#Ah the duality of metaphors

[phoenixcatch7]

Okay but it's super interesting how

Din = Power = Ganondorf

Naryu = Wisdom = Zelda

Farore = Courage = Link.

Because Din, in the hylian creation myth, created the physical world. Naryu then created the laws - gravity, time, etc. And Farore finally created life - plants and people.

Din created the body, naryu the mind, Farore the soul.

And the triforce and its wielders so perfectly reflect that.

Ganon is physical power, he is big and intimidating and he breaks things. He is cunning and determined, but that's not what he focuses on. He is might makes right.

Zelda is wisdom and cleverness. She is stall tactics and information and team work. She is a powerful mage with a spine of steel, but that's not how she'll win. She is the pen being mightier than the sword.

Link is courage and persistence. He is the wild card sneaking behind enemy ranks, always moving, plunging into terrifying situations head first. He's a phenomenal fighter with a keen wit, but that's not what will get him through his challenges. He is bravery not being the absence of fear but the triumph over it.

They sit in perfect parallels to each other.

And ganon is reborn through his body - his resurrection is immortality. No matter how low he is cast, as long as he has a body he can claw his way back. He can cling to his power, build it ever higher.

Zelda is reborn through the magic of her bloodline. It's the accumulated knowledge handed down for generations, the unique power she must master, the skills she must develop to survive and get her kingdom out the other side intact. Even her name, the knowledge of herself, is handed down from all the way from the very first. Her ancestors knowledge of her future presence, her stability, is what gives her the edge.

Link is reborn in spirit. He is not bound by flesh or blood. Just like his wanderlust soul he can reappear in any time or place. His variation, his unpredictability, is exactly how he fights. It's what makes him so hard to pin down.

Ganons need to build strength means he can't chase after link. Links impulsiveness means zelda can outwit him. Zeldas stationary predictability means she's an easy target for ganon.

But the other direction?

Fire melts ice, ice redirects lightning, lightning burns fire.

And that's the very essence of the triforce.

[mirrortouchedsea]

so i got niki and meru's autumn noon 3 lines recently and i just love the duality of them. himeru vc shiina just made himeru an apple pie and it tastes like autumn :) vs niki himeru-kun asked me to make this pie~! so obviously i had to write something about it. recipe pulled from here btw. i want to do something else with this so you might see a second version of this Eventually but for now you get this.

7 large Granny Smith apples (peeled, cored and sliced into ½ inch slices)

½ cup granulated sugar

½ cup light brown sugar (loosely packed)

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

⅛ teaspoon ground nutmeg

1 tablespoon lemon juice (plus the zest of half of a lemon)

1 large egg (lightly beaten in a small bowl for egg wash)

2 tablespoons sanding sugar (optional)

The first step to baking a pie is to prepare the dough. Prepare the vinegar and cool water mix and set aside. You were like that mixture to our group when we formed, seemingly out of place but a necessary ingredient to make the finished product taste good. Combine flour, salt, and sugar in a bowl before adding the butter cut up into cubes and cutting it into the dry ingredients. Just like how we needed to be pushed to the limits before we could make something whole. Drizzle the ice water and vinegar mixture over the dry ingredients and mix in with a fork, and make sure ingredients are fully incorporated with your hands. Divide into two disks and set in the fridge to chill. 

Once the pie crust is set, you can begin the next part of the process. HiMERU-kun, I think you’re a lot like an apple pie in a funny sort of way. Hey! I’m just saying! Well let’s prepare the apples, can you peel them, I’ll core and slice them up. When we were living together in the dorms, during the summer, you were such a stranger to us. I would never have guessed that you had such a big sweet tooth with the serious airs you put on for us back then. I’m really glad you’ve been able to relax a bit more, HiMERU-kun and trust us with yourself. Oh, careful that you don’t cut yourself on the peeler! 

With the apples prepared, we can coat them in the other ingredients. I’ve already put the flour, sugar, spices, and lemon juice in the bowl, we just have to mix in the apples. Don’t be afraid to get a bit messy! You know, in the labyrinth for that TV show Vice Prez put us through, I didn’t expect you to be so torn on the decision at the end with your rewards. It’s okay to be selfish sometimes and we totally understand that! We’ll support you until the very end, you know? Make sure the apples are coated as evenly as possible. 

Okay, let’s roll out the pie crust and get these pies put together! The oven should be done preheating soon so we can get it in there when we’re ready! Ah, this makes me think of just all the trips we’ve been on and the shit we’ve pulled. I know you hate Rinne-kun’s pranks but life would be pretty dull without him in it, yeah? He’s really the reason any of us are here in ES right now huh. Hey! I can be sappy about him sometimes and I know you feel the same way don’t even try to deny it! Anyway just put the crust in the pie tin like so. 

Next we’ll fill the pie tin with the filling. Just spoon it in like that and spread it out. If you really think about it, filling a pie can really be a metaphor for becoming friends. Where do you end and where do I start? Oh, so now you’re telling me to not be so sappy? You were the one who wanted to make an apple pie together and you have to deal with me to get it! That’s why I’m trying to teach you how to make it in the first place! 

I’ve rolled out the other piece of the crust so we can just put that on top now and let me carefully cut some vents into it. It’s just to make sure the pie doesn’t explode in the oven, unless you want to spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning the oven too? Now that I’ve cut the vents, we can go around the crust and pinch it closed like this. Even if you look the same as you did all those months ago during the MDM, we can all tell you’ve changed a little. We’ve all grown on you HiMERU-kun~ Agh! Okay I get it I get it I’ll stop with the food metaphors. No I won’t but still. Let’s put the pie shield on and wash the top crust with that egg wash. 

We’ll put it in the oven for 25 minutes first before we take off that shield, just to make sure we don’t burn the pie. We wouldn’t want to burn your mood either, and I like you like this. I’m just saying, I like spending time with you HiMERU-kun, that’s all. What did you want to do while we waited? Dishes would be a good idea so we don’t have to do them later. Do you want to wash or dry? 

After the shield is removed, we’ll put it back in the oven for 35 more minutes to finish baking. The dishes are all put away which leaves us with a little bit of time to relax before we can pull it out and let it cool. Have you ever baked a pie, HiMERU-kun? I should have asked earlier but you did great with this one. Oh, HiMERU-kun our HiMERU-kun has never baked a pie before?! Well there’s a first time for everything and I’m really happy we got to make your first pie together! It’ll taste delicious and I’m sure it’ll end up on Cinnamon’s menu this season too. I meant it earlier when I said you were like an apple pie too, HiMERU-kun. You’re a bit tart at first bite but sweeten up very quickly and I’m glad I get to see this side of you~ Oh, the timer went off! Let’s pull it out to cool. We need to let it cool for a few hours before we can try it, so we can go do something else for a bit--

Ah, HiMERU-kun, what was that? I had something on my lips? And you didn’t get it all the first time? Well I won’t say no to another try~ Just make sure you don’t put your hand on the baking tray. 

[santoschristos]

Tlazolteotl

My heart is a flower, the corolla opens; Ah! It is the mistress of midnight and She has arrived Our Mother, the Goddess Tlazolteotl. (Hymn to Tlazolteotl, from Baéz-Jorge 101 -- Los oficios de las diosas [The stations of the goddesses) Powers and Abilities

Tlazolteotl is a deity encompassing diverse realms, representing sexuality, vice, purification, steam baths, lust, filth, and serving as a patroness of adulterers. Her influence is paradoxical, as she inspires both carnal desire and sinful behavior while simultaneously offering absolution and forgiveness. Additionally, Tlazolteotl is intricately linked to lunar and agricultural attributes, symbolized by her association with the jaguar and the ritualistic calendar.

In her role as Tlazolteotl-Tlaelcuani, the forgiver of sins, her clergy actively engages in hearing confessions and providing absolution. Tlazolteotl’s dominion extends across both the material and the spiritual realms. She ignites desires within mortals, weaving threads of temptation that lead to transgressions. Yet, she also facilitates absolution through confession and ritualized cleansing, especially in the context of sweat baths.

Tlazolteotl’s power is manifested in the realms of steam and filth, both in the literal and metaphorical sense, showcasing her unique ability to transform impurity into purity. As a deity presiding over childbirth, she guides new life into the world, simultaneously weaving the threads of fate for newborns. The intricate duality within Tlazolteotl’s influence reflects the complex interplay between desire, sin, purification, and the cyclical nature of life. Tlazolteotl Image: Mahaboka

[over-smiles-and-over-wine]

In honor of the 7th birthday of BTWIFY, my absolute favorite album of all time, the non-comprehensive and off the cuff thoughts about each song that spring to mind presently:

Every Time I Hear That Song - The thesis of the album. "That's twice you broke my heart now, the first was way back when, and to know you're still unhappy only makes it break again". (You might think I've posted that line an amount of times that could be described as 'excessive', but you'd be wrong, because that's not possible.)

The Joke - Everything I could say has already been said by myself and others. I have a memory in complete photographic detail of really *Hearing* this song for the first time while getting on the tiny exit off of the highway to my old barn and feeling like (employing Brandi's metaphors that make no literal sense) my blood was turning a different color and consistency

Hold out Your Hand - I love this song. My litmus test for how I'm feeling about the political and cultural state of the country at any given time is whether it makes me feel immortal or want to break down crying. It's a coin flip.

The Mother - Truly, I'm not old enough to fully connect to this song from the perspective of the speaker, but that does not stop it from making me have All Of The Emotions. It's the notion of possibly being a mother myself in the future and what that would look like, while simultaneously thinking about my own mother and all that she went through, and also the human-ness and raw honesty of the song itself. (Also, her "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing so I'm just going off of pure instinct and my instincts just happen to be very good" style of guitar playing really shines here)

Whatever You Do - Yeah. [insert all of the lyrics to the song]

Fulton County Jane Doe - Probably one of the only people for which this song has one of the most direct personal associations on the album. You were more than Fulton County Jane.

Sugartooth - This is the song that made it really fully Click for me about BCB the first time I heard it. Like, "okay, this is My Band forever now and I would die for any of them". Still very much a top personal favorite. Can only listen to it under certain circumstances because it makes my throat close up.

Most of All - Ah, Most of All, the subject of my paper which maybe I will finish one day possibly maybe. Every time I talk about it it turns into 200+ words of incomprehensible rambling, so I'm not going to go down that rabbit hole right now, but you get it. I don't worry much about time lost, I'm not gunning for the dreams I couldn't find because he taught me how to walk the best that I can on the road I've left behind.

Harder to Forgive - Have not actually gotten out an instrument to figure it out, but just by ear, I think this song has her lowest note on a studio recording. Another one that could be the subject of a paper, but presently I'm not going down that path again, lol. Summary: a lot of the time, completion is letting go of the need for completion.

Party of One - So many thoughts, so many feelings. Could make a strong argument that this is her most Joni song behind You and Me on the Rock. The lyrics themselves are so specific and personal and therefore finite, but the real sentiment is completely and absolutely timeless, and that duality is just. I mean it so seriously when I say this song has a life of its own.

[vforvicferrari]

Two Sides of the Flame

As I watch the news about the wildfires raging through Los Angeles, my heart aches. Jef sees the devastation, the loss, and the terror in the eyes of people forced to flee their homes. Families are left with nothing but the clothes on their backs, their memories reduced to ash. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of their grief, the shared humanity in their suffering. Jef wants to reach out, to help, to fix.

But then there’s V. Oh, V. Laughing in the corner of my mind, sipping on his metaphoric tea as mansions burn. “Ah,” he says, “Poetic justice, isn’t it? The flames don’t care how big your house is or how fat your bank account looks. Let the 1% taste a little of the chaos they’ve helped perpetuate.”

It’s unsettling, this duality. Jef mourns the loss of life and home, while V delights in the symbolism. To V, the fire is a great equalizer, stripping away the illusion of control and leaving everyone vulnerable to the same merciless force of nature.

But there’s truth in both perspectives. We’re all spectators in this cosmic play, torn between empathy and the darker satisfaction of seeing unchecked greed brought low.

For now, I’ll sit with both of them—the heartache and the laughter—knowing neither is wholly wrong, and both are part of me.

[achilleswishes]

In Which Hawk Goes to Taco Bell (No, He Doesn't) and Other Misleading Events

Word count: 735

I dunno.

I thought things would have happened differently by now. It's a little bit like walking down train tracks, if you could walk and be bound to them at the same time. In that example, I guess, you would be the train. Forever bound to predestined coordinates, yet, able to be moved by will just the same. Left or right? Right, Hawk, right?

I have never once been bound, and yet, my hands have never been more tied. Nevertheless, my expectation and reality seem to have diverged as streams of water do before pooling under the same moonlight.

You might expect your brother to love you despite all that you've done. You might expect him to hate you. In all cases, you were exactly correct, if only so that you may never know it and for it to never present itself in the way you anticipated.

You were lucky, Hawk. You were lucky. That is to say, he does love you and he does hate you, and whichever aspect you were looking to find may be appealed upon by the very gods that do or do not bind us.

Excruciatingly, my speech remains riddled with metaphors and similes alike, although take it upon my soul that I have never spoken so freely about this subject but once. Once, that you and I will be sure to see after the fact, but never before it.

If all of time and space had appeared before my very eyes, at this moment all would have become clear to me, and yet slipping back into the dream of reality, it would fade, until the knowledge was useless and merely a broken compass promising that if you followed it surely enough, you would find north. This is not how I truly feel about these things.

I am full of wonder, of curiosity, a broken record promising things it should embody, not recount. Yes, we know the title, now play the song. But my strings are broken. You never had strings, Hawk.

[The writer appears to have been distracted by a giant moth. Things have calmed down considerably.]

Ah, yes. You are merely a recording. Perform your assigned duties and play the song. But the timing isn't right. There was never a chance for it to be anything else, now play. Play, because the terminal velocity of your obsolescence is approaching, Hawk. Now play.

I am saddled with time and space. There is not a moment that I miss. Only sentences I speak that bore you, that are so very, very boring. That have no place in common sense. Fragments and whistles. Bone and blood in incorporeal terms... a great big nothing. Burger.

And so, yes, it doesn't really matter if I were to get nacho fries. Nothing really matters, although we're all made of it, which is to say everything matters exactly the same.

And I don't, well, I don't find it easy to speak about. Everyone, by which I mean three people, wishes I could speak plainly. What is there to say when their reality and your truth cinch around duality, on disproving one another?

Well, you can talk about train tracks. And you can talk about brothers, and other things you wish you really had. You can talk about time, the concept of it, and doors, and even doors with stickers, but not about doors with stickers of Irish Italian flags, even though you wish you had. Time is running out, after all.

Time can never run out, after all. There is just perfectly enough... Like Hannibal. Like Hannibal. Enough of this.

You can talk about buses, and lines and children. You can talk about devils and shapeshifting and even shrinking, if you really wanted to. You can hint about bothering. You can talk about deleted scenes.

Rooftops and love and strangest of all, werewolves. Magic and fighting. You can think to yourself about the truth of the matter, if you wanted. You could preserve it in your mind. You can remember what no one else can remember, if you wanted you could say that it's because it hasn't happened yet. You can say that it will happen.

But Time doesn't work like that. Not really. Not nearly enough to create the rule. You're going to remember.

When you watch it happen, maybe you'll finally understand.

I love you, and I think this is goodbye.

For now.

[yummy-little-stories]

But He Had To.

And so, Sir Avaerus marched onwards. His heavy plate boot crushed another soft rock beneath. He turned his eyes to the summit. Just about three hours left.

His forehead was slick with sweat and caked with dirt. His arms and legs tired. While his armor made his steps heavy, it was his mind that made them heavier. Each muscle movement monumental, moving him closer to his morose moirai.

His eyes caught a small patch of roses. With great effort, he knelt and picked one. He considered the petals for a moment, and considered the thorns for another. How could nature hold such duality? He snickered. Suffice to say, the metaphor was not lost on him. But even still, he drudged onwards, clutching the rose the whole march.

He found himself at a rickety bridge over a deep crossing. He nearly laughed at the cliche. A tentative step, and a shake of the head. He would have to remove his armor. He doubted he would need it, anyways. Nearly a half hour later, the armor was off and the bridge was crossed. He had nearly fallen twice to keep the rose from dropping into the abyss. His determination to deliver it frustrated him. But he was nearly there. It was growing much hotter.

One last trial. They did always come in threes, after all. A pair of Drakonells guarding her gate. They spoke in riddles, all ones Avaerus had heard before, and he was past them in no time. Though, he supposed, that was not the real trial. It was walking up the dirt path to her lair. But he made it.

Regal as always, atop her hoard of gold, sleeping. She almost looked weak. Avaerus shook his head at the thought. He once again considered the rose. His eyes empty, his brows lightly furrowed, his lips turned slightly downward, as they always were. He sighed, building courage. Then, in a bassy voice, "Zyrax."

Zyrax unfurled. She stood and spread her massive wings, streching not unlike a housecat. Then, she regarded him impassively. "Ah. Avaerus."

"I brought something for you."

"Why, thank you," she plucked the rose from his hand with two massive claws. "I assume I know why you are here?"

Avaerus nodded.

"Well, I suppose we should get on with it then." Zyrax added the rose to her hoard.

Avaerus let out a defeated sigh, wistful. He shook his head, "Why? Why could you not just leave things very well alone?"

"It is my nature." She continued to be impassive.

Avaerus scoffed, then looked away. "You," the frustration overtook him for a moment, "you and I do not have to do this. You could return what was lost. Make reparations."

She stared, her eyes bored. "It is not my nature."

"Your nature could change."

"Impossible."

"You have the capacity."

"I do not."

There was a pause.

Avaerus drew his sword and stepped forward. "Are you certain?"

"I am." Zyrax sat.

Avaerus's jaw clenched. His breathing quickened, "You would rather die than change?"

"I would."

Avaerus became unable to make eye contact. His lip began to quiver, and as he looked down a tear fell from his right eye. "Please, Zyrax, do not make me do this."

Zyrax remained silent.

Avaerus looked to her. And nodded. And he did what he had to do.

[i-am-vita]

It's been the week of thirsting over new blorbo and I can't be contained anymore. Let me introduce you oficially to ☘️Evil Clover Husband☘️

(I'm having too much fun with his stupid name)

Behold Shanks' evil twin (I wanted it to be true, I still can't believe it is) that actually bathes, dresses like a prince, has long elvish hair and resting bitch face.

Gods, just look at him 👀

I want to make him worse so bad 🫠🫠🫠

Oda, you can't just throw a Shanks' evil twin at me like this in the middle of my Hunchback of Notre Dame reminiscence (the way I can hear the Dies Irae from Paris Burning playing when he appears).

Do you have any idea what this kind of dualities do to my brain chemistry???

A heroic if not socially respectable (let's be real, Shanks is a drunk sea hobo) carefree little brother with a heart of gold and more charm than common sense vs a royal knight big brother with a higher than thou attitude, probable genocide tendencies and possible daddy issues (Shams was raised by Garling in Marie Geoise, he got all the daddy issues, Shanks had too many daddies to have issues).

How do I know Shamrock is the big brother?

Common pop culture sense. When a royal family has twins in fiction, the little one is normally the one thrown away. If we take Red (with a grain of salt), Roger found Shanks in a chest after the God Valley thing. The same event Garling attended too. Could this be a hint of humanity in Garling? Rather than kill his second son, he prefered to hide him away in a treasure chest that was bound to be found by someone else in the island, whoever they were. Not even him could kill his own baby, huh?

Other thing I'm absolutely certain: Shanks knows who his birth family is.

How? THE SWORDS!!!! Just look at them. If those are not twin swords too I'm chilean.

Isn't it odd that Shanks has a sword named Gryphon? A heraldry symbol used by royalty? There's also not concensus when he got it because he didn't seem to have that sword design when he met Luffy.

Wild headcanon, he got it AFTER turning into an Emperor. One way or another, they got in contact with him and Shanks inherited/win/stole Gryphon.

Tho, did he already know when they contacted him?

It would be so convenient that I have an OC ex-World-Noble-secret-Pirate-Captain-turned-Duke that participated in certain God Valley event and was besties with Gol D. Roger. And his right-hand ran away from home with the Redhead Pirates and used to be friends-with-benefits with Shanks.

Phantom Pirates and Ghost Rose lore coming up.

I've not decide if Rose hate-fucked Shamrock. Man hits all her (our) aesthetic bucket list, but he's... well, himself. And she sincerely loves Shanks. It's going to be so much fun after they reconnect 👉At the Bathhouse, like "I met your twin brother. He's an asshole. I fucked him for you. Not metaphorically". Tempting, tempting.

I need to sleep on all of this before continuing with the fic. Ah, yes, there's already a half written oneshot of it. I started it the second day.

I need to create, interact and reblog about the ☘️, but for respect to moots and followers that may not be yet at date with OP manga, I gave myself a week before start talking and reblogging ☘️ content.

If you saw me liking your posts about the ☘️, have me patience. I'll be full creating, interacting and reblogging your ☘️ content soon.

[definegodliness]

I love watching 80′s music videos. We’re all love-song sincere and all of the sudden the guy holds up two fish next to his ears. One fresh. One fried. And he rocks them back and forth to the beat, alternating both fishes in front of the camera, as if this is like a pique metaphor for the duality of man or something. And it is. It truly is. I mean, we all wear golden jackets, but how often do we allow someone to see the ugly slimy flatfish? 

Ah, art. 

[adarkrainbow]

If you have read the recaps of madame Levesque’s fairytale you’ll have noted that both tales have a moment that is not relevant to the plot, and is just a visit to an allegorical place where the hero is being taught a lesson about the nature of love. It is the Island of Lovers in “The Invisible Prince”, and the Vengeful Palace of Love (though maybe I should have rather translated it as “The Palace of the Revenge of Love”) in “The Prince of the Aquamarines”.

As I will explore more French fairytales, this tendency to invent magical and supernatural places that actually reflect human feelings (with a clear focus on love) will pop up frequently. 

It might seem weird to someone unused to the French literature of the time... but if you know your stuff, it is won’t surprise you. Because this tendency is actually a leftover of a massive phenomenon in the culture of the 17th century French culture: what is known today as “La carte de Tendre”. 

Ah, La carte de Tendre... If you study either literature or art in France, you are bound to have heard of it. La carte is “the map”, because it is a map as you can see above. “Tendre” is the name of the country this map supposedly describes - which literaly means “tender” yes, but shouldn’t be understood as a “tender meat”. Rather it is a “tender heart” - we could also translate that as “sweet”, for “sweet heart”. Because this map is actually the map of the country of love.

This map was actually a collaborative work among the circles of the “Précieuses” (the Precious - one of the driving literary-culture movements of the second half of the 17th century, and who had a big influence over French fairytales), led most notably by the famous madame de Rambouillet, the most famous “salon holder” of the time. The Precious Ones (or “Preciouses”) were people (mostly women) who argued and defended a more refined, civilized, delicate, ornamental form of culture. This map started out when Precious circles and people of the salon discussed about a famous novel by Madeleine de Scudéry, “Clélie, a Roman story”. One of the big topics of discussion, debate and wrting among those parts of French society was love - what was love, where did it came from, what were the different forms and levels of love, what is the proper way to seduce, how can one’s heart be touched, what destroys love... And upon discussing of this novel, the processes of love and seduction were discussed - debates upon what where the “roads to the hearts” or the “way to love”, which ended up in a work of classification and division, which then led to the idea of using the metaphor literaly and turn it all into a big geographical work...

And thus “The Map of Tender-Heart” was born. The map you see above, describing the country of love. Each city, each road, each river has its name, which is the one of a human emotion or action, and by looking at the different possible travels, you actually have a detailed manual of courtship and human emotions as understood at the time. This shows the duality of the “Precious spirit” which at the same time was very serious about what it did (hence the complete classification and organization of the different steps and regions of love), and yet also was light-hearted and second-degree with everything (hence making it the map of a fictional country, which could almost be used as a sentimental board game).

There are three different cities in this city, three capitals that represent the three different ways one can gain the love of someone - each located by the shores of a river which represents the three emotions related to the creation of one. One is “Estime” (respect, admiration, esteem), 

one is “Tendre-sur-Estime”, so called because it is located by the shores of the river “Estime” (respect, admiration, esteem), another is “Reconnaissance” (gratefulness) and the third is “Inclination” (natural inclination). These three rivers are quiet and calm, but one should beware not to follow them down into the sea outside of the country - because this wild sea represents the savage and destructive “Passions” (strong, violent, untamed emotions). The first time anyone arrives in when reaching the country is the little village of “Nouvelle-Amitié” (New Friendship) and for example, to go from this little village to the city of “Tendre-sur-Estime”, one must travel various little towns such as “Billet-doux” (sweet letter/message) or “Jolis vers”, (Beautiful verse). Aka it means: if you want to gain the respect and admiration of a person, if you want them to esteem you enough to love you, exchange sweet, galant, beautiful messages with them, and compose good and excellent poetry... One should also be careful of the big lake you see on the map: The Lake of Indifference. It is a stale water that goes nowhere, and similarly it represents the dreaded “indifference”, aka, when someone is bored with the other, does not feel any kind of attraction or desire for them, Indifference is as the name says the lack of any movement, reaction, affection or emotion towards another. And you’ll end up in this Lake is you follow the wrong towns, such as “Oubli” (Forgetfulness) or “Négligence” (Neglect). 

I can translate more of the map if you want, but I think you get the main idea. 

This map was hugely popular in the second half of the 17th century - many other writers or men of letters (or women) making their own sequels or equivalent to the map ; many more parodying this map and rewriting it in mockery. Molière, in his plays, talked about the Map. And even today the Map is still talked about and reinvented today. 

All of that to say, this Map clearly set a trend that found itself appearing again in French fairytales - the allegorical geography, or the “emotional geography”. 

[nikkiwriteswords]

Hi! I would love to hear your thoughts/predictions/hopes for s3, now that we got the episode titles :D

Hey Nora!! Let me go grab my tua theory hat real quick. Spoiler alert, it looks exactly like the umbrella hat on the 3 right here:

Full disclosure, I've only got like a pinky toe in the tua fandom right now, but I'm still going to see what BS I can spin from these titles.

1. MEET THE FAMILY. The description on imdb is "The siblings get to know some more of the 43 children in an alternate timeline." So, I think this is pretty self-explanatory. Netflix likes to start things off with a bang, so s3 of TUA will probably be no different: we'll probably get a vague flashforward/flash-sideways to a "what if" scenario that will make sense by the last few episodes, and the rest of the episode will be sowing seeds for the s3 plot. The big question is, what family are we meeting? I think this episode will revolve around themes of family (no-brainer) and redefining the relationships between our Umbrella siblings in light of the season 2 finale, as well as their new Sparrow 'replacements'. To that end, initial Sparrow sibling parallels will be presented and subsequently complicated in this first episode. I also predict we'll see varying reactions to this alternate Reginald, as the Umbrella siblings are thrust into an outsider perspective that follows on from season 2.

2. WORLD'S BIGGEST BALL OF TWINE. This is going to be a multi-layered metaphor. I can feel it. It will no doubt refer to the plot that's about to unfold (is it an outside threat to both parties - the Umbrellas and Sparrows - from, say, the Commission, or is it more to do with the two rival Academies?), but I wonder if it also refers to the Wizard of Oz type scenario the Umbrella siblings find themselves in: they aren’t in Kansas anymore. (But you know what is in Kansas? The world's current biggest ball of twine.) Also kind of want to see Klaus knitting again in this ep - perhaps as a way to subtly re-address his ongoing addiction issues, especially now Ben is gone.

3. POCKET FULL OF LIGHTNING. This probably has to do with powers. Sparrow powers, Umbrella powers. There'll be a lot of new flexes in this season, so who this refers to is anyone's guess.

4. KUGELBLITZ. Here's where it starts to get interesting, because this title carries forward the subject of lightning from the last one. According to a very quick internet search, kugelblitz literally means "ball lightning" in German, and refers to both a) a glorified WW2 tank designed to take out aircraft (a certified Big Boi), and b) a theoretical black hole made from light/radiation rather than matter. So this is absolutely going to be a new, unseen power - probably from the Sparrows. Hopefully from Christopher because a cube executing a move named after a sphere just makes me chuckle. Ah, fun with shapes... But in addition, this power is probably going to pack a huge, debilitating punch to whatever narrative is underway at this point in the plot. I'll bet money that whoever wields this power is the tank character in their party or they are after this at least.

5. KINDEST CUT. This throws me back to the barber shop meta, I'm not gunna lie. Someone's going to get hurt, either physically or emotionally, and it's going to be the lesser of two evils. If it's a follow through on the barber metaphor, then Reggie will be the one to orchestrate it. Or, in a surprise twist, will he be the one gTetting hurt or being silenced? (Remember that cutthroat allegory that chases the siblings through the first season, particularly Allison and Klaus. It was about becoming voiceless.) 6.MARIGOLD. Big shout out to this post for spreading the word on the marigold symbolism. I'm pretty sure this will be Reginald backstory, which ties in with the creation of the Umbrella Academy. Also, because I'm a sucker for flower symbolism and reading into things, consider that marigolds:

a) fall into two families, the calendula which means "little clock" and the tagetes, which is named after the Etruscan prophet Tages. The Etruscans believed heavily in predestination - some events are set in stone, and cannot be changed. (Consider the way the apocalypse seems to always come for one set of siblings...) b) are named as such colloquially because they were offered in place of money to the Virgin Mary. (More divine imagery, and reference to a pure mother figure...) They are Mary’s gold. So maybe it’s a reference to Reginald’s wife, which would fit with the flashback scene we see in 1x10.  c) are a flower of duality. They have strong connections with the sun and resurrection, yet the marigold is thought to be a flower of grief because it blooms in autumn. Again, think about that flashback in the first season. At the end of the world and a wife dying, there was the promise of rebirth. d) It's also a very common flower. Remember, there's actually 43 siblings out there. We've only met 14.

Also Netflix loves to do this thing around the halfway point (usually episode 5/6) in a season they're producing. They'll switch up the narrative with a twist or turn that provides a new perspective. 7.AUF WEIDERSEHEN. Once again, a German connection. And, obviously, a goodbye. Considering the last season focused on Kennedy, are we going to get some earlier Cold War time-travel shenanigans? Or maybe WW2? I think Blackman has said something about the Berlin Wall, which is interesting. A country divided... Umbrellas and Sparrows allegory? But as an aside, I'm also kinda lowkey hoping it's a nod to Auf Weidersehen, Pet. If you don't know the show, here's the wiki summary for the first season:

Auf Wiedersehen, Pet is a British comedy-drama television programme about seven British construction workers who leave the United Kingdom to search for employment overseas. They find work on a German building site in Düsseldorf but despite promises of hostel accommodation, are forced to live in a small hut that reminds them of a World War II POW camp. The rest of the series is driven by the interactions and growing friendships between the various characters.

In episode seven, three of the “Magnificent Seven” visit an intercontinental hotel. Just saying. If s3 was to go this route, my money would be on Luther, Diego and Five getting up to shenanigans in this one. I miss 125 shenanigans.😢

8.WEDDING AT THE END OF THE WORLD. Honestly, I’m holding out hope that one of our fave siblings gets married. I feel like that’s a trap though... Actually I feel like it might actually be a trap. As in, this is when the rising action really kicks it up a notch. But also remember the title of 1x01: We Only See Each Other At Weddings and Funerals. Maybe the siblings get split up, possibly in episode 3/4, and they’re trying to reunite through episodes 5-7. Also thinking about hotels and apocalypses...  There’s something very fatalistic about these titles so far. I have a feeling that the B-plot or the subtext is going to reveal a lot more about Reginald’s history and the destruction of his world.

9. SIX BELLS. This makes me think of church bells, which is some nice continuity with the wedding of the last title. But church bells are rung for all sorts of reasons - as a call to worship, or in celebration or mourning, or to tell the time. (Thinking back to those marigolds suddenly.) But why six? Now I’m thinking of bell ringing (change ringing), and the way different bells have different cord lengths to control the time of their chimes. It’s a highly mathematical process. Will this episode be Five’s time to shine? Will he coordinate his siblings through a large attack? 10. OBLIVION. Does anything even need to be said about this one? Hotel Oblivion baby ✌✌ Any further theorising would require more knowledge of the coming plot tbh.

Edit: I wrote most of this at 2am, so I’ve just tidied it up a little. Thank you for the ask, Nora! This was fun to think about. 

[lightcreators]

Familiarity of her name would possibly tourment him for rest of the day. Funny, how he will pass most of time of that remaining journey, between two moments of anxiety as there was thinking over an mental chessboard, wondering how the hell he knew that name before … Without any kind of knoweldge himself could bouncing back, well, in some manners, his own being, almost immediatetly, decided to answering him. There was been harmony within his family a long time ago. Harmony who wasn't here anymore, who had disappeared ? Wasn't itself comic coming from fragmented memories of an past life ? Within another perspective, as it had been an temporary thought during that long time ago period, there had been a dramatic realization over an number they could have been … when somewhere, an duality reflected strangely within game of mirrors had another person … There was an particular thankness, especially inside his year, he was forced to taming whatever shock reaction he could possibly have. Be betrayed within his surprise concerning Harmony, that, at the limit, he would have to work on the illusion much later. Psychological shock to understanding somewhere who had been foreshadowed and intented to be pulled like an trigger, like an tragedy embracing his existence --- nah, he would need to go in the infirmary. Would actually need to fucking understand what the fuck was going on . Dramatically, he supposed a smart metaphoric twin did understood that indirect memo. Nevertheless, emotionally, remnant of imposter of Alois Trancy couldn't just accept it --- not after be the only one physically present, not after knowing what it looked like to have his soul tore apart from inside, not after having losing an brother powerlessly … At same time, it always had been about trinity, not only duality ! Three higher ranks would made possible his ascension to that Witch of Illusions title : a God of the Underground who was supporting … reflection of his favorite soul meanwhile watching over the person he swore to protect, and oh, granted his wish ; someone who decided to making him think of the Emperor of Britannia in which he would have to understood intentions for better creating his fall since he decided to be a jerk ; experiencing all by himself loneliness and emotional tourment of the Golden Witch without actually see her !

Enjoying opportunites around, he enjoyed that short moment when his influence worked correctly for somewhere calm down entire mist within his expression. Ah, if circumstances where how he was imagined it, he would lose it … but couldn't exposing his anger somewhere. It wasn't like he had remembering what happened, just an physical trigger had been exposed to his face long enough for making him concluding something … and he loathed it … and wasn't like he could trade that kind of miracle with anyone. Waves of anxiety passed though his features regardless as he was watching over Snape, when he would need to sealing up that conversation. The professor would wondering why suddently he was so anxious, and since his manner to dealing with his emotions was anger, some chaos would emerge in one point or another if attention was brought to him. Everything was alright, there was nothing wrong when his castle of illusions was fated to be glass --- Fated to be destroyed within himself no matter as he could act, special grudge menu of his metaphoric twin for be sure he understood PERFECTLY eventually his perspective. What a tragedy he couldn't sparing himself of illusions. Another time, he grumbed mentally. ❝ As surprising as it is, I understand the feeling more that you can imagine, even though I would use past tense over it mostly, even if sometimes I don't feel I belonging truly here … ❞ He wanted to become a witch of the Purgatory. Wizarding world was just the physical sphere for achieve it, when he didn't have to care about humans, about the Muggles. However, with his mental turmoil and his beautiful emotional torture, pondering if this was really his world did crossed his mind --- but again, he was the single one left, he was the single possible manner for Alois Trancy to ressurecting of the dead … and circumstances didn't left him any choice … and yet, that trigger returned back sensation he had desired experiencing because of a far away sorrow he couldn't pull the name upon, and as much tragedy was to be expected in his family, it came out of control coming for the people controlling. Not that he cared about established gear attached to his persona : Fates's threads will be owned. ❝ Don't be too harsh on yourself. Even if you are the new kid, even if it's a bit new to you, everyone here is an wizard as you. ❞ Couple of years earlier, he would bring stuff concerning value of the blood, but even for appareances, he shut down in that. He didn't needed to be arrogant on that manner for showing how he could be a asshole. ❝ Ah. I'm so sorry. ❞ He could distracting himself by making sure she was comfortable, right ? It could appeasing his mind, and doing something good meanwhile two assholery can only be heathly ! There was an short of silence, as he didn't know how to respond without have to think a horrible manner to twist the truth if he needed it. Moving on closer to her ears, he whispered. ❝ We can do that, but it will be your little secret~ Great Malfoy have an reputation of brat, if suddently I showed how friendly my heart is for other houses so openly, it won't be good for me … though, don't worry, revolution will be made inside this school over that point. ❞ Removing herself of his sudden closeness he smiled at her. ❝ I can be your mentor~ ❞ The real word he meant was big brother, but he still felt that in the present circumstances, concluded emotions and positions were twisted again, as she would be his.

Someone named Harmony can only bring about harmony in the family she is in.

The words touched her. She hoped it would be true. When she had received her letter for attending Hogwarts, notifying her that she was magical and a witch, it changed Harmony's world forever. To discover her father had been a wizard and lived a whole other life and had family she had no idea about...it was still a lot to take in and process. It didn't help that she was one of the odd students out, being a late bloomer and starting in her fifth year, trying to play catch up on years worth she had missed while everyone else already had the advantage.

When she received reassurance from Draco that she was doing the right things and that he would help keep the professor from snapping at her, the Hufflepuff relaxed, feeling as though a weight was taken off her shoulders. "Thank you. I'm glad to have found myself sitting next to you. I've felt so out of place. It doesn't help being the new kid, especially a late bloomer. Although everyone in my house has been so kind and welcoming, I haven't really made friends yet." With this, she paused, stirring her cauldron, before glancing back at him. "Would you perhaps like to be friends?" she asked nervously.

Maybe he could give her some pointers about the wizarding world and help her catch up.

[pluviophile-bookworm]

High School Musical: The Musical: The Series: The Rewatch pt. 5

Technically, I shouldn't be doing this right now. But who are we kidding? I miss my Wildcats and this seems like the only thing I can do to see them again right now. So here goes

1x8: The contractually obligated emotional rollercoaster

This episode sure is a lot... I don't know if I'm ready. But it makes no sense to skip this one. I never skip through stuff I love, even when some parts are borderline traumatising. Plus I remember this episode having a bunch of hilarious moments that are definitely worth it.

'I'm really not sure what to say' — Me neither, Miss Jenn, me neither. I'm just sitting here watching this and I know I'm supposed to comment, but I just can't think of what to say. Sometimes the silence just speaks for itself.

'The Lucky Ducky Puppet Pavilion' — I can never overlook that line. Not when I know how much it took for Matt to deliver it. Fun fact: one of my cats is called Lucky, so when his siblings were about to be born, I briefly considered naming them Ducky, Puppet and Pavilion as a joke.

Ah, the El Rey. The place where Miss Jenn totally did not suffer a professional heartbreak. Things are about to get real here. And by real I mean... real dramatic.

I've got to say, I love the duality of Big Red (well, I do love everything about him so that was a no-brainer, but still): doesn't know how to hang a light, but sure does know how to light up a room; amazing with power tools, but took three weeks to make a paper-mache basketball because he kept gluing his fingers together (that last part is far more relatable than I care to admit). I just love him, ok?

The way Carlos acts about Miss Jenn's box of production notes... honestly, I totally get it. I feel like if there's one person at that point who cares about the show much more than anyone else, it's him. And I fully understand why that is. That poor boy has been lonely for too long, and this show is giving him the chance to be part of an accepting community for what feels like the first time in a long time. Just... give my boy Carlito all the hugs.

For a place that allegedly hasn't been used in so long, the El Rey is not nearly dusty enough. I mean, you should see my room if I forget to hoover for longer than a week. And we're talking about years here. There's allegedly mould in that place, but I don't even see dust. Oh well, maybe I would, if it weren't for that lighting — or lack thereof, more like.

'Whatever it says in Miss Jenn's audition file, I am me, and that is the only me I need to be.' — A beautiful sentiment, my dearest EJ. Now maybe hold on to it for a while... just a suggestion.

'Lacks emotional connection to the material' — well, I do have to agree. My first impression of EJ when I was watching the first couple of episodes for the first time was that he was 'too polished to be Troy'. Too much Technician, too little Performer. And I do love my Performers over my Technicians.

Wait, is that a Redlyn background moment I see? I mean, everything is super chaotic and fast-paced, and my two ginger babies are just sitting together on the side of it all. Bonding, I assume. Good for them.

Seb being the only one to know why Natalie is absent, along with the two of them sitting together in 1x1, makes me think... Natalie and Seb are totally besties! I mean, he's basically besties with everyone he ever talks to, so... what can I say, that boy is sunshine incarnate. He deserves all the love and appreciation.

'I know how to hang... out' — gosh, I love this one. And I can only hope everyone was laughing with him, not at him. Because there's nothing to laugh at. My boy got dragged into this whole crew stuff, it's not his fault he doesn't know everything. He's more of an on-stage person than a backstage person anyway. Maybe put him in the spotlight next time and prepare to get your socks knocked off.

No, Ash, your baking club is not at all irrelevant! Honestly, I have nothing but immense admiration for how Ashlyn manages to be in the top two students most dedicated to theatre and do all those other extracurriculars. And she probably has a 4.-something GPA, too. I don't know what the Caswells are feeding their children, but I need it this instant.

'I just don't know how to make things light up' — 'You walk into a room?' — I just... this is one of my favourite Redlyn moments in the history of Redlyn. See, the thing about Ashlyn's line here is the tone in which she says it. She doesn't mean it as a compliment, but as a statement of the absolute truth. You can hear that in her voice. And with good reason, too, because she isn't lying at all. My boy Reddy sure does light up a room by walking into it. Both of them do, really. They're soulmates, you know.

'This place is not creepy at all...' — Yeah, and things between Ricky and Nini are not totally awkward at all, either. I'm living for this.

'I can do Troy!' — Sure you can, Eej. Sure you can. Emotional connection to the material and all.

Ok, but this entire scene... Carlos marking Gabriella's lines completely flatly, EJ emoting like he's in a freaking telenovela and also chopping onions... Carlos' reaction to the latter... I'm living for all of this.

Big Red just suddenly appearing next to Miss Jenn has me rolling... and also kind of wishing he could appear like that next to me too. I mean, it's not like I've visualised that so many times... certainly not every time I have to pass by a stray dog, or give a blood sample, or talk to people, or whatever... why do you ask?

'I never really loved the name Nina anyway' — listen, I relate to the sentiment of not being super fond of your given name, but... what was that stuff in s2 about, then? I mean, I do understand that too, but the two just seem to clash a bit, I reckon. That's all.

Also, can we talk about Rini's chemistry and how it's sometimes there and sometimes nowhere to be found? I think I've figured it out. Every time the chemistry is there, they're talking about or doing things that are not necessarily inherently romantic. Reminiscing about kindergarten, how they gave each other their nicknames, 'the ribbon in your hair, the secrets that we shared, the way that you would stare at me across the room' (yeah, I went there, and for a good reason)... see, Ricky and Nini have that kind of thing going on where, however hard you try, you just can't be indifferent to the other person. It's obvious that they love each other so much, but whenever they try to make it romantic, something goes south. What I'm saying is, when you're really good friends with somebody and you try to force it into something 'more', or better said, something else (because romance is not inherently 'more' than friendship and you can pry that out of my cold dead aro hands), and the operating word here is 'force', things are bound to go wrong and even reach toxic territory. And Rini are living proof of that. Some people are just better as friends, and sometimes the entire 'I don't want to ruin our friendship' trope is very valid. I just want them to be best buddies, is that too much to ask?

Bless Steph for pushing Kourtney forward when Miss Jenn needed someone to sing! Honestly, it's moments like these that make me feel like the background characters are criminally underrated. I realise not every character can be equally central to the plot, but with this cast, I kind of want them to be. I have the feeling that most, if not all of the one-line characters in this show are people with just as much talent and potential as the main cast. They deserve recognition, you know.

Going off of the above, Dara Reneé is living proof of the point I just made. You know how Kourtney was supposed to be a one-scene wonder with two lines? And then Dara showed up and hiding her in the background was instantly out of the question. I wonder how many more hidden gems there are in the show, just sitting in the background, delivering their single line and waiting their turn in the semi-metaphorical wings.

'I just need a minute, or a vacation, it's not clear' — Me, all the time. Especially after I read chapter 11 of @redlyncentral's Let It Go. That ending broke me. And this line by Miss Jenn just reminded me of that feeling, even if what she's feeling right now might not be the exact same thing I went through with that chapter the other day. That being said, everyone go check out my lovely friend's writing right now, I promise you it's worth every second.

'We're going to take a... long five' — What, no 'thank you, five'? I was expecting that. But I guess everyone is a little bit too distraught for that now.

I have to hand it to Carlos — even when he's very obviously uncomfortable and lowkey scared of some people, he just goes up to them and calls them out. I wish I could ever be bold enough to do that.

Wow, not EJ thrashing Carlos' 'forest of boys' idea. Again. I don't get why everyone dislikes it so much, I think it's brilliant visual poetry and should have been given a chance. I said what I said.

You know, everyone has been calling the show out for saying HSM premiered in the cinema, not on telly like it did in real life; and I have been agreeing with that sentiment. But notice how Miss Jenn said 'the Utah premiere' and how there were family and friends in the audience? What if that was some sort of semi-private screening for cast, crew and their family members? It would make sense. And of course, it was held in Utah because that was where the show was filmed and where the majority of background actors, dancers and extras are from. Idk, but it makes sense to me. Note that I have very limited knowledge of how the period between post-production and the release of a movie works.

Isn't Ashlyn the best, though, always noticing when someone is not ok, hearing them out, helping them... I wish I could be half as good a friend as she is. She and Big Red are totally soulmates in that, too. And they deserve each other more than anyone else deserves them, honestly. I just love both of them so much, both as individuals and as a couple, and I cannot be made to shut up about that just yet.

I've got to say, the entire 'me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me' - 'you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you' thing was super funny. And it makes me love Rini — strictly as friends — even more. You know, I think I used to ship them during s1 because the script wanted me to. Exactly like I didn't notice Big Red until midway through the season because the script didn't want me to. Sometimes the script, the acting, the directing and other stuff has immense power over viewers' perception of a show's plot and characters. And that is, as I always point out, what rewatches are for — noticing things that may have escaped you the first time over.

Yeah, so Nini was Ricky's first crush. So what? Many people have had crushes on their best friend at some point or another. That doesn't necessarily mean they're better off as a couple than they are as friends. The opposite idea is just amatonormativity speaking. I mean, sometimes it's nice and it works out; I love me some well-written best-friends-to-lovers, but that's just not always the case and the media should stop pushing the idea that platonic relationships are in any way inferior to romantic ones.

I've got to say I really don't like it when someone interrupts two people's romantic moment (and Big Red is not exempt from my frustration in such cases even though I love him so much — just think of the In a Heartbeat scene), but honestly, bless Reddy for not letting Ricky and Nini kiss. I mean, I know full well they do kiss later on (and how!), but it's just nice to have semi-platonic Rini for a while. If and when we get season 3 (manifesting!), I really hope we get more of them putting some stuff behind them and just being best buddies.

Kourtney and Seb's friendship is honestly goals and I really wish we'd got some more of it. Just another thing to add to my season 3 wishlist. Along with, you know, an actual season 3.

EJ saying all those nice (and very true) things to Carlos has my heart (or, well, he's renting it temporarily from Redlyn and Seblos, but you know). And Carlos really was like 'A for effort, C for execution', and I adore him for that. But EJ is seriously growing. He's pretty much reached EJ 1.8 at this point, and I love to see it.

Say what you want about the Lucas Grabeel dream sequence, but I love, love, love it. Completely unironically. I mean, he's kind of my favourite OG cast member. And the 'I'm more of a Glinda' comment referencing Kate Reinders actually being one of the BWay Glindas? Here's a note from when I first watched 1x1: The drama teacher won’t stop spilling her coffee and I love her. Also, her actress was Glinda on Broadway, so I stan. See, I didn't even know Miss Jenn's name yet and I already loved her. But then she went and did some stuff in s2 and ruined all of that. Add 'proper Miss Jenn redemption' to my s3 wishlist, I guess. But I'm getting off-track (when am I not?)

I only just noticed that all of the iconic BWay leads mentioned in the song (sans Glinda, of course, but that wasn't even a proper part of the song) start with an E. I wonder if that was on purpose or a lucky accident...

'And you never know when you'll get a cameo...' — If anyone in the HSM franchise knows anything about making the most of a cameo, it's Lucas. I'm referring to his post-credits scene in Sharpay's Fabulous Adventure, of course. That is one of my absolute favourite scenes in the entire movie. Well, that and The Rest of My Life. I very unironically love that number.

Another thing on the list of things I very unironically love — the transitions both into and out of this scene. I just think they're neat.

Have I mentioned before how much I love it that Carlos' response every time someone asks where he has to be is 'Broadway'... it just reminds me a lot of Seb's 'Friendship!' — that's some soulmate stuff right there, if you ask me.

'I just... almost did something really stupid' — Yes, Nini, yes it was very stupid. And you're going to do it anyway. You wouldn't if I had any say in this, but I don't and so here we are. In a world where Rini are a romantic thing, Redlyn get 5 minutes of screentime in s1 and two major moments demoted to post-credits scenes, Seblos haven't even properly discussed their issues, and Portwell didn't even kiss on screen. I lowkey hate it here. Still, I feel like things are going in the right direction. If we get a season 3, that is — and we better be getting it, or I will riot and I know I won't be the only one.

No but... just imagine if Kourtney hadn't called YAC for Nini, but for herself. There's so much potential there... and I think Kourtney and Ashlyn deserved that spot every bit as much as Nini did, and then some. I said what I said.

Well, this was 1x8. This post is already way too long, plus I want to do a double feature of the last two whenever I get to rewatching them, so I'm ending this here. It was just as much of a journey as I remembered it being, and not nearly as negative as I had the feeling it would be. I absolutely loved it, you know. And with good reason too.

[misanthropiczombie]

Sixteen!

okay so obviously this thread is still getting a bit long in the tooth, so I think tomorrow we start with a new one on episode 17 (though it's midnight now so likely that i will finish ep 16 tomorrow and then move on to 16 but its like. Fine. so i guess about 3 threads thisish long for the series

peacock pose

cmon beggerman get it if you're going to rattle your saber

YO HES SUCH A GOOD FIGHTER? FOR ALL HE SEEMS A PUSHIOVER?

GOD WHAT A COOL SHOT WITH THE HAT THE CONTRAST THE MOVEMENT THE BAMBO RAYS THERE ARE MOMENTS OF JSUT PURE INSPIRATION FROM TEH CINE TEAM

listen they're dysfunctional fathers right now, but they love thier son very much and apaprently are going to get into all kinds of altercations because he keeps PUTTING HIMSELF IN DUMB SITUATIONS

THE DRAMA

THE COOL ASS SHOT

I hope the people who worked on this episode felt really good about it. its beautiful. this whole fight scene

ah no more Voice

his face was not made for crying

BET

LOOK AT YOU GO DA-GE

okay but what is that run why?

chengling is overly invested in gao chong in general. we really did not take the time to build that relationship at all.

but he's acting it well. It's just not believeable contextually

yep okay bedtime

cave moping, good

gorgeous shot though.

marital drama, Wen Kexing looks like a war bride right now.

god i LOVE THEM alskdjfl;k they're SO SOFT WHO ALLOWS THIS

Zhou Zishu really thinks he's principled but the man CANNOT even stay mad at wen kexing for any of his bullshit. he just goes uwu that's my gremlin he's never done anything bad a day in his life even though we literally had a fight about that 16 hours ago ~

I CANT STAND THEM im sorry they have to be sucking face in the books by now!!!!! THIS IS PILLOW TALK STANDING UP "i've always been nice to you" "how did I not know that" CHEESY SMILES GOD GET OUT OF HERE im going to read so much fic lkajf;ldskj

INTENSE wkx is absolutely the type that would slash your tires because he dreamed you kissed another man.

OH SHIT OH SHIT HES IN metaphorical BED WITH THE SCORPION KING CHIEF THE FUUUUUUCK

actually kind of love him more now what a sneaky dick

man he looks like a little kid searching for approval but hes this evil baddie wow cutecutecute

HE IS HIS SON

just another day of father-son bonding~

YEET

oh okay its Ye baiye

WKX MY CHILD MIGHT BE DUMB BUT HE'S MINE, BITCH

He'd be SUCH a PTA mom. He'd be the mom angry at the teacher for giving his child a deserved passing grade. He's terrible I want to keep him in my pocket forever

"can you pick a day i won't be in the rain if you fight"

everyone is awful, the series

except for gao xiaolian and chengling (probably)

listen i feel bad for shen shen but like. deserved

also scorpion king's hair is STELLAR. really here for his like Evil Cutie vibes. the duality, as they say

it looks like his robe is velvet but its NOT why

also damn man merciless

wkx is struggling to not backtalk- ope never mind

Word of Honor Liveblog

Episode one lets gooooo.

Why are these laterns SO Big? Is this going to be a plot point? OH BECAUSE ITS PEOPLE lkajf;sdlkfj Strong fucking start I love it

How to make all of these scenes just A Little moodier: put on your yellow computer glasses because you're in your 30s now.

Did... did they CGI his hat on? No its just. Weird the camera doesn't like the fabric or SOMEHING it looks like a big sticker. anyway

The dramatic metal sounds and the typewriter finished line TING sounds are amazing. Inspired Foley choices.

the popped collar. Okay so this si going to be more Costuming Commentary Hour I guess. but how much interfacing do you think they shoved in that thing to get it to stay upright with those ornaments/clasps stuck in, too?

the singular chair open to the elements is maybe not sensible but man what a cool fucking shot

Seven nails exposition. Urine Town has forever changed how i view exposition dumps in shows. goddamnit.

OKAY BUT THEY LOOK LIKE EXTRA NIPPLES IM SORRY

what cheekbones though goodness me

oh boy emperor dude is MAD he about to kill a bitch. I feel it. disrobing in court seems like the kind of thing for a PWP but *go on*

i love this level of dramatic explosion

SORRY ARE YOU SAYING ALL OF YOUR FRIENDS ARE ASSASINS FOR YOU DO YOU THINK THATS HEALTHY

you're welcome for getting to stab me ✨✨

Local theater nerd assassin, coming to a roadside inn near you, apparently.

WHAT ARE THESE NEW HATS

kink gone wrong.

Millinery in these shows is simply on a whole other level. I am discovering so many new hatshapes and i love them all.

also the vertical pleats built into the front of the outfits is sssssssuuuch a good look.

left line looks like an cosplay contest the bright colors the stand-out outfit designs. the literal scythe.

goddamn everyones an asshole today I see.

WEN KEXING LETS GO GU XIANG LETS GOOOO. I've been promised a horrible goose!!

THE MOST EXTRA WAY TO SHARE A DRINK GIRL

immediate GAY. i love this lmao

Man yeah okay i am in love with Gu Xiang. what a brat who gave her a whip and Stronk? Terrible idea, I fully approve.

[notapaladin]

and this faith is gettin' heavy (but you know it carries me) redux

This is literally and unironically the SECOND TIME i have added another thousand words to this fic but now it is finally done. Behold, over 10k words of food as metaphor for love/angst-with-a-happy-ending! In which Teomitl goes missing on a foreign battlefield, and Acatl mourns...but events in his dreams suggest Teomitl maybe isn’t gone for good.

Also on AO3

-

Acatl grimaced as he stepped from the coolness of his home into the day’s bright, punishing sunlight. Today was the day the army was due to return from their campaign in Mixtec lands, and so he was forced to don his skull mask and owl-trimmed cloak on a day that was far too hot for it. Not for the first time, he was thankful that priests of Lord Death weren’t required to paint their faces and bodies for special occasions; the thought of anything else touching his skin made him shudder.

He’d barely made it out of his courtyard when Acamapichtli strode up to him, face grave underneath his blue and black paint. “Ah, Acatl. I’m glad I could catch you.”

“Come to tell me that the army is at our gates again?” They would never be friends, he and Acamapichtli, but they had achieved something like a truce in the year since the plague. Still, Acatl couldn’t help but be on his guard. There was something...off about the expression on the other man’s face, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. He’d borne the same look when delivering the news of a death to a grieving family. Ah. A loss, then.

He’d expected Acamapichtli to spread his hands, a wordless statement of there having been nothing he could have done. He didn’t expect him to take a deep breath and slide his sightless eyes away. “I have. The runners all say it is a great victory; Tizoc-tzin has brought back several hundred prisoners.”

It should have pleased him. Instead, a cold chill slid down his spine. “What are you not telling me? I’ve no time for games.”

Acamapichtli let out a long sigh. “There were losses. A flood swept across the plain, carrying away several of our best warriors. Among them...the Master of the House of Darts. They looked—I’m assured that they looked!—but his body was not found.”

No. No. No. A yawning chasm cracked open beneath his ribs. He knew he was still breathing, but he couldn’t feel the air in his lungs. Even as he wanted, desperately, to grab Acamapichtli by the shoulders and shake him, to scream at him for being a liar, he knew the man was telling the truth. That his face and mannerisms, the careful movements of a man who knew he brought horrible news, showed his words to be honest. That Teomitl—who had left four months before with a kiss for Mihmatini and an affectionate clasp for Acatl’s arm—would not return.

It took real effort to focus on Acamapichtli’s next words. The man’s eyes were full of a horrible sympathy, and he wanted to scream. “I thought you should know in advance. Before—before they arrived.”

“Thank you,” he forced out through numb lips.

Acamapichtli turned away. “...I’m sorry, Acatl.”

After a long, long moment, he made himself start walking again. There was the rest of the army to greet, after all. Even if Teomitl wouldn’t be among them.

Even if he’d never return from war again.

Greeting the army was a ceremony, one he usually took some joy in—it had meant that Teomitl would be home, would be safe, and his sister would be happy. Now it passed in a blue, and he registered absolutely none of it. Someone must have already given the news to Mihmatini when he arrived; she was an utterly silent presence at his side, face pale and lips thin. She wouldn’t cry in public, but he saw the way her eyes glimmered when she blinked. He couldn’t bring himself to so much as lay a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. If he touched her, if he felt the fabric of her cloak beneath his hand, that meant it was real.

It couldn’t be real. Jade Skirt was Teomitl’s patron goddess, She wouldn’t let him simply drown. But there was an empty space to Tizoc’s left where Teomitl should have been, and no sign of his white-and-red regalia. Acatl’s eyes burned as he blinked away the sun.

Tizoc was still speaking, but Acatl heard none of his words. It was all too still, too quiet; everything was muffled, as though he was hearing it through water. If there was justice, came the first spinning thought, every wall would be crumbling. No...if there was justice, Teomitl would be...

He drew in a long breath, feeling chilled to the bone even as he sweated under his cloak. Now that his mind had chosen to rouse itself, its eye was relentless. He barely saw the plaza around him, packed with proud warriors and colorful nobles; it was too easy to imagine a far-flung province to the south, a jungle thick with trees and blood. A river bursting its banks, carrying Teomitl straight into his enemies’ arms. They would capture him, of course; he was a valiant fighter and he’d taken very well to the magic of living blood, but even he couldn’t hold off an army alone.

And once they had him, they would sacrifice him.

Somewhere behind the army, Acatl knew, were lines of captured warriors whose hearts would be removed to feed the Sun, whose bodies would be flung down the Temple steps to feed the beasts in the House of Animals, whose heads would hang on the skull-rack. It was necessary, and their deaths would serve a greater purpose.  He’d seen it thousands of times. There was no use mourning them. It was simply the way nearly all captured warriors went.

It was what Teomitl would want. An honorable death on the sacrifice stone. It was better to die than to be a slave all your life. But at least he would have a life—all unbidden, the alternative rose clear in Acatl’s mind. Teomitl, face whitened with chalk. Teomitl, laying down on the stone. Teomitl, teeth clenched, meeting his death with open eyes. Teomitl’s blood on the priests’ hands.

Nausea rose hot and bitter in his throat, and he shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. In for a count of three, out for a count of five. Repeat. It didn’t hurt to breathe, but he felt as if it should. He felt as if everything should hurt. He felt a sudden, vicious urge to draw thorns through his earlobes until the pain erased all thoughts, but he made his hands still. If he started, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop.

Still, it seemed to take an eternity for the speeches and the dances to be over and done with. By the time they finished, he was light-headed with the strain of remaining upright, and Mihmatini had slipped a hand into his elbow. Even that single point of contact burned through his veins. They still hadn’t spoken. He wondered if she, too, couldn’t quite find her own voice under the screaming chasm of grief.

And then, after all that, when all he yearned for was to go home and lay down until the world felt right again—maybe until the Sixth Sun rose, that would probably be enough time—there was a banquet, and he was forced to attend.

Of course there’s a banquet, he thought dully. This is a victory, after all. Tizoc had wasted no time in promoting a new Master of the House of Darts to replace his fallen brother, with many empty platitudes about how Teomitl would surely be missed and how he’d not want them to linger in their grief, but to move on and keep earning glory for the Mexica. Moctezuma, his replacement, was seventeen and haughty; where Teomitl’s arrogance had begun to settle into firm, well-considered authority and the flames of his impatience had burnt down to embers, Moctezuma’s gaze swept the room and visibly dismissed everyone in it as not worth his concern. It reminded Acatl horribly of Quenami.

Mihmatini sat on the same mat she always did, but now there was a space beside her like a missing tooth. She still wore her hair in the twisted horn-braids of married women, and against all rules of mourning she had painted her face with the blue of the Duality. Underneath it, her face was set in an emotionless mask. She did not eat.

Neither did Acatl. He wasn’t sure he could stomach food. So instead his gaze flickered around the room, unable to settle, and he gradually realized that he and Mihmatini weren’t alone in the crowd. The assembled lords and warriors should have been celebrating, but there was a subdued air that hung over every stilted laugh and negligent bite of fine food. Neighbors avoided each other’s eyes; Neutemoc, sitting with his fellow Jaguar Warriors, was staring at his empty plate as though it held the secrets of the heavens. He looked well, until Acatl saw the expression on his face. It was a mirror of his own.

At least his fellow High Priests didn’t try to engage him in conversation, for which he was grateful. Acamapichtli kept glancing at him almost warily, but he hadn’t voiced any more empty platitudes—and when Quenami had opened his mouth to say something, he’d taken the unprecedented step of leaning around Acatl and glaring him into silence.

If they’d been friends, Acatl would have been touched; as it was, it made a burning ember of rage lodge itself in his throat. Don’t you pity me. Don’t you dare pity me. He ground his teeth until his jaw hurt, clenched his fists until his nails cut into his palms, and didn’t speak. If he spoke, he would scream.

Even the plates in front of him weren’t enough of a distraction. Roasted meats glistened in their vibrant red or green or orange sauces. Each breath brought the deliciously warm fragrance of chilies and pumpkin seeds and vanilla to his nose. The fish and lake shrimp, grilled in their own juices and arrayed on beds of corn husks, would at any other time have tempted him to take a bite. Soups and stews were carried from table to table by serving women in gleaming white cotton; he breathed in as one woman passed and nearly choked on the rich peppery scent. He didn’t need to look to know it was his usual favorite, chunks of firm white fish and bitter greens in what was sure to be a fiery broth. Teomitl had always teased him for that, saying it was a miracle he could even taste the greens with so much chili in the way.

Don’t look. Don’t think about it. The ember in his throat was slowly scorching a path through his gut. He couldn’t eat. Didn’t even try.

There were more courses, obviously. More fish, more vegetables, more haunches of venison or rabbits bathed in spicy-sweet sauce. More doves and quail, and even a spoonbill put back in its own pink feathers for a centerpiece. When the final course was triumphantly set in front of him—wedges and cubes of fruit, with a little cup of spiced honey—he was nearly sick over the sweet crimson pitaya split open on his plate. It had been Teomitl’s favorite.

Somehow, he held it together until after the dessert had been cleared away. He rose jerkily to his feet, legs trembling, and fixed his mind firmly on getting home in one piece. No one hailed him on his way out of the room, and for a hopeful moment he thought he was safe.

Quenami’s voice stopped him in the next hallway. “Ah, Acatl. A lovely banquet, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t turn around. “Mn.” Go away.

Quenami didn’t. In fact he took a step closer, as though they were friends, as though he’d never tried to have Acatl killed. His voice was like a mosquito in his ear. “You must not be feeling well; you hardly touched your food. Some might see that as an insult. I’m sure Tizoc-tzin would.”

“Mm.”

“Or is it worry over Teomitl that’s affecting you? You shouldn’t fret so, Acatl. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not dead after all; there are plenty of cenotes in the southlands, and a determined man could easily hide out there for the rest of his life. He probably just took the coward’s way out, sick of his responsibilities—“

He whirled around, sucking in a breath that scorched his lungs. It was the last thing he felt before he let Mictlan’s chill spill through his veins and overflow. His suddenly-numb skin loosened on his neck; his fingers burned with the cold that came only from the underworld. He knew that his skin was black glass, his muscles smoke, his bones moonlight on ice, his eyes burning voids. All around him was the howling lament of the dead, the stench of decay and the dry, acrid scent of dust and dry bones. When he spoke, his voice echoed like a bell rung in a tomb.

“Silence.”

You do not call him a coward. You do not even speak his name. I could have your tongue for that. He stepped forward, gaze locked with Quenami’s. It would be easy, too. He could do it without even blinking—could take his tongue for slander, his eyes for that sneering gaze, could reach inside his skin and debone him like a turkey—all it would take would be a single wrong word—

Quenami recoiled, jaw going slack in terror. Silently—blessedly, mercifully, infuriatingly silently—he turned on his heel and left.

Acatl took one breath, two, and let the magic drain out of his shaking limbs. He hadn’t meant to do that. It should probably have sickened him that he’d nearly misused Lord Death’s power like that, especially on a man who ought to have been his superior and ally, but instead all he felt was a vicious sort of stymied rage—a jaguar missing a leap and coming up with nothing but air between his claws. He wanted to scream. He wanted blood under his nails, the shifting crack of breaking bones under his knuckles. He wanted to hurt something.

He made it to the next courtyard, blessedly empty of party guests, and collapsed on the nearest bench like a dead man. His stomach ached. I could have killed him. Gods, I wanted to kill him. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life. All because...all because he said his name...

“...Acatl?”

Mihmatini’s voice, admirably controlled. He made himself lift his head and answer. “In here.”

She padded into the courtyard and took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, skirt swishing around her feet as she walked. Gold ornaments had been sewn into its hem, and he wondered if they’d been gifts from Teomitl. “I saw Quenami running like all the beasts of the underworld were on his tail. What did you do?”

Nothing. But that would have been a lie, and he refused to do that to his own flesh and blood. “...He said…” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “He said that Teomitl might have deserted. He dared to say that—” The idea choked him, and he couldn’t finish the words. That Teomitl was a coward. That he would run from his responsibilities, from his destiny, at the first opportunity…

She tensed immediately, eyes going cold in a way that suggested Quenami had better be a very fast runner indeed. “He would never. You know that.”

Air seemed to be coming a bit easier now. “I do. But…”

Of course, she pounced on his hesitation. “But?”

I want him so badly to not be dead. “Nothing.”

Mihmatini was silent for a while, wringing her hands together. Finally, she spoke. “He would never have deserted. But...Acatl…”

“What?”

“I don’t know if he’s dead.” She set a hand on her chest. “The magic that connects us—I can still feel it in here. It’s faint, really faint, but it’s there. He might…” She took a breath, and tears welled up in her eyes. “He might still be alive.”

Alive. The word was a conch shell in his head, sounding to wake the dawn. For an instant, he let himself imagine it. Teomitl alive, maybe in hiding, maybe trying to find his way home to them.

Maybe held captive by the Mixteca, until such time as they can tear out his heart. He closed his eyes, shutting out everything but the sound of his own breathing. It didn’t help. He hated how pathetic his own voice sounded as he asked, “You think so?”

“It’s—” She scrubbed ineffectually at her eyes with the back of a hand. “It’s possible. Isn’t it?”

“...I suppose.” He took a breath. “I think it’s time for me to get some sleep. I’ll...see you tomorrow.”

He knew he wouldn’t sleep—knew, in fact, that he’d be lucky if he even managed to close his eyes—but he needed to get home. He refused to disgrace himself by weeping in public.

&

The first dream came a week later.

He’d managed to avoid them until then; he’d thrown himself headlong into his work, not stopping until he was so tired that his “sleep” was really more like “passing out.” But it seemed his body could adapt to the conditions he subjected it to much easier than he’d thought, because he woke with tears on his face and the scraps of a nightmare scattering in the dawn light. There had been blood and screaming and a ravaged and horrible face staring into his that somehow he’d known. He did his best to put it from his mind, and for a day he thought he’d succeeded. He shed blood for the gods, stood vigil for the dead, tallied up the ledgers for the living. Remembered, occasionally, to put food into his mouth, but he couldn’t have said what he was eating. Collapsed onto his mat and prayed that he wouldn’t have a dream like that again.

It wasn’t like that. It was worse.

He was walking through a jungle made of shadows, trees shedding gray dust from their leaves as he passed under them. There was no birdsong, no rippling of distant waters or crunching of underbrush, and he knew deep in his soul that nothing was alive here anymore. Not even himself. Though his legs ached and his lungs burned, it was pain that felt like it was happening to someone else. His gut held, not the stretched desiccation of Mictlan, but a nasty twisting feeling of wrongness; part of him wanted to be sick, but he couldn’t stop. Ahead of him, someone was making their way through the undergrowth, and it was a stride he’d know anywhere.

Teomitl. He thought he called out to him, but no sound escaped his mouth even though his throat hurt as though he’d been screaming. He tried again. Teomitl! This time, he managed a tiny squeak, something even an owl wouldn’t have heard.

Teomitl didn’t slow down, but somehow the distance between them shortened. Now Acatl could make out the tattered remains of his feather suit, singed and bloodstained until it was more red than white, and the way his bare feet had been cut to ribbons. He still wasn’t looking behind him. It was like Acatl wasn’t there at all. Ahead of them, the trees were thinning out.

And then they were on a flat plain strewn with corpses, bright crimson blood the only color Acatl could see. Teomitl was standing still in front of him as water slowly seeped out of the ground, covering his feet and lapping gently at his ankles. There were thin threads of red in it.

“Teomitl,” he said, and this time his voice obeyed him.

Teomitl turned to him, smiling as though he’d just noticed he was there. His chest was a red ruin, the bones of his ribcage snapped wide open to pull out his beating heart. A tiny ahuizotl curled in the space where it had been.

He took one step back. Another.

Teomitl’s smile grew sad, and he reached for him with a bloody hand. “Acatl, I’m sorry.”

He awoke suddenly and all at once, curling in on himself with a ragged sob. It was still dark out; the sun hadn’t made its appearance yet. There was no one to see when he shook himself to pieces around the space in his heart. It was a dream, he told himself sternly. Just a dream. My soul is only wandering through my own grief. It doesn’t mean anything.

But then it returned the next night, and the next. While the details differed—sometimes Teomitl was swimming a river that suddenly turned to blood and dissolved his flesh, sometimes one of his own ahuizotls turned into a jaguar and sprang for his face—the end was always the same. Teomitl dead and still walking, reaching for him with an apology on his lips. Sometimes it even lingered after he woke. Once he jolted awake utterly convinced that he wasn’t alone—that Teomitl was in the room, a sad smile on his lips and an outstretched hand hovering in the air. Only when he looked around, searching for that other presence, did reality reassert itself and he remembered with gutwrenching pain that it had only been a nightmare. That Teomitl was dead somewhere on a Mixtec altar, his heart an offering to the Sun.

He started timing his treks across the Sacred Precinct to avoid the Great Temple’s sacrifices to Huitzilopochtli. Sleep grew more and more difficult to achieve, and even when he caught a few hours’ rest it never seemed to help. He even thought, fleetingly, of asking the priests of Patecatl if anything they had would be useful, only to dismiss it the next day. He would survive this. It wasn’t worth baring his soul to anyone else’s prying eyes or clumsy but well-meaning words. He would work and pray, and that would keep him occupied. There was a haunting case that needed his attention; while he was tracking down the cause he had an excuse not to focus on anything else. He forgot to eat, no matter how much Ichtaca scolded him. The food tasted like ashes in his mouth, anyway.

Still, when one of Neutemoc’s slaves came to his door asking whether he would come to dinner at his house that night, he didn’t waste time in accepting. Dinner with Neutemoc’s family had become...normal. He needed normal, even if it still felt like walking on broken glass.

Up until the first course was served, he even thought he’d get it. Neutemoc had been nearly silent when he’d arrived, but he’d unbent enough to start a conversation about his daughters’ studies. Necalli and Mazatl were more subdued than they normally were, but they’d heard what happened to their newest uncle-by-marriage and were no doubt mourning in their own ways. Mihmatini’s face was as pale and set as white jade, but as the conversation wore on he thought he saw her smile.

He didn’t much feel like smiling himself. The smells of the meal were turning his stomach. It was simple enough fare—fish with peppers, lightly boiled vegetables in a salty, spicy sauce, plenty of soft flatbread to mop it up—but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. The last time he’d eaten a meal like this had been with Teomitl at his side, hugging Mazatl and fondly ruffling up Necalli’s hair and barely paying any attention to his own plate until Mazatl had swiped something off it and he’d tickled her as revenge, the both of them laughing. Acatl would never forget the look on his face the first time she’d called him uncle.

He was vaguely aware Neutemoc was frowning at him. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

He put some fish onto his plate. He ate it. He couldn’t say what it tasted like. Peppers, mostly. It sat in his stomach like a lead weight, and he swallowed so roughly that for a moment he was afraid he’d choke. I can’t do this. But they would notice if he didn’t eat, and then they’d worry about him. He forced himself to take a few more bites, filling the yawning void within.

A second course arrived eventually. Roasted agave worms and greens, which he usually liked. He took a small portion, nibbled on it, and set his plate down.

“More greens?”

Neutemoc’s voice was too careful for his liking, but he nodded. Another portion of greens was duly set onto his plate, and he ate without really tasting it. He only managed a few bites before he had to give up, his gorge rising.

Mihmatini picked at her own dish, and Neutemoc frowned at her. “You’re not hungry?”

She shook her head.

Silence descended again, but It didn’t reign for long before Neutemoc said, “Acatl. Any interesting cases lately?” With a quick glance at his children, he added, “That we can talk about in front of the kids?”

“Aww, Dad...”

Neutemoc gave his eldest the same look his father had once given him. “When you go off to war, Necalli, I will let you listen to all the awful details.”

It wasn’t enough to make Acatl smile, but nevertheless the tension in his throat eased. “Well,” he began, “we’ve been trying to figure out what’s been strangling merchants in the featherworkers’ district…”

Laying out the facts of a suspicious death or two was always calming. He could forget the ache in his heart, even if only briefly. But even when he was done and had just started to relax, Neutemoc was still talking to him as though he expected to see his younger brother shatter any minute. The slaves, too, were unusually solicitous of him—rushing to fill up his cup, to heap delicacies on his plate. At any other time he might have suspected the whole thing to be a bribe or an awkward apology for some unremembered slight; now, he just felt uneasy.

When the meal was done, he declined Neutemoc’s offer of a pipe and got to his feet. “I think I’ll get some air.”

The courtyard outside was empty. He lifted his eyes to the heavens, charting the path of the four hundred stars above. Ceyaxochitl’s death hadn’t hit him anywhere near as hard as this, but gods, he thought he could recover in time if only the people around him stopped coddling him. Everywhere he went there were sympathetic glances and soft words, and even the priests of his own temple were stepping gingerly around him. As though he needed to be treated like...like...

Like a new widow. Like Mihmatini. He sat down hard, feeling like his legs had been cut out from under him. Air seemed to be in short supply, and the gulf in his chest yawned wide.

But I’m not. I care for Teomitl, of course, but it’s not like that. It’s not—

He thought about Teomitl sacrificed as a war captive or drowned in a river far from home, and nearly choked at the fist of grief that tightened around his heart. No. He shook his head as though that would clear it. He wouldn’t want me to grieve over him. He wouldn’t want me to think of him dead, drowned, sacrificed—he’d want me to remember him happy. I can do that much for him, at least.

He could. It was easy. He closed his eyes and remembered.

Remembered the smile that lit up rooms and outshone the Sun, the one that could pull an answering burst of happiness out of the depths of his soul. Remembered the way Teomitl had laughed and rolled around the floor with Mazatl, the way he’d helped Ollin to walk holding onto his hands, the way he sparred with Necalli and asked about Ohtli’s lessons in the calmecac, and how all of those moment strung together like pearls on a string into something that made Acatl’s heart warm as well. Remembered impatient haggling in the marketplace, haphazard rowing on the lake, strong arms flexing such that he couldn’t look away, the touch of a warm hand lingering even after Teomitl had withdrawn—

He remembered how it had felt, in that space between dreams and waking, where he’d thought Teomitl was by his side even in Mictlan. Where, for the span of a heartbeat, he’d been happy.

There was a sound—a soft, miserable whine. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from his own throat, that he’d drawn his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them. That he was shaking again, and had been for some time. As nausea oozed up in his throat, he regretted having eaten.

It was like that, after all.

And he’d realized too late. Even if he’d ever been able to do anything about it—which he never would anyway, the man was married to his sister—there was no chance of it now, because Teomitl was gone.

He forced his burning eyes to stay open. If he blinked, if he let his eyes close even for an instant, the tears would fall.

Approaching footsteps made him raise his head. Mihmatini was walking quietly and carefully towards him, as though she didn’t want to disturb him. As though I’m fragile. You too, Mihmatini?

“Ah. There you are.” Even her voice was soft.

He uncurled himself and arranged his limbs into a more dignified position, keeping his fists clenched to stop his hands from trembling. At least when he finally blinked, his eyes were dry. “Hm.”

She sat next to him, not touching. There was something calming about her company, but gods, he prayed she couldn’t see the thoughts written on his face. She stretched out a hand and he thought she’d lay it soothingly on his shoulder, but instead she traced a meaningless pattern in the dirt. “...It’s hard, isn’t it?”

His dry throat made a clicking noise when he swallowed. “It is.”

“At least we’re both in the same boat,” she murmured.

The words refused to make sense in his head at first—but then they did, and he reared back and stared at her. No. I’ve only just realized it myself, she can’t have...she can’t be thinking that I—! “I beg your pardon?”

Her voice lowered even further, so that he had to strain to hear her. There was a faint, sad smile on her face. “You love him just the same as I do, don’t you?”

He drew a long breath. He knew what he should say, what the right and proper words would be. No, like a son. Or like my brother. But he couldn’t lie to her, not even to spare what was left of her broken heart, and so what came out instead was, “Yes. Gods, yes.” Hate me for it. Tell me I have no right to love him, that you’re the one who has his heart. Tell me I’m a fool.

She lifted her head, and her faint smile grew to something bright and brittle. “Good.”

Good?! He blinked uselessly at her, gaping like a fish before he could find his voice again. “You—you approve?”

“You’re my favorite brother,” she said simply. “And...well.”

She fell silent, her smile fading until it vanished entirely. He waited. Finally, in a much softer voice, she continued, “If you love him, there’s no harm in telling you what he swore me to secrecy over.”

Dread gripped him. Of course Teomitl was entitled to his secrets, but he couldn’t imagine what would be so horrible that Mihmatini wouldn’t tell him. At least, not while he lived. He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “...What?”

She blinked rapidly, fingers going still. She’d traced something that looked, from a certain angle, like a flower glyph. “...He...he loved you, too.”

No.

But Mihmatini was still talking. “He didn’t want me to tell you; he was sure you’d scorn him. But he loved you the same way he loved me...gods, probably more than he loved me.”

It was the last straw. His nails bit into his palms hard enough to draw blood, and he barely recognized his own voice as rage filled it. “Why are you telling me this?!”

Mihmatini took a shuddering breath; he realized she was fighting tears, and had been since she’d spilled Teomitl’s heart to the night air. “In case he comes back. If he does...no, when he does...you should tell him how you feel.”

He rose on shaking legs. “I think I need to be alone.”

Without really seeing his surroundings, he walked until he came to the canal outside the house. The family’s boats were tied up outside, bobbing gently on the water. When he sat down, the stone under him was cold; the water he dipped his fingers in was colder still. Neither revived him. Neither was as cold as the pit cracking open in his gut. Mictlan was worse, true, but all the inexorable pains of Mictlan were dull aches compared to this.

In case he comes back. In case he comes back. I love him—I am in love, that’s what this pain is—and I will never see him again in this world. Mihmatini says he loves me too, and it doesn’t matter, because his bones lie somewhere in the jungle and his flesh feeds the crows and I will never get to tell him.

Between one breath and another, the tears came. They spilled hot and salty down his face; he let them, shoulders shaking, because he no longer had the strength to stop them. And nobody would come to offer unwanted sympathy, anyway. Mihmatini had her own grief, and the hurrying footsteps he’d grown so used to hearing would never run after him again.

Eventually, when he was spent, he wiped his face and left. It was time to go home.

&

The rest of the month ground on slowly, and his dreams began to change.

At first they were minor changes—the blood was less vibrant, the forests and plains brighter. Teomitl bled less. Acatl woke without feeling as though the inside of his chest had been hollowed out and replaced with ash. His appetite started to return; he still never felt properly hungry, and his meals didn’t exactly fill him with joy, but he could eat without feeling sick. The bones in his wrists were not quite so prominent as they’d been. And if that was all, he might have simply thought he was beginning to deal with his sorrow. Such things happened, after all. Eventually the knives scraping away at his chest would lose their edges, and he would face a life without Teomitl’s sunny smile.

But there was more than just a lessening of pain. He dreamed of a sunsoaked forest in the south, and woke feeling like a lizard basking on a rock, warm in a way he couldn’t blame on the heat of the rainy season. He dreamed that Teomitl was fording a fast-flowing river—one that did not turn to blood this time—and when dawn broke his legs were soaked up to the shins. That got him to visit a healing priest; he knew when he was out of his depth, and if his soul was wandering too far in his nightmares then he wanted to be sure it would come back to him by dawn. But the priest was as befuddled as he was, and only told him to call again if he woke in pain or with unexplained wounds.

Unexplained wounds? he thought bitterly. You mean, like the one where half my heart’s been torn from my chest? But he knew better than to say that out loud; his feelings for Teomitl were none of this man’s business. So he thanked him and left, paying a fistful of cacao beans for the consultation, and tried not to think about it until the next time he slept and the dreams returned.

And they were dreams now, and not nightmares. While he slept his soul seemed content to follow Teomitl’s solitary travels through the very outskirts of the Empire, and he no longer had to see him torn apart by monsters or smiling ruinously with bloody teeth. Teomitl barely bled at all now, and his wounds were only the normal ones a man might get from traversing hostile terrain alone—a scraped knee here, a bound-up cut there. He sang to himself as he walked, though the words slipped through Acatl’s mind like water. Once Acatl stood just over his shoulder at a smoky campfire while he roasted fish in the ashes, and his heart ached as he watched him cry.

“Acatl-tzin,” he whispered into his folded knees. “Acatl, I should have told you.”

“Should have told me what?” he tried to ask, but before he could form the words he woke up. There were tears in his own eyes.

It’s only because I miss him, he told himself. This is grief, that’s all. But there was the smell of smoke and the sweet fresh scent of cooked fish clinging to his skin, and a single damp leaf was stuck to the bottom of his bare foot. It hadn’t rained in Tenochtitlan last night. He stared at it for a long time.

Each night went on in the same vein. He would clean his teeth, lay down on his mat, and drift off to sleep—and in his dreams, there would be Teomitl, hale and whole and walking onwards. Despite himself, Acatl started to wake with a faint stirring of hope. Maybe Teomitl really had only been separated from the army. Maybe he truly was on his way home. And maybe I’m delusional, came the inevitable bitter thought when he’d finished his morning rituals. It had become much harder to listen to.

It was almost a surprise when he dreamed about a city he knew. It was a small but bustling place about half a day’s walk from Tenochtitlan, and as he walked through the streets he realized that the torches had been lit for a funeral. He could hear the chants ahead of him. There was a darker shape in the shadows which spilled down the dusty road, and he knew the man’s stride like he knew his own.

“Teomitl!” He hadn’t been mute in his dreams for a while now.

Teomitl didn’t turn. He never turned. But he stopped, and by the way his head tilted Acatl just knew he was smiling. Wordlessly, he pointed at the courtyard ahead.

A funeral pyre had been lit, and it was so like the rituals he presided over that he felt a distinct sense of deja vu. There was the priest singing a hymn to Lord Death; there were the weeping family members of the deceased. There were the marigolds and the other offerings, brilliant in the gloom.

“That could have been me,” Teomitl said, and Acatl heard his voice as though he was standing next to him in the waking world instead of only in a dream. “But it’s not yet, and it won’t be for a good long while. So you don’t need to fear for me. I keep my promises.”

They’d never touched before. But this time Teomitl turned to face him, and the hand he held out was free of blood entirely. Slowly, giving him time to pull away, Teomitl pressed his palm to his. Their fingers laced together, warm and strong and almost real.

“Teomitl,” he said helplessly.

“Acatl.” Teomitl’s smile was like the sun. “I’m sorry I made you worry, but I’ll be home soon.”

And then he woke up, the dream shredded apart by the blasts of the conch-shell horns that heralded the dawn. For a long moment, he stared blankly up at the ceiling. He could still feel Teomitl’s hand in his; each little scar and callus felt etched on his skin. He lives. The slow certainty of it welled up in him like blood. He lives, and he is coming back.

He rose and made his devotions before dressing, but now his hands shook with something that was no longer grief. As soon as he left for his temple, he could feel the change In the air. Scraps of excited conversation whirled past him, but he couldn’t focus long enough to pick any out. He concentrated on breathing steadily and walking with the dignity befitting a High Priest. He would not sprint for the temple, would not grab the nearest housewife or warrior or priest and demand answers. They would come soon enough.

They came in the form of Ezamahual, rushing out of the temple complex to meet him. “Acatl-tzin! Acatl-tzin, there is wonderful news!”

Briefly, he thought he should have worn the hated regalia. “What news?”

Ezamahual’s words tumbled out in a headlong rush, almost too fast to follow. “The Master of the House of Darts—Teomitl-tzin—he’s returned! Our warriors met him at the city gates!”

Even though he’d half expected it—even though the recurring dreams, his soul journeying through the night at Teomitl’s side, had kept alive the flickering flame of hope that now burned within him—he still briefly felt like fainting. He clenched his fists, the pain of his nails in his palms keeping him upright. “You’re sure?”

Ezamahual nodded enthusiastically. “The Revered Speaker has reinstated him to his old position, and there’s talk of a banquet at the palace to celebrate his safe return. I think he’s at the Duality House now, though—they’re like an anthill over there.”

Right. He exhaled slowly, forcing down joy and disappointment alike. Of course Teomitl would want to see his wife first above all, to reassure her that he was well, and of course he had no right to intrude. Nor would he even if he did—Mihmatini deserved her husband back in her life, deserved all the joy she would wring from it. The things she’d told him didn’t—couldn’t—matter in the face of their union. “I see. I suppose we’ll learn more later. Come—tell me if there’s been any new developments in those strangling cases.”

Ezamahual looked briefly baffled, but then he nodded. “Of course, Acatl-tzin. It’s like this…”

The latest crop of mysterious deaths turned out to be quite straightforward in the end, once they tracked down their newest lead and had him sing like a bird. He nodded at the appropriate times, sent out a double team of priests after the perpetrators, and had it very nearly wrapped up by lunch—a meal that, for once, he was almost looking forward to. He was settling down with the account ledgers to mark payment of two gold-filled quills to the priests of Mixcoatl for their aid when he heard footsteps outside.

Familiar footsteps.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the tightness in his chest eased. But he didn’t have a chance to revel in it, because he knew the voice calling his name.

“Acatl? Acatl!”

He dropped the ledgers and his pen, getting ink all over his fingers. As the entrance curtain was flung aside in a cacophony of copper bells, he scrambled to his feet. Had he been tired and listless before? That must have been a thousand years ago. He thought he might weep for the sheer relief of hearing that beloved voice again. “Gods—Teomitl—”

He had a confused impression of gold jewelry and feather ornaments, but then Teomitl was flinging himself into his arms and the only thing that sunk into his mind was warmth. There were strong arms wrapped around him and a head pressed against his temple, and Teomitl’s voice shook as he breathed, “Duality, I missed you so much.”

Slowly, he raised his shaking hands and set them at Teomitl’s shoulderblades. He could feel his racing heart, feel the way he sucked in each breath as though trying not to sob. It was overwhelming; his eyes burned as he fought to blink back his own tears. He couldn’t speak. If he opened his mouth, he knew he’d lose the battle—and there were no words for this, anyway.

Teomitl abruptly released him, turning his face away. His voice was a soft, ragged thing, and his expression was a careful blank. “Forgive me. I was...Mihmatini said you’d be glad to see me. I wanted to look less like I’d been dragged over the mountains backwards, first.”

He swallowed several times until he thought he could risk a response, even as his eyes drank in the sight of Teomitl in front of him. He looks the same, he thought. His skin had been further darkened by the sun, there were new scars looping across his arms and legs, and someone had talked him into a fortune in gold and jade with quetzal feathers tied into his hair, but he had the same face and body and sweet, sweet voice. “It’s—there’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad you’ve returned.”

“They told me everyone thought I was dead.” Teomitl bit his lip. “Except for Mihmatini. And you.”

He steered his mind firmly away from the shoals of crushing grief that still lurked under the joy of seeing Teomitl before him. He is here, and hale, and whole, just as I dreamed. I have nothing to weep over. “I knew you weren’t. You wouldn’t let something like a flood stop you.”

There was the first glimmer of a smile tugging at Teomitl’s lips. “You have such faith in me, Acatl.”

“You’re well deserving of it,” he replied. And I love you, and even in dreams I could not think of any other path than your survival. That, he refused to say.

Especially because Teomitl still wasn’t looking at him.

They stood in agonizing silence, and he couldn’t bring himself to break it. Teomitl was so close, still within arms’ range; if he was brave enough, he could reach out and pull him back into his arms. Could bury his face in his hair and crush the fabric of his cloak in his hands and tell him...what? It didn’t matter what Mihmatini had said to him. There was simply no space for him in the life Teomitl deserved, nothing beyond that Acatl already occupied. He wouldn’t burden him with useless feelings.

But then Teomitl shook himself like an ahuitzotl and turned back to him, holding his gaze. “Do you want to know what got me home, Acatl? What sustained me?”

Mutely, he nodded. He still didn’t trust his voice.

“You.”

He felt like he’d been gutted. “I...Teomitl…”

Whatever Teomitl saw in his face made his eyes soften. He took a step forward, hands coming up to rest like butterfly wings on Acatl’s waist, and Acatl let him. “I thought about you. I...Southern Hummingbird blind me, I dreamed about you. Every night! I made myself a promise while I was out there, in the event I ever saw you again. Scorn me for it all you’d like, but I’m going to keep it now.”

Oh, Teomitl. I could never scorn you. They were very, very close now, and Teomitl’s gaze had fallen to his parted lips. His mouth went dry.

And then Teomitl kissed him.

It started out soft and gentle, lips barely tracing Acatl’s own. Asking permission, he thought with an absurd spike of giddiness—and so, leaning in a little shyly, he gave it.

Teomitl wasted no time. The kiss grew harder, fingers digging into Acatl’s skin as he hauled their bodies together. They were pressed together from chest to hip but it still wasn’t enough, they weren’t close enough; blood roaring in his ears, he wrapped his arms around Teomitl’s back and clung tightly. His mouth opened with a breathy little whine stolen immediately by Teomitl’s invading tongue, and when he dared to do the same, Teomitl made a noise like a jaguar and let go of his waist in favor of clawing at the back of his cloak, grabbing fistfuls of fabric along with strands of his hair. It pulled too hard, but he didn’t care. The pain meant it was real, that this was really happening. That for once it wasn’t a dream.

Teomitl only drew away to breathe, “Gods—I love you—” before claiming his mouth again, as though he couldn’t bear to be apart.

Acatl twisted in his arms, knowing he was making a probably incoherent and definitely embarrassing noise, but shame wasn’t an emotion he was capable of at the moment. He loves me. By the Duality, he loves me. “I didn’t think—Mihmatini told me, but I didn’t think...”

Teomitl jerked back, brow furrowed. “Wait. Mihmatini told you?!”

His grip on the back of Teomitl’s cloak tightened at the memory. “She was trying to reassure me, I think. I’d just told her...well.” He couldn’t say it, even with Teomitl in his arms, and settled for uncurling one fist and running his hand up the back of Teomitl’s neck in lieu of words.

He was rewarded with a shiver, and the near-panic in Teomitl’s eyes ebbed into something soft. “What did you tell her, Acatl?”

He’d asked. He’d asked, and Acatl had always been honest with him. He’d be honest now, even if it made his heart race and his hands tremble. “That I love you.”

Teomitl made a desperate noise and kissed him again. There was no gentleness now; he kissed like a man possessed, hungry as a jaguar, and Acatl buried a hand in his hair to make sure he didn’t stop. Teeth caught at his lower lip, and he moaned out loud. This seemed to spur Teomitl on, because his mouth left Acatl’s to nip at his throat instead; the first sting of teeth sent a wave of arousal through him so strong it nearly swamped him. “Ah—!”

Teomitl soothed the skin with a delicate kiss that didn’t help at all, and then he returned his focus to Acath’s mouth. This time he was gentle, a careful little caress that gave Acatl just enough brainpower back to realize that he’d probably been a bit loud. Which is Teomitl’s fault, anyway, so he can’t complain. “Mmm...”

Even when they eventually pulled apart, they clung to each other for a long while. Acatl stroked up and down Teomitl’s spine, tracing each bump of vertebrae and the trembling muscles of his back. Teomitl dropped his head onto Acatl’s shoulder, breathing slow and deep. He’d twined locks of long hair through his fingers, gently running his fingers through the strands. Acatl had to close his eyes, overwhelmed. The stone beneath my feet is real. Teomitl’s skin under my hands is real. This—this is real. He is in my arms, and he loves me.

“I don’t want to let you go,” Teomitl whispered. “I never want to let you out of my sight again.”

Neither do I. He tilted his head, nosing at Teomitl’s hair. Gods, even cut to a proper length again it was so adorably fluffy. He sighed into it. “You’ll have to eventually.” Even though he hated the thought, he couldn’t help but smile. “You’re the Master of the House of Darts, aren’t you? You have an army to help lead. Wars to wage. Glory to bring to the Empire.”

“Hrmph.” The arms around him tightened in wordless refusal.

Joy bubbled up within him, and he chuckled quietly. Still such a stubborn young man. But now he was Acatl’s young man, and there was something wonderful about that. He felt loose as unspun cotton, ready to sink into the floor with the release of all the tension he’d been carrying, but it had left a void behind. A void that rumbled—loudly—to be filled. His face burned with embarrassment at the noise. “...Ah. Why don’t we see about lunch?”

Teomitl snorted. “I have been gone a long time. You’re remembering to eat for once.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually had an appetite for food, but he decided not to mention that. Teomitl would worry too much. But eating lunch meant that they had to be seen in public, which meant they both had to actually let go of each other. Reluctantly, he lifted his head and lowered his arms, finding himself stymied halfway through by Teomitl’s serpentlike hold on his ribs. “Teomitl.”

At least now he wasn’t the only one blushing. “Right. You’re right. We should eat.” Teomitl stepped back, clearing his throat, but the look in his eyes was more awestruck than awkward. He was staring at Acatl as though he couldn’t get enough of the sight.

And since Acatl found himself doing the same thing, he couldn’t blame him. Had his eyes always been that dark? Was that scar slicing a pale line across his skin new, or had he just never noticed it before? I might have gone my whole life without this. What an idiot I was.

It took longer than Acatl liked for he and Teomitl to be properly alone again, this time with a plate of food between them. Lunch was simple fare: a plate of grilled newts and amaranth dough with a vibrant red sauce so spicy it made his nose prickle. The serving priests had taken one look at Teomitl and thoughtfully put it on the side instead of directly on their meal, which he’d had to thank them for. As he sat down, inhaling the scent, he felt as though his body was waking up after a long slumber. It filled his lungs and swirled through his veins, and his mouth watered.

He dug in greedily. Gods, it had been so long since he’d properly tasted the food he put into his mouth. The juicy grilled meat was the most savory thing he’d had in ages, and he couldn’t blame his suddenly blurry vision on the sauce he dunked his next bite in. It was perfect. He had one of the amaranth dough sticks to smother the burn, finding it crunchy and slightly sweet with its dusting of seeds on top. “Mmm.”

A hand landed on his thigh. “Enjoying yourself?”

He lifted his head, face hot. “I was hungrier than I thought.”

“That’s good. You need to eat more, anyway.” Teomitl smiled, and he couldn’t help smiling in return. “Pass me some sauce?”

He passed the sauce. Teomitl tore at his own grilled newt with more manners but just as much enthusiasm. The long trek through the wilderness must have hardened him, because he didn’t wince at the heat of the accompanying sauce. Then again, he also didn’t use quite so much. “Mm. This is good.”

There was a fleck of bright red chili paste by the corner of Teomitl’s mouth. He wanted to kiss it away. A heartbeat later, he realized that he could. They were alone. Nothing was stopping him now.

So he did, and Teomitl went crimson. “Acatl!” he yelped delightedly, grinning even as he turned his head and kissed him back.

Chaste as it was, it lingered long enough that Acatl was flushed when he pulled away. His pulse thrummed under his skin; he felt like he’d drunk a cup of pulque, dizzy at his own daring as it sunk in. They were alone. Good food was in his belly for once, giving him the energy he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. They could do a lot more than kiss, if they wanted.

Teomitl’s grin turned teasing. “I missed doing that.”

“It hasn’t even been half an hour,” he muttered. “You’re insatiable.” But there was no heat to it, and he found his hand resting at Teomitl’s waist. The skin under his palm was just so warm. He’d felt cold bones and grave dust for too long.

An eyebrow went up in stunning imitation of Mihmatini. “And I’ve waited years for even one kiss, Acatl. There’s a backlog to get through, you know.”

The blush had just started to fade, but now it returned with a vengeance. “Years?”

“Mm-hmm.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed. “I’d like to make up for lost time, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He swallowed hard. Now that he could think again he wanted to know how Teomitl had survived, how he’d managed to make it all the way back home—the unreal fragments he’d witnessed each night had not been informative—but his questions suddenly didn’t seem that important anymore. Not when there were other, more immediate desires to be sated. “...I would not.”

And so their mouths met. Teomitl’s idea of making up for lost time was long and hungry and tingled with the spice of their meal; Acatl’s lips parted for his tongue almost before he knew what he was doing, and that was still a little strange but far from unwelcome. Especially when Teomitl drew back, mouth wet and red, to catch his lower lip between his teeth in another one of those stinging little nips that made his blood sing. A breathy noise escaped him, but this time Teomitl didn’t soothe it.

No, this time he lowered his mouth to Acatl’s neck and did it again. It was light and delicate, unlikely to leave marks, but Teomitl’s teeth were sharp enough that he felt each one in a burst of light behind his closed eyelids. He had to bury one hand in Teomitl’s hair and wrap the other around his waist just to keep himself upright; he couldn’t entirely muffle his own gasps. “Ahh...gods...”

Teomitl hummed, low and wordless, and slid a hand down his stomach. Acatl’s fevered blood roared in his ears, and all of a sudden it was almost too much. “Teomitl.”

Teomitl lifted his head, eyes bright. “Mm?”

“You.” He sucked in a breath, willing his heartrate to slow down. There had to be some limits. Too much had already happened much too quickly. “You can’t keep doing that here.”

“You don’t like it?” Teomitl grinned at him. “Or do you like it too much, Acatl?”

If by some miracle all the rest of it hadn’t already made him blush, hearing Teomitl purr his name like that would definitely have done the trick. He had to turn his face away. “You know damned well it’s the latter. We both have our duties; we can’t very well take the rest of the day off to…” Flustered, he gestured between them.

“Hrmph,” Teomitl said, and kissed him again. This time it was slow and sweet and came with warm arms sliding around him, and he lingered in it for long, long minutes.

By the time they finally remembered the rest of their food, it was stone cold. They ate anyway; cold food was still good, especially with the chili sauce. Acatl was privately of the opinion that it even made the sauce taste better, but he’d learned that people tended to look at him strangely when he voiced it. Besides, Teomitl was leaning against him with one arm slung loosely around his waist, a reassuring weight against his side anchoring him to the earth. There wasn’t a need for speech in moments like this.

Not to mention that, strangely enough, he was still hungry. The joy he’d first felt at knowing Teomitl was safe and alive had opened the floodgates, but it felt as though his body was determined to make up for lost sustenance. Even after their plates were both thoroughly clean, he was still rather looking forward to dinner.

The afternoon light was turning the air gold when Teomitl reluctantly got to his feet. Acatl followed; they stood without touching for a moment that was just long enough to be awkward, and then Teomitl pulled him into a fierce hug. Acatl knew it was coming this time; he marveled at how they just seemed to fit together, with one hand buried in Teomitl’s hair and the other pressed flat between his shoulderblades to feel the steady beat of his heart.

Teomitl took a long, slow breath. “Lunch wasn’t long enough.”

“It wasn’t,” he agreed softly. “But there will be others. Many others.” With Teomitl by his side, he didn’t think he’d ever skip a meal again.

Despite the hint of dismissal—yes, he loved the man with all his heart, but they did both have other things to do—Teomitl made no move to let go of him. In fact, he squeezed a little tighter, turning to bury his face in Acatl’s hair. “Mrghh...”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to quell the urge to laugh. As fond as he was, he knew it probably wouldn’t go over well. He made do with stroking Teomitl’s hair—gods, it was so soft—and taking a deliberate step back so that Teomitl had to release him or be pulled off-balance. Now Teomitl was glaring at him, but nothing would stop the slow upwell of joy in his veins. “Go on. I’ll see you at the banquet tonight.” He knew he’d enjoy this one.

Teomitl’s eyes were fierce as an eagle’s. “And afterwards? Will I see you afterwards, Acatl?”

He had a pretty good feeling he knew what Teomitl had in mind for a private celebration. Nerves twisted his gut, but only for a moment. He’d come this far, hadn’t he? “Yes,” he said simply.

The way Teomitl’s lips parted in wonder let him know he’d made the right choice. For the rest of my life. Whenever you want, for the rest of my life, I’ll be there.

Teomitl didn’t reach for him—he seemed to be deliberately holding himself still, tension ringing through his body like a drawn bowstring—but he looked like he wanted to. He looked like he wanted to yank Acatl back into his arms and finish what they’d started earlier, and the thought was exhilarating. “My chambers in the palace? They’re closest.”

Acatl flushed, shaking his head. That was a risk he refused to take. The palace had too many people, too many ears and eyes. Far too many chances to be interrupted. If he was going to do this, it would be somewhere safe. “My house. I’ll...I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” There was a wild, radiant smile.

He smiled back. Though he’d miss Teomitl while he worked—Duality, they’d been apart for so long—it would be fine. He was already looking forward to the banquet and what would come after, when nothing would part them again save the dawn.

Teomitl had promised, after all.

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 6/?

Part 5

"Wh- no, not at all," Jon shakes his head. Great, just great. Just go ahead and screw it up with the only person who for whatever reason seems to like your presence anymore. "I was just wondering."

"Yeah I just thought with the Dark people coming closer-" Gerry's voice fades gradually, until he's looking at the coffeepot in a sort of contemplative silence. He turns his head to look at Jon again after a moment. "I just like being here."

Jon feels his mouth dry up, and the space where his missing ribs should go aches as if to remind him he's betraying Gerry's trust even as they speak. He'll- he'll probably stop liking it -liking Jon- when he finds out he's been lying to him.

"That's- that's good. I like having you here," Jon mutters.

VI

Basira's capability to work through bullshit is, it turns out, incredibly high.

It's basically a requirement for all sectioned officers, but Basira's been steadily pushing her threshold back since she started noticing her partner and friend with benefits could track down a suspect better than the K9 units. As it stands now, she looks at Sylphie Fairchild, and ignores the way her ears feel blocked, like every sound is dimmed and muffled before it reaches her. She knows they're standing in a shop on a busy street, the avatar's acoustic tricks are not going to fool her.

"A diving school?" Basira asks. The shop is all painted a single hue of deep blue, from the door and the floor to the counter, and if Basira loses her focus for a moment it becomes unclear if the walls are even there at all.

"Best one in Malta," Sylphie smiles. It's difficult to believe there's something inhuman about her, when she's not spewing bugs or sprouting limbs. "We specialize in nighttime excursions. Only you and the sea and the stars above yo-"

"Sounds charming," Basira interrupts. The woman leans across the counter slow and flowingly, like she's moving through water. The folds on her flannel continue moving long after she's stopped, as if pushed around by currents Basira can't see. "I thought drowning was a Buried thing."

It's why she'd come here in the first place. Surely a Vast avatar that deals in the Buried's domain will know something about the coffin, or how to crack it open.

"Hmmmmm, it depends on what you get from it." Sylphie, voice turns amused. "Should you be asking questions? I thought that's why you had an Archivist."

Basira sighs. That does explain why this feels so wrong. When Elias gave her the name, it had been easy to find Fairchild, her path illuminating in her mind like a neon trail. But that's it. She's meant to find information, not add it to the Archive, she guesses.

Whatever. This is not about Basira and what she may or may not be turning into. This is about Daisy, and that makes it worth it.

"He's busy. I want to-"

"Ah, pity. I wanted to meet him! Michael always gets all the fun- or he used to." Sylphie chuckles darkly, and it sends Basira's nerves on edge. A good reminder that this is not just a young woman playing dumb, but a predator. She wonders how many people have jumped into the sea in the middle of the night and then never found the boat again. "You Eye folks really like sticking your noses in everybody's businesses don't you?"

Basira's nape prickles. The counter is gone, and she's standing in the middle of a deep blue expanse, much colder than it ought to in the middle of the Maltese summer.

"I'm not scared," says Basira, and she means it. She rationalized her way out of the Unknowing, it takes a lot more than a Fairchild with bad taste in decoration to mess with her mind. "Do you know anything about the coffin?"

Sylphie rolls her eyes. "Tsk. You're no fun at all." She snaps her fingers, and the reassuring presence of walls and floor and ceiling start to fade in again. "It's a pocket dimension, I don't deal with those. Too constricting. Couldn't help you if I wanted to, sorry!"

"Do you know anyone that could?" Basira asks, and Sylphie gives another laugh, delighted this time.

"Sure, don't know if he would though. Go look for Matthew."

The words light up like a beacon in Basira's mind and all of a sudden she has a purpose again. This is what she's supposed to do, and the first steps of the way towards finding the next target are already forming in her head.

"Not even a thank you?" Sylphie's amused smile is audible in her voice as Basira walks towards the door. "Come back when you get whoever it is out of the coffin! We do couples outings!"

Basira slams the door so hard that the glass panes of the windows vibrate furiously, even after she walks away.

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

The depression on his ribcage is fairly noticeable, when the steam on the mirror clears. Jon is not too used to looking at his own body, especially in the past years, when every time he looks there's a new scar to hate.

He presses his hand to the skin, and the beat of his pulse is much easier to find without the protective barrier of the ribs, and much more comforting than it should. It has to mean something, that he still has a beating heart.

"You've been staying the night a lot more lately," Jon observes when he walks into the kitchen to find Gerry brewing a pot of coffee. Gerry looks at him for a second and then immediately back at the pot. Jon goes to push his wet hair away from his face, suddenly self conscious.

"Does it bother you?"

"Wh- no, not at all," Jon shakes his head. Great, just great. Just go ahead and screw it up with the only person who for whatever reason seems to like your presence anymore. "I was just wondering."

"Yeah I just thought with the Dark people coming closer-" Gerry's voice fades gradually, until he's looking at the coffeepot in a sort of contemplative silence. He turns his head to look at Jon again after a moment. "I just like being here."

Jon feels his mouth dry up, and the space where his missing ribs should go aches as if to remind him he's betraying Gerry's trust even as they speak. He'll- he'll probably stop liking it -liking Jon- when he finds out he's been lying to him.

"That's- that's good. I like having you here," Jon mutters. At least he isn't lying about that. Having Gerry around makes him feel a bit more human, and the man is awfully patient in the face of Jon's awkwardness and bad habits. "I- do you need me to read something tonight?"

Gerry rolls his eyes as he pours coffee in two mugs, and Jon feels his stomach do a flip. The gesture doesn't look annoyed at all. It's the kind of eye roll Georgie used to give him before, all fond exasperation he doesn't deserve.

"I don't come here just to get my fix, Jon," Gerry smirks, passing him a mug. "Let's just watch a movie, I could use the distraction. I'll even let you sit on the sofa, come on."

He walks out into the sitting room, and Jon watches him go. The warm drink in his hands brings to mind a comparison he doesn't want to make, because it didn't end well for Martin.

Jon follows, and finds that Gerry has indeed left him a spot on the sofa, just wide enough to sit with his legs under him, which Jon miraculously manages without spilling hot coffee on himself. "How considerate."

Gerry winks. "Your own fault. Don't go adopting stray undeads if you don't have enough sofa space."

Despite himself and his earlier thoughts, Jon smiles. He often finds himself relaxing around Gerry.

"Terribly sorry, the Eye didn't mention anything about your furniture hoarding habits when it dropped you off." Jon sips at his coffee as Gerry snorts.

"I do wonder sometimes, you know?" Gerry asks after a while. The remote sits untouched on the coffee table before them. "Why exactly did the Eye choose me. I mean, we know it was putting on a show for you, so why bring back the sad book ghost instead of your actual friends?"

"I don't think it wanted to lose another Archivist so soon, and you were the only option that wouldn't try to kill me as soon as you woke up," Jon shrugs. It's a tough truth, but a truth nonetheless.

"Hm. Well yes, but it still, " Gerry's started spreading over more and more of the sofa as he speaks, and Jon gets the feeling he's going to end on the coffee table again after all. "It would've made you happy to have them again, and I think that was the point in-"

"It chose just fine then." Jon looks stubbornly at the dark coffee in his mug. He's aware enough that he's just on the verge of making things awkward- Gerry's already gone suspiciously quiet by his end of the sofa, but he needs to say it. "I'm just- I'm sorry it wouldn't let you rest. Having you around is- but you earned it. You deserved a chance to be free of all this."

Gerry clears his throat. "That means a lot, Jon." His voice is a little strained, and Jon sighs. Another interaction turned uncomfortable, great. "So- how about a comedy? I'd suggest a thriller, but we'll both probably Know the twist before it happens so what's the case?"

Jon's head whips up at the change in tone. Gerry's stopped slipping down the couch, his socked foot just shy of touching Jon's knee, and he's reaching for the remote. Usually these conversations end with the other person storming away from him, not just- moving past to the next thing.

Maybe Jon is right, and the Watcher brought him Gerry because he's the only one that could possibly sit down and watch a movie with a monster.

The gap in his ribcage aches again, and Jon has to remind himself that Daisy's life is more important than his regret.

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

She hadn't expected to find a Vast avatar in the middle of New York's downtown, where every space is crowded to its maximum capacity. Perhaps this is a more metaphorical empty space? The unbreachable distance people build around themselves, that sort of thing.

"Matt," says the man at the top of the line, handing the barista a crisp hundred dollar note. "Keep the change."

Basira rolls her eyes before approaching him. The duality of these monsters is without a doubt their most vexing aspect, tipping a barista 95% on a mocha before shoving another innocent off a bridge or however this one does his business.

"Matthew Fairchild?" she asks once she's within a few steps' range. "I have some questions."

The man -teen, really, Basira doubts he's a day over twenty, if he even reaches the number- gives her a sideways look, before his eyebrows arch in recognition.

"Oh you're the Eye fella aren't you?" He smiles. Basira blinks. Suspects aren't usually this thrilled to see her. "Sylphie told me you'd be coming, that was quick! Let me just get my coffee and we can move somewhere more comfortable."

"Thats- no. I just want to know-"

"Matt?" Another barista calls from the end of the bar, and Basira has no doubt the extra ninety something dollars helped push Fairchild's order to the top of the queue. Matthew grins and dashes away to pick up the steaming cup, leaving Basira's ears whistling a little.

"There, thanks for waiting," the young man returns to Basira's side with a whipped cream monstrosity, and she can feel her lower lid begin to twitch. "So where's your Archivist? I heard he killed Mike-"

"He didn't," Basira interrupts him immediately. "That was a hunter. The Archivist was just lucky she stepped in at the right moment." It should feel wrong, using that term to describe Daisy, or praise her kills when she's so much more than what the Hunt made of her, but Basira won't let her achievements go uncredited.

"Hm. Yeah makes more sense I guess," Matthew shrugs. "Anyways, what do you want?"

"The other- she said you knew about pocket dimensions," Basira says carefully. This one seems a bit more cooperative than the last, but she knows better than to trust avatars.

Matthew laughs. "Well, I got mine. Is that what you mean?"

Basira looks around. The Starbucks is gone, and they're standing at the edge of a sickly yellow grass field ending on a cliff, a mirror copy of it a thousand miles below them. That one too ends in a cliff, and Basira can just about see the same field and the same cliff repeating over and over again as far as her eyes can perceive.

She rips her gaze away from the unending space and focuses on Matthew, who's watching her with an amused smile edged in milk foam and chocolate syrup.

"Yes, this is what I mean." Basira hopes her words and tone can convey just how not impressed she is, but the avatar seems far from offended. "How would one break out of it?"

"Now, it wouldn't be too smart of me to tell people that, don't you think?"

Down by the third cliff -or the fourth? Sixth?- Basira catches the movement of a lonely figure as they fall to their knees and begin tearing at their hair, calling out to the empty expanse of white sky above them.

"I don't care about them," Basira says. She should feel guilty, and in some way she does. But they aren't Daisy, and she can't save them. "I'm talking about the coffin."

"Ew, don't talk about that thing!" Matthew cringes, and the sounds of the busy coffeeshop around them start again like someone just pressed play on a recording.

"I need something that will work on the Buried," Basira says. Matthew rolls his eyes.

"Don't know, don't care. You really should've brought someone who could get answers, if you really wanted them," he takes another sip of his coffee, "I'm gonna go no-"

Basira's hand shoots forward to clamp down on his wrist. "I will find you again," she warns, "I am not the Archivist, but I am good at finding people. And I will keep finding you and yours again and again, until you. Tell. Me."

Matthew arches an eyebrow at Basira's white-knuckled grip on his forearm, and Basira feels wind whipping up around her again, smells the sickly grass and hears the faint, distant screams. She doesn't look away from him. If this is a pissing contest, she will win it.

It feels like an eternity goes by before Matthew sighs, and Basira's once more assaulted by the scent of overpriced coffee and the sounds of people purchasing it.

"Like a dog with a bone. Are you sure you're not with the Hunt?" he asks. Basira doesn't move an inch, and Matthew rolls his eyes. "Fine. The ones your sort gets statements from are the ones we let out, usually. They have anchors. Don't know if it'll work in the coffin. My thing is a gateway into the Falling Titan, the coffin is the Buried. Can I go now?"

Basira narrows her eyes. "If you lied, I will find you, and I will bring him with me. You won't like how he asks questions."

"Bring him, I have nothing to hide." The man snatches his wrist free, and as he walks towards the crystal doors they slide open with a burst of air and he's gone, Basira suspects back to his own little reality.

There's... A lot to think about.

She takes a seat on an armchair by a corner. An anchor. This should make things easier, but it really doesn't. Basira lets out a low, slightly hysterical cackle. Now she just needs to find an anchor to go save her anchor from the damned box.

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

He needs to stop coming here, Martin thinks.

The scent of brewing tea, the warmth from the mugs and the steam from the kettle -so different from the white fog that's started following him, even outside his flat- serve only to bring him back. To the time when the break room meant life and company; or even worse, to the time when the break room was already either empty or full of tired, wary looks, but it meant a preamble to a small lopsided smile and a single muted thanks after handing out a warm mug, and that brought Martin all the strength he needed.

The hope's still there, however faint, but Martin doesn't want it anymore. Doesn't want to want it, if it makes sense. Peter isn't lying when he insists life alone is much easier, but something in Martin keeps clinging stubbornly to the feeling of belonging. There's a click behind him, and Martin sighs and turns to give the tape recorder another reminder that he needs to be left alone.

Jon's startled eyes meet his from where he's frozen by the door, and Martin wants to scream.

"I- sorry," Jon apologizes immediately, "I thought Melanie-"

"She's out. She left with Gerard this morning." Martin saw them leave through the cameras, but he also felt them leave. He can often tell how many people are still in the Institute lately.

"Uh- yes I- they've been going out, I forgot," Jon mumbles and Martin feels that ugly, useless, misguided hope rear its head up again. "They've been hunting. A Leitner, I think Gerry said." Oh, there it goes. Dead again.

"Back on his old business, then."

"Yes, he's- I don't think he knows how to give up on helping people," Jon says. There's an undeniable warmth in Jon's dark eyes when he says that, and Martin has the thought that maybe he came here today because the Lonely wanted him here for this very encounter. "You'd know about that, I guess."

Wait, what?

Jon's eyes are still soft, fixed on some point behind Martin, and he realizes with a start that he still hasn't poured the extra mug of tea down the drain.

"I-" Martin starts, but he has no idea how to follow it. 'I love you, please forget about me' is maybe too on the nose.

"You need to go, that's-" Jon's resolve, whatever it was, seems to deflate. Martin winces. "I understand, I need to go out anyways, I- sorry. "

He turns to leave, and Martin is left alone with the bitter thought that the only thing worse than Jon not respecting his wishes is apparently Jon doing just that.

He needs to stop coming here.

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

"You look distracted," Melanie says when they stop for lunch at midday. She's got some fish and chips, and Gerry is -as usual- picking unenthusiastically at the smallest item in the menu. She often wonders if he doesn't really need to eat and does it only to appease her- in which case his solution does a lot more to feed her suspicions than to ease them. "What is it?"

"Hm? I mean, we're hunting a book that makes you grow organs until they start coming out of your body cavities, isn't that enough?" He flicks a chip around the plate, glaring down at it like it personally wrote the offending book.

"Yeah, and we know exactly where it is. We just need to wait until tomorrow when the shop's open. That's not what's worrying you." Melanie's not sure where the certainty comes from. She's either been spending too much time with Gerry, or the Eye's mark is starting to affect her more now that the bullet is gone and she spends most of her day out looking for leads on avatars and Leitners. "Gerry?" she asks again, because he clearly stopped listening to her about a word in.

"I don't know. I'm just on edge, for some reason." And his eyes drift away in the direction of the Institute again. Melanie groans, because she thought she was done listening to relationship trouble involving that freak forever, but her life is a joke and she's two Jon-related comments away from inviting the Slaughter back in. "What?"

"Did you two get in a fight? Is that it? You're trying to save who knows how many people from vomiting their organs until they're empty meatsacks, and you're worried about Jon?" she snarls, stabbing at the piece of fish on her plate so hard she hears the fork clink against the plate underneath. Therapy, Georgie, Gerry and bullet removal have done a little to fix her animosity towards Jon, but she seriously doubts she'll ever like him. She never did in the first place, so she figures it's ok.

"I- no? We're alright," Gerry frowns at her like she's the crazy one. "...but maybe? It does feel like there's something back at the Institute. But I don't know what. Maybe the Eye wants me there for some reason."

"Got it. Then we should keep you away, right?" Melanie looks at Gerry. Gerry looks back. The silence stretches. Melanie narrows her eyes. "Right?"

"Melanie..." Gerry's look turns pained, and Melanie groans again.

"I thought we weren't doing what the entities wanted!"

"We're not, it's just- last time it felt sort of like this, you know?" Gerry shrugs. He looks apologetic, biting at his stupid lip piercing with a thoughtful frown. "When the deliveryman went in. They might be in trouble."

Melanie rolls her eyes. Since Basira's away on whatever lead she's chasing there's only three people at the Institute that would theoretically be in danger, two of them are technically unkillable, and she really only cares about the one that could escape most easily.

"Helen will let him into her door if it's anything too bad," she tries. It's probably true, but Gerry's frown doesn't fade.

"I'm not too sure about that," Gerry says, and Melanie remembers in that moment that they lied to him to cover the ribs thing and he thinks Helen and Jon got into some sort of monster brawl. Funny how lies come back to bite you in the ass. "We can't do anything else about the book today. Let's go back early."

Melanie pinches the bridge of her nose. Gerry probably won't leave her alone and go back by himself. Outside the Institute the only safety they have is their numbers, and he wouldn't just let her get taken, she's sure. She's also very sure he'll be insufferable until they go back. She was enjoying the break, goddammit.

"I hate you." She lifts a hand to call the server over, and pulls her phone out to send a text.

"Your ex continues to ruin literally everything in my life" she texts Georgie while they wait for the food to be packed up. Gerry's not even trying to peek at her phone, so he must be genuinely worried. Georgie sends back some kissy emojis, and Melanie feels a little less murder-prone. "Some insight on this? You hid him in your house during a murder investigation. Is it mind control?"

"I'm very weak to cute short people who make bad decisions. Lucky you." Georgie responds. Melanie smiles. She'll take the compliment and the implication, even if it's lumping her in with Jon.

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

"I thought you were going to wait for Basira," Helen opens her door on the ceiling this time. It's fun to inconvenience the Archivist, she thinks, as he twists his neck to look up at her. The chains are undone, and the coffin hums a delighted purr, having been promised a willing meal.

"I can't anymore," Jon mutters. There's no animosity in his tone when he looks at Helen, which is both new and pleasing. "We don't know what Daisy's going through in there. Waiting however long until Basira comes back when I've been ready for days... it feels unnecessarily cruel."

"Hmmm... had some snacks for the way, didn't you?" Helen asks. The Archivist's eyes are not usually green, but they're glowing like neon since he walked back into the Institute.

"Don't- don't mention it, please." Jon closes his eyes, but the lovely green glow is visible even through his eyelids. "I'm- if I don't-" he starts again, before cutting himself short with a huff.

Helen arches an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"I... I know you're not her. Helen, I mean," the Archivist starts again. "But- they're all human." He says it as though he expects her to understand, and Helen nods. They're all so easy to break, thin boned and fragile minded, so fascinating to watch in this world of nightmares they've stumbled into. Helen likes them an awful lot.

"And you trust me to keep them safe?" Helen asks. Truth is, the Archivist is not wrong. She's not Helen Richardson in the way a hand is not a body. She's not even really an avatar either, because the Distortion spawned from the Spiral itself, but sometimes she wonders if there is too much human in her now, polluting the purity of her concept. The Distortion likes humans, but not in the way that Helen does, and the clash is... disconcerting.

Jon gives a soft, humorless laugh. "I don't know that I trust me to keep them safe. But I'm all there is... and if I'm gone, then-"

"I'm not exactly a fighter, Jon."

"You found a way to help Melanie- a way to help me." Jon looks up at her, and Helen averts her gaze. His eyes are too much, this up close. A recently fed Archivist is not something to be taken lightly.

"I thought you said I wasn't Helen," she says. Jon bends down to lay his rib on the ground next to the coffin.

He shrugs. "I still feel like Jon, sometimes." He straightens up, and takes a deep breath, before stepping into the coffin. "Goodbye, Helen."

"Good luck, Jon." Helen waves him goodbye, the tips of her fingers grazing strands of his hair before he descends too far for her to reach.

The coffin closes.

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

Gerry likes to think he's both fairly smart and intuitive. The Beholding wouldn't have marked him otherwise, tattoos or not. The uncontrollable curiosity was always a part of him, and his mother loved it. As Gerry grew older he realized it was because she thought his Beholding mark would make it easier for her to get information for her ritual; very on brand for Mary Keay, to encourage her six years old into becoming bait for an entity of eldritch horror.

He's no Pupil, no Archivist and no Detective, but Gerry knows things others don't. And as they get closer to the Institute, what he knows is that something is deeply, impossibly wrong.

The Eye is calling him back at full force, the tether born where his heart used to be pulled taut like a harp string, and Gerry realizes with a start that this has something to do with Jon. But it makes no sense, Jon was just fine this morning, and judging on what he did to the Stranger's errand boy a few weeks ago, he's powerful enough to handle whatever comes his way. Jon will be fine, he has to be fi-

"Slow down!" Melanie snaps, and Gerry realizes she's almost running to keep up with his longer, hurried strides.

"Sorry. It just- it's bad," Gerry grunts out as they bend around the corner, and the Institute comes into view. His worry seems to have caught on with Melanie, and she keeps up with him without another complaint. "I don't know what it is, just-"

"I still feel like Jon, sometimes." Jon's voice is as clear as if he was talking by Gerry's ear, even though he's nowhere in sight. This is definitely the furthest he's been able to hear Jon, provided he's all the way down at the Archives, but Gerry doesn't give the realization much thought, focused as he is on the serious, resigned cadence of Jon's voice. He certainly doesn't sound like he's in danger, but Gerry still doesn't like- "Goodbye, Helen."

And it all clicks in Gerry's mind.

"Fuck-" Gerry takes off running towards the building, not knowing or caring if Melanie keeps up. Jon promised he wouldn't do this, Jon knows this is crazy, it-

He hears a sound like a slamming door, and Gerry falls like a puppet whose strings have been snipped in a single cut. It's only his remaining inertia that takes him a few last inches towards the Institute, before he's collapsing on the pavement. He feels his lip and forehead split against the entry steps with awful clarity, but he couldn't care less, because whatever pain his body's experiencing pales in comparison to the agony inside him right now.

It feels as though they have taken all the air from his lungs and replaced it with red hot nails, like someone is digging at his brain with an awl, like his very soul is being ripped out of his chest, and he knows this is a punishment. The Eye tried to warn him, and Gerry ignored it, and now Jon is gone.

"-rry? What's going on?!" Melanie's voice is frantic, like she's looking for something she can kill to fix this, and it's the last thing he hears.

--

When he comes back to, Melanie's half dragging, half pushing him -he thinks, detachedly, that it must've looked funny as she dragged his semi conscious bulk around the Institute, Gerry's not a small man and Melanie hides a surprising amount of power in her tiny frame- onto the break room sofa. Gerry tries to support some of his own weight, and she drops him with a start. Whatever injuries the pavement gave him ache at the sudden movement, but he's got bigger things to worry about.

"-ffin. Coffin," Gerry mumbles. Melanie gasps, and when he parts his eyelids he finds her looking at him in concern. It's not a look he's ever seen on Melanie, and he has enough presence of mind to feel flattered. "He's gone. He-"

"Gerry, it's alright," Melanie tries, as clumsy as Jon in her attempts at softness. "He- he said he'd be, he has his rib-"

"His what?"

Melanie's expression quickly turns to guilt, and she squeezes and pulls at her fingers in what must be nerves. "He wanted- I took him to the Bone Turner. He was trapped in Helen, and Jon got him to take out a rib. He said it would work as an anchor, and he'd be able to come back with Daisy."

"Oh god-" Gerry groans. Of course, of course Jon would- "That won't work. That's not- Melanie it has to be something he loves!"

He'd thought Jon understood that much at least, but apparently he misunderstood just how oblivious Jon is. Gerry knows with devastating certainty that a rib -or any other part of his body- just won't cut it, because he's never met anyone who hates himself so stubbornly and undeservingly as Jonathan Sims.

Melanie arches her eyebrows at his outburst. "Well, then you could-"

"Where's Martin?" Gerry cuts her short, pushing heavily off the sofa. His energy's coming back, and he thinks bitterly of how Jon practically insisted on reading to him for hours these past days. The Flesh mark, the sad looks… a lot of things make a lot more sense in retrospect. He hears Melanie call out after him, but he's already off the door.

This is a terribly Jon thing to do, he thinks as he stumbles down empty corridors, using a bit of juice to Know the way towards Elias' office. Gerry's fuming. For all her oversights as a person, Gertrude was at least aware of her importance. To the world, and the people around her, regardless of whether she considered the latter nothing but a handy tool. Jon thinks his only value lays on the people he saves, and Gerry's going to kill him if he gets back.

When he gets back, Gerry corrects himself fiercely as he bangs on the luxurious oak door. The only signs of life behind it are the thin wisps of fog curling out from below it, and the gold plate with Elias' name reflects his face mockingly.

"Open the door!" Gerry bangs harder. "I know you're there, I'm not leaving!"

Once again there's no answer, and Gerry starts backing up to the opposite wall. He's going to get Jon back even if he has to break the door down and hoist Martin over his shoulder to drag him to the Archives.

The door swings open. "What do you want?" Martin asks, still mostly translucent other than his white-knuckled hand around the doorknob. "You're bleeding. Or something."

"Jon went into the Buried." Gerry wipes his hand against the cut on his forehead. It comes back stained in a pitch black fluid with a tangy metallic smell he recognizes quickly enough, and he wipes it clean on his jeans. He'll worry about that later.

"He what?" Gray seeps out of Martin's eyes, leaving behind a nice forest green, and Gerry feels a crashing wave of relief wash over him. His suspicions were right; whatever the hell Martin thinks he's doing with Lukas, he loves Jon, and Gerry's not alone. "Why would he do that?"

"Apparently there's a Daisy in there? Come on, the coffin's at the Archives," Gerry shrugs, and he gestures back the way he came.

"... Daisy the cop? The one who tried to slit his throat?" Martin arches an eyebrow as they walk, and Gerry has to stop and take a grounding breath. Of fucking course.

"I'm guessing that's the one." Gerry pinches at the bridge of his nose. Maybe this is actually how Archivists hunt- maybe they don't need any statements, they just drive you crazy. When he opens his eyes Martin is looking at him with a decidedly amused glint in his eyes.

"It's not an easy job, eh?" Martin asks with a soft smile, and he starts walking again. "What do you want me to do?"

"You're his anchor. Call him. If he's not too far already, he should be able to hear you." It has to be enough, Gerry thinks. It has to, because otherwise he'll have to accept that Jon slipped through his fingers when he should've seen this coming from a mile away. That Jon is gone because he couldn't stop him.

"Oh." Martin stops on his tracks, the determination on his face giving way to something more guarded. "I'm- I don't think I can help, then-"

"Oh my God! Are you kidding me?" Gerry groans. These two are pathetic. Gerry's lost count of how many times he's had to bite back on how he doesn't think Martin deserves the sheer longing and pain that radiates from Jon's face every time he even mentions the man. "This is ridiculous, and I don't have time to discuss with you. For whatever reason, he-"

"You're still bleeding. Why is it black?" Martin interrupts him, and Gerry holds back the urge to scream. Is this why they like each other? Because they're both stubborn and mulish and refuse to accept they might have value for someone else?

"Fuck it. We don't have time for this." He's going in himself, he's tied to Jon, that has to count for something. He goes to sidestep Martin, when a hand clamps down on his wrist. Gerry looks back at him, and Martin's bright green eyes are filled to the brim with intense suspicion. "Martin, Jon doesn't have time for th-"

"How do you know he can still come back?" Martin asks, his voice heavy with mistrust and hope in equal measures.

Gerry wants to say something scathing, or at least something that will get Martin moving, because Jon needs them. And if the truth is what it takes, then so be it.

"I don't know. Nobody knows. But I'm still alive, and that means he still exists," Gerry says. The acrid smell of ink fills the space between them as it drips from the cuts on his face. Martin's eyes are sharp as he starts connecting the dots, and Gerry has no trouble whatsoever believing that this is the man that outsmarted the Eye's Pupil.

"So- so what does that mean? You know how to find him?" Martin asks, and Gerry shakes his head.

"I can't hear him anymore," Gerry sighs. A fat drop of ink runs down the side of his face. "He's no longer here."

"That's- don't say that." Martin says firmly, and there's something steely under his soft, gentle features. "He'll find a way back, Jon always does. We just have to trust him. Now is there anything we can do so you stop bleeding all over the place? Inking? Whatever it is, let's- let's stop it."

Gerry blinks as Martin pulls out a package of paper tissues from his pocket and offers it to him, a man he neither likes nor has ever been even remotely kind to him. Knowing Jon like he does now, this explains a lot.

"I doubt it's going to stop anytime soon," he says, grabbing the offered tissues. "Not without Jon here to talk to me. His voice is what keeps my body working."

Martin seems to mull this over for a bit, as Gerry soaks up tissue after tissue. Is he made up entirely of ink? Should they be like... keeping this in a bucket, if only to use it later? Gerry gives his hands a quick once over, and sighs in relief when he finds his tattoos are still there.

"...Oh" Martin lets out a little surprised exhale. Gerry whips his head up to look at him.

"What? What is it?" Gerry asks. A slow smile is spreading over Martin's lips, and Gerry can't help but to feel hopeful. Martin might be a naive idiot who thinks he can play the Lonely to his favor, but if anyone has the slightest chance at saving Jon-

"Come with me."