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drunkonmilktea · 3 years ago

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The Super High School Level Hellspawn

I didn’t proofread this yet

Celeste is the child or Hades and Persephone and is much older then then what is said on her file

Prologue [No Official Title]:

Lucifer sat upon his chair one leg over the other. His eyes skimmed the pages of the files looking for the human that will be apart of the exchange program.

Most of the files that laid on his desk were those belonging to Hope’s Peak students. He has heard the many great people to come out of Hope’s Peak. Many students have magic or abilities that get discovered when they enter, great sorcerers have also been scouted and got great success from doing so.

However he still a rough time choosing. They were all special, but would any even be able to handle living here for a year? Would they even survive?

At first he thought he would pick Sonia Nevermind before finding out that Diavolo recently met up with them and had declined his offer.

“Who should I—!” One of the papers somehow slipped off the table and was about to enter the fireplace. His eyes quickly darted to the file and he shot up from his seat to go grab.

Luckily he was able to get ahold of the file before it burned inside the fireplace. With the file in hand he looked down and read the name of the individual on the paper.

Celestia Ludenburg

Ultimate/SHSL: Gambler

Age: 18

Height: 164 cm/5’5

Relatives: 𝚁𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

Nationally: 𝚁❏𝚍❏❏𝚝𝚎𝚍

Info: The self-styled Celestia Ludenburg. She is a gambler who has never lost a match, and gained the title Queen of Liars after winning a underground gambling tournament, where she took the other players money and lifesavings and laughed as she did so.

Little info is known about her and her life seems to be wrapped up in a web of lies.

But he had a strange good feeling about this one. Maybe he just wanted to know more and that’s the reason this one gave him a more positive and greater feeling then the rest.

Lucifer grinned and walked back to his seat, letting out a small yawn as he did.

Finally…he could get some shut eye.

𝑴𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆. . .

“You’re going to bed Celeste?” Asked Makoto, who was passing by.

Celeste turned to him with an unamused look on her face. “Indeed. Now will please leave me be, I’m not in a good mood.” She responds.

Normally she tone wouldn’t be so out of character, especially when it was this late, but Makoto did notice how off she was today. Celeste was a lot more disgruntled and skipped all her classes to avoid them. Hifumi tried to engage in a conversation with her, but she just told him leave her alone and that he wouldn’t have to make her tea or carry her bag for the day. Which was very odd.

Makoto stood there as Celeste opened the door to her dorm, wondering if he should try and talk with her. However with how late it was, it would probably be better to just wait and see if she would talk about it the next day. He did not like the idea of getting scolded by her and the idea make a shiver crawl down his spine.

Little did he know Celestia wasn’t even in the room by the time he started heading to his own.

𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑘

𝐶𝑜𝑙𝑑

𝐺𝑙𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑦

These are some of the common words used when one would describe the Underworld. Maybe to most humans it would be a lot more freighting and those words wouldn’t even begin to describe it. Perhaps they would think about the screeches of the souls, or have thoughts about horrible monsters that could probably kill you with just looks alone.

However these thoughts were from people that have never entered the Underworld and make assumptions on what it’s like.

But to Celeste — it was home.

Well…home as in that is where she was birthed and lived in. To most Celeste was just a girl who had an appreciation for gothic lolita clothing. A person who was extremely skilled in gambling and stirred fate to her very will. A human that was covered in a veil of lies.

None of them would never know her true identity. Berenice.

“CELESTE!!!” A familiar loud deep voice roared. The ground seemed to shake as the person stomped closer.

“Tch!” Celeste clicked her tongue in annoyance. She refused to respond and instead decided to play with a strand of hair not paying any attention to the large figure approaching her.

“You’re late.” Her brother grunted as he towered over her.

“𝗭𝗮𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘂𝘀, you know I have matters to deal with in the mortal realm. I can’t just whisk myself to the Underworld without a trace or people will start asking questions.”

I’ll be using Zagreus’s design from the game Hades.

“Like that would a problem to someone so skilled in deceiving people.” He sneered. “Mother has awaited the next time you’d visit. She worried you would not arrive on time before she would have to go to Demeter.”

“It’s December Zagreus. She still spends plenty of her time here before she has to depart.”

Celeste tried to stroll past her brother as she felt the conversation wasn’t getting anymore lucrative. Her heels tapped the floor as she walked making her presence known by both her father and mother who sat on their thrones. Zagreus with a grumpy expression, trailed behind her.

Delighted to see their daughter, Persephone jumped out of her seat and rushed towards Celeste. Her face held nothing but pure joy as she hoisted her daughter in the air with her arms wrapped around her. “Oh Celeste! Words cannot describe how happy I am to see you!”

“M-Mother! Watch out, you may ruffle my dress up!” The small girl stammered with a small blush on her face.

Hades and Zagreus grinned both being very amused. Persephone put her daughter down and dashed to her bedroom with her grip still on Celeste’s hand. “Come now Celeste! I want to hear some stories about your time in the mortal realm!”

Normally Celeste would struggle and scold anyone if they touched her so nonchalantly, and her mother was normally not an exception. Even as a little girl Celeste hated this kind of forceful and overwhelming affection. It was one the reasons she normally resided in the mortal realm. No parents or family dragging her down. Plus the mortal realm’s aesthetic was much more pleasing to her. Not to say she hated the Underworld’s look or feel, she liked it quite a bit, but with it being so depressing and almost never changing. She did see beauty in it, but it paled in comparison to the realm of the humans. The many different cultures, clothing, games; she could not resist such wonders.

She even abandoned her name and nearly left her status of being a goddess of the Underworld.

So why…why did she still cling onto her mother’s hand.

She couldn’t even answer that question for herself.

#danganronpa celestia #celeste ludenberg #dr1 celestia #obey me #obey me fanfic #obey me crossover #danganronpa crossover #obey me lucifer #lucifer #celeste

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snesdudes · 4 years ago

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28 dates with Unit Bravo

Day 1: CHOCOLATE

Pairing: Nate x f!Detective (Berenice Bailey)

Warnings: None, this is pure fluff. I don't think there's even any swear words (which for me is weird). Also Berry is a nerd and Nate loves it because he's a nerd too.

Words: ~1.7k

A/N: So!!! I've decided to join this. I should post a one shot with each of the prompts everyday this month for Mason x Alice or Nate x Berry. Let's see if I can keep up 😉

☾ 一一一一一一一一一 ☽

Not an inch of the coffee table was visible under the blanket of books spread over it, open in pages that needed revision before she had traveled to the next one. Her notebook was full of scribbles and notes in different colors, highlighted bits in a bright yellow if it was something really important, unfinished information in green, false legends in blue and so on…

And sitting on the floor, her petite body folded almost impossibly, with her head resting against a behavioral guide of some mythological creature, was his girlfriend.

Nate was observing her with a soft smile on his lips, the sight both heartwarming and slightly amusing. She was snoring softly and the pages in front of her lips trembled slightly with every breath she exhaled. Her nose wrinkled every once in a while in a way she also did when she was awake - a habit he found utterly adorable - and the corners of her mouth curled upwards… the dream was pleasant, at least.

But that posture can not be good for her back and knees, Nate mused to himself, a mug of chocolate on each of his hands as he stood a few feet away from the table.

He had been patrolling and the best gift he could receive when he went back to the warehouse was the news that Berenice was in the library researching on her own. He had to refrain himself from going running to her and instead thought of bringing her some of her favorite beverage - hot chocolate with marshmallows.

Only to find her sleeping deeply over his books.

He left the mugs on the floor for a moment before gently removing a raven strand of hair from her freckled face, placing it behind her ear tenderly.

If Berenice could see how he was looking at her - she could barely be able to believe someone could hold such warmth in only a gaze. He whispered her name in the silent library, as if it was a secret which had to stay among the books for no one else to discover.

But she jolted awake with a jump and an exclamation.

"Wolpertinger!" She yelped, bright blue and brown eyes blinking unfocused, a mark on her cheek where she had been resting it against a book. Nate stifled a laugh at her alarmed expression as her eyes fell on him, cheeks quickly warming.

"Oh? Is that my new pet name?"

She groaned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, proceeding then to stretch her arms as far as they could go up and behind her head, and Nate watched attentively every motion, dark eyes drinking in the sight of her slightly disheveled.

"Don't tell me I drooled over the books." She spoke, voice thick with sleep sending a delicious thrill through him, as she scanned the pages of the books she had used as a pillow. "Thank God." She muttered to herself, checking there was no harm done, and turned her face to Nate, more awake now. A wide smile instantly lit up her face at the handsome features she had come to adore. "Hi."

"Hello." Nate answered, and the pair of them let the moment linger for some seconds, eyes locked and smiles firmly planted in their lips. Their relationship was still so new, so exciting, and still so little moments had been shared, this felt like a blessing. Nate was the first to snap from the trance. "I brought you something."

She perked up, curiosity all over her features as he presented her the mug of hot chocolate. The rich smell of it instantly invaded her nostrils and she all but moaned, hands enveloping the warm ceramic.

"Thank you so much. You read my mind."

"Let's move to the couch, shall we?" Nate offered her a hand and she took it, the familiar spark lighting up her nerves at his touch making her smile widen.

They settled on the couch side to side, his arm falling over her back to surround her almost absentmindedly, bringing her closer. She sighed with satisfaction and stared at her drink.

"So many marshmallows. You're my knight in shining armor." She took the first sip as Nate grinned at her, happily watching the joy this simple gesture had brought to her features.

"Anytime, beautiful." He replied, squeezing her the slightest bit.

Berenice got comfortable, throwing her legs over his lap to turn her torso towards him more easily, the look on her eyes silently asking if it was okay, the pressure of his lips against her forehead a better answer she could have ever hope for.

"What were you researching? Are there wolpertingers in the Wayhaven forest now?" He asked with a hint of amusement on his smile. She snorted softly before taking a big gulp of chocolate.

"I was investigating how many myths repeat themselves in different countries and cultures and the differences between them." He could see in her face that innate thirst for knowledge she had, something he found incredibly attractive. "I want to create a database with all of them so we can go through it faster when we need it. A software with a collection of all the names and characteristics that had been assigned to the same creature over the years. Maybe also link them to the historic period they were first discovered? And a list of the myths that are not true? Hmm." She reached out for her notebook and a pen and started writing quickly her new ideas, leaving it on the table and looking back at Nate, who was staring at her with something akin awe in his face. She started talking faster. "I know you don't like technology, so it'll be really easy to navigate and completely encrypted so it can only be accessed from a computer in particular. I have one to spare at home and I thought, maybe, I could install it here? I would only need a corner, I know the library is your favorite place and I don't want to spoil it for you but… I'm rambling, aren't I?" She let out a breath sheepishly, hurrying herself to drink some of her chocolate, hands slightly shaky due to excitement and anxiety.

His big hands engulfed her smaller ones around her mug, the heat of it warming them both.

"You're brilliant, do you know that?" He asked softly, watching how her entire demeanor relaxed at his words. "I want to share everything I have with you. And that includes this place."

She took the last sip of the chocolate and left the mug on the floor, turning to him with a small frown. "I just don't want you to feel forced to it. I thought it would be nice to do the research together, maybe? I would do all the data dump in the software, but I need to recollect the data before I do that."

"Like a side project? Only the two of us?"

His earnest smile gained him a matching one from her. "Yeah! It will be a lot of work, but I could learn so much. And you, too, if you wanted I could teach you about the software as I create it!"

Technology was still incredibly frustrating for the vampire, but for her, he would sure as hell try. The excitement in her features so intoxicating he would have agreed to practically anything she had asked.

"I would love to."

"Really?" The question was slightly breathless.

"Really."

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, knocking him backwards in surprise, his back against the couch and his girlfriend practically on his lap.

"I can come here after work every day, and on the weekends we can use the mornings and then have the afternoons free." She spoke, her breath hitting his neck and making his heartbeat quicken. She pulled back slightly until they were nose to nose.

"And what would we use the afternoons for, I wonder?" His voice had dropped an octave and she swallowed, eyes falling to his lips before going back to those gentle ones of him.

"I'm open to ideas." She retorted, licking her lips and making his focus snap to her mouth. He moved softly forwards, giving her time to stop him. When she leaned in as well, he lost no time in capturing her lips with his.

Berenice groaned almost instantly, one hand taking the nape of his neck, the other tracing his jawline with a featherlight touch. His fingers grasped her hips firmly, digging into her flesh hard enough to let her know how much he wanted her, not enough to hurt her.

"Nate…" she sighed against his mouth, and he traced her bottom lip with his tongue, a growl forming deep inside his chest at the sweetness of her lips.

"Gods, Berry…" he pulled her even closer, chests pressing against each other, breaths quickening. "You taste like chocolate."

She giggled against his lips, the sound more enticing than a siren's song. He couldn't help but smile, their lips still touching.

"I'm gonna request for more chocolate kisses if we're going to spend so much time together." She pecked his lips one more time before pulling back, licking her lips with her neck and ears flushed red.

"I'll give you everything you want, Berry." Their eyes met and she could see the honesty there.

"What a dangerous thing to say."

"And still so true."

She got up from the couch and stood between his spread legs, his hands coming to rest at the sides of her knees. He looked up at her, for a change, her 5 foot 2 towering over him for a moment. Her soft hands took his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones before she leaned down, his hands unconsciously traveling upward to the back of her thighs.

"Then, Nate…" her breath hit his mouth, her lips brushed his so softly it could have been his imagination. He could only see the uneven colors of her eyes, drowning in them, his breathing hitching. "Help me put the books back."

And she was gone, only the smell of chocolate and her apricot shampoo surrounding him. He let out a huff and she giggled, it was nice to be the one doing the teasing for a change.

"What a mean girlfriend I have." He shot her a grin, getting up and helping her collect the books.

"Let's put these in their place and I'll show you how good I can be."

He watched her march towards the shelves with a raised eyebrow.

He had never moved so fast.

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pers-books · 4 years ago

Note

I know you said you don't want to rub our noses in it that you wrote so much this year (tho' as a Berena fan, I'm deeply grateful that you did!), but could you maybe pick your fave ten or just your fave five fics you wrote this year and talk a bit about them. (Like where the idea for it came from?) Ta lovely.

Thanks for the Ask, Anon.

I shall try to pick my fave fics that I wrote this year. They’re in no particular order:

Serena's Coffeeshop (G, 7,920 words). Part of the infamous Mashed Up Tropes fic series, written for @doctorjameswatson‘s prompts of 10: Airport/Travel and 53: Mutual Pining. It’s an AU: Bernie's an ex-military pilot now flying for a civilian airline and Serena runs an indie coffeeshop in the airport. Bernie comes in once a week after a flight from Krakow to get coffee and a chocolate croissant and they pine like a fucking forest before finally getting together. Favourite comment: i am loving all your 'mashed up tropes' fics and really should have commented on them but, i had to come back to this one and say that it has one of my absolute favourite summary lines ever "and they pine like a fucking forest before finally getting together." - iconic! (sazmojo3) Inspiration: There’s Warehouse 13 (Bering and Wells fic) by @apparitionism where Myka Bering’s a pilot and Helena Wells works in a bar.

The Name's Wolfe, Berenice Wolfe: 007, Licensed to Thrill (E, 3,200 words) An AU where Bernie Wolfe is 007 and Serena Campbell is Head of Station in Jamaica. One of my previous fandoms was the Craig!Bond and Dench!M James Bond movies (I shipped the hell out of those two!) so this was a fun fusion of an old fandom and a new one. Favourite comment: Asdghhdsfghfsfghdg...That has to be enough for now. Will return for a more coherent comment. (@batnbreakfast) Inspiration: Wow, I can’t actually remember! (Sorry!)

Two to Tango (G, 1000 words) Canon divergence: Bernie and Serena tango on a train. I just had so much fun writing this and it’s always fun to write Outsider PoV. Favourite comment: Imagine my suprise when I woke up and found an email telling Pers had written a fic for me (and others). Imagine my delight when I found that this fic was inspired by a pic that made us all stop and stare.*utter glee*Thank you Pers! This is lovely and soft and sexy and exactly what I needed. :* (@rauzadian) Inspiration: A lovely photo of two women dancing together on a train. It was reblogged by many of my Berena mutuals. (Photo’s on the original Tumblr post.)

It's not a date - it's just dinner at a fancy restaurant (E, 9,100 words) S18 Canon Divergence: Robbie Medcalf has let Serena Campbell down one too many times and Bernie Wolfe, AAU's Knight in Shining Armour, rides to the rescue. Favourite comment: Ahhhhhh thank you so much, this is the best fill for this prompt ever! Bernie is absolutely leagues better than Robbie, I'm glad my boy Jason knows how it is! (Sevtacular aka @slightlyintimidating) Inspiration: Well, who doesn’t picture Bernie as Serena’s Knight in Shining Armour? And Robbie’s a bit dickish, so...

The Long Road to Happiness (M, 8140 words) AU: Bernie Wolfe and Serena Campbell were child actors together. Favourite comment: Okay I have now read this and it may be my new favourite fic of yours. Strike that, it may well be one of my favourite fics of this whole entire pairing. It's beautiful. Serena calling Bernie a goose as a pet name is all kinds of adorable. The DI Jill Raymond spinoff show is something I definitely wish the BBC would commission. And the plot is more than I ever could have hoped. It's got that delicious angst with a happy ending that I love so much. Thank you for writing it. (Sevtacular aka @slightlyintimidating) Inspiration: I found an old post of Sev’s that featured some Berena prompts and the Bitch Muse leapt on this one, as is her wont.

The Softness of the Wolfe, or Five Times Bernie Wolfe was Soft (T, 3,831 words) Slight canon divergence: 5 times Bernie Wolfe was soft and Serena didn't expect it. Favourite comment: I love that you managed to show the soft side of Bernie, without implying that it makes her weak in any way. That because she loves and feels safe with Serena, that bit by bit she starts to show another side of herself. That there is character growth in abundance. :) (@lapalfruity) Inspiration: Someone, and I'm afraid I've completely forgotten who, recently talked about Bernie not always being the tough Big Macho Army Medic, and apparently the idea lodged in my brain.

Jason Haynes: Matchmaker (E, 17,560 words) Canon Divergent: Jason plays matchmaker between his Aunty Serena and his friend Bernie Wolfe. Favourite comment: This was everything I’d hoped for. The thought of Bernie in fatigues? AND Bernie in a swimsuit? You spoil us. And this: “Serena can only nod mutely before Bernie cups her cheek in her right hand and brings their faces closer together, and then that mouth is upon her own, gloriously hot and powerful, but not overpowering. Kissing her as if she’ll die without Serena’s kisses.” So soft and sweetly romantic and also super hot!! (@corvidden) Inspiration: I have developed a taste for the canon divergent ways I can bring Bernie and Serena together, and Jason being responsible at least once was just too irresistible.

An Unexpected Christmas (M, 11,000 words) Canon Divergence: Bernie Wolfe's a locum who usually works on Keller, but Hanssen sends her to AAU to cover Serena Campbell's annual Christmas leave. Favourite comment: Oh my, yet again you've managed to warm my cold, dead heart!!! Honestly, thank you SO MUCH for continuing to write for this fandom. A new fic from you is guaranteed to bring a smile, and usually a fair few feels too. Simply loved this fic, too many things to comment on individually - grinning like a loon has temporarily shut down my higher brain function, but there wasn't a single sentence of it that I didn't adore. You rock! (Alielp) Inspiration: Well, I offered to write something for @fortytworedvines and she asked for 'something fluffy involving Serena raising her eyebrow' - and the Bitch Muse just ran away with me, resulting in 48 hours of Christmas fluff.

Stocking Filler 4 (G, 15000 words) Different First Meeting AU: Serena takes a tumble in the snow. Luckily, a certain Army Medic is there to assist. Favourite comment: Oh, this has everything! Soft Bernie! Bernie with a kitten! Bernie looking after Serena! Romantic snowy cottage in the middle of nowhere. Amazing! (@corvidden) Inspiration: Another one I wrote for @fortytworedvines, who wanted something for the Stocking Filler prompt 'icy conditions' and the bloody Bitch Muse galloped away with this one. It's pretty plotless and mostly Christmas fluff, with a little light angst and hurt/comfort thrown in.

McKinnie and Wolfe: Monster Hunters (T, 6000 words) AU: Bernie Wolfe is a monster hunter. Serena McKinnie becomes her companion in arms. (The second of two fics I wrote for this years Holby Halloween Monster Mash event.) Favourite comment: Bernie and Serena monster hunting? YES! Bernie with her shirt sleeves rolled up? YES! Obliviously snuggling in a shared bed? ALSO YES! This is great! (@corvidden) Inspiration: My Halloween read was the short story collection Challoner, Murray & Balfour: Monster Hunters at Law by Juliet McKenna. I’ve been meaning to write student aged Berena for a while, and I can hardly ever resist a period setting, so here we go.

I could’ve added more to this list, but I’m gonna quit there before anyone dies of boredom.

#A Nonymouse #Ask and you shall receive - possibly!#Berena #Bernie Wolfe x Serena Campbell #Fanfic #End of the Year Fic Wrap Up #My Writing #Holby City

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cbraxs · 4 years ago

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Warped [Time Warp Trio Fanfiction] - Chapter 12

A chill slithered through the warm night air. All color drained from Cleopatra’s face. The Pharaoh’s stony expression turned dour. He commanded Ahmose in a stern whisper, “Have soldiers out searching for her and guarding all entrances to the palace. We are going to handle this swiftly and silently. Alert no one.”

Ahmose bowed, and the two hurried away. Cleo stood still, fisting the fabric of her chiton, eyes tense in terror as she shook.

She exhaled and fixed stoic eyes on Izzy. “Priestess. Come with me.” And without another word, she left, not even looking behind to see if Izzy was following her or not.

What did she want with Izzy, Joe wondered. Maybe protection? But she didn’t know Izzy’s capabilities. Besides, Cleo had ancient Egyptian Dolph Lundgren as a personal bodyguard. Maybe she wanted company while getting some fresh air, but why not bring one of the girls? She’d known them longer.

Izzy stood, her gaze on Cleopatra’s retreating form. “I should go after her.”

“Is that really the safest idea?” Sam asked.

“It’s not like I can refuse an order. She outranks me.”

Sam pinched his nose in disbelief. “She’s… You’re not a real… you’ve been around Fred too long!”

Freddi pitched in, “I think she means is it’s better to go and not upset Cleopatra.”

“Go ahead,” Joe assured Izzy. “We’ll catch up with you two soon.”

Izzy nodded and jogged after Cleopatra. Once both girls disappeared into the crowd, Fred stood and brushed crumbs off his robes. “Well, this has been great, but it’s time for us to leave.”

“I’d love to, really,” Jodie said. “There’s just one thing. The Book is still broken!”

“You guys were the ones who insisted we stay despite The Book being out of order!” Sam said. “Now we’re stuck in the past with a crazed killer on the loose! Where’s that grape juice?”

Samantha snorted, but there was a twinge of nervousness. “Berenice wasn’t exactly Elizabeth Báthory.”

Joe stood. “We should trail them to be safe.”

The others agreed, and with that, they headed out to find Izzy and the princess.

~*~

Berenice was no fool.

She’d been quick to eliminate the obstacles in the way of her coveted position as ruler. She’d dealt with those who posed a threat to her throne Berenice had won this war and nothing was to get in the way of her luxurious station in life.

And yet… something had. That “something” being a Roman invasion, lead by her pestiferous father. In rapid succession, Berenice lost everything: her power, her throne, her affluence, her dignity. All but her life, which was due to be taken from her as well if not for the mysterious strange man escorting her through the night.

She trudged behind the man past the countryside. The glow of his cane lit a green path for them to follow. Her feet ached more than they ever had, her bones throbbed in the cold, and her throat burned from thirst. Despite this, Berenice hadn’t complained, not once, even though she had every right to. She’d learned quickly to not irritate the stranger.

He was… off. Off and choleric. The smallest thing could fly him into a fit of rage, going into diatribes about things she didn’t understand. It was clear that this man was mad, and Berenice wasn’t about to upset him. She didn’t know if she could trust him, but she understood he was powerful.

So she followed. Through clouds of dust, confusion, and mosquitos, she followed.

After what felt like hours, they settled in an empty hovel in the middle of nowhere. Not only was it devoid of residents, but of furnishing. Sand and beetles acted as their company.

“Sit,” the man commanded.

“On the dirt?” Berenice asked.

This innocent question did not please the man. He glared, and the glow on his cane flared, and he shot green lightning at her. She flinched and shut her eyes, expecting to be destroyed instantly, but no harm befell her.

“Is that better, you spoilt Ptolemaic wench?”

She opened her eyes and looked where the spot the man motioned towards. At the place where his magic struck, there was now a simple table with two chairs.

Berenice stared. She knew he had magic. Powerful magic. The kind she'd only ever heard about in stories and drunken retellings. That’s how he was able to bypass the soldiers guarding her and set her free. Still, it was incredible to behold.

The man stomped his foot like an impatient child. “Go ahead and sit! We don’t have all night.”

She did as she was told. He sat across from her, and stuck his cane into the ground, the unusual adornment acting as their candlelight.

The green glow illuminated every crease and frown line across his face. He had dark, unruly hair atop his head, above his mouth, and on his chin. A crystal disc hovered in front of one eye. His skin— and attitude— reminded her of the sands of Deshret: golden red and hostile.

Berenice fidgeted with the golden Wadjet amulet around her neck, the one thing those savages didn’t take from her. Perhaps they thought there was no need to take it when it would fall from her neck soon enough. Or maybe her father thought it would be funny to let her keep her jewelry while she was due for execution, a horrible reminder of what she’d lost in his victory.

After an eternity, the man spoke. “I bet you’re wondering why I freed you.”

“The question had crossed my mind,” Berenice admitted.

“You have something I want, and I possess the abilities to give you what you want.”

“You presume to know what I want?”

“Of course, you imbecile. You want the throne. Revenge. Complete impunity. Blah, blah, blah! I will destroy the Pharaoh and all others who stand in your way. And in return, I want your amulet, the Eye of Horus.”

“My amulet?” she asked. That’s all? “You could’ve taken it without struggle. Why go through the trouble of freeing me?”

“The Eye of Horus is a symbol of protection. For my purposes, it can’t be simply stolen, it must be given willfully.”

“But why my amulet? Surely you could get it elsewhere or even make your own—”

“My motives are none of your beeswax!” he said with a sniff. “Anyway, it won’t impact your mission.”

“My mission?”

“Of course! Do you expect to get your throne back with no work you lazy Prinzessin? No, I need for you to do this one thing for me.”

She nodded hesitantly. He was hiding something from her, that much was obvious. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the throne, and disposing of her bastard of a father. The thought of revenge was pure honey cake to her.

“In the palace, there is a group of kids with your sister, seven in total: three boys. four girls. I need you to capture a girl for me and bring her here.”

“Why can’t you—”

“Because I can’t! I didn’t free you from your pathetic fate to ask me idiotic questions. I freed you to kidnap a teenage girl for me!”

“All right! All right! My apologies. Which girl do you want me to bring to you?”

“The one with the silly pigtails.”

“Pigs’ tails? You need her to make you a healing potion?”

A beleaguered sigh from the man. “It’s her hair! Her name is Isadora. She has brown skin, brown hair, green eyes! Get the picture? Should I have prepared an elaborate trifold poster? Brought a projector to show you a PowerPoint presentation? Just bring me the girl.”

Another snap of his fingers and a cup full of clear liquid appeared.

“Hurry up and drink!” the man demanded. “You’re useless to me dehydrated. We need to iron out the details.”

Berenice sipped her water as he explained the plan. Once he finished, he snapped his fingers once more. In a flash of green, two wooden trinkets appeared in his hands: One shaped like a crocodile and the other shaped like a smaller version of the ornament on his cane.

“This,” he handed her the crocodile, “will help you out of any trouble you run into. And this,” he gave her the other item. “Will transport you back to me once you have the girl.”

Berenice looked over the items. They felt as real and smooth as they looked.

“You... truly have this power?” she asked, mostly to herself.

His creeping smile was as dry as the desert and his eyes just as unforgiving. “You haven’t the faintest idea.”

~*~

Izzy hadn’t seen her day going like this at all. She planned on seeing a movie and hanging out with friends. Maybe she’d even get a little risque and drain ten dollars at the crane game to win a cute plush she didn’t need.

Now she was pretending to be a priestess comforting a princess. Not just any run-of-the-mill princess, but Cleopatra. The Cleopatra. The beautiful, smart, charming last Pharaoh of Egypt.

Izzy’s parents would read her stories about Cleopatra, and she was as captivating as described. She had an aura of zeal around her that drew you to her and made her fascinating. She was genuinely excited to meet new people and show them the country she loved. Her energy was contagious and Izzy couldn’t help but feel what she felt.

And then there were her looks. There was a lot of speculation about whether or not Cleopatra was the drop-dead gorgeous beauty of legend, and Izzy always found that super boring. Cleopatra accomplished so much in her lifetime, it was annoying when people downgraded her to a mindless, evil sex-ductress.

Still, Izzy appreciated Cleopatra’s offbeat beauty. Her tall proud nose, which looked a bit like Joe’s, reminded her of a Greek statue. Her smile was always confident, her eyes sparkled, never wavering.

All this to say it was no wonder Izzy felt as nervous as she did as she silently followed the princess through echoing palace and looming pillars into a garden of flowers and trees.

The night buzzed with fireflies, the din of the party as soft as white noise. A light breeze rustled through the palm fronds and carried air that smelled faintly of flowers and smoke.

Cleopatra sat at a pond, her eyes cast down at the catfish darting about. Izzy followed suit, unsure of how to break the silence. She didn’t know if Cleopatra wanted to talk, but Izzy would be here if she decided to do so.

After a moment, Cleo said in a shaky voice, “I am… afraid, priestess. Irrationally, I admit, but I fear for my life. I fear for my father. If there’s a chance to regain her position, I know Berenice will jump at it. She is ruthless.”

“It’s okay to be afraid. Don’t be too hard on yourself for feeling your feelings.”

Cleopatra looked at her in… surprise? Confusion? Izzy didn’t know how to place her reaction, but she continued. “You have your father, his soldiers, and us. We won’t let anything bad happen to you. So don’t worry.”

A sigh from Cleo. “Thank you for the reassurance, priestess. I pray that my father’s men find her soon, and we can move forward with the execution.”

Izzy winced. “I know she’s awful and all, but she’s still your sister. Don’t you feel bad about… y’know?”

“My sister a threat,” Cleopatra said. “To allow a threat to linger is to allow your downfall.”

“But execution...” Izzy shook her head. “It just doesn’t feel right—”

“You clearly have no idea what Berenice is capable of!”

Izzy jumped at her sudden outburst, mouth agape, unable to respond. Not that Cleopatra gave her much of a chance to anyway.

“You have no idea what she’s done to her family, my family. To Egypt! Berenice is foolish and lazy and... selfish! She was a horrendous queen and cared nothing for the responsibility of ruling a nation.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes and threatened to spill down her reddening cheeks as she ranted. Her fist balled as if she was ready to clock the next person who questioned her.

“Egypt is weakened. We need allies. That is why I’ve been especially kind to your King Fred. After my father hands the crown over to me, I will have the weight of Egypt on my shoulders. I will have to undo all the centuries of damage that my ancestors caused neglecting my country. If Berenice must be executed to save my Egypt, then so be it!”

Cleopatra panted as she finished her speech. A shiver ran through her.

Izzy averted her eyes back to the pond. She hadn’t meant to upset her, but she couldn’t help but speak her mind.

She couldn’t blame Cleopatra for reacting this way. Berenice killed her own mother and had her husband murdered. If she were to overthrow the Pharaoh again, she’d no doubt have Cleopatra and her father killed. That’s a lot to put on any fourteen-year-old.

Izzy wasn’t ignorant of who Cleopatra would become. She did many amazing things during her rule, but there was also a lot of ugly stuff. Cleopatra would do to her siblings what Berenice did before her. It was easy to overlook that stuff when she was just a historical figure, a character in a book, a role in a film. But now, having gotten to know Cleopatra today, it was harder to reconcile the actions with the person.

Joe and Anna’s spat was so much easier to deal with compared to this. The Ptolemy dynasty was full of corruption and betrayal. They valued power over family. Cleopatra grew up seeing all this familial betrayal, so it’s normal to her. It was what she had to do. It was harsh and difficult, but necessary for her. Izzy didn’t agree, but this was above what she could handle.

Cleopatra sighed and wiped away tears. “My apologies, priestess. I should not have lost my temper at you like that—”

“Spiders and flies!”

Cleopatra looked at her liked she grew a third eye on her chin.

Oh. She should probably explain what the heck she was talking about so she didn’t look like a loon. “Spiders and flies. A spider’s life appears crazy to a fly. They stay in one spot instead of hunting for food, devouring every fly that falls into their web. But that’s just the spider’s way. It seems monstrous and disgusting, but that’s just the spider surviving.”

Cleo gave her a strange look, like the third eye had sprouted wings.

Izzy rubbed the back of her head. “What I mean is, we’re from different worlds. I can’t convince you to see things the way I do.”

The princess grimaced. “And you say this by likening me a spider, priestess? Perhaps you have confused me with Arachne instead of Aphrodite?”

“I-I— That’s now what I meant!” In hindsight, that wasn’t the most flattering comparison. Maybe she should have thought of cuter animals, like bunnies and foxes. No, wait… that’s way more gruesome...

But to Izzy’s shock, Cleopatra giggled. “You are most unusual, priestess. I appreciate you letting voice my discontent. I feel a bit better now.”

Her smile made Izzy’s cheeks warm. “T-to be honest I’m not sure I did much, but I’m glad you feel better.”

Cleo eyed Izzy with a curious look. “Are you perhaps the fly in this scenario? Buzzing around aimlessly until trapped in your demise by your own thoughtlessness?”

Izzy frowned and thought about it. “I… really really hope not.”

Cleopatra laughed again and Izzy couldn’t help but grin.

A rustling behind them made Izzy whirl around. Her friends stumbled upon the garden, frozen like statues that got caught moving. Izzy waved them over to join them at the pond. “How’d you guys find us so fast?”

“We weren’t stalking you!” Freddi squeaked in a way that made Izzy think they might have been stalking them.

Joe looked from Izzy to the laughing Cleopatra in confusion. “What did you do? Arrest Berenice yourself already?”

“Ah! My guest!” Cleo stood and clasped her hands. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. Let’s return to the party shall we?”

~*~

After the party wound down, the eight of them decided to retire back in the rooms. Cleopatra insisted on spending the night with them. The Pharaoh wasn’t too thrilled with this, but eventually, he gave in with the caveat that Ahmose and another soldier stand guard outside the rooms. As if Joe and the others planned on kidnapping her or something.

A small hallway separated the bedrooms by gender. Joe expected Izzy to be nervous to bunk with strangers, but she didn’t seem too bothered, which was a relief. In fact, she and Cleopatra were pretty attached to each other. Cleo hooked arms with Izzy and practically dragged her around everywhere, not that Izzy seemed to mind.

The boys’ room was more extravagant than their usual time warp related accommodations. A great window overlooked the dark glittering waters of the great bay, allowing the moon as well as candlelight to illuminate their sleeping quarters. A tray of plums, grapes, palm nuts, and figs, and a pitcher of water sat in the center of the room. Brightly painted geometric shapes and pictures of Greek heroes and gods decorated the walls. And good luck getting out of bed once you got in. The fluffy, chaise lounge chair like beds were heaven, especially compared to the jail cells and barns they were used to. Their beds were placed equal parts away against the walls with Joe’s bed the closest to the door.

Fred flopped on the bed. “These digs are awesome!”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “except for the murderer running around.”

“Would you relax, Royal Geek? Unless you’re gonna marry Cleopatra, you have no reason to worry.”

“No, but you might, Fred,” Joe teased.” Cleopatra’s real flirty with you.”

Despite Joe’s tone, Fred puffed up his chest. “What can I say? The Queen of the Nile has excellent taste.”

Sam laughed at that. Fred glared at him and asked what was so funny, which made Sam laugh harder.

“You might not have to worry, Fred,” Sam said. “Cleopatra looks more into Izzy now than you.”

Fred tossed a pillow at him, and all three of them laughed.

A knock on the door interrupted their laughter. Joe turned to see Jodie stood at the entrance, Book in hand. “May I come in?”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Why bother asking? You’re gonna come in anyway.”

Jodie waved away his comment. She marched in (pretty much proving Fred’s point) and sat at the foot of Joe’s bed.

Joe motioned towards The Book. “Any luck fixing it?”

Jodie shook her head as she flipped through the pages. “I’ve never had to fix a problem like this before. It’s happened plenty of times, but never while I owned it.”

She looked helplessly through the glitched, buggy pages. Joe couldn’t help but feel for her. To say Jodie was prideful would be an understatement. She prided herself on her appearance, her accomplishments, but most importantly she prided herself on her handling of The Book.

She’d gotten The Book at ten, the same age he did, but had been warping since she was little. At the age of five, she was appointed to Time Page by her uncle Sid, the uncle who passed The Book on to her. Her warp record wasn’t flawless but she’d never once lost The Book on a warp (excluding any Fred-based excursions). She was a stickler when it came to interfering with history, even more so than Sam. Joe knew how important time traveling was to her.

“Would it help if I tell you what happened?” Joe asked.

Her brows scrunched in thought but didn’t look at him. “Possibly.”

He explained what happened with Izzy in ancient Egypt. Joe told her it was an accident, which was true, but didn’t mention that they were trying to find her dad. He’d tell her eventually, once they were home, but for now, fixing The Book was priority number one. He didn’t want to distract Jodie with that can of worms.

When Joe got to the part when Mad Jack shot at The Book, Jodie’s jaw hit the floor. “He shot The Book?! I know he’s crazy but even he’s not crazy enough to do that.”

“I don’t think he did it on purpose. From how Izzy described it, she shielded herself instinctually.”

“Of course she would,” Jodie muttered. “Thanks for telling me, but I don’t think it’ll help us. Not unless you can shoot magic beams at it.”

He couldn’t, but not for lack of trying. He’d practiced shooting lasers from his fingers many times in his room just to see if he could. Of course, he wasn’t about to bring that up in front of Jodie. Or anyone for that matter.

“So what now?” Joe asked.

“It’s not an exact science, but whenever The Book gets damaged, similar damage usually does the trick. Remember when warrior king Fred oh so expertly stabbed The Book with a spear. Twice.”

“Saved your butt,” Fred piped in.

Jodie rolled her eyes but struggled to hide a small smile. “Anyway, in lieu of magical energy bolts, we’ll have to find another way.” She closed The Book and held it reverently in front of her. “I-I hope this works.”

She closed her eyes and inhaled. Her fingers glowed where they touched The Book. She muttered words under her breath over and over until The Book rumbled in her hands like a mini thunderstorm was going on between the pages. The glow died and Jodie flipped through the pages to find that it was… still jumbled. “Shoot!” Jodie slammed The Book shut. “Well, it was worth a shot.”

“What was that?” Joe asked.

“It’s hard to explain... but it’s sort of a soft reboot.”

Joe waited to see if she was kidding, but Jodie didn’t exactly inherit his sense of humor. “Riiiiight. I get it, but maybe you should explain, so Fred and Sam get it.”

Another roll of her eyes. “The Book is like an ancient supercomputer made by people who didn’t quite understand how to make a computer. It’s a patchwork of pieces and features added over time, which is why it’s powerful but volatile. Right now, it's like an iced computer with a single living aperture.”

“Come again?”

“I think she means,” Sam said, “that it’s like a frozen computer with a working window.”

“Oooooh.” It was times like this that reminded Joe that Jodie was from a future with wildly different technologies than his own time.

But what she said made sense. The Book did sort of function like a computer. It had search features and keyboards on some pages. He wondered if it's always worked like this or if adapted to their modern way of doing things. “So do we need to turn it off and on, or is it there some type of control, alt, delete ritual?”

“It's not as easy as pushing a switch.”

“Not how computers work—”

“However they work, this requires real magic. More than the two of us have.” Jodie’s lip curled, her golden-brown eyes narrowed in thought. “I hate to say it, but I think we need Isadora's help.”

Joe wanted to ask why she hated to say it, and what her deal was with Izzy anyway. But something she said didn’t sit right.

“How… how did you know Izzy could use magic?”

Jodie bit her lip. “I-I just assumed she was the one who taught you that annoying levitation trick. I mean, how else would you have learned that?”

“Oh. Right.” He almost forgot about showing off his new tricked. It made sense she’d assume Izzy taught him.

Jodie groaned. “I guess we have to go get her.”

There it was again, her annoyed attitude towards Izzy. “How come you don't like her?”

Jodie looked at him like he just spoke backwards. “Don’t like who?”

Was she for real? It was obvious who he was talking about. He fixed her with a look and she faltered under the glare. “It's not that I don't like her. It's just... I think you should stop hanging out with Isadora. She’s not—”

Suddenly, Jodie shoved The Book back in her satchel. Her face paled and she stared at the floor as if she was afraid if she looked away it would vanish. Joe was about the ask what was wrong when heard a shuffle behind him.

Izzy stood in the doorway. “Uh, h-hey guys. Cleopatra was going to teach us how to play Senet. I wanted to ask if you’d like to join us, but now I realize that might be really boring so forget I was here.”

“Are you kidding?” Sam jumped out of his bed. “The rules of Senet are lost. No way I’m missing that!”

“Count me in.” Fred stood and stretched. “Beats lying around here with no wifi.”

“Did you really expect to have wifi here?”

“No, but it would’ve been nice.”

“We’ll join you guys in a bit,” Joe said. “Jodie and I are finishing up here.”

Fred and Sam nodded and headed off to the girls’ room. Izzy glanced back at them. Concern flashed across her face before disappearing into the hall.

Jodie groaned and faced palmed. “She heard me, didn’t she? Darn it! This is the worst.”

Joe was beyond confused. Jodie wasn’t one to hide how she felt about anything or anyone. If she hated Izzy, why would she care if she knew?

“I don’t know what your deal is with her,” Joe said, “but you should give her a chance. Yeah, she can be a little weird at first but she’s pretty cool and fun. I think you two would get along if you apologize. She’s actually surprisingly forgiving—”

“I don’t hate her!” Jodie snapped. “It’s just…” A heavy sigh. “She shouldn’t be here. Not now. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Okay, that didn’t make any sense. Before he could ask her to elaborate, a shriek followed by a crash echoed through the hall from the girls’ room. Joe and Jodie jumped and rushed to the room, not knowing what was to come when they got there.

#time warp trio #timewarptrio #fanfiction #joe #sam #fred #jodie #samantha #Freddi #mad jack #see you again in six months <3

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pengychan · 4 years ago

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[Good Omens] Winging It - 1 Corinthians 13:13

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Gabriel keeps missing the point by a mile but what else did you expect.

***

The funeral of Daniel Brown was a simple, dignified matter.

Still, Gabriel found he was not overly fond of the Anglican rites; they just lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. But then again, he’d never quite understood why the humans in that island had bothered with the Schism: as far as he was concerned it had simply caused a lot of paperwork Heaven could have done without, and anyone involved on either side he might have questioned about motivations - if he’d cared - was in Hell. Their descendants seemed to have a thing for schisms, too, though this one seemed somehow even more senseless than the last to him.

But considering that he’d fought in what could be considered the first Schism, maybe he wasn’t in a position to talk. Holding back a sigh, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the church. He knew a good chunk of people attending, most of them co-workers he’d managed to free up that day by working a miracle on their schedules - or rather asking someone else to work a miracle on their schedules. Gabriel stood among them, in the third row, wearing his best suit.

On his left, Fabrizio was wearing a much cheaper one he still somehow managed to look elegant in; somewhere on their right Łukasz still looked like he’d just come out of a pub, but with a jacket and tie on he had borrowed from Rajiv - a noticeable effort, as he absolutely loathed wearing ties. Daniel would have appreciated that.

On the other row, there were a few people Gabriel had never seen but who clearly must have known Daniel long before he did, in another life. Daniel did tend to say he’d had a life before losing his wife and home, and a life after that.

“What they don’t tell you about becoming a widower is that half the people you knew fall off the radar,” he’d told Gabriel in a rare moment of talkativeness on the subject. “A lot were couples and you know, it’s awkward to invite the guy who just lost his wife. I’m sure they had good intentions and to be honest, the few times they did invite me I made up an excuse. But then we just drifted and by the time I lost the house as well we hadn’t spoken in months.”

Gabriel didn’t know how many of those people were among those who had drifted away, nor he had any idea how Lawrence had found out about them and gotten in touch, but he had and there they were, and he supposed that had to count for something. He glanced ahead, towards the front row where Lawrence and Berenice stood. Lawrence’s head was bowed, and something ached in Gabriel’s chest.

The unfairness of it all was staggering. The two brothers should have been reunited, shared what was left of their mortal existence; and instead Daniel had only returned in Lawrence’s life as a corpse to be buried. All that Gabriel had been able to give him of his brother were tales, some of them second hand. It was all he could give but ah, it couldn’t possibly be enough.

If only he’d asked for help earlier, maybe they might have. But he hadn’t and there stood Lawrence, for the last goodbye. It was difficult not to think that none of those present, him aside, had the certainty of a life after their mortal one. That all they had, as they said their goodbyes to an empty vessel in a wooden casket, was the hope Daniel was not entirely gone. Faith that he was not entirely gone, amidst the grief.

And if he were in their place… Gabriel didn’t think hope alone would be enough for him. He didn’t think he could have that blind faith at all. He tried, but now he only felt more lost than ever.

You are the Archangel Gabriel no longer. God asks of you what they ask of every mortal. Faith.

When Gabriel bowed his head and his shoulders trembled, no one questioned it.

You’re expected to weep at funerals, after all.

***

“More weeping.”

“Lord Beelzebub?”

“I said, this place needs more weeping. Weeping and gnashing of teeth, what happened to that? I don’t hear any teeth gnashing and barely any weeping! And why is the soul over there looking like it’s enjoying this?” Beelzebub demanded to know.

The damned soul chained to the ceiling lifted its head and grinned. “Because I am,” it said.

The Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies sighed, lifted a hand to smite the insolent soul. The grin widened expectantly. They rolled their eyes and let the hand drop, much to the damned’s chagrin. Masochists were the absolute worst. “Remove that one from my presence and put it on paint watching duty for the next century.”

Their words were met by a horrified scream as demons moved in to unchain the soul and drag it away. “No! NO! ANYTHING BUT THAT!”

Ah, yes, that was more like it. Beelzebub nodded, and turned to the demons around them. “See, this is how it’s done. To each their most dreaded punishment, that’s what Circles are for, for Satan’s sake. The guidelines are there for a reason. You don’t just group them all in a few rooms and whip them. Since when has the lot of you grown so lazy and uninspired?”

A demon of slothfulness opened his mouth, only to snap it shut when Beelzebub dismissively waved a hand. “Except those whose job description requires it,” they clarified. The demon gave a very obvious sigh of relief as Beelzebub turned their attention on the others. “The rest of you have no excuses. Or do I have to further motivate you?”

Most demons on Eternal Torment duty were not precisely a shining example of intellectual prowess - it was the main reason why they were on Eternal Torment duty in the first place, not much else they could be used for - but even they were able to guess those words were meant to be a threat and reacted accordingly, shaking their head and bowing and mumbling excuses.

Except, of course, That One Demon that simply didn’t get it. “That would help, really.”

Several heads turned towards the demon who had just spoken, in a sudden silence. Even the cries of the tortured stopped, as did the buzzing of flies around Beelzebub’s head. That would have made even someone dumb as the dumbest rock realize they had fucked up, but this one was clearly dumber than the dumbest rock and spoke again rather than groveling for mercy.

“I mean, we’d been preparing for war since… always, and then suddenly no war. Doesn’t help motivate us a whole lot.”

Not since always. There was a time we didn’t even have a word to describe war. We created it when we rebelled and then forgot we did.

Now that was exactly the kind of thought Beelzebub had come there to ignore, and to have it back at the forefront of their mind made their already foul mood… fouler. Considering that they were always in a foul mood, and that those days it was twice as foul, right in that moment said mood was about four times fouler than normal. “I’ll give you motivation,” Beezelbub buzzed.

They snapped their fingers and a swarm of horse flies materialized out of nowhere, surrounding the demon as he screamed and uselessly shielded his head. Everyone took a step or two or twenty away from him and the swarm of biting, bloodthirsty flies. Now that made the Lord of the Flies feel better again. Which was to say, in a mood that was only about twice as foul as usual.

“Once the flies are done, move that one to janitorial duty,” they ordered, and left without a word, leaving those lowly demons properly cowed. It was a good distraction, at least.

For now.

***

“Gabriel.”

Lawrence’s voice reached him as he took a few steps away, after watching the casket being taken to the hearse. He’d meant to leave quietly, but it seemed that Lawrence wouldn’t let him go without a word. Gabriel swallowed, tried to fight back the guilt - if only you’d swallowed your fear and asked for help finding him sooner - and turned.

Lawrence was walking up to him, eyes still damp, leaning on the cane more heavily than he had last time they had met, as the reality of seeing off his brother’s casket had been a physical blow. He held out a hand. “Again, thank you. For bringing him back to me.”

Gabriel swallowed again, his mouth dry, and took that hand. “I wish I’d been able to find you sooner.”

“You did more than you had to do,” was the reply. “And I will be forever grateful. If you ever wish to spend some time on the seaside, our home is open to you. We’d love you to visit sometime.”

This time, Gabriel managed a smile. “I wouldn’t want to impose--”

“We insist,” Berenice cut him off, seemingly materializing by her husband’s side, and held out her own hand. When Gabriel took it, he found himself pulled suddenly into a tight hug. Gabriel had read up the definition of a motherly hug somewhere, and couldn’t quite guess what that was supposed to mean - he’d never had a mother in the sense mortals meant it, although his current form did have a belly button for accuracy’s sake - but he suddenly thought that maybe, for a moment, he could understand.

Ridiculous, that: he’d been created out of God’s will and was unfathomably older than the woman holding him. And yet.

“Do keep in touch,” Berenice said, pulling back, and Gabriel could only nod, through tight.

“... Of course.”

A smile, a pat on his cheek, and they were off in a car following the hearse; it occurred to him only later that he had no idea where they were taking Daniel, where his grave would be. But then again, it hardly mattered. He could ask later, he supposed; not that Daniel would be there.

“Oi, Gabriel. You coming with us?” Łukasz called out, snapping him from his thoughts.

“We’re going to have a drink at the usual place.”

“For Daniel.”

“Make it two.”

“Both for Daniel.”

“Of course.” Gabriel managed a weak smile. “You go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”

“If you don’t make us wait too long, we'll even pay your first round.”

A chuckle. “Sounds like a deal,” Gabriel said, and watched them go with a faint smile that died down a few moments later. He glanced back, at the small crowd before the church, already beginning to disperse, and sighed.

So, it was done. Lawrence had been found, and he’d been able to say goodbye the only way he could. The mission he’d taken upon himself had been accomplished.

What now? What do I do now?

He bit his lower lip and dared glance up at the gathering rain clouds, hoping for a sign, instructions, anything. Of fucking course, none came. Humans don’t get instructions.

Gabriel lowered his gaze with a scoff and began walking, not even trying to shield himself as the first raindrops fell. He would join the others for a drink, he decided, and then… then…

“Sorry, mate - have you got any change?” The voice rang out suddenly, causing Gabriel to recoil. He glanced up to see a man sitting on the pavement, back against the wall, an upturned hat in front of him and a dog curled up by his side - a small scruffy thing that looked nowhere as elegant as Doyle, but the man was in the process of taking off his coat to lay it down on it.

He looked barely in his twenties, of slim built, hair reddish-blond and overall looked nothing like Daniel had when they first had met - but there was a peculiar weariness to his voice that was the same. Gabriel watched for a moment as he shielded the dog from the rain, which was beginning to pick up. It didn’t look like he had another coat.

The tent, Gabriel remembered, he let me sleep in his tent and didn’t even know me.

“Of course,” he found himself saying, and reached for his wallet. At least, this time he knew what the value of the bills and coins in his wallet was. The young man gave a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank you,” he muttered. “I hate to ask like that, I usually sit quietly, honest. But if I can pay for something in a cafe we get to stay out of the rain for a while.”

Gabriel glanced up at the sky, only to get a drop of water right in the eye. He rubbed it, frowning. “Have you got someplace to stay the night?” he asked. He knew heavy rain was expected through the next couple of days.

A shrug. “Not really. I used to sleep in a shelter from time to time, but then I found Chip.” He patted the dog’s muzzle, causing it to open its eyes and lick his hand. “And there isn’t a single bloody shelter that will let her in. I can sneak her into a motel if I get enough money during the day to pay for the night, but it doesn’t happen often. Most people go cashless these days. But it’s not too bad, until winter comes.”

“Unless it rains.”

“Unless it rains. But I’m saving up for a tent.”

“I see.” Gabriel opened his wallet. He was no expert on motel rates, but he estimated the cash he had on him would be enough to pay for a couple of nights. “Here,” he said, handing over the bills. “Hope it helps. For a motel, or for the tent.”

The young man’s thin face opened up in a startled smile. “Thank you, sir,” he said, taking it.

“Gabriel. Name’s Gabriel.”

“Thanks, Gabriel. I’m Noah.”

Gabriel hadn’t meant to laugh, but it still escaped him, causing Noah to blink and Chip to lift her head, tilting it on one side. “Heh! Sorry, sorry - I shouldn’t have laughed. I just… remembered a guy I met once.” Gabriel gestured up to the sky, to the rain that was falling and beginning to soak their hair. “It’s looking like you should get to work to build that Ark, no?”

The puzzled expression on Noah’s face turned into a chuckle. “Ah, yes. Heard that a few times,” he said, and stood. “I’ll be getting us out of the rain, then. Thank you, mate.”

“You’re welcome.” Gabriel turned to walk away, hesitated, and turned back. Noah was tying the sleeves of the coat beneath Chip, so that she’d be dry as they walked. He cleared his throat, telling himself that the pub he was heading into was only a short walk away and some rain wouldn’t kill him. “I think you could use this,” he said, taking off his coat. “I have another home.”

He didn’t, but he could buy one. After some insistence, Noah accepted the gift and Gabriel walked off to the pub, letting the rain fall on him, once again wondering what he ought to do to please God.

Gabriel never was the brightest bulb in the box.

***

“So, have you given up on getting to the fallen Archangel?”

I’d very much rather forget about that idiot, but here you are making yourself an absolute pain in the ass and reminding me.

“I have not,” Beelzebub said, sprawled on their throne and making a point not to bother looking anywhere in Asmodeus’ general direction. One of the most annoying parts of having a fellow Prince of Hell show up before them was that they couldn’t tell them to shut the Heaven up without things getting quite ugly. Not that they generally minded things getting ugly - they were in Hell, all things were ugly all the time - but it would likely turn into a full-blown feud.

Which, with the demons still rather put off by the lack of Apocalypse and subsequent war, things could get out of hand rather quickly. “You have not? I’m told you have not left Hell in weeks.”

“And…?”

“Have you assigned someone else to winning him over? I thought it was meant to be a personal project,” Asmodeus said with a shrug, his mismatched, sunken-in eyes glinting in malevolent glee. “One would think you’d have won him over by now. Out of practice, are you?”

Beelzebub scoffed, finally turning to look at him. “What do I owe the displeasure of your visit?” they asked, cutting the chase.

A shrug. “I want us to get the archangel for ourselves, is all. With no war happening in the foreseeable future, a small victory is better than none to keep the spirits up. Or down, depending how you look at it. It would be quite a feather in your hat, taking his soul. Is that not what you wanted?”

“He is an idiot,” Beelzebub scoffed. “And an archangel no longer. His soul is worth no more and no less than any other human’s.”

“But he was God’s messenger.”

“Who he was doesn’t matter for him as it doesn’t matter for us. We are who we are now.”

Asmodeus shrugged. “Points of view. Well then, if you’re dropping the project, I’ll be picking it--”

“I didn’t say I’m dropping it,” was the sharp reply. Truth be told they did have every intention to do just that - best not to see him, best not to remember, best not to think - but something about the idea Asmodeus or anyone else could claim his soul for Hell rubbed them all the wrong ways. The former Archangel Gabriel in Hell, with Asmodeus as his liege lord. That wouldn’t do at all.

As for the reason why it wouldn’t do, Beelzebub would rather not speculate. They settled on the thought it would amount to leaving that particular feather in someone else’s hat, and of course they couldn’t do that. They were the Lord of the Flies, the one Prince of Hell Satan had tasked with preparing for the War, and therefore they had a certain standing.

The fact they couldn’t get that war started, while not blamed on them for obvious reasons, had been a loss of prestige. They were not looking to hand someone else an easy victory over them.

“Oh?” Asmodeus tilted his head. “You’re not?”

Beelzebub waved a hand. “I’m waiting for him to lower his guard. Think he’s safe. His soul is worth little, but Hell shall have it,” they added. Then they’d assign him to some task well away from them, so they wouldn’t have to see his stupid face all the time and remember what was best forgotten. But, of course, they didn’t say that part aloud: they couldn’t bring up knowledge they were not meant to have. It would be… unwise.

Although, come to think of it, what had been brought up may very well give them just the leverage they needed to sway that fool on the road to Hell.

***

“We are… not certain we are meant to consume any of this.”

“Well, it’s going to look rather odd if I’m the only one eating out of all four of us, wouldn’t it?” Gabriel put down his menu, which he had picked up despite knowing full well what he was going to order. “The trick is going through the menu once, pick a dish, and if you like it you keep ordering it whenever you come to the establishment again.”

Sandalphon looked confused. “Then why did you read all the dishes again just now?”

“Ah, that’s just something you do. Etiquette, I suppose. I usually have a double bacon cheeseburger and chips,” he added.

Approximately eight miles away Aziraphale made a face, causing Crowley to pause on his piece about the absolute necessity of a proper wine cellar in the cottage. “What is it, Angel?” “Oh… nothing at all, dear,” he said, waving a hand. “Just a moment, already passed. Concerning the wine selection, I think we absolutely ought to have…”

“... Chips?”

“That would be potatoes. They’re also served with fish.”

“What fish?” Uriel asked, eyeing the photo on the menu. “There are approximately thirty-four thousand species of fish on Earth, and this looks like none of them.”

“I’m not sure. I guess we could ask,” he said, knowing full well that was likely going to end in a chorus of ‘we’re having what he’s having’ right after he uttered his order, which was… exactly what happened.

“Well,” Gabriel said as soon as the waiter was gone with their rather monotonous orders. “How are things going in--” a pause, a glance towards the next table over, which was entirely too close and well within earshot. “... At work?”

As expected, everything in Heaven was pretty much business as usual, aside from the fact they no longer had to prepare for an all-out war for victory or destruction. The war to end all wars, to be fought with more than just swords or spears - holy water and hellfire were to play a part, too. At the very least, they had prepared to use holy water, and had expected hellfire. Complete and utter destruction. They had never thought they might lose, and hardly ever paid any mind to the idea some of them may be destroyed, victorious or not.

Nor had they spared a thought for the demons they would extinguish, of course; they were meant to be destroyed, having sealed their fate the day they chose to rebel... only that now he found he was relieved it had not come to that. He'd known them, once, though the memory of the angels they had been was still beyond his grasp, as he hadn't tried to bring up more. The agony caused by bringing back up everything Ba'al had been to him was painful enough.

He'd done his best not to think about Beelzebub at all over the past few weeks, and it had… sort of worked. If he ignored it hard enough the sting was muted, duller, lost in the background. He was almost good enough at lying to himself to believe that nothing at all had happened, no memory that mattered had been brought up, and surely it would get easier as more time passed and Beelzebub no longer showed their face.

He could tell himself it was a relief, that he did not miss their presence, as Ba'al or as the Lord of the Flies. Maybe in time he would come to truly believe it, but somehow he doubted it. Once the veil has been ripped in two, it is hard to mend. It would have been easier if it was never ripped, if everything went according to the Great Plan; nothing to question, nothing to fear.

And even so, God, he was glad the war had not come. He was glad that Beelzebub had not been destroyed, that humanity was still there, that no angel had perished. And all thanks to a rebellious child turning against his Father.

Ironic, that

"... And that's about it," Sandalphon finished over a mouthful of double bacon cheeseburger, which he seemed to appreciate after all. Uriel had eaten the chips, at least; Michael still seemed rather unconvinced and had simply moved food around to make it look like she had eaten something. "What about--" Sandalphon trailed off, and went very still, eyeing around. "Something smells evil," he muttered, his voice low, causing Gabriel’s hair to stand on end.

He turned - they all did - to glance around, as discreetly as they could, but none of them noticed anything. Gabriel did a fly buzzing close by, but they were sitting outside to eat and… well, maybe it was just a fly. He hoped it was just a fly.

Do I really?

“Ah, it’s gone,” Sandalphon was muttering. “It was a whiff, but I can’t smell it anymore.”

“... Probably a passing human with evil intent,” Gabriel said, keeping his voice.

“Probably,” Michael conceded, and looked back at him. “We can take you home and take turns to watch, just to be on the safe side.”

That would probably be excessive, Gabriel mused, because the fly was probably just a fly. But what concerned him was something else - how part of him hoped otherwise, that it wasn’t just a fly, against all logic and common sense.

“I am sure it won’t be needed,” he finally said, and took the last bite of his meal, faintly wondering if somewhere on another plane of existence there was now a file about him to record deeds good and evil, and if the lie he’d just uttered was already being written on it, placing him just a tiny step closer to Hell.

***

Beelzebub did not like dilemmas.

That discovery was unpleasant as it was recent; as prior to that mess - at least in their recent memories - they had never truly found themselves faced with one; in doubt, which was not often as evil accepts little doubt, they simply went for the bigger evil and that was it. But now the decision was whether or not they should use the knowledge they had gained of themselves and Gabriel to sway the former archangel and it was, indeed, a dilemma of the worst sort.

It would be best to never bring the past up again and try with all their might to forget again, they knew that. However, that would be as good as admitting themselves that the discovery did bother them, for all their claims that it changed nothing… and they didn’t want to do that either.

They thought back of that night, how Gabriel’s eyes leaked and theirs didn’t; focused on that only, ignoring the overwhelming sense of love cloying their throat, the ache somewhere at their very core that they could not and wished not name. None of it mattered.

Gabriel had wept. They did not.

It changes nothing for me, Beelzebub mused, but it might change everything for this fool. Hell shall have him and it shall be my doing, Asmodeus be blessed. I only need to change strategy.

And with that thought, their mind was made up. The Lord of the Flies took wing, and followed Gabriel home. They had to talk.

Alone.

***

“So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13

***

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#good omens #ineffable bureaucracy #ineffable husbands #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #winging it

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kalinara · 5 years ago

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So @singledarkshade and @theadrogna came up with a fun challenge. We each picked seven television shows/movies and were given a cast of one actor from each show to use in a hypothetical “dream show”.

My cast: Anya Chalotra (the Witcher), Elizabeth Gracen (Highlander), Reggie Lee (Grimm), Xenia Seeberg (Lexx), Danai Gurira (Walking Dead), Geraint Wyn Davies (Forever Knight), and Robert Vaughn (Man from UNCLE).

-- My show --

The year is 3299. Humanity has long expanded into the stars, with the hope of founding new, ideal societies. Humans being humans, they failed. The Coalition of Allied Planets was founded in the spirit of that old dream, and now it has grown and spread across the galaxy, bringing peace, prosperity and civilization, by certain definitions of those words.

I hereby present: Fall of the Coalition: Rebels Rising.

Characters and Episodes below the cut

Characters:

Corporal Alisha Padwal (Anya Chalotra): Corporal Padwal had once been a promising career officer in the Coalition Corps, until a superior’s blunder led to the loss of a decisive battle. Alisha managed to survive the resulting cover-up, but her future prospects didn’t. Now she’s a guard on a prison transport ship, where she’ll likely live out the rest of her days, until everything changes.

Petra Nikolas (Elizabeth Gracen): If you read the Coalition Press, Petra Nikolas is the most dangerous woman in the galaxy. A second generation idealist, Petra has been using her name, wealth and reputation to secretly amass a group of rebels, all of whom have suffered under the Coalition’s “enlightened” rule. She’s captured now, but not for long. She has a plan.

Marton Reyes (Reggie Lee): A brilliant doctor, all Marton Reyes ever wanted to do was save lives. Unfortunately, the Coalition had a better idea of the best way to utilize his brilliant mind. For years, Reyes took part in horrifying experiments, all supposedly intended to eventually improve human lives. Reyes has his doubts. One day, he couldn’t take it anymore. He was captured immediately, but at least a few lives were saved. Haunted by his past, Reyes finds prison almost a relief, since he can’t be made to hurt anyone anymore.

Jana Brandt (Xenia Seeberg): “Thug”, “Bully” these are nice labels compared to what the Coalition calls Jana Brandt. They call her “undesirable”: a violent recidivist who has been resistant to every attempt at therapeutic reconditioning. The Coalition considers itself too humane to kill someone like Brandt outright, but they certainly wouldn’t mind it if she just happened to meet with an unfortunate fate on the prison planet, Xyron. Of course, they have to get her there first.

Kauli Ka Vedar/Princess Kandake of Karash (Danai Gurira): Fifteen years ago, the Coalition brought civilization to the planet of Karash, quite against the Karashi will. They’ll learn better, of course. Regrettably, most of the ruling family died. Even more regrettably, a few survived, scattered to the edges of Coalition space.

Kauli Ka Vedar is a hacker and a thief, but that wasn’t what she always was. She survives by keeping her head low, and staying the fuck away from flashy rebel heroics. She doesn’t like the Coalition any more than they do, but it’s not just her own life on the line if they figure out who she is. Right now, the Coalition thinks they’ve got a petty thief. Kauli intends to keep it that way.

Governor Geof Drystan (Geraint Wyn Davies): The Planetary Governor of Xyron, Geof Drystan is basically lord and master of all he surveys. Generally corrupt and petty, he nonetheless has a soft spot for young people that he thinks have been mistreated by the system. At least the ones that he thinks he can manipulate. He’s the reason that Alisha has a job at all.

XS 367/”Alan Nikolas” (Robert Vaughn): Thirty years ago, a politician named Alan Nikolas led a movement to reform the Coalition into the democratic ideal that it was always meant to be. A brilliant speaker, the idealistic Nikolas inspired people across the political strata, until assassination put an end to his dream. The Coalition made sure that no one would follow in his steps.

XS 367 is a prison ship AI. Its programming is formidable but limited. It is complex enough to manage every aspect of the day to day running of the prison ship, inside and out, but carefully limited to prevent any sort of manifestation of independent thought or personality. At least until Petra Nikolas comes onboard, bearing the personality matrix of her long dead father.

XS 367 knows he’s a ship. He knows he’s not really a long dead politician. But he also knows that his daughter is on board, and he intends to do whatever he can to help her. His way failed. Maybe hers will succeed.

(Every appearance of Alan Nikolas, whether it’s a flashback, or an image on a computer screen is in black and white).

Episodes:

Episode 1 “Alisha”: Alisha Padwal is a new guard of the XS 367 prison ship. It’s state of the art, with an AI that runs everything, meaning that Alisha and her new partner, Davvyd, are blatantly superfluous. Alisha uses the time to try to learn about the prisoners, their crimes, and their fates. She is disturbed by the harsh, disproportionate sentences. Davvyd, on the other hand, is brutal, taking out his frustration on the prisoners, particularly Jana Brandt. Meanwhile, Petra plants the personality matrix into the AI, and the prisoners break free and take over the ship. Davvyd is stabbed during the commotion, though Jana insists that it was an accident. Alisha is taken prisoner, but she’s not without recourse as she is able to call Governor Drystan via a secret communicator.

Flashback: the episode contains flashbacks of Alisha’s fall from grace, her court martial and Governor Drystan’s interference, and him giving her the communicator in case everything goes wrong.

Episode 2 “Petra”: Petra Nikolas has now taken over the prison ship XS 367, now the “Alan Nikolas”. Her efforts to recruit her fellow prisoners to her cause is meeting some unexpected resistance. Marton is a militant pacifist, who refuses to cause harm to anyone. Kauli doesn’t want to get involved. Jana is on board, but her violent tendencies make Petra doubt the wisdom of recruiting her. She finally has some luck with Alisha, who, while loyal to the Coalition, also has many doubts about their methods.

Meanwhile, the “Alan Nikolas” is on the run from the Coalition. Petra takes them to an old hideout to obtain fuel and supplies, but is double crossed. The others reluctantly sign on with her, realizing there’s nowhere else to go. Alisha does too, but only upon secret approval from Governor Drystan.

Flashback: Petra’s childhood, watching her father’s eloquent public speeches. His assassination and the subsequent smearing of his name. Petra’s own rise, using her money and education to reach out to disenfranchised people, and her arrest for dissidence. Her forces are still out there though, she just has to get the Alan Nikolas to them.

Episode 3 “Marton”: The next supply stop goes about as well as the first. Coalition forces have been waiting in ambush. Petra, Alisha, and Jana get away, but Kauli and Marton are left behind. Kauli is injured, and Marton has to act to save her and himself. Meanwhile, Jana advocates just leaving them, while Petra refuses, winning Alisha’s respect and making her very uneasy about her role as a spy. When the crew is reunited, Alisha is about to tell Drystan that she no longer believes in his mission, but Jana catches her in the act.

Flashback: This is Marton’s backstory episode, so we’ll see him as a brilliant doctor forced into work for the Coalition. We’ll see them threaten his family and friends, to the point of deadly consequences when he tries to refuse. Finally we’ll see him snap, as he’s forced to conduct dangerous operations on prisoners and take on his vow of pacifism.

Episode 4 “Jana”: Alisha has been caught as a spy. Jana wants to kill her, but Petra says that they’re better than that. They basically put Alisha on trial, letting her explain why she should get to live. Jana is disgusted when Marton and Kauli vote to allow Alisha to stay, and attempts to mutiny. Sadly, she is shot by “Alan”, the XS-367 itself, who is trying to protect his daughter and her crew. Marton places Jana’s body in cryogenic suspension with the hope that one day they might be able to save her. Meanwhile, Petra asks Alisha to keep communicating with Drystan, to see if he can be turned to their side.

Flashback: Jana’s backstory episode, as a kid from the Xyron undercity. Her flashbacks will make it very obvious that while she does have genuine issues with rage (and some blackout episodes of violence), there has never been any real attempt to help her beyond clumsy “reconditioning”. We also see more of her confrontation with Davvyd, and his death. Though we don’t actually see her stab him.

Episode 5 “Kauli”: The crew end up stumbling across another Karashi survivor, Kauli’s sister, Berenice, who is being blackmailed by a local crime boss. Kauli has to decide whether to trust Petra, who she sees as an ivory tower rebel who has no idea what risks she’s asking of more vulnerable people, and Alisha, who until recently, was an actual spy. Ultimately, Kauli masterminds a trap for the crime boss, freeing her sister, and makes tentative contact with the rest of her family. We learn that the Karashi have been planning their own form of rebellion, in a more subtle and cautious way, they’re not yet willing to ally with Petra, but they’ll be keeping an eye on her.

Meanwhile, Marton and “Alan” undergo an experimental procedure that allow them to speak to a comatose Jana and try to wake her.

Flashback: Kauli’s backstory episode, showing the fall of Karesh, and Kauli’s struggle to survive as a young refugee, including a situation very like Berenice.

Episode 6 “Drystan”: Alisha, reluctantly, arranges a meeting between Drystan and Petra, when the former expresses his own dissatisfaction with the Coalition’s practices. The crew believe it’s a trap, but Petra believes that they might be able to turn his trap back onto him, and possibly free the prisoners of Xyron, many of whom are rebels just like Petra.

Marton, Kauli and Jana infiltrate the prison staff to try to recruit and ready the prisoners, while “Alan” and Alisha plan to disrupt Drystan’s communications, so that he can’t spring his trap.

Finally, at the meeting, Drystan tries to spring his trap. Petra gets the upperhand, and manages to negotiate a deal with him to free the prisoners. Then Alisha springs her trap and stabs Drystan before he can comply with Petra’s demands. She reveals that while she respects Petra, she thinks that her rebellion is flawed and destructive. The only way to truly bring down the Coalition is from the top. Alisha reveals that her technological sabotage gave her the command codes to the entire planet and has erased the XS 367’s personality. It is loyal to her now. (Though it still wears Alan Nikolas’s face).

In the prison, Kauli, Marton and Jana manage to escape and vow to find a way to come back and free Petra and Alan.

Flashback: This episode has no flashbacks. All of the action takes place completely in the present day.

Thus ends season 1.

A projection for season 2: “Fall of the Coalition: Rebels Strike”:

Season 2 will take place where Season 1 left off. Alisha is now the big bad, so to speak, defending her claim to Xyron and using that to start masterminding her rise to the top of the Coalition ranks. She intends to use Petra as a means to bring her rebellion under heel, and attempts to capture Kauli to do the same.

The crew will rescue Petra and steal the XS 367. Using the same experimental communication method that saved her, Jana and Marton communicate with the XS 367, which has now broken free from its programming in its own right and convince it to help them. The XS 367 continues to use Alan Nikolas’s face, but now it’s in bright 1960s style technicolor.

Eventually, Alisha’s plans go awry as she faces the people at the very top of the Coalition, and she reaches out to Petra to join forces. But is this another double cross?

#dream show #rip chat challenge #you should join us we have fun games

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mcrmadness · 4 years ago

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@gehetzterfuchs tagged me to this, thanks!!! :)

Last song: Eifersucht by Rammstein

Last movie: Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Currently reading: Right now nothing (except for the text I write), but I have three different books that I haven’t finished reading yet. 1. The Heroes of Olympus: The House of Hades by Rick Riordan. 2. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. 3. A collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s short stories. (All these are Finnish translations.) A longer text ahead so be warned :D

The latter two I have had unfinished for years because they consist of short stories (the SH one has all three short story collections in one, and I also bought a newer translation of this book a while back) so I can easily stop reading and return to them after months or even read book series in the meantime because there’s no bigger ongoing storyline that a pause would mess up. And they both need quite a lot of brains to be used when reading, SH is a little bit lighter and easier text that Poe’s stories, but can’t really read with the thought of just reading something, because you end up understanding absolutely nothing if you don’t pay enough attention and follow the story properly.

Poe had stories in themes of very wide range and some of the stories are super interesting in all their creepyness which I do love (e.g. Berenice is my favorite so far; as well as How to Write a Blackwood Article, that one was GENIUS), and some are then so so so detailed that they are basically like scientific essays and I totally had to skip this one story about a hot air balloon (The Balloon Hoax, I believe) because it did not interest me at all, but I bet it was super interesting back in the day when hot air balloons were not a thing yet and people really wanted to figure out how a human could fly. But for me that was too much, interesting as an idea when thinking about history, but all that technical detailed speech was just... I tried my best but I just couldn’t focus on the text at all. With this book I had a very long pause, it’s my dad’s book and I started reading it when I was 17 (2008) but then somehow never finished and gave it back, until I borrowed it from my dad again 1-2 years ago and have been trying to continue reading the rest of the stories. But I also really want to reread my favorite stories too but I can’t decide whether I should finish reading the book and then reread, or reread my faves already now. (And now I really feel like grabbing that book and reading something from there.)

Rick Riordan’s book are what I started to read in my late teens, after reading all the Harry Potter books and when the first Percy Jackson book was released. These are what I consider as light and easy reading and I need to have a book like this always unfinished in case I feel like reading something easy. I haven’t touched this book now for months because I haven’t been feeling like a bookworm (it goes in cycles for me) but I still like the feeling of me having there a book to read whenever that bookworm bites me again. I also bought the sequel and the first book of the next Riordan series as I have lots to catch with this series because for years I could not read any books (I read only before bed and I was too tired to read when I was working and in schools) and started reading a lot more again after got free time, and I need to also have the feeling of me having the sequel book here already when I will finish with a book, in case of a hyperfixation/hyperfocusing. I usually start reading a lot more passionately towards the end of a book/story, and less passionately when a books/story starts.

Currently watching: Nothing, expect for my computer screen.

Craving: Salty liquorice maybe. I have white chocolate here and it’s good but I still crave for something else as well and idk what it is because everytime I eat the chocolate, I’m like “no, this is not the one I crave for” but my brains still won’t tell me what is it that we crave for, then. So (me to my brain: ) just take what you get and stop whining... (But now I also crave for reading that Edgar Allan Poe book lol.)

I’ll tag @dream-of-wanting-me, @hanhan156 and @notafraidofredyellowandblue.

#tag games #mcrmadness' random stuff #books

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tebarambles · 5 years ago

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Day 3: Frost

Bernie shudders and pulls up the lapels of her coat in an attempt to fend off the cold. Holby hasn't been this icy around Christmas in years. Or maybe she is not used to these temperatures anymore after spending the better part of the past two decades in more arid regions. Either way, she should have bothered to put on a beanie, she thinks, or at least her scarf that she now realises she has left in her locker at work.

Her shift had been more stressful than she would have thought possible on a calm - boring, a scornful voice in her head interjects - ward like Keller. Two post-op patients had gone into arrest at the same time, so she had to spend her free afternoon in theatre. With only two hours left before the shops close, she left the hospital in a hurry, hence the lack of protection against frostbite.

Bernie tries to avoid the jolly crowd that is swarming around the various stands of Holby’s very own Christmas market, not willing to waste any more time. She usually quite enjoys Christmas shopping, always likes to make an effort and surprise her loved ones with little presents that aren’t on their respective wish lists. Granted, that hasn’t always gone well - looking back, Marcus’ non-existent sense of humour should have been warning enough not to marry him, she muses.

This year, however, she finds herself at a loss. What do you get your newly estranged children who are still bitter about their parents’ divorce? She is not even sure they will accept her gifts and peace offerings, which is why she has put the dreaded task off until now. Which leaves her with less than three days to find something. Brilliant.

She straightens her shoulders and decides to pay Charlotte’s favourite record shop a visit first - only to be stopped by a slender young woman who steps right in front of her, waving her smartphone at Bernie’s face.

“Excuse me,” the girl beams at her, the words a bit slurred, “could you please take a photo of my mum and I? Great!” With that she hands her the phone and skips back to where her mother is waiting. Right. Okay.

Bernie makes to follow her but stops short: the other woman is stunning! She is the spitting image of her daughter, with a cute cleft in her chin and dark brown eyes. Eyes that are currently sparkling with barely concealed amusement as she raises a neatly sculpted brow and half-heartedly chastises her daughter for "harassing strangers for a silly photo."

Realising that this might not be the right moment to explore her new-found attraction to eyebrows - who would have thought? - Bernie shakes herself out of her temporary stupor, mumbles a shy “hello,” and busies herself with the girl’s phone. Keep calm, Wolfe.

She offers the women a few vague instructions and manages a number of decent snaps before the girl comes over and eagerly snatches the phone from her hand to scroll through the gallery.

“Mum, look! We are so pretty!” she gushes, then turns around to address Bernie.

“Look! Isn’t my mum pretty?”

Pretty? Beautiful, attractive, devastatingly sexy, Bernie thinks, then coughs and chokes out a strangled “um…-”

“Thank you so much! Can I hug you?” the girl interrupts her and flings her arms around Bernie’s neck, not bothering to wait for a response.

“Ellie!” The mother joins them to save Bernie from her daughter’s exorbitant display of gratitude. “I’m so sorry. She had a bit too much of the mulled cider, I’m afraid.”

Bernie shrugs it off and offers her a smile. “Don’t worry, no harm done. At least she’s a happy drunk. My ex-husband used to get mopey when he had too much wine,” Bernie rolls her eyes at the memory.

Her assessment prompts the other woman to chuckle. “Ah, yes, today is one of her better days. She was right to thank you, though. Serena Campbell, nice to meet you”

Bernie takes the offered hand, notices how soft and warm it is and almost forgets to answer. “Bernie Wolfe”

“As in Major Berenice Wolfe, the new consultant on Keller?”

“Bernie is fine. But how- oh! Do you work at Holby City Hospital, too?”

“Yes, on AAU, “ Serena smiles, then frowns. “One should think that our ward would suit your talents much better than Keller?”

“Well, the spot on Keller was on offer, I applied and that was that.” Bernie shrugs, unsure what else to say. She would love to work on AAU and getting to work with Serena would certainly be a bonus.

Then she realises that they are still holding each other’s hands.

Serena seems to notice at the same time. She doesn’t pull away, though. Instead, she encloses Bernie’s hand with both of her own.

“Oh dear, your fingers are like icicles. What are you doing, walking about without mittens or a scarf at least? You must be freezing! Here,” Serena untangles her own scarf from her neck and wraps it around Bernie’s, “that’s better.”

“But.. won’t you be cold now?” Bernie stutters. She is painfully aware that she is blushing at the gentle touch, hopes she can blame it on the cold.

“Ah, don’t worry,” Serena rummages through her handbag, then points at Ellie who doesn’t look as energetic anymore. “I need to get this one home now, anyway. You can buy me a coffee at Pulses when you give it back.” After a moment’s hesitation, Serena envelops Bernie in a brief hug.

Ellie smiles at Bernie. “I wanted to say thanks again for the pics. It was nice to meet you, Bernie. You’re great!”

“Hear, hear!” Serena winks at Bernie and links arms with her daughter. “Come on, it’s time to go home.”

Bernie can’t help but stare after Serena until she is out of sight.

Later, when she arrives home after what eventually turned into a surprisingly successful little shopping spree, she finds a slip of paper in her coat pocket. Below a phone number it reads:

To get in touch about that coffee :)

S x

She suddenly doesn’t feel cold anymore.

@berenaadvent

#Berena Advent 2019 #berena advent: frost #eeek i wrote something #it's shameless fluff - surprise :D #with added salt because i loathe marcus #elinor isn't a brat in this one #thank you batnbreakfast for giving this a quick once-over

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veridium · 6 years ago

Text

To read the previous episode, click here.

Josephine Montilyet isn’t easily caught of balance, but with the morning of her lover’s departure to the front lines encroaching hour by hour, she is left to her own devices and thoughts. Stressed sleep ends in a dream that fast becomes a nightmare, which then turns into an omen. Lady Montilyet can play the Game as well as anyone, but what happens when the rules distort themselves beyond recognition?

The night was agony, and as soon as the festivities had concluded, Josephine felt free to finally worry about the pressing issues on her mind, rid of having to put up a façade to those around her that she was the same engaging and lively diplomatic mind she was. She had watched the Inquisitor all evening at dinner, though she couldn’t tell for certain whether she was surveilling her in return. The two men on either side of her seat seemed bent on distracting and charming her, and their mediocre attempts to do so were obnoxious at best.

So, when the Inquisitor retired early, and left the Hall for good, Josephine’s heart sank through her chest again. No word, no nod, no anything. It was the antithesis of how they had been for weeks, and being rebuffed so harshly with so little time left between now and her departure instilled a sense of panic within her.

After the revelry had been spent and she, herself retired to her own chambers, she realized just how alien it felt to be in her own room after what had transpired. The bed had been made for weeks, untouched and unneeded. At best, she would come here to nap on the couch or be dressed/bathed in the morning. Even her personal correspondences took place in her office.

The room was cold, not in the normal way. It felt like a hole in the wall, lonely, impractical. Nothing of her was here, save for letters and a few small gifts she had tucked away in her trunk. There were no imprinted memories, no lingering aromas or sensations of her. She was traceless.

Josephine sat at the side of her bed, poised and collected in posture. She was finally alone and still, having to reckon with just how much Theia had swept up her life and senses beyond repair. She had flown to her side at the revelation of her injury, doted on her, oversaw her care, without being asked to do so once. It was a responsibility she gripped on for dear life in the face of so much unknown.

Her trance of emotions was broken by the sound of her door opening. It was her maid, Berenice, who obviously did not expect to see her Mistress in her room so late in the night. She flinched at the sight of Josephine on her bed. “My Lady!” she quickly curtsied in recompense, “I did not…expect…” her words escaped her mouth before she could think, maybe, it wasn’t wise to say your Mistress was expected to be sleeping in the bed of another.

Josephine sighed silently and nodded dismissively. “Yes, Berenice, I know. You thought I wouldn’t be here.” She slid off her bed and went to her clothes trunk. Untying and unwinding the clothes from her body herself, before Berenice could do it for her, she tossed them onto the nearest chair and reached for the trunk lid, opening it with frustration.

Berenice quickly tried to play catch up, reaching for the side of her trunk where all of her night clothes were neatly folded and organized by color and fabric. Josephine stood upright and did not wait for ceremony, taking off more layers as urgently as she could before she was only in her neatly-tailored smallclothes. It felt as if it were a whirlwind, getting her into her night dress, a simple grey number with light embellishments down the side of her waist, and the classic puffy sleeve style of her attire. Once she was all fitted and adjusted, she turned now to her smaller and more ornamental desk, eyeing the bottle of ink and quill, and nearby parchment. She contemplated impulsively that she could just send one final note, or sneak one letter into her supplies trunk for her to read when she was out there. Perhaps she could preserve her pride and say what was on her mind.

Josephine stopped herself, though, when she remembered just how unpredictable Theia was with writing and correspondence of personal nature. The lack of response would make her nervous, even if Theia did not mean it hurtfully. This time, she might intend to leave her hanging, and that was worse.

Hours passed without sleep coming to provide escape. She laid in her bed, only one sheet drawn of three, eyeing the ceiling like she wanted it to talk to her. Tell her stories, comfort her nerves, play with her hair, pull at the fabric of her night dress in temptation. Slip a hand underneath it and grip onto her side as it slept beside her. There was nothing, no hot breath, no cooing sounds of dreaming, or distressed rumbling to comfort.

Oh, she had made a mess of her, that foolish woman.

How could she expect her to level herself down to the stature of a Mistress? Of a courtesan? Even if she was uneducated in the consequences, she should have conceded once it was explained to her. How could she insist on something that Josephine could not afford to do in good conscience? She could see the letters from her Mother now: “What are you gambling with, taking the bed of the Inquisitor? Is there something you’re after, or have you been blinded by infatuation?”

Perhaps it was both. Perhaps neither.

She should have reminded herself, back when she was tending to her in her sick bed, that playing with something so powerful would burn her. If only she could have remained intent on reality as she watched her sleep, her paleness ill and not porcelain, her hair tangled and tousled from being pressed to a pillow. She had to have known what she was doing, that Theia. Laying there, being so beautiful, even when she had endured injury and surgery.

But no, this was Josephine’s fault. She should have kept on her feet, not given into fancy or fairytale tropes of ardor. If she had just resisted the urges, looked away every time the light of the Council room window cast on her face and cheekbones in that picturesque way, kept talking when her purple, iridescent eyes had looked into hers. Beguiling her every sense and nerve. The gaul of her.

Such women only bring trouble.

Sleep finally came to visit, but it was a restless guest. A half hour slipped away, but it was yanked out from under her by the sensation of fingers in her undone hair. A sharp inhale as her eyes opened wide, perhaps she had come to see her. Looking over her shoulder into the nothingness, the truth bore itself open to her. No one had come. No one was there. Just the unraveling hours of night, leaving her without mercy, just like she had done.

Another hour lost to light, easily-broken sleep. Feet scuffed along the floor outside her door. She sat up again, waiting for the shadow to come to her door and stop. But, it went by with rigor. Perhaps the guard, or a servant sneaking off to bed.

Back on the pillow she went, resting on her side, curling her legs up. As more time passed with no disturbance, she gripped onto her pillow even tighter. It was soft, almost like her, less bony and shapely, but…if she could close her eyes and pretend, it was almost like the real thing.

Almost.

Sleep stayed for the remainder of the night, though it was the kind that felt like your body merely turned off for hours and your mind kept going.

A dream, just one. But once was enough.

The colors were warm golds, browns, and reds. A Hall, a beautiful, lavish surrounded her. It was robust like those in Fereldan, but the sun and the warmth felt familiar, like home. She was wearing dress like the ones she used to wear in Antiva, with a purple colored layer underneath of durable fabric, and then a silken sash wrapped around her waist. Her sheer sleeves bunched together at various points down her arms. A barren neckline exposed to the sun-kissing air.

She was walking towards the center of the room, where there was a glorious porcelain-stoned fountain. It gushed spirals of water; architecture was reminiscent of the grand fountains in Val Royeaux. She grew more curious as to the true location of this place, now seeming to be a fluid space of all Thedas’s visual influences on her life.

Then, as she turned to look back, there she was. She was beautiful, glowing, almost unhuman in measure. Her dress was white and shining in the skylight. It made her complexion almost look warm, tan in a way. Her abundant hair, sleek and straight as it had grown down to the bottom of her waist. A generous portion of it was resting down her right shoulder. She wondered why it felt familiar to her, this image of an other-worldly and benevolent blonde woman. Then it hit her.

She was reminiscent of Andraste. The Herald of the Maker’s woman, built in her image.

Her eyes were closed, soft and devout. Her face was unstressed. A strand of beads strung in and out of the top of her hair. Jewels hung from her ears, rings on her hands that were coupled together in front of her waist, elbows bent as if she were readying for prayer.

“Theia?” Josephine called out, as if the room became vast and cavernous. Her voice echoed.

That made Theia’s eyes open for the first time, and then went straight to hers, knowingly. They were her signature purple irises, confirming to Josephine that it was really her. When her gazed locked on Josephine, a benevolent grin appeared on her lips.

“Josephine.”

Walking towards her, Josephine wanted answers. Why was she dressed like this? Where were they? What had happened to put them there? For some reason, she believed Theia would have all these answers and more, as if she was at fault.

Theia did not move as she watched Josephine approach her, only her eyes followed her. When she finally came to stand a foot away from her, she could see more details in her complexion and built that felt…off. Her face was glowing as if she were made of stone, not flesh and blood. There was no blush in her cheeks, no wrinkles around her eyes or forehead. No scar. No stress lines.

It was like she was a talking, breathing idol.

“Theia, what has happened?” Josephine pressed.

Theia’s face remained frozen for a moment, before she finally blessed her with a response.

“What do you mean, Josephine? I am here, as I always have been. Why do you fret so?” this was not the tone Theia had always shown. There was no kind humor, no musing, no empathy. It was the voice of someone who did not see much reason for toil or questioning.

“Where are we?” Josephine countered, eyes narrowing as she clamored for some form of information, some form of clarity.

“We are in the heart of the Inquisition.”

“Skyhold?” Josephine felt like she was being duped. There was no way in hell this was anywhere near Skyhold or its mountains.

“No, deeper. The heart,” Theia repeated, her voice expressionless.

Of course it would be something cryptic and artistic. Put a few feathers and gaudy decorations and she could swear she was in her sister, Yvette’s imagination.

“Fine, I…suppose. Then, why are we here?” her voice was short.

Theia did not respond immediately. Instead, she graced Josephine with a soft smile, though it did not match her eyes in expected exuberance.

“My dear Josephine, we are always here. Whether we are physically, or spiritually.”

Josephine’s chin tilted.

“If this is some form of religious vision, I am surprised you, someone who does not pray or worship Andraste, would be used as its muse.” She could imagine how much the undisturbed and unpossessed Theia would feel about being used as a body double for some pious dimension of reality.

Better that then the Fade demons, perhaps.

Josephine’s impatience was starting to grow. She wanted either out of this place, wherever it was, or she wanted a full explanation, and she was getting neither. She tried to turn away, to go back to evaluating the location for exits or open doors. Her wrist was caught by Theia’s outstretched hand, though she did not sense it move from Theia’s side at all. It was just…there, enclosed on her skin, adamant but gentle.

“Josephine, what you seek is not anywhere else but here in front of you.” Theia’s eyes softened, as if she was sympathetic to Lady Montilyet’s temper, though concluded it to be useless.

“Oh, so you are the door that I am looking for?”

“In a way,” Theia responded.

“Well, that’s…typical,” she let a faint growl vibrate from her throat. “And how is it that I utilize your door?”

Please don’t say it I have to kill you first, for Maker’s sake.

“Kiss me, Josephine.”

Oh, great, even worse.

“Absolutely not. How do I know this won’t make it worse? I do not even know if you are truly who I think you are.”

“You would wonder that anyway even if I had convinced you of my true self. If you kiss me, I can show you who you are truly fighting.”

“Is…is it a demon?”

“Josephine.”

Josephine sighed heavily, rubbing the back of her head and eyeing her surroundings absentmindedly. She had no idea this kind of supernatural phenomena would come into her own life, she only heard stories from the allies when they would return from adventures. Although, she couldn’t be sure if this was “the real thing,” or just the result of too much wine at dinner. Either way, she knew something was afoot.

“Fine, I’ll oblige. But if you turn into something that desires to murder me, I will be sufficiently furious,” she warned, eyeing the woman.

“Josephine, I am only here to show you what you risk, what you fear, and what you must let go of. What those things are, only you can know for sure. Kiss me, please.” Theia’s voice was monotone, but it asked much.

Josephine took a breath, riling up the courage to do something that every nerve in her body told her was a foolish idea.

Cautiously, she leaned in, one hand going to her Theia’s cheek with care. At the touch of her fingers to her skin, she felt the warmth of her body, the most familiar thing about this vision of her. It was a short-lived solace as her lips made contact with hers, their soft, almost-clay-like feel remaining still as she kissed her.

Nothing happened…at first. A couple seconds went by with an awkward, hushed air. Then, she felt what could only be compare to the feel of fog blow into her face coolly. Even though she had closed her eyes for the kiss, at that sensation Josephine immediately opened them. A voice inside her told her not to move her lips.

From what she could see, it looked as if Theia was…eroding. Like a sculpture of sand that had dried on the shore in the sun, a gust of wind had fallen into the surrounding air. Theia’s hair began to wisp and flow in the air along with the inertia, though her body remained still. The length and voluminous locks of platinum blonde waved and flowed around them in an almost protective way.

Then, it started to shrink. The long lengths growing backwards towards her head. Josephine’s eyes stared back at her face. Now, she could see pores, scars that had faded with time but were still there if you desired to search for them. Then, her trademark scar that went down her left eye. The jewels on her ears dissolved and disappeared as well, leaving her ears bare. The crystals in her hair remained, though.

Josephine was now trying to track the changes, reaching a hand to touch the gown she thought she was still wearing. The plush fabric she was expecting was now a light, almost muslin-feel, but still almost white in color. The modest sleeves and neckline dissipated into straps over her shoulders and nothing more, a layer of sheer fabric enveloping the first layer of opaqueness. No more rings and necklaces, only a gold arm cuff on her left upper arm, the arm that was supposed to have the anchor. The arm cuff was Antivan in design, and she could tell from just the shape of it.

Her observations were curtailed briskly by the feeling of Theia kissing her back, with love and feverish adoration. Theia’s hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her in as if she had been walking to her and had finally met her body with her own.

Josephine closed her eyes again, feeling in more familiar territory than she had been the entire time. Though, even in the closeness of Theia’s embrace, she felt there was still something different about her. Different about them. There was a contentedness reverberating from Theia’s body that Josephine intuitively felt.

As quickly as she had zeroed in on her, Theia pulled away. Her eyes were bright and the smile she wore was matching the joy in them. It was as if the soul in her had returned, had taken back what it rightfully owned.

“My love,” Theia hummed reverently. Her hair was shoulder-length now, the shortest Josephine had ever seen it. It was simpler, but still stunning.

“Theia? What happened?” Josephine asked, eyeing her up and down, trying to get ahold of just what was going on, and why her lover had suddenly turned into some shapeshifting creature who shapeshifted into…different versions of herself? Oh, Maker.

“You are pleading ignorance with me, woman. You were supposed to take me down to the docks to show me the lights an hour ago. You work too hard! Come on, let’s go, I’ve been delaying dinner for hours now and I’m starving!”

Theia took hold of her hand, and began to pull her along. Her voice was melodic, hybridized with a laugh.

“The docks? We are in Antiva now? What happened to the heart of the Inquisition?”

“The Inquisition? Josephine, the Inquisition has been disbanded for a while now. Did you fall asleep and have an odd dream or something?” Theia called back to her, still guiding her woman down the Hall of mixed visions.

“Disbanded? Wait, wait just one! Moment!” She broke free from Theia’s exuberant hand, and stopped dead in her tracks. Theia turned around and also halted, gazing back at her with confusion.

“We were at Skyhold! The Inquisition was still very much in existence! Your hair was at your waist! And we were nowhere near the Antivan ports! What is happening and why am I here?” Josephine was damn near meltdown mode.

Theia listened to her attentively, as though she suddenly understood why Josephine was so upset. The confusion gave way to compassion.

“Sweet Josephine,” Theia answered, “once you see me for who I am, in addition to what I must do in this life, then you will know. Remember who we each are, and who we must be. They are not always the same, but both have needs and desires, and that is nothing to be ashamed of. It will become clear with time.” Theia’s voice began to echo ever-so-lightly, as if the void around them were expanding further into itself.

Solemnly, Theia extended out her left hand, her anchor hand, towards her. As if she was asking her to join and keep going. Just as Josephine was about to touch it, though, Theia’s hand began to crumble like clumps of half-dried mortar to the floor. The breaking climbed all the way up her forearm and up into her shoulder, before the Hall began to darken. In an instant, it felt like all the light that had consumed the space had vanished.

She reached out farther and with a bit of franticness. “Theia!” she called out, but it was all coming down on them. Then, Theia was gone, fully engulfed in the expanding void. The ground gave out under her feet, and she instantly felt the dreaded sensation of falling.

Her eyes broke open wide, and she lurched up in her bed immediately at the sight of her room. Gasping for air, the strands of her hair stuck to her forehead, bound in sweat. She was in her room, she was at Skyhold, she was alone. The night was still in the sky. None of it was real.

For a split moment in time, though, she had almost been convinced that it was real, and that the toil and of Skyhold had been a long and faraway dream.

She did not bother with sleep after that ordeal. Expectantly, she sat on her loveseat, hugging her knees as she watched the light turn from night to early morning twilight. Surely, Theia and the rest of the contingent had awoken, and were preparing to depart. A part of her wanted to run out and catch her before she was gone. Another wished to lock the door, and wait for her to pass over like a troublesome storm.

The conflict kept her frozen on that loveseat. The dim fire embers in her fireplace were the only thing keeping her company.

So, maybe she thought she would come to her. Maybe she hoped for it. Perhaps she desired for her to burst through that door, be apologetic…not even that, just there. They could argue some more, become furious, and then have it out in bed like all those haughty romance novels Seeker Cassandra read. What a first time that would be, engrossed in their mutual aggravation for one another. It would be a story to tell one day, one of many from this era of their lives.

The dream’s imagery haunted her peripheral imagination. The sight of her face, perfect like an immortal being, and then watching it give way to who she had always known Theia to be. The duality of her nature, as a Herald of Andraste, and as a woman who was the helm of an Earth-shaking force for peace. She didn’t know which side of the coin to be more intimidated by.

Did she at least manage to do one thing right in this whole mess? If so, what was it? Because that would be the key to knowing where to go from there. Her lover was leaving in the cloak of night, armored and ready-minded for perils of and spoils of war. Undoubtedly she would bleed more for this cause before it was all over.

Berenice made her morning entrance quietly and less curious now; she knew when to leave well-enough alone. Dutifully, Josephine rose from her place on her loveseat, and went to the panel screen in the corner of her room. She would dress, she would tie and gather herself into being the same person she had always been. Maybe then the day would bring solace.

She made her way through the Great Hall to the door that held her office behind it, just as the last traces of horse footfalls and neighing rang from the Courtyard. She knew that Theia herself was long gone, always at the front. Now she was safe to move about.

As she walked though, her friend Leliana was returning from watching the departure. Her pace quickened as she tried to catch up with Josephine’s figure.

“Josie! I did not see you out there, did you miss the departure?” Leliana called out, finally coming close enough to carry on a more discrete conversation.

Josephine looked back, rubbing one of her eyes with fatigue. “No, I slept in later than I wanted to.”

“You mean, you did not spend the night with the Inquisitor?” Leliana’s question was bold, but no one else was around that would be troublesome if they overheard. Too early for drunken nobles and too late for the pub crowd.

“No. I did not see her at all.”

“Oh.” Clearly, Leliana’s advice went unfollowed. Even though she felt sorry that Theia did not take the chance she felt she should have, she had to at least relinquish herself to the fact that the Inquisitor was deeply conflicted and had more to weigh in her life than one night of tumult.

Still, the defensiveness for her friend rumbled with emotion.

“Josie, if you need anything, you have only to ask,” Leliana said comfortingly. It was very kind, but not potent enough to cure the situation of its sadness.

“Thank you, Leliana, I appreciate the sentiment. I must go to my office now and open the first round of letters. An early start is just what I need to…refocus,” she exhaled as she finished her sentence. There was a nod from both women as they departed each other’s company for their respective duties.

Walking into her dim office space, she looked first at the two chairs surrounding the fire place. She eyed the chair that Theia favored every time she came to visit and tried her best not to linger on it, though the ache in her chest did not play by any rules. The quicker to her desk, her sacrosanct area in this hold, the better.

Making her way around its perimeter, she glossed over the stacks of dispatched reports and letters, some in well-made parchment with formal filigree, others roughly-handled like they had survived the elements. They were all vital to her job, to her purpose, and her efficacy.

All she expected, except for a strange and small square of paper folded and sealed with red wax.

Her brow furrowed as she picked it up, the note small enough to hold secure between her thumb and index finger. The seal was hastily done, only half-legible. But, the slightness of the Inquisition’s eye symbol was salvageable. Her heart sank. Only a few people sent her letters with this seal, and she knew Leliana would not have a reason to.

Theia.

At first, she wanted to toss it in the fireplace and let it suffer a flammable fate. What could she possibly have to say in this piece of scrap paper that she couldn’t say to her face last night? Was it really too much to ask that she own up to the situation and regard her with some dignity and integrity?

The fuming questions silenced themselves immediately when she impulsively ripped it open, and eyed the two, short lines of words—

“My equal, my advisor, my friend, my confidant –

I am sorry.

T”

Oh, no.

Her chest concaved like a ruin of stones, her shoulders hunching over as her face erupted in tears. She gasped at first, quietly, but it was there. Even though her face said she was trying everything to keep it together, the tears fell unabashedly and vigorously from her reddening eyes.

She turned to her bookshelf, approached it with a need for mercy. She leaned up against it head on, eyes closing and creasing as she desperately wished for a way to keep herself together. How dare she? How dare she, for once in her cursed life, say so little? Theia was a chatterbox, she loved metaphors, sarcastic quips, illustrious stories. She was a textbook bullshitter. Why now, with all the seriousness and heartbreaking diction? There were all these questions, but Josephine already knew the answer: because she really meant it.

She pivoted on her hip so as to lean on the bookshelf with her side, a hand holding up the letter to her gaze as she went over the words again and again. What she wouldn’t have given to just have her stand in front of her and say them to her face.

So help me, Maker. So help me, Inquisition. If this is the last thing I will ever have of her…

She remembered the part of her dream where the being who took the face of the woman she loved warned her:

What you risk,

what you fear,

and what you must let go of.

What restless nights these will be.

#oc stuff #Theia Trevelyan #Inquisitor x Josephine #Trevelyan x Josephine #Josephine Montilyet #fanfiction #next chapter #dragon age

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jghouse-asia-pacific · 3 years ago

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New Post has been published on https://www.jg-house.com/2021/08/21/message-kinshasa-part-i/

Message from Kinshasa, Part I

Outside the wall of gray fog approached, rolling down the mountain, rushing through the village, blotting out the sun. Inside Ronald sat in a chair, holding a cup of tea in one hand and pointing with the other at boxes of medical supplies in one corner of the room. The supplies had arrived the previous day, allowing him to treat the men, women, and children of Rutshuru in his clinic for another four to six weeks. But he wouldn’t turn away others, not even the hollow-eyed child soldiers, regardless of pressure from outsiders, including humanitarian agencies in Kinshasa or Paris. If he ran out of medicines early, he would find a way to obtain more.

“Everyone in these mountains,” Ronald said, glancing out the window at the fog, “is trapped in a cycle of violence from which few have hopes of escaping.” He looked at Sylvere for a moment before leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

When Sylvere himself looked out the window, straining to see through the fog, he could make out the mighty volcano, Nyamuragira, which still erupted from time to time, sending lava flows and noxious-gas clouds down on peoples and animals, including the critically endangered mountain gorillas.

“The only solution to the never-ending bloodshed in eastern Congo,” Ronald resumed, “is a precious metals and minerals industry developed by our people so we finally can provide opportunities for hopeless young men and women.”

Ronald, who sat next to a set of double doors at the front of the room, leaned forward in his chair and looked across the room at his young daughter who sat at a table at the back of the long space used as both a warehouse for the storage of the clinic’s supplies and an office for the administration of its operations. She was reading a book, probably acquired in Kinshasa, which appeared to be a textbook of either scientific or medical content from an academic institution.

“When Claudette grows up,” Ronald commented, gazing at his daughter, “she will become a doctor too, an even better one than I am.” His face beamed. “She will take over the medical practice from me when I am too tired to work any more,” Ronald added.

Suddenly, a noise, the loudest sound Sylvere ever had heard, pierced the air as six men, three who wore military fatigues and three who wore faded soccer jerseys, crashed through the set of double doors and burst into the room, firing automatic weapons. Sylvere didn’t move and couldn’t make a sound. Claudette screamed, and Ronald fell to the ground, his life gushing out of him in a pool of blood which expanded rapidly across a hard, concrete floor.

Man on Horse-Drawn Cart

***

Sylvere awoke with a start. He raised his head from his pillow and looked around. A heavy, red curtain extended the length of the sliding-glass door of the room, holding the darkness in place. A gathering of light, although faint, was visible at the edges of the curtain. He replayed the pictures of Ronald, his closest friend from school many years before. It was all a dream, a terrifying scene which haunted him.

Still it was true. Ronald was dead.

In the darkness, already giving way to encroaching light from a rising sun, Sylvere rolled over in the bed and reached for the digital clock on the night stand. The tips of his fingers just touched the back corner of the clock. Pushing it slightly so he could view its face, Sylvere saw the time—5:38. Early Saturday morning.

Sylvere noticed his violet-colored polo shirt and gray trousers, with the dark-blue suit jacket to one side, spread out neatly on the other half of the king-size bed. He recalled falling asleep on top of the covers still wearing his clothes around 9:30 the previous night. He also remembered taking off his clothes, putting on his nightgown, and crawling under the soft layers sometime in the night.

Pushing back the sheet and the gold comforter above it, Sylvere shifted his body to the edge of the bed and raised himself to a sitting position with bare feet planted on pale stone tiles. The tiles were not too cold. He looked once again around the room. It was, more precisely, a suite. Comfortable but not extravagant, it was a structure which occupied the southern side of the roof of Hotel Rastelli in the heart of Tervuren, a town in the Flemish section, also known as Flanders, of the land now called Belgium.

In his dream, Sylvere realized, Ronald was a younger man and his daughter, Claudette, approximately ten years old.

The date on which Ronald was killed by a group of heavily armed assailants in eastern Congo surged to the forefront of Sylvere’s mind. Less than a month earlier.

“What was I doing when Ronald was shot to death?” Sylvere asked himself in Kikongo. He tried to think, but he couldn’t recall. Most likely, he was relaxing in his recently renovated and newly enlarged house on Rue Gustave Hervé in Combs-la-Ville, or maybe visiting the cottage of his pal, Pinto, several streets to the west.

Then a new thought entered Sylvere’s mind: Ronald had become a father only once in his turbulent life. Now Claudette, Ronald’s only child, might be dead too. Just the day before Claudette, who recently had turned 20 years of age, had gone missing somewhere in the untamed mountains outside Goma, the largest city in the eastern Congo, on the opposite side of the country from Kinshasa.

Woman Wearing Blue Scarf

It was a beautiful but violent region, home to fragile communities of oppressed peoples and exotic, endangered animals under attack by heavily armed militants moving back and forth across borders.

A motion on the bed caught Sylvere’s attention.

Looking for the source of the motion, Sylvere focused on the suit jacket folded on one side of the bed. He realized the vibration had come from his mobile phone in the pocket of his suit jacket. His thoughts started racing.

“What is it?” Sylvere muttered in Kikongo.

He didn’t make an effort to check his device. He walked over to the table pushed up against the east wall of the room, picked up the half-full bottle of water, and drank the remainder of its contents. His glance fell on a second green bottle of water on the tabletop. This one he had not yet opened.

A scene from the previous evening appeared before his eyes.

On the roof-top deck, Chérubin, holding a glass of scotch in one hand, had revealed he and his bosses, Anna Adenuga and Carolina Dokolo, needed help from somebody in finding Claudette. As Chérubin spoke, he looked directly into Sylvere’s eyes.

Now Sylvere, turning back toward the bed, considered the possibility Chérubin was suggesting Sylvere should offer ideas regarding the whereabouts of Claudette.

Sylvere realized at no point on the previous day did he let it slip that his friends, Dikembe and Pépé, had been sheltering Claudette in Goma in eastern Congo after the attack in Rutshuru, 70 kilometers to the north. It had left the father dead and the young woman clinging to life. Didn’t Chérubin, Carolina, and Anna already know about Dikembe and Pépé and, therefore, that Claudette no longer was in the care of Dikembe and Pépé?

Sylvere admitted he never revealed any of this information, which he himself had learned only the previous afternoon. The question became, Sylvere realized, what should he divulge about his friends to Chérubin, Carolina, and Anna?

Anna, one of the richest women in Africa, and her personal secretary, Carolina, had arranged for Chérubin to bring Sylvere to Belgium for a meeting to determine how to rescue Claudette from eastern Congo.

Small Girl in Sand

Walking back over to the bed, Sylvere considered what might happen at the meeting, which was to be held that afternoon. He lifted up his suit jacket from the gold comforter covering the bed and removed his phone. When he looked at the screen, he saw a notification of an incoming text message from his wife, Josephine. Then he saw a second, earlier notification of an incoming text message, which had arrived while he was asleep. The earlier message had been sent by his second-youngest daughter, Kandgela. The time stamp showed 1:09am.

Sylvere opened the message from Kandgela. It was a complete surprise. She never sent text messages to him.

“I have more information regarding the man from Kinshasa, Justin Kabumba, who reached out to me through Facebook yesterday,” Kandgela wrote in French. The rest of her message contained details which came directly from the man in Kinshasa himself in addition to data Kandgela had collected from the man’s social-media account.

Sylvere looked up from his phone. As he allowed his gaze to drift toward the sliding-glass door covered by the heavy curtain, he started moving his bare feet across the pale stone tiles of the floor. His thoughts, too, started moving, at first slowly then very quickly.

Abruptly, Sylvere called his wife, Josephine, who now was awake and in the kitchen of their home in Combs-la-Ville. He wanted to assure her he was okay. “What do you hear of Serge and Penelope?” Sylvere asked instead, speaking in Lingala, the primary language of Kinshasa, where the two of them had met many years previously.

“Serge et Penelope Ntaganda? Les intolérables?” Josephine responded, speaking in French and using a popular description for the couple in the Congolese community. “Since when do you care about them?” she asked, switching to Lingala.

For the first time, Sylvere realized his wife knew nothing about his current activities nor about the people involved. He decided to ask his friend, Pinto, for his advice. For the moment, though, Sylvere remained silent.

“Well,” Josephine resumed, “now that you mention it, my friend, Berenice, just yesterday told me something interesting.” She paused for several moments, as if she wanted to build up the suspense and provide as much dramatic effect as possible for her husband’s benefit. “According to Berenice,” Josephine continued, “Serge and Penelope last week bought a new house in that recently completed gated community on the other side of town.”

***

#Africa, #Europe, #France, #LifeCulture #Africa, #Art, #Beauty, #Culture, #Europe

#Africa #art #beauty #culture #Europe

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vampbait-a · 7 years ago

Text

|| Cemetery Roses - Ch. 8

|| co-written with @cynaram Posted with permission. Previous: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

In Which Lessons Are Learned And Tea Is Had

Horst opened his eyes in the dark enclosure of his coffin. He noted the sounds of the house: the ticking of the clock in the hall above, the sound of a human heart.

So he is alive, Horst thought as he rose to dress.

Horst’s pocket square smote at Johannes’ sensibilities, as usual. This time he kept his feelings to himself; he was going to need Horst’s help, and for once, he wasn’t sure what Horst would say. He buttered toast and greeted his brother. “Good evening.”

"Is it?" Horst paused to regard his brother. There was an additional adjective in the greeting, and Horst had learned long ago that the younger Cabal's good moods were suspect.

"I'm glad to see you're alive and still mostly human. I was beginning to think you'd eloped with that vampire girl."

Cabal contained his urge to correct Horst’s understanding of the species Llamiae as opposed to the genus Vampire. “I have seen her, yes. She is going to assist my work.” He wondered if he should lie and say that Laurelai had enquired after Horst, but any advantage gained by that fiction would not survive their next meeting.

"Assist in your work? That does sound personal. What are you up to?" Horst's misgivings about his brother's activities deepened. "What happened while you were away?"

“It was eventful. And it has become personal,” Cabal said with grim understatement. He narrated recent events: the possession, the murderous gardener, the bizarre empathic experience. He tried to distil it down to the most relevant and appealing points. He didn't often talk to Horst about his work.

“Mademoiselle Laurelai is able to channel her ghost. Berenice’s ghost.” He had to say her name. Clarity was important. “I have spoken with her twice.” He heard himself say it, and his speech slowed. “I have spoken with her, Horst. I could not be deceived.”

As much as Horst often did not like his younger sibling's work, he was intrigued. Hearing what had happened caused him alarm and curiosity. What sort of relationship was his younger brother building with this mysterious Laurelai?

Horst was silent for a moment, weighing what he had been told against what he knew of his brother. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop, considering.

"When you spoke with her," Horst began, choosing his words carefully; "Did she know where she was? Was she conscious, or was it like the soldier you told me about? The one you found in the station?"

Somewhere, there was a faint feeling of relief; he had expected Horst to condemn the situation, to insist he stop. "It was something like that at first. Toward the end she became more aware. She knew the body she was in was not her own. I believe she may become more aware with repeated contacts."

"I see." Horst looked thoughtfully into the fire, frowning. He saw so little of his brother these days, heard little of what he was doing in his work, and Horst had begun to worry that Johannes might never emerge from the lab.

That he might never heal.

Laurelai might be an odd person, but she had saved Johannes’ life. Horst sighed, looking back at his brother. That had to count for something, he hoped.

"And she can just… have ghosts in her head without ill effects? I saw one of those stage performances once, a séance. The actress was carried offstage." Horst looked seriously at his younger brother. "And what are you doing for her in return? I have the feeling that you aren't telling me everything."

Cabal smiled thinly. “For one thing, she wants clothing to replace those leather things. I will acquire something. Unless you want to help?” He felt a rising of his hopes; maybe this could be Horst’s problem, not his?

"Oh, no, you go right ahead. Enjoy the experience." Horst straightened, looking at Johannes with barely contained mirth at the idea. He covered his mouth with one hand, suppressing a giggle at the idea of Johannes muddling through a Ladies’ catalogue.

Fine. He would leave some sensible catalogues around and wait for Horst to break, as he inevitably would when it came to fashion. “Also, she will be coming here for lessons in reading and in passing among humans. It is my responsibility, but she would benefit from your guidance.”

"Wait what's that?" all traces of mirth vanished, and Horst sat up straight. "Me? A mentor? To her?"

Cabal tilted his head. “She knows nothing of humans, obviously, and I think she is the only one of her kind. She is completely isolated. She could be no more than an animal if she wanted, yet I saw her feed three times, and she left the men alive.” Cabal never said it; he rarely thought it, but he was proud of his brother. “She could be like you, to a degree.” He picked up the marmalade jar and inspected the marks in the glass. “I can teach her to read; she is intelligent, and I think she can apply herself. I can teach her to attract less attention among humans. I cannot teach her not to be a monster.” He looked up at Horst, his eyebrows raised. “Think of it as a public service for the pub-going population.”

Horst had misgivings, but thought it best to let Johannes give his explanation. Horst heard so few of them. He was surprised more by what he saw in Johannes' expression and heard in his voice then he was by anything else.

Slowly, Horst smiled. Johannes liked Laurelai, though how much was uncertain. He did not bother to bring up the fact that making Laurelai more like him would actually be doing her a great disservice, as she appeared to be mostly-alive. He envied her that, and wondered about it. Thoughts for another time.

"You're curious about her. Was this tutoring her suggestion, or yours?" Horst asked, arching a brow. "Do you… do you perform experiments together? Is she your laboratory assistant?"

Though he was gently teasing, Horst hoped the answer was yes.

Cabal felt that Horst had missed the point. “She is a psychic medium. I am not going to have her washing test tubes. No, she will attempt to channel Berenice’s spirit. It is a rare talent. Literacy is not, but few tutors would tolerate her supernumerary fangs. I am curious about her subspecies as it contrasts with yours. Over the next few weeks, I will ask her to provide some blood and saliva samples for comparison.” Cabal’s expression was bland; he hadn’t caught the innuendo.

"So your answer is yes, then." Horst had sobered, but still felt that it would be wrong to discourage Johannes. There were so few things that could excite his younger sibling, it seemed. It was nice to see him talking again. Socializing.

"Alright, I'll play nice when she comes to call." Horst stood up again, intending to make the long-avoided trip to town. He turned to leave, then paused- a thought occurring to him.

"Do you think she might be able to help you, in my case?" He asked, trying to seem casual. "She is alive, you know. I've been thinking about that, and while I won't interfere with this... thing you're proposing now..." Horst sighed. "You won't hurt her."

It wasn't a question.

Cabal did not reply. How could Horst expect anyone to promise that?

Instead, he answered the earlier question. “It is my hope studying her half-vampiric condition may cast light on yours. She still lives on blood, cannot eat, must flee the sun. But all data is good data.” Cabal squeezed a lemon slice with an air of frustration. There was never enough time. What of his experiments with the gas? What of Horst? What of Bea’s spirit, flickering in and out? The weight of it pressed upon him. He drank his tea and blotted out the thoughts. One thing at a time, in order.

“I will consider her clothing today. Perhaps I will find something in the village.”

Horst stared hard at his little brother. He knew that trying to extract reassurance would glean nominal reward at best: Johannes was a scientist. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Do you know her size?" Horst experienced a sudden urge to look at Ladies’ fashion catalogues, his eyes glazing momentarily. Then he remembered his shredded waistcoat, and the feeling fled. "Helena has a dress shop in town, she's very good. I'm sure you'll find something lovely."

Oh. Was that who owned the dress shop? Cabal recalled an incident with an escaped laboratory failure that had nested in her yardage. He removed the village from the list of possibilities.

“I do not have her size, but….” He could measure the Llamia. He imagined himself doing so. On the other hand, he could buy everything in three sizes. Problem solved. “I will handle everything. She will arrive after sundown on Friday.”

"Friday?" Horst made a face; he had plans for Friday. "Can't you do it on Monday or a Thursday? Why Friday?" He sighed, remembering who he was talking to. "Alright, I'll chaperone your playdate. But next week either choose a different day or call Zee to help you."

Cabal had prepared himself for Laurelai’s first reading lesson. He had acquired materials, which he set out upon the library desk. He had even decided to wear his cardigan instead of his jacket, as it seemed vaguely in keeping with the role of tutor, and besides, he had a chill.

Horst had busied himself in the kitchen upon waking, having put off his trip to town for a night. He had chosen to bake - anything to keep him nice and occupied and away from his brother's guest.

Shortly after eight, Laurelai arrived carrying a small rose bush in a broken pot. After scattering the garden pixies with a growl and flash of fang, she crouched beside the herbaceous border. Discarding the broken crockery among the stones, Laurelai planted the black-velvet flowers in the soft earth bordering the wall. Smiling with satisfaction, she stood, dusted her hands on her bottom and knocked on the door.

“Good evening, mademoiselle. Please, come in.” At this point, a courteous host should offer to take his guest’s coat and hat, but Laurelai travelled without either, so that part of the implicit lesson was abandoned. She didn’t even appear to own shoes. “You appear to be in good health.”

"Bonne nuit, mon ami." Laurelai had bathed and cleaned and repaired her clothing as best as she could. Normally wild curls hung in smooth ebon waves; combed back over her shoulders and still damp. She smiled pleasantly and nodded, gesturing behind her. "I brought you this, for your garden."

The black roses shouldn’t have been visible in the moonlight, but they were, as if there was a sullen sheen to the plant. “Thank you. It is an attractive plant,” he admitted. “I hope it will survive. The conditions are unforgiving.”

Laurelai wiped her bare feet on the mat and stepped inside. "They like the climate, and acidic soil suits them, unlike your unfortunate Carsons." She had identified the blossomless bramble that housed the pixies and had begun to formulate a strategy for reaching an understanding with the creatures, or exterminate them as blight. Garden infestations aside, her expression was warm in reply to Cabal's gratitude.

“I am pleased that you like them. Your home is very bright. Are you very blind when it is dark? Why do you have dark glasses in your bag, if you like light?" The gas lamps were harsh, and she blinked and squinted in discomfort, unaccustomed.

“This is not as bright as daylight. I do not often wear the glasses indoors or at night. Though my night vision is good by human standards, it is nonexistent by yours. Follow me.” Cabal led her to the library, bypassing the odor of vanilla and a rustle of parchment paper coming from the kitchen. There, her directed Laurelai to the desk and its paper, pencils, and colorful alphabet book.

"Oui, I am often surprised that humans go outside at night. You act like you are invincible; it is almost sad." Laurelai's tone was conversational, even sympathetic of his mortal limitations. How fragile her fearless human friend was! She admired his salt, and his posterior, as she followed him through the house.

Cabal was perplexed by being cast in the role of the brave but vulnerable individual who gallantly transcended his weakness. Of course, everything supernatural was stronger and faster and more fatally toothed, but… he was certain there was a flaw in her reasoning somewhere.

The library was not as brightly lit, and Laurelai paused in the door to examine a sconce. "How do you make them work? Where is the flame?" Without waiting for an answer, she perused the room. Pausing to look at a framed picture, hands clasped behind her back to prevent curious exploring. It was difficult not to touch such amazing things, and she forgot herself several times despite her best efforts.

“Why will you not call me Laurelai?”

He took a moment to compose his answer. “With the exception of Horst, I address people formally.” Was this coming back to flocks and him being welcome in her nest?

"I shared my bed with you, Johannes," Laurelai's lower lip threatened to pout. "You saved my life, and still you doubt me."

There was a loud clang from the kitchen at the word “bed.” He might have to address that misconception later. “And you, mademoiselle, accuse me of doubting you when I refuse intimacies. I will not be bullied, but it does not mean I expect you to attack me.”

"Bullied?" Laurelai turned away from the shelves, frowning in dismay. She did not understand why the idea of familiarity upset him- she had made no advances, despite her natural playfulness and desires. Had she misspoken?

"I have not made myself clear. Forgive me, I do not know how to make you understand, cherè." Laurelai sat down in the chair before the desk, and folded her hands in her lap with a sigh. The intricacies of human socialization escaped her experience, and she had little choice but to concede to his greater wisdom. Even more frustrating was her limited grasp of English; too many nuances lost in translation.

"It does not matter. Call me as you like." Laurelai gazed off at the hearth, her expression unreadable.

"May I ask why Monsieur Horst is a vampire, while you are not?"

Cabal gave the books and paper a longing glance. She was prepared to discuss anything awkward and painful, it seemed. “In a minute.” He disliked the paranoid feeling that she had agendas and wishes in this partnership he did not understand, however harmless they were.

“Mademoiselle Laurelai, try to make me understand what you want from me and why. With reference, if you please, to the significance of given names and llamia nests, as well as any other subjects you find relevant. And what, if you please, is a flock?”

Laurelai's lower lip quirked irksomely, and she looked down at her hands. He was quick to demand answers of her, and yet many of her simple queries went ignored. Not for the first time, she considered shaking him violently.

Instead, she took a deep breath and examined her fingernails for traces of blood or dirt.

"When we met in your garden, we became friends, no? I returned your silver, and we played a game. This is known." she looked up at him evenly, spreading her hands as she presented the facts. "I respect that you do not want my kiss, and those other rules you made. I have not betrayed the things you confide in me, nor would I wish to pry in affairs that are not my own."

"But then that man tried to kill us. I do not like to remember that." she lowered her voice; her tone earnest. "I was afraid for you. You did not have to fight for me. What am I to you? Nothing."

Here, her hand pressed over the sliced leather at her ribs- the wound healed but present in memory. Laurelai looked up at Cabal, frowning. "I do not know the word for it. But I treat you as one of my own, and you address me as a stranger. It is offensive, to me."

Cabal’s eyes unfocussed as he made mental notes. “So by ‘flock’ you meant you were considering me ‘one of your own.’” He was unashamed when thinking it through as an abstract concept. “And a flock shares the nest? So by rejecting the nest I was implicitly rejecting your offer of kinship status?”

"Oui. After a fashion." Laurelai's lashes lowered and rose in catlike agreement, and she lounged back in the deep leather chair. Her lower lip threatened a pout. "I treat you as an equal. You treat me as a stranger. Is that not doubt?"

Cabal was silent. He knew she would wait for his answer, and he needed time to express it. “I brought this house here more than ten years ago, stick and stone.”

“In that time, four people have been allowed to enter. The police sergeant from the village, Horst, one other, and yourself. Alone of that group, I have invited you into my home, into my work, and, briefly, into my mind. It does not seem to me like I am treating you as a stranger, however I address you or wherever I sleep. I regret that this bruises your sensibilities, but you must not ask more of me.”

Laurelai's brow lifted as Cabal explained his point of view, her expression open. She nodded when he was finished, collecting her thoughts. Perspective gained, the perceived insult eased.

"I am not easily bruised, cherè." Laurelai smiled a little and laughed as her posture relaxed, and combed a hand back through her hair. "I am glad you told me this, it is much different from what I was thinking. Call me as you like, I do not mind so much."

Cabal nodded, unexpectedly relieved. “Shall we continue to your first reading lesson?”

"Oui, I would like that." Laurelai's eyes brightened, and she sat more upright, the arch of her torso causing the slashed side of her leather vest to gape. Pale ribs showed beneath, unmarked.

Clothing next week, Cabal thought. "Are you familiar with the letters of the alphabet?" He had bought the book he thought would appeal most to Laurelai. It had colour illustrations and touches of gilding.

"No, but I know my name. It is how I found my cemetery." Laurelai smiled a little and tugged the edge of her vest down as she moved to the edge of her seat.

"This is - hm. An English book. It might have been easier to start with French, but there are advantages to starting with the most untidy and irrational language, and besides, it is where you live."

"Oh, it is pretty!" Laurelai was enticed by the illustrations, and she leaned close to look over Cabal's shoulder. He opened the book so she could see it and started to read.

“A is for….?”

“Une pomme- ah- apple?” Laurelai liked this game. “Brioche! No, bread!”

Cabal soon realized that some of the examples were more familiar to her than others.

"Carousel.. I like those."

Cabal pictured Laurelai on a carousel, surrounded by children and their parents and suppressed a smile. “D is for duck. E is for elephant.”

"Fleur?" Laurelai touched the next page, recognizing the illusion and drawing a conclusion. Her fingers traced the F, and she lingered on the page, tracing each letter. She moved on to the next page, frowning at the illustrated greengrocer. The rows of vegetables and smiling family meant nothing to her.

"What is that?"

“A greengrocer’s. They sell fruits and vegetables.”

There were these odd lacunae in her memory, he thought. Things she must once have known that she had forgotten. Vampires rarely experienced a loss of memory with the change, though the memories were often incomprehensible to them as they lost the ability to feel love or loyalty. Laurelai’s psychology seemed human, if foreign.

He continued reading, pausing to allow her to make the connection between the shape of the letter, the sound, and the example given.

"The sounds are different, in here." Laurelai tapped the side of her head with her index finger, looking puzzled as she took the alphabet book into her lap. She flipped backwards through the pages, sounding soft consonants under her breath as she sought examples on each page.

She seemed to forget that Cabal was present.

“Are they?” Cabal was bemused for a moment. “What sounds do they make in your head?”

She didn't answer at first, quietly repeating the sounds under her breath. Puzzled, she sat back and shook her head. "Different, it is like.. I do not know how to describe."

"Hullo Miss Laurelai," Horst smiled warmly from the doorway, carrying a tray of Assam tea and freshly baked currant scones. He nodded to Johannes, and placed the tray on the edge of the desk. "Thought you might like to have a little snack while you work."

Cabal gave his brother a narrow look. “Miss Laurelai does not eat… scones. As you well know. Is this purely for my benefit? How kind. How completely unmotivated by anything but brotherly affection. How unsuspicious.”

Laurelai had fallen quiet as Horst had entered, watching him warily. She held her book closed upon her lap, lavender eyes flicking from one brother to the other. She neither acknowledged the greeting, nor replied, watchful.

Horst was unaffected by his younger brother's vitriol. He smiled pleasantly and nodded, looking at Laurelai. Seeing that she did not smile back, his confidence wavered; an unfamiliar feeling.

"I wanted to say hello, and knowing that you're not likely to feed yourself without a reminder, I thought I'd do something nice. People do nice things for each other all the time, did you know that? Funny old world." Horst winked at Laurelai, hoping she would enjoy his humor.

She did not, and gazed balefully back before looking at Johannes. "It is me he is curious about. Vampires always are."

“I have never known Horst to be overburdened with curiosity.” Cabal was beginning to get the feeling that Laurelai actively disliked his brother. Was it some natural antipathy of species? “We were working, Horst. But… did you bring lemon?”

"Well, I might be a tiny bit curious, but only because I'd like to get to know you." Horst smiled at Laurelai. He felt that he was on unsteady ground with her and wanted to fix whatever social misstep he had made. "I like to get to know my little brother's lady friends."

Laurelai did not respond, but looked vaguely uncomfortable. She nodded, and looked down at her book.

"Lemon? Oh, back in a mo'," Horst had never felt so awkward, and his smile felt like a mask as he returned to the kitchen.

“He always forgets the lemon.” Cabal straightened the papers. “You are under no obligation to socialize with Horst. Although. People do generally want to.”

Laurelai watched Cabal, silent for a moment as she considered whether or not to reply. After all, he had not asked for an explanation.

"I have not had good experiences, in the past." she confided, looking back down at the elaborately drawn ‘T’ upon the page. She did not like anything that made her feel weak, which Horst most certainly had at their first meeting. She traced the gilded illustration with a finger.

"Why does this page show a Horn, and yet the letter is not that sound?" Laurelai attempted to change the subject.

Cabal disliked straying from the task at hand, but she had piqued his curiosity. "You have been mistreated by other vampires?"

Laurelai's gaze turned inward, her shoulders slouching slightly. She was silent a moment longer- her thoughts faraway.

"Oui."

"How did they... that is, in what way...." The cross-examination forming in Cabal's mind came to a jerking halt as he took in her bowed shoulders. "That is...." There would be a better time, he told himself, to learn about vampire-llamia relations. "A trumpet. That is a trumpet, a type of horn."

"For sex, or blood. Sometimes for sport- how should I know?" Laurelai's gaze remained unblinking, fixed upon Cabal's. His answer to her question was either disregarded or assimilated- it was impossible to know.

She tilted her head, apparently waiting.

After a moment, Cabal nodded. "Then naturally you are wary." He tried to stop there, but could not. "Horst is a good man. You are safe here. And if he could not protect you," Cabal had a feeling this sentence was getting away from him, but there was no way to divert it now, "then I would. Under the terms of our agreement. Now, the letter 'U.'"

Laurelai's expression turned querulous for a moment- confusion and surprise mingling. His vow was heartfelt. She could not recall another instance where she felt such camaraderie.

Standing in one fluid movement- book toppling to the floor- Laurelai cupped Cabal's face and kissed his forehead. Then she sat down with a happy coo and retrieved the book from where it had fallen.

Cabal wasn’t sure she saw the severe look that rewarded the kiss; it was not one of his best efforts. He had cobbled it together hastily from a confused expression, and it came from a desire to remind her of the rules, not from genuine ire. “Mademoiselle,” But her gesture had not felt threatening. Inexplicably, she was happy again. It struck Cabal that she was like Horst in that way; nothing clouded her temperament for long. It baffled him. “May we return to work?”

"Oui." Laurelai favored the scientist with a fond, fanged smile- tinted with a hint of mischief. Legs folded beneath her, she perched on the edge of Cabal's desk and peered at the book.

"Umber-alla?" she blinked, frowning. "Parasol?"

"Indeed. But waterproof."

The next few letters passed without incident. Cabal sipped his tea as they arrived at the final page. "Are you familiar with this animal?"

No sooner than had Laurelai turned the page, the book went flying--

--the Llamia hissing down at the offending illustration from atop the bookshelves.

"Zebra."

Unperturbed, Cabal placed his cup back in the saucer. "Indeed. An impractical and unpleasant animal. That concludes today's lesson. I will not detain you with such simple material next time.” She had been able to read once, he suspected; she was already sounding out words. “You may take this book with you, if you wish." He withdrew his notebook.

"I need to hold our next lesson a day or two late. I find I have a commitment. Is that acceptable?" He glanced up.

Satisfied that the illustrated embodiment of nightmares would not gallop off the page and harm her, Laurelai lowered herself to the floor. She lifted the book and folded it closed, considering Cabal's proposal. She placed the book atop his desk.

"One night? Or two?" she asked in return. "I must have care for my roses. It grows colder."

He shrugged. "I should return by daylight on the Saturday, and I will be rested by that evening. We may meet then, or a later day."

Laurelai's expression became thoughtful as first she had to recall what day it was- counting on her fingers. She nodded solemnly, rocking from heel to toe as an idea bloomed.

"I could go with you? I could protect you, or be helpful in some other way? And my lesson would be to travel. As a human woman."

Cabal did not dismiss the idea out of hand. He believed in the value of applied learning. "The idea has merit, and were I tutoring you in theft from mid-range British museums, I might require you to accompany me. But you wish to learn to pass among humans." Her acrobatic skills might be very useful, he thought.

Laurelai nodded, and, in an effort to persuade him, she smiled, clasped her hands politely before herself and subtly batted her eyelashes. "I have no need to learn how to break into the museum, cherè, I go there quite often. I like the ghosts." She smiled, her tone softly pleading.

"If I promise to wear a dress, and speak only French, could I not also provide you with security of alibi?" She had heard the term over the wireless, and found it intriguing. What games humans played!

Cabal’s eyes narrowed as he considered the advantages and disadvantages of her offer. He had planned to go in while the museum was closed and smash a case open with a hammer. If he was interrupted, no number of be-gowned Frenchwomen would provide a sufficient alibi, although a llamia might be of some use. He might be able to accommodate her wishes while gaining her help. Laurelai was a habituée of the building; at least she would not slow him down.

“Perhaps. You might accompany me to the town,” it was unnecessary for the theft but would be good practice for her, “and assist me during the acquisition. After, I would return here alone.”

"You mean I would not have to stay and watch you growl at your notebook?" This was a bonus to the plan, which would also allow the time she needed to acquire certain chemicals she needed for her roses. Perhaps she might practice her new skills in a tavern or two. "Oui, this is acceptable."

Cabal was confused. Growl at his notebook? Possibly her English was faulty. "Very well, then." This was an excellent development: an efficient use of both their time, and advantageous to them both. There was no reason to feel any misgivings.

Laurelai smiled at Cabal's agreement, a gesture that complimented her features and showed off deadly dentition.

"Oui, bon. I will arrive at the customary time." She paused, a thought occurring. "You may tell your brother I will need a dress, hm?"

#cynaram #|| Cemetery Roses #v: Cemetery Roses #|| save tag #|| Drabble

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alxndre-0001 · 5 years ago

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Alex’s Literary Reads of 2019 (from the months of June to September)

Caution: Bad, unedited writing ahead. Alex is a lazy person

Being a law student is an exhausting line of self-inflicted harm. Your life becomes an onslaught of reading materials and even more reading materials to catch up to. Now, reading has been second nature to me since I was four years old, so you can just imagine the sheer amount of readings my law professors have given us for me to consider detesting reading.

I’ve managed to keep my sobriety from purely academic books by inserting novels, short stories and some poetry along the way. In all my four years in law school, this is the only year that I read as much as I wanted to. Mostly, short stories and essays that could be finished in one sitting. I had summer classes and wasn’t able to go home at all since January or February so I kept myself preoccupied by reading leisurely ( I know, gasp! Is that even possible for Alex in this economy?).

So here they are ++ some reviews and thoughts on the books.

1. Delta of Venus by Anais Nin

I read this book at the same time as a friend of mine. It was my first time diving into erotica considered to hold literary merit, the ones I had before were utterly terrible, by the way. But we are talking of Anais Nin anyway, so there’s that. It’s actually a collection of erotic short stories involving different, unconnected characters although a few of them were referenced in other stories. As someone who’s always been fine with sex in plots, this one left me feeling visibly unsettled. I realized how truly romanticized sex can be in popular books (e.g Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy). The outpouring of feminine pleasure on those books was strictly gratuitous and self-indulgent. Delta of Venus was an uncomfortable experience because it fleshed out several discomfiting realities of sex and titillation – violence is often an element of power play in the bedroom, voyeuristic tendencies of everyone, depraved fantasies which are almost immoral in their insistence.

Of particular impressions were ‘The Hungarian Adventurer’ and ‘Boarding School’ which explored themes of rape, incest, and even bestiality at one point. It wasn’t the fact of preference that appalled me, it was the simple exposition of the truth – sex is all things good and bad, inexplicable and sensual. I have a problem with how media portrays sex, especially in popular culture which is partial with idealistic notions of sexual roles apparent in concepts like the male gaze and fantasy in porn. You see, these things eventually become damaging. When we glamorize something as common as sex, it either becomes fodder for taboo or fantasy, which incidentally what occurs with conversations of sex. Either it is a subject much condemned for its alleged impurity or a dirty little secret which encourages unrealistic expectations for both sexes.

Nin’s style of writing borders on the absurd, but it is done intentionally. In one interview, she narrated how a client wanted her to write erotica which was basically porn and just skip the poetry. She refused as any self-respecting and intelligent woman would. And well, we need to appreciate her for that. If she let the client have his way, then what we’d have is an exaggerated image of sex instead of the unnerving stories of Delta. In a sense, we can consider Delta as a commentary on sex literature which caters to a male audience. The stories were rife with feeling, of emotion, which feminized a genre so overtly masculine, pandering to the male gaze.

There were quite a number of jibes at the male gaze as well with stories like ‘Marianne’ and the ‘The Veiled Woman’. My favorite was when Marianne (Marianne) met a man who felt erotic pleasure by only being looked at, like an object of desire. It appeared to me as a reverse of the male gaze, which often portrayed women as the object of desire, effacing her human qualities to turn her into just a vessel to express lust, infatuation or even love. But here, the object of desire is a man and we are made privy into his thoughts and actions, humanizing him instead of treating him as just an object.

Overall, Delta of Venus was a fine starter for anyone who wished to know more of Anais Nin. The prose flowed well, even lyrically so, despite sex being a subject which can easily turn stale if not carefully written.

2. Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allan Poe

My first experience with Poe was when I was around nine or ten years old. I was a nosy child when it came to other people’s books and one day I found printed copies of short stories of my cousin’s in his room. One of them was A Tell-Tale Heart. I still remember feeling on edge as I read the slightly blurred lines in cheap brown paper, it was utterly thrilling. The horror of the story comes less from the almost supernatural obsession of the unnamed character with the eye of the old man. It was more on his slipping attempts of overcoming the inhuman desire to kill the man for his eye.

There’s always something that fascinates me with horror that is internally driven. More than the hostility of vampires, the looming threats of an apocalypse, the real horror for me lies in the deep recesses of the human heart, that inscrutable machine that throbs inextricably within all of us. And I feel like that’s what always impressed me with Poe. He had the excellent ability to articulate darkness that is motivated by the self and that is a feat for writers. Stephen King, for example, is great at understanding that his monsters are metaphors for his inner demons but he relates them into tangible forms be it demon dogs, telekinetic teenagers to give them an external existence.

Poe has a clear grasp of fear and all its friends. And though some critics would lend an idea that Poe writes well with supernatural elements, I beg to disagree. He uses, for one, unreliable narrators (Berenice, William Williamson, Fall of the House of Usher). The thing with unreliable narrators is they warp the sense of reality of the stories, an indication to the reader that everything is not what it seems. And if one pays enough attention, then they could ask the all-important question: Is this the real-life or is this just fantasy? If you’re playing with those two possibilities, then you’d be less scared with the supernatural/ external world than the worldview of the narrator. You start to scrutinize him more closely, dog his steps, intimate his intentions, etc like some fixated lover. In doing so, in peering into the mind of another, you stumble into your own inner motivations, your thoughts and who knows you might mirror the darkness the narrator is struggling with?

And there is the true gift of Poe – he reads everyone like how he reads himself. He doesn’t do this by getting acquainted with thousands of people with innumerable different lives. No, sir. He forces readers to examine themselves and the darkness inherent in men but constantly, through our self-delusion denied as present in others but not in ourselves. I need not belabor that this kind of writer is my favorite, the ones with a very vivid understanding of humanity, no matter how bleak the answers that arrive to them.

I went at liberties with Poe (lol) but some favorites inside the collection of stories are The Case of M. Valdemar, Black Cat, Descent into the Maelstrom and Pit of the Pendulum. My only issue is Poe’s tendency to philosophize in protracted terms that I was afraid I was going to get bored to death ( Domain of Arnheim, The Island of the Fay) with the possible exception of ‘The Colloquy of Monos and Una’ since I like the ideas presented there.

3. Slapstick! or Lonesome No More by Kurt Vonnegut

I was supposed to start with Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions or Cat’s Cradle but the only available copy of the writer’s work in the book fair (thanks BBW!!) was this one. It seemed like a light read, a stark contrast from Poe’s grim, verbose collection, so I decided to give it a go. The last time I read a sci-fi novel was Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 ( a real shame since I planned on reading more sci-fi this year). I finished it in less than a day and I wouldn’t say it left me with any remarkable opinion as much as the other books have had on me except that Vonnegut seemed like that fun, carefree uncle in reunions who has an alcohol abuse problem, is unmarried, and eats grapefruit for breakfast.

It’s not a very long novel and Vonnegut kept ending every part with ‘Hi, ho’. There’s a deeper sadness that is thinly veiled in the book as well, yeah slapstick, which reminded me of David Wallace’s Infinite Jest except the latter presents a more serious nod to its humor.

It tells the story of Wilbur and Eliza, twins who are considered conventionally horrendous and abnormal in physical qualities. They are tall, too tall in fact. But thank god for rich parents who secretly dislike them, that they lived a sheltered existence away from everyone else other than their servants and a doctor who checks them every day. Unbeknownst to the parents and everyone else, the twins are super smart but only if they are allowed to share their intelligence by being close to each other.

Long story made short, it’s a light read and perhaps a good overview of Vonnegut’s style of writing. I did want to read Slaughterhouse-Five after this one, so maybe that’s a good start.

4. Dubliners by James Joyce

I’m having a hard time deciding whether this is my favorite out of everything else in this list or not. James Joyce was actually one of the writers I wanted to read very closely and understand his style better. He had such status and influence in modernism, plus the mythic reputations of both Finnegan’s Wake and Ulysses for their wrought complexity and ingenuity in style that I felt drawn to his works. You should have seen my face when I got a copy of this book at the BBW Fair last August – think of a kid in a candy store for an accurate depiction.

Let’s cut right down to the chase. What do I really think of this book? To sum up my thoughts about it: If there is a master class for short story writing, Dubliners should be a required reading. I am by no means a writer or journalist but as someone who reads short stories often (more often than novels or poetry) for the last two or three years, Dubliners was a standout.

Dubliners is actually a collection of short stories (hell I’ve only been having collections, is this a pattern? lol). They are set in Ireland mediated through the simplicity of daily life. I admired the craftsmanship of Joyce in this one, the prose was written so concisely, dispensing with the arduous descriptions that lead nowhere.

The characters, too, were forged from the circumstances of ordinariness – a dead priest, an abused woman, a boy about to come of age and so on. The characters themselves feel like semblances of a collective consciousness – that of Ireland during a tumultuous time in the 20th century. In a way, the mundane, individual aspects of a character’s life was a mirror to the social conditions Joyce wanted to portray emphatically in the stories. The style was polished in a way that one is made to occupy the places mentioned in Dublin through the familiarity of an old friend, a returning local into the arms of unchanged memories. There hung in each story, a great atmosphere of nostalgia and I suspect it is because Joyce knows how to excavate sentiments for places which we haven’t even visited or seen but that somehow we recognize as phantoms of our very own lives.

There is indeed great beauty in the most ordinary things and it takes the eye of an artist to take the uneventful and reveal its exquisiteness. Joyce made me grasp a show of that ability in the days that I pored through his collection. Whatever he intended while writing Dubliners, whether as a mirror of a conflicted Irish society or as a commentary to the social context borne through those times, it is his style that won me over. The plots were as simplistic as possible and there was no way to harness more meaning from the events of a character’s life rather than to take them at face value and coming to the understanding of just how nuanced and visceral our daily lives can be if only we looked hard enough, paid attention enough.

Dubliners reminded me of what I look for most in a book. It really is less of the plot or even it’s overarching theme and more of the style. Language as an art form has always been my standard in saying if a book has taken me in or not. The great writer, Vladimir Nabokov is similarly convinced that language can elevate a story into an art form. There is artistic merit in a writer’s style just by itself and I would rather read a book with a weak plot but with a sound use of language than a novel plot with a severely exploited and copied style.

5. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

Perhaps the other strong contender for favorite in this list is Heart of Darkness. To be fair, it was less a book and more of an experience. An experience of what literature can do when it goes beyond style and narration to get to the bottom of the writer’s innermost motivations for writing the book. I ended Heart of Darkness, perplexed and in much quandary. There are only two possible explanations: First either the book was beyond me and my mediocre mind that try as I might, meaning of any sort would only elude me. Second, it was so condensed with significance that reading it once simply didn’t qualify as reading it at all. By the end of maybe two days, I realized it was the latter. For the lack of any other time, I’m going to try and process its entirety with the sum of my reading it only once.

I confess I looked up a video review off YouTube before getting to the book, mostly because classics have a way of being exhaustively discussed without losing their ability to sustain a reader’s interest. In my case, spoilers don’t do any damage or if there is any, of only negligible consequence since I look for other things other than the stream of events.

According to the video review, the book is an example of darkness as a location. To put context to this description, it would be good to tell a bit of the story. This is about an English man named Marlow who went to Congo to take on greener chances in the trade therein and for which the backdrop is meant to replicate the inhuman conditions of the slave trade. Amidst all this is another man named Kurtz, who was quite illustrious as a prodigious ivory trader and who was steeped in so much mystery. Upon arriving at the Congo, Marlow witnesses the cruel treatment of the ‘slaves’ under the supervision of the Europeans.

#books #review #literature #anaisnin #edgar allan poe #kurt vonnegut #james joyce #dubliners

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