... One thing only made me glad; that my lover would not see me die.

My husband laid my branded forehead on the stone and, as he had done once before, twisted my hair into a rope and drew it away from my neck.

'Such a pretty neck,' he said with what seemed to be a genuine, retrospective tenderness. 'A neck like the stem of a young plant.'

I felt the silken bristle of his beard and the wet touch of his lips as he kissed my nape. And, once again, of my apparel I must retain only my gems; the sharp blade ripped my dress in two and it fell from me. A little green moss, growing in the crevices of the mounting block, would be the last thing I should see in all the world.

The whizz of that heavy sword.

And--a great battering and pounding at the gate, the jangling of the bell, the frenzied neighing of a horse! The unholy silence of the place shattered in an instant. The blade did not descend, the necklace did not sever, my head did not roll. For, for an instant, the beast wavered in his stroke, a sufficient split second of astonished indecision to let me spring upright and dart to the assistance of my lover as he struggled sightlessly with the great bolts that kept her out.

The Marquis stood transfixed, utterly dazed, at a loss. It must have been as if he had been watching his beloved Tristan for the twelfth, the thirteenth time and Tristan stirred, then leapt from his bier in the last act, announced in a jaunty aria interposed from Verdi that bygones were bygones, crying over spilt milk did nobody any good and, as for himself, he proposed to live happily ever after. The puppet master, open- mouthed, wide-eyed, impotent at the last, saw his dolls break free of their strings, abandon the rituals he had ordained for them since time began and start to live for themselves; the king, aghast, witnesses the revolt of his pawns.

You never saw such a wild thing as my mother, her hat seized by the winds and blown out to sea so that her hair was her white mane, her black lisle legs exposed to the thigh, her skirts tucked round her waist, one hand on the reins of the rearing horse while the other clasped my father's service revolver and, behind her, the breakers of the savage, indifferent sea, like the witnesses of a furious justice. And my husband stood stock-still, as if she had been Medusa, the sword still raised over his head as in those clockwork tableaux of Bluebeard that you see in glass cases at fairs.

And then it was as though a curious child pushed his centime into the slot and set all in motion. The heavy, bearded figure roared out aloud, braying with fury, and, wielding the honourable sword as if it were a matter of death or glory, charged us, all three.

On her eighteenth birthday, my mother had disposed of a man-eating tiger that had ravaged the villages in the hills north of Hanoi. Now, without a moment's hesitation, she raised my father's gun, took aim and put a single, irreproachable bullet through my husband's head.

We lead a quiet life, the three of us. I inherited, of course, enormous wealth but we have given most of it away to various charities. The castle is now a school for the blind, though I pray that the children who live there are not haunted by any sad ghosts looking for, crying for, the husband who will never return to the bloody chamber, the contents of which are buried or burned, the door sealed.

I felt I had a right to retain sufficient funds to start a little music school here, on the outskirts of Paris, and we do well enough. Sometimes we can even afford to go to the Opéra, though never to sit in a box, of course. We know we are the source of many whisperings and much gossip but the three of us know the truth of it and mere chatter can never harm us. I can only bless the--what shall I call it?--the maternal telepathy that sent my mother running headlong from the telephone to the station after I had called her, that night. I never heard you cry before, she said, by way of explanation. Not when you were happy. And who ever cried because of gold bath taps?

The night train, the one I had taken; she lay in her berth, sleepless as I had been. When she could not find a taxi at that lonely halt, she borrowed old Dobbin from a bemused farmer, for some internal urgency told her that she must reach me before the incoming tide sealed me away from her for ever. My poor old nurse, left scandalized at home--what? interrupt milord on his honeymoon?--she died soon after. She had taken so much secret pleasure in the fact that her little girl had become a marquise; and now here I was, scarcely a penny the richer, widowed at seventeen in the most dubious circumstances and busily engaged in setting up house with a piano-tuner. Poor thing, she passed away in a sorry state of disillusion! But I do believe my mother loves him as much as I do.

No paint nor powder, no matter how thick or white, can mask that red mark on my forehead; I am glad he cannot see it--not for fear of his revulsion, since I know he sees me clearly with his heart--but, because it spares my shame.

[marlalarraz]

USA vs Serbia Full Game | Basketball Men's Gold Medal Match | Olympic Games Rio 2016

 Court Dimensions

The length of a basketball court is 28m. These measurements can be reduced to 26m for Premier, Club and Community courts where only smaller spaces are available.

The width of an International-standard basketball court in the UK is usually 15m. The court lines can be reduced by no more than 1m (14m) if required for lower levels of play.

The total area of a professional basketball court is 420m². The minimum area allowed under Basketball England's guidance is 364m². These measurements apply to both indoor and outdoor courts.

The addition of 2.05m run-offs and 2m for teams and officials on the sideline increases the total area to 677.31m².

Basketball court markings

Regulation line markings must be 50mm width in a contrasting colour to the playing surface.

Sidelines

The outer edge of the court is denoted by the sidelines, which run the length of the court. On a full-sized court they measure 28m.

Baseline and endline

The terms baseline and endline both refer to the ends of the court running behind the goals. Typically they measure 15m.

The use of the different terms depends on the direction a team is playing. Endline is the term for the end of the court which a team is defending, baseline is the for the attacking end.

Mid court

This is the halfway mark on the court and is used to denote the offensive playing area during a game.

On a full-sized court, the mid court line would be 14m from each endline.

Centre circle

Used for the opening tip off, the centre circle has a 3.6m diameter.

Three point line

The three point lines are the arcs that mark a range boundary from each hoop. Scoring from outside this line is worth three points. The distance of the line will vary depending on the level of game, but is typically 6.75m from the basket.

Free throw line

The free throw line, marked 4.6m from the backboard, is the mark at which a player must stand when shooting free throws.

Free throw circle

The free throw circle is the same size as the centre circle (3.6m in diameter). Shooters must stay inside this circle when taking a free throw. The circle is also used for jump balls.

Free throw lane lines/key

Lane lines run from the free throw line to the baseline, to form the 'key'. The shape and width can vary depending on the level of the game, but FIBA (International Basketball Federation) regulation changes in 2010 set it as a 4.9m by 5.8m rectangle.

Some also include space markings to keep opposing players from obstructing the free throw shooter.

Equipment

Basket

A hoop or basket with net around its circumference and of 18 inch diameter is firmly hung horizontally from a rectangular backboard of 3.5 feet height and 6 feet width on either sides of the court. The rim of the hoop is 10 feet above the ground. The backboard in various international competitions is transparent for better visibility.

Ball

Basketball is an orange-colored and rough-textured spherical ball with black contours usually made of leather or composite tough materials.

The ball is bounced continuously (dribbling), thrown through the air to other players (passing), and towards the basket (shooting). So a typical basketball must be very durable and easy to hold on to.

Other Equipment

There may be some more equipment for convenience. Some international courts have a game clock that makes a beep at the end of each period. Some also show the shot clock countdown. Sometimes, the back boards have bordering lights that light up and indicate that a period is about to end.

Basic Skills

Dribbling

Dribbling is an important skill for all basketball players. This skill will allow you to move up and down the court, maneuver past defenders and execute plays. Proper dribbling requires ball-handling skills and knowledge of how to spread your fingers for ball control. It is also best if you know how to dribble equally well with both hands.

Shooting

In order to score points in basketball, you need to shoot the ball into the hoop. This requires the ability to properly hold and throw the ball into the air toward the basket while avoiding defenders. A proper shot requires precise aiming, arm extension and lift from the legs. There are different types of shots you need to learn, including jump shots, layups and free throws.

Running

Running is a big part of basketball. In a full-court game, you will find yourself running back and forth as the game quickly transitions between offense and defense. When you have the ball, running will help you to avoid defenders and get to the basket quicker. On defense, you often will find yourself needing to run after the opponent, especially during fast breaks.

Passing

Passing is another skill that when mastered can help you become a complete basketball player. Basketball is a team sport that involves finding a teammate who is open for a shot. The ability to pass the ball to this player can make the difference between scoring and not scoring. Really great passers are an important part of a basketball team and usually the ones who set up scoring plays.

Jumping

Jumping is another skill that can define how good a basketball player is. Jumping is involved in offense during the jump ball in the beginning, while taking shots and sometimes while trying to catch a pass. On defensive you will need the ability to jump when trying to block a shot or a pass. Being able to out jump your opponent for a rebound also is important.

Rules of the Game

Rules for the offense

The basketball team on offense is the team with the basketball. When a player has the basketball there are certain rules they must follow:

1) The player must bounce, or dribble, the ball with one hand while moving both feet. If, at any time, both hands touch the ball or the player stops dribbling, the player must only move one foot. The foot that is stationary is called the pivot foot. 2) The basketball player can only take one turn at dribbling. In other words, once a player has stopped dribbling they cannot start another dribble. A player who starts dribbling again is called for a double-dribbling violation and looses the basketball to the other team. A player can only start another dribble after another player from either team touches or gains control of the basketball. This is usually after a shot or pass.

3) The ball must stay in bounds. If the offensive team looses the ball out of bounds the other team gets control of the basketball.

4) The players hand must be on top of the ball while dribbling. If they touch the bottom of the basketball while dribbling and continue to dribble this is called carrying the ball and the player will lose the ball to the other team.

5) Once the offensive team crosses half court, they may not go back into the backcourt. This is called a backcourt violation. If the defensive team knocks the ball into the backcourt, then the offensive team can recover the ball legally.

Defensive Rules

The team on defense is the team without the basketball.

1)    The main rule for the defensive player is not to foul. A foul is described as gaining an unfair advantage through physical contact. There is some interpretation that has to be made by the referee, but, in general, the defensive player may not touch the offensive player in a way that causes the offensive player to lose the ball or miss a shot.

Rules for everyone

1) Although the foul rule is described above as a defensive rule, it applies exactly the same to all players on the court including offensive players.

2) Basketball players cannot kick the ball or hit it with their fist.

3) No player can touch the basketball while it is traveling downward towards the basket or if it is on the rim. This is called goaltending. (touching the ball on the rim is legal in some games). Every player on the court is subject to the same rules regardless of the position they play. The positions in basketball are just for team basketball strategy and there are no positions in the rules.

Officiating the Sport

Officials Conduct Game

During actual play, there is no practical difference between the referee and umpire(s). They are equally responsible for the conduct of the game; and, because of the speed of play, their duties are dictated essentially by their respective positions on the court from moment to moment. For this reason, the rules specify that no official has the authority to question decisions made by another official. The officials' control, which begins 30 minutes before starting time for men and 15 minutes for women and concludes with the referee's approval of the final score, includes the power to eject from the court any player, coach or team follower who is guilty of flagrant unsporting conduct. When the referee leaves the confines of the playing area at the end of the game, the score is final and may not be changed.

Officials’ Signals

When a foul occurs, the official is required by the rules to (a) signal the timer to stop the clock, (b) designate the offender to the scorer and © use his or her fingers to indicate the number of free throws. When a team is entitled to a throw-in, an official must (a) signal what caused the ball to become dead, (b) indicate the throw-in spot (except after a goal) and (c) designate the team entitled to the throw-in.

Duties of Scorers and Timers

Scorers must (a) record, in numerical order, names and numbers of all players, (b) record field goals made and free throws made and missed, (c) keep a running summary of points scored, (d) record fouls called on each player and notify officials when a player-disqualification or bonus-free-throw situation arises, (e) record timeouts and report when a team' s allotted number has been used, and (f) record when a squad member has been ejected for fighting. It is the game-clock and shot-clock operators' responsibility to keep everyone abreast of key factors while carrying out the timing regulations.

Scorers and Timers

When a basketball referee makes a call, he or she will use hand signals such as these to notify players and spectators of the exact nature of the foul, violation, or stoppage of play.

The Officiating Staff

The makeup of the officiating corps is strictly a matter of choice. The minimum number is five: a referee, an umpire, a scorer, a timer and a shot-clock operator. In some cases, eight officials are used in a lineup comprising a referee, two umpires, a shot-clock operator, two scorers and two timers.

Referee (Official in Charge)

The rules of basketball are the rules and regulations that govern the play, officiating, equipment and procedures of basketball. While many of the basic rules are uniform throughout the world, variations do exist. Most leagues or governing bodies in North America, the most important of which are the National Basketball Association and NCAA, formulate their own rules. In addition, the Technical Commission of the International Basketball Federation (FIBA) determines rules for international play; most leagues outside North America use the complete FIBA ruleset.

The referee is the official that controls the game. He is the one who tosses the ball up for the center jump at the start of the game and each overtime period. He duties range from inspecting and approving all equipment before the game's starting time to approving the final score. In between, the referee is responsible for the notification of each team three minutes before each half is to begin and deciding matters of disagreement among the officials. The referee has the power to make decisions on any point not specifically covered in the rules and even to forfeit the game if necessary.

Technical and Tactical Skills, and Analysis

Led by 30 points and four assists from two-time Olympic gold medalist Kevin Durant and dominating on both ends of the court to outscore Serbia (4-4) 33-14 in the second quarter, the 2016 U.S. Olympic Men’s Basketball Team (8-0) claimed a third straight Olympic gold medal on Sunday afternoon at Carioca Arena 1 in Rio de Janeiro. The USA now has a 25-game Olympic win streak and a 53-game win streak in major competition, including Olympic, FIBA World Cup and FIBA Americas games. Spain (5-3) edged out Australia (5-3) 89-88 for the bronze medal. Leading by four-points at the end of the first quarter, the USA blew the game open in the second period. The Americans finished with a 54-33 rebounding advantage and got a 13-point, 15-rebound double-double from DeMarcus Cousins The game started off with four tied scores and five lead changes. The USA fell behind 14-11in the first quarter after Serbia made a free throw at 3:12, but the USA closed with a 7-1 stretch that included a 3 from Durant, and the USA headed into the second period with a 19-15 advantage. Paul George started off the second quarter for the USA with a steal and slam dunk, which was followed by four free throws from Cousins, and the USA led 25-17 1:46 into the second. Serbia scored to end the streak, but the USA was not slowed. Durant went on to sink four 3-pointers to lead a U.S. charge that outscored Serbia 33-14 in the quarter to lead 52-29 at halftime. The U.S. defense in the second quarter held Serbia to 31.6 percent from the field (6-19), while it shot 55.6 percent (10-18). By halftime, the USA had a 31-16 rebounding advantage. Cousins already had 11 points and 12 rebounds and Durant had scored 24 points, including five 3-pointers. Carmelo Anthony, the first four-time Olympian and first three-time Olympic gold medalist in U.S. men’s basketball history, started off the second half with a 3-pointer and went on to score seven points in the quarter, while six other U.S. players added points to help the USA take a 79-43 lead into the fourth period. All 12 U.S. players scored, Klay Thompson added 12 points and George finished with nine points. Kyle Lowry handed out five assists and Kyrie Irving dished out four assists as the Americans recorded 24 assists on 34 made baskets. The USA held Serbia to 38.2 percent from the field (26-68 FGs), turned 18 Serbian turnovers into 26 points and recorded 30 fast break points. Overall in the tournament, the USA beat teams by an average of 22.5 points per game.

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Video link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtm0khT1qec

References  

Ducksters. (n.d.).  Retrieved from Ducksters:  https://www.ducksters.com/sports/basketballrules.php

Harrod Sport. (2020, 24 6). Retrieved  from Harrod Sport:  https://www.harrodsport.com/advice-and-guides/basketball-court-dimensions-markings

Janeiro, R. d.  (2016, 21 August). USA Basketball. Retrieved from USAB:  https://www.usab.com/news-events/news/2016/08/moly-vs-srb-gold-medal-recap.aspx

Stewart, T.  (2018, December 11). SportsRec. Retrieved from SportsRec:  https://www.sportsrec.com/8072917/the-five-basic-skills-of-basketball

Tan, M. C. (2014,  August 31). Prezi. Retrieved from Prezi:  https://prezi.com/wvvzwu2qcp64/officiating-officialsrules-and-regulations-of-basketball/#:~:text=The%20makeup%20of%20the%20officiating,two%20scorers%20and%20two%20timers.

Tutorials Point. (n.d.).  Retrieved from Tutorials Point:  https://www.tutorialspoint.com/basketball/basketball_equipment.htm

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Jigsaw // Blue: Part One

Almost Away From Me 

A/N: Oh boy. So, this is the official start of the Billy Russo smooches, and...it’s probably not what you were expecting but here we are. I got this wild idea in my head to do a little three parter with some of the requests that I got, so this is the first part. The title for this part and the general vibe of the whole thing come from the song Down on Your Knees by Flora Cash. It just reminds me so very much of Billy- that theme of almost having it all and then having it all stripped away. So this is in no way shape or form related to I See You. Blue is its own monster with its own mind, and its going to be a journey. Sorry in advance. 

*i used the taglist from my other Billy stories. if you want on or off please just let me know! *

Warning: psychological trauma, angst

Word Count: 2,903

Prompt From: @gollyderek

Billy spotted you from across the ballroom, honing in on you with practiced precision. He’d stepped away to talk to some men that were higher on the food chain than he was, leaving you at the table with a promise that he’d be back as soon as possible- the same promise he’d left you with before shipping out on this last deployment to Afghanistan. He carried two double whiskies as a peace offering for “leaving you to the wolves” as you called it, his neat and yours with one ice cube, his hands wrapped around the glasses. Your hands were in your hair again, compulsively fussing with it as it hung in soft curls to sweep across the tops of your shoulders. Your wide eyes, rimmed with smokey black powder and defined with bold, dark liner that he’d watched you apply, darted around the room, taking stock of all of the intricate updos and sparkling jewelry that the other women wore. He knew that you were comparing yourself to them, weighing their French manicured nails against your shakily applied polish, noticing the creases in the fabric of brand new, fresh from the garment bag gowns before looking down at your own; a dress you’d “recycled” from when you were a bridesmaid in your sister’s wedding. 

“So what if you’ve worn it before?” he’d asked you while you fidgeted in front of the floor length mirror, lips glued to the base of your neck and hands sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Dress like this?” He trailed his trimmed beard along the gentle curve where your shoulder came into play. “Wear it all the damn time and I’d be happy.” He punctuated his thoughts with a light nip at your skin and a squeeze of his fingers. 

One of your hands came up behind his head, nails combing through his hair, thumb swiping along the starched collar of his uniform jacket, the other joined his as he found the high slit in the front of the deep navy fabric. His fingers slid inside the opening to brush against your thigh, yours rested on his knuckles- cleaned and beginning to heal, but still baring little scars from the last round of abuse he’d taken and dished out on his most recent tour.  

Your fingers left his then, coming up to the off shoulder sleeves of your dress, pulling at them to try to force them to lay flat. Billy’s fingertips inched inward on your thigh, his teeth finding their way to your ear. He watched in the mirror as your eyes fell shut, and he grinned, flexing both hands on your body. “Stop worryin’, you’re fuckin’ gorgeous.” 

He felt you relax against his chest then, your hands dropping to your sides, finally giving up their fruitless efforts against the wrinkles in the blue fabric. “Not bad for such short notice, I guess,” you conceded, turning your head in his direction. Billy had surprised you, getting home a full three weeks earlier than he was supposed to, and just in time for the Marine Corp Ball...just not with enough time for you to find a new dress or book appointments for your hair or makeup. You shrugged into him, arms covering his that was still wrapped around your waist. “Just wanna look good for you, Billy.” 

Billy drew his hand out from under your dress and placed both on your waist, twisting you so you faced him. His tongue slipped out to wet his lips and his eyes narrowed before he spoke.  “You always look good to me. I’m already havin’ a hard time keepin’ my hands offa you.” You smiled at him and he returned it with a smile of his own. It was different when he smiled at you as opposed to all the other times he flashed his pearly whites. Billy had learned that his smiles had the power to make people do whatever he wanted. They had the ability to change minds and gain forgiveness and an uncanny way of making women drop their clothes. But when he smiled at you it was never for any of those reasons. “I’m just happy you’re here with me.” 

You righted a medal that had turned askew when he pressed himself up behind you, fingers unfolding the red, white and black ribbon and flipping the pendant so that it sat in line with the others. “Billy…” you swallowed, eyes glued to the colorful ribbons and bronze medallions that lined the right side of his chest. “I’m happy I’m here with you, too.” 

He approached the table from the left and slightly behind you, setting the drinks down before placing one white gloved hand between your shoulder blades, causing you to jump slightly. Leaning down, his words were in your ear before you could swivel in your seat. “Stop comparin’ yourself to these girls. It’s not fair.” 

You turned then, hands falling to your lap as you looked up at him. “Not fair to who, Billy?” 

Billy held his other hand out for you, keeping one on your back as you stood. “To you, to them…” he looked you up and down, eyes lingering on each curve of your body, “To me. You really don’t know?” He shook his head, smirking at you. “Guess I’m gonna have to show you then.” 

“Show me what, Russo?” Your fingers found their way into his hair, curling around the ends, short nails scraping against the skin at the base of his neck to pull a hum from the back of his throat. 

He reached behind his head to capture your fingers in his own, bringing your arm down and looping it through his, a sharp bend in his elbow. He felt the warmth of your skin through the sleeve of his jacket as you leaned against him. “Show you that you’re all that matters to me.” Without another word, he lead you to the dance floor and spun you into a tight hold, pressing your chest a bit closer to his own than the other couples that surrounded you. Your quick intake of breath drew another smile across his face, lifting his cheeks into his eyes. “You know I’m not much of a dancer, right?” He spoke in a low voice, swaying gently, forehead resting on yours. You nodded and whispered a little ‘yeah’. “But I know you like dancin’. And if I’m gonna dance with anyone...it’s gonna be you.” He licked his lips and pulled back to look you in the eye. “It’s gonna be the most beautiful woman in the whole damn world...gonna be who I missed every damn day I was gone…” 

Your tears were falling softly, rolling down towards your candy apple lips. “I missed you too, Billy,” you responded, your words barely audible but making the same impact as if you’d screamed them. “I missed you so much...I was so worried about you...just wanted you back here.” 

“Hey,” he tucked a curl back behind your ear, fingertips brushing over your damp cheeks. “I’m always gonna come back to you. I’m always gonna miss you. If I’m gone for a day or a year, you’re the one I’m thinkin’ about.” He leaned in then, before you had a chance to say anything else, and kissed you soundly on the mouth. Tongue sweeping over your lips, he erased your salty tears before his hand came to cradle the back of your head, deepening the kiss like he’d never done with anyone else. Kisses, like smiles, could be traded for time, acceptance, chores...whatever he wanted or needed, and they never had to be real- he never had to put all of himself into them to get other women to listen, to care, to do his bidding. But with you, he wanted to pour himself into it, give you all of him, show you how much he missed you, how much you meant to him, how beautiful he thought you were. Lips moving in perfect unison with yours, he released a contented groan into your mouth as you whimpered into his, your fingertips sliding along his bearded jaw. He’d been gone for months, and he hadn’t been able to talk to you nearly as much as he’d hoped, but it all vanished as he kissed you to the point of dizziness, the ballroom spinning away to nothing as he finally pulled back with a nip at your now swollen bottom lip. 

The rest of the night was a blur- returning to the table to knock back those drinks, laughing with Frank and Maria and a few other guys he was friendly with, draping his jacket over your shoulders as he walked you down the road and back to the hotel he could afford a room in instead of the ritzy place where the ball was held. But that kiss… that kiss stuck. 

That kiss followed him through time, coming to him in his dreams...blending with other moments...with that damn skull… 

The click of the door handle turning jolted him awake and his eyes shot open as his arms fought the restraints that held him in place. His breathing was heavy and uneven from behind the mask, and through the two slits he saw a pair of high heeled shoes enter the room. He blinked and the white room sharpened, sweat that he couldn’t wipe away dripping down his nose under the uncomfortable plastic covering his face. Great. More fuckin’ questions… 

“Good Morning, Billy,” Dr. Dumont’s crisp, cheerful voice irked him and he scowled, though she couldn’t see it. “Are you ready for our session?” The click of her heels brought her closer to his bed, and she drew a key from her pocket, holding it up to show him. “I’m going to touch you, but just to open the cuffs, okay?” She was more chipper than anyone in this godforsaken place had a right to be, but she wasn’t afraid of him like all the nurses and other doctors seemed to be. They should be. She should be, too. 

“Yeah, fine.” Not like I have a choice. She smiled, sickeningly sweet and not even close to the natural, easy smiles that you wore in his dreams, his memories. The clatter of the metal links falling away from his wrists and hitting the sides of the bed echoed in the empty room. No flowers or cards, no drawings, balloons or letters for Billy Russo: murderer. Not even from you. Not even a visit. 

The scrape of a chair being dragged closer to the bed snapped his focus back to the doctor, and he used his weak muscles to push himself up into a seated position. “How did you sleep, Billy?” she asked, poisonous smile still in place as she propped her notepad open against her leg. “Are you still having dreams?” 

“Yeah.” he answered in a flat tone. “But they’re not just dreams.” 

Her pen scratched against the paper as one meticulously shaped brow arched high over her eye. “What do you mean by that? If they’re not dreams, what are they?” 

Billy dragged one hand over the short hair that covered the top of his head, rubbing aggressively. “I’m rememberin’ stuff… from before.”

She rested her pen against the pad and folded her hands, leaning forward slightly. “What kinds of things, Billy? Do you remember who hurt you?” 

He snarled, the jagged edges of his scars rubbing against the smooth hard plastic. “No, it ain’t all about the goddamn skull, doc.” 

“You’re right,” she agreed, sitting back and recrossing her legs. “This is about working to put all the pieces back, not just the ones pertaining to your accident.” No shit. “So, what did you remember? More about the war?” 

“Look, you gonna keep fishin, or are you gonna let me talk?” She held her hands up in surrender, indicating that he should go on. With a sniff, he turned to look out the window. It looked sunny, looked warm, unlike the chilly night he recalled in his dream. “Remembered goin' to the Marine Ball…” he recounted the dream he’d just had as the sound of the pen scribbling punctuated his story. But as he spoke, as he heard his own voice talk about watching you get ready, and twirling you on the floor, and walking you back to the room, one question nagged repeatedly. He scrubbed his hand over his head again. “But I don’t get it, ya know? I don’t… where is she? Huh? She’s not… she hasn’t come to see me or…” he lifted his face and turned slowly to face the doctor again. “Or if she has… you’re not letting her… so where is she?” 

Dr. Dumont straightened her back and adjusted her notepad. “I haven't stopped anyone from coming to see you, Billy. But, I know that was a dream, not a memory.” 

“Fuck do you mean, not a memory?” I can still feel her lips… I can… what? “Fuck do you mean?” 

She checked the file even though she seemed sure before confirming. “Billy, you weren’t on the guest list for that ball.” What? But I was there… I was there with… “You didn’t come home early from that deployment, you were overseas until just after Christmas that year.” No, this was November… I surprised her, I… “Billy, this wasn’t a memory, it was a dream. He hasn’t realized it but his breathing had picked back up, and he gripped the sides of his head. No. No, I remember. I remember her blue dress...I remember Frankie was there...and...and Maria and... “We talked about this last time. After the accident, your memories scattered.” Yeah no fucking shit, but whats that got to do with… His agitation rose with every word she spoke. “And the trauma fractured some of those memories.” No. No, not this one… not her… this was… He curled one hand into a fist, knocking his knuckles against his skull. “To cope, your subconscious is trying to fill in the broken parts, and they might seem real, Billy. Some of them are. But this? This didn’t happen.” She shook her head, eyes focused on him. 

Billy flattened his fist back out, replacing the knocking with smacking, as though he could jostle the memories back into order using brute force; as though if he could get it all back in order he could prove her wrong… prove that he had taken you to the ball, that he had kissed you on the floor in full view of everyone in the room. He had to. “No.” There was no questioning in his tone as he barked the word. “No, no no no! You’re lying, Krista.” Dr. Dumont had told him he could call her by her first name if it made him feel more comfortable. But nothing about this was comfortable no matter what he called her, so he spat her comfort back at her. He stopped smacking his head and used both hands to grip the bed rails, pulling himself closer to her. Chest heaving and head spinning, he used one hand to lift the mask from his face, revealing his coal black eyes and the flashes of fire in them. “She’s not...I know she’s real...so where is she?” He didn’t give her enough time to answer if she had one. “I said WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?” Billy threw his mask to the ground and it skittered across the tiles to rest at Krista’s feet. 

Two orderlies cam streaming into the room at Billy’s raised voice, but Krista stood and held a hand out to them, unflappable eyes still focused on Billy. “It’s okay, guys, I’ve got this, he won’t hurt me.” 

You wanna bet? Billy’s nostrils flared. The only reason he wasn’t throttling her right now was because he was sure she knew where you were, sure that this was just some kind of test or game or puzzle; sure that he could figure it out, find you. The muscular men in white scrubs looked at each other before shrugging and leaving the room. “Billy,” her voice was crisp and clear again, cutting through the ringing in his ears. “Billy, I can’t give you all the answers. You need to find them...you need to keep working, and you’ll get there.” She gave a light tug on her skirt, adjusting it after springing to her feet when their session was interrupted. “I think this was enough for today though.” She bent to pick up Billy’s mask before taking the two steps to close the distance between her chair and his bed. She held it out for him to snatch away, then turned to pick up her notepad and Billy’s chart. “I’ll see you in a few days, we’ll talk some more.” 

Billy fumed silently as he watched her go, as she took that syrupy, fructose smile of hers and left him alone. He didn’t know what to believe anymore. How was he supposed to know? How was he supposed to know if they were memories or dreams, the visions that visited him each night? Why would his mind fill in the blanks with you? Why were there blanks at all when it came to you? 

Where is she?

He waited for sleep to take him again, waited for another chance to stitch it together; for another chance to see you.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @thebbtongue @zaffrenotes @songforhema @thesumofmychoices @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @lysawayne @roses-in-your-country-house @ymariejp @belladonnarey @audreychaz @songtoyou @stories-you-wont-hear @traeumerinwitzhelden @breanime @luminex3 @gollyderek

[chainofbeing]

Having recovered from his injuries, Adam goes to Dhara Jamina in the hopes that he will learn more about the foe he is pursuing. Unaware of what truly awaits him.

Narration and Inspiration-Besides-Death : David M. Sledge

Eikal: Erik Smith

Captain Anktares: Frances Gillard

Announcement: George Pritchard

Adam Delta 5, and Sound Design: Cai Gwilym Pritchard

Follow the podcast on twitter @/chainofbeing

Email us at chainofbeingofficial@gmail.com for enquires and stuff

Subscribe to the patreon for exclusive content and rewards!

[a deep voiced narrator speaks, the sounds of a creaking old wooden building]

It was immediately unsettling. Ghost had woken up and felt a sense of unease in their stomach but couldn't quite piece together what they were experiencing. it was only as they clunked down the hardwood stairs and persuaded the rehydration machine to actually work that they understood what was wrong. the sound of the waves had disappeared. instead of the ordinary rush of waves flinging themselves upon the scattering of unmoving and unwavering rocks there was a suffocating, deafening silence. It created a pressure in their ears which was worse than the static of thousands upon millions upon billions of water droplets falling. They had gotten used to that, they had accepted it as a daily occurrence, as anyone would do cope with monotony. They threw on their coat and swung open the lighthouse door, 

[the sound of a town can be heard lightly, wind and birds too]

 they could already feel the surface of their body begin to freeze. Ghost was 6-ft tall and fell into the third gender category of Malgaric. They had a great pair of glowing green eyes, their body criss-crossed with glowing lines of a similar colour in majestic patterns. Hovering around their head were decorations which adorned them as was customary for the Malgaric. Around their head silver horns hovered lightly above their temples and crescents followed their ears as they moved, bobbing up and down with each step. Their full name was "Ghost-of-Sunken-Dawn" however they found that their life was made much easier if they introduced themselves simply as Ghost. their full name is on their plaque of course, hung up by their sheriff's certificate and above their medals in service to the army.

Obviously they were not pondering their family name as they were charging down the semi frozen hill, their mind was preoccupied with the momentous task of trying to comprehend the unfathomable physics defying event that was taking place in front of them. Stood close to the edge of the cliff, puffer jacket zipped up to avoid the cold, Ghost stared deeply into the still wave and slowly began to feel a haze creep into their mind,

[the soft drone, permeated with shattering glass that plays forward and backward can be heard]

It toed the line between a physical and mental sensation, the strangely familiar haze seeped across their whole body as they felt themselves caught in the grip of something far greater and more complex than they could ever hope to understand. And as the birds cawed and the wind blew they felt a pulse travel from their stomach and ooze outwards to the rest of their body, a repeating pattern of four beats, and as the haze travelled outwards, ambling its way to their throat the pulses evolved, becoming incrementally more word-like, mutating from its true form into a shape far more cohesive with the reality around it. And as the haze enveloped Ghost completely, the pulses, now in the form of words, escaped their mouth and they spoke them out loud 

“Ovig Nadal!” 

and with that, Ghost was lost entirely 

[the hum of a ship interior, new and clean adam now speaks]

I stand and stare into the mirror inspecting the scar on my abdomen, the diamond shape a lighter tone then the rest of my skin. I take a moment to stare at the other scars, all manner of bumps and shapes covering my body, never quite having healed properly. I follow the trail of past fights and battles, a history of my conflicts etched into my body, my gaze eventually landing on my eyes, run through with matching lines. I stare at myself 

“you’re still human” 

I say, my warped voice and dark eyes tell a different story. All the Arcanists and scientists of the galaxy cannot explain why I look like this, my immortality is a punishment, for what I did in Eden, for learning what I did in Eden. Whatever that was. Perhaps my aberration is part of that punishment as well. “You are more than Eden,” I tell myself. 

That one I refuse to believe without any help. 

I head downstairs and In the lift, an announcement pings overhead “Could operative Adam Delta 5 please make his way to the quartermaster,” I go down an extra floor and enter the Inventory, rows and rows of shelves with all manner of equipment and supplies, there’s a row of tills each with a visored quartermaster behind it.

[the sound of an office, some light talking and typing]

 Waiting for me is what I imagine to be the captain of the ship, before she can introduce herself I interrupt her

 “I thought hospital ships didn’t have quartermasters?” the captain, a Veatorian, looks me up and down

“I am Captain Anktares, nice to meet you.” she says, annoyed but unsurprised “Recently the council felt it necessary to..” she pauses to search for the right word “elevate, certain facilities at risk to certain threats, this ship was in the way of something or other, beyond my paygrade unfortunately,”

“It’s only been a few weeks, yet you’ve already built an inventory,”

“And a fighter craft docking station in the hangar. what can I say?” she smirks “we’re Veatorians, we get things done,” 

“Careful, or you’ll start to sound like that Arestophsis Hand lot” I say half joking

she smiles tersely but says nothing and gestures to the quartermaster tills

“the council have issued you a fighter craft and a spear”

“A spear? What is this, the second dark ages?”

“It’s a very nice spear,” she reassures me. I look at her incredulously. “It’s extendable!”

[the sound of a hangar, maintenance on ships, clanging of metal, all reverberating around the space]

The fighter craft is so new it doesn't even have a name yet, the designation code is blank too. The chair screens and most surfaces are still wrapped in plastic and it hasn't been changed from the standard issue council blue and grey. I look back at the minimal storage space behind me, a bed, a few shelves of supplies and leaning against the wall, my new spear. I didn't want to admit it in front of the captain but it is a nice spear. Fully extended it reaches around 2 metres but right now it’s a nice manageable 70cm. I name the ship and the Ehedydd make its first spaceflight. It’s been a while since I’ve sat in a new ship so the lack of noise from the engine is a real surprise. 

[the engine spins up and goes silent before activating and entering the widening field]

The Ehedydd was fitted with a WFC drive so the journey should only take about an hour or two. Which gives me some time to have a look at my mission brief. I hate military procedure, all the needless jargon and detail only helps to confuse things. From what I could decipher there was a recently established colony on a small planet, just big enough to be qualified as such, by the name of  Dhāra jamīna. There wasn't a huge amount of space for the usual mega city to be constructed, due to most of the land being raised up to 7 miles above sea level, so instead most of the major settlements in the continent in question are towns with populations of around 30,000 each, each with their own sheriff. Also known as an administrative fucking nightmare. What had drawn my investigation here was the fact that the  7 mile tall waves that battered the cliffs holding up the small towns of Dhāra jamīna had stopped. They had not frozen, but had simply, paused. To add to this, there was a sheriff who was reported to be acting very strangely. An old Insistoris who was living there said it was similar to demonic possession but wrong, somehow. Sounds like what I’m looking for. The fact that he was still alive and hadn’t died or even transformed like Aiek Tubalcain meant he could be spoken to, and maybe, if i was lucky, he would speak back. 

 Dhāra jamīna is so new that it doesn't even have an Orbit to Land Transference Station, OLTraS for short, so instead I just transfer my clearance codes and go to land on a small pad at the edge of town. As I fly over the vast ocean I look into it, it’s stillness is unsettling and it amplifies the already quite strong anxiety I feel chasing after this thing. 

[the sound of a town in the distance, wind and birds]

standing at the edge of the landing pad is a Vint and a Malgaric, joint mayors of the town, the name of which I've forgotten. I take me spear and affix it to my hip 

“Welcome to Jalis,” the Vint says, offering both of his hands, I take them and we bow together, he has to bow his long spined neck quite a bit in order to match my level “I am Eikal, mayor of this small community”

“Joint mayor” the Malgaric reminds him, irritation apparent in his voice

[his voice is slightly robotic and gruff]

“I am Inspiration-Besides-Death, however for your ease of communication you may refer to me as Inspiration” in the dusk his blue light is just starting to illuminate the black soil grass at his feet.

“I thank you both,” I reply. Both mayors seem visibly uncomfortable speaking in Human, however I am physically incapable of speaking in Malgaric and my Vint is about 450 years outdated and I don’t want to seem like a weirdo. They lead me through the town,

[the town is quiet, some conversations can be heard through the walls of houses, somewhere someone is using a drill]

 the two mayors seem intent on outpacing each other, gradually getting faster and faster until I have to start jogging in order to keep up with the two who are considerably taller than me. The people seem, understandably, anxious. They were expecting a quiet life in a new colony away from the overcrowded societies of their people. It’s late in the day so most people are resting or attending to prayers. Religion has no place in the Council of Nimonea, it's not actively discouraged, but provisions aren’t really made to preserve or protect it either, it's one of the more major issues most species within the council have. Unusually for most council towns, the houses here are 2-3 stories high most likely to make up for the lack of sprawling land on which to build. The whole town is only about a mile wide. We reach the detainment building and pause outside. Eikal turns to me “I must warn you, the manifestation is quite…disturbing,”

“I have not witnessed anything quite like this, even in my military days,” Inspiration chimes in. Eikal shoots him a look, “did you not identify my assessment to be adequate?” Inspiration looks back at him, his expression unwavering “I have said my piece,”. As they argue I look off at the edge of the island at a wave, unmoving and unwavering, like a painting. 

[the ambience of a quiet office, some machines beep, overall though it is quite silent]

We enter the dimly lit building and find ourselves in an oval shaped room, the Vint draws a small tablet from within his robes and presses a few keys. The room elaborately rotates and shifts until we are face to face with the sheriff separated only by glass. They sat on a curved bench, their legs crossed. I can only tell this because the green light that covers their body pulses in beats of four, providing more illumination by which to get a sense of the room. “Why aren’t they moving?” I ask. They go to answer at the same time

“Well-”

“Well-”

They stare each other and Eikal takes advantage of the pause to speak before Inspiration can

“We placed them in a stasis field, for their own wellness you understand”  

“Why is it so dark in there?” Eikal and Inspiration turn to each other, a mild panic on their faces

“Apologies, we misplaced our realisation-” Eikal pauses and translates in his head before trying again “We forgot the humans light requirements, allow me to attend to your needs,” with a few more key presses the whole building lights up. With my newfound visibility I see what Eikal meant by ‘for their own health’ Ghost’s fingers are scratched and worn and the entire back wall of the cell has been etched into with that symbol that has brought me so much dread. Surrounding it are adornments which trace around its edges, criss cross around each other, play off of one anothers curves and angles, all centred, but never interacting with, that symbol in the middle.

[jflashandclash]

Tales from Mount Othrys

Magical Daycare I

 Author’s Note: The chapter in which Ajax finally gets his nickname and the Pax brothers become WAY less confusing to tell apart. Also, this takes place the day after Flynn’s Surprise Parenthood.

           Ajax was excited for his first proper day aboard the ship. Sure, the morning had a rough start, as had every morning for the last six months. Ajax had crawled into his older brother’s bunk once he heard his brother’s breath ease into unconsciousness. Good thing too. Thirty minutes before dawn, his brother woke up screaming, terrifying their bunk mates out of their beds and making a panicked Jack kick their door open.

         Apparently, their new Mom had vetoed sharing a room with them, so the brothers ended up in a room across the hall.

         “What’s wrong? Who do I need to kill?!” Jack shrieked, wielding the porcelain top of a toilet for a weapon. He wore a T-shirt and boxers that might have once been white before dallying with a red sock in a laundry machine.

         As Ajax had practiced many times before, the younger boy willed his eyes to get teary. This wasn’t hard. He also had nightmares about losing their Aunt and Uncle, but he didn’t have his brother’s uncontrollable vocal practice upon waking.

         Axel was red in the face; his hand clamped over his mouth. His eyes darted around, remembering where they were. He covered his head, muttering in Mayan.

         “I had a nightmare,” Ajax said, trying to keep the attention off his older brother. Axel needed to put on his Mist mask before the others noticed anything weird about his face. Fortunately, the room was too dim to see Axel’s ears or teeth, but the light trickling from the hall might reflect off Axel’s eyes.

         What Ajax said was true: he had a nightmare. But, he didn’t need to specify that he wasn’t the one screaming.

         Jack lowered the toilet lid, exhaling. “Night terrors are common around here. Do you want a glass of milk before you go back to bed?”

         Ajax stared at the gangly redhead. It was like this guy had pulled Generic, Background Father Figures: the Manual and pulled lines from it. Did people’s parents really talk like that? Maybe it was an American thing. He was waiting for Jack to clear out the ship’s mini golf course, put a white picket fence around it, and invite Ajax and Axel to play catch.

         Ajax, personally, loved it. It was cheesy and simple. As long as Jack didn’t end up being someone who liked to touch boys at night—as Ajax’s older brother speculated—then it was awesome.    

         Once Axel put on his Mist mask and got his breathing under control, he said, “N-no. Once—um—Ajax has a nightmare, we can’t go back to bed. We can train—or—or work…”

         Under the covers, Axel squeezed Ajax’s arm to show his appreciation. Unlike his older brother, Ajax had no shame. Since everyone thought he was several years younger than he was and people typically weren’t sure if he was a girl, they were gentler on his breakdowns.

         Jack set the toilet lid down to prop the door open, seeming to realize that lid probably weighed half of him. Axel said carrying Jack the other day was like carrying a sack of dandelions.

         One of their roommates—Chris from backstage—pressed a pillow over his head to block out the scattered light. From the shadows in the hall, Ajax could guess other kids had gathered around at the noise.

         Jack shooed some of them away. Once done, he leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “I have a morning routine that Luke makes me do for my voice. If I don’t, it, uh, can be bad.” Jack raised one hand to tug at his hair. “Uh… who is up at this—oh! Oh! I know where to put you.”

         Ajax and Axel hopped out of bed. Axel went to pull his jeans over his boxers and grabbed for a fresh band shirt that Jack had loaned him. Atop that went Julian’s medals. Jack promised to take them shopping sometime this week. Ajax didn’t mind. He was so small compared to Jack’s height that Ajax could have worn one of these shirts as a dress. If he had a belt, he absolutely would.

         Ajax snapped his fingers. He grabbed one of the long band shirts and a flannel button down shirts that Jack had brought them. Ajax slipped the first on, then tied the former around his waist.

         Jack gave him a confused look, but shrugged.

         Axel just sighed.

         Jack waited for them to brush their teeth with complimentary room toiletries.

         They shuffled into the hallway, Ajax rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Axel was in the middle of pulling his hair into a bun. He startled and almost went for a weapon when he saw someone was with Jack.

         She was probably thirteen or so, a year older than Ajax. Her black, messy curls hung long, all the way down her back, and she was rapidly stuffing them into some kind of scarf that she wrapped sloppily around her head. Her skin was a warm olive, speckled with acne. Her eyes were large, brown, almond-shaped, and fierce.

         “Ah! Uh—Sadie--?” Jack said.

         “Mercedes,” she said in a curt tone.

         “Mercedes,” Jack corrected, giving her an apologetic, cute grin. The girl didn’t seem to notice as she finished adjusting her hair and scarf. She had to start over, like she wasn’t used to the actions or needed a mirror to perform it with perfection.

         “Do you remember how to get to the lab?” Jack asked her.

         Mercedes maintained a blank expression while confidently saying, “Like the blind leading the blind.” She had a slight accent, one Ajax couldn’t place but felt like he should recognize.

         “Perfect!” Jack said. “I’m going to gargle some saltwater. Can you get my boys to the lab? Have fun boys! I’ll come to collect you once I’m done getting my voice ready and checking on Lucille’s wounds.”

         With that, Jack took a step back towards his room. Then he paused and turned. “Mercedes? Like the car?” he asked.

         She continued to give him a deadpan stare. “Like the opera, Carmen.”

         “Huh,” Jack said. As he disappeared back into his room, he softly sang, “Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas—” to a tune that Ajax had heard dozens of times but never knew the origin of. He always assumed it was from a kids’ cartoon.

         Without looking at Axel or Ajax, she started down the hallway. “Names,” she said.

         “Axel,” his older brother said, taking stride behind her. “It’s nice to meet you.” Although Axel had hated their father’s formality lessons, they showed in his peacock manner.

         Ajax scurried to catch up to their longer stride. She was several inches taller than him and had a pace closer to Axel’s.

         “Camille,” Ajax said, suppressing a grin. It was the first unisex name he could think of.

         “His name is Ajax,” Axel said.

         Ajax pouted. Axel wasn’t going to let him play any of his usual Am I a boy or a girl? Or What race am I? games that he and his sister, Lapis, liked to pull on their  past tutors.

         “That’s too many A’s, too many X’s, and too much awesome. What’s your last name?” she asked.

Both boys too stunned into silence for a moment. She spoke so fast and neutrally that neither could tell if she was mocking them.

         “Pax,” Ajax said.

         Axel swatted the back of his head.

         Ajax whined clutching his hair. He switched to Spanish. “What?! It’s not like dad can find us on a cruise ship. And why didn’t you let me pretend to be a girl? This is the first person our age that I could mess with.”

         “I knew you were a boy,” Mercedes said like he hadn’t been speaking in a different tongue. “You were bunked with boys.” There was a distinct pause when a smirk crept onto her lips. “And your manhood is showing.”

         Ajax blinked and scrambled to rearrange the flannel shirt to cover his no-reason-boner. In his hurry, he hadn’t realized how obvious it was with the band shirt and no pants. Before he’d run away from home, he remembered Kouta and Axel sitting him down to explain that this was a normal part of growing up, that some mornings and randomly at other times, that part of him would decide to make itself known without any psychological or physical reason.

         His older brother looked more mortified than Ajax felt. “I’m sorry—” he said, “He’s—”

         “Going through puberty and not used to hiding it yet,” Mercedes ended for him. That definitely wasn’t what Axel was going to say, and his blush showed it.

         Her tone was casual, more like an adult health provider than that of someone their age. Someone that should have been teasing him. “I have brothers at home,” she explained. At the end of the hall, there was a stairwell. They descended the steps rapidly.

         In that moment, Ajax decided he liked Mercedes. Most other girls would have thought he was gross for this thing out of his control. His sister had been cool about it. Lapis had gotten her period a year before and he helped her get excused from lessons or chores when her cramps were bad. In return, she helped make distractions when he was in public with this problem.

         Lapis also enjoyed teasing Ajax, saying she should have had the no-reason-boners; and he, the period.

         Ajax was about to announce that he liked Mercedes—something, in retrospect, he shouldn’t say with his current problem—when she continued, “Plus, I enjoy having blackmail on my associates. Now…” She poked Ajax’s arm. “You go by Pax Two. Guard your first name with your life and only hand it out to those you trust.”

         Ajax blinked. Pax? He could go by Pax.

         The now-christened Pax Two said, “Why do you cover your hair? It’s pretty.” It had looked wild, like his.

         Axel scowled at Pax, like the question was rude. But, if the older boy wasn’t going to make conversation, Pax wasn’t about to let them walk in silence. Axel’s eyes had been scanning the ship nonstop, like he expected a monster to hop out and eat them. That was Axel’s job—to keep them from being monster feed. Pax’s job was to distract Axel from the seriousness of that job. And scout for Axel’s potential girlfriends. And Mercedes was witty and cute.

         “Because I prefer nosy, little boys to appreciate my quick tongue and unfathomable patience before my hair,” she said, keeping her eyes forward. The smile on her lips grew.  

         Pax thought about covering his hair and some of his face with a cloth, but decided that would put too much attention to his eyes. People who didn’t have heterochromia probably didn’t have that problem.

         “I like your accent,” Pax said. He still struggled with his. His little brother, Hiro, and Lapis had easily covered their home accent in both Spanish and English. The older two, Kouta and Axel, still had the same ticks Pax did. “Where are you from?”

         The silence that followed made Pax scared he’d asked another rude question. Axel told Pax not to freely state where they were from, but Axel was paranoid about telling people his favorite color. (Currently, it was the dull blue of a jaguar cub’s eyes.)

         Mercedes hesitated. “Morocco… Fez, Morocco.” She sounded uncertain. Maybe she was as paranoid as Axel. “My brothers are still in the medieval district.”

         “Is that… in Europe?” Pax asked. Normally, he got to play this game with others. Not many people could point to his homeland on a globe.

         “Only to those who haven’t seen maps of Africa,” Mercedes said with that same neutral tone. She stopped in front of a pair of closed doors that had skulls and crossbones graffitied on it. “Catch.”

         She withdrew something from her Scooby Doo PJ pants and tossed the items at them in a spray.

         Axel and Pax both reached to reflexively do as ordered.

         They startled—she’d thrown a mix of pins and jacks, those tiny metal toys that involved the crisscrossing of metal bars. Things that would hurt to catch wrong.

         Instinct took over.

         Axel had always been better at juggling, but that didn’t mean Pax was bad at it. The brothers snapped their hands out, working together to catch the four various sized pins and three jacks. One slipped from their reach. Axel caught it on the tip of his foot and kicked it back up.

         While it was suspended in air, it was like they were back in a performance. A sly smile crept onto Axel’s face as he glanced away, like he had forgotten the flying projectile.

         Pax, meanwhile, jumped to have the tiny jack balance in his hair.      

         Once accomplished, the brothers gave each other grins. They bowed slightly, Pax keeping his head up so the jack wouldn’t fall off. They presented the items back to her as though she were a queen.

         Mercedes stared. “Huh,” she said. “Performers?”

         “For awhile,” Axel admitted. He straightened to full height. Seeing Axel relax and stop glancing around the room like he expected a rhino to charge them, Pax hoped that this Moroccan would end up Axel’s type.

         “Which of you has steadier hands?” she asked, glancing slowly between their outstretched palms. Neither had scratched themselves on the pins or jacks.

         Axel nodded down to Pax as Pax dipped a lower bow. Instead of taking her items back, Mercedes rearranged all of them. She took all but one of the jacks and put them into Axel’s hands and placed all of the pins into one of Pax’s.

         “Pax Two,” she said, “This is a pin and tumbler lock.” She pointed to one of the pins in his hand. “This is a tension wrench.” She pointed to another that squiggled towards the end. “This is a rake.” She pointed to the jacks. “These are hex shields.”

         “We’re breaking in?” Axel asked. The corner of his lips tugged into the standard Pax boy smirk. Pax’s heart fluttered. Maybe this girl would be Axel’s type.

         “We’re interviewing,” Mercedes corrected. She leaned against the doorframe. The motion made Pax think she wanted to avoid any potential explosions that might erupt from the door. “Luke thinks he can do everything around here and I’m going to prove to him that he’s running himself thinner than a piece of paper. Pax Two, take the tension wrench and insert it into the lock. Apply a gentle, consistent amount of pressure. Pax One, if you hear a whisper of voice from anyone other than the three of us, throw that jack at the lock faster than a god chases after a nymph.”

         Pax did as told. Axel tilted his head towards the door in a way that Pax knew meant Axel had tilted his ears as well. This was the best set up they could have had: Axel could probably see any weird curses on the door.

         The idea of spells made Pax giddy. Hadn’t she said hexes?

         Mercedes continued. “From my research since Luke got here, he has the only spy contact in the entire encampment. And he only spies on the Greeks, whoever they are. They need a better spy network in New Rome, and I’m recruiting. Pax Two, take the rake and ‘rake’ it across the tumblers on the top side of the keyhole. Rotate the tension wrench gently back and forth as you do so. Pax One, get ready.”

         Pax obeyed. This, he decided, was fun. He’d always loved seeing spies do this in movies. And, he really wanted to impress Mercedes if she thought he could do something. Pax was terrified of fighting. Seeing Axel on the stage—Pax had sobbed uncontrollably, waiting for his brother to make one wrong move against the much bigger, more trained Julian. As much as he’d managed to keep a smile on his face, the image kept popping back into his head—one of Axel’s jaw cracking into Julian’s skull right after Julian stabbed them.

         If Jack hadn’t been there, they both would have died, needlessly.

         Here, Pax felt the memory ebb. His mind blanked as he listened for a click and jiggled the two picks.

         Mercedes gestured to Axel, who kept his eyes on the door. “No doubt they think you’ll end up in the Assault Unit.” She pointed at Pax. “You won’t. I’m recruiting and I might be able to keep you together if you both impress me.”

         Something gave under Pax’s fingers.

         Before Pax heard anything, Axel launched the jack.

         Pax expected an explosion or massive light show.

         Instead, a sliver of green smoke emitted in a funnel from the knob. It sank into the jack.

         Now, the metal was tinted green.

         Mercedes’ hand snapped around the jack before it could physically strike the door. Then, her fingers dipped down to clutch Pax’s in a way that froze him.

         Voices erupted from inside, like a sound barrier had been breached.

         The brothers looked at Mercedes.

         She had the pointer finger of her other hand against her mouth for silence. She flattened herself against the doorframe to make herself as invisible as possible.

         Without needing further instruction, Axel flattened himself on the opposite doorframe. Pax scrambled to Mercedes’ other side. He would have felt safer beside Axel, but, here, he could easily receive instructions from the thirteen year old girl. And investigate if she used nice-smelling shampoo or bath wash.

         Pax caught the distinct mix of sweet and acrimonious that comes from coffee beans.

         Once they settled, Mercedes soundlessly opened the door a few centimeters.

         An enraged male’s voice came through the door, along with the clatter of some glass. “I want off this boat, Luke. What are you going to do when the son of Poseidon sends a rogue wave to hit the ship? Do you really think he’s so stupid to never think about that?”

         “Wow, Alabaster! Calm down! I’m sure Jack can do something for your sea sickness—”

         “I don’t want that maniac anywhere near me.”

         Pax glared over the door to Axel. Even if Jack had seemed off his rocker, he was nice, gave them donuts, and sang them to sleep that night. Yea, that normally would have made Axel embarrassed enough to jump out of the boat, but Jack’s voice had been so soothing, it knocked them and their cabin mates out within moments.  

         Axel kept his gaze on the door, frowning slightly at the insult to their new caretaker.

         Mercedes shoved Pax’s face back so he’d lean against the wall again.

         “Don’t change the subject. You’re an idiot for letting him live—”

         “Torrington,” Luke growled. That must have been the kid’s last name. Or a mythological insult. If it was an insult, it was a cool sounding insult. Pax wouldn’t mind getting called a Torrington.[1]

         “No, we’re not going to pretend here. What are you getting at with this kid? First you poison him with a pit scorpion, which took me WEEKS to train and you LET IT DIE, then you don’t finish off the job? All you had to do was follow through, Luke! Then we keep the monsters off Percy’s back all summer like he’ll be grateful and will forget about the whole scorpion thing and how you framed him for an Olympic level theft—and now you THREATEN to kill him again?! Whose side are you on?! Either successfully recruit him or kill him. I don’t care if you’re jealous—”

         “I am NOT jealous of Percy Jackson.” Luke’s voice had grown icy. “You don’t need to worry about him thinking of a rogue wave—”

         “Or clogging our engines with sea trash and leaving us dead in the water—”

         “He’s too dumb to think of that!”

         “Ah, and you assumed this ‘idiot’ would know to get the Golden Fleece?” the other boy’s voice became more metered, more critical.

         “Annabeth is smart. She’ll figure out that they need the Golden Fleece to save Thalia’s tree. She’s brave and resourceful.” Luke tone was so endearing towards the girl, Pax had to wonder who she was. The name sounded familiar.

         “This stupid, convoluted plan again? We could have sent some of our heroes to collect the Golden Fleece on our own. Flynn already offered, as have new recruits. Then you could have used the Fleece on Thalia’s tree without hurting her. But no, so much more noble for you to poison the girl you love—”

         There was a loud thwap. Something clattered in the room. Pax knew that sound. Someone had been hit. He trembled, thinking of the times their father beat Axel in front of Pax to punish Pax for doing wrong. Their dad knew his children were more likely to behave when he beat the others.

         A shrill female’s voice said, “Don’t hit my broth—”

         Then was hushed.

         A tense moment passed where Pax realized that he did not want to be caught on the other side of this door when Luke stormed out of there. He did not want his mother to help him escape one abusive home only to run into another.

         When Alabaster spoke again, his voice was tight and muffled, like he spoke through a hand or a clenched jaw. “I’m saying that, if I were someone Luke Castellan unnecessarily poisoned, then I was saved by Percy Jackson’s heroics and I found out that it was only because Mr. Castellan couldn’t bother to do it himself—”

         “Al,” the younger girl in the room begged.

         “—then I might not be ecstatic to join his cause,” the boy finished, “Especially if I had the temperament of a storm.”

         Luke’s voice was low and terrifying. “She will join, Torrington.”

         Pax focused so intently on the conversation and keeping himself flushed against the wall that he didn’t hear someone else approach them. Not until a puff of blond hair came into his peripheral.

         Pax held his breath. The boy was somewhere between Pax and Mercedes’ age. If Pax were told to bring a baby Viking to show-and-tell (something he’d heard about in American schools), then he would have brought this boy.

         He had fluffy, sandy hair that poofed out around his red ears. The only area the boy’s skin didn’t look pale to the point of transparency was on his sunburned nose and cheeks. When he paused in front of the door, he fluffed out a leather work apron, like it was a ball gown. His pale blue eyes were full of energy as they darted from Mercedes, to Pax, to Axel.

         The smile on his face twisted to something mischievous.

         Mercedes exchanged a glance with Pax and Axel. Her hand had clutched Pax’s arm, about to shove him into action, though he wasn’t sure if it was to jump the baby Viking or run away.

         Before she could encourage either, the boy shoved both of the double doors open. “Lord Torrington!” he bellowed as deeply as a pre-pubescent voice could. “I seek your audience at this fine dawn hour!”

         The only response was an uncomfortable silence inside.

         Mercedes dragged Pax out from the wall. They were still out of sight from the room’s inhabitants, but now it didn’t look like they were eavesdropping. Axel mimicked the motion on his side of the doors. He looked at a loss to get to their side of the hallway. They needed a distraction.

         The Northern boy skipped into the room without invitation.        “Ah! Luke! What a glorious occasion to see your—”

         “This conversation isn’t over, Torrington,” Luke growled.

         Pax wondered what the conversation was originally about. He also wondered if he could jump to the ceiling and spider-hang there. They were too slow. Luke rounded the door, his blue eyes narrowed with rage.

         The expression froze Pax in his place; the three of them were busted.

  ***

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed getting to “meet” three of my favorite characters from TFMO. I also hope you guys have had an awesome start to the best year for critical rolls XD Stay tuned next week for Ajax’s Part II!

 Footnote:

[1] Foreshadowing XD

[meta-squash]

Journal For Plague Lovers & Modernist Literary Style

So I’ve had this theory/idea/whatever in my head for at least a year now about Journal For Plague Lovers and Modernist literature. (Note: I’m talking about the full, unedited lyrics available in the deluxe edition booklet, which you can find my scans of here.) Basically, my theory is that JFPL reflects and uses a Modernist style of writing in order to express feelings and experiences. The Modernist writers really started experimenting with form and meaning and how each dictates or manipulates the other, and there are certain stylistic choices that Richey made in these lyrics that are really reminiscent of the Modernist techniques and experimental styles.

To begin with, JFPL is a notably massive leap forward in lyrical writing for Richey. Which, frankly, is amazing if most of it was written between autumn 1994 when he got out of hospital and January 1995 when the binder was given to Nicky. That means that his lyrical advancement occurred in about 6 months, between the writing/recording of The Holy Bible and Richey’s release from hospitalization, which is incredibly fast. Nicky is always mentioning how Richey’s mind was in high-gear around the time of writing Journal For Plague Lovers, how he was unable to switch off or slow down, which probably accounts both for the advancement and the overwhelming overload of references in these lyrics.

Anyway, I’m just gonna go through some of the main characteristics of Modernist literature/poetry, and sort of look at how JFPL reflects that or utilizes it.

Probably the most obvious is the “cut-up” word/writing style of most of the songs. The Beat poets took cut-up and really ran with it, but it kind of started during the later modernist period. Cut-ups are where a text or texts are cut up and rearranged to make a new text.

I don’t think Richey was literally cutting up texts, but the way certain songs, like Me & Stephen Hawking, Peeled Apples, and Journal For Plague Lovers leap from subject to subject or POV to POV very much seems to emulate that cut-up style. Me & Stephen Hawking is a really good example. In an interview about the album, someone mentioned the weirdness of the lyrics to the song and James responded, “Seriously, you haven’t seen the rest. Seriously, you wouldn’t fucking believe them.” The lyrics clearly have an ongoing theme, but it’s hard to make out at first. They’re very cut-up style, random and almost unintelligible:

Queen mother stuffed for exhibition Three strikes yr out – execution – pizza 2/ Dante III, spider robot, Mount Spurrr Increased plastic surgery for pubic hair Sanitation police, crime of proportion.

Peeled Apples, while clearly political, and Journal For Plague Lovers, clearly personal, also really use the cut-up style. Peeled Apples slams together political/history references with images of personal suffering and popular media as well as just plain bizarre phrases like “Canaries are always behind bars the day of deliverance lied.” Pretension/Repulsion also does this, as it’s just single seemingly unrelated words clustered together separated only by commas. The cut-up sort of style allows a ton of words to be put together where it might not have been so easy before. It’s hard to follow, but it manages to pack a LOT of information into a small amount of space, and creates a sensation of overwhelming reality and/or unreality.

Which brings me to another characteristic of modernism, which was the destabilization of reality, the realization that there is not central truth and that truth is provisional and reality is constructed by the “writer” and the “reader.” Jackie Collins Existential Question Time really utilizes that, as it warps reality into this bizarre sort of talk show asking relationship questions– but you don’t know if you’re the audience or not, or where you/the speaker is, or what the conclusion is meant to be, or what the questions really mean. It’s silly but also serious and you’re not really sure how to take it because it’s so weird. You get a sense of place, of what’s going on, but not enough to feel like your feet are on solid ground and that you’re understanding anything.

Facing Page: Top Left and Virginia State Epileptic Colony do this as well, but in very different ways. In Facing Page, you get the sense of a hospital or institution, flashes and fragments of moments and images from within, but there is never any clarity about what is going on, and the world constructed by the words is obscured from any conclusion or truth or central point, since images of institutionalization are interspersed with phrases like “The scum as jewellery,” “Pig bargaining,” “Christian fraternity meeting Pagan idolatry,” and of course “This beauty here dipping neophobia.” It’s comprised mostly of collections of short phrases, and none of these phrases coagulate or combine to clarify anything or to give the listener-reader any sort of intended message. Virginia State Epileptic Colony also presents a hospital scene, but it is much clearer. Instead, the destabilization of reality comes from spaces in the text, and the repetition. We only get about half an image in 13 lines of text– people (patients) sitting at tables drawing circles in chalk, given medication by doctors, waking to strange lights and being told that they are independent because they are allowed to learn domestic tasks. We have the repetition of “Piggy” (and those double asterisks) 5 times in the chorus, with no true explanation as to what it means, and with two verses, a repetitive chorus, and a two-line bridge, there is so much space in this song, so much emptiness. It is up to the listener to fill that space, that reality, making it something constructed not by the words, but by what isn’t there, the information that the listener has to create for themselves out of the half-image that’s given.

As an extension of the above, the use of stream-of-consciousness (and first person) writing became really popular during the modernist era. Most songs are sort of a form of stream-of-consciousness, but the lyrics on JFPL seem to do it more on a literary rather than lyrical level. More than any of the others, William’s Last Words does it best. It’s literally a Faulkner-style first-person prose monologue without line breaks or a verse/chorus/bridge structure. The original version is clearly a drunk character leaving or attempting to leave a party or show of some sort. It’s sad and nostalgic and self-deprecating but it’s all one unbroken monologue-scene of stream of consciousness speech. This is just a small chunk of the page and a half of text:

Goodnight all, you’re all my friends…remember my wedding day, should’ve heard ole Bill singing, we’ll have a good old ding dong tomorrow, you’re lovely all of you, goodnight godbless I’ll always remember you, hope you liked the concert. I’ll go nice and quiet, I’ll just say cherio, here I go on my way, till we meet again, wish me luck as you wave me goodbye. Yr the best friends I ever had, yes, no, no I’m not a clever chap, I made a balls up again, first, second, third time but not on your time I hope, you’re a part of the world….oo be quiet old Bill, no applause, sleeptight, isn’t it lovely when the dawn brings the dew and I’ll be watching over you. It was lovely singing to you, I won’t forget you.

It’s full of commas and run-on or unconnected sentences, but it is prose that connects to itself rather than lyrics. Still, it seems to start in the middle of a scene and fades away into not much of a concrete conclusion, so we get a moment of consciousness– perhaps the most emotional moment– before turning away. Facing Page: Top Left and Marlon JD do stream of consciousness to some degree as well. Facing Page is not a typical stream of consciousness, but more like a list of things or experiences or associations. In some ways again it makes me think of Faulkner, of the way he writes characters that don’t really know how narrate their thoughts/experiences in words. It never leaves its institutional location or changes the subject to something else, it just rambles about the situation it’s in through fragmentary phrases. Marlon JD is also very stream-of-consciousness, but because it’s already based on a monologue from a film that’s kind of to be expected.

Modernism was also characterized by a sort of “what’s becoming of the world?” reaction, in response to the speeding up of technological advancements and scientific discoveries etc etc, as well as the consciousness of the changes that came from the end of the 19th century and how the new 20th century was shaping up to be. Something that the band specifically notes in interviews about the Journal For Plague Lovers album is the emphasis on information overload, of the speed of technology and information/media consumption, as well as concerns about things like the environment, religion, and global politics/history and the end of the millennium.

Me & Stephen Hawking is the clearest example of this “what is becoming of the world?” anxiety, and the focus on information overload. The main body of the lyric –the verse(s)– never actually made it onto the recording, which just uses the bridge and the chorus. This is probably because the verse(s) are just jumbles of references to history and media and events and ideas. It’s also characterized by swaths of blacked-out lines. Whether the Richey did that or the band did it posthumously, we don’t know. If Richey did it himself, it certainly changes the interpretation of the lyrics, as it adds another layer of “information” (censoring) overload. But the words trip over each other, so many different references all piled in one spot:

2/ Dante III, spider robot, Mount Spurrr Increased plastic surgery for pubic hair Sanitation police, crime of proportion. 3/ Paisleyism and ecumenism and cenotaph bombers [blacked out] wearing policing Soviet labour medals sold for Coca Cola 82 million watch Gorilla Meets Whale

Peeled Apples does the same thing, piling political and historical and emotional and media references in one place until they’re so jumbled it’s hard to make sense of them, showing the anxiety of that information overload and speeding up of communication, creation, knowledge. I’ve always thought that All Is Vanity is a kind of reaction to that reaction, putting the anxiety succinctly into “It’s not whats wrong it’s what’s right / Makes me feel like I’m talking a foreign language at times” and the desire for control or some semblance of order and calmness in “I would prefer no choice / One bread one milk one food that’s all / I’m confused I only want one truth.” Which, again, goes back to that Modernist realization that truth is provisional, reality is constructed, and there is no central point because not only is it all relative, it’s also always moving and changing and growing and shrinking and twisting.

Another characteristic is that of an emphasis on the sexual (in the form of fetish or obsession, usually), and the visceral or grotesque. While JFPL doesn’t really have much of the former, it certainly has plenty of the latter. The most obvious are Journal For Plague Lovers and She Bathed Herself In A Bath Of Bleach. She Bathed Herself really contains the most visceral image in the title, which is, as Nicky calls it, “quite a shocking title.” Aside from the title, the more intense lines are “She thought burnt skin would please her lover” and “Love sat her in a bath of bleach / But salmon pink skinned Mary is still caring.” Even so, the title kind of dictates where the listener’s mind goes with these words, and so with the suggestion from the title, the imagination goes to more grotesque places that the words actually literally contain. On the other hand, Journal For Plague Lovers has some really grotesque imagery. The band sort of cherry-picked lines to record around the more intense parts of the verses. The verses altogether seem to be an image of a rotting self, whether physical, emotional or mental, especially when combined with the “dying relationship” of the bridge.

These perfect abattoirs these perfect actors Babies bones, dustbinned, shorn

Oh such love smeared stimulus Vacuumed pain slow suck luck Wake in hell murder one Troughs o’ bones wade in gore

Weep helpless skewered flesh Milky teeth soured and fetid PG certificate all cuts unfocused Sick in skin embarrassed within

The imagery is really intense but non-specific, creating a reaction of disgust and fragments of gross images without really knowing what we’re looking at or what we’re supposed to be disgusted by. It’s a shock factor that transitions into the bridge, which is a scene of a failing or failed relationship, so that the gross images overlay this moment of romantic collapse, making it even more visceral and pitiful.

Modernism also started really focusing on the meaning and history of words, and how they could be used to create an image without blatantly telling a story. Pretension/Repulsion is the best example of this, especially because James Bradfield specifically noted in an interview that the way the song was laid out meant it felt like Richey was telling him “Look at the words, James, look at the words.” Which makes sense, as it’s just a bunch of individual words divided by commas:

Explored, inclos’d, amaz’d, perturb’d Assum’d, annoy’d, ceas’d, unhinder’d Burden’d, gather’d, agonis’d, lock’d Mix’d, sear’d, receiv’d, unclaps’d 

Instead of focusing on a story, the listener-reader is paying attention to the sound of each word and thinking of the meaning behind it. Instead of a narrative, we get flashes of image/emotion for each word. Peeled Apples also relays on knowledge of words and historical references, with lines like “In SB’s Cistine Chapel inabilities wither / Boy smoking cigarette infront of Himmler’s painted ether” and “Nutrition is neuroses for a maelstrom of inadequacy.” Doors Closing Slowly relies on religious knowledge, and its references go very deep. It twists biblical stories and references, and expects the listener-reader to understand the origin and therefore the modified version:

I want your sin third day perfected Lazarus burning Jerusalem Blaspheme, cut dead, Isiah One day birds of prey Israelite 

But, like the Modernists, each of these lyrics uses an emphasis on the expectation that the listener-reader will have the literary or historical or vocabulary knowledge to understand the meaning/origin of the reference in order to create a specific image through the twisting or reinterpretation of that reference. It wants the definition and history to expand the story, so that it’s the effort of the listener-reader and not the speaker that will expand the story into something fleshed out and recognizable. Despite the cuts that were made for the studio recordings it’s clear when you read the full versions of the lyrics that every single word is important and researched and meant to be included. There is a history and meaning infused in every reference, and Richey’s brain was going so fast that some of the lyrics feel like they’re piled on top of each other, but at the same time, they seem to build on each other, each reference allowing the listener-reader to glean more meaning the more history or definitions they know.

What I found most telling was seeing the quality of modernist literature that my professor really drilled into us: that modernist lit (especially prose, but also poetry to a large extent) was not necessarily about the plot, and the plot was not the most important thing. Instead of a specific narrative, what was important was the impression or emotion evoked by the words. I always think of the novel Nightwood by Djuna Barnes when it comes to feelings/impressions being more important than the plot; there is a plot, but it’s just a scaffolding or a base for the emotion to build off of, for the reader to interpret and feel from. It’s basically what all of the above is driving to create and express. Instead of having a direct narrative within the lyrics (like 4st lbs or La Tristesse Durera or even, to some extent, PCP or Intense Humming…), it relies on fragments of scenes or references to create an impression or an emotion on the listener-reader. Faster and Of Walking Abortion do this as well, but JFPL manages to take it to another level.

The band, when being interviewed about Journal For Plague Lovers, often talk about how much this album seems simultaneously “of its time” and strangely fitting for the present. In his very last television interview, Richey mentioned that his dream was to “write a lyric which I think is flawless, that makes sense to me, not anybody else. That I think in 15-20 lines sums up exactly how I feel about everything, not just how I feel today, how I’ve felt all my life. Everything I’ve read, everything I’ve seen, everything I believe, that in those 15 lines you just say it all.” Considering the sheer amount of knowledge and imagery and information packed into just the 13 songs on the album (not to mention the 20 or so more in the binder that have never been published), I think that’s partly what Richey was trying to do with these words. We’ll never know if he thought he succeeded, but instead of being left with a clear-cut picture of his opinions (or accusations) like THB, instead we are left with impressions of experiences, feelings, and events created through the fragments of information all slammed together– everything, all in 15 lines.

Aside from one or two songs, the tracks on JFPL don’t really have a defined narrative. Instead, they rely on fragments of images, emotions, references, and ideas to form an impression in the listener’s mind. For example, Peeled Apples, the most reference-filled track on the album, doesn’t actually tell a straightforward story or clear opinion the way the more political tracks on THB did. Instead we get an opening line that is clearly political followed by a much more personal line: “Riderless horses, Chomsky’s Camelot / Bruises on my hand from digging my nails out,” and the rest of the lyrics that follow are a mass of references, from the bible to Japanese post-Hiroshima films to the Birdman of Alcatraz to George Orwell, intermingled with lines that are abstract and emotional. Yet somehow what the listener-reader gets out of is an impression of frustration, political anger, and historical/political/personal entropy. Me & Stephen Hawking is similarly reference-packed, and out of that comes the impression of overwhelming technological/information enhancement and concern for the survival of both the environment and the self.

Doors Closing Slowly is full of religious references, and leaves us with an impression religious and personal doubt, and the overwhelming feeling of rejection and dejection towards both. And they’re so twisted together there are some lines, like “Love the soul not the body / Let me forgive the word ruins / I wanted to kill but my tears love,” where you don’t know if it’s a personal reference or a religious one.

There’s a sense of desolation and loneliness, of overwhelming exhaustion at the uncertainty of truth. William’s Last Words, on the other hand, feels desperate, lonely but wishing not to be alone. As a prose monologue, it is more personal-sounding, able to sound rambling and drunken because of the amount of space the words are allowed to take up. Within the words there’s the impression of nostalgia and a sort of rainy quietness, a mental fading, and a sort of muffled personal mourning.

In All Is Vanity, there is a sense of desperation. For control, for understanding, for being understood. Especially in “I’m confused I only want one truth / I really don’t mind if I’m being lied to,” there’s an impression of simultaneous frustration with monotony and a desire for it, a frustration with and desire for beauty, love, a non-existent central point, a conflict of interest on the personal level. This Joke Sport Severed feels bleak, an impression of rawness or over-sensitivity being dealt with through rejection and repression, hiding or turning away from everything that hurts. It includes the odd bridge, “Repress yr emotion / Repression yr revenge / Stoic shitter nerve end,” which radiates anger as well as dejection and frustration. The song leaves an impression of being curled in a corner somewhere, barefoot, confused, frustrated and lost and nursing wounds and pretending nothing outside of your little corner exists.

As I mentioned before, Facing Page: Top Left absolutely leaves the listener-reader with an image of hospitals and institutionalization and the monotony of that existence. It also gives an impression of discomfort, a body seen in fragments rather than as a whole, and a loss of agency. It feels frustrated, searching, but also pointedly disgusted both with the self and with others. The final two lines, for me, pack all of those feelings in a short punch packed with words and images: “Dipping neophobia. Gillette Cuticura. Flak. PS. Recovery. Huh / Central dissolves. Exceed dosage. Subscribed. Cleansed. Boring.”

Journal For Plague Lovers also reflects that disgust, to a much higher degree. The grotesque imagery gives the listener-reader a distinct feeling of uneasy revulsion, but also a sort of pity or helplessness, both for the self and for others that seem to exist in the song. Especially because it’s difficult to make out who the speaker is and what they feel– which puts all the interpretation on the listener rather than the speaker. It makes the listener-reader feel conflicted, uncertain whether they should feel horrified or sad.

Again, most of the songs don’t really have an obvious narrative, just images you can kind of construct meaning out of. But on the off-chance we do get a narrative, it is left so vague and open-ended it’s barely a narrative at all, but a fragment left open at both ends. In Virginia State Epileptic Colony, we get a momentary picture of a hospital scene, but we leave it before we get anything but an impression. She Bathed Herself… gives an incomplete narrative of a mentally ill woman and her views/attempts at romance, a fragment of her thoughts and feelings and experiences, and a fragment of the speaker at the bridge demanding “Brush her hair, no one else will / Don’t hurt her anymore, stop hurting her.” Marlon JD is also fragmentary, but some explanations can be found in the film it references, because most of the lyrics are a monologue from Reflections In A Golden Eye, or descriptions of scenes from the film. William’s Last Words starts abruptly, practically in the middle of a sentence, and peters out into nothing without the narrator going anywhere or doing much. It’s a long, sad, drunken ramble with no central point (as there is no set or stable truth), in which the narrator seems to circle around whatever it is he wants to say without really saying it, and loses steam before he gets to it. Instead we’re left with this strangely contradictory set of ending sentences, (and, apt for the album and its circumstances) a conclusion without any real meaning or conclusion:

“If I sing a song I’m down a scale or up a scale. I’ve come a long way, really, even for a tone deaf singer, if you want to know.”

Nicky also tends to mention how the binder was filled not only with lyrics, but with paintings, scans of other authors’ literature, collages, drawings, prose, journal entries, and other sorts of clippings. He makes it clear that the binder itself was meant to be a work of art. Again, this places emphasis on the form and the importance of references and of the whole being seen to create an impression rather than each little piece being interpreted. This does make me wonder how much more to the lyrics and art within there really was, and if within the whole thing as a work of art Richey did somehow reach his goal of writing the perfect lyrics or the perfect album or the perfect piece of art expressing himself. Either way, I think the inclusion of Richey’s art and non-lyric writings and things in the booklet are a sort of attempt at allowing the whole to give an impression, because the inclusion of the drawn-upon diagrams of Dante’s Infero with the lyrics to Journal For Plague Lovers, or a Christ figure with Marlon JD, or Richey’s notes from therapy with Pretension/Repulsion, flesh the piece out into art as a whole, in which the visual aspect also informs the creation of the impression upon the viewer (or listener-reader).

In Journal For Plague Lovers, modernist style is used and reflected to talk about Richey’s own experiences and thoughts, but also to capture and express a very specific moment and emotion and idea without saying it outright. There is never any mention of that information overload, of apprehension about the coming millennium, no outward or straightforward reference to his time in hospital or his views on relationships or the self. Instead, each song leaves us with an impression, a feeling rather than a clearly defined narrative or message. There’s an internalization of meaning, of imagery, so that it must be sensed and pulled out of all the jumbles of words and emotions; this time, it isn’t the plot or the message that is important, it’s the impression and feelings of an experience and a moment in time that is simultaneously constant and passed, intensely, vividly present and faded away like a memory.

[proxylynn]

Lynchtale: File Name Game of Death #5

Chapter 5: All power, little control, some hope, but no care. WARNING: THIS IS A MATURE STORY THAT WILL HAVE BLOOD, GORE, PSYCHOLOGICAL SURVIVAL HORROR, HEAVY CURSING, AND LIKELY SEXUAL THEMES/BONING. I DO NOT OWN UNDERTALE, THAT BELONGS TO LORD TOBY FOX. I DO NOT OWN DEAD BY DAYLIGHT, THAT BELONGS TO BEHAVIOUR DIGITAL INC.. I DON'T OWN THE AU'S THAT SOME OF THE CHARACTERS COME FROM, THEY BELONG TO THEIR RESPECTIVE CREATORS. I DON'T OWN THE IDEA FOR LYNCHTALE, THAT BELONGS TO PUNNYSIDEUP (AKA. SANSFULPUNS). WHAT I DO OWN IS MY SELF-INSERT OC ANOMALY LYNSIE AND THE LOVE OF FAN PARODY. IF YOU'RE STILL READING THIS, THEN CONGRATULATIONS ON EITHER BEING ONE WITH STRONG DETERMINATION OR AN ENDLESS WILL TO OVERCOME THE CHALLENGE OF STOMACHING WHAT I HAVE IN MIND. EITHER WAY, IF YOU LIKE THIS AND/OR MY OTHER CONTENT, SIT BACK AND ENJOY THE ETERNAL PUNISHMENT. HAVE FUN SINNERS. ^_^ --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Do you ever have that odd sensation of floating? Like, there's nothing else, it's just space and you're simply drifting with nothing but this warm fuzzy feeling. Feels good. A nice feeling compared to the one I last felt. ...Crap. I've acknowledged this as a dream. That means I'll wake up soon and have to go back to all that other shit again. I hate that flaw of sleep. ...Oh well. Least this time I know I've died and ended up at camp. Worst comes to worst, David is sneaking a feel or Nea will hit me once I'm up. Either way, as long as I'm away from Legion then I'm fine. The last thing I want to see is that skeleton any time soon. Suddenly I feel something. A shift. Hands. God damn it, David, I will beat your ass black and blue! I faintly growl as my eyes struggle to open. "oh, look! she's waking up." I freeze. I don't know this voice. {big fucking deal. ya want a medal?} Another one? {just keep her quite. bones dose not want to be disturbed.} A third voice? Bones? Oh...Oh, fuck my life! I'm not at camp. I crack one eye open and find an overly chipper face grinning at me. And those eyes...light blue orbs with yellow stars for pupils. So full of energy and something else...something forced. His clothing, it's very similar to Bones but different enough to not be confused for him. This one has a pale blue hooded jacket that's fully zipped, the hood covering his head has no white fur around the collar. His shorts are the same color as the jacket, though the sleeves are dark grey, and he has dull grey knee-high socks. He has fingerless gloves too but are super pale blue and only the first two fingers are free from coverage. He spots light blue and pale blue sneakers. He doesn't have tape like Bones did, though he does have what looks like a long light blue scarf that's wrapped around his waist and tied into a bow on his back. Yet, of course, you can't forget the random splotches of blood that seem to make it look even better. "hello, human. did you sleep well?" Fully awake and trying not to freak out, I merely nod. It makes that grin of his stretch even wider. "good. i tried to make sure you were comfortable." Letting my senses come back, I find myself being cradled in this skeleton's lap and we are nestled by a fire pit. The fire that sits in the center of the chalet of their territory. Mount Ormond Resort. Ormond was once a small, remote ski town with idyllic slopes, but its resort turned obsolete when a deluxe ski village was built on Mount Richards less than two hours away. Mount Richards offered fresh slopes with luxurious stores and hotels, which crushed Mount Ormond's isolated, decrepit facilities. The fate of the mountain worsened when a mining project took interest in the coal present at its summit. The mountaintop was lined by explosives to extract coal seams from under it. The project caused public outrage and was stopped midway. Mount Ormond is now a soulful, deforested graveyard where gangs and teenagers go looking for trouble. Some people say that the mountain hides a darkness, a bottomless hole from where no one can return. And they aren't wrong. Legion lives here. "can you heal yourself?" Realization kicks in. I'm still injured. Of course, killers can't heal. So how have I not died this whole time? "well?" "Um...May I ask you something?" "sure." "Why am I not dead?" "oh, that's easy. you humans stop bleeding when held. so i figured i'd keep you in my arms till you woke up and do that yourself." "Oh...Makes sense." "also, you seemed cold. so i moved us over to the fire." "...Thank you." "but again, you can heal yourself...right?" "Yeah. Just...give me a moment to process this." "process what?" "The overly nice behavior. The general kindness. The attention to care and consideration. In short, and I mean no disrespect, but either you're so sweet it's unbelievable or you are trying way too hard to make me like you." {if ya call being a little bitch boy sweet, then it's the first one.} The second voice pulls my attention. Looking over my shoulder, there's another skeleton lounging sideways on a recliner and playing with his blade. But he's slightly transparent like a specter. This one, this is the killer you expect to find in Hot Topic. There is no blue on this one. Black, red, and yellow are his colors. Like a deadly snake. His eyes are wicked. Golden orbs surrounded by red filled sockets. And those teeth, it's like looking at the mouth of a shark but both bottom canine teeth are longer, protruding, and covered in gold. A red collar highlights his neck and the metal spikes add toughness. At first glance, he doesn't seem to have gloves, but he does, he's made finger-less gloves out of bandages. The jacket is black, a single red stripe runs down the length of each sleeve, the zipper teeth are like the golden fangs in his mouth, and the bottom hem has this red band with what looks like a silver bullet pattern. The jacket is also unzipped completely but form-hugging, so while you can see his rib cage he'd need to move around more to really expose it. He has matching black pants that, like Bones, he's rolled up the legs to his knees, showing off some of his tibia and fibula. The rest of his leg is covered by long scrunched black socks that can't go further than the top of the calf-high red combat boots, sporting yellow laces. Blood really shows on this guy but it matches him so well you could easily mistake it for design. As for the weapon he's playing with, it's a chained blade. One end locks it as a ring around his middle right finger in the shape of bone top, the gold chain coils around his arm to cross his back and coils down his left arm to where the bone-shaped metal knife is spinning in his left hand. "i am not! you're just a jerk!" {oooh, such strong language. ya sure showed me who's boss. *scoff* dumbass.} The blue skele-boy holding me pouts. "you're so mean." I am having a hard time understanding what is going on. Am I being punk'd? I feel like they're punking me. {your confusion is natural, human.} Oh right, there was a third voice. This one is a bit harder to find, I can't see him till he stands up behind what looks like a snack bar, apparently rummaging around for something. This one...He gives me chills. He looks like Bones yet...is off. He wears a blue jacket with a single white strip going down the sleeves, the hood is super fluffy with its furry rim, it's not zipped fully so his ribs are showing a bit, black shorts with two white stripes going down the sides, and short white socks in blue tennis shoes. His clothing is like the others, stained with blood. But that's not the scary part. It's his face. His physical appearance is what truly makes him stand out from the other. His bones appear weak as if he hadn't eaten anything for many years. His left eye glows blood-red while his right eye socket is completely black. He's got a big cracked hole on the top-left spot of his head and his smiley grin is wide and psychotic looking. The bone-shaped handle of a meat cleaver sticks out of a pocket on his left side. {we are not what your kind would see as normal.} He inspects a bottle but finds it empty and tosses it behind him into a wall, somehow not breaking it. "Not sure about that. You seem okay so far." Blue boy pokes into my wound and I yelp at his intruding digit. "please, if you would heal yourself now, it would be appreciated." "*wince* Alright, alright, sorry." He stops and I start the weird process of healing. At least with a medkit it makes sense. But somehow rubbing my hands across the injury for long enough undoes the damage. The Entity doesn't seem to understand how medicine and anatomy work. Occasionally I notice my "capture" watching this with interest. No clue if they can be taught how to heal but if possible I don't see anything bad about it. "wowzers. the hole is closing up. and all you're doing is rubbing it?" "Yeah. Makes no sense but if it works I can't knock it." Once the hole closes I do feel a bit stronger. Though the blood might take a bit longer to come to me. "all better now?" "For the most part. Sorry for the inconvenience...um..." I totally spaced on how I don't know these guys' names. I gently get off of him and rub my head like an idiot. "Sorry, I don't know your names. Just Bones. And he didn't mention you guys by name when we first met." "no harm done, human." The blue boy leaps to his feet and strikes an "I'm so cool" pose. "you may me boo." Why do I suddenly have the urge to call him boo-berry? "the potty mouth over there is chops." He points to the edge lord on the chair and said edge lord snarls while flipping us off. {piss off.} Such a charmer. "and mister doom over there is dead eye." The hungry one makes eye contact with me and after a moment of no emotion being expressed, he smiles but in an "I watch you sleep" kind of way with a slow wave hello. I force a nervous smile and wave back. His grin widens and I make a mental note to never be on that one's bad-side. "and together with bones, we make up the legion." "Nice to meet you all. Though, if it's okay to ask, where is Bones?" {that's none of your business, bitch.} {he is resting upstairs.} {mother fucker, don't undermine me in front of the meat!} Dead Eye pays Chops no mind. "after we got you here, he said and i quote...i'm so tired." {he said he was fucking tired.} "you know i don't swear." {pussy.} "jerk. you understood what i meant, right human?" I nod. "see? you don't have to curse all the time to explain things." {whatever, bitch boy.} Boo pouts and stomps his foot in annoyance. I can't help the small giggle that sneaks out at the childish act. "anyway, i bet you're wondering why you're here." Oh yeah, that is a thing. "It was a thought in the back of my head, yeah. But I figured Bones wanted to kick my butt in the privacy of his home turf." {no dice, meat. that was my idea.} Why is that not surprising even though I just met this guy? "actually, you were brought here so we could talk." "Talk?" "yes. see...we need your help." I fold my arms. "Forgive me if I find that a bit hard to believe." {you have trust issues.} Dead Eye suddenly speaks into my ear and I nearly jump into the fire from shock. This reaction has Chops laughing his bony ass off and Dead Eye smiling in amusement. Damn specter moved silently and fast for that. Boo comes to me and puts an arm around my back in comfort. "are you okay?" "Yeah. *shaky breath* D-Dude got me good. Nearly jumped out of my skin." Dead Eye's smile never falters. Yet his eye holds a stronger intent. I don't like it. {good one, creep show. maybe next time you can actually skin this kitten and we get some lady bone action.} That remark makes Dead Eye sneer. {do not call me that name. and there would be no point...} He turns away moving to examine a messy bookshelf. {it is not like you would know what to do even if you managed to get a female.} That stung Chops, he gets out of his seat and flings his blade into the shelf to make his point. {don't talk shit, freak. if you're gonna dis me, then have the balls to do it to my face!} The death glare shot to Chops is heart-stopping. {do not call me that word. you will not like what will happen if you do. this is your last warning.} Chops exchanges glares with Dead Eye before scoffing and yanking the weapon back effortlessly. {ya ain't worth the trouble.} They go about their previous activities as if nothing happened. I just look at Boo confused. "don't worry. this is normal." "If you say so." "here, let's go over there." Boo leads me away from the fire and we sit over by the stairs. Giving the other two their space. "so, like i was saying, we need your help." "Not sure how, but I'll bite. How?" "see...the thing is, when bones made that deal in the trial with you and carved our tag into you, he broke a rule set up by the others." "Go on." "um...from what i understand, he enacted claim of obsession when he cut you." "You'll have to forgive me. I know not the laws made by you guys." He rubs his jaw in thought. "if memory serves me right, the right of obsession was giving three main steps for a killer to have claim on a certain human. the first being the expression of intent to the group." "And he didn't do that, right?" "right. if anything, he did step three first then step one." "What was step three?" "leaving your mark on the target of obsession. be it mentally, physically, or emotionally." Memory has me look down the collar of my shirt. It's faint. Like stretchmarks. I can still see the lettering. "Yep. That step was achieved." "now we need to do step two. that one requires doing certain challenges when in trials with the target of obsession. that being you." I rock a bit. "So you boys need me to be in the loop and go along with this to make it easier. Correct?" He nods. "pretty much. there are no set challenges to do. the others come up with them at random. so there's no time to get ready once told what they are." "And how many are there?" "i believe there will be anywhere from three to five. the difficulty will be random as well." I ponder over this. "i must say, human, you're taking this better than we guessed." I stop rocking. "I like to think I am more excepting than most. But don't think my calm means I'm agreeing right off the bat." He puts his hands up. "fair enough. this is a bit crazy." "That and you haven't told me what I get out of this." He tilts his head. "i'm sorry?" "What benefits me in helping you? Granted, I think I know the answer, yet you've been straight forward so far and I'm hoping your nice-guy act is more real than fake." This has him lean back on his hands. He's quiet now. So my suspicion was right. This is less of a "this helps us both" type deal and more of a "this helps only one of us" thing. I guess some things never change even in this place. "honestly...i'm not sure." Okay, that's more than expected. "it's not that i'm saying nothing. it's more because i don't know. no one else that's tried claiming obsession rights has ever gotten past step two. plus, no other human has been willing to cooperate with monsters before." "No other human can communicate with monsters either, so that helps too." "true. so...are you willing to help?" I take a deep breath through my nose followed by a long exhale. "...Okay." His sockets widen. "really?" I nod. "But...I want some reassurance." "such as?" I offer my hand. "You probably have to talk this over with the others, but if we're doing this, I'd like it if we weren't just killer and target. But partners." He looks at me funny. "partners?" "I cover your back and you cover mine. Seems fair if you ask me." He looks at me and then my hand. "i want to...but..." I pull my hand back. "I get it. Baby steps. No rush here, buddy." He springs to his feet. "i'm not high up in the chain of command. i'm bottom tier." He looks over at his companions. "if they agree with you, it won't mean anything. bones is the leader. and they only listen to him." "If you're valued so low, then why give you this important job of talking with me?" He looks down at me. "because i'm the nice guy. the other two wouldn't deal with a human like this." He starts to step away. "you can stay if you want. my part is done." Well...that's a load of crap. "You shouldn't do that." He turns back. "do what?" "Putting yourself down. Because clearly, what you just said is shit." That gets his attention as I stand up. "You're more important than you give credit. You even said it yourself, the other two wouldn't have done this right. Bones trusted this to you. Remember that whenever you feel like you don't matter. You can do something they can't." His blank expression only adds to the dumb feeling washing over me for the shit that I just vomited out. I'm not sure if I've ever felt more embarrassed. Is this dumber than attempting to kiss that boy that liked me in taekwondo? Or that time I cried in sixth grade because my Digimon cards were stolen? Or during that same school year, I took choirs and sang "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic even though I didn't like the movie? Fuck my childhood was weird. Just when my brain begins to flip the "apologize you idiot" switch I hear...chuckling? "heheh...that was really sappy. like...really really sappy." Yep. I'm a massive dork. A massive blushing dork. "Yeah. Sorry about that. It just...happens sometimes." He comes back over to me and I think he'll do something in a chummy way. Instead...he bashes his forehead into mine and I fall back into some debris. "it's a shame you're human." Trying to shove off this stuff is a pain but manageable. "*grunt* Why's that?" He smirks. "you're cute. that's why." I...I have nothing to say. I'm just utterly flabbergasted. "like i said...you can stay if you like." He walks off and I can't move. Every synapse in my brain died...and I can't figure out why. Why did he say that? Why did it affect me? Is he just messing with me? Is he for real? Why is this bugging me?! {you seem lost.} Dead Eye once more pops up beside me and I slam back into the debris. "Jesus fuck! How the hell do you do that?" He grins. {it is not my fault that you do not pay attention.} Once more I claw off this broken crap. "I take it you heard our talk then?" {i heard enough. hehe...partnership with a human? you are a gutsy creature.} I wipe some moisture off my face to find blood. Damn Boo hits hard. "I take it you don't like the idea." {on the contrary. i like the thought of having someone like you around.} And suddenly my creepy senses are tingling. "Dare I ask...why?" He comes closer. I move back. {i have been so bored...} He moves fast, pinning me back with his hands on either side of my face. {so very bored.} That eye. The hidden intent it holds, so strong and intimidating. Its gaze is paralyzing. And he knows it. {you are afraid of me. i see it in your eyes.} He leans in more. {it is my appearance. my face frightens you.} Suddenly...clear thought returns. "Actually...You look fine to me." This gets him. {wh...what?} "The thing about you that scares me is not your looks. Though it does add to it." That intensity of his dies down a bit. {then what is it?} "I can't tell what you'll do." His face is flat. Seemingly lost in his thoughts. I know not what part clicks on. But some moronic place in my head has the nerve to reach up for his face. Of course, I hesitate. Especially when his sight darts to my hand. Yet he doesn't move or say a word. Slowly, I try to touch his skull but my hand goes through him, giving off a cold sensation. An act that gets his grin to come back. {a brave move from a gutsy creature like yourself. but you should know that only one of us can have control of the body at a time.} The gears turn in my head. A sight that makes him snicker. {that is right. i am not physically present. neither is chops or bones. not as long as boo has the body. this place. outside of trial. this is the only time we can be seen outside of having the body.} Something foreboding comes to me. I should keep my mouth shut. But when have I ever done that? "Why are you telling me this?" The look of psychotic delight. Something I haven't seen outside of fiction. It's utterly terrifying. {because i want you to know there will come a time when i have control of the body. and unlike the others...} He leans into my ear. {i will not be gentle.} He backs away and loves the view of me visibly shivering. {oh yes. my boredom ends now. you are just what i need.} He leaves me and frankly, I'm not sure whether I've fucked myself up royal by agreeing to this. The saying goes that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. But with friends like these who's to say who my enemy really is? Yet what choice do I have? Either the humans that treat me like dirt or the monsters that do that too but are honest about it. Oh, what a messed up life I live. [AT THE SURVIVOR'S CAMPSITE] Tension is mounting among the humans. One antsy guy is not handling the current lack of his gal pal well and his pacing from one edge of camp to punch a tree to then do the same thing on the other side is starting to work on some people's nerves. "David, we know you're in a mood, but I don't think that's helping." David glares at Dwight. "And just what do you think I should do? Go out there with no clue where to bloody go? Did you really think I 'adn't thought of that when she fuckin' ran off?!" "Ease off him, man." Meg stands up for a trembling Dwight. "We get it. You're pissed. But you don't have to unload on Dwight..." Dwight feels respect. "He's got enough issues as it is." Well, that lasted all of four seconds. A new daily best. "Lil' grrl, don't tell me 'ow to vent. If I wanna rip that shrimp a new arsehole, then I'm gonna get loud and tear into him like fat fucker at an all you can eat joint." "Please don't." Dwight utters with the confidence of a man strapped into the electric chair with less than a minute left on the clock. "Yeah, please don't." Claudette mutters now broken from her thoughts. "Can we not turn on each other? It's only playing into the Entity's favor." Jeff adds while poking a stick into the everlasting bonfire. "The way I see it..." "No one asked you, Nea." Bill cuts Nea off. "All I'm saying..." "Shut it, cunt!" "Fuck you, cockney bastard!" "You wanna go, bitch? Come on then, let's 'ave it! I don't give a shit if yer a grrl. I'll kick yer arse just as hard!" "Whoa! Whoa! Slow down there. There is nothing that makes hitting a woman okay...Unless she's possessed by a demon and trying to devour your soul." Ash attempts using reason. "Wait...What if a woman has killed one of her children and is about to kill the second? Are you telling me it's still wrong to hit her to save the child?" Jane questions things, as is her talk show nature. "Uh..." "Stand down, Ash. There is no right answer." Adam pats Ash's shoulder. "It's a vicious cycle. Women want to be treated the same as men yet still want to be treated differently when it comes to certain things." Ace states with a shrug and earning glares from every female around him. "Oh don't even try to shame me. You can't tell me you want the same crap guys don't get away with but you do." "Name one thing we women get away with but guys don't." Kate demands and Ace tips his shades. "Flirting to get free stuff." "...Name two things." "*sigh* I hate my gender." Min groans into her palm. As dumb as this exchange was, and continued to be as some keep it going, it did do one thing well. It's made David not want to fight Nea. Though...It's made David leave camp to fight something else. Something that will last longer than annoying bitch and get some pent up emotions out. [AT MOUNT ORMOND RESORT] Since Boo gave me the option and I figure it looks better for me to do so, I have remained at the lodge with the four of them...well...three due to Bones still resting upstairs. I pretty much stay around Boo because he seems the most stable. Chops I'm unsure of. He's got attitude and a smart mouth, but he doesn't seem to want to bother with me. I'm cool with this. Dead Eye, however, I wish he'd stop eyeing me and making me uncomfortable even while he's across the room. Right now at least I can do something rare...relax. Even if it's short-lived. Being able to lounge by the fire and chat with Boo is refreshing. With David, he'd be hitting me with yet another flirt or one-liner or random story that makes him seem so cool. But Boo? Other than calling me cute one time he's been normal. Sure Boo's stories kind of involve the murder of the others at camp, sometimes getting the other two to add their own comments, yet it just comes off as common as someone talking about a pleasant day they had. I guess a bonus to this would be learning how they tend to attack in a trial. Who knows? It could pay off later. "so what do you think? was i unfair?" "Heck no. All four had flashlights and were blinding you every second while pallet bashing your skull. The ones you caught deserved being hooked." "so i wasn't being too harsh?" "Not at all." Chops scoffs. {bet ya wouldn't be saying that if you were on the hook.} I shrug. "If I'm being a turd, by all means, call me out and hook me. I won't complain about how karma works." {not even if you're right outside the gate and then get whacked?} "Hmmm...Maybe I'd be a little salty over it. But if you caught me than I wasn't giving it my all in the first place. So it's my fault." {...i can't tell if you're fucking with me or not.} {she is not.} Dead Eye interjects. {and how the hell would ya know?} {simple...what reason would she have to lie?} Chops opens his mouth but then rolls over in his seat. {yeah, whatever.} I look at Boo. "Is he always so cheerful or is this an off day?" Boo covers his mouth as he snickers. "no...heh...that's just how he is. you get used to it." "If that's the case, how do you know when he's really mad if this is his norm?" "easy...he doesn't talk when that mad." Note to self, if Chops isn't willing to talk than get the ever-loving fuck away from him. "but don't worry about it. only one human has ever made him that mad before." I bet it was Nea. "Do you know who it was?" {it was that jackass with the rose tattoo behind his ear. mother fucker thought it was funny to shove firecrackers in my pants when i got pallet stunned. heh...i sure showed him a thing or two.} Wait...David? For real? "What happened?" The tone in Chops's voice carries the ring on smug satisfaction hidden on his likely grinning face. {when i got him on the hook...i spilled his guts. the bastard learned to not pulled anything stupid like that shit again.} And now this feels weird. Thank god they have no clue about me being close to David. Otherwise, I think they'd be a lot less cool with me. {ya wouldn't pull any stunt like that...} He turns enough to give me a look. {would ya, meat?} I throw my hands in the air. "Dude, I get wrecked just doing basic junk. I ain't no masochist." I hardly see the faint smirk he gets before ignoring all life again. {smart meat. that's new.} "i think he likes you." "Better that than hating me." "and dead eye really likes you." I really wish he didn't. "How can you tell?" "i've never seen him smile so much. see?" Boo points and I crane my neck to see the monster in question looking at me like I'm a happy meal. Why? Why do I pull in such things? There's a sound not made by any of us. The sound of a doorknob being turned and squeakily opened. It's gotta be Bones but this confuses me as, if he's not physically solid, how can there be inaction with physical matter? Astral projection of the soul maybe? More Entity bullshit? Such thought leaves me once he leaves the room and peers out over the railing. The dark blue glow of his eyes in the shadow of his hood is spooky in a cool way. {boo...} "y-yes?" Poor guy is rattled. I guess Bones really does hold a lot of power. {did you do what i asked?} "yes, i did. and she said she'd go along with us." Pause for thought. {...then why is she still here?} Reasonable question. Yet not reasonably answered. Why, brain? Why you make me do stupid things? "Gooooood morning, bonehead." The others look at me as if I'll be shot. Bones just looks indifferent before slowly descending to the ground floor. {again...why are you still here?} "Nice to see you too." He glares. "i told her she could stay if she wanted. it's not like there are more trials for this feed cycle." Feed cycle? Is that how they measure time? {go back to your camp.} Okay, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. "What's wrong, buddy? Did you have a bad dream?" I ask sincerely. But Bones growls at me. Boo is worried. Dead Eye and Chops are intrigued. {go away.} I turn to Boo. "Did I do something wrong?" Boo readies to speak but quickly hushes himself. His eyes darting away in submission to Bones' leer. {you've agreed to help already. you have no other business here. so get back to camp with the rest of the humans where you belong.} Where is this hostility coming from? "Bones, I..." {just go!} I feel it...That pain of being used only to be discarded. Well...No more. I refuse to feel that again. I take Boo by the hand and begin to take him with me as I head outside. This doesn't go without incident from a fast-moving Bones. {what the hell do you think you're doing?} "If you want to be cranky, fine. Boo has the body and if he leaves the realm then you can't intimidate him into being quiet." {the hell is wrong with you, woman?!} "Me? What's wrong with you? I haven't done anything wrong. Yet you're being a dick for no reason." I can only imagine what the faces of the others look like as I keep eye contact with Bones. {i'm being a dick? you're the one dragging him into this.} I freeze. Déjà vu smacking me hard. Flashbacks to my parents arguing leading to the divorce. I release Boo's hand in shock. "I'm so sorry." He doesn't say a word. He just slowly goes back inside. {now go. we'll contact you when needed.} He follows Boo but... "Bones..." He didn't have to. He could've kept going. But he looks back. "Don't do this. Tell me what's wrong" {we have nothing to talk about.} Time to feel awkward again. "I'm sorry." His attitude lessens slightly. {you're sorry?} "That stuff I said...you know...before you started kicking my ass. I didn't mean to say that shit." I rub my arm shyly. "I don't know you or what you've gone through. It was a bitch move made at the moment to just lump you among the other jerks that mess with me. Can you forgive me?" Now he's the shocked one. {...you're serious?} I nod. {...the hell is wrong with you?} Well, that went as fine as I figured. {i kicked you within inches of death over some dumb remark and you're apologizing to me?} I merely shrug. "That's the gist of it, yes." I can't tell if the odd look he's giving is made in confusion or disgust at my ineptitude. {you are by far the oddest human i have ever met.} I merely give a weak smile. "I prefer quirky." He sighs and shakes his head. I take it as my cue to leave. But I have one last bit to say. "You know...You could've just asked." {huh?} "This whole thing with bringing me here and having Boo tell me about helping you with the obsession rights. You could've just asked me and I would've listened." He looks elsewhere. {no you wouldn't. not after the crap i pulled.} I step a bit closer. "You don't know that." {*scoff* you're telling me you'd give two shits about helping me after being stabbed?} "Dude, I get why you did it. The others were pushing your buttons and you snapped. It happens. I don't hold it against you." He gets in my face. {do you think this makes us cool? that telling me this will do anything?} I shrug. "Just being real with you. It's the foundation of any real trust. And if we're to work together in these trials..." I offer my hand out to him. "I'd prefer being on the level with my partner." He just stares at it. I may have pushed this on him too soon. {i can't shake on it.} "I know. Dead Eye already freaked me out about the whole 'not really here' thing. It's more of a symbolic gesture." The mention of Dead Eye seems to bug him yet it's ignored. {no, i mean, i can't shake because how do i know i can truly believe you?} I give him a flat face. "Dude...I could've run away at any point and told you lot to piss off. After everything, I'm still here. Trying as no human has. I've helped you once before. Can you truly say you doubt me?" The longer he avoids eye contact the more it strangely hurts. "Bones..." He finally looks at me as my other hand is placed over where he cut me and say what he wants to hear. "I belong to Legion." We remain like this for some time. Just staring at each other as words sink in. Suddenly...I feel it. A slight cold sensation on my hand as he takes ghostly hold of it. {your life is mine...lynsie.} I smile. His use of my name, something easily forgotten by most and replaced with nicknames, feels so unnaturally amazing. Wow, I'm pathetic if that's all it takes to win me over. Acknowledgment. It's all anyone wants. "Now and forever." {gay!} Chops shouts from inside. "Look, I know it's girly and cliché as fuck. But I ain't taking it back, edgy boy." There's quiet. {the fuck did ya just call me?!} Bone's snickers. {ignore him. i swear he gets off on attention.} "So...Are we cool?" He rubs the back of his head. {for now. i guess.} "Then...I can stay? Just a bit longer?" {why do you even want to?} This has me looking at the ground in wariness. {you're not sure they'd take you back even if you're like this. right?} Bones is right. There is no guarantee. I'll probably be let back in the campsite but I won't be trusted. They know the danger I am and now...now they know I will act on it. There won't be trust. Only suspicion on when I'll turn. When I'll kill any of them for just agitating me the wrong way. There will be a few that might be willing to overlook this danger. Yet it'll never be the same. "Yeah." He looks at me and then heads inside. {do what you want. just don't be annoying.} It's a small step. But every adventure starts with one. [IN THE SURVIVOR'S FOREST] Things aren't going well for David. Wandering the woods in search of a killer to take his frustration out on has not given him the satisfaction he craved. In fact...he's gotten himself lost. Resulting in only more building annoyance. Any sound triggers him to go attack it. A lot of ridiculous assaults on shrubbery and attempts to catch crows. One miserable pointless action and failure after another. All of which culminates in him beating his fists into the ground till his knuckles bleed and threaten to leave the cover of flesh. "Arrrgh! This ain't fair! It ain't! You can't do me wrong like this! A more than decent bird shows up in this 'ellhole and what do you do?! You make 'er into a fuckin' monster!" lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub... "Piss! Piss on all of it! Do you hear me?! PISS!" lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub... "Give 'er back, damn it! Give 'er back to me!" lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub... "She's not a monster! She's not yers! She's mine!" lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub...lub-dub... *LOW-PITCH YELP* In his fit, David failed to keep his guard and alertness up. Forgetting that some monsters have the skill of Undetectable in their power, a skill that keeps the Terror Radius and Red Stain from being, well, detected. While surprised, David sees enough to size up this opponent. The odds aren't good. It's Shape. "*wince* Oi! Fuck off, you flamin' tosser!" Shape, of course, says nothing. He swings his knife with his large range and David has to Dead Hard to get out of the way while negating any hit that might have happened. The chase begins. One that won't last long in his current condition. There are many monsters David has no trouble taking on. But this one? Even the most hardcore fighters know there's no shot of victory in tussling with something that doesn't give in to pain. As his spine begins to chill David grits his teeth in hate. Not at the monster about to cut him down. Nor the Entity for tangling a good thing in his face. No, he hates himself for being unable to do anything. He couldn't hold on to her. He couldn't help her. He couldn't keep his head straight. He couldn't be stronger. And he couldn't outrun the inevitable. *LOW-PITCH YELL* Add being face down in the dirt to the list of things he hates. "Just get it over with. I was bleedin' lost anyway." Shape looks down at him and shrugs, picking David up by the throat before plunging the knife up into his chest. With every fiber of his being wanting to live David beats on Shape's shoulder and tries to pull the knife out by pushing on Shape's wrist. Sadly for David, Shape is far stronger than he'll ever be. Shape pulls the knife out to then thrust it back in with more force, enough for the blade to go through bone to pop out his back. Massive internal damage takes its toll instantaneously. David's eyes roll back into his head and Shape discards the limp body as if were a toy cast aside by a bored child. To camp he shall go and alone he shall remain. [AT MOUNT ORMOND RESORT] I've made up with Boo by letting him play with my hair. I'll regret it later due to knots, but it makes him happy. So far he's been trying to braid it while I sit on the floor in front of him and when his fingertips scrape my scalp I try hard not to purr at the pleasantness of it. Though he often has to remind me to lean forward as I subconsciously lean back into him. Bones and Dead Eye don't seem to care about this friendly display. But Chops? He has some words about it. {getting awfully cozy with us, aren't ya?} Bones told me to ignore him, so I do. He glares. {bitch, don't ignore me.} I keep my eyes to the ground until he storms over and kneels to be in my face. {ya don't want to piss me off, meat. ya won't like being on my bad side.} Don't say anything stupid! For the love of God don't be stupid! {well? say something!} "chops..." {stay out of this. this is between me and the meat.} "I have a name." {*scoff* like i give a shit.} "Is that what your reflection said when you looked in the mirror?" A chill not from the snow enters. Chops' sockets widen. And I know mistakes were made. {did ya just...} {hey, chops, why not go outside and ice that burn.} {heh...nice one.} Bones and Dead Eye adding in only makes it worse. Chops gets a little flustered but is super mad now. {think ya can start shit and get away with it? nuh-uh. ya don't want any of this.} He cracks his knuckles and I mentally kick myself. What did I get sucked into? {your family tree must be a cactus. because you're a massive prick.} Oh...Oh damn. {come on, meat. try me.} I really don't want to. But with eyes all on me I feel forced. I tap Boo's leg. "This might get nasty. Sorry for the words I'm about to say." Boo stops. "Alright then...*ahem* The only way you'd ever get laid is if you're rammed up a chicken's ass and wait." Chops is surprised. {hmmm...seems the meat is going to give you a bad time.} Chops snarls at Bones's comment. {the hell she is...they broke the mold when ya were born. one retarded defect is bad enough.} A bottle is thrown across the room. {dis off!} Bones is more into this than he should. I guess I should get my head in this game then. "You're the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard." {your gene pool needs chlorine.} "That insult was about as dense as a black hole." {karma takes too long. i'd rather just beat the shit out of ya now.} {oh snap!} Bones is acting like a hypeman. It's hard to not laugh at his enthusiasm. "It's better to let someone think you're stupid than opening your mouth and proving it true. Case in point..." {of course i talk like an idiot. how else would ya understand me?} "I'd like to see things from your point of view, but I can't seem to get my head that far up my ass." {ooooh!} At this point, Boo and Dead Eye are now an audience to this wacky show. {i guess ya prove even god has a sense of humor in making mistakes.} "Stop trying to be a smart ass. You're just an ass." {if ya really spoke your mind, you'd be speechless.} "Shock me by saying something intelligent." {why don't ya slip into something more comfortable...like a coma.} Bones gets in close. "If I wanted to kill myself I'd climb up your ego and jump down to your IQ." He then jumps up like a firework. I motion for a timeout. "Dude, is he okay?" {*sigh* he gets this way sometimes. makes him look like a fucking psycho.} Bones stops and puts his hands in his pockets before whistling innocently. I shrug and we resume. {so how'd ya get here? is there a zoo missing their exhibit?} "Did a thought cross your mind? That must've been quite the arduous adventure." {it looks like your face caught fire and someone put it out with a hammer.} "I wasn't born with enough fucks to give to that weak insult." {i don't really think you're stupid. ya just have shitty luck when it comes to thinking.} "Roses are red, violets aren't blue. I've got five fingers, and the middle one is for you." {if you're gonna be two-faced at least make one of them pretty.} "If you're the pretty one. That means I'm the smart one." {calling ya an idiot would be an insult to stupid people.} "The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But it's still an option." {i could explain why you're dumb, but i don't have the time or crayons.} "I thought this was a battle of wits. So why are you unarmed?" {the only thing that would ever fuck you is life.} "If life did fuck me, it would still do a better job than you." Chops growls at that line. I'm beginning to suspect he might have issues there. I feel bad about it. "Sorry. I didn't mean..." {i wouldn't fuck ya if ya were the last vagina in existence. in fact, i'd fuck myself before ever thinking of doing ya.} Okay...Don't push that button on him ever again. Best take this battle of words back into silly town. "You're about as useful as tits on a pigeon." {i'd call ya a cunt but you're not warm or deep.} That one stuns me for a second. Not that it hit hard but more like it made me think about it. "Huh...Never heard that one before. Bravo. Very creative." He smirks smugly, his mood getting better. {heh...had enough yet?} "Maybe. Honestly, this is kinda fun. But I think I still got something that might get you." {then bring it on, girly.} "Alright...You're so inbred that you're a sandwich." That one makes him pause. {what...the fuck?} "I know. That one's weird compared to pigeon tits." {it wasn't bad. it was just...} "Confusing?" {yeah.} "My bad." {screw it. i'm ending this now before ya say something else mood ending.} "That's what she said." My playful finger guns are met with his disinterested scowl. {don't ever bother playing hard to get. no one will ever want ya. period. and i ain't insulting ya either. i'm describing ya. ya miserable pile of unwanted trash.} Ouch. Like...OUCH. He saved one hell of a bomb for last, a dang nuke. There's no recovery for that. "Dude...That's not funny." {ah what's wrong, meat? did i hit a nerve?} He doesn't sound spiteful or sarcastic. Calmer than anything else. It's odd. {gotta say...ya got some good game. better luck next time.} He gets up and goes off somewhere. I'm still too devastated to pay attention. I turn to Boo who has a pitiful expression. "that was just uncalled for." "Did I upset him? I said sorry." "as mean as that was, i think he didn't mean it. he sounded...nice." "Still..." Chops' verbal lashing hit hard. Cutting deep at insecurities I don't like to acknowledge. "I should probably go. I've bothered you guys enough." Boo pouts. "do you have to?" {i thought you could not go back?} Dead Eye comments as he looks out at the snow blowing inside. {yeah, she's kind of screwed...} Bones plops down in a chair. {not accepted on either side. a killer to the humans and an oddity to the monsters. there's no middle ground for her to walk. in other words...she's boned.} I hate this. He's right. And the feeling I was hoping to forget comes back. Being stuck and unable to move. Like I'm a puppet on strings that are suddenly cut and I can no longer function. It scares me. "so...she's staying?" {if she's smart she'll stay. be a waste with those worms.} {dunno. that's on her.} {it begs the question...what are you going to do, human?} I feel my heart begin to speed up. I'm beginning to freak out. I've never had panic attacks. But this feels like it. Rapid, pounding heart rate. Trembling or shaking. Chills. Hot flashes. Chest pain. And a growing headache. Boo being behind me doesn't like this. "um...guys? she's not doing so well." Now they're all looking at me. This attention. It's adding pressure. I can feel it. That surge of power. That corrupting influence boring into my being. The Entity is getting to me! {she don't look so good. like a nut about the crack.} {boo, get ready to switch control when i say so.} They watch. They just watch while I grip my head and try to keep control over this demanding force. This feeling of being internally detached from everything that I am. I'm losing it. I'm losing this battle of control and it's terrifying. My throat is squeezing itself yet I'm hyperventilating noises like a frightened beast. I can't take it. This stress...I can't take it! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! {is she gonna change?} "guys, i'm freaking out!" {shush. just wait for it.} This time...It feels different. Probably because this was done out of trial. I feel the stretching of my bones. The extending of my nails. The contortion of certain parts. And the heightening of my senses. Yet the thing that doesn't have much feeling is my mind. It's numb. Uncomfortably numb. Like dizziness or faintness. Whatever you want to call this dull tingling in my brain. This transformation doesn't seem to phase Bones all that much. The others, however... {holy fucking ass crackers!} {so...this is what nurse got to see?} "*uncomfortable* d-do i move? am i safe?" I don't move from my spot. Being brain numb makes me slow. Simple. More prone to impulsive action than complex thought. But I'm not mindless. Just a little dull with no objective like in a trial. *SNAP-SNAP* Bones snaps his fingers and gets my attention. {come here.} I'm hesitant. Mostly because trying to move from a flat sitting position with altered limbs is like a baby deer crossing a frozen pond. I end up crawling and even then it's not graceful. {look at you...pathetic.} I'm taken back by his sudden tone. {you have no idea how to control this power.} "This is my second time." {in the same day and not by choice. you're letting your emotions get the better of you and that's what the entity preys on. you need to control this power and not let it control you.} My gaze is cast to the ground with a weak whimper. "don't do that." I look back at Boo. "he isn't trying to make you feel bad. if left alone and you do this a few more times, you probably end up being some simple animal. the entity doesn't want animals. it wants beasts. monsters. things that think as well as kill. and failed killers are cast into the void." "But...I don't want to kill. I don't want to hurt anyone." {then get your ass ready for the void. ya can't say no to the entity. bad shit happens when ya do.} Chops makes a point. {consider yourself blessed, human. the others would not be so willing to aid you like this.} Dead Eye says his thoughts. {true. if we were like the others, we'd turn you over to the doctor and have him figure your power out. he likes to be hands-on with all things he finds...interesting.} There's this melancholy tone in Bones' words. Did...did something happen to them? {but i already told you once...i'm not like the others. and you're not like them either. you're a misfit.} He mimics me from earlier, offering a hand out to me. {lucky for you, you're among fellow misfits. that and...well...} Bones' eyes shift awkwardly as if embarrassed to say what he wants. {you're...kind of okay...i guess.} I remember this side to him. That soft easily flustered side that came out when I made him blush. "Hey..." I get his attention. "Do you know the band most skeletons like?" The randomness of that puzzles him and the others. "Spinal Tap." I can see him putting that together in his head. Once he figures it out, the guffaw that leaves him is loud before he covers his mouth. The others are less quiet. Especially Dead Eye which surprises me. {*muffled* heheh...oh my god...that was so bad...} "Then why are you laughing?" It takes a moment for them to calm down. Though now that I think about it, Bones had a hard time keeping himself normal during some of the insult jokes. Maybe he has a thing for bad puns? "*coughs* okay...okay. *sigh* no more jokes. this is serious time now." I nod. {now...show me your soul.} I go blank. {don't give me that look. just do as i say.} "You've seen it already. Don't make this weird." He blushes and goes to slap me...but he's intangible and has no effect. {*huff* why do you always have to make things awkward?} Aside from thinking he has a weird thing for my soul, I still don't know how to make it come out. "i don't think she knows how." {geez. talk about a clueless woman.} I growl at Chops who flips me off. {damn it...this is more annoying than i thought.} That has me confused. How much of this did Bones plan? {i can help.} Like looming doom, Dead Eye stands ominously behind me and, even in this form, I tremble. My sudden shift in demeanor has Bones doing a double-take of looking at me, then the pleased looking Dead Eye, and then me again. {what did you do?} Dead Eye doesn't take his sight off me. {nothing.} {i thought i told you not to interfere.} {and i did as told. i did nothing.} Dead Eye's voice is unnervingly calm and the look on his face, his eye partly closed mixing with that sly Cheshire cat grin, doesn't exactly make him seem like he has good thoughts in that cracked skull of his. {i can get her to produce her soul. all i need...is the body.} My eyes widen along with his smile. His earlier words come hauntingly back to me. {because i want you to know there will come a time when i have control of the body. and unlike the others...i will not be gentle.} That primal part of my brain that handles the fight-or-flight response is spamming the "GET THE FUCK OUT!" button but my legs seem to be suffering from a connection error and not receiving the signal. Bones reads the room and smirks. {when i say stop, you better stop.} Connection error fixed...PANIC ENGAGED! "No! No! No! No! No! No!" Shoving off the floor, I bound for the closest way out. As luck tends to go for me...This is a fail. "*roar*" I'm stopped dead in my tracks by the sudden addition of a blade in my back. {i'm not the kind of guy to dole out advice. but here's something to remember...} I wearily cock my head to look back. Only to see a very solid Dead Eye directly behind me and still clutching the meat cleaver that's just inches shy of my trembling spine. How does he move so fast?! {never turn your back on dead eye.} I expect the cleaver to be yanked out and another strike to quickly follow. I should know by now not to expect things to go by normal logic. Dead Eye pushes onto the weapon and kicks the back of my knee, forcing me down on all fours. I'd reach back or kick like a mule but he's still pressing his might on that blade to the point it starts touching bone, so any move I'd make will result in losing balance then eating the floor. "gutsy creature, thinking you can run from me. i wonder..." A second sharp pain comes to my side as he thrusts his sharp phalanx tips into the soft flesh and digs them in deep. The howl of anguish as he claws into me is excruciating. "just what do those guts look like?" His intent is clear. I'll be disemboweled if I can't produce my soul. I'd think this was a bluff if he wasn't starting to pull on the chunk of me in his grasp. {you know how to make him stop.} "*seething* I don't know..." *CRACK* One of my ribs gives way to the cleaver's pushing and I lose my shit. Wailing like a banshee in sheer hell. {not so rough. she's no good to us broken.} Dead Eye lets the cleaver go, keeping it where it rests in me and grabs my neck to cease my writhing. The skin begins to tear as he pulls further on my side. I know not which will happen first, changing back to being human or passing out from the pain. I hope for the latter. "do keep this up. i have not had so much fun in ages." "*whimper* Please...stop..." "if you insist." And he does stop...by ripping that chunk in a single fast pull. The only good thing is that it's just flesh and muscle, any deeper would result in some spilled entrails. Two things happen at this moment. One, I feel so much pain that it overloads my system to the point it stops hurting. And two, due to the insane amount of adrenaline flooding me this causes some parts to be confused as to what to do. Case in point, I should be uttering some sound of hurt yet I'm silent but also crying...and my soul pops out thinking I'm dying which is entirely possible. The obvious shimmering heart doesn't go ignored. Dead Eye snatches it and just like that, I'm feeling awful once more, collapsing on my side. I feel paralyzed. Only my eyes work. "i told you i could get her to show it." {don't think ya can brag. any of us could've done that.} {you're lucky this even worked. you weren't supposed to interact with her at all.} "you are welcomed." Bones groans. {*huff* just show it to me.} {oooh...pretty.} {too many bright colors if ya ask me.} Boo and Chops get to see the odd mass of clashing colors. "i see why you wanted to look at it now." {yep. it's just as i thought. burning scars and blisters of light.} {*gasp* it's entity-touched.} {yeah...and by the looks of it, it's been touched a lot.} "what do we do with it?" {give a moment. maybe it'll heal on its own.} {that's retarded. you're retarded.} {you don't know that!} Chops and Boo quarrel as Bones and Dead Eye share annoyed looks. {we're surrounded by idiots.} "agreed." Dead Eye fades out and Bones becomes solid. "had enough fun already?" {...for now.} Dead Eye looks at me than the soul. {you will want to put her back together soon. that wound will not heal if she reverts to being human.} Was that...pity? Huh. Maybe he's not so bad. "got any ideas on lessening the entity's touch?" To that, he shakes his head. {you already know who might have the answers.} Bones sighs. "true. just...it's not going to end well." {neither would be letting the entity consume more of that soul than it already has. dealing with the doctor is a small price to pay compared to letting the entity have its way.} Bones rubs a hand across his skull as if moving it through invisible hair. "i hate it when you're right." Bones takes the soul before he comes over to me, kneeling and putting the torn chunk of flesh back where it came from. "you're not going to like what needs to be done to you." All I can do is blink a couple of times for a response. Putting the soul back is like putting a metal fork in an electrical socket. It jump-starts my body. The damage inflicted by Dead Eye begins repairing itself. Yet he hasn't let go of it. "*groan* What are you doing?" "if i let go now you'll change back. right?" I want to say nothing. But...that's not how trust works. "*wince* If I'm hurt enough while changed, it makes me shift back." "figured as much. you won't heal as a human. not with this much damage. as a monster, you can at least regenerate." This feels so uncomfortable. Sure he has a point and being this way is allowing my body to repair itself. But him holding my soul while I'm this weak feels about the same as being naked with four dudes are just staring at my goods. After some time, my rib reconnects as the shade of the cleaver is pushed out and my side is now one piece again. When he deems me healed he releases my soul and they watch these changes to my body reverse. Bit by bit. Bone crunch after loud pop. {stars...that has to hurt.} {if that shit happened each time we switched body control, yeah, i'd fight to prevent that crap too.} I force my upper half up but I'm wobbly. "talk to us, girl. what's wrong?" I try to shake this feeling off. I was mentally dumb as a monster. Now I'm lightheaded and tipsy. "Groggy. Like fog is filling the space in my skull." "need anything?" I shake my head slowly. "Nah. Don't trouble yourselves over this. I just need a moment." "good." Well, that was quick. Bones grabs me and carries me over to one of the sofas. Plopping me down a bit rougher than needed. "get some rest. you'll need it. once tomorrow's trials are done, we have to go pay the doctor a visit." I visibly cringe. "Must we?" "do you want to end up in the void?" "No." "then you're going." I roll over and do as told. Not much else I can do. I hear Bones leave me. Perhaps he'll find something else to do. {don't worry, human. the doctor won't kill you. at least, not intentionally. the dead can't be studied here.} {bitch boy, ya suck at pep talks.} {stop calling me that.} Chops snarls but is made silent. They both are. Suddenly there's a chill dancing on my neck. Like slowly moving fingertips. {you will behave for us tomorrow. right, human?} Damn it Dead Eye...Why are you so fucking creepy? "Y-Yes." {good girl. do not make us regret showing you mercy.} Fuck my life. I'm tired, cold, in pain, and just sick of it. I just want to shut my eyes and forget where I am. Even if it's only for a little while. To lose myself in unconsciousness. It's the only escape I have.

[hisimperialmajestyemperordawlove]

Key of County NEW HALFA Full Name: House Of The World – United World Region: Plant and space Board: Unitary Constitution Monarchy with Unitary Parliamentary System Realm as United Nations Capital: Mega cities Area: Earth with space levels Geography: Earth (world Map) Climate: World weather Forecast (Climate Change) Population: is Population of the earth Religion: Freedom of religions Population growth by human Average life expect any 100 years Population density by destiny Official Language world Languages Currency: world GDP IMF infinity International phone code +000 Zone in internet : UW Time Zone Universal time zone International organizations include: by Continents and countries Political condition: The head of the states Crown Earth Access to the seas and oceans: earth atlas Shear lands boards by region Main Attraction : World Heritage by continents and region and country Descriptions Architecture Classifications An Island Urban Creation: Location coordinates: Ottoman Empire, House Of The World - United World Location Black Sea 30 Degree Vertical direction Coordinates 44°N 35°E Bosphorus North Istanbul, Turkey Coordinates: 41°07′10″N - 29°04′31″E Surface area: 50,000 Square kilometers from total Surface area 436,402 km2 (168,500 sq mi) Max. length 1,175 km(730 mi) Max. depth 2,212 m (7,257 ft) Water volume 547,000 km3 (131,200 cu mi) , European Union, H.W. - U.W. Istanbul, Turkey 41°00′49″N - 28°57′18″E Scopes Of Works and Supply United World groups of holding companies: It's All Belong For The Project House of The World - United World As New Groups Of Holding Companies. Capital Mega Cities: At 30 Degree Vertical in Black Sea for House of The World - United World, Area...around 50,000,00 km2 An Environmental Island Creation With Towers View. Establishment With Typical View The Coat of Arms As Site Plan. House of The World - United World Palace Is The Tallest Tower Within 1,5 Km Highest World Map View surrounded With Castle World Times Lines. Note: Still in Education Research. Competition On Design Urban Planing House of The World - United World: The terms of the key urban planning Capital Mega Cities With Supervising On The Designs Project & Constructions With Standardization As Well As Typical View The Coat of Arms. The Aim of Program: 1) Navy Port Surrounding The Project Coat of Arms Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper Connected 2) Stars Towers 80 m Highest "81 Stars" Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper Connected 3) Privet Airport and International Airport 80 m Highest Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper Connected 4) Privet Tower 100 m Highest Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper Connected 5) Hotel Tower 150 m Highest Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper Connected 6) The Crown Building Site Plan View 250 m Highest Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper Connected 7) The Castle 500 m Highest Baroque Architecture Style 8) World Map Tower 1500 m Highest With Green Roof Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper Main communicator United 9) Crescent and Star Towers 200 m Highest Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper connected 10) Sun and 16 Stars Towers 90 m Highest Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper connected 11) Red Nature Flowers, Roses and Walking Way Garden Landscape 12) Earth Play Ground, Olympic Sport Games, Paralympic Games, FIFA organization Sport Games 13) Blue Nature Flowers and Walking Way Garden Landscape 14) The Books Shape's Buildings Towers 250 m Highest Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper connected 15) Medals Towers 300 m Highest Architecture Style Super-tall Skyscraper connected Puple Diagram Programing Towers Projects: 1) Offices 2) Markets 3) Oil Services 4) Environmental Fishing Area 5) Hospitals ...6) Cleaning System 7) Museum 8) Accommodations 9) Navy Port 10) Privet Airport and International 11) Duty Free 12) Airport Service 13) Schools 14) Universities 15) Geography Centers 17) Securities Gard Systems 18) Gardens 19) Hotels 20) Ministerial 21) Embassies 22) Organizations 23) Diplomatic Area 24) Companies 25) Establishments 26) Parliaments 27) Theater 28) Palace 29) Villas 30) Castle 31) Post Offices 32) Administrations according to the step level services 33) Constitutional Courts Towers 34) extra ... etc Services Program: Electricity is by solar panel in the project and wind electricity + water movement electricity. The Telephone and Mobile is surrounding the castle and some towers Underground Connections system. The lights of the projects is wight - yellow gold - rainbow colors. The tunnels and roads is solar traffic lights working by Main and sub Computer Programming The Under ground Transportation Connections with each projects on island creation like tunnel. The world map tower has geological elevations and top roof has green roof, The building has organic columns and the world map borders are looking ventilation with each borders according to the united nations geography map - on each capital of Countries there is a left system what it mean elevator, the space since at the top roof of the world map tower and into the castle. Furniture inside the walls opening and covered like storage buildings Towers. In The Projects should be has Thermal insulation, Sound Insulation, Water Insulation, Weather insulation according to Location to be updated. Emergencies is surrounding the stars towers "81 star's" and on the other area on the castle of the world map tower view the north - east - south - west sides and on the navy port and airport and on the others towers projects as the most viewed circulations for emergencies. Each flour in tower is 5 m Highest in all the towers projects 1 m for Air Conditions System and 4 m Highest of the Flour. Modern materials Useful in all projects programming. On the island creation should be have flood protraction system, ice freeze protraction system according to the location, fire alarm system, navy port system, sentry system and earthshaking Protection System. Food supply by transportation system and by environmental fishing guards. An Island Urban Creation: Location coordinates: United World Location North Sea Location Atlantic Ocean Coordinates 56°N 03°E Eastern United Kingdom Surface area 10,000 square kilometers From Total Surface area 750,000 km2 (290,000 sq mi) Capital Mega Cities, European Union, U.W. London, United Kingdom. House Of The World - United World Constitution 1- Preamble & Act Of The Union 2- The Crown 3- The Households 4- Rights and duties of the people 5- Preliminary title 6- The Emperor... 7- The Cortes Generals 8- Government and Administration 9- Relation between the Government and courts General 10- Judicial Power 11- Economy and Finance 12- Territorial Organization Of State 13- Constitutional Courts 14- General Provisions 15- Fundamental Rights 16- Rights and Freedom of Man and citizen 17- The Federal structure 18- Local Self - Government 19- Constitutional Amendments 20- General Principles 21- Care Standards

1- Crown Earth Preamble & Act Of The Union: - Continents by Outline of each continents - Countries by Outline of each country Member - We, the Multinational of House of the World – United World by Genetics of Strains and Families. United by a common fate in our lands, establishing human rights and freedoms, civil peace and accord preserving the historically established unity of our lands sovereigns recognizing ourselves as part of the world community in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice , insure domestic tranquility , provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessing of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish the constitution Guarantee of rights and freedom and fundamental freedoms as we are mindful of our responsibilities towards creation Architecture resolve to renew our alliance to strengthen liberty and democracy under Holder Monarch, independence and peace in solidarity and openness towards the world are determined to live our diversity in unity respecting one another and conscious of our common achievements and our responsibility towards future generation With peace to shear peacefully to defined all times and days months years and centuries desire peace for all times and are deeply conscious of high ideals controlling human relationship and we have determined to preserve our security and existence, trusting in the justice and faith of the peace loving peoples of house of the world united world as act of the union of peaceful relation and effective cooperation among all the peoples of the earth between Man and women as rights of humanity and absolute respect for one anthers rights and freedoms mutual love and fellowship, and desire for, and belief, in "Peace at home, peace in the world" overseas territories which is Architecture Classifications with developments with freedom sociology and social science by legal aspects of planning and human health as part. 2- The Crown The United World Emperors of House Of The World - United World Is Head of States, The Symbols of its Unity and permanence. They arbitrates and moderates the regular functioning of the United World institutions, assumes the highest representations of House Of The World - United World In International Relations, Especially With The United Nations of Historically of Age of Human Evolution's and Centuries of Strains Families Members Humanism Imperial Community, and exercise the Functions expressly Conferred on there by Treaties and constitutions and laws. There title is that of the Emperor's of House Of The World - United World and they may use the other Titles appertaining to the crown The United World Emperors, Sultans, Caesars, Royals, Presidents, Ministers and Ambassadors persons of the Emperor's Household's Sovereigns is inviolable and shall not be held accountable. There acts shall always be countersigned in the manner established without such countersignature they shall not be valid, Except as provided. The Crown of House Of The World - United World Is Architecture " Historical and Modern" Explain The Real estate of Ownership Such As Strains Families and Parents Internationally by Continents and Countries Holders Demonym Crown Earth. The Crown is by Birth from the time they acquires the claim, Shall hold the title of Emperor and other titles traditionally held by the heir to the crown of House Of The World - United World. Should all lines designated by law become extinct, The Cortes Generals shall provide for Succession to the Crown Earth Projects in the manner most suitable to the interests of House Of The World United World. The Crown Earth of the House of the world - United World's Shall be inherited by the successors of H.I.M. Emperor Dawad III The Ottoman and respecting the other names of the personality H.I.M. Emperor Craig I Egest Henry, the legitimate heir of Historic Dynasties. Succession to the throne Shall follow the regular order of primogeniture and representation, the first line always having preference over subsequent lines, within the same grade the male over the female and in the same sex, The elder over the younger and by qualifications in all step level systemic. The Empress's consort, or the consort of the Empress's, May not assume any Constitutional functions except in accordance with the provisions for regency. The Crown is function and form of new Architecture Classification as its Justice as it's appear systemic of the Emperor's of House Of The World - United World and it's function and form of the United Nations Organizations. The Emperor receives an over all amount from the states budgets for maintenance of there Families and Households and distributes it freely. The Emperor freely appoints and dismisses civil and military members of the Emperor's Household's. The Emperor flag standard and Coat Of Arms is symbol of personality in all Sciences and Technologies as it is Motto and anthem part of universal Monarchy Imperial of the House of the world - United World " Educations and dynastic. The Crown Belong to this Name Personal Officially Full Name Detailed: HIM (Emperor) Dawad (3) (Emperor) Ahmed (3) (Emperor) Dawad (2) (Emperor) Ahmed (2) (Emperor) Dawad (1) (Emperor) Ahmed (1) (Emperor) Mohammed (Emperor) Ali (Baik- Basha) (Sultan) Essie (Sultan) Mosa (Sultan) Karah (Sultan) Kashif (Sultan) Mohammed (Wali- Weliab) (sultan) Suliman (Magnificent) (Sultan) Salim (1) (Sultan) Bayazid (2) (Sultan) Mohammed (2) (Sultan) Murad (2) (Sultan) Mohammed (1) (Sultan) Bayazid (1) (Sultan) Murad (1) (Sultan) Orkhan Ghazi (Sultan) Ottoman Artagual Suliman Shah Katalmish Gondoz Alb AlTurkey Alogozy 3- The Households: It is All about HIM Emperor Dawad III The Imperial Ottoman House. - House Of The World - United World. It is All about HIM Emperor Craig I Egest Henry European past Houses - House Of The World - United World. The following departments currently make up the Emperor's Household's Sovereigns United Nations realm: 1) The Department for Economic, Social and Cultural Affairs ( Health Care ) 2) The Emperor's Militarizes Household's by Officials Presidencies of Continents Organization's & Countries. ( Private Ranks ) 3) The Department for Foreign Relations. 4) The Architecture International Relations & Lists of Educations. 5) The Ottoman Emperors Strain & Families. 6) Timeline Of The Ottoman Empire & States Sovereigns Sciences as United World. 7) The Heritages Renewable. 8) Protocols. 9) Official Transportation By Head of States & Governments (The Sovereigns Travelers) 10) Universal Monarchy Imperial International Treaties & Constitutions ( By Courts of Continents & Countries) 11) Monarch Of Peace Honors of Continents Organization's & Countries. 12) The International Boarders Of Atlases Geographies Sovereigns Sciences as United World 13) The Personal Name Detailed By The Translations of Migrations. 14) The Histories of Continents & Countries. 15) The Civilians Rights As Human rights. 16) The Governments & Controls Internationally. 17) The Freedom of Media communications and Technologies. 18) The King of Fashion & Activities. 19) The Councils. 20) The Monetary Notes of personal information About Economics & Finances. 21) The Passports and Migrations. 4- Rights and duties of the people: As Amendments Architecture Articles on 2005 to present with Revision. Citizenship Fundamental Human Rights Goal to Preserve Freedom Rights. Individual Rights. No Discrimination and Privileges. Electoral Rights. Right to Petitions. Recourse to the Courts. Personal Freedom. Freedom of Thought and Conscious. Freedom of Religions, Secularism of States. Communicative Rights. Rights to move, Freedom of Profession. Academic Freedom. Matrimonial Equality. Welfare Rights. Rights to Educations, Compulsory Educations. Rights and Obligations to Work, No Child Labor. Unions. Property. Taxation. Due Process. Recourse to the courts. Arrest. Detention. Search, Seizures. Torture. Trial. Rights of the Accused. False Imprisonment. 5- Preliminary title: It's All about Strains, Families And Parents "United Nations" 6- The Emperor: The Crown Earth Council Symbol of Continents and Countries Architecture of the unity of Architecture, deriving their position for the will of people Architects Engineers Classifications with whom resides Sovereign Power. Dynastic Throne: The Imperial throne Shall be dynastic and succeeded to in accordance with the Imperial House law passed by the government form. Cabinet Approval and response: The Advice and approval of the Cabinet shall be required for all acts of the Emperor's in matters of States, and the Cabinet's Shall be responsible therefore. Rules of Laws for the Emperor's: The Emperor shall preform only such acts in matters of States as are provided for the constitution and they shall not have powers related to the matter. The Emperor may delegates the performance of there acts in matters of States as may provided by law. Regency: When in accordance with the Imperial House law a regency is established, the regent shall perform their acts in matters of States in the Emperor's name. Appointments: The Emperor's shall appoint the president as designated by the form of Government and the United Nations and the membership Acording to the coat of arms. Functions: The Functions, form, imagination, logistics and nature is copy picture from the nature Architecture. Property Authorization: Crown Earth Crown Emperor Mega cities - Emperor of The World Crown King Majesty - King of the World. List of Constitutions: Legal Aspects of Planning by Continents Organization's and Countries. List of Treaties: Area studies HIM Emperor Architect Engineer: The Personal Projects. Head of the house Imperial United World: Personality Researcher, Development and Technologies: Personal interest. International monetary systems: The World Noble of peace: Honors Traveler: Places of origin Health Care Internal - External And Foreign Relations: World Health Organization King of Fashion: Officials & Festivals Geographies: Alternative Architecture Empire Named United World: United Nations Crown Earth and education: Educations systems 7- The Cortes Generals Legislature * The General Courts is United Nations Upper House: House Of Continentals boundaries - Countries Lower House: House Of States - Cities - Nations 8- Governments and Administration World Government States of Defense The Imperial House Of The World - United World Honored orders and decorations Architecture as Sovereign Private Ranks : Grand Marshal 1- B.C. - 21st C. Ecology Environment (Flag Of Earth) Solar System Human Era 2- Ottoman Empire 1299 to 1923 Departments 3- Crown Earth H.W. - U.W. 4- Seal of Presidency Of Turkey Departments 5- 1902 to 2003 Grand Family Master Departments 6- European Union - Council Of Europe 7- Date of Birth Coronation 8- World Map Borders Departments 9- 1905 to 1923 Departments 10- 1923 to 1945 Departments 11- The United Nations 12- 1945 to 1956 Departments 13- 1956 to 1982 Departments 14- NATO & 21st C. Departments 15- Foreign Orders. If approved for wear, worn in order of date of award. 16- Foreign Decorations. If approved for wear, worn in order of date of award. 17- Foreign Medals. If approved for wear, worn in order of date of award. 18- Long Service and Efficiency Awards 19- Commonwealth Orders, Decorations and Medals instituted by the Sovereign. Worn in order of date of award. 20- National independence medals 21- Coronation and Jubilee medals. Administration of Justice Sovereignty Position Establish-er Rules of Procedures Relations between Parliaments and government Constitutional Council Finances Legislative powers of Federation Organizations Membership Qualifications Term of representatives Term of Councillors Electoral Procedures Approving Treaties Budgets The Fundamentals of Constitution System Revision of federal Constitution and temporal Provisions Lower Court 1- Court Of First Instance 2- Labor Court 3- Commercial Court 4- Police Court 5- Justice of the peace Local Government (World Administrative divisions) ..... etc. 1- Capitals 2- Regions 3- Provinces 4- Cities 5- Municipalities Other Issues 1- Defense Force 2- Regions Departments 3- Foreign Relation 4- Public Holidays 5- Republicanism 9- Relation between the Government and courts General International Criminal Court International Court of Justice Continents Organizations 10- Judicial Power Independence of the court Security of throne of Judge and Prosecutors Publicity of hearings and verdict Justification Organizations Courts Courts of the security of the courts Supervision of Judges and public Prosecutors Militarizes Justice The Constitutional Courts, Organizations The Constitutional Courts, Termination of Membership The Constitutional Courts Functions and powers The Constitutional Courts Functions and trial procedures Annulment Action Time limit for Annulment Action Contention of unconstitutionally before other Courts Decisions of the Constitutional Courts The Higher Court of Appeals Council of State Military High court of Appeals High Militarizes Administrative Court of Appeals Jurisdiction conflict Court Supreme Council of Judges And public Prosecutors Audit Court 11- Economy and Finance: World Economies & Finances... etc. Outline of Self Outline of Economics Outline of Finances Outline of Household's House Of The World - United World Economic system By application 1- Agricultural 2- Behavioral 3- Business 4- Computational 5- Cultural 6-Demographic 7- Development 8- Ecological 9- Education & Welfare economics 10- Environmental 11- Evolutionary & Personnel 12- Expeditionary & Public 13- Geography & Natural resource 14- Health & Regional 15- Industrial organization 16- Information 17- International 18- Labor & Urban 19- Law 20- Managerial & Rural 21- Monetary & Financial 12- Territorial Organization Of State • Human being and the list of sovereign of the states. • The right to life of a human being shall be protected by law. • The freedom of human being shall be inviolable. • The person of the human being shall be inviolable, the dignity of the human being shall be protected by law. • The privet life of a human being shall be inviolable. • Property shall be inviolable. The ownership shall be protected by law. • The home of a human being shall be inviolable. • The human being shall have the right to have his own convictions and freely express them. • Human being and Civil Defenses Sovereign. • Civilization and Diversity • Care of Health and Emergencies. • Human being and services. • Human Rights and Relations with courts. • Human Rights and economies • Human been and freedom of Movement. • Human been and Architecture and Classifications and Relations with standards. • Human been and Urban Creativity.. • Human been and Welfare. • Human been and real states or Accommodations. • Human been and Traveling Origin. • Human been and industries, trade and customs. 13 - Constitutional Courts The Constitutional Courts is Under the Holder Monarch HIM Emperor Dawad 3 The Ottoman - HIM Emperor Craig 1 Sovereignty Independents of House Of The World - United World as well as by The list of the diplomatic missions of House Of The World - United World Constitutions Dynamic Felix and Static Monarchy Imperial With International Treaties Imperial There is 1- Current Constitution 2- Constitutional Court 3- Historic constitutions 4- Human rights Judiciary: There Is 1- General Council of the Judiciary 2- Supreme Court 3- Constitutional Court 4- National Audience 5- Constitutional Court 6- Council of State 7- Court of Cessation 8- Court of Accounts 9- Constitutional Court 10- Supreme Court 11- Prosecutor General 12- Supreme Court of Arbitration 13- Legal system 14- Supreme Court 15- High Councils of State 16- National Ombudsman 17- Council of State 18- Court of Audit 19- Organizations Courts 20- Laws 21- Order 14- General Provisions Autonomous Continents Countries Independence World Map Borders As Mega Cities Diplomacy Cities Lists of Cities in the world Administrative divisions Cities Lists of Sister Cities in the world Capitals And Diplomatic Missions Cities Historical Capitals Cities Mega Cities Autonomous Capitals Autonomous Cities Heritage Cities Projects Creations Cities Political Cities Organizations Economical Cities Ports Cities Travelers Cities Tourism Cities Environmental Educational Cities Museums Cities Health Care Cities Birth Cities 15- Fundamental Rights Lists of Continents Autonomous Lists of Countries (County) Autonomous Lists of Oceans Autonomous Lists of Languages Autonomous Lists Of Organizations Autonomous Lists of Regions Autonomous Lists of Seas Autonomous Lists Of Currencies Autonomous Lists of Boards Autonomous Lists of World Maps Autonomous Lists of Imports And Exports World Trades Autonomous Lists Of Facts Autonomous Lists of Human Owen - Owner - Ownership Autonomous Lists Of Strategies Autonomous Lists of Elections Autonomous Lists of Coordination's Autonomous Lists of Tourism Planing Autonomous Lists of Creations Urban Planing Autonomous Lists of Flags Autonomous Lists Of Coats Of Arms Autonomous Lists of Monograms Autonomous 16- Rights and Freedom of Man - Women (Human) and citizen Political of Continents Strains Names Comes From Should be as Part of Series without be mixed With Other Human in politics as places of origin is Part of series of Citizen and Citizenship Freedom Meaning. Political of Countries Names of Relative of the Strains Alternative Should be as Part of Series without be mixed With Other Human in politics as places of origin is Part of series of Citizen and Citizenship Freedom Meaning. Political of Cities Names of Strains and Relatives of the Strains Alternative and Families Should be as Part of Series without be mixed With Other Human in politics as places of origin is Part of series of Citizen and Citizenship Freedom Meaning. Political of Members Has the right to reduce the All Strains, Relatives, Families and Parents As Part of Series of Human Service Join as Political System Service. Political Name of Personality of The Member should be register by The System Political Name should Be series to Know the History of The Political Name Fallow name As Maidens Name History As Has The Right Of The (parents ) Name - Surname - Maiden And The Alternative Of The Country And The Empire Name. With Explanation of the Recourse 2005 of the constitutions up to date as by the system service as it is part of freedom and right of the Citizen. The Member has the right to be careful about Freedom and that is not part of enjoining as it is explanation and freedom of human and relation with citizen. Politics Standards Of Imperial House Of The World - United World See The Books in the Profile By Elections Curriculum Vita Projects Carrier's All By Step Level Service see the System Service By-election (special election) • Direct / Indirect • Fixed-term... 1-Crown Earth Council 2-Confederation Imperial 3-Federal Imperial 4-Unitary imperial 5-Political Union Imperial 6- Sample Imperial 7-Foreign policy council Organizations and Countries 8-Constitution's 9-Direct Power Structure's 10-The Crown & The Other Crowns House Holds 11-Government's 12-Legislature's 13-Consultant's 14-Judiciary's 15-Devolution's 16-Administrative geographies 17-Election's 18-Foreign Policy Organizations & Countries 19-Mayor's 20-Citizen's 21-National Human Evolution's In Case Of Politics Form Of Government Monarchy So The Level System from (1) to 11) . In Case of Politics Form Of Government Republic So The Level System from (11) to 21) . In Case of Politics Form Of Government United World So The Level System from (1) to (21) House Of The World - United World Elections By Country Empire: House Of The World - United World Head of State: Monarchy System Step Levels Electives Qualifications of Sciences & Architecture Hereditary luxurious lifestyles (Parliament/Legislature) Lower House: Direct election with selected creations logical traditional luxurious appointments Architecture styles & luxurious lifestyles Upper House: Direct and indirect election appointments as well as Representation of state governments hereditary Architecture & luxurious lifestyles 17- The Federal structure Lists of Buildings By Continents Lists of Buildings By Countries Lists of Buildings By Cities Lists of Presidents Offices Lists of Ministries Lists of Municipalities Lists of Embassies Lists of Hospitals Lists of Factories Lists of Arable land Lists of Buildings By World Map Boarders Lists of Water Storage's Lists of Transportation Equipments Lists of Central Banks Lists of Banks Lists of Agriculture Products Lists of Industrial Products Lists of High Rise Buildings Materials Lists of Skyscrapers Buildings Lists of Real Estate Buildings Lists of Tourism Heritage and Culture Buildings and Places 18- Local Self - Government Right To Chose The Qualifications with Limitation with Taking The Responsibilities according To Step Levels Services. Political Analyses Has The Right To Elected The Responsible of The Political System Service on Each Levels according To The Mater. Legal Aspects of Planing Should be Exercise by Understanding without any kind of disaster as Positions to be elected according to the matter with training. 19 - Constitutional Amendments By Appeal The Court of Appeals: 1-Crown Earth Project – House of The World – United World Services. 2-Crown Emperor Mega cities Emperor of the World - Crown Earth Service. 3-Crown King Majesty King of the World – Services United World Emperors. 4-Personal Union – World Member and Membership. 5-United World Emperors & Presidents. 6-Emperors – Services all Sultans & Presidents. 7- Sultans – Services all Era & Presidents. 8- Caesers – Services all Royals Kings and Queens & Presidents. 9- Royals – Services all Princes and Princesses & Presidents. 10- Presidents – Services all Ministers. 11- Congers – Services all Ambassadors. 12- Militarizes – Services all Parties Public. 13- Governments – Services all Parties States Public. 14- World Borders International – Services all States Public. 15- States – Services all Ministers. 16- Ministers – Services all Parties Public. 17- Parliaments – Services Presidents, Ministers and Ambassadors. 18- Ambassadors – Services States Public. 19- States Public – Services Advice's. 20- Public's Parties –Services Other Organizations. 21- Organization’s - Services Internationally Public's Advice. 20- General Principles By Appointment Personal Appoint-er: 1) Heredity Council Welfare 2) Universal Monarchy Architecture Heritage Site's 3) Monarch Official Architecture International Buildings Codes (World Architecture Community) Independence 4) Monarch Officials Architectures Traveler Independent 5) Monarch Official Personal Heredity migrations independent Free Sovereign & Languages 6) Monarch The Imperial House Of The World - United World 7) Monarch The United World 8) Monarch The Personal World Economics Sovereign 9) Monarch The Official Fashion Styles Sovereign 10) Monarch The Transportation Sovereign, Spaces & Industries 11) Monarch The Energy, Agricultural & Ecology Sovereign 12) Monarch The Telecommunications system's Sovereign Freedom of Media communications 13) Monarch The Personal Families Courts Sovereign 14) Monarch The Educational System Service Sovereigns Sciences & Technologies 15) Monarch The Administrative divisions Geographies Sovereigns 16) Monarch The Addresses Sovereign 17) Monarch The States Sovereign 18) Monarch The Foreign Relations Sovereign 19) Monarch The Trade & Custom Sovereign 20) Monarch The Monetary & laws Sovereign 21) Monarch The Health, Foods, Drinks, Cuisines, Activities, Sports, Interests, Events & Tourism Sovereign 21- Care Standard Every Things in The World Every Things of The World The Imperial House Of The World - United World 1- Ottoman Empire 2- Flags 3- History 4- Rise - Growth 5- Expansion and apogee 6- Revolts and revival - stagnation and reform 7- Government 8- law 9- Military 10- Administrative divisions 11- Economy 12- Demographics 13- Language 14- Religion 15- Culture 16- Literature 17- Architecture 18- Decorative arts 19- Performing arts 20- Cuisine 21- Science and technology Reference Coat Of Arms of The Ottoman Empire: Every sultan of the Ottoman Empire had his own monogram, called the tughra, which served as a royal symbol. A coat of arms in the European heraldic sense was created in the late 19th century. Hampton Court requested from Ottoman Empire the coat of arms to be included in their collection. As the coat of arms had not been previously used in Ottoman Empire, it was designed after this request and the final design was adopted by Sultan Abdul Hamid II on April 17, 1882. It included two flags: the flag of the Ottoman Dynasty, which had a crescent and a star on red base...etc. Symbolism Editor Of The Past Ottoman Empire Historical Coat Of Arms With Renew The Heritage [edit] Element : Description Crown: The coat of arms are surmounted by a rendition of HIM Emperor Dawad III which has been used in the coronations of Ottoman Empire (House Of The World – United World) monarchs. This element represents Ottoman Empire (House Of The World – United World) status as a constitutional monarchy headed by a sovereign Emperor or Empress. This style of crown is that preferred by HIM Emperor Dawad III By Himself , and was modernized in 2009 from the 1882 to be renew and re-change on 1982 design, which used the Tudor Crown Earth Crest : The 81 Stars with Coat Of Arms of The Ottoman Empire (Crown Earth) with Medals and solar system. Helm : European Ottoman Turkish History Escutcheon : World Map Geography with earth times Ribbon : The ribbon is marked The World Universal Times With Compose with Position Perforation is Crown Emperor Mega Cities - Emperor Of The World Crown King Majesty - King Of The World Motto : The motto of Peace In The Homelands mean (House Of The World ) Peace In The World mean (United World) Supporters : Supporting the shield on either side are the Ottoman Turkish Flag With The Unitary The Turkish Presidency Seal Turkish Flag as Well and The Environment Ecology Flag Of Earth and Solar System and By Earth Day The Architecture With Tugra HIM Emperor Dawad III 20th – 21st Century and supporting the Treaties and constitutions of the Continents and Countries of The Empire in both Way and the membership of the United Nations independent Justice Crown Earth Compartment : Roses Of The Ottoman Empire History About House Of The World - United World Crown Earth Crown Emperor Mega Cities - Emperor of The World Crown King Majesty - King of the World ... (20th - 21st C. HIM Emperor Dawad III Tugra) With 81 Stars Explain The Birth 21-22/07/1982 With The Coat Of Arms House Of The World - United World Dynasties House Of Osman - United World's Emperor, Sultans, Caesars, Royals, Presidents, Ministers, Ambassadors & States - Ottoman Empire - Presidential Seal of Turkey - Earth Flag - World Geographies Horizontal & Vertical lines with earth times - Continents Organizations - European Union Organizations - Council Of Europe - NATO - Euro-pol - Interpol - Commonwealth of Nations (English Language) - World Trade Organization - World Bank - Imperial Ottoman Bank - World Architecture Community - United Nations Organizations - World Nuclear Association - OPEC - World Government. (This Is Part Of Serious About The Personal Family) Sovereign Politics Alternative Empire Architectures Named: The Imperial House Of The World - United World Attached The Flag's & The Coat Of Arms of The Imperial House Of The World - United World As Question's Where did I come from? And It is The Answers As Human Been Rights! Speaker Of The Imperial House Of The World - United World is : Crown Earth TV & Wikipedia -Crown Earth Magazine - Crown Earth Architecture Design Drawings Newspaper - Crown Earth Radio. Speaker Of The Imperial House Of The World - United World include the Cabinet's & Parliaments. Information databases is The Imperial House Of The World - United World Constitution of The Stamps by usually works Independents. 1- Using in works divination's of personality and ontological property on Architecture Documents as well as Ministries and agencies on lifetime as it's educations. 2- House Of The World – United World using for parents and families as well as alternative of the name of the house and the united world. 3- The presidency seal of family strains in history of the countries and the empire's as it's political and governments of the country. 4- Embassy and government political of the public and the law enforcement guard and alternative country name Turkey and international relations. 5- Using on the Time table traveling and security time on the usual work and information about any matter of the states as it's also use by the states of administrations divisions and projects of government and boards controls. 6- Earth flag using in the environment and weather forecast as it's used in foreign relations of the world affairs of weather forecast and earth science and separated on the other hand and handle the relation of the Architecture with earth day and traveling fashion 7- Both using separated of usual works of the country and the empire and the other organization and everything of the courts relations and collective by political matter of the house of the world united world as it is seen in the coat of arms and security of judgments courts and governments courts counsel of states as it is united nations governments members of the country protocols …etc. 8- The maritime marine and the military and other security guards of the country forces. 9- Security medals of the country and educations and the anthem and motto and other relations of the security gourds each one according to the matter submitted by the presidency of government and affairs of internal and external. 10- International boarders control of governments and customs of trade of government all permeation by the presidency. 11- Everything of the matters with carefully explanations of all meaning and understanding as it is ISO code Crown Earth. 12 - Crown Earth is access to all coat of arms by independents freely as available quality control with limited by lists of alternatives according to the meaning as it's ISO code By Crown Earth Council by steps level's service. By Treaties and constitutions Of The Founder and CEO. United Nations Architecture Organizations Is Gallery of country coats of arms, Architecture Engineering Sites Plans: similar view the coat of arms of each one. Mega cities Urban Planning Architecture Style City escapes: Copy Picture Form The Nature - Imagination - Logistics - Nature High-tech architecture Super-tall Skyscraper Baroque Castle Neo-futurism Urban design creation project: N.E.W. H.A.L.F.A.