hochmvt

[hochmvt]

Marcel Proust, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Marcel Proust

[hochmvt]

Human existence at its core had always been about warmth and companionship, a sense of belonging and love. Brought together by something like a primal instinct rather than weakness, support was found in the memories of togetherness and care. The smell of honeysuckle caught in the sheets of the bed, mom's hand on your back when she hugged you, strawberry cake on your birthday. Sensory impressions as testaments to companionship were the true survivors in this post-apocalypse, how they outlasted everything that seemed lost. When cities burned and sense of civilization dissolved to pieces, when the stars of night fell from the sky, memories became beacons of refuge, a reminder of an eternal pursuit of love and warmth, as man's final act of testifying to our humanity.

The farmhouse had fallen silent hours ago. Occasionally the floorboards creaked, or the wooden bedstead where Zeev slept. The moonlight continually illuminated the room and Isaiah looked out the window to see the curtains blown slightly forward by the wind, then his gaze fell back to his companion, who had turned to face him on the floor within the last thirty minutes. In here, Zeev seemed to be sleeping peacefully, moving from time to time, but not as restless as before, sometimes mumbling in his sleep as he was probably dreaming. The blonde was half turned on his stomach, one arm under the pillow. Zeev was actually resting, instead of drifting in and out a half-asleep state. The faint wrinkles on his forehead had disappeared completely as he had willingly become less attentive to his surroundings. Here, he didn't have to hide from anyone—couldn't due to his unconscious state—and Isaiah liked the idea that he seemed to have found a peace here where he didn't have to prove himself to anyone. Not even in front of him. 

His glance wandered back up to the ceiling, examining the architecture of the wooden beamed ceiling and he wondered how much work Richie and Sarah had put into this child's room. How long Sarah must have worked on these posters to make them resemble the ones that must have hung in the room of the boy who disappeared in the middle of the night years ago. Like Zeev, Isaiah didn't understand how anyone could leave this behind. Because if he was honest with himself, this farmhouse, filled to the brim with love, gave the impression that nothing bad was happening outside these walls. As if this house protected one from everything that was happening on the other side of the single-glazed bedroom window. 

The days that followed the great eclipse were almost completely lost to him. The memories were buried somewhere under thick wafts of fog that blurred what once was, and as soon as he tried to shine light into it, it spread out like clouds and blinded him so much that it gave him a headache. He only remembered how everything went dark. And how insanely small he felt when the earth and all its inhabitants surrendered unconditionally to their fate. Vaguely, he thought he remembered walking or perhaps even running. How he had hidden in a forest, how probably no one had been able to find him in the darkness. Had he gone missing or been left behind? He thought he remembered going hoarse from all the screaming and crying and calling out again and again for someone he couldn't name today. And then MeriTech had come. Men in white who put an oxygen mask on him, gave him water and drink, moved him onto a gurney and finally evacuated him to the facility up North. Later, they had told him that they didn't even know if he was still alive when they recovered him. He had been lucky that they had found him at all. Now he asked himself, if he was taken or rescued.

Once again, his eyes went to Zeev. There was something so insanely vulnerable about sleep. How the body inevitably surrendered to unconsciousness. And how we dreamed at the same time, ideally of all the things that drove us to carry on the next day. The creation of dreams was a topic he was particularly interested in, too, had started his studies within his second year at MeriTech, but had quickly put his studies on hold in order to become an expert at constructing memories first before pursuing other endeavors.

For Zeev, he had devoted all his expertise and love into what he was forced to do. He had spent his days in the glass dome, leaving the trance-like state only when his body left him no choice. His nights had been spent at Zeev's bedside. Reading to him from his favorite books and comics, sometimes creating stories from the spot, telling him about the horrible food served at the canteen and how he'd love to taste a Snickers once more in his life. Other times, he told him about what memories Isaiah had created for Zeev, even if some, if not most, never recieved clearance and thus, were never authorized by MeriTech and ultimately discarded. Several hours of work on his part, lost to the void at the touch of a button.

And quite often he had also apologized and assured him that he had gone to great lengths not to alienate his existence. He hadn't been able to protect Zeev from most things: From the sedatives, from bearing the burn scar on his palm, from lying in a clinically sterile room while MeriTech prepped him to be ideal for their purposes. But he could give him something instead. Something like a light at the end of the tunnel; something to work towards. Memories of what really had been. Of the things Isaiah himself had been allowed to gain a vague insight into: Zeev's sister with sun-drenched, long blonde hair, golden cascades shimmering bright while dancing to the music of his coven. His mother's gentle hand running through his blonde strands. The scent of pine trees and lavender bushes, reminding him of the forest he grew up in. All real, though brightened and refined.

One day, Isaiah had deactivated the small metallic pill-shaped device that was inserted into every witch as soon as MeriTech got their greedy hands on them. Devices that were used for GPS tracking and monitoring the vitals of witches working for MeriTech. They had a technical vulnerability that Isaiah was able to exploit through his access rights without anyone noticing. He had forced the subdermal device into DSM—Diagnostic Sleep Mode—, which was usually for maintenance only. After a short while, the runtime parameter was set to indefinite by injecting a custom code into the config file. A setting that would prevent the device from resetting itself when Zeev's vitals would normalize by waking up from the induced coma. This low-power dormant state of the MT-TRK.07 cut off all communication with satellites and logging systems without ever triggering the failsafe: A code that ensured no tampering without consequences—sending a final ping to signal destruction. And after Zeev had escaped, to the MeriTech network it looked like he has gone into long-term unconsciousness. Or death. With that, he had given him freedom and a world he could no longer be tracked in.

Zeev shifted in bed and turned his back to him. Isaiah looked at him briefly and then did the same, looking at the wall opposite the window. Of course he had always felt guilty, of course he had always thought about waking Zeev up, explaining everything to him and helping him escape. He had gradually shed the romanticized view of his profession that MeriTech had indoctrinated into him over months. Isaiah was not the bringer of hope in this region of the former United States. He was responsible for a whole part of a nation being misled by a megacorporation that sedated people and gave them hope to keep them quiet. He was the antagonist in many people's reality once they woke up from their daydream. What if Zeev would wake up one day, too, realize what Isaiah had done to him and not be able to forgive him?

Pushing these intrusive thoughts aside and swallowing hard only helped him little to cope with these fears that had haunted him ever since he met Zeev. If he was honest with himself, they originated much earlier, after the eclipse, when everything was a blur and he was… lost. Not knowing if his parents were still out there, he couldn't even tell what they looked like and admittedly, he felt incredibly guilty about it. Everything he could remember encompassed two memories. The first was dominated by the weight of his mother's hand in his own, how she accompanied him on his first day of school the day after he lost his first tooth. And even if school and getting to know so many people all at once was exhausting and scary, he had a piece of strawberry cake in his lunch box that was marked with big, chunky letters that read his name. Because he had been brave. And how his mother lay under the covers with him in the evening, as it thundered terribly outside and he had been afraid, when she had hummed a lullaby. The same lullaby he had sung to Zeev when he had been unconscious at MeriTech. Those two memories were uniquely his, he had never recreated them for the world, for Zeev or for himself, fearing they might get in the wrong hands. Just as each memory that was created was unique to Zeev instead of a mass-produced product with a clever tactical broadcasting strategy.

Silence prevailed and in this silence he asked himself if his parents had searched for him, when he got lost. Did they still? Or were they given memories of other children? The ones that were now in their care? Would they even recognize him? Zeev moved one more time and turned his body back towards Isaiah. The witcher furrowed his eyebrows briefly and then relaxed them again. This made Isaiah smile slightly and he turned back towards the wall. As long as he was with Zeev, it wasn't him against the world. He didn't think about how he would find his way back to his work once he was at MeriTech. How he would be alone again and every day would look the same. Right now, he wasn't alone but in good company, together with someone who hadn’t left him behind to die and for the first time since the eclipse, he tasted something like freedom. Something to battle the loneliness. That and hope. Hope that his work, no matter how blurry it may have been compared to reality, had brought Zeev a moment of peace. That it had never taken, only given.

MeriTech's alarm was neither loud and flashy, nor did it seem completely out of place when Isaiah first heard it. It was a repetitive, distinct rise and fall that undoubtedly attracted attention, but in no way caused panic in anyone who heard it. At first, Isaiah hadn't even noticed the alarm going off. He was too busy placing baby frogs near the rippling stream, not far from where Zeev stood but not obtrusively close. More as if he could remember that they were there when he really tried, but the frogs, whose croaking added to the background noise but were regularly drowned out by his sister's laughter, were not the protagonist of the whole thing. That was Zeev himself, who was splashing around with his sister in the brook near his home. Zara had found great pleasure in getting Zeev wet. The hem of her white dress was getting increasingly soaked, turning greyish-white. Pollen had gotten tangled in her hair and when Zeev let his gaze wander, the wind made the lush meadows in the distance look like a green sea. Standing to his calves in the water, he felt pebbles and san under his bare feet and the faint current running around his calves. In this memory, he was about ten and an exhausted, brave dragonfly would have gladly taken rest on his linen shirt if Zara hadn't splashed water around so furiously. He had almost finished building the scenery and then just had to adjust the background noise parameters. But he didn't do anything with Zara's laughter. He had never changed it, neither made it louder nor softer, but always left it unchanged. Just as he had perceived it through Zeev. It was just as sacred to him as it was to the witcher himself. 

The warm white light of the dome had changed, changing into a deep orange as if sun was about to set, and Isaiah furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, wiping away his current project with a wave of his hand, and thus storing it in his drafts. He walked towards the exit and placed his employee badge down to see what was going on. The word declined appeared on the scanner in red letters. Hm. In hope of a change in outcome, he waited a moment and tried again. Usually, he had unrestricted access to every room in the facility with the exception of floor 18, which was only accessible to management. He was a senior technician after all. This didn't seem to hold any weight today. Before he could try a third time, the doors opened and three men in heavy armor with rifles entered the Memory Architecture Chamber, or MAC for short. They did not raise their weapons or shout, instead they stopped near the entrance. “Please step away from the exit, Mr. Pines. You are not in danger. We are here to maintain your safety.” Isaiah didn't move and looked at the man who had just spoken for a while. “Why is my badge rejected? I have an all access pass,” he argued and then briefly asked what was going on. There was no reply. 

It had taken the memory technician a few minutes to realize why he was not allowed to leave his workstation. There must have been a security breach. “Did someone break in? Have you checked in on Zeev... Uh, my subject? Is he safe? Is he guarded?” he asked more angrily and still got no answer. He asked a second, third and fourth time until he finally got an answer that was anything but satisfactory: “Please resume your work until we lift the containment, Mr. Pines.” Even before the containment was lifted, Isaiah realized what had happened. Frankly, with a color that intense and his mind being everywhere but crafting memories, but rather with the subject of his projects, he felt his heart racing and his chest swelling. He wanted to scream, not because he was worried about Zeev, but because he was proud. He wanted to cheer and have confetti rain down. Zeev had made it out of here. He had escaped. Had defied security measures and surveillance and cycles of sedation and the firm certainty of MeriTech's board having broken and instrumentalized Zeev and made it beyond the walls. Maybe through a maintenance tunnel that Isaiah had told Zeev about in his sleep, probably not quite himself, but he'd made it and he was free. And MeriTech would never find him.

The day that followed, the board had convened all those who had been granted emerald clearance to inform them why the alarm had been raised. Isaiah's suspicions had proved correct. His superiors had let him continue tinkering with the witcher's memory and when he tried to visit Zeev in the evening, a security guard intercepted him. He gave the memory he had made into his hands and thus did nothing wrong. No one knew that he had visited Zeev every night and no one would ever know. Not even Zeev. The facility's manager announced quite nonchalantly that a subject had gone missing and escaped. They had waited all night for the GPS tracker to show up on their radar, but the signal never came. They therefore assumed that the escapee, was deceased or in a comatose condition and thus deemed him useless for MeriTech's purposes.

Throughout the entire speech, they hadn't mentioned Zeev's name, even though it couldn't be anyone but him. Neither had they mentioned that he had been in “Neural Development” for so long, been artificially molded into something that would be of use for MeriTech. Isaiah sat far back and said nothing, looking through the facility's manager instead of at him and finally looking down at the floor as the corners of his mouth lifted into a slight smile. He had made it. The boy he'd read stories to at two in the morning, who he'd trusted with secrets, about the memories he created for him, about how he sometimes feared dying as a nobody when he was replaced by MeriTech because he got too rebellious. And how much he dreamed of freedom. Zeev had never answered. And yet Isaiah had imagined that he had listened to him closely. That he had recognized something like affection and the desire to belong between the drowsy words when Isaiah had almost fallen asleep at his bedside. 

That day, he had returned to his dome once more, given the new assignment of creating memories for the general population again for the time being. Isaiah had lain down on the padded floor and worked long into the night. He had only started crying late, had simply stared into space for a long time before that, creating a night sky for himself and putting the stars in the firmament for Zeev, even if he would never get to see them. Meanwhile, he remembered the nights he had spent in the chair next to Zeev. Stories of monsters and cities and villains and sunrises and sunsets that couldn't have been more scenic. Stories of a boy who had forgotten his name, but never his heart. His tears came quietly and slowly. He didn't sob, but smiled every now and then. Oh, the places you will go, Zeev!

Days and weeks passed in which Isaiah continued to think of Zeev. He wondered if the witcher subconsciously remembered him somehow. Or if he felt anything. Even if they had never spoken to each other, even if their entire interaction had always been one-sided, Isaiah had never just “worked” on him. In a way, Isaiah had loved Zeev. Not in an overly romantic way, but he had gone to great lengths, he had wanted Zeev to be well, to be hopeful, to find and realize something in this world worth fighting for. Perhaps because Zeev was the only person he had ever met that he had had to create memories for. That he had ever seen. Secretly, Isaiah had wanted to rekindle his fighting spirit with memories. That he wouldn't also give himself over to a corporation that just couldn't get enough. Isaiah had grown fond of a boy made of broken and lost things, of promise and light, who had, if only for a little while, made Isaiah feel a little less alone.

Sarah had packed both wanderers a lunchbox each. Zeev's was green and contained all sorts of food that would spoil quickly: hard-boiled eggs, cheese, peaches the farmers had canned last summer. Isaiah's was red and would come in handy in the long run when they had used up all their supplies and might not find any food anywhere: Synthetic, dried meat, nuts, salt-crusted bread. As she handed them the lunch boxes, Isaiah couldn't help but feel like a child in this moment. And it broke his heart. He stroked the lunch box, from whose surface the design had long since peeled off. Then he put it away. “Thank you,” he murmured and accepted the food hesitantly, primarily because it was difficult to accept such kindness. As much as Sarah was kind-hearted, she didn't seem as if she would give any room for saying no when it came to lunchboxes. 

Parting from them was hard even if they had only known one another for a day. The way Sarah hugged him felt strangely familiar and as Isaiah broke away from her, he found himself holding eye-contact without much difficulty, as if a switch had flipped inside him, he just didn't know which circuit it belonged to. The farmer joked a little later, as she hugged Zeev, that they could bring the lunch boxes back sometime. Zeev replied that he would certainly try and Isaiah remained silent. Even though he hoped for promising he'd bring them back, he knew that once he was back at MeriTech, it would be impossible for him to visit anyone ever again. Once more, he wished for freedom. He shook Richard's hand and there was just as much warmth and connection in his version of a farewell as there was in Sarah's embrace. She smiled at both of them and her smile was a testament to them that kindness still existed in this world. His gaze went to Zeev and he remembered the past days with him. As he lowered his gaze, he felt his heart grow warm and the corners of his mouth lift inevitably.

“Zeev, no,” Isaiah protested as the witcher took off his oxygen mask and held it out to him, “You need it more than I do.” The blonde looked at him for a while, wordlessly, his eyebrows raised slightly. Just like Sarah, he gave him no room to talk back. The gesture spoke volumes and Isaiah put the mask on, breathed through it and only took it off briefly to say thank you. “That means a lot.” As they continued their journey, Isaiah reminisced the past days, how Zeev treated him. How selfless his actions were. With each gesture and every moment that had passed, the world outside the headquarters seemed a lot less hostile than MeriTech indoctrinated it to be. A smile graced his features as his gaze kept going to Zeev. He really looked at him, scrutinized the delicate nose, the high cheekbones, the full lips. And for the longest time he lingered on Zeev's brown, warm eyes, which held far more kindness than he had seen in many others. Walking next to Zeev felt like sunbathing, like coming home after it had been raining all day and the fireplace was already running, welcoming you to safety.

There was something about the Appalachian woods that seemed to blur one's perception of time. Isaiah had lost track on how long they had been walking and how many day and night cycles had passed. Their path was influenced by many breaks: Primarily because Isaiah needed them, but because Zeev never went far ahead, too. Isaiah was slower than him, simply because he wasn't used to the terrain and the only physical activity was getting from his housing unit to the MAC and back again in the evening. The thought of Zeev seeming to get something out of walking beside him instead of in front of him moved Isaiah. As if he wasn't just a weight that held Zeev back, but an addition to his journey.

They spent their seventh break on a rocky ledge covered in moss: moss that only grew because of the dense canopy of leaves. A beautiful place. It seemed completely untouched and he recalled that back then, many people longed for something exactly like this. For places that reminded them of what it might have been like in the past, before there were big cities and skyscrapers and shared office spaces. Today, these places of untouched nature seemed to be increasing in number again. He ate some of the eggs Sarah had given them, drank some of his water and drew and wrote in his notebook, trying to capture the scenery, and along the way he found words that would remind him of how he'd experienced being here in the future.

“How do you know all that?” Isaiah replied after Zeev had informed him of the nearby body of water, and a little later he was annoyed at how plump his question was. Zeev answered it much more philosophically than Isaiah had assumed: "If you stay out long enough and really listen, the world will tell you a lot. Especially the woods," he smiled and the corners of Isaiah's mouth lifted. So he put down his notebook, closed his eyes and tried to listen. To perceive what Zeev had perceived.

The two of them talked progressively more day by day. Zeev showed him time and again which plants were edible and how he could find out whether their edibility had been completely destroyed by the acid rain. He showed him how to find out which way was north when he didn't see the sun and how he could filter water when he didn't have a filtration system at his disposal. The chances of Isaiah never needing this knowledge again were high and still, he wrote everything down carefully and underlined key words that would help him get up to speed more quickly. To help him understand (and to make sure he wouldn't die if he ate the wrong plant just because he'd written something down wrong), he read a few things back to Zeev every now and then. On their seventh break, he also showed him what he was drawing: the scenery, trees, some flowers or their gear. Even quick sketches of Sarah and Richard.

Just not everything.

He didn't show him how Isaiah had illustrated him. How he was leaning over a stream and filling up their water supply or how he was standing there leaning against the tree or how he had closed his eyes, stretched his nose to the sky and enjoyed the sun. Occasionally, he had written down words or phrases that were not particularly useful when it came to survival in the Appalachians, but which had a lasting effect on Isaiah. Even though there were many moments that the writer would have liked to capture in ink on paper, he sometimes focused on how he felt or how the moment sounded. As if he was absorbing all the sensory impressions in order to be able to reconstruct them later. Not for the public, but only for himself. They would remain in his drafts forever, just so that he could access them again and again, even if he never "worked" on them again.

The days were long and it would be wrong to say they were carefree, but the longer they walked and shared rations and talked with half-full mouths about the few memories they had left before the eclipse, the more he realized that it wasn't the sun that made him feel warm. And on the sixth day of their walk in the rough direction of headquarters, he thought that there was actually something to rebuild, that this world wasn't actually lost yet, if this was what it actually meant to survive: To feel warmth not from the sun, but from another human being. 

Although the cave where they had chosen to spend the night was not particularly warm and welcoming, it was dry and would shield them from the wind. They sat on the ledge, the campfire behind them was already burning, since Zeev had assured Isaiah that the night would be cold and they had to take precautions to not freeze while asleep. That he believed without question. As a final act of the day, they admired the sunset's vibrant hues in front of them. Leaning against the wall with his arms folded loosely across his chest, Zeev mostly observed in silence. Isaiah didn't want to bother the other and watched some feet away from him, while still looking over every now and then. Even though he wanted to talk to Zeev, he kept quiet to not disturb the peace and quiet. In the end, everything would end up in him being alone again when he got back to MeriTech, so why even bother.

“Where have you seen the most beautiful sunset ever since the eclipse?” he finally asked, resting his chin on his knees. Zeev thought for a moment, then looked over at him: “In the far south. Near the Stellar Basin... It's dead water, but— The sun was low for a long time, the whole sky looked like fire, as if the world had realized it was still alive, but just... different. Different from before. That was shortly after the solar eclipse, a few weeks after. It was painfully beautiful to watch... how the sky was reflected in the water. It had a melancholy of its own, but there was beauty in the midst of it all...” Isaiah nodded understandingly and tried to imagine what Zeev had described.

“Do you ever feel lonely out there?” Isaiah continued to ask, thinking at first that he had crossed a line when Zeev remained silent for so long. But the witcher seemed merely to be pondering his question. “More often than before...” he answered truthfully at one point. At least that's how Isaiah perceived it. “You learn to deal with it differently. But it's different now.” There was a finality in the way he answered that Isaiah decided to not probe further. And yet, he smiled blissfully to himself. He made Zeev feel less lonely. His smile only faltered as the witcher finally asked a question that made Isaiah pause. He felt caught off guard as it was a question he could hardly answer himself.

“Because I have to,” he answered eventually and sighed, looking back at the canopies before him. “MeriTech has the resources and the environment to keep me alive. They know what's out here and how to navigate, they know the world isn't what it used to be and—” The words he spoke were empty and he questioned himself whether he could really let go of the doctrine that MeriTech preached over and over again. Everything he said in response to Zeev felt weirdly practiced. He absentmindedly stroked the fabric of his overall, examining the seams as if it held the answers he was searching for. The sun was dying in the sky before their eyes. What a melancholic picture.

“I don't know where else to go,” he confessed at one point, the words feeling more like his own and less like something a mega-corporation executive would say. His voice was softer, a testament to the fact that Isaiah was more fragile than one would expect behind his outward appearance. “I don't have a family, I wouldn't know how to survive out here... I don't have the skills and the abilities like you do. I can't hunt or grow anything, it's— I'm a technician... That's my only skill and... yeah, that's pretty much all I am,” he smiled faintly and looked over at Zeev, then lowered his gaze slightly and examined his shoes he couldn't care less about. “There is no one waiting for me on a farm, hoping their son would come back,” he mumbled against his knees and he wasn't even sure if Zeev had understood him. In the end, it didn't matter because it didn't really add anything to the content of his answer. His silence wasn't a heavy one, he had simply come to terms with the fact that he could merely fantasize about a life like the one he was temporarily living now without ever actually living it. That was reserved for people like Zeev.

When the first rumble of thunder sounded, Isaiah woke up. The rain had started hours ago, but the rain hadn't woken the memory technician. Zeev sat by the fire, trying to stay awake as scattered embers and ash particles rose into the air from the fire. The cave was sheltered from the wind and the fire helped to ensure that none of them really shivered. He was briefly disoriented, rubbing his eyes and looking around until his mind caught up with him, cleared up and he straightened himself. “Why didn't you wake me?” he asked the other, drawing attention to the fact that they had agreed to split the night in two. Zeev shook his head: “You were sleeping so peacefully.” Isaiah smiled and scrutinized him, stretching and running his fingers through his hair.

As the witcher lay down after Isaiah insisted that he sleep for the rest of the night, he observed him for a while, smiling to himself because he kind of liked that Zeev's rebellion against the system itself went so far as to not wake him, even if it cost him the night. It touched Isaiah how he cared for him, even though he was, in fact, a stranger. Occasionally Isaiah yawned, at first he found it hard to stay awake, but the closer dawn came, the more awake he became.

At some point he got up after throwing more branches into the fire. It was still midnight and the rain had stopped. The night sky was dotted with constellations that he had last seen before the solar eclipse. Maybe he was into astronomy like Sarah and Richard's son was, too. The idyllic scene in front of him, the woods and the grassland behind it, was disturbed by distant rotor noises of four helicopters alongside heavy trucks driving South, all scanning the surroundings. MeriTech, no doubt. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, took a quick look at their little camp. The fire was too deep in the cave and too hidden for the search party to see. Luckily. And yet, this search party supposedly was where his salvation would be. Right in front of him. But his salvation from what? Zeev? Hardly. At most from the dangers of nature, but if he was honest with himself, MeriTech would not really help him. Not like Zeev did. Because he, on the other hand, had taught him much more about the world after the eclipse. He had realized days ago that Zeev had learned to live with nature, while MeriTech had always chosen the approach of placing themselves above it in order to dominate what was never at their disposal in the first place. A sacrilegious attempt.

Another rumble of thunder suggested that it was indeed only a matter of time before another downpour would start. Not risking to be found by the search party, he had hid deeper in the cave. His gaze went to Zeev, who was sleeping peacefully by the fire, and for a while he felt guilty that he would continue to be dead weight for him, but... something inside him just hoped that their journey wasn't over yet and that he could enjoy a few more days of freedom before he had to go back to his dome and not leave the headquarters for a long, long time. He didn't want to go back. Everything he did and what he thought and how he would experience the continuing days made it clear to him that he did not want to go back at all. That he no longer wanted to manufacture false memories for the general public. No warm white light during work, no cold white light in the corridors leading to it. No instructions, no sifting out his work because what he produced did not meet the quality standards that MeriTech expected.   As another rain-laden cloud pushed itself in front of the clear starry sky, Isaiah returned to the fire. The witcher had moved slightly in his sleep, one arm outstretched to where he himself had lain earlier. As if Zeev was searching for the warmth the blonde had left behind. He sat down opposite him, rested his head on his knees, losing himself in the sight of the fire, which he watched tiredly with half-opened eyes. 

Even though he was ashamed of the thought, he hoped that the storm would last longer than the night. That they would be stuck here for a while and that the weather would force them to rest here for longer so they were forced to talk to each other more. Or maybe keep quiet while and watch the nature, coming to the conclusion that they just had to wait out the rain before moving on. Anything. Or maybe it rained so much that a stream became a raging river and they would have to take a long, long, long detour that would buy Isaiah a few more days. He just wanted more time. Not to find answers or inspiration, not even necessarily to get to know people like Sarah and Richard, but rather just to be. To learn what it was like to be with someone who made you feel warm. To talk to someone. What it was like to broaden your horizons because you were confronted with a reality of life that was not your own. To feel kindness, to recieve care and give back the same in return.   The hours passed slowly. The storm had indeed not stopped, it was still raging out there, but the cave still offered them shelter and protection. A few moments before Zeev tossed and turned in his sleep for the first time, he had added firewood. Then Zeev shifted again. Isaiah furrowed his eyebrows slightly, eyeing the witcher as he grew more restless and seemed to be having a bad dream. At some point, when it was almost unbearable to watch him struggle in his sleep against something he couldn't seem to defeat on his own, so he had gotten up, walked over to Zeev and sat at the top of his bedrest, placing his head hesitantly and gently on his lap and stroking his hair over and over again without waking him. His fingers trembled at first, but then gradually calmed down. If Zeev woke up now, he wouldn't even know how to explain this to him. 

Repeatedly he stroked his blond strands, looked down at him and smiled weakly. “Hey,” he whispered calmly into the silence between them, the crackling of the fire only slightly louder, “You're safe... I'm here, I got you.” The witcher's restless movements gradually subsided, his facial expressions barely noticeably relaxed as his eyes moved behind his lids. Isaiah exhaled calmly and began to speak, hoping he would be a light to Zeev, no matter what darkness he was subconsciously struggling through. 

“The light current on your legs felt nice. It's terribly hot, and whenever it's been terribly hot, you and Zara have found refuge in the nearby stream. You've been there all day, Zara has found great pleasure in splashing you when you least expect it and because you're a good big brother, you never expect it. The wet hem of her dress suggests you've been in the water all day as she walks through the tall grass in front of you. You run your hand over the blades of grass that reach your waist, then you look up. The sky looks so wide, you think to yourself, dreaming as you look up and see the golden fleecy clouds drifting away against the pale pink sky. Zara keeps looking back, just to make sure you're still there. She always does.” Isaiah smiled slightly and studied Zeev's expression, stroking his hair again and again as he continued to speak and threw a few more branches into the fire.   “And now that the sun has set, you look up... Now that you think about it, you have never seen so many stars all at once. In a way, you think, it feels like they have been waiting their lifetimes for you to look up and enjoy them. You're almost home. You hope Mother hasn't noticed that you're not back yet, and Zara is sure neither of you will be scolded. Now that you look around, the grass looks like a sea you're wading through, the air is filled with the scent of wild mint and lavender and earth. It smells like home. Mother and your sisters are already cooking at home and even though you can't really smell it, you're convinced you can pick up the scent of the roast lamb that's already.” His fingers kept tracing the same paths in the witcher's blonde strands and his gaze briefly went to the fire, eyeing the embers that rose and he smiled slightly, continuing to speak and wouldn't shift his gaze back to Zeev for a few moments.

“At some point, Zara stops and so do you. The fireflies rise like embers between the grasses. At first there are only a few, later dozens. Some buzz around you, you hold out your hand and one lands on your palm. It buzzes briefly before flying off again and you stand still for a while, marveling, even though you should be home by now...” He paused for a while and looked at Zeev as he slept much more peacefully than before, his smile grew sadder and he continued to stroke his hair.   “It doesn't feel like the end of the world out there, you think. You see the beauty in it. You belong here in this world and this is just another moment that proves it. You bring so much light into this world, you seem brighter than any swarm of fireflies that emerge from between the grasses.” Isaiah's smile grew warmer and he fell silent for a while, taking in Zeev's calm face and gently stroking his hair. “No matter where you are, you are never alone... You are always part of this world, which is so much bigger than you, but you are one with it...” 

Then he fell silent again and looked at Zeev for a while, every now and then at the fire or beyond. Zeev's body had calmed down, his breathing had returned to normal, limbs more relaxed, facial expressions softer. MeriTech had said at the time that a memory like this was not conducive to recovery, so they had been erased for irrelevance. “I wish they'd let you keep it...” he murmured softly and stroked his cheek before gently placing his head back on the backpack, tucking him in once more and finally standing up. Zeev, he had learned over the last few days, did indeed seem to have a heart of gold and from that, Isaiah concluded that he deserved at least one memory that didn't come with pain. 

When Isaiah woke up, no one was resting on the backpack anymore. The fire had gone out, the sky stretched in apricot hues outside the cave entrance, and any hope that the storm would continue was gone. And with the hope, Zeev was as well. His things gone, Isaiah straightened up and slumped his shoulders. Once more, he was alone and even if he was closer to the headquarters, his chances of survival alone were simply unrealistic. The blonde swallowed hard and looked around, a little disoriented, looking up at the sky again. How he would have loved to share the sight with Zeev. Tired, he pulled himself up, folded the blanket and stowed it in his rucksack. 

“It's pretty, isn't it? The morning light?” asked Zeev, who had entered the cave as if he had never been away. Isaiah tried not to let his pleasure show, perhaps Zeev would feel offended if he thought he had left, but he smiled at him and nodded. “It is pretty...” he agreed and took the lunch box out of his backpack, but Zeev shook his head and squatted down next to him. “I've gathered some elder- and cloudberries. Should keep us full for some time... So we keep the non-perishable food for a little while,” he explained and Isaiah looked up at him and smiled, studying him for a while before averting his gaze shyly and thanking Zeev, holding his hands open and watching as he dropped a few berries in them. 

Mist had caught between the trees, the sky had changed a little, turning orange, lilac and blue. It promised to be a beautiful day, and even if Isaiah had wished for rain for very selfish reasons, he was glad about the change in weather simply because Zeev was. He asked how his night had been and nodded as he spoke, apologizing again for falling asleep, but the sound of the rain had concluded in him just giving in to his tiredness. Today Zeev was sitting right next to him. There was something so innocuous about this moment. They drank from the same tin cup, ate in silence and watched the sunrise. Silence because there seemed to be a familiarity that they didn't have to fill every room with words. 

They had already eaten the berries, the sun was a little higher in the sky and the fog had lifted when Isaiah spoke again for the first time. “If I wasn't here, what would you be doing now?” he asked and Zeev looked over at him, his eyebrows furrowed slightly and Isaiah turned his upper body more towards him. “I mean, like... Would you be looking for your family? Or would you take work, like contracts or...” He didn't want to pry. No matter what answer would follow, he wouldn't allow himself to judge. He was curious and genuinely interested in his counterpart. And he hoped that Zeev felt the same and didn't take it the wrong way. “You don't have to answer,” he finally continued, “I was just thinking that... I could help. If you need to get somewhere. If you want to find your sister. I know I'm not the best help, I can't do much out here and I'm slow but... I can help with maps. Or planning. Or running an abandoned distribution center... I could help you figuring things out.”

As Isaiah spoke, his gaze rested on Zeev's slender fingers. Until he dared to look at him. “You don't have to do this alone anymore, if you like... Just for a while.” And with his offer, he found words for a hope he had been harboring for a long time. That he would find a place in someone else's endeavor. Not because he had stumbled into something by chance, but because someone wanted him there. Because he meant something to someone beyond his abilities as a memory technician, but as a person with qualities that were worth having around.

With  confidence  came  laxity.  Zeev  didn't  need  to  have  been  in  contact  with  many  people  to  know  how  easily  they  could  fall  prey  to  arrogance.  And  he  was  certainly  no  exception—any  other  assertion  would  be  pure  irony.  Still,  there  was  nothing  sacrilegious  about  pride.  There  was  a  reason  why  his  kind  was  rare  and  why  he  had  survived  as  long  as  he  had.  MeriTech's  interest  in  him  would  have  been  shorter-lived  had  he  performed  poorly.  In  retrospect,  this  might  have  been  the  tactic  he  should  have  gone  for.  Would  they  have  let  him  out  into  the  world? Probably  not. 

The  mind  game  was  dismissed  again  and  tainted  with  a  realism  that  would  have  been  more  likely.  MeriTech  would  have  found  another  use  for  him—even  if  it  had  only  been  in  the  study  of  his  kind.  They  must  have  drawn  enough  blood  from  him  in  the  past  to  fill  entire  storage  units.  Zeev  didn't  want  to  imagine  what  else  they  would  have  asked  of  him  if  he  had  stayed  any  longer. 

Admittedly,  in  view  of  what  the  friendly  family  had  revealed,  the  urge  to  explore  was  a  good  thing  in  principle.  There  was  a  bleak  indifference  in  the  stoic  acceptance  of  things  that  Zeev  couldn't  get  anything  out  of.  From  what  he  still  knew  about  humanity—most  of  the  time  he  wasn't  even  sure  why—man  had  always  shone  with  its  inventiveness  and  adaptability.  It  was  remarkable  how  the  pair  had  developed  a  solution  that  entire  nations  would  benefit  from.  They  knew  they  couldn't  change  the  circumstances—not  them,  who  were  just  worrying  about  their  survival  on  a  farm,  with  limited  resources  and  a  fragile  mortality—so  they  had  to  accept  the  circumstances  and  embrace  what  was  and  not  dwell  on  what  would  no  longer  be.  They  had  not  given  up  in  the  hopelessness  and  grief.  That  is  why  humankind  would  endure,  no  matter  what  came. That’s  what  Zeev  was  most  fascinated  about.

Zeev  had  listened  to  the  conversation  in  silence.  In  an  absurd  way,  he  felt  not  only  compassion  but  also  envy  during  this  undoubtedly  poignant  story.  They  longed  for  their  child,  for  an  integral  part  of  their  family  and  memory.  A  person  who  had  left  a  mark.  Even  if  these  were  only  felt  on  the  soul.  They  were  still  as  real  as  the  scar  tissue  of  all  piercing,  but  not  fatal,  injuries. 

How  nice  it  would  have  been  if  this  had  been  the  destination  of  his  journey—but  it  didn't  take  a  particularly  broad  comprehension  to  know  that  he  wasn't  the  son  they  mourned  and  they  weren't  the  parents  whose  faces  were  never  really  that  clear,  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried  to  remember.  He  felt  phony  and  deceitful  for  projecting  his  own  desires  in  their  display  and  openness  of  their  pain  and  loss. 

Does  his  mum  talk  about  him  like  that  too?  Did  she  meet  strangers  and  looked  longingly  out  of  the  window  while  reminiscing  about  him  and  talking  about  what  he  was  like  before  the  blackout?  The  few  scraps  of  memory  he  still  possessed  could  only  give  a  meagre  picture  of  what  kind  of  personality  he  might  have  had.  He  knew  that  he  had  spent  a  lot  of  time  in  nature  when  it  had  still  been  safe, that  he  had  always  felt  closest  to  the  sun.  He  remembered  warm  hugs  and  love,  but  as  he  looked  at  Sarah,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  forgotten  one  aspect.  A  detail  that  was  in  the  blind  spot  of  his  periphery.  A  shadow  that  slid  across  the  glistening  light. 

Zeev  had  never  questioned  his  mother's  love,  but  had  always  known  that  it  existed.  That  somewhere  a  sister  was  waiting  for  him,  longing,  as  he  was,  to  embrace  him  again—and  yet  the  sight  of  Richard  and  Sarah  was  so  much  more  than  his  memories  could  provide.  They  were  tangible,  clear.  Zeev  gazed  at  them  intently,  smiling  and  interested,  incidentally  assessing  how  they  completed  the  picture  of  a  family.  Now  and  then  his  gaze  drifted  to  Isaiah,  who  was  sitting  diagonally  across  from  him  and  had  become  strangely  silent  during  their  stories  of  their  son. 

A  little  later,  he  helped  Sarah  clear  the  table  and  restore  order,  for  which  she  thanked  him  with  a  smile  that  contained  more  than  gratitude.

“I'm  sorry  for  your  loss,”  he  announced  to  her  and  gave  her  back  the  towel.  The  kitchen  was  in  a  organised  disarray.  There  were  utensils  everywhere  that  had  probably  not  been  used  since  the  blackout  because  they  simply  didn't  have  the  ingredients.  Treacherous  moonlight  shimmered  past  the  crocheted  curtains  in  silver  threads,  the  stitches  casting  a  multitude  of  patterns  on  the  walls  and  the  kitchen  counter.

“Don't  be,  honey,  it's  not  your  fault,  but  I  appreciate  it.”  She  smiled  gently  at  him  and  rubbed  his  shoulder.  For  a  moment,  Zeev  felt  like  crying.  Still,  he  smiled. 

“We'll  be  out  there  for  some  time,  perhaps  I  can  be  on  the  lookout?”

Something  that  he  could  only  describe  as  hope  glimmered  in  her  eyes.  “That—Oh,  sweetie,  if  you  see  my  boy,  please  tell  him  to  come  home…  Please  bring  him  back  to  us,  wherever  he  is.” 

The  thought  of  her  son  seemed  to  overshadow  the  spark  of  a  happy  future  with  pain,  and  as  quickly  as  the  hope  had  appeared,  it  was  shattered  again.  Zeev  couldn't  make  her  any  promises,  couldn't  tell  her  a  lie,  even  if  it  might  make  her  sleep  better  for  the  next  few  days,  believing  that  he  was  back  at  the  door  with  their  child.  The  emotional  fall  if  he  didn't  would  be  so  much  greater  than  before.  He  didn't  want  to  open  her  scars.  He  didn’t  want  to  give  her  too  much  hope.

Besides,  he  harboured  no  intention  of  returning,  not  if  he  was  successful. 

And  the  likelihood  of  a  human  surviving  the  condition  out  there  was  almost  non-existent.  There  was  also  the  possibility  that  he  might  not  even  want  to  return  home.  Though  the  witcher  found  it  hard  to  imagine  that  there  was  anything  better  than  having  these  parents. 

Zeev  smiled  faintly  at  her,  took  her  hand  in  his  and  squeezed  it  weakly.

“If  I  happen  to  come  across  him,  I'll  point  him  the  way.  All  he  needs  to  do  is  follow  your  light,  so  don't  you  ever  stop  shining  your  brightest.”  At  that  moment,  Zeev  realised  another  thing: he  had  never  seen  a  mother  cry—until  now.  He  wasn't  sure  whether  this  was  a  good  thing  or  something  he  should  question.  She  embraced  him,  suddenly  and  quite  abruptly.  Zeev  stiffened  for  a  moment,  unsure  of  how  to  behave.

Finally,  she  thanked  him  and  rubbed  his  back  until  the  tension  left  his  body  and  he  melted  against  her.  Tentatively,  he  mimicked  her  gesture  and  stroked  her  back  too.  She  seemed  to  regain  her  composure,  most  likely  equally  aware  of  the  effect  loneliness  could  have.  She  broke  away  from  him  and  rubbed  her  eyes,  embarrassed  by  her  emotional  faux  pas.

“I'm  sorry,”  she  apologised  meekly. 

“No,  it's  fine…  It's  okay.  Don't  suppress  your  emotions.”  Tentatively,  he  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  stroked  her  upper  arm,  his  warm  smile  seemingly  receiving  her  immediate  approval.  Surprise  appeared  on  his  face  when  she  suddenly  caressed  his  cheek  and  squeezed  his  chin.  The  smirk  on  her  lips  assured  him  of  the  tender  intentions  behind  the  gesture. A  motherliness  that  was  somehow  alien  to  him.  How  odd.

“You're  such  a  lovely  boy…  My  son  would  have  liked  you,”  she  told  him  openly  and  Zeev  didn't  know  exactly  how  to  react.  On  the  one  hand,  because  she  was  paying  him  a  heartfelt  compliment,  and  on  the  other,  because  she  was  suggesting  that  somewhere,  hypothetically,  there  was  someone  who  might  like  him.  In  a  world  where  everything  was  fine. In  a  world  where  having  friends  was  something  realistic.  Something  that  wasn't  threatened  by  survivalism  and  hostility.

“Uhh,”  he  replied  eloquently.  “Thank  you.”

As  he  turned  away  from  her  and  wished  her  a  good  night,  Sarah  tilted  her  head  and  watched  him  hurry  away.  Despite  the  darkness  of  the  night  and  the  sparse  light  from  her  lamps,  the  farm  owner  thought  it  had  become  strangely  darker  since  he  had  left  the  room.

 Rattling,  he  placed  the  rucksack  against  the  bedpost  and  pulled  the  belt  from  the  loop  of  the  overall.  They  were  given  a  meal,  a  cosy  sleep  and  a  warm  bath  to  get  rid  of  the  sweat  and  dirt  of  the  last  few  days.  Zeev  shook  his  damp  hair  and  slipped  into  a  change  of  clothes,  which  was  a  diminishing  commodity  as  the  journey  continued.  Perhaps  he  could  wash  them  the  next  day  before  they  left?  He  couldn't  imagine  that  Sarah  would  object.  His  gaze  travelled  around  the  room  and  he  looked  at  some  of  the  posters  and  pictures,  which  weren't  that  old. 

“Unbelievable,  isn’t  it?”  Zeev  initiated  the  conversation  after  he  felt  the  other's  gaze  on  him,  but  received  no  explanation  as  to  why. 

“What  do  you  mean?”  his  companion  mumbled.

“To  leave  a  place  like  this  behind  and  never  to  return,”  he  continued.  His  fingertips  brushed  over  a  few  toys  and  mementos.  Small  planets  that  had  obviously  been  crafted  by  them.  He  weighed  them  in  his  hand  like  juggling  balls  and  then  put  them  back  on  the  dresser  in  the  correct  order. Mercury,  Venus,  Earth,  Mars,  Jupiter,  Saturn,  Uranus  and  Neptune.  They  rolled  back  and  forth  on  the  unevenness  of  the  wood  and  didn't  quite  want  to  follow  their  orbits.  It  was  also  strange  that  there  was  one  ball  too  many.  A  yellow  ball  with  dents  and  scratches,  colourful  lines  that  no  doubt  must  have  rubbed  off  because  it  had  bumped  into  other  surfaces.  Zeev  turned  it  in  his  hand  and  felt  a  pain  in  his  chest.  The  other  half  had  been  painted  messily  with  a  dark  pen,  so  hastily  that  it  was  still  possible  to  see  the  yellow  shining  through. 

“Do  you  truly  think  he  left?  Without  a  word?”

Isaiah's  question  made  him  think  as  he  continued  to  turn  the  sun  in  his  hand.  Slowly,  he  moved  towards  him  and  sat  down  next  to  him  in  the  moonlight,  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  sky  alongside  him. 

“I  don’t  know,”  he  confessed.  “I  wouldn’t  have,  but  then  again…  I  don’t  even  remember  how  I  got  separated  from  my  parents.”  There  was  something  sad  about  his  nonchalant  shrug,  an  involuntary  acceptance  that  there  was  something  he  couldn't  change.  “But  his  reasons  or  not-reasons  are  of  less  importance,  hm?  He  either  tried  to  return  to  his  parents  and  died  horribly  or  he  got  lost  and  they’ve  been  looking  at  the  same  sky  for  years  now,  either  way…  he’s  gone.  Why  he  left  will  never  change  what  is  left  behind.”  He  pulled  up  his  legs  and  rested  his  arms  on  his  knees,  turning  the  sun  in  his  hands  from  the  black  side  back  to  the  golden  side—repeat. 

“Hm,”  resonated  from  Isaiah’s  chest.  “Memories,  for  example.”

There  was  something  in  his  eyes,  as  Zeev  looked  to  the  side  and  at  him,  that  he  couldn’t  understand  or  interpret. Something  hidden  from  his  comprehension.  Instead  of  his  body  language  the  witcher  concentrated  on  his  words. 

“Memories  will  fade  one  day,”  he  whispered.  “I  don’t  know  what  the  voice  of  my  sister  sounded  like  or  how  my  mother  smelled.  If  I  ever  did…”  His  words  broke  off.  Guilt  washed  over  him.  If  his  memories  truly  were  the  only  thing  that  kept  him  connected  to  his  family,  the  only  part  of  him  that  no  corporation  had  claimed  and  used  like  a  lab-rat, why  was  he  so  terrible  at  protecting  it? 

“That’s  impossible,”  the  blonde  tried  to  reassure  him,  his  smile  weak  however.  “You  might  not  remember  it  upon  calling  for  it,  but  memories  can  be  triggered  by  many  different  stimuli.  Smell  is  one  of  the  strongest  even.  No  matter  how  faint,  you’ll  always  remember.”

Zeev  shrugged.  “You’re  saying  this  to  someone  who  has  literally  woken  up  after  the  Eclipse  with  no  memory  whatsoever.  I’m  not  even  sure  if  Zeev  is  my  name  or  just  something  I  had  heard.”

“Does  it  feel  like  it  is?”

“I  suppose.”

“Then  it  is.”  Slightly,  he  swayed  to  the  side  and  nudged  his  shoulder.  “Or  does… Steve sound  better?”

The  witcher  scrunched  up  his  nose  and  made  a  sound  of  disgust.  “No,  nope,  that’s  a  big  decline  from  my  side.”  He  couldn’t  help  but  laugh  at  that,  his  shoulders  shaking  with  slight  amusement. 

“That  seals  it  then,”  Isaiah  smiled.  “Besides,  you  remember,  don’t  you?  The  picture  you  drew…  That  was  from  memory,  wasn’t  it?”

Zeev  lowered  his  gaze  and  kept  on  fumbling  with  the  ball.  Had  Richard  crafted  this?  Perhaps  a  present  for  a  son  he  wished  to come  home?  The  joy  of  before  fleetingly  as  the  blink  of  an  eye.

“I  assume,”  he  whispered.  “But  I  don’t  know  my  sister's  name  or  her  age.  I  don’t  know  what  she  likes  or  dislikes.  I  remember  playing  chase  within  the  woods  with  her,  tying  flower  crowns  with  her,  bathing  in  the  sun…  When  mother  asked  us  to  come  eat,  she’d  always  be  the  one  to  convince  me  of  staying  longer.  Of  course  I  would…  I’d  have  never  left  her  in  the  woods,  alone…”  After  that,  Zeev  fell  silent  for  another  moment,  eyes  fixated  on  the  sun  in  his  hands.  Zeev  wondered,  not  for  the  first  time,  what  he’d  do  if  he  were  not  able  to  find  them. 

“I  never  would  have  left  them…”  he  added,  pushing  himself  onto  his  feet,  eyes  narrowed  with  sadness  and  sorrow.  “So  why  did  they  leave  me?” 

The  question  wasn’t  one  for  Isaiah  to  answer  nor  would  he  be  able  to.  It  would  remain  unanswered  till  he  was  successful  in  his  endeavor  and  his  quest  to  find  his  happiness  in  a  world  that  didn’t  feel  like  his  own.  All  else  would  follow  after.

He  sat  down  at  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  suddenly  he  felt  uncomfortable,  but  he  didn’t  want  to  seem  ungrateful  either.  Friendliness  was  rare  as  it  is,  to  treat  it  like  a  burden  would  just  serve  as  a  hotbed  for  egoism.  So  he  laid  down,  eyes  towards  the  door  and  his  head  rested  on  a  cold  pillow  that  hadn’t  been  touched  by  the  right  head  in  ages. 

To  the  faint  smell  of  lavender  he  fell  into  a  slumber  and  became  a  victim  to  his  exhaustion. 

 The  next  day  offered  a  thunderstorm  disguised  as  breakfast  in  bed.  That  was  nothing  to  worry  about  for  their  current  journey,  but  it  was  a  hindrance.  Zeev  did  not  have  a  certain  time  frame  for  reaching  his  destination.  He  didn't  know  where  his  family  was,  nor  whether  they  even  existed.  Maybe  they  were  already  in  a  colony,  maybe  they  were  part  of  MeriTech's  network—maybe  they  had  put  him  in  the  hands  of  the  Corporation  in  the  first  place.  The  thought  shook  him.  No,  he  refused  to  believe  that  this  would  be  the  rude  awakening  of  his  desperate  optimism. He  refused  to  consider  disappointment,  no  matter  how  painful  it  would  be  if  it  turned  out  to  be  the  truth. 

The  only  positive  thing  about  the  changing  weather  in  the  new  world  was  its  volatility.  The  strong  wind  and  acid  rain  might  be  demotivating  now,  but  it  was  not  impossible  that  in  the  next  second,  glistening  sunshine  would  fall  on  them  and  warm  them  up  as  if  it  were  summer  in  2015.

Zeev  helped  Sarah  with  breakfast  and  learnt  a  little  more  about  the  artificially  created  ecosystem,  emphasising,  now  that  he  was  not  too  consumed  by  his  envy,  how  utterly  remarkable  he  found  this  technology  and  was  glad  that  the  ingenuity  would  make  a  future  possible  for  many  people.  Not  like  back  then,  but  different. 

Towards  afternoon,  the  weather  changed  as  expected  and  fine  rays  of  light  filtered  past  the  fast-moving  dark  clouds  as  if  to  erase  and  dispel  the  pain  they  unleashed  upon  the  earth.  The  sun's  rays  lashed  like  whips  towards  the  chariot  of  destruction  before  them  and  chased  them  away  into  finitude. 

“Thank  you  for  your  hospitality,”  the  witcher  thanked  him  and  smiled  good-naturedly  at  Sarah  and  Richard,  while  the  former  wrapped  him  in  a  friendly  hug  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  for  years. Interestingly,  Zeev  didn't  find  their  closeness  strange  either.  Sarah  had  prepared  some  food  for  them  and  topped  up  their  water  rations.  She  didn't  have  to  do  any  of  that.  But  she  had.  “And  thank  you  for  your  company.”

She  stroked  his  cheek  sweetly  and  nudged  his  chin  lightly,  for  a  while  she  just  looked  into  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  read  something  that  unsettled  him.  He  turned  away  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Richard,  who  took  it  tightly  and  firmly,  but  not  exuberantly  or  imperiously.

While  he  waited  for  Isaiah,  Zeev  trudged  out  onto  the  porch  and  stuck  his  nose  out  into  the  fresh  air.  The  sun's  hot  beams  would  vaporise  the  rain,  and  breathing  would  be  difficult  for  the  next  few  hours.  He  rummaged  around  in  his  rucksack  and  pulled  out  the  breathing  mask  that  was  connected  to  the  O2  canister.  Unfortunately,  he  doubted  that  the  contents  would  last  until  the  next  shelter,  but  it  would  still  be  enough  for  the  acid  density  in  the  respiratory  air.  At  least  for  a  few  hours  until  they  reached  dry  areas. 

When  Isaiah  came  to  a  halt  next  to  him,  he  also  seemed  to  notice  the  circumstances.  He  wrinkled  his  nose  slightly  and  seemed  to  be  concentrating  on  breathing  less.  Something  they  wouldn't  be  able  to  do   once  the  exertion  of  the  journey  set  in. 

Zeev  shook  the  rucksack  off  his  back  and  removed  the  bottle  from  his  backpack.  Before  the  tall  blond  could  complain  about  it,  he  attached  the  canister  and  pressed  the  mask  into  his  hand. 

“Please,”  he  insisted,  shaking  his  head  when  Isaiah  made  an  effort  to  give  it  back  to  him.  “We  can  share.  You  start.”

Just  as  they  were  about  to  set  off,  Sarah  stepped  outside,  despite  her  husband's  best  efforts.  She  turned  to  the  witcher  and  suddenly  grabbed  his  hand.  He  looked  at  the  small,  but  not  petite  woman  in  confusion. 

“You’re  one  of  them,  are  you  not?”  she  wondered  uncertainly.

Zeev  swallowed  heavily.  “What  do  you  mean?”

“Sarah,  please…”  her  husband  tried  to  intervene,  gently  placing  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.

“He  had  seen  it,”  she  tried  to  explain.  Her  voice  suddenly  cracked.  “He  had  always  looked  at  the  sky  and  he  had  always  known  things  no  one  else  knew,  he  was  so  clever…  I  wish  we  had  listened  more  closely.”

“Sarah,”  Richard  urged  more  sternly,  but  his  wife  didn’t  seem  to  care.  “Please  let  the  boys  be.”

“Why  did  you  say  he  should  follow  the  light?”

“What?”  Admittedly,  Zeev  had  understood  her  fairly  well,  all  of  her  words  however  left  him  confused.

“You  said  he  should  follow  the  light… That’s  what  he  did  when  I  lost  him…”

Zeev’s  eyes  widened,  deep  lines  drawing  across  his  forehead.  Whatever  Sarah  had  wanted  to  tell  him  it  died  on  her  lips  and  she  nestled  herself  against  the  chest  of  her  husband.  Compassion  etched  itself  into  his  features  and  he  whispered  quiet  soothing  words  into  her  ear  all  while  gesturing  to  the  former  guests  to  keep  going. 

 After  so  many  weeks  and  months,  one  would  think  that  Zeev  would  be  tired  of  the  sight  of  nature.  So  far,  however,  he  had  not  been  to  any  place  twice,  and  each  one  provided  new  impressions  and  realisations  that  he  had  not  made  before.  Apparently,  a  certain  sensitivity  was  anchored  in  his  perception  that  related  to  more  than  the  mere  ability  to  foresee  dangers. 

The  world,  regardless  of  the  change,  was  still—or  precisely  because  of  it—a  beautiful  place.

“You're  getting  more  secure  with  your  footing  in  this  terrain.  Good,  we'll  be  faster  then.”  Still,  he  wouldn't  risk  pushing  the  moment  to  the  last  minute  before  they  scrambled  to  find  shelter.

The  Appalachians  had  harboured  a  certain  mystique  even  before  the  blackout,  as  did  most  large  forests  where  people  not  only  disappeared,  but  may  never  return.  The  narrow  paths,  the  rocky  slopes  and  the  slippery,  swampy  areas  at  the  foot  of  the  countless  mountains  were  no  habitat  for  humans,  but  offered  protection.  Zeev  didn't  know  which  direction  he  was  really  following,  but  if  he  could  trust  his  instincts,  the  path  seemed  brightly  lit.  If  the  Appalachians  had  been  an  example  of  a  self-sustaining  ecosystem  back  then,  now  it  was  a  patchwork  quilt  of  the  old  days.  One  kilometre  of  forest  was  followed  by  three  kilometres  of  flatland.  It  was  both  fascinating  and  frightening  how  the  new  weather  conditions  seemed  to  mould  the  earth. 

“Do  you  smell  this?”  Zeev  asked  from  his  elevated  position  on  the  assortment  of  boulders.  They  had  decided  for  a  break,  still  Zeev  remained  on  alert,  eerily  resembling  a  groundhog  than  a  human  as  he  looked  around,  eyes  on  the  surroundings  constantly.  Occasionally  drifting  down  to  Isaiah,  interested  in  what  he  was  drawing  and  writing,  but  too  reluctant  to  ask.

He  watched  as  Isaiah  stuck  his  nose  into  the  air,  pulling  his  legs  closer  to  secure  his  notebook  and  sniffed.  Saddened,  he  shook  his  head.  Zeev  smiled  lightly  at  his  attempt.

“A  large  body  of  water,”  he  explained.  “It’s  a  different  scent  of  dampness,  less  warm  and  rich.�� Perhaps  a  sea.  We  need  to  avoid  it.  Walking  around  might  cost  us  hours  otherwise.”  He  raised  his  head  towards  the  sky,  squinting  through  the  narrow  spaces  of  the  treetops.  The  sun  had  been  covered  by  clouds  for  hours  now,  leaving  them  with  a  cunning  coldness  that  gnawed  on  their  bodies  till  reaching  the  center,  settling  and  impossible  to  get  rid  off  easily.

Without  complaint,  Isaiah  followed  Zeev  and  did  so  for  hours  upon  hours,  days  over  days.  More  often  than  not  they  rested  in  dilapidated  buildings,  pulled  back  into  the  heart  of  nature,  overgrown  and  covered.  A  memento  of  humankind. 

They  shared  their  meals  and  quietly  fooled  each  other  into  eating  a  little  more  the  next  day—no  wasting  of rations,  right? 

This  time  around,  they  were  sitting  in  a  narrow  spaced  cave,  a  few  nauseating  feet  above  the  ground.  The  path  they  had  wandered  wasn’t  even  visible  from  their  current  position,  covered  by  a  green  canopy  carpet,  dusted  in  golden  specks  through  the  setting  sun.

The  rather  sad  looking  campfire  crackled  quietly  as  it  tried  to  bite  through  the  wet  twigs  and  branches,  trying  its  best  to  serve  warming  results. 

Softly,  Zeev  pulled  on  Isaiah’s  sleeve  as  he  sat  by  the  fire  and  scribbled  something  into  his  journal.  His  blonde  companion  followed  him  to  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  glancing  outside. 

“Look”,  Zeev  exclaimed  softly,  a  fine  smile  grazing  his  lips.

Pinkish  and  violet  hues  cut  through  the  sky  like  brushstrokes  on  a  canvas,  fluidly  transitioning  into  the  gold  of  the  sky  as  it  turned  darker  and  darker,  the  day  falling  asleep  right  in  front  of  their  eyes.  A  sight  he’d  never  get  used  to  nor  be  bored  by.  Like  an  apology  for  the  doom  she  had  brought  without  her  intentions.  Zeev  couldn’t  have  been  mad  at  her  for  things  she  had  no  say  in.  She’d  never  be  responsible  for  the  cosmic  event,  she  was  a  victim  like  the  rest  of  the  world. The  reasons  weren’t  of  little  importance,  weren’t  they?  It  only  mattered  what  has  been  left  behind.

“Beautiful,  isn’t  it?”  Zeev  mumbled,  resting  his  head  against  the  cave’s  frame,  the  edges  of  the  rock  piercing  slightly  into  his  skull  which  he  ignored  in  favour  of  the  current  sight.  “No  matter  what,  she’ll  always  be.”

“The  sun?”

“The  earth,  but  the  sun,  too.”  He  kept  his  eyes  on  the  horizon.  Watched  the  huge  celestial  body  sink  deeper  into  her  peaceful  slumber,  hiding  in  shame.  A  thought  that  made  his  heart  follow  her  motion;  sinking.  The  witcher  looked  over  to  the  Technician.  Watched  as  the  warm  tones  caressed  his  skin,  gifting  his  tired  eyes  a  liveliness  he  had  missed  since  their  meeting.  Zeev  had  to  admit,  it  was  nice  to  have  someone  around.  To  share  his  thoughts.  To  receive  an  answer  to  a  question. 

To  not  be  alone.

“Why  do  you  want  to  return?”  he  suddenly  asked.

[hochmvt]

[hochmvt]

Planet Earth II (2016) Episode 05 “Grasslands” Directed by Chadden Hunter

[hochmvt]

The passage door to the ship's primary room closed with a hydraulic hoist and crushing silence that followed. His gaze was lowered as he stepped back under Arthur's eyes. Shame, guilt and hopelessness clung to him, settling into the fibers of his clothing. His eyes were red from crying, his breathing had slowly regained control. Despite the humming of the machines and the lights built into the ceiling panels, everything seemed too quiet. The physicist usually liked silence, but now it seemed unnerving and unpleasant instead of calming. Perhaps he wasn't ready to face Arthur again after all. And yet the console, on which his calculations now inevitably bore witness to the fact that they were correct, drew him in. His fingers stroked the glass screen, the numbers had not changed, but still showed that they had recently passed the point of no return. Not the event horizon, but the gravitational pull was so strong, the spaceship's fuel wouldn't suffice and now they just drifted. Isaiah sighed.

Then he heard Arthur, and a little later felt him grab him firmly by the collar and press him against the wall nearby. Before Isaiah could prepare for the impact, his head struck the metal, narrowly missing a protruding rivet. The sharp edge of a panel dug into his shoulder and he grimaced slightly as the fabric of his shirt gathered, making it difficult to breathe. “What do you know?” Arthur had asked him and Isaiah scrutinized his eyes. Irritation turned to fear. His superior's voice had barely risen—that was the worst part. It seemed to boil inside him, but he remained... calm. At this moment, Isaiah began to be afraid that Arthur would turn out to be a ticking time bomb. His hands moved to the other's arm, clutching it lightly and as he did, breathing became difficult. The closeness and the basic level of stress he was currently experiencing released a primal feeling in him: panic. He thought of the curiosity store in the neighboring town with the owner, whom Isaiah hadn't dared to ask if he wanted to go to the movies with him until today. His eyes closed as he concentrated on breathing and answering. “I didn't— I wasn't sure if you knew, if you were part of it... You're the captain, you're supposed to know.”

Isaiah swallowed even harder at his second question. Had the blonde put too much faith in the other man's abilities? “I was scared,” he pleaded and rubbed his eyes, wiping them dry in vain. “I thought you knew, I thought you...⸺ you could get us back out. I— I didn't want to meet my hero like this.” He sobbed and apologized. “When they said you were joining the crew, I— I couldn't sleep that night. You— I always looked up to you, you talked about space like it was poetry, you⸺” Isaiah broke off. “I thought the instruments were faulty. And when I checked the third time, it was too late. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Mr. Mabee.”

They were both silent for a while. Arthur had let go of Isaiah, who had, after catching his breath, turned his attention back to the instruments. “Can I say something?” he had asked at some point, looking up at the captain of the spaceship. He had looked at him briefly with a facial expression that Isaiah didn't know how to interpret. His gaze returned to the parameters in front of him, which he had calculated. “I know it sounds mad what I will say, but... I don't know if what is in front of us is truly a black hole... Don't get me wrong, you still have a strong gravitational pull, you have something that resembles the event horizon, but... The mass isn't—behaving right.” His gaze went back to Arthur. “I don't know, but... This could either mean it's... I don't know, artificial? Like, we're a failsafe, so to say, as why they sent us here, or— We've been inside a black hole for, uh, quite some time.” Stifling silence hung in the room. “Can you look at this? Please?”

curiosity kills the cat ,   and it leaves the carcass drifting out to an event horizon ,   never to return .   his comrade's speech isn't spoken on deaf ears ,   each word like a heavy weight dropping on his brain ,   crashing through his chest ,   making the space he reserves between tar and lungs tighter ,   harder to breathe than ever before .   he listens closely ,   eyes unwavering to the frame of what seems like a little boy now ,   only scanning his demeanor for the sake of concern ,   wondering how long his mind could run before it could crumble ,   wondering if he reached out and touched him ,   would he collapse in on his fragile self ?

❝   what ?   ❞   for himself ,   stoicism prevails ,   remaining molded onto bold features ,   only creasing through the means of an everlasting furrow .   an expression of composed worry ,   but also concentration .   he listens through ,   letting the mystery of certain discoveries hit him one by one ,   like cars he never saw coming until the very last moment .   still ,   arthur is unaware ,   oblivious to what he means .   as these little tidbits of information ,   bordering something like delusions ,   sprinkle through building accusations .   when did all these feelings bubble up ?   when did pines self - proclaim himself as this adversary ?   and more importantly ,   since when was anybody dying ?

the thought makes his stomach churn ,   enough to make the bearing of a well - composed man falter the second time he hears any implication of it .   even still ,   as nausea settles in the back of his throat, it pushes out dread through a collected demand .   ❝   stop it ,   ❞   he says ,   between the younger man's reeling words ,   fear internally weaseling its way through his heels ,   rising up the stature of his legs ,   his back ,   neck .   the hairs by the hairline across his nape stand up ,   while a myriad of conclusions begin to enwrap the program of his mind and making him hope to god   —   it can't be true .

among it all ,   his eyes drop now from his companion's face ,   finding comfort in vacant space where he can try to calculate a point in time where something could've gone wrong .   in the cold state of his own silence ,   arthur flashes back to the months before their liftoff ,   when the warmth of earth accompanied him in the excitement of a green light ,   the proud feeling of shaking hands with government officials ,   as they smile at him kind and prideful ,   telling him ,   we know you won't fail .   it meant so much to him then ,   he told them he wouldn't disappoint .   but perhaps ,   arthur suddenly thinks ,   it was predisposed knowledge .   all along ,   they knew he wouldn't fail .   all along ,   there was no way he couldn't .

deaf ears .   even as the words of a condemning voice blends in with with white noise ,   the hum of the aircraft emanating from hollow ,   fallacious walls ,   pines' speech still doesn't fall on deaf ears .   arthur listens .   in fact ,   by the time he finds him in his line of gaze once again ,   he's attentive ,   letting accusations pierce him with cause ,   a desire to learn more ,   wanting to pry ,   as much as it wants to deny .   quickly ,   he shakes his head ,   bridging a gap between him when he ignores a request for solitary ,   stepping forward .   ❝   what do you know ?   ❞   he finally asks him and ,   without thinking ,   draws his hand to the man's collar and yanks him along to the closest wall .   one hand wound in his shirt ,   anger is below a boiling point ,   calm and collected even in the wake of his actions as his demeanor remains eerily calm ,   forcibly internalized ,   everlastingly stoic .   though ,   the energy surges and it shakes in his fist ,   buzzing within the pressure of his grip .   inches away from his face ,   he looks at his comrade ,   studying his face ,   finding vulnerability ,   fear   ...   sincerity .

at this ,   arthur's chest aches ,   the gravity of an impending situation finally melting down his eyes ,   along the slope of his cheeks ,   his bottom lip .   an empathy for a scared kid merely projecting for the way his outwardness reflects his own inwardness .   and now ,   instead of what ,   he can only wonder why ,   in the tremble of his jaw ,   as he hisses   ...   ❝   why didn't you tell me any of this ?   ❞

[hochmvt]

Atanas Dzhingarov

[hochmvt]

[hochmvt]

Mankind had been irrepressible since time immemorial, always striving to position itself at the top of the food chain. If one party had a real advantage, it was ruthlessly exploited to secure power and influence. Kingdoms had been built because one race had placed itself above another, legends of the gods had been created by fear and fire—and still it had never been enough. More influence, more glory, more dominion over something of lesser importance were the underlying motif of humanity's own agenda and insatiability. It wasn't necessarily something profoundly evil, nor was it necessarily ambition; it was a disease of the mind that had become ingrained in human history, as if it were an innate genetic defect passed down from generation to generation. And in this endless hunger that could never truly be satisfied, people did unspeakable things to master this power—to own it, to control it and to break all those who did not conform to their worldview and understanding of values. Isaiah had realized early on that Zeev was different, that he had a power that was not common among every witch. But it had never occurred to Isaiah that Zeev's power had such a radiance that others yearned to use it. Use him. That they hunted him—not out of love or admiration, but for their own profit. Because they craved influence and power. Now that he understood what the Mark of Solaris was really up to—how they were trying to drive wedges between peaceful parties, creating hierarchy and power imbalances where there were none—fear began to settle into the podcast host's limbs. Messing with someone like Zeev wasn't just foolish or particularly appalling, it was outright suicidal. And Isaiah, for all his empathy and softness, had no desire to be on the wrong side of whatever force was binding Zeev to this world.

The terror of the last few days had slowly subsided. It was almost as if normality had returned to the walls of the house on LaFayette Street. The pictures and photographs did not hold glimpses of horror anymore, but were once again preserved memories to tell their story. The aftermath of what had happened came not with neither big declarations of love resulting in mediocre dancing flashmobs or fanfare corps blazoning news that was over, but with the sound of the dishwasher running, of pages turning, of the fireplace crackling, of scribbling down a chronology of what had happened—of hearts learning to beat in the same rhythm again. At some point, Isaiah had grown tired of running away from all of this. Instead, he had decided that the best escape was always going forward. Since then, he had always found it easier to actively throw himself into the chaos than to simply surrender to his fate and wait for the chaos to come to him. This had a lot to do with aspects such as a certain sense of expectation, having more control over things, which ultimately resulted in him not blindly chasing after every impulse, but approaching things with a more measured approach and a level head. 

But now, with terror and fear absent from their comfort zone, with Zeev lying beside him at night and the Sundawner's body leaning calmly against his—safe, resting, wounded, but alive—Isaiah longed for peace and not necessarily a quick fix. For normality, even though in society it often stood for stagnation. Perhaps he saw Zeev (although he had the feeling he knew him inside out) a little differently after all that had happened: he wasn't afraid of him, he knew that he was allowed to criticize him and that Zeev would never hurt him, and yet there was a small, vain voice inside him that always began its sentences with "but”. And at the same time, he chose Zeev again and again, for all the qualities beyond his abilities: For his selflessness, for his lightness, for his intelligence, his charity, for all the many little things that Isaiah had come to love.

As a result, more and more self-picked flowers appeared on the kitchen windowsill when Isaiah was outside and Zeev was doing the dishes. Isaiah always looked up to Zeev with an almost boyish grin, telling him they were for prettifying the space, knowing fully well that Zeev knew better, especially when the podcast host's cheeks were tinted red and he avoided eye contact shyly. He kissed him more often when he was sitting on the couch reading and Isaiah walked by, before kissing him again soon after, simply because the sun was positioned favorably, causing Zeev's eyes to shine brighter than the star itself. He had cooked for him two nights in a row, once lemon garlic pasta and once breakfast waffles for dinner (in future with homemade jam! He was already looking forward to the look on Zeev's face and the thought alone made him proud), because Isaiah didn't believe in the social convention that you could eat desserts in the morning but shouldn't indulge in them in the evening. And even if the pasta was more than al dente, the waffles sometimes undercooked in the middle and the lemon to garlic ratio a little off, the effort and love in each of these little things was clearly visible. With each serving, he had apologized and tried to make up for the lack of cooking skills by arranging the food exceptionally pretty and Zeev finished it all every time. 

And even now, when they had devoted themselves to the unpleasant subject of research, he would write down what had happened, then he would go to the couch and kiss Zeev, then he would think, stop mid-theory and kiss Zeev's shoulder, and sometimes he would just look at him as if he were the answer to all the questions he had ever had. Admittedly, most of the time Zeev was. Or at least he had them on hand. All the while, Isaiah made sure Zeev was always smiling or reminded that Isaiah was there for him—no matter if he was feeling happy, sad, worried, angry, if he was close to relapsing, or whatever. Every touch, every kiss, and every look was a testament to the fact that Isaiah's love for him was unwavering. And through each of these actions—through every flower, every kiss, every over-salted meal—he reassured Zeev: You're my home. And you're loved.

Isaiah hadn't even noticed the doorbell ringing at first. He had barely looked up from his screen as he foraged through the deepest corners of various internet forums to recover the traces of Mark of Solaris, who were promoting their dubious recruitment campaign online to all those in emotional distress. Fear to this day made people docile and history repeated itself constantly to remind one of it. Meanwhile, Zeev had started preparing the paella, the scent of saffron and garlic was present even down here, and Isaiah's stomach growled. He imagined them sitting at the dining table, the light of the ending day illuminating the floorboards and inviting them to reflect on the day in warm beams of light. How Isaiah complimented Zeev's cooking for the thousandth time and kissed him and went back for seconds, even though he wasn't hungry anymore because the food was just that delicious. An illusion that would remain one.

Zeev's voice had not become loud, he would have heard that in the basement, but his tone had changed. He was tense. Something that not only irritated Isaiah, but also made him unable to concentrate. So he stood up vigilantly, put the laptop into sleep mode and walked up the stairs to the front door, where he quickly identified the two uninvited guests: two uniformed officers stood in front of his husband, their eyes immediately on him, their posture stiff. Isaiah calmly approached them and put his hand on Zeev's back, asking if he could be of any assistance. 

The minutes that followed seemed to rekindle the terror. His muscles stiffened, he nodded apathetically and swallowed hard as disbelief paralyzed his body. He didn't panic, but he still felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. On this rare occasion, Isaiah's mind didn't start running, but it felt surprisingly empty, because it couldn't decide what reality he had to come to terms with first. Murder? He had been home for at least a few days straight, with Zeev. Every day. Every night. Or had he? His gaze went to Zeev, who began to argue, and Isaiah scrutinized him as he was handcuffed. His profession had made him realize before how important it was to keep a calm and collected mind even in stressful situations, but now he had the feeling that it would probably benefit Zeev the most, whose expression had changed from confusion and disbelief to horror. Isaiah scrutinized him and leaned forward slightly, kissing his lips. “It's okay, this must be a mistake, my love...” he stated the obvious. “We'll sort this out. I love you.” Then he kissed him one more time, gazing into his eyes. As he was led away from his house, the smell of saffron still lingered in his nose, reminding him of the now forgotten paella on the stove that was slowly beginning to burn.

The interrogation room seemed to be getting narrower and narrower, the cold white walls felt oppressive in their emptiness and Isaiah sat at the table and hadn't moved for minutes. He had been absent-mindedly playing with the loose thread of his jeans while his gaze was fixed straight ahead. All of this was ridiculous, obviously. Zeev knew that, he knew that himself, his parents knew that. But did the police officers standing on the other side of the room know too? He wasn't innocent because he had an alibi, but because the very idea of harming any other person was so far from anything in line with his moral compass that it didn't even remotely feel like the possibility alone was worth a thought.

Both had introduced themselves as Detectives Macie Davenport and Kieran Vaughn. The latter had looked at him as if he'd already decided the case for himself and read the last chapter, in which Isaiah clearly came out as the culprit. He spoke first, standing in front of the table where Miss Davenport sat opposite Isaiah. He found it difficult to maintain eye contact, which probably made him even more suspicious, but Isaiah felt smaller than he actually was, even though he had absolutely nothing to account for in this instance. “Mr. Pines. Where were you on the night of the twenty-fourth between 9PM and 1AM?” Isaiah furrowed his eyebrows slightly and let go of the loose thread. “Home... With my husband. My parents visited from Michigan, too. We were home all night, still...— we tidied the place after the break-in and... yeah.” Davenport took meticulous notes, while Vaughn eyed the blond suspiciously.

Isaiah usually approached law enforcement officers differently. More self-confident. He was perfectly aware of his rights, he knew how far he could go and even though his mother had always taught him that it was important to treat everyone with respect, he found it inherently more difficult with police officers. Now he sat in front of them like a picture of misery, in a room that didn't feel like home once again, torn away from an environment that was supposed to teach him what it was like to feel safe and at ease. His foundation had simply crumbled away and the little time that had passed in between had not been enough to rebuild his support system in such a stable way that he could stand up to situations like this one with his head held high. The last few days had been shrouded in fog anyway and now he was supposed to make statements about what he had experienced over the past week that would have to withstand trial if necessary and not put him at risk of being declared mentally unfit.

“You didn't go out for a walk? Step outside to clear your head? Took a drive to get some air?” Isaiah looked at Detective Davenport and shook his head. “No,” he denied, ”I've barely slept since the break-in, we've been... quite occupied. I got sick after that and Zeev...— my husband never really left my side. “Did anyone else see you that night?” Again, Isaiah negated, referring to his husband and his parents. Everyone was silent for a while. “Do you know an Elvira Higgins by any chance?” He furrowed his eyebrows slightly, looked at the table and shook his head. “Sorry, I've never heard the name before,” he replied truthfully. “She's eighteen, lives a little outside of town. Goes to Eddison High. Or, well, went.” The blonde's heart felt strangely heavy. Probably not unusual when you hear of an eighteen-year-old losing her life. “I'm sorry, sir, I don't know her,” he repeated in a quiet but firm voice. “She was found dead at the Bird Sanctuary yesterday. Strangled. The pathology suggests she was killed around 10 or 11 in the evening. No fingerprints, no signs of defense. We assume that the perpetrator had been planning the crime for some time.” Isaiah swallowed hard and stroked his hair, looking up at the detective. “I'm sorry, I don't know anything about this.”

Davenport had put down the clipboard. Isaiah had no insight into the notes she had made. “You've been researching occult groups, haven't you?” she finally asked, as if mentioning it casually. This irritated Isaiah. Had he forgotten to turn on his VPN? “Forum threads, message boards... Stumbled an awful lot about the Mark of Solaris, right?” she continued, and Isaiah tilted his head slightly to the side, feeling tense at being so scrutinized. “I've been... Uh, I've been looking into them... For my podcast. And because they might be dangerous. But...— That's not illegal, miss.” She tied her hair up and dismissed 'Mark of Solaris' as an internet hoax that Elvira Higgins had fallen victim to. “It's just interesting timing.” Excuse me? “What do you mean by that?” he asked, straightening up slightly. “Mr. Pines. We found hints to Mark of Solaris on Miss Higgins personal devices. She reached out to you numerous times. Apologizing. This is—”

Vaughn interrupted Davenport and leaned forward. “We'll cut this short: Were you at the Bird Sanctuary last week?” the detective asked and Isaiah furrowed his eyebrows, shaking his head. “No, sir, I wasn't,” Isaiah assured him vehemently. “Are you sure?” Davenport asked and Isaiah repeated his first answer clearly. “I'd remember. I didn't kill anyone.” The interrogation room fell strangely silent. Both detectives looked at each other meaningfully before Vaughn looked towards the one-way mirror. Shortly afterwards, the door opened and a laptop was handed into the room. “What's that ruckus?” Davenport inquired over the volume somewhere else in the bureau. “His husband.” Isaiah looked at the young cop and shifted slightly, as if he might be able to catch a glimpse of Zeev. An impossible task, given the floor plan of the police station.

“Tell us what you see,” Vaughn spoke as Davenport turned the laptop around to the podcast host and showed him a video. Isaiah leaned forward slightly, the screen displaying footage from a surveillance camera of the Bird Sanctuary, which he now knew inside out thanks to Zara. A narrow corridor, the Sanctuary Trail at night. The time display was unreliable and indicated that it was daytime, although it was undoubtedly night. The year was 2006. Great. But that the facility didn't necessarily have the financial means to afford a high-tech surveillance camera system wasn't a surprise either. The trees were blowing in the Macomb wind and Isaiah was primarily looking in the background, trying to spot anything. Elvira Higgins walked past and looked at her cell phone. And a little later it was him.

Isaiah's expression dropped when he actually saw himself in the footage. His heart sank, he felt sick to his stomach and his restless legs, which had been trembling since the beginning of the interrogation, were now completely still. He stared at the laptop screen with a blank expression on his face. Watched the figure on the video wearing his jeans, his Vans, moving like him, the desolate hair visible on the noisy image; even if the technology looked like it was from the 90s. On video, he looked around for a moment, his face was recognizable. He watched silently as he...— no, his doppelganger overpowered the young girl, put his hands around her neck and slowly strangled her. She didn't scream and barely put up a fight. The image glitched briefly and then showed the lifeless, strangled body of Elvira Higgins lying on the floor. Carelessly left behind, like an unwanted piece of waste. When the video ended and the signal cut out, Isaiah saw himself in the black screen, his eyes slightly widened, his lips parted. Bewilderment in every pore of his body. He couldn't say anything. He couldn't even move.

Minutes that felt like hours passed Isaiah by. Vaughn and Davenport talked to him, but the voices just bounced right off him. “Mr. Pines,” the man's voice eventually got through to him. “The evidence is pretty clear, don't you think? If you just confess, it will make the whole thing a lot easier.” Wordlessly, Isaiah looked up at him briefly and then back at the laptop. The video played incessantly in his mind's eye. “That's not me,” he spoke quietly into the silence and stirred slightly. “But it looks like you,” Davenport commented dryly. “I was home with my husband, I—” He swallowed hard, spoke a little louder and now sounded almost pleading. “I didn't do this, I swear to God, you have to believe me!” he begged the two detectives and ran his fingers through his hair. “Then explain the video,” Vaughn ordered, slowly running out of patience. “I can't—” he mumbled, his voice breaking on the second word. “I don't know what this is, I didn't do it, I could never— I would never—”

The tone in which the other policemen spoke about Zeev suggested that the witcher had made a real fuss at police headquarters. Vaughn had explicitly informed him of this while handcuffing him: That Zeev wanted to pay his bail, insisting on it, but since he was being held under suspicion of first degree murder, no bond has been set and that the judge had to review the case first. “You live alone with your partner, you don't have a job tied to a company. You move around a lot. People like you are hard to track.” And so he would probably not be eligible for bail and would remain in the a detention center until the trial. Even though Isaiah had come into contact with the law several times before, he had never been sent to prison or anything alike. “Please, you have to believe me, that's not me... Something else is going on here, sir,” he pleaded, looking at the policeman through the one-way mirror as the cold metal closed around his wrists. The eye contact was not returned. And as Vaughn spoke to him, a terrible certainty spread through Isaiah: Something, probably related to the Mark of Solaris, was impersonating him. And the break-in and the curse were just the beginning of a detailed plan to destroy him, his career and everything he held sacred. 

He didn't even realize what else had been explained to him about his stay in county jail. His hands were clammy, his mouth dry, his heart beating so fast that he felt like he was about to have a panic attack as the policeman led him out with one hand on his shoulder. And then there was Zeev, standing at the desk of the police station, arguing with three policemen before his voice faded away. Isaiah wanted to take a big step toward him, but Vaughn held him back. It was only a little later that he finally stopped in front of him. “Zeev,” Isaiah barely managed to get out. His voice broke again, tinged with terror, disbelief and fear. After that, he couldn't get anything past his lips for quite a while because the stuttering got so bad. “I didn't do anything, I swear, I need a lawyer, I didn't d—” were the only sentences he managed to utter. They were also repeatedly punctuated by involuntary pauses. His hands were shaking. Zeev took a step toward him, Vaughn stepped slightly in between, looked at Zeev, but spoke to Isaiah, “That's all for now.” The tone wasn't cruel, only procedural. Isaiah's gaze never left Zeev. 

While Vaughn's hand rested unceasingly on his shoulder and the detective made all the arrangements for his removal, Isaiah's gaze never left Zeev, who had moved to his side. Isaiah leaned down and kissed him, studying his eyes, and even though he hadn't done anything wrong, he looked at him as if he needed to memorize his face for a long, long time. “I love you,” he said and his lips quivered as he did. 

Isaiah kept his eyes on the ground throughout the entire ride. He sat alone in the back of the car, his knees rubbing against the front seat. They were silent as they drove, the metal on his wrists was equally cold as the feeling that spread through his body. His gaze was distant and blank, while the video footage he was shown played over and over again in his memory. It was loud in his head time and again and then utterly silent. Questions came flooding back, he tried to find explanations for something he couldn't understand and his emotionality denied him any access to rationality. It had looked like him. The face, the hair, even the clothes and the worn-out black vans. And then he knelt over her, choking her as if his life depended on it and as if all scruples had deserted him. He felt sick and guilty, even though he wasn't. He would never be able to do something like that. Would he? He didn't even know who Elvira Higgins was, let alone whether she was the puppet master of the coven. There was no question that she was connected to Mark of Solaris, but she didn't seem like the mastermind behind the entire thing. The more oppressive the silence became, the more tangible his fantasies became. Had he been sleepwalking and Zeev had simply not noticed? Had his subconscious recognized the danger and made short work of it? Had he done it and not at the same time?

The Detention Center greeted Isaiah with an atmosphere he was neither comfortable nor familiar with. At the time of his arrival, the potential offender was pale, completely silent and trying to hide his glassy eyes. He said nothing in his defense while he was being registered, did not speak while photos were taken of him, his fingerprints collected and the bureaucratic part completed. He exchanged his personal clothes for an overall, his vans that Zeev had given him almost four years ago were locked up and the only thing he had left that remotely reminded him that he was still himself was his wedding ring. Nervously, he twisted it slightly as he waited for his bedding to be handed to him, his name becoming a ten-digit combination of letters and numbers. IL-MC-260804. His personality had been completely erased in a short period of time and here he was no more than one of many.

His cell was even smaller than he had imagined. No windows. Just cement walls, a ventilation shaft that was better sealed than any VPN could have secured an internet line, a toilet in the corner and shadows that Isaiah was afraid to explore. Even after the door was closed, he stood motionless in the middle of the room, flinching briefly at the loud noise of the door closing and the sound of the lock closing that followed. And then it became quiet. There was nothing left to do here after he had made his bed. He wiped his eyes and tried to maintain a bravado in front of whoever. He just wanted to go home. He tried almost desperately to calm himself down. Breathing in and out in a deep breaths, like Zeev always managed to do with him when he did panic. But with a weight on his shoulders that he could barely grasp—the accusation itself, the fear, the terror and the impossibility of it all—he found it increasingly difficult to think clearly, let alone breathe.

He lay quietly in bed, closed his eyes and held his hand over his mouth as he sobbed. Not loudly, not uncontrollably, but quietly, so that his shoulders shook slightly and his throat became increasingly tight. As if it would help against the cold of the Detention Center, he pulled the thin blanket higher, despite it being late August. His thoughts wouldn't stop. What if no one believed him? What if Zeev didn't believe him? He would never survive even one evening in prison. He couldn't fight, he couldn't stand up for himself, he cried when he was overwhelmed. What if he had really done it? In his sleep. But then there would be clues, wouldn't there? Blood on his hands.

He turned to the wall and all he saw was the girl's face. Elvira. Younger than Zara, but they looked similar in age nonetheless. The way her arms had pressed lightly against his—no, not his—torso until she ran out of strength and lay lifeless on the floor. It had taken him hours to fall victim to his own fatigue, his tongue numb from silently wishing for permission to go home. Guilt finally drove him to sleep altogether: another night of depriving Zeev of his well-earned slumber. Another night in which he was unable to give his husband the peace he deserved.

The floor, which he had been mopping for almost an hour now, smelled of bleach and old rubber. He sluggishly moved the mop dipped in water and cleaning fluid from right to left and from left to right across the linoleum floor. One thousand nine hundred and fifty-three times he had always done the same sequence of movements. The floor certainly hadn't been cleaned this thoroughly in years. His hands had stopped shaking just under half an hour ago, instead his head was now empty and he was concentrating entirely on the task of moving the mop. That kept him busy. He still hadn't said a word to anyone. Not even said thank you when he was handed his breakfast, even though that went against his idea of human decency. The lump in his throat was still as big as it had been the day before. He glanced briefly at the sleeves of the jumpsuit he was wearing. It felt as if he had been found guilty even before the trial had begun. Before he could slip back into a carousel of thoughts, he concentrated once more on the mop in front of him.

Around him, several other suspects were going about their tasks—wiping tables, emptying the trash, doing the dishes—some talking to each other, others laughing about things Isaiah couldn't hear. Some watched him, a little suspiciously, others with an unwarranted (and admittedly a bit of an apish) aggression. He just stayed quiet and went about his business, trying not to stand out and become one with the mop. The hair would fit, he thought. That idea only made him smile faintly. He would have loved to revolutionize life here, like Paddington had done in the cinematic masterpiece Paddington 2. With pink overalls, a bakery and sandwiches with orange marmalade. It was hard to imagine that a few days ago he'd been getting advice from Macomb's best marmalade connoisseur and chef and now he just couldn't get around to doing what he'd planned: surprising Zeev. Enjoying the day with Zeev. Zeev. Just Zeev, if he was honest with himself. Enjoying banalities. The beauty of the mundane. But here he felt a stranger in his own skin. A revolution was unfolding in absurd realms, he didn't even know if he liked orange marmalade, and ultimately he was here because he was suspected of murder. His thoughts were with the mop again.

Isaiah paused for a moment, stroked his desolate hair and fumbled with his wedding ring. His restlessness, which he had learned to manage well at home, was worse than usual. And now he had no outlet where he could vent. No research he could throw himself into, no notebook, no microphone or camera and, above all, no Zeev to ground him. Just a mop. He hadn't slept well. Considering he'd been sleeping in his car for the longest time, you couldn't necessarily say Isaiah was someone who prioritized comfort. But by now he was finding it difficult to fall asleep without Zeev. He missed the warmth, the feeling of home, the sense of security. He had nothing here. Sluggishly, he pushed the mop from right to left and left to right again. A supervisor pushed past him and Isaiah had already noticed that they didn't really like his restlessness. They tolerated it, but watched him more attentively. Nevertheless, they didn't comment on it. Yet.

He cleaned this section of the Detention Center and then moved silently to the next room without being asked. Any distraction was welcome. He could count every movement from left to right and right to left and felt like he was regaining some control over himself and his surroundings. He was grateful for that. Two thousand, two hundred and thirty-seven. Breathe in. Right. Left. Left. Right. Breathe out. Two thousand, two hundred and thirty-eight. Then again.

He didn't know how much time had passed precisely (he didn't have a watch in sight, after all), but when he had repeated movement three thousand seven hundred and twelve, a warden told him that he had a visitor. Before the guard could even give a hint as to who this person may be, Isaiah immediately realized exactly who was waiting for him. He put the mop aside and assured him several times that he would continue as soon as he got back.

The supervisor led Isaiah to the small cubicle where Zeev was waiting for him behind a pane of glass. There was patience in his body language that looked like calm on the outside, but Isaiah knew him well enough now to know it was anything but that. There was a clock here, and Isaiah looked up at it. Ten fifteen in the morning. When his gaze went back to Zeev, who was just picking up the phone, he realized how loudly the clock was ticking and how much it felt like it was mocking him for sitting here at all. He seemed smaller than usual—not physically, but in his own posture. Shame clung to the jumpsuit he was wearing. His hair was even messier than usual, but not because he'd gone on a rampage with his nieces or given Zeev every reason to find support in his hair, but because he'd tussled it countless times. His nervous tic had become even worse here. And his reddened eyes bore witness to the fact that his last night had been dominated by too little sleep and too many tears. He slowly picked up the phone too, as if he was afraid of having to make a confession.

Despite the plethora of things he would have liked to say to Zeev, they were both silent for a while. Isaiah simply looked at his husband, trying to find support in all the familiarity that sat just across from him. In the Sundawner's tired, equally reddened eyes, in his tousled hair, in his collarbones exposed by the slightly open shirt. He swallowed hard and put his hand over his mouth, averting his gaze to look into the corner of the small cubicle and trying to keep his composure. He shook his head slightly, not knowing what to say first. I didn't do this. I love you. I'm sorry. It really wasn't me. I don't know what to do. I want to go home. I'm scared. As he wiped his tears with the sleeve of his jumpsuit, he felt ashamed that he hadn't maintained his composure. “I'm so sorry,” he had spoken into the receiver at one point, while Zeev spoke calmly to him, telling him how much he loved him, that he had contacted lawyers and that he wouldn't rest until Isaiah was proven innocent. “I just want to go home,” he stuttered later, getting stuck on the I several times. Then the G. “Everything is falling apart.”

Most of Zeev's words barely reached the surface. As much as he tried to cling to the moment, to draw from the time he had here with him, he simply could not. Most of the time he looked at Zeev, who assured him of his love, that he didn't have to worry, that they had nothing on him, and Isaiah lowered his gaze, wiping his eyes and trying not to cry again. “There's a video,” he mumbled and swallowed hard, pressing the receiver lightly against his ear and sighing, looking down at his wrist of the hand resting on the table. Then he wiped his eyes again. Zeev had leaned forward slightly and his fingertips were touching the glass. Isaiah eyed them, wanting to move, to at least pretend they were close, but he felt so alienated from himself that he didn't know if Zeev actually loved him or the idea of him. “What are you talking about, my love?” he asked quietly and Isaiah looked down at the table, sobbing and putting his hand in front of his eyes. “I'm scared, Zeev,” he revealed, confessing like a child would when they had been up to trouble. “I'm right with you, my love, I love you... You will be home soon, I promise you... But can you tell me about that video?” Zeev asked carefully and Isaiah sensed, even in his state, that Zeev was creating space for him to remain silent despite his question, should he not want to talk about it.

He swallowed hard, not daring to look at Zeev as if he had actually committed this act. “It showed me,” he spoke into the receiver and ran his fingers through his hair. “It's me... At the Bird Sanctuary. On the main trail. It's the f-face and the hair and the vans, but— I can't remember. I don't know if I sleepwalked, it's—” Then he interrupted himself. Isaiah sobbed again and put the phone down, burying his face in his hands and leaning over slightly. His shoulders trembled, as did his hands, and the 6'2ft man looked like a shadow of the man he used to be, that was becoming increasingly easy to overlook. Easier than usual. Except to Zeev.

If Isaiah had been in his right mind, he would have pointed out possibilities that could explain this supposed reality: A deepfake, perhaps a shapeshifter, and, of course, he was aware that he was ultimately dealing with witches. He had spent nights studying Zeev's Book of Shadows back then, reading about spells, about everything that would be needed for them, about Zeev's thoughts and the slow descent into the tantalizing thrill of black magic. In his right mind, he would have remembered page 205. Altering Appearance. Belladonna, Mandrake root, Mugwort, Poppy seeds, a single hair or drop of blood from the person whose appearance will change, the blood of the spellcaster, a piece of black obsidian or onyx, a mirror shard and a black candle. A short list of things to ruin a person's life. But now he had no access to any of these thoughts. His emotionality numbed every rational idea that sprouted within and all that remained was pure terror.

Zeev had carefully asked Isaiah to pick up the phone several times. He had tried to calm him down, tried to ground him, promised him that he would finally eat the paella with him soon and Isaiah had nodded tiredly, placing his fingertips on the glass so that they, at least metaphorically, touched Zeev's. “What if I don't win the trial?” he said at one point in a shaky voice. “I wanted to grow old with you...” Zeev didn't answer for a while. He swallowed hard and Isaiah saw love and wrath in his eyes at the same time. The Sundawner looked at Isaiah as if he were something sacred, something wounded and precious and above all, His. After a few moments, he placed his hand fully on the glass. “You're not staying here,” he promised and they both looked at each other for a while. Then Isaiah wearily placed his hand against the glass fully. “I promise you. I don't care about that video or what they think the know, you did not sleepwalk, you did not kill her, Isaiah. I will rip this whole case apart until we find out who did this. And how.” Isaiah nodded wearily, sighed again and rubbed his eyes. “I love you,” he confessed. The only confession that would come truthfully from his lips. “I love you, too.” Silence again. Isaiah's façade cracked once more and he nodded weakly, his lower lip trembling. He looked like he felt: anxious, exhausted and trapped in a nightmare that just wouldn't end. “Don't forget me, okay? In case something goes wrong... You are the love of my life and... I love you.”

The fluorescent lights of his cell flickered slightly and sounded like insects flying too close to his ear. Every sound seemed louder in this concrete bunker. He felt awkward in this place, which was never made for those who thought too much, whose fingers were never still; for those who had spent their lives trying to ponder every question, every uncertainty that offered room for interpretation. He didn't belong here—not in the romanticized, idealized way in which nerds in movies didn't belong anywhere until their glasses were taken off, their hair cut (and ultimately stripped of any personality), but in the way that he felt he'd been stripped of all support and roots because they simply found no place to sprout here. One of the wardens had yelled at him downstairs to stop fidgeting and talk to himself as he went back to his assigned cleaning duties. But standing still felt like a death sentence here. So he had kept moving in his restlessness.

At lunchtime he hadn't managed to eat anything and had given the tray untouched to another inmate. In the late afternoon (at least it had felt like it, it was fascinating how quickly one lost track of time when the only occupation was one's own mental maelstrom and the only indicator was mealtimes) he had cried again, his face half buried in the narrow pillow to suffocate the sounds, while shame expressed itself in every pore of his body. And then, just before he was to be called to dinner, the door to his cell opened and two guards entered the room. “Pines,” one of them announced. “On your feet,” ordered the other. Without a word, Isaiah obeyed and stood up, avoiding the gaze of the two men. They handcuffed him and led him through the facility. “You're being released pending trial. You'll be under strict conditions until then. House arrest and electronic monitoring. Judge signed off on it an hour ago.” The other officer added, “Your husband caused quite the scene. Let's be clear, though: You're not a free man. You're out under conditional pretrial release as authorized under 725 ILCS 5/110-10. You violate those terms, and you're coming straight back.” His knees trembled as they spoke. Isaiah wanted to ask if that meant he could go home, but it still seemed words had left him, so he remained quiet instead.

The process of leaving felt distant and dull, and yet it felt so good to swap his jumpsuit for wrinkled, familiar clothes. To put his watch back on. The necklace Zeev had gifted him. To have his cell phone. While one of the officers put the electronic ankle bracelet on him and he heard the click, he twisted his wedding ring and realized at the same time that he would see Zeev again. His Zeev. Who certainly hadn't rested ever since his departure, who had moved heaven and hell to get him out of here. However he had done it (and Isaiah knew that Zeev had always accomplished everything he had set his mind to), Isaiah was more than grateful for him. For everything.

During the journey, they briefed Isaiah on all the conditions he had to obey. All that however still felt far away and muffled. He looked out of the window and all he could think about was that he would see Zeev again soon. To be able to hold Zeev in his arms. To kiss him. Put his hand on the witcher's without a pane of glass separating them. Zeev, Zeev, Zeev. “What did my husband do?” he asked curiously, looking forward from the back seat to the two policemen. “Had a defense team on speed dial, I guess. The judge agreed you're a low flight risk ever since you settled in Macomb, with strong ties to the community and to your home. And your husband was very persuasive.” They didn't elaborate. To Isaiah, they didn't need to. Zeev was an achiever. Always had been, even though he didn't see it most of the time. He only hoped that it had really only been the calls from the lawyers and the judge himself. The rest of the drive to Macomb was silent. The sun had already set, that's how long the registration process and drive home had taken. Even though the air was different out here than it had been in the detention center, he still didn't feel free. As if he had been caught in a strange space in between.

“Oh, it's one of those,” the officer commented as Zeev came running down the porch. He got out of the car and stood in front of his husband while Isaiah looked out the window at the witcher. The police officer also informed Zeev of the regulations. No travel outside McDonough County without permission. No contact with potential witnesses or victims' families. No social media posts. He will remain at 501 N Lafayette Street between the hours of 7PM and 7AM. No wandering around. Tampering with his ankle monitor will be considered a bond violation. Breaking parole would result in him going back. Then he opened the door and Isaiah got out, waiting patiently for the handcuffs to be removed. “Don't make us come back,” the officer commented and Isaiah nodded. “I won't,” he promised in reply. “Thank you, officer.”

The car had left and Isaiah watched after it before his eyes went to Zeev. “Can I hug you?” he asked carefully and Zeev smiled softly, sadness in between parted lips, nodding and Isaiah wrapped his arms around the witcher, tightening his grip halfway and closing his eyes. Zeev embraced him with the same warmth that he had been forced to be denied in the detention center. And when they parted slightly and Isaiah looked into the witcher's eyes, something cracked open inside him. He couldn't get a word past his lips. He merely hugged him again, kissed his temple and rested his head on his husband's shoulder as he sobbed without restraint. Relief, anger, shame, fear and love washed over him in equal measure as his fingers gripped the fabric of Zeev's shirt tightly, only to reassure himself again and again that he was indeed here and would not disappear if he let go of him. Zeev held him wordlessly, stroking his back, his hair, not asking questions or making demands, but showing his love and care through presence.

“I...— I'm sorry—” Isaiah choked, again and again, even though he hadn't done anything. He apologized and apologized and apologized, mumbled his husband's name between short breaths and sobs. “You're okay, my love... You're safe. You're home,” Zeev spoke softly to him and kissed his temple, whereupon Isaiah shook his head, telling him how scared he was, how much he loved him, that he was clueless, confused and overwhelmed and didn't know what to do. Zeev gently cupped his husband's face with his hands and brushed away the tears with his thumbs, kissing the corner of Isaiah's mouth gently. “You're safe, my beloved... Do you want to get inside?”

Zeev had patiently led Isaiah to the couch, sat him down, kissed him tenderly on the cheek, brewed him a fresh cup of tea and warmed up a portion of paella. Although Isaiah wasn't cold, he warmed his hands on the bowl and counted the pieces of bell pepper in it. Meanwhile, Zeev had held him in his arms and remained silent for the longest time. Without eating, Isaiah eventually set the bowl aside and scooted closer to Zeev under the blanket, hugging him as well and closing his eyes, absentmindedly breathing in the familiar smell of home that emanated from Zeev. “Thank you,” he whispered against the witcher's skin at one point, taking a deep breath and sighing. His voice still sounded weak, broken, too thin and fragile to convey everything he was feeling. “Thank you for everything, for not giving up on me... I don't deserve—” He didn't finish the thought. “I don't even know how you did it...”

Zeev explained to him how the lawyers had brashly demanded, how they had written a statement to the judge within a very short time, with the many things that spoke for Isaiah not having to be kept in a detention center, even if his police record could suggest that he was a vagabond and would be keen to cross state borders or even leave the country. His roots were here and Isaiah had never been guilty of anything apart from trespassing on private or government property. Except for the one time he had accidentally stolen a Snickers bar because he had carelessly put it in his jacket pocket at the grocery store. “And they argued the inconsistencies... Regarding the video. The digital artifacts, the lack of any hard physical evidence. Sure, there was money involved, persuasion, too... But you have people in your corner, Isaiah,” he assured him, stroking his hair comfortingly. Isaiah was silent for a while while the video played in his mind's eye. How he strangled this girl. A cold shiver ran down his spine and he pressed himself closer to Zeev, hiding his face in his husband's chest and wishing silently and secretly to disappear from this world. The whole situation was disconcerting and now he cuddled with his husband while an electronic device on his ankle constantly reminded him of what he was supposed to have done. “Did you see it?” he asked quietly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Zeev nodded. “That's not you, Isaiah...”

Silence again for several minutes. “But it looks like me... What if I am and I sleepwalked?” he repeated the assumption he'd made a few hours earlier. Zeev shook his head and lifted his face, scrutinizing his eyes. “You did not sleepwalk.” “You don't know that.” “I do,” he argued firmly, kissing his forehead and stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. “I lock the doors every night, Isaiah, you were with me, I watched you sleep, I snuggled up to you. You are a clever man, but luckily, your asleep self has not figured out how to open locked doors yet. And if it will, I will find other means to make sure you don't wander off, my love,” he smiled gently against his lips and kissed him.

It was well past midnight and Isaiah felt guilty that he still hadn't managed to sleep, but the hustle and bustle of the last few days was keeping him awake again. Something inside him was afraid that Zeev would be gone if he dozed off and woke up, or that he'd be back in the detention center cell. All of this felt surreal, like a dream that was too good to be true. “There has to be an explanation, right? It could be a deepfake... Or... I don't know... I haven't thought straight in the past 48 hours.” Zeev studied him, his eyes tired, but he seemed to be fighting against falling asleep himself too. “They are witches, too, this could be a spell...” he interjected and Isaiah looked at him, sighed and nodded silently. “Like an illusion?” he asked and Zeev brushed through his hair affectionately. “Yes,” he replied and the podcast host could feel it boiling inside his husband's chest. How was he supposed to fight the Mark of Solaris if one of them pretended to be him? Would they eventually get rid of him and take Isaiah's place? Have a relationship that was his, enjoy an intact family life that was his, maybe raise children with Zeev like he wanted? Wasn't he little more than an unwanted accessory to Zeev? He was a mere human, easily disposed of without anyone asking questions when the magic of the world was at one's fingertips.

His grip tightened around him once more and he closed his eyes, his heart growing heavy as he began to catastrophize once more and equally realize once more how much all of this was getting to him. So much so that he had barely asked how Zeev was doing. God, did he even deserve to be in his arms? “I can't lose you, I can't lose... this,” he murmured, pressing himself closer to the Sundawner. Isaiah didn't even know if Zeev had ever witnessed him lose his composure this much before. “I just wanted to make strawberry marmalade for you... We were happy again and I was making that stupid pasta and now everyone thinks I'm a murderer...” And Zeev, with his infinite patience and kindness, reassured him once again that he would not lose him, that he was not alone in all this, that together they could do anything and that Zeev would do everything he could to make sure Isaiah would win this trial. 

The morning light hadn't greeted Isaiah until the fourth waffle that he had taken from the waffle iron. The birds had been chirping before then, dew had settled on the lawn of the garden and the breeze was cool, promising wind for the next few days. He turned to look at Zeev, who was sleeping on the couch, sound asleep, seemingly peaceful even, though Isaiah knew there was a rollercoaster of emotions within him, that Zeev wasn't taking this time lightly either, and above all, Isaiah was also aware that he was in the midst of another rehab episode, running at risk to relapse constantly. Because of him. Isaiah averted his gaze again, poured the batter into the waffle iron and closed the lid. The sunlight was honey-gold and made the dust on the windowsill a little clearer, shining on Isaiah's wedding ring and making it shine a little brighter than usual in the sun. “You're right,” he murmured into the silence, smiling slightly at the reminder the sun had granted him just now. For better or for worse, they had promised one another. That he knew. And Zeev loved him. He knew that too. 

He hadn't slept. Not really. Every now and then he'd drifted off into seconds of sleep, having weirdly vivid dreams about Elvira Higgins and the terrible video footage of him in the Bird Sanctuary. He had gotten up around five o'clock in the morning; it was still night outside, but dawn approached a little later. He kept himself busy so as not to succumb relentlessly to the downward spiral of his thoughts. Zeev would surely have suspected he had a fever or had lost his mind completely in the short time at the detention center if Isaiah had wiped the floor, so he made breakfast for Zeev, knowing full well that his husband had probably eaten too little in the last few days. The waffles had been inspired by a video on TikTok, which promised to be at least as good as the waffles at Waffle House, and Isaiah simply believed what the comments said and hoped for the best. In the end, he had to admit that this normality and the simplicity of the task (in theory at least) grounded him somehow. Reminded him that he was a human being with feelings, fears and dreams. Not a number. Not an inmate. Not a murderer. 

Zeev had sat down tiredly at the table not much later after sunrise, Isaiah had turned to him, gently kissed his lips. The waffles were on the plate in front of him, served with a little powdered sugar to make it look nice. The first attempts had been less successful, so Zeev had only gotten to enjoy the waffles that were worth eating (or be looked at). Sliced fruit was nicely arranged in a small bowl next to it: Strawberries, blueberries and a few slices of banana. Instead of sitting opposite Zeev, he sat down next to him, kissed his cheek and stroked his thigh, then through his hair and smiled when he asked if he didn't want a coffee. “Good idea,” he smiled, leaning forward and kissing his lips, standing up and turning on the coffee maker, placing his favorite cup underneath and coming to a halt  behind Zeev as the coffee ran through. 

The witcher tipped his head back slightly and Isaiah gently stroked his chest, leaning down to kiss his forehead, then took a step to the side and crouched down in front of Zeev, looking up at him and gently stroking his cheek. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, his voice soft, though still threadbare, as if he hadn't quite returned to his roots yet, but who could blame him. Zeev certainly wouldn't. As for the circles under their eyes, they both had them. “I... I should've asked sooner... I've been—” he looked up into Zeev's eyes, kissing his knee gently, ”Caught up in my own head. I'm sorry.” And Zeev looked down at him, cupped the American's face, kissed his lips gently and shook his head. “There is nothing to be sorry for,” he assured him. “I'm okay... Close enough, I guess. Seeing you helps,” he continued to whisper against his lips and Isaiah kissed him gently, clasping his hands. He straightened up briefly, picked up the finished coffee and sat down next to him again. “And how are you feeling really?”

Although neither of them was hungry, they had both agreed to share the waffles on Zeev's plate. In the meantime, they had talked. Truly talked. With one another. Checking in like they always had done. How Zeev was truly doing, what his last 48 hours had been like for him, whether he'd had to go through withdrawal symptoms like that again, what he'd been thinking, and Isaiah talked about how detached and muffled everything had felt, how he'd mopped the floor to keep himself busy. And they had both expressed a desire to get back to normal. To everyday life. Falling asleep together, waking up next to each other. Eating breakfast. Working. Cooking. Doing the dishes. Watching miserable horror movies and missing half of them because the other person's lips were more interesting. 

“I don't know what to do,” Isaiah finally confessed, his voice low and hopeless with a note of shame. Perplexity and desperation were feelings he was not familiar with and thus, everything felt overwhelming and too much to bear. “I don't even know where to start... I feel like everything is... falling apart. As if I'm slipping and I can't get a grip on anything.” Zeev looked at him for a while and then stood up, sat carefully on his lap and kissed the other's forehead. “We aren't falling apart... You have me and I have you... You are so bright, my love...” he whispered against the American's lips and Isaiah wrapped his arms around him. “We can try together... What do we know about them? How do they approach their... coven?” Isaiah sighed, leaned his head against Zeev's chest and closed his eyes, trying to think without his fear overshadowing his thoughts. 

“We know they're finding people that join them or people that... sympathize with them through online forums mostly... They talk in code, like they don't just... tell everyone what they're truly on about. They have people amongst them, perhaps not all witches, that believe in them. In their belief system. They believe in there being a hierarchy between witches and humans and that they are not meant to be together... And they don't care who they hurt. They are following their beliefs by all means and try to force them onto others.” Zeev nodded and kissed the top of his head. “Are there structured? Is there something like a hierarchy in their coven?” Isaiah thought, remembering the private Discord channels he'd scoured, Reddit threads and buried internet forums. “They have people who pull the strings. Smart and cautious. They don't have like... marketing knowledge, but they seem to use stories a lot. Metaphors, folklore-like... They create this entire myth about themselves and we all know how people long for that and... It's— It's insane really, they're revealing enough to make themselves known but they don't leave any trails... Like, I don't know where they meet. I think the people headhunting online for new members are higher in command, too. They promise a lot, they organize... To be one of them, you have to prove your belief and your place they said... Whatever that means. Or they are very good at lying...” 

He sighed and stroked his face. “If you're thinking about it like headhunting, it's... They know how to hide, you know? And they're using digital channels now more than ever, because they know they have a much wider audience there even if they are located in fucking Macomb and it's not like... Scientology, sitting in one of the most populated cities of the United States... I believe they use encrypted forums, too, they have burner profiles, use a VPN... So there must be some sort of media literacy. You don't just... google stuff like that. Takes years to learn, especially if you're older... They went with the times. And now, they don't just hunt for believers and take whoever replies to them. They seem to curate. Like...” his gaze went briefly out of the window to the outside, ”gardeners, only aiming to cultivate the most beautiful flowers and plants.”

Zeev nodded and lifted his gaze, ran his fingers through his hair. “When you see these hierarchies and these structures... Would you go for the whole thing?” he asked and Isaiah looked up at him, shaking his head. “Hm, not really. In movies people usually go straight for the head, hoping everyone listening to them just listens to the good guys after that. Usually, if you're following a good and sustainable chain of command, you are prepared for such cases... I'd go for weak points... Maybe the people online. I don't know... But I can't even leave the house after dark, I can't get more than a few blocks away without triggering an alarm... How are we supposed to stop these... people if I have that many requirements to conform to?” he asked, huffing in annoyance and desperation alike, whining against Zeev's chest as he leaned forward again.

“What if I can't fix this, Zeev? What if we can't? What if we lose... this?” he asked, closing his eyes. “We won't,” Zeev assured him, resting his head on his husband's. “You don't know that,” Isaiah argued again. “I don't,” the witcher replied and stroked his blonde, disheveled strands reassuringly. “But I know you. I know how you think... You are scared, Isaiah. And I understand that and I am, too, but we never let that stop us. We still chased legendary figures and shadow creatures, you did, even though no one believed they were real and they told you, too. You still looked for answers when no one else wanted to. You're still here. And I will make that will be the case in the future, too.”

Isaiah looked up at him again and he felt his eyes glaze over again. He didn't say thank you, but he didn't have to. He said it all in the way he tightened his embrace, resting his head on Zeev's shoulder and uttering a soft confession of love against the fabric of his shirt. “So what do we do?” he asked after a while, stroking his hand under Zeev's shirt. “We think like them, my love... What would you do if the curfew wasn't there?” Isaiah thought again. “Infiltrate them I guess... Following the trail...” he spoke thoughtlessly, looking out the window outside and thinking. Zeev seemed to notice and didn't speak to him, instead giving him the space and safety to think without being restricted by anything. In return, he stroked his hair, stayed close to him wordlessly, and told him everything he needed to know through his closeness: he was loved, Zeev would always look out for him, and even if everything fell apart, they would still have each other. Jersey, who certainly seemed to agree, reinforced that as she nuzzled Isaiah's leg and purred. She would have their back, too. She had already perfected the death stare ever since they adopted her.

“We have two main problems really... The video and... uh, yeah, the fucking cult on our asses,” he said at one point, scratching his head and asking Zeev to stand up so he could move. The restlessness kicking in once more. Isaiah stood up, put his cup under the coffee machine again and let himself have a second coffee. “So, about the video... I think we need to find out if this is a deepfake—given their media knowledge, there surely are people who would know how to do this—or if this truly is a spell... In case it is, we need to be prepared, because they could cause mayhem in... my name and this— ain't really beneficial for the situation. In case it's truly a spell, we need to make sure the neighbors see the two of us here periodically. Doing normal things. Maybe talking to them... Is there a way to find that out? If it's a spell? Like, would there be... I don't know, remnants? Or... Is there any way to find that out? Auras? I don't know...” Isaiah spoke his thoughts aloud, grabbing his coffee cup and drinking from it as Zeev answered him. He nodded quietly, keeping everything in mind that Zeev told him, and then set the cup down on the dining table.

“Second thing and— the big— uh, thing: The cult itself. I think there are two ways to go about it... As I said, we could bait them. This curfew and everything around it really is to our disadvantage, leading them to our house is... a scary thought, but we could be prepared, you know? You are powerful, you have great people at hand... Listen, Zeev, I know I'm a clever kid and all, but... I can only do so much. With their unscrupulousness they could Avada Kedavra me and there isn't much I can do about it... You're not on your own, I wish I could do the cool stuff you can do, but...—I can't. Meeting them elsewhere could pose threats we're not aware of, they could use the place for something else, prepare it to our disadvantage and... I couldn't join you... Neither of us could pose as recruits, so we could not pretend to be blank sheets of paper— I mean, I could try online, but... That will only get us so far. To them I'm the antichrist and you're God. Which I get, because you're really cool and very handsome, but...” He paused, stroking his hair. “I always ran towards the unknown and the chaos because I was prepared that way... Who knows what would happen, if we don't get active now, you know?” He paused briefly. “There is a more careful approach, too, but I don't know if it's fast enough... We could talk to people. Reach out. Wherever there's cults, who seek out people, there's dropouts, too. Former members. Disillusioned, because the things they were promised didn't become true, or they were scared, they are trying to forget... I could do that. Trace the people they contacted and see if I find anything. If anyone wants to talk. If one person talks and we find another weak point that isn't people but something... more structural, we could tackle that...”

He sighed, stroked his hair and looked at Zeev. Neither option was ideal, Isaiah knew that, but they were the only two he could think of in the five minutes he had to think about it. “I know this isn't perfect,” he assured, then sat back down next to Zeev and placed his hands on the witcher's cheeks. “But I love you. I will fight for this as much as you. And trust me, I will kick their asses and learn close combat in a day, if one lays a finger on you. No one can have you, exploit you and use you. No one. You are the love of my life and whatever way we go, I will always be with you. Just tell me what to do, my love. I will aid you and if you need Zara, Amber and Helena, you are not weak, you are not reckless, you are reaching out for help for endeavors too big to tackle alone. I will prepare waffles for you all, I promise you... I love you, Zeev, with all I have. And we can't let them destroy what we built for years with love and dedication and care...”

The  day  had  triggered  many  changes.  Not  all  of  them  were  fundamentally  positive.  They  simply  existed  in  the  course  of  things  and  hovered  over  their  heads  until  they  were  acknowledged  and  incorporated.  Zeev  didn't  know  if  his  revelation  to  Sarah  would  have  consequences  they  would  regret.  It  was  probably  like  that  with  all  decisions  that  shook  up  an  entire  worldview.  Then  again,  perhaps  he  had  completely  shattered  the  secure  construct  she  had  had  of  the  world.  It  distressed  him  to  imagine  her  standing  among  the  rubble,  bewildered  by  what  she  had  doubted  until  a  few  hours  ago.  Compared  to  that,  her  reaction  had  been  relatively  calm.  But  shock  sometimes  only  sets  in  days  later.

Not  all  people  were  like  Isaiah.  Most  were  afraid  of  shadows  in  the  closet  and  would  do  anything  to  avoid  an  encounter. They  could  only  hope  that  Sarah,  despite  her  open-mindedness,  would  have  a  peaceful  night's  sleep. There  was  nothing  they  could  do  to  influence  it,  though  Zeev  kept  sending  a  fresh  helping  of  “Sleepy  Tea”  to  the  family. 

Gaining  new  insights  was  both  exciting  and  challenging.  It  involved  endeavours  that  few  people  wanted  to  face.  Granted,  Zeev  knew  Isaiah  better  than  he  knew  Sarah,  but  he  was  her  son  and  there  was  so  much  of  her  in  him.  It  was  easy  for  the  witcher  to  trust  that  she  would  be  able  to  integrate  the  new  changes  into  her  life  and  look  at  the  world  around  her  from  a  new  perspective.  Perhaps  she  would  discover  one  or  two  new  things,  but  she  would  soon  be  reassured  that  her  life  would  continue  as  before.  After  all,  she  had  always  lived  in  this  world. After  all,  magic  and  strangeness  have  always  existed  with  and  between  them. 

The  day,  though  it  had  demanded  little  physical  effort  from  them,  had  left  a  certain  weariness  in  his  body  that  tainted  his  every  movement  with  a  melancholy  that  belied  his  typical  grace.  There  was  something  quite  therapeutic  about  lying  in  Isaiah's  arms  and  knowing  that  the  worst  danger  had  been  averted  for  the  time  being.  His  zest  for  action  was  inspiring,  even  if  Zeev  felt  little  motivation  to  move  at  the  moment.  He  knew  they  had  to.  Not  only  in  the  short  term,  because  sleeping  on  the  couch  was  always  associated  with  pain  in  the  limbs,  but  also  in  the  long  run.  The  coven  would  not  stop  at  this  one  intrusion  into  their  lives.  It  hadn't  been  a  bad  joke  or  a  ridiculous  prank. 

There  would  be  a  few  more  days  for  Zeev  to  process  the  shock  before  the  inevitable  return  of  what  he  had  already  felt  while  the  love  of  his  life  had  suffered  in  their  bed:

Anger.

And  everyone  knew  that  angering  a  witch  brought  serious  consequences. 

Aside  from  the  fact  that  their  reasons  were  inane  and  absolutely  rubbish,  there  was  no  justification  in  Zeev's  eyes.  If  they  had  harmed  him,  that  would  be  one  thing.  After  all,  he  seemed  to  be  the  cause  of  a  conflict  that  wasn't  really  a  problem.  But  to  involve  someone  whose  sincerity  and  innocence  was  known  even  to  the  sun,  whose  love  was  so  pure  and  unconditional,  not  just  for  him,  but  for  life  as  a  whole? For  the  witcher,  it  was  not  only  a  crime  against  them,  but  also  against  the  beauty  of  life. 

Zeev  gingerly  played  with  the  hands  that  held  his,  stroking  the  back  and  smiling  at  the  excitement  Isaiah  felt,  the  urge  to  do  something,  to  seize  the  danger  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  get  rid  of  it  as  quickly  as  possible. 

“I  don’t  know  yet,”  Zeev  admitted  honestly,  his  shoulders,  which  were  already  a  little  loose,  now  sagged  even  lower.  “Benevolent  magic  is  for  protection  and  healing.  Anything  that  harms…  Well,  I  wouldn’t  know  how  to  stop  them  for  good  without  hurting  them,  too.”  A  sign  of  how  serious  the  pain  they  had  caused  him  was.  Hatred  led  to  the  worst  things  and  Zeev  was  afraid  to  be  honest.  Because  deep  in  his  heart,  he  hoped  that  they  were  suffering.  That  they  felt  the  pain  that  Isaiah  had  to  go  through.  That  they  were  lying  in  each  other's  arms,  begging  to  be  released. 

However,  blood  was  not  repaid  with  blood. Revenge  was  an  endless  circle.

But  he  also  knew  that  words  of  reconciliation  were  out  of  the  question  and  no  matter  what  their  reasons  were,  he  would  never  go  for  it. 

He  would  never  leave  Isaiah. He  would  never  leave  him  behind.  He  would  set  his  entire  life  on  fire  as  long  as  it  meant  he  was  happy  and  alive.  He  didn't  want  to  imagine  what  he  would  have  done  if  the  podcaster  had  actually....

The  thought  shook  him  and  he  hastily  pulled  the  blond  back  into  his  arms,  caressed  his  back  and  his  head  and  breathed  in  his  soothing  odour,  which  gave  him  a  feeling  of  stability  and  home. 

For  a  while  now,  he  had  been  more  than  aware  of  the  restlessness  in  his  chest.  The  wild  beating  of  his  heart  and  the  tantalising  urge  for  something  he  shouldn't  give  in  to.  How  easy  everything  would  be  if  he  did.  Why  waste  time  on  plans  that  might  not  work?

“I’m  not  sure  if  the  girl  will  ever  return  to  the  Sanctuary,  but  we  can  start  with  that.  Also  they  got  Reddit  and  I  know  someone  who  is  rather  versed  in  handling  that.  Perhaps  they've  dropped  more  information  than  they  are  aware  of,”  Zeev  suggested  after  a  while,  leaning  back  again,  still  remaining  close  to  the  other,  his  hands  moving  down  his  arms  and  towards  his  hands  again,  holding  them  tightly. 

Admittedly,  as  he  began  to  talk  about  it,  making  a  few  approaches  and  suggestions,  an  old  feeling  of  anticipation  returned.  A  reminder  of  what  they  had  often  done  in  the  past. Investigating,  discovering,  finding  out,  speculating  and  getting  into  dead  ends  from  which  they  pulled  each  other  out  again.  There  was  nothing  normal  about  the  case,  but  wasn't  that  exactly  what  moved  Isaiah  the  most? 

This  was  his  element.  Zeev  only  intended  to  contribute  the  magical  aspects,  the  possible  insider  knowledge.  Although  it  is  difficult  to  draw  conclusions  from  one  coven  to  the  next—especially  as  they  harboured  malicious  intentions—at  their  core,  they  too  follow  fixed  rules,  a  pattern  from  which  no  one  escaped.  Neither  creature  nor  human. 

He  lovingly  caressed  his  cheek  and  smiled  sweetly  as  he  leant  into  his  touch.  “I  wouldn’t  go  anywhere  without  you  anyway.  This  is  you  and  me,  like  it  always  has  been.  I  want  them  to  see  that  we’re  no  one  to  mess  with.  And  I  want  them  to  regret  ever  having  gotten  this  close  to  you.”  Confident  words  that  he  couldn't  back  up  with  proof,  but  perhaps  that  was  all  they  needed  to  start  with. 

Despite  his  tiredness,  there  was  a  fire  in  the  witcher's  eyes  that  was  reflected  in  the  warmth  of  his  body. 

“Thank  you,  my  love,”  Zeev  hummed  quietly,  his  renewed  promises  lingering  between  them,  slipping  from  his  lips  and  straight  into  his  mind.  Making  itself  a  home.  “I  will  always  protect  you,  too.  I  won’t  let  them  destroy  what  we’ve  built.  This  beautiful,  gorgeous  life  that  has  your  handwriting  and  mine.  Every  corner  of  this  house  speaks  our  name  and  wherever  I  look  I  see  you  and  I  won’t  let  them  have  it  tainted  beyond  recognition  and  have  all  of  this  be  a  memory  instead.”  He  brushed  his  cheek  again,  aware  of  how  quickly  gentle  gestures  like  this  could  become  meaningless  if  the  other  person  didn't  recognise  them.  His  palm  nestled  against  his  face  and  his  thumb  made  circular  movements  as  he  looked  deep  into  his  eyes—attentive,  homely,  friendly.  No  pain  remained. 

“Let  us  come  up  with  an  approach  tomorrow,  okay?”  he  pleaded,  moving  closer  towards  the  other  and  nestled  himself  onto  his  lap,  head  hidden  within  the  crook  of  his  neck  soon  after,  arms  wrapped  around  his  shoulders  to  pull  him  as  close  as  possible.  “The  night  feels  exhausted,  too,”  he  argumented,  mumbling  against  his  skin,  smelling  of  lavender  and  something  musky.  “I  hope  it  wasn’t  a  mistake  to  fill  Sarah  in.  I  know  she  isn’t  the  kind  to  lie,  but  if  she’s  anything  like  you…  She’ll  think  about  it  for  quite  a  while.  I  hope  she  won’t  suffer  under  her  conclusion.”  Having  two  people  she  trusted,  one  more  than  the  other,  reveal  supposedly  truths  surely  would  cause  a  disruption  of  the  mind.  Zeev  only  hoped  she’d  reach  out  before  faltering  to  the  pressure  of  knowledge. 

They  rarely  went  to  bed  early,  Isaiah  even  less  so  than  him,  but  this  time  they  both  agreed  that  this  day  had  to  come  to  an  end  in  order  to  start  a  new  chapter  in  their  lives.  They  needed  to  recharge  their  batteries  for  something  they  both  didn't  know  how  it  would  end.

Admittedly,  neither  of  them  slept  right  away.  The  cosiness  and  security  of  their  marital  bed  had  lured  far  too  inviting  temptations  out  of  them,  which  they  never  actually  resisted.  There  was  neither  haste  nor  impatience  in  that  but  a  significant  calm  and  serenity  that  was  evidence  of  how  their  love  was  fundamentally  composed.  Of  tenderness  and  understanding,  of  gentleness  and  consent,  of  communication  and  trust.  Nothing  mattered  more  to  Zeev  than  what  they  had.

And  he  would  defend  it.  With  blood  or  without.

 “Zeev?”

Isaiah’s  voice  echoed  off  the  paper  walls,  bumping  against  their  restored  and  rescued  belongings  inside  their  shelves.  Alien  figure  perched  next  to  a  spider  plant  whose  leaves  looked  like  reaching  tendrils,  soon  enough  hitting  the  ground  to  scurry  away  on  the  hardwood  floor,  framed  pictures  throning  on  the  mantelpiece,  memorabilia  nestled  everywhere.

The  moonlight  was  shining  through  the  floor-to-ceiling  porch  windows,  barely  covered  by  the  decorative  curtain.  As  the  light  hit  Zeev’s  skin,  he  seemed  paler  than  usual,  lacking  intensity  and  colour.  At  night,  Zeev  didn’t  maintain  his  otherworldly  attraction  as  much  as  he  did  in  broad  daylight.  Something  that  wasn’t  inherently  a  bad  thing,  as  he  still  shone  the  brightest  for  Isaiah  even  at  the  darkest  of  nights.  This  time,  however,  he  was  lacking  everything  that  was  usually  inseparable  from  him.  He  had  his  arms  slung  around  himself,  shaking  so  subtle  that  the  only  indication  was  the  clacking  of  his  teeth.  A  miserably  rare  state  for  someone  who  never  turned  sick,  unless  he  turned  careless  at  picking  his  meal.

With  a  thud  he  had  heard  Isaiah  crashing  towards  the  ground  next  to  him.  Considering  the  sound  and  the  speed  it  must  have  hurt,  Zeev  figured, unable  to  work  upon  his  instinct  to  check  for  him,  to  rub  his  knee  or  even  kiss  it  better. All  he  could  do  was  sit  there,  wrapped  in  his  arms  from  behind,  a  hand  brushing  over  his  forehead,  probably  checking  for  his  temperature.  Yet  another  endeavor  that  wasn’t  as  much  proof  as  he’d  wish  it  to  be.  Zeev  maintained  a  temperature  higher  than  any  other  human,  making  it  hard  to  grasp  any  clear  indicators  for  a  fever. Well,  that  applied  to  everyone  except  Isaiah,  though. 

“You’re  burning,  baby,”  he  whispered,  his  voice  distant  but  yet  soothing. 

The  witcher  felt  unable  to  answer,  the  only  reaction  and  indicator  that  he  was  listening  was  a  low  buzzing  within  his  chest  as  he  groaned. 

“I  better  get  you  into  a  cold  bath,  what  do  you  think?  Just  to  get  your  temperature  down…”

He  only  nodded.  Frankly,  Isaiah  could  have  suggested  anything  and  Zeev  would  have  trusted  him,  at  loss  for  any  other  ideas.  His  brain  swirling  inside  his  skull,  preventing  him  from  any  coherent  thought.

All  he  felt  was  how  his  husband’s  hand  slipped  underneath  his  legs  and  around  his  back,  heaving  him  into  the  air  almost  effortlessly.  Carrying  him  like  it  was  the  easiest  task.  Not  an  uncommon  gesture  of  care.  In  any  other  situation,  Zeev  would  have  nuzzled  into  his  neck,  planted  kisses  to  grow  and  blossom  into  soft  declarations  of  love.  This  time,  however,  he  leaned  against  him  weakly,  the  tremor  inside  his  body  unmistaken  this  close  to  his  husband. 

“What  is  going  on,  love?”  The  worry  in  his  voice  grazed  his  heart  like  a  sharpened  blade.  “Why  were  you  sitting  down  here?”

Zeev  tried,  he  truly  did,  to  answer  him,  but  apart  from  his  gaping  mouth  nothing  seemed  to  happen.  His  voice  got  stuck  and  his  teeth  clacked  against  each  other  again.  His  head  leaned  against  his  shoulder,  barely  able  to  be  held  by  his  own.  Now  that  Isaiah  was  with  him  it  seemed  like  his  body  and  mind  was  less  willing  to  maintain  composure  and  basic  functionality.  He  felt  taken  care  of,  even  though  all  inside  him  begged  to  not  be  of  annoyance. 

Albeit  knowing  he  wasn’t  it  still  remained  a  remnant  of  times  where  productivity  and  leadership  required  wakefulness. 

As  the  water  ran  into  the  bath,  Isaiah  knelt  in  front  of  him,  holding  his  head  as  it  lolled  on  his  shoulders,  his  breathing  shallow,  his  eyes  darkened,  it  almost  seemed  like  his  pupils  had  dilated  to  the  edge. 

At  his  point,  Isaiah  seemed  to  remember.  It  had  been  so  many  years  ago,  Zeev  couldn’t  blame  him. 

“Oh  baby,”  he  mumbled,  leaning  forward  to  pull  him  into  a  hug,  holding  him  as  steadily  as  humanly  possible.  Admittedly,  Zeev  could  have  cried  at  that  moment.  It  had  been  his  decision  solely  to  use  dark  magic  and  have  an  urge  resurfacing  that  was  hard  to  overcome  and  harder  to  witness,  but  he’d  do  it  again  in  a  heartbeat.  A  suffering  he  had  thought  to  never  experience  again,  all  worth  it  as  long  as  it  assured  his  love’s  safety. 

Zeev  fell  against  him,  hands  digging,  with  as  much  strength  as  he  could  muster,  into  his  shoulders.  Even  though  his  body  was  heated,  he  still  wanted  to  get  closer  to  the  other.  Practically  hiding  in  the  warmth  of  his  chest,  never  to  come  out.  There  he  surely  would  be  able  to  overcome  the  withdrawal  symptoms.  The  urge  to  move  upstairs  and  cut  his  hand  severe  enough  to  draw  a  scar,  to  carve  out  a  spell  so  powerful  it  shook  his  entire  being. Alter  his  mind,  his  perspective,  his  magic.  It  had  been  so  long  since  his  abilities  actually  had  any  sort  of  impact.  Not  just  some  tea  to  soothe  senses,  not  just  some  cooking  with  herbs  or  ointments  to  help  muscles  relax. Incantations  that  testified  to  his  nature. That  was  capable  of  destroying  curses—and  causing  some  even  more  severe.

If  he  wanted  to,  he  could  change  the  world.

Zeev  pulled  himself  much  closer  against  Isaiah,  holding  onto  him  as  best  as  he  could.  He  knew,  however,  even  if  he  let  go,  he’d  still  not  fall.  A  reassurance  that  some  part  of  his  swirling  brain  got  more  and  more  aware  of. 

The  cooling  water  worked  wonders  along  with  Isaiah’s  continuous  embrace.  The  second  he  felt  guilty  for  having  kept  him  awake  he  knew  the  worst  part  of  this  outburst  had  been  overcome.  For  now. 

“I’m  sorry,”  Zeev  apologised,  turning  his  grasp—comfort  always  something  to  be  found  in  the  narrow  space  of  their  tub—and  brushed  over  his  lover’s  chest,  meeting  his  eyes  that  were  still  covered  in  worry.  Isaiah  reached  up  and  brushed  his  cheek.

“It’s  fine,  love,”  he  reassured  with  a  soft  smile,  most  definitely  aware  that  the  witcher  was  slowly  recovering.  It  wasn’t  hard  to  believe  him.  “How  are  you  feeling  now?”

“Exhausted,”  he  mumbled,  bedding  his  head  against  his  chest,  the  water  tickling  his  cheek  and  chin.  “But  better.  I’m  sorry  if  I  frightened  you.  I  had  just  gone  to  grab  some  water…”

Softly,  Isaiah’s  hand  moved  through  his  hair  and  lastly  down  his  back,  causing  him  to  sigh.  “All  that  matters  is  that  you’re  better  now.  It  will  happen  again,  right?”

Zeev  kept  quiet  for  a  moment,  then  huffed.  “Most  likely.”

“Is  it  like…?”

“Last  time?”

He  felt  the  other  nod  by  the  rippling  of  the  tub  water. 

“Strange  enough  I  don’t  remember  much,  as  if  my  mind  has  decided  to  erase  that  part  of  my  history,  but  I  believe  it  is…”  Zeev  turned  his  head  and  kissed  a  few  arbitrary  spots  of  his  skin  as  Isaiah  started  to  shift  underneath  him  for  comfort  reasons  and  the  goal  of  kissing  his  husband’s  forehead.  “But  I  got  you  this  time  around.  No  distance  between  us…  Thank  you.”

“Always,”  he  promised.

Zeev  smiled,  looking  up  at  him  once  more  and  placed  his  lips  feather  lightly  against  his  lips.  “I  love  you.”

“I  love  you,  too.”

“More  than  strawberry  cake?”

“More  than  two  even.”

 Humming  softly,  he  moved  through  the  kitchen.  Housework  seemed  like  a  hurdle  to  most  people.  An  annoying  necessity,  not  only  to  keep  things  clean  and  tidy,  but  also  to  show  that  you  had  your  life  under  control.  When  things  got  out  of  hand,  basic  hygiene  was  always  the  first  thing  to  be  neglected.  Something  that  could  not  be  found  in  Zeev's  cosmos,  which  he  had  created  around  himself  like  his  own  personal  solar  system,  no  matter  how  many  light  years  of  research  were  done.  He  would  never  allow  it  to  be  said  that  he  had  a  compulsion  to  wash  and  was  meticulous  about  cleanliness,  he  let  far  too  many  ‘carelessnesses’  pass  for  that.  Whether  it  was  a  coffee  mug  that  reminded  him  of  where  Isaiah  had  last  sat  or  an  unfolded  blanket  that  was  evidence  of  their  evening  together  on  the  couch.  Zeev  was  conscientious  about  maintaining  domestic  standards,  but  never  overdid  it.  Nevertheless,  he  admitted  to  himself  that  it  satisfied  his  need  to  be  useful.  He  knew  Isaiah  would  never  ask  him  to  do  that,  and  he  also  knew  that  a  day  or  two  wouldn't  disgrace  him  should  he  put  his  feet  up  and  simply  read  a  book.  He  did  that  in  quiet  moments,  but  action  always  preceded  it. 

Apart  from  that,  it  felt  as  if  his  thoughts  were  strangely  more  comprehensible  when  he  coupled  them  with  familiar  hand  motions  that  symbolised  productivity  but  did  not  require  concentration.  In  addition,  the  muffled  sound  of  the  wall  cupboards  closing  had  a  calming  effect  on  him.  Something  like  normality  had  returned  to  their  lives  a  few  days  ago,  even  if  Zeev  often  caught  himself  glancing  from  the  kitchen  counter  to  where  Isaiah  had  been  crouching,  ready  to  hurt  himself  in  a  way  Zeev  could  never  have  healed  in  time.  At  least  not  in  a  way  that  would  only  have  had  minor  consequences.  Which  didn't  mean  he  wouldn't  have  done  it  still.  Zeev  would  do  anything  for  him.  A  fact  that  was  both  frightening  and  romantic.  A  fact  he  didn't  want  to  think  about  any  longer  than  fleetingly.  Any  thought  construction  that  presented  him  with  vivid  choices  always  involved  heavy  sadness  in  the  long  run. 

Instead,  he  focussed  on  the  fact  that  the  curse  had  been  broken  and  that  for  the  time  being,  as  far  as  he  could  be  certain,  all  danger  had  been  averted.  Isaiah  lived,  smiled,  breathed  and  pondered.  For  the  moment,  that  was  all  that  mattered. 

To  escape  the  organic  silence  that  could  not  be  filled  with  the  clink  of  cutlery  and  the  clatter  of  shelves  and  cupboards,  he  hummed  quietly  to  himself,  a  simple  but  patterned  tune.  He  couldn't  name  the  title,  let  alone  the  artist,  suspecting  that  he  had  been  subtly  and  unconsciously  influenced.  Perhaps  from  the  car  radio?  Perhaps  a  passer-by  on  the  street  had  whistled  this  song?  Or  maybe  he  was  just  very  talented  musically  and  had  just  developed  a  song  whose  lyrics  he  had  yet  to  write.

The  turbulence  of  the  days  gradually  subsided.  Housework  was  not  only  a  source  of  satisfaction,  but  also  a  distraction.  More  often  than  in  the  last  few  days,  Zeev  managed  to  show  a  certain  lightness.  When  his  thoughts  weren't  drifting  off,  he  exhibited  a  surprisingly  intense  reaction  to  everyday  things.  The  witcher  had  always  been  able  to  enjoy  and  appreciate  them,  but  now  he  saw  a  certain  urgency  in  them. 

Nothing  about  the  circumstances  had  been  natural,  yet  it  reminded  the  Scot  of  how  fragile  life  actually  was.  Humans  felt  superior  to  everything,  usually  without  base  intentions. But  death,  Zeev  knew,  was  completely  unaffected  by  man's  self-perception. 

The  dusk  accompanied  his  evening  motivation  boost  and  shone  on  the  smooth  surface  of  the  sinks,  accentuating  the  soft  green  of  their  kitchen  counter  and  the  light  brown  worktop  with  inviting  colours  of  pink  and  orange,  while  the  sky  itself  tinted  the  clouds  in  shades  that  insured  all  variations  of  purple  and  red. 

A  prepared  cereal  bowl  awaited  use  the  next  day,  as  did  the  handmade  coffee  mug  with  a  misshapen  UAP  perched  on  its  rim.  Zeev  had  carefully  placed  both  to  the  right  of  the  coffee  machine  and  made  sure  that  there  was  enough  water  in  the  tank,  as  well  as  freshly  ground  coffee.  Little  things  that  didn't  take  much  time.  A  domestic  life  in  which  Zeev  had  quickly  found  fulfillment. 

Goosebumps  rolled  down  his  spine  even  before  he  felt  his  husband's  hands  around  him,  or  his  kisses  on  the  back  of  his  neck,  his  hands  sliding  under  his  shirt  and  over  his  stomach.  Smiling  broadly,  the  witcher  lifted  his  arm  to  reach  behind  him  and  brush  through  the  other's  hair  while  his  other  hand  leaned  over  his.  Zeev  realised,  now  that  he  felt  Isaiah  so  close  to  him,  pressed  warmly  and  firmly  against  his  back,  that  he  was  still  moving  continuously.  To  the  beat  of  his  melody,  he  had  given  in  to  the  smallest  of  swaying  motions  and  was  now  more  than  astonished  when  they  continued.  They  were  minimal,  but  they  triggered  a  surge  of  warmth  and  happiness  in  Zeev.

“Isaiah,”  he  mumbled,  fearing  his  words  might  lead  him  to  stop,  lost  in  attention  and  attraction  towards  him.  “Are  you  dancing?”

He  felt  his  soft  lips  grazing  his  neck,  leaving  the  most  subtle  of  kisses  upon  his  skin,  that  all,  without  fail,  caused  him  to  sigh  and  shiver  simultaneously.

“No,”  his  husband  answered  lastly,  the  smile  on  his  lips  audible  in  that  short  syllable.  Zeev  joined  in  on  that,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear  as  Isaiah  kept  his  lower  body  pressed  against  him,  his  hips  swaying  with  him  from  left  and  right.  Admittedly,  to  call  their  shared  moment  of  serenity  and  gentleness  dancing  truly  was  far  reaching  and  insulting  to  some,  but  considering  his  husband's  resentment  to  anything  that  resembled  tactful  movements  underlined  by  melodic  frequencies, it  surely  did  feel  like  their  wedding  day  all  over. 

For  a  moment  Zeev  closed  his  eyes,  hands  resting  against  his  husband  as  he  turned  contendly  with  the  given  situation;  no  working,  no  pressing  thoughts  of  past  horrors,  no  responsibilities.

Zeev  knew  it  was  dangerous  to  make  his  own  happiness  dependent  on  another  person.  He  was  perfectly  capable  of  forging  his  own  happiness  and  existing  outside  of  Isaiah,  but  the  thought  of  living  a  life  without  him  not  only  caused  refusal  in  him,  but  also  deep-seated  panic.  No  one  needed  another  person  to  live,  yet  it  was  those  they  loved,  those  who  taught  them  and  those  who  accompanied  them  that  made  life  worth  living. 

Slowly,  he  turned  in  Isaiah's  grip  and  stroked  his  hands  up  his  upper  arms,  over  his  firm  shoulders  and  slightly  bent  neck,  up  into  his  hair.  A  natural  attraction  that  Zeev  was  weak-willed  to  resist.  He  stood  close  to  him  and  closed  his  eyes  when  their  foreheads  touched.  Isaiah's  hands  slid  over  his  back,  covering  as  much  area  as  they  could  with  roaming  fingers,  and  then  landed  on  his  hips,  pulling  him  closer.  Zeev  crossed  his  arms  behind  his  neck  and  smiled  peacefully  to  himself  as  they  continued  to  sway  shallowly  back  and  forth  to  a  non-existent  tune,  not  really  moving  from  the  spot.  In  a  way  they  were  merely  nudging  each  other  with  their  bodies.

“Do  you  remember  our  wedding  night?  You  were  so  pretty,”  revelled  the  witcher  “In  that  fitted  suit  and  your  sneakers.”  Needless  to  say,  Zeev  thought  his  husband  was  beautiful  at  all  times.  “The  way  you  smiled  at  me…  I  don't  think  there's  a  single  person  except  you  that  has  and  will  ever  look  at  me  like  you  do.” 

Once  more,  his  fingers  tangled  with  his  hair. 

“I  know  that  you  love  me  just  by  the  way  your  eyes  light  up  when  you  see  me.  Being  seen  by  you  is  truly  an  honour  and  the  most  beautiful  experience.”

“Says  the  man  who  literally  glows  when  I  smile  at  him.”  His  soft  laugh  caused  chrysanthemums  to  blossom  around  his  heart.

“Proves  my  point,  doesn't  it?  I  shine  for  you  only.”  As  dashingly  as  he  was  aware,  he  grinned  up  at  him,  pulling  him  down  just  the  slightest  while  at  the  same  time  pushing  himself  up  onto  the  tip  of  his  toes.  In  quick  successions  he  kissed  his  lips  several  times  before  lingering  longer,  drawing  him  closer,  body  pressed  against  him.  Softly  he  nipped  at  his  lower  lip,  slightly  letting  his  teeth  graze  the  skin,  they  breathed  in  and  out  between  breaks,  aware  of  the  other’s  interval.  Before  Zeev  knew—but  should  have  suspected—Isaiah  pushed  him  back  against  the  kitchen  counter,  his  coccyx  hitting  the  edge  of  the  wood.  Soon  the  taller  man  bent  his  knees  a  wee  bit,  grabbed  his  thighs  to  lift  him  effortlessly  onto  the  space  Zeev  had  thoroughly  wiped  all  morning.  Zeev  dodged  hitting  his  head  at  the  hanging  shelves  barely  by  leaning  forward  to  keep  kissing  his  husband,  brushing  his  tongue  against  his  while  being  pulled  closer  once  more.  A  hand  at  his  lower  back,  the  other  moving  across  his  legs.

“Are  we  feeling  adventurous  today,  my  love?”  Zeev  chuckled,  already  breathless.  He  arched  his  spine  just  enough  to  have  himself  be  pressed  as  flush  against  Isaiah  as  possible.  There  wouldn’t  be  a  day  in  their  life  where  Zeev  wouldn’t  react  immediately  to  anything  his  husband  did.  In  a  logical  sense  his  body  belonged  to  himself,  but  in  reality  Zeev  felt  himself  utterly  at  disposal  towards  Isaiah.  How  could  he  not?  He  deserved  everything.  Zeev  was  willing  to  grant  him  whatever  he  wished,  as  wishes  were  rare  anyway. 

“I  believe  I  was  born  that  way,”  Isaiah  repeated,  his  tone  a  nuance  lower  than  usual.  Enough  to  have  the  witcher  response  as  he  most  definitely  had  anticipated.  With  a  hum  and  a  sigh  against  his  lips,  diving  back  in.  The  shiver  of  his  body  followed  as  the  palm  of  his  hand  moved  underneath  his  shirt,  brushing  along  his  warm,  tanned  skin. 

“I’m  such  a  lucky  guy,”  he  added.

“You  are,”  Zeev  agreed,  his  own  fingertips  moving  down  his  chest  and  towards  the  hem  of  his  shirt.  Not  to  free  him  of  it,  even  though  that  would  have  been  much  beneficial,  but  to  shove  his  hands  underneath  as  well.  The  tender  and  soft  skin  gave  in  underneath  the  pressure  of  his  fingertips  as  he  dug  them  deeper  to  pull  him  closer. 

“A  loved  guy  even,”  he  continued.  “Admired,  desired,  appreciated…  I  love  you  so  much.”

He  felt  Isaiah  smile  against  the  corner  of  his  lips  as  his  kisses  trailed  off. 

Instinctively,  he  tilted  his  head  to  the  side,  eyes  falling  shut  at  the  contentment  flooding  his  veins.  It  wasn’t  even  pure  arousal  taking  hold  of  him,  but  a  sense  of  peace  as  well.  Anything  that  was  bothersome  shoved  into  a  far  corner  of  his  mind,  inaccessible  and  lacking  importance. 

Just  as  Zeev  pressed  his  thighs  firmly  against  his  hips,  he  felt  Isaiah  pondering.  He  didn’t  need  to  say  anything,  his  hesitation  alone  conveyed  all  that  the  witcher  needed  to  know. 

“What’s  the  matter,  my  love?”  he  whispered,  turning  his  head  back  towards  him,  hand  cradling  his  head  as  his  brows  knitted.  Something  spilled  from  his  blue  eyes  and  Zeev  didn’t  mind  catching  all  of  it,  with  heart  and  mind  alike. 

Isaiah  rubbed  gentle  circles  over  his  husbands  thighs,  meeting  his  eyes,  remaining  quiet  for  a  second  longer.  “Are  you  feeling  better?”

“I  am,”  Zeev  promised,  kissing  his  cheek  softly. 

“Is  there  anything  I  can  do?”

The  question,  as  innocent  as  it  sounded,  filled  with  his  characteristic  compassion  and  urge  to  be  helpful,  inherited  far  more  between  the  spaces  than  he  most  definitely  wanted  to  share. Even  the  cones  of  light  that  shone  through  the  kitchen  window  didn’t  burn  the  self-doubt  and  powerlessness  in  the  eye  of  something  far  greater  than  the  two  of  them.  It  wasn’t  comparable  to  what  had  happened  to  Isaiah,  but  Zeev  thought  he  knew  what  was  going  on  in  the  other’s  mind.

“You  are  doing  so  much  already,  my  beautiful,”  he  assured,  nudging  his  cheek  with  the  tip  of  his  nose,  mimicking  a  behaviour  that  their  Russian  Blue  had  most  definitely  taught.  A  kiss  followed,  as  well  as  a  smile  that  left  no  doubt  about  its  genuinity.  Zeev  knew  that  this  alone  wouldn’t  help  against  the  doubt  settling  in.  He  saw  it  pushing  and  prodding  inside  his  brain  to  make  itself  a  neat  space  to  get  comfortable  in.  The  witcher,  though,  wouldn’t  allow  it. 

“If  it  hadn’t  been  for  you,  I’d  have  sat  there  all  night.  If  it  wouldn’t  be  for  you  I  wouldn’t  have  been  able  to  pull  myself  out  of  there.  Contrary  to  back  then,  I’m  not  alone  and  this…  withdrawal  is  something  I  have  to  go  through,  there’s  nothing  I  can  do  about  it  as  well…  And  as  much  as  it  unsettles  me,  it’s  not  half  as  bad  as  it  could  be.  The  only  reason  I’m  able  to  resist  the  pull  is  you.”  With  a  sigh,  Isaiah  pushed  his  head  against  his  palm,  averting  his  gaze  in  something  that  resembled  shame.  The  display  broke  Zeev’s  heart,  but  it  wasn’t  about  him,  despite  being  part  of  the  reasons. 

The  Podcast  Host  has  always  been  responsive  to  outer  influences,  whether  it  be  openly  displayed  emotions  or  vague  assumptions.  His  sought  for  knowledge  didn’t  just  start  and  end  with  that  of  the  dark  unknown,  but  included  those  of  the  humans  as  well,  the  grand  emotionality  of  a  person’s  mind,  their  intentions  and  their  ambitions. To  understand  the  world  it  was  essential  to  understand  oneself  as  well  and  thus  the  complexity  of  humankind. 

Interpreting  the  human  mind  however  more  often  than  not  led  to  something  akin  to  a  malfunctioning  of  his  own  senses.  A  never  ending  spiral  that  pulled  him  down  despite  his  strong  rationality,  submissive  to  his  emotionality.  Questioning  led  to  answers  he  only  could  give  himself  and  if  those  failed  to  be  delivered  what  followed  was  an  endless  circle  of  doubt,  worry,  helplessness.  But  he  wasn’t  there  yet.  Zeev  knew  what  that  looked  like.

He  wrapped  his  arms  around  his  neck,  his  chest  pressed  against  his,  breathing  with  him,  brushing  through  his  hair  in  sedative  motions. 

“We’re  much  alike  in  these  regards,  love,”  he  continued  quietly  after  a  while,  pulling  back,  searching  for  his  eyes.  “We  believe  we  only  are  helpful  if  we  do  something  physically.  If  we  grab  some  lunch,  if  we  clean  the  kitchen  or  take  out  the  trash,  if  you  take  me  to  work  or  if  I  sneak  a  coffee  downstairs  onto  your  desk.  You’d  built  a  castle  for  me  if  I  asked  you  to  and  I’d  do  the  same  even  if  you  don’t  ask  for  anything.  All  of  that  is  part  of  this  beautiful,  gorgeous  and  magnificent  love  that  has  been  cared  for  and  tended  to  over  years,  but  there’s  much  more  within  the  passivity  as  well.” 

Zeev  leaned  forward,  pressing  his  forehead  against  his  lover’s,  still  slightly  taller  than  him,  despite  being  seated  elevated. 

“You  influence  me  all  the  time  by  essentially  just  existing.  You’re  my  inspiration  and  role  model,  too.  I  love  you,  I  admire  you,”  he  pauses.  “I  need  you.”

“You  wouldn’t  have  needed  to  do  this  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  me,”  he  pointed  out,  hands  resuming  to  move  the  slightest  across  his  lower  back  and  thigh,  his  chest  rising  as  he  inhaled  deeply,  dragging  himself  as  best  as  possible  out  of  his  mind.  Zeev  knew  that  was  a  hard  thing  to  achieve,  but  he  did  so,  without  fail,  sooner  or  later.  And  everytime  the  witcher  couldn’t  be  more  proud. 

“Don’t  go  there,  baby,”  he  denied,  shaking  his  head.  “It  was  my  decision,  and  I  wouldn’t  have  needed  to  make  that  decision  if  you  hadn’t  been  cursed  in  the  first  place.”  Involuntarily,  his  jaw  clenched.  They’d  need  to  think  about  those  witches  soon  enough.  Was  Zeev  avoiding  that  matter  in  some  way?  Yes.  But  he  knew  he  couldn’t  forever.  The  longer  they  waited,  the  more  time  they  offered  the  Mark  of  Solaris  to  prepare  for  a  counterattack.

“Surely  we  could  blame  them,  but  in  the  end  it  was  my  decision  and  hence  they  are  my  consequences  to  bear.”  A  delicate  smile  pulled  his  lips.  “I’m  just  glad  you’re  alright  now  and  in  a  way  I’m  glad  you  don’t  remember  most  of  it,  too…  I  don’t  ever  want  you  to  suffer  like  that  ever  again.”  He  shook  his  head,  concentrating  on  the  here  and  now.  “You’re  doing  more  than  you  are  aware  of,  believe  me.  You’re  like  the  wind,  moving  cloudy  monuments  and  changing  landscapes  just  by  being  what  you  are,  you  can’t  be  anything  less.”

Zeev  noticed  his  cheek  hollowing,  but  also  a  small  nod.  The  witcher  knew  his  worries,  just  formed  and  on  the  brink  of  taking  shape,  weren’t  so  easy  to  destroy  as  he  would  like  them  to  be.  It  would  take  time  and  patience—and  Zeev  planned  on  having  that  aplenty.  Till  the  rest  of  their  lives  he’d  spent  every  waking  hour  loving  him,  holding  him,  kissing  him,  soothing  him.  For  as  long  as  it  took,  Zeev  would  love  the  parts  of  him  that  he  thought  were  unsightly. 

“I  love  you,”  he  heard  Isaiah  mumble,  as  if  it  were  the  punctuation  at  the  end  of  a  sentence,  representing  the  end  of  the  conversation.  Even  though  Zeev  felt  the  urge  to  continue,  he  knew  that  every  further  comment  would  not  lead  to  the  desired  result.  Isaiah  needed  to  come  to  the  conclusion  on  his  own,  supported  by  the  words  of  his  husband,  but  ultimately  left  to  his  own  judgement.  Zeev  knew  that  he  would  eventually.  He  had  grown  much  since  they  got  to  know  each  other,  healing  each  other  in  the  gentlest  way  possible. And  they  would continue  doing  so. 

“I  love  you  endlessly,”  Zeev  murmured  in  return,  smiling  to  brighten  the  mood  and  as  he  felt  Isaiah  press  his  lips  against  him  more  urgently,  he  couldn’t  help  but  giggle  cheerfully. 

 The  steam  of  the  chamomile  tea  in  his  hands  raised  unbothered  into  the  air,  carrying  a  satisfying  smell  that  aided  his  thought  process.  The  arch  of  the  condensation  water  was  reminiscent  of  a  river  flowing  into  a  lake,  dynamic  and  unpredictable,  without  any  influence  on  his  part.  It  found  its  own  way.  Similarly,  Isaiah  and  Zeev  tried  to  master  the  torrent  of  events  that  had  caught  up  with  them  unexpectedly.  They  organised  the  events  in  chronological  order.  It  had  started  three  weeks  ago—or  at  least  what  had  been  simmering  behind  their  backs  had  spilled  over.  Someone  had  known  they  weren't  there.  How  long  had  they  been  watched?  Zeev  shuddered  at  the  idea. Were  they  still?

“What  were  you  doing  anyway?”  Zeev  wondered  as  he  watched  his  husband  write  down  the  date  of  the  intrusion,  pinning  the  post-it  against  the  board,  deciding  on  a  pin  which  colour  suited  his  refined  artistic  taste.  Zeev  sat  cross-legged  on  the  couch,  a  blanket  wrapped  around  his  shoulders.  In  summer,  being  downstairs  in  Isaiah's  hobby  room  and  office,  was  an  absolute  refreshing  delight.  Even  though  the  witcher  was  fond  of  the  heat  and  in  most  cases  was  alone  in  this,  he  couldn't  deny  how  nice  it  was  to  cool  off  in  his  husband's  sacred  halls  and  listen  to  him  develop  concepts  and  silently  curse  or  cheer,  depending  on  whether  he  was  successful  or  hit  dead  ends.

“What  do  you  mean?”  he  replied  in  confusion,  scratching  his  stomach  gently  as  he  put  a  hand  on  his  hip  and  looked  from  the  board  to  him.  Zeev  had  to  be  honest,  the  grey  sweatpants  had  either  been  the  worst  or  the  most  brilliant  idea  the  other  had  had  to  wear,  depending  on  what  his  goal  was.  The  witcher's  gaze  followed  his  movement  and  for  a  fleeting  moment  he  looked  at  the  narrow  strip  of  skin  above  the  waistband  of  his  joggers.  He  sighed.  They  couldn't  stray  from  their  plan  again.  He  had  to  concentrate.

He  could  suck  the  soul  out  of  him  later. 

Which,  regardless  of  greyscale,  would  most  likely  have  happened  anyway. 

Concentration,  Zeev. 

“When  I  came  home  you  weren't  there.  Where  were  you?”

For  a  strangely  long  moment,  Isaiah  looked  at  him  from  his  position,  his  head  lowered,  his  brows  drawn  shallowly  together.  Whatever  was  going  on  beneath  the  top  of  his  skull  seemed  to  be  rapidly  unravelling  though.

“That’s  a  surprise,”  he  offered  as  an  explanation.  He  knew  exactly  how  bad  Zeev  was  at  enduring  surprises.  He  knew  that  they  were  usually  signs  of  Isaiah's  expression  of  love,  of  offering  him  something  special,  be  it  an  evening  together  or  a  gesture  of  affection.  His  surprises  didn't  equate  to  unexpected  twists  or  turns  of  fate  that  he  hadn't  seen  coming,  it  wasn't  a  loss  of  control—and  yet  Zeev  still  got  nervous  every  time.. 

His  blonde  brows  raised  towards  his  hairline.  “A  surprise?  What  is  it?”

“Don't  change  the  topic,  my  love,”  he  chuckled,  moving  towards  him,  tipping  his  chin  with  a  curled  pointer  and  bent  down  far  enough  to  kiss  him.  Zeev  narrowed  his  eyes  playfully.  He  accepted  the  apology,  but  he  wouldn't  forget  the  confession.

“Was  it  a  planned appointment?  Could  someone  have  known?  Was  it  spontaneous?”

Isaiah  shook  his  head,  attention  back  towards  the  board.  “I  had  thought  about  it  before,  but  I  didn't  tell  anyone  until  I,  uh,  got  there.”

Zeev  smirked  against  the  brim  of  his  cuppa.  “Someone  is  involved  in  the  surprise?”

“Zeev!”  He  laughed,  a  noise  that  filled  the  witcher  with  warmth.  He  was  in  love  with  his  voice  as  it  is,  but  his  laugh?  There  was  hardly  anything  more  beautiful.  “You're  investigating  the  wrong  case.”

“I'm  a  professional,  I  can  get  to  the  bottom  of  two  cases  simultaneously.”  The  witcher  chuckled,  taking  a  warming  sip.

Isaiah  shook  his  head  in  amusement,  turning  back  towards  the  board.  “Do  we  need  to  put  down…  You  know,  the  symptoms?”

This  time  Zeev  fell  quiet,  remaining  so  for  a  few  minutes,  eyes  fixed  on  his  hands  gripping  the  cup  tightly.  If  all  of  this  hadn't  happened,  he'd  be  holding  an  entirely  different  mug.  “A  week,  it  got  gradually  worse.  The  peak  has  been  after  four  days,  Sarah  and  Richard  came  three  days  in.”

Without  commenting  the  taller  one  nodded,  writing  down  onto  the  small  pieces  of  paper,  his  handwriting  almost  childlike,  as  erratic  as  his  mind  at  times.  He  pinned  them  onto  the  board  as  well.

“I've  met  a  girl  from  the  Coven  on  day  six,  I  believe  Zara  implied  she  might  be  from  University.  Perhaps  we  can  figure  out  her  name  when  checking  their  websites,”  Zeev  suggested.  “Yearbook  or  something,  or  maybe  she's  some  cheerleader  or  did  something  else  fancy  to  be  mentioned  by  name.  If  she's  invested  in  species  protection  it's  not  unlikely  she  might  be  in  some  clubs  too.”

“Zeev.”  His  husband's  voice  was  soft  and  gentle,  stopping  his  words  as  they  fell  spitefully  from  his  lips.  Carefully,  Isaiah  lifted  the  cup  out  of  his  hand  and  replaced  it  with  his  palms,  fingers  intertwining.  Zeev  noticed  how  tightly  he  had  gripped  the  mug  as  he  felt  his  strained  knuckles  relaxing  again.  “It's  over  for  now,  it's  okay.  I'm  okay.” 

He  nodded,  looking  up,  raised  his  hand  towards  his  lips  and  kissed  it  with  a  sigh.  The  wild  beating  of  his  heart  slowly  dulled  down  again  to  an  even  rhythm. 

“Okay,  so,  that  is  a  good  start.  If  they  operate  anything  like  your  family,  they'll  be  tightly  knit  together.  Finding  out  who  she  is  and  where  she's  from  will  make  it  easier  to  find  out  who  she's  conversing  with.” 

“It  has  been  a  curse,  a  deadly  one  even.  She  seemed  so  young,  so…  inexperienced  even.  It's  hard  to  imagine  she  has  been  able  to  conjure  that.  Not  without  paying  tremendously.  Admittedly,  I  couldn't  care  less  about  her  wellbeing,  but  why  have  her  do  the  dirty  work?  She  is  either  stronger  than  she  seems  or  someone  doesn't  care  if  she  fails.  Like…  cannon  fodder,”  he  pauses,  knitting  his  brow,  leaning  back  against  the  couch.  He  couldn't  help  but  feel  slight  compassion.  “If  the  last  is  true,  we  have  to  expect  anything  from  them.  A  Coven,  criminal  or  not,  should  care  for  their  own  kind.” 

“The  Mark  of  Solaris  is  perhaps  less  a  Coven  and  more  like…”

“A  cult?  Not  unlikely,  whatever  they  call  themselves  is  little  of  importance  though.  They  will  do  anything  to  reach  their  goal,  whatever  that  truly  is.” But  so  will  he.  Instinctively,  Zeev's  jaw  clenched,  his  teeth  grinding  against  one  another  audibly.  Reason  enough  for  Isaiah  to  sit  down  next  to  him  again,  brushing  through  his  hair,  kissing  his  temple.  The  pain  and  pressure  of  the  days  still  rested  heavily  on  his  chest.  Isaiah  might  have  forgotten,  but  he  never  would. Neither  would  he  forgive.

“Not  saying  anyone  deserves  to  be  cursed,  but you?”  Zeev  viciously  shook  his  head,  felt  a  few  strands  of  hair  tickling  his  forehead.  Isaiah  was  the  best  and  goodest  man  that  he  ever  met  and  knew  existed.  He,  who  was  bummed  for  days  for  accidentally  having  split  a  stem  in  half  of  the  Monstera,  who  couldn't  sleep  when  having  had  a  quarrel  that  didn't  get  resolved  one  way  or  another,  who  did  everything  in  his  might  to  have  everyone  around  him  happy,  regardless  of  his  own  emotional  state,  who  wanted  little  more  than  to  be  liked  and  remained  kind,  even  when  others  weren't.  Surely,  it  wasn't  like  he  didn't  know  how  to  be  angry,  unfair  or  protective  as  well,  but  those  moments  rarely  were  approached  by  him  voluntarily.  Either  provocated  or  the  result  of  similar  behaviour  towards  him.  Zeev  knew,  and  he  didn't  just  stick  to  that  opinion  because  they  were  married, that  Isaiah  wasn't  deserving  of  bad  things  to  happen.

Still,  being  alive  consisted  of  those  moments  as  well,  disregarding  good  deeds  or  intentions. Thunderstorms  came,  no  matter  who  you  are.

That,  however,  didn’t  mean  that  Zeev  had  to  accept  what  the  Mark  of  Solaris  had  done.  He  despised  that  revenge  never  served  anyone.

They  continued  to  gather  what  they  knew  and  the  suspicions  they  harboured.  Mark  of  Solaris  was  apparently  in  Macomb,  if  what  the  young  woman  Zeev  had  met  provided  anything  to  go  by.  They  often  attracted  people  in  need  of  help. A  practice  that  Zeev  was  not  too  unfamiliar  with  and  one  that  could  not  stop  the  shame  that  ran  through  him.  He  may  not  have  cursed  anyone,  but  having  any  resemblance  to  them—even  if  it  related  to  past  deeds—left  a  bitter  aftertaste.  They  must  have  been  watching  them  to  know  when  the  house  was  unguarded.  Long  enough  to  carry  out  such  chaos  and  ritual.  Had  they  risked  it  or  planned  with  specific  timing?  Zeev  was  going  to  intensify  the  protective  spells  that  very  day.  None  of  those  witches  would  set  foot  in  their  house  again.  Not  as  long  as  he  could  do  something  about  it.

Their  target  was  Zeev,  at  least  in  the  broadest  sense.  The  young  woman  had  stammered  something  about  wanting  to  win  him  over—they  had  chosen  the  worst  possible  approach—and  that  Isaiah  was  a  poor  choice  as  a  mate  in  their  eyes.  Zeev  remembered  his  mother's  rules,  which  had  equally  discouraged  partnerships.  This  had  always  been  for  protection,  never  out  of  pure  unjustified  hatred. 

He  knows  too  much.

What  was  that  supposed  to  mean  anyway?  Who  he  trusted  was  supposed  to  be  his  business?  Isaiah  knew  about  the  existence  of  witches,  without  his  involvement.  That  they  could  also  be  extremely  beautiful,  eloquent,  impatient  and  helplessly  addicted  to  him  was  just  a  piece  of  shared  information  that  only  concerned  him,  and  in  no  way  jeopardised  the  safety  of  any  other  coven. 

“They  feel  threatened,  in  some  way  or  another,”  Zeev  assumed.  “I'm  not  sure  how  they  have  even  picked  up  the  impression  that  one  of  us,  or  the  both  more  likely,  are  turning  into  a  nuisance  and  hurdle.  Amber  and  Helena  have  been  living  here  longer  than  we  did  and  they  haven't  heard  of  them  before,  nor  noticed  other  witches  living  here.  Considering  their  Reddit  though  they  are  operating  for  quite  a  while  now.  Whatever  it  is  that  makes  them  feel  unsafe,  they  pin  it  on  us.” 

Isaiah  nodded  in  thought,  seemingly  as  a  gesture  that  he  was  listening  rather  than  of  agreement.  Another  piece  of  paper  made  it  onto  the  cork-wall.  Considering  Isaiah's  ever  growing  know-how  in  modern  technology,  it  was  an  odd  choice  but  nothing  beats  the  tried  and  tested  reliability  of  an  old-school  cork  pinboard.  More  charming,  too.  Admittedly,  Zeev  felt  a  bit  like  a  detective  of  an  old  black  and  white  noire,  thinking  in  deep  metaphorical  monologues  about  how  dull  and  painful  the  town  has  gotten,  while  trying  to  fathom  the  cruelty  of  modern  society  and  their  part  in  the  crime  at  hand.

“Perhaps  something  has  changed  since  your  arrival?”  Isaiah  suggested,  rubbing  his  neck.

“What  should  have?  I  know  I  have  a  dashing  personality  and  an  undeniable  attraction,�� but  I'm  not  shifting  space  and  time  by  mere  existence,  I  barely  did  any  magic…  Safety  spells  aside.”

The  taller  male  paused  for  a  moment.  “What  if  they  want  you  to?”

“What?”

“To  cast  spells,  perhaps  they  need  you  for  something  bigger  than  they  are.”

“Considering  what  she  has  said  it's  not  impossible,”  Zeev  admitted.  “But  they've  wasted  every  potential  of  me  ever  doing  something  for  them.  Also,  I  can't  think  of  any  spell  that'd  require  my  help,  they  seem  capable  of  doing  whatever  they  please.”

“You  said  the  girl  had  seemed  inexperienced?”

“She  was  young,  I  barely  have  anything  else  to  base  that  on.”

“What  if  you're  right?  What  if,  whatever  they  try  to  achieve,  asks  for  someone  who  has  learned  how  to  use  dark  magic  beyond  their  comprehension?”

“Even  if  they  do,  I  won't  do  it,”  he  grumbled  defiantly.

“They  are  used  to  force,  aren’t  they?  Dark  Arts  are  a  manipulation,  an  interference  in  the  natural  order  and  balance.  They  don't  seem  like  the  kind  to  ask  nicely,  they  probably  know  you'd  decline.”

“...  you  think  they  wanted  to  use  you?  To  manipulate  me?”  Hard  boiled  anger  resurfaced  and  Zeev  felt  his  jaw  tensing  painfully.

“Or  test  you  first,  see  if  you'd  consort  with  your  old  ways.  To  break  the  curse  and  prove  you’d  do  anything  to  reassure…  my  safety.”

“They'll  try  again  and  have  you  be  a  pawn,”  Zeev  concluded  quietly,  ashamed  in  a  way  that  they  had  succeeded  if  it  truly  had  been  their  intention.

“We  have  to  assume  this  much,”  Isaiah  sighed,  unsurprisingly  not  full  of  glee  at  the  prospect  of  being  the  target  of  malicious  intentions  once  again.

The  witcher's  head  bowed  guiltily,  realising  that  all  this  could  be  a  potential  aftershock  of  a  time  he  wanted  to  leave  behind.  But  the  past  always  caught  up  with  oneself,  especially  when  it  was  as  bloody  and  grave  as  his.  Thoughtfully,  he  rubbed  his  thumb  over  the  bandage,  feeling  the  elevation  of  his  scar  under  the  tip  of  his  finger.  Isaiah  sat  down  next  to  him  again  and  while  he  put  his  arms  around  his  shoulders,  Zeev  did  the  same.  He  wrapped  them  tightly  around  his  chest  and  buried  his  face  against  the  crook  of  his  neck,  encouraging  kisses  against  his  temple  barely  helping  against  the  strain  of  their  investigation.  Basically,  they  knew  nothing.  It  was  all  speculation. 

“I  don’t  want  them  to  hurt  you,”  Zeev  whispered  almost  defeatedly,  weakened  by  the  thought  alone.

“I  don't  want  them  to  use  you,”  Isaiah  mumbled  against  his  head  and  planted  some  more  kisses,  to  which  Zeev  reacted  with  a  sigh.

“I  won't  let  them  hurt  you,”  the  witcher  added  through  gritted  teeth.  He  wasn't  sure  what  he  wanted  to  do  to  prevent  that  from  happening,  but  he  was  determined.  And  angry.  He'd  combust  if  he  were  to  see  Isaiah  writhe  in  pain  once  more. 

“I'll  see  if  I  can  find  the  girl  I've  been  talking  to  on  some  University  page  or  student  members  list  of  the  Bird  Sanctuary  and  you  could  check  their  Reddit?  Perhaps  they  left  hints  of  their  whereabouts.  Or  we'll  bait  them  with  a  fake  account…  Either  way,  I'll  need  to  meet  them  one  day.  The  sooner  the  better.  I  don't  think  we'll  be  able  to  have  any  impact  if  we  don't.”  Apart  from  that,  it  was  to  his  advantage  to  know  the  faces  of  those  who  harmed  them.  For  the  first  time,  however,  Zeev  wasn't  sure  whether  he  wouldn't  jump  down  the  throats  of  those  responsible  at  first  sight.

Focused  research  resulted  in  Zeev  not  being  able  to  clear  his  head,  but  to  swallow  some  of  his  anger.

A  small  satisfaction  of  doing  something  useful  and  productive,  even  though  they  basically  had  nothing  tangible. Zeev  wasn't  even  sure  what  he  was  supposed  to  do  if  he  ever  actually  met  the  witches.  It  was  comforting  to  think  that  even  dark  magic  had  limits  and  that  they  too,  at  their  core,  were  only  mortal.  He  knew  what  the  girl  looked  like  and,  wisely,  he  had  kept  her  lock  of  hair. It  didn't  mean  he  would  do  anything,  but  it  reassured  him  to  have  the  option. 

He  found  it  just  as  reassuring  to  watch  Isaiah  immerse  himself  in  his  work.  Even  if  the  subject  didn't  match  his  interests  per  se,  the  approach  was  quite  similar.  Whenever  Zeev  lost  concentration,  he  looked  up  from  the  couch,  sipped  his  tea  and  watched  his  husband  hunched  over  in  front  of  the  screen.  Zeev  was  already  making  a  mental  note  that  he  would  give  him  a  thorough  massage  that  evening  to  release  the  tension  from  his  shoulders  and  vertebrae  that  he  was  painstakingly  cultivating. 

That  was  the  way  he  liked  it  best.  Getting  to  the  bottom  of  things  along  with  him,  sharing  thoughts  and  taking  them  further,  solving  puzzles  that  could  have  been  so  simple  if  they  didn't  both  tend  to  think  too  complicated  at  times.  Again  and  again,  they  had  to  use  the  principle  of  parsimony  to  pull  each  other  back  from  their  elaborate  assumptions  in  order  to  come  up  with  clear  answers.

They  were  a  team  and  they  were  unbeatable.  Not  because  they  were  reckless  or  took  risks,  but  because  they  could  rely  on  each  other. If  Zeev  ever  found  himself  in  a  hopeless  situation,  he  knew  Isaiah  would  find  ways  to  solve  it.  It  was  obvious  that  they  could  only  fail  if  one  of  them  was  lost.

And  the  witches  knew  that.

But  they  were  wrong  to  believe  that  Zeev  would  allow  himself  to  be  instrumentalised.

He’d  turn  into  a  menace  before  ever  lifting  a  finger  to  their  satisfaction.

 Zeev  stretched  on  the  couch  and  slipped  further  down  the  upholstery,  rubbing  his  sore  eyes.  How  long  have  they  sat  here  now?  The  witcher  grew  a  bit  hungry,  he  noticed,  aware  that  Isaiah  was  way  too  concentrated  to  currently  have  any  sort  of  basic  needs.  That  didn’t  mean  he  didn’t  need  to  eat  eventually.  To  keep  the  brain  running,  it  needed  nutrients,  and  Zeev  was  keen  to  provide  Isaiah  with  them.  For  now,  though,  he  trudged  over  to  him  and  came  to  a  stop  behind  him,  running  his  hands  over  his  shoulders  and  kneading  them  lightly,  feeling  him  straighten  his  back—and  making  a  sound  that  suggested  his  spine  had  snapped  in  two.  Zeev  leaned  forward  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  back  of  his  head.  Even  though  he  knew  Isaiah  had  no  secrets  from  him  and  was  preoccupied  with  a  subject  that  concerned  them  both  anyway,  the  witcher  still  avoided  looking  at  the  screen.  Instead,  he  slid  his  hands  further  forward  and  consequently  down  over  the  other's  chest,  burying  his  nose  in  the  thick,  tangled  blond  hair.  He  smelled  of  lavender  and  some  new  aftershave,  fresh  and  clean  and  tantalising.

“Are  you  in  the  mood  for  some  Paella?” 

His  husband  hummed,  slowly  but  surely  losing  sight  of  the  matter  at  hand,  leaning  back  against  him.  He  had  stopped  clicking  and  scrolling  seconds  ago.

Zeev  moved  his  head  into  the  crook  of  his  neck  and  softly  planted  kisses  against  his  skin,  nipping  just  the  slightest.  “Won’t  take  long,  I  prepared  most  of  it  this  morning  already.  I’ll  get  you  in  fifteen  minutes?”

That,  however,  didn’t  seem  to  be  in  the  blonde’s  interest.  He  turned  on  the  office  chair  towards  his  husband  and  pulled  him  towards  himself  at  his  wrist.  The  seat  made  a  sound  akin  to  a  warning  call,  but  it  had  never  given  in  underneath  the  weight  before.  Zeev  felt  optimistic  it  wouldn’t  this  time  around  either.  Cheerfully  smiling,  the  witcher  took  place  on  his  lap,  legs  dangling  left  and  right  and  immediately  fell  into  an  even  interval  consisting  of  kisses  and  sweet  words  of  affirmation.  No  matter  how  many  years  they  had  been  married,  he  would  never  take  his  husband's  deeds  for  granted. 

“Did  you  find  something?”  Zeev  wondered,  kissing  along  his  jaw,  hands  moving  underneath  his  shirt  to  have  skin  against  skin.  He  felt  Isaiah  nod,  sighing  in  delight  as  well.  It  wasn’t  hard  for  the  witcher  to  listen  to  him, his  voice  the  only  frequency  that  would  get  through  him  at  any  given  moment  without  fail.  He  was  drawn  to  his  husband  that  suggested  obsession—and  he  didn’t  mind  that  comparison  at  all.  Every  explanation,  every  revealed  information  that  Isaiah  had  prodded  out  of  the  farthest  corner  of  the  internet,  left  Zeev’s  blood  boiling  with  arousal.  “Sun,”  he  purred  against  his  neck,  leaving  open  mouthed  kisses.  “You’re  so  hot.” 

Shortly  after,  Zeev  was  given  the  same  question  and  he  hummed  lofty.

“I  got  a  name,  she’s  in  some  environmental  conservation  committee,”  he  murmured  towards  his  lips,  grinding  down  instinctively.  The  nature  of  the  sweatpants  made  it  easy  for  the  witcher  to  have  grand  successes.  Every  movement  of  his  went  straight  to  his  beloved’s  dick,  just  as  intended. 

As  he  had  promised  himself  and  Isaiah  without  his  knowledge,  Zeev  slipped  down  his  lap  soon  after,  dropping  in  between  his  legs  like  his  mind  and  bit  his  lips  in  immense  anticipation  before  thanking  his  husband  for  his  hard  work—good  and  proper.

 Thunderstorms,  however,  even  came  to  the  goodest  of  people.  The  ways  of  the  supposedly  Coven  were  uncertain  and  unsuspecting  and  imagining  the  worst  would  never  truly  prepare  any  of  the  two  of  what  was  about  to  come.  Zeev  saw  the  stroboscopic  lights  at  the  corner  of  his  eyes  before  taking  in  the  sight  of  a  police  car’s  approach. 

At  first  the  witcher  suspected  they  wanted  to  share  new  insights  of  the  case,  but  was  left  wondering  why  they  needed  lights  for  that.  And  why  they  didn’t  just  call.  Wrote  a  letter.  Informing  them  they  dropped  the  case  most  likely.  Which  wouldn’t  have  been  necessarily  the  worst  thing  to  happen,  considering  they  were  against  forces  the  law  knew  nothing  about.

With  knitted  brows  Zeev  turned  the  stove  down  proactively  and  watched  a  man  and  a  woman  in  uniforms  approach.  They  didn’t  look  very  delighted,  not  like  they  were  harbouring  good  news.  Zeev  felt  his  stomach  drop. 

The  bell  rang. 

To  not  look  like  he  actually  had  committed  some  crime  he  shook  himself  slightly,  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair  and  put  on  his  most  dashing  smile,  refined  during  his  modelling  years.  “Good  afternoon,  officers.  What’s  the  matter?”

“Mr.  Pines?”  the  man  said.  His  voice  was  deep  and  rough,  scratching  the  inside  of  his  ears  like  sandpaper. 

“That  I  am,”  Zeev  agreed.  The  woman  didn’t  look  at  him,  observed  the  area  behind  his  back,  eyes  scanning  the  hallway.  The  man  checked  a  file  in  his  hands,  brown  eyes  darting  up  and  down  as  if  trying  to  find  similarities  in  what  he  was  looking  at  and  the  man  in  front  of  him.

“You’re  Mr  Zeev  Pines?”  he  corrected.

“Yes,  I  am.  What  is  the  matter?”  the  witcher  repeated.  His  knuckles  turned  white  against  the  doorframe.

“Is  Mr  Isaiah  Pines  currently  available?”

Zeev  gradually  turned  upset.

“I’m  not  giving  out  information  until  I  know  what’s  the  matter.”

“I’m  very  sorry,  Sir,  we  need  to  talk  to  your  husband  only.”

“You’re  talking  to  me  now,  though.  If  it’s  about  him,  it  is  about  me,  too.”

The  female  officer  clicked  her  tongue,  her  hand  resting  against  her  belt,  way  too  close  towards  her  service  weapon.  Zeev  couldn’t  help  but  curl  his  lips  distastefully  for  a  fleeting  second.  “Listen,  Sir,  you’re  disrupting  active  investigations  and  we  ask  you  to  give  information  about  Mr  Pines  whereabouts,  otherwise  we’ll  be  forced  to  approach  this  differently.”

“Are  you  threatening  me?” Zeev  raised  his  eyebrows,  drawing  the  door  closer,  ready  to  shut  it  on  a  whim.  Unfortunately,  that  much  he  knew  about  himself,  he  wouldn’t  be  able  to  defend  himself  against  two  officers.

“No,  I’m  informing  you,”  she  continued,  her  eyes  speaking  of  boredom  almost.  “We’ll  have  a  warrant,  obstruction  of  justice  is  a  crime,  Mr  Pines.”

“And  not  telling  me  what  this  is  all  about  is  anything  better?”

Zeev’s  glance  darted  down  as  one  of  the  officers  moved  closer  to  the  doorframe,  but  hesitated.  As  if  held  back  by  forces  he  couldn’t  quite  grasp.  Zeev  exhaled  for  two  reasons. 

One,  the  protection  spell  seemed  to  work.  They  wouldn’t  get  into  the  house  without  their  permission.

Secondly, the  protection  spell  seemed  to  work. They  were  here  to  harm,  one  way  or  another.

When  suddenly  he  felt  a  hand  on  his  back  and  Isaiah’s  attentive,  wakeful  blue  eyes  transfixed  on  the  law  enforcers,  he  grew  much  aware  of  the  tension  growing  between  the  four  of  them.  Like  a  balloon  ready  to  burst. 

The  male  officer  straightened  his  back,  inhaled  deeply,  checked  his  files  for  a  second  again  just  to  be  one  hundred  percent  sure  and  then  filled  them  both  in  on  what  Zeev  had  been  trying  to  get  to  know  for  minutes  now:  “Mr  Isaiah  Pines,  you  are  under  arrest  for  the  suspicion  of  murder.  You  have  the  right  to  remain  silent.  Anything  you  say  can  and  will  be  used  against  you  in  a  court  of  law.”

Zeev’s  blood  ran  cold.  “That  is  ridiculous.”

“Sir,  there’s  nothing  ridiculous  about  murder.”

“You  know  exactly  what  I  meant, Officer.”  His  eyes  were  narrowed,  but  he  didn’t  move  and  he  kept  covering  half  of  Isaiah’s  body  while  remaining  in  the  doorframe.  “Who?”

“Excuse  me,  Sir?”

“Who  did  he  supposedly  murder?”  Zeev  pressed.  His  grip  around  the  doorframe  tightened  further  and  he  had  to  grab  Isaiah’s  hand,  to  be  with  him  and  to  show  him  silent  support  as  well. He  felt  nauseous.  Dizzy.

And  even  before  the  man  opened  his  mouth  after  a  round  of  contemplation,  the  witcher  knew  what  he  was  about  to  say.

Elvira  Higgins

The  girl.

[hochmvt]

Miccosukee Road

[hochmvt]

[hochmvt]

Berlin was not necessarily at the top of Isaiah's list of travel destinations. Especially in November, the city was dull and gray. Only the yellow subway trains, some of which ran above ground (which Isaiah didn't quite understand given the name Untergrund Bahn), provided a pleasant contrast to the city's gloom. Berlin was still wet from the rain the night before, petrichor lingering in the air as Isaiah walked along the eaves through the side streets of Pankow. The podcast host wasn't here for the hip neighborhoods like Kreuzberg or Friedrichshain, the thriving techno scene or the fertile ground where individualists and free spirits found their place in the world. His object of desire lay just outside the city limits: The Beelitz-Heilstätten. A now dilapidated hospital complex in the middle of the pine forests south of the city. He was currently on a tour of Europe to air special episodes in the upcoming season of The Distorted Files that highlighted cases or events beyond the borders of the United States.

The Heilstätten, contrary to Berlin itself, had been on Isaiah's bucket list for years, and seeing and experiencing the capital of Germany was incidental, but still a welcome side effect. His research and Berlin itself, however, apparently had other plans and was meant to shift Isaiah's focus in a timely manner to another story—the kind of story that happened without anyone noticing, that was desperately tried to be drowned before it reached the surface in the first place—one that would take place far away from the grounds that carried tragedies of human history and historic buildings. Instead it had happened in a nondescript single-family home in Berlin's suburbs. 

   ⠀  ⠀   ⠀   Stories that Isaiah knew were often the most treacherous.

In addition to Petrichor, the air mixed with the smell of diesel. In all its glory, the city seemed contradictory, cold and warm, old and modern, all at the same time. Cranes and building sites dotted the city, glass towers rose up in the distance. It was cramped and he fiddled with his engagement ring more often than usual when he was waiting in line to order a coffee. Despite the cold season, Berlin was busy. Everyone was diligently pursuing their own endeavors, eye contact was rarely made and when Isaiah did meet someone's eye, he was confronted with the German stare and wondered each time if there was something on his face. At the same time, he suspected that the residents could just tell he wasn't from here. As he took the S1 to Wannsee, he wrote in his notebook:

Thirty buildings, abandoned in a forest, arranged as if an in-depth understanding of anatomy was missing. It was once a tuberculosis hospital and later a Nazi military ward. After the war had ended, it was a Soviet rehab center, that now is an abandoned testament of time and the horrors that happened within these crumbling walls.

He paused, flicking back to the notes he had made the previous evening, where he had sat under the warm white light of the kitchen lamp in his AirBnb in Pankow and researched online. A voice interrupted his flow of thoughts. “Entschuldigen Sie, aber ich find’s so schön wenn junge Menschen noch handschriftlich in Notizbücher schreiben und nicht immer nur in ihre Handys starren und daddeln”, a woman he assumed to be in her late sixties or early seventies told him. “Uhh... Sorry, I don't speak any German. Except for Danke and Schrippen.” She laughed and apologized, repeating what she had said again in English and apologizing for her “bad English”. Isaiah furrowed his eyebrows and told her that he understood her well and thus, her English couldn't be that bad. He had the feeling that Germans were like that: Always saying their English was terrible, but in the end their communication skills were flawless, the pronunciation perhaps a little choppy, which neither bothered nor irritated Isaiah. After all, he was visiting a country where he didn't speak the language.

He had talked to Gerda for quite some time, told her about what he did for a living and, of course, what he was researching here in Berlin and to what extent he wanted to incorporate the material into the podcast. It would be tasteless to make something up, he assured her, the things that had happened in these halls were unspeakable and horror didn't have to be made up there. He wouldn't use it as a basis either, but rather recall it. To contribute to the culture of remembrance. She liked that. Isaiah was well aware that the concept behind The Distorted Files could have been misinterpreted. That it sounded strangely conspiratorial at times, and Isaiah assured her that it was primarily for entertainment (sure), but that he liked the idea of having it take place in real locations and putting it in a real context. Like a scavenger hunt or an ARG for the audience (because who would believe him, if he had told people he actually had met shadow figures).

“If you are into mysterious cases and things left behind... there was a family that went missing not long ago. Two adults, two children. Like three to four years ago. Not far from Pankow, further up north in Rüdnitz... No news coverage. No police investigation, or, well, not really. But someone cleaned the house like something had died inside... My sister-in-law told me about it,” she told him and Isaiah furrowed his eyebrows slightly before making a note of what she said. “Do you know their name?” he asked, looking at her again. She shook her head, trying to remember, but couldn't. “But I'll write down the address for you.” Isaiah held the pen out to her and smiled as she wrote down an address for him. “Ach Scheiße, wir sind schon Botanischer Garten?! I have to get out here, I'm sorry. But it was a pleasure getting to know you, Isaiah. And good luck with your episode!”

Isaiah researched as he usually did. Social media, old newspaper articles, local forums, obituaries, property records. But he found nothing. Even in the purchase history, he found no reference to a family that was supposed to have lived there. This house northwest of Rüdnitz had been empty since 1958. Had Gerda taken him for a fool? Two hours after starting his research, he came across a note from a utility shut-off that actually matched the family's disappearance. And he came across a biohazard cleanup permit that had been approved around 9:42AM and withdrawn at 11:13AM. He remembered Gerda telling him that this place had been cleaned up as if something had died there. Of course, there was a possibility that someone else had died there, but there would be news coverage, if it was about a family being slaughtered. A “coincidence” Isaiah didn't want to believe in. The podcast host compared the badge number of the police officer who had cleared the permit. A man who had died in 2018. Hm. It was paid in cash. So, no tracing through money flow. Isaiah tried to decipher the name of the signature. The initial was T, the surname began with M. He would have preferred a signature in block letters.

T. Mazurek was a crime scene cleaner and had probably taken on the disappearance case at the time. Her apartment was a little further away, just under 30 minutes, even though all the Berliners always said it was no more than a stone's throw. That was probably just the way it was in big cities. He had passed Kiosks and Spätis, bought a Spezi on the way and tried to learn the word Tatortreiniger. “Hallo Frau Mazurek, bist du ein Tatortreiniger?” he repeated to himself a few times, cursing the German language for the difficult pronunciation.

Teodozja was her first name, he had learned. He had laboriously tried to speak German. “Hallo, mein Name ist Isaiah Pines und bist du ein Tatortreiniger?”—and a little later they had switched to English. That saved Isaiah a lot of embarrassingly fumbling around. So he had introduced himself to her properly: What his name was, that he did research and was something of a freelance journalist. Then, she seemed to recognize him and his work. She stood opposite him in the doorway of her apartment and scrutinized him. Teodozja was considerably shorter than him, but seemed to be streetwise and quite tough. Presumably a prerequisite for doing this job. Then he asked her if he could ask her a few questions.

“It's about a cleanup you did,” he continued, stroking his hair. “I know this isn't usual and... it was some time ago, the details are probably a little... blurry. I just wanted to check in with you if you remember anything. It was about this family in Rüdnitz, a little further up north of Berlin. This old house... They vanished. Not officially, that is, there ain't really public records or anything, but— they're just gone. My research led me to you and you handled the scene afterwards... I'm just trying to understand why. I can't find anything online and it truly— it just seems to me like someone is trying to make everyone believe they never existed in the first place.” He stroked his hair and scrutinized her. “I know your job isn't about asking questions, a lot about this doesn't really add up and I just wanted to ask if you remember anything that struck you as off that day. Small things... Maybe things that didn't make sense... Anything, really.”

STARTER CALL [ACCEPTING] FEAT. @hochmvt

          "OH,   YOU ARE THE GUY FROM THAT   .  .  .   THING———"          now would it not be easier if teodozja was more ingrained in pop culture?   unfortunately,   her nightly routine of skipping through netflix for an hour only to give up after an hour  &  end up with the same polish daily soaps she has watched since childhood is not supportive of this endeavor.   nobody can be perfect  &  still this one feels vaguely familiar,   even to her.   less so by face,   he looks the same as every other blond guy around their age———————     though if she way to close her eyes,   she feels like she is inching closer to the truth.   though none of this is part of her job   .  .  .   &  generally,   if she is the one who is sought out,   introductions should be in order rather than teodozja having to play a guessing game.     (NO ONE ASKED HER TO:     IN FACT,   YOU INTERRUPTED HIM BEFORE HER GOT THE CHANCE.)     &  just before she gets the chance to offer pointless complaints,   something in the back of her mind clicks into place.   perhaps it is her memory not failing after all,   perhaps it is the way the man breathes that she has heard time  &  again.     "from that podcast!   hah,   i knew i have heard you talk before."     grinning,   now satisfied,   she sighs contentedly.   never mind that there is a singular reason for a stranger to visit her————     &  that her job is just a tad on the illegal side.   enough for anxiety to swallow any sort of glee.   but alas,   teodozja never had the patience to be too nervous about where her job is concerned   .  .  .   that's why she is so good at it.     "to what do i owe this honor?"

[hochmvt]

guess who's down bad with the flu, you guys 🙋🏼‍♂️️

i can't really concentrate on anything, hence my little mini hiatus will be extended until i'm back to full health again. i'm sorry to everyone that keeps waiting, i hope i'll be back asap. sending y'all much love! <3

[hochmvt]

my loves !

the past few weeks haven't been exactly the best™, i wasn't in a good mental state to begin with and work became a lot, which is why i was neither online here nor did get a chance to write anything really. i will be busy until the end of the week and be back on monday and hope to get some writing done then. i am so sorry for everyone waiting, thank you so much to the fantastic new moots who wrote starters and all those who answered already existing threads. i will get to you asap, i loved everything!

sending you guys the biggest hug and lots of strawberry cake. x

[hochmvt]

Boyd at the Prada Men's Store opening on Fifth Avenue on May 01, 2025 in New York City

He is sooo handsome! Love him! ❤️

via Prada’s official FB snd IG

[hochmvt]

𝐒  𝐎  𝐍  𝐍  𝐄  𝐍  𝐑  𝐄  𝐈  𝐂  𝐇  .  .  .  🜂   🜃   an  independent,  selective  and  original  single  muse  of  the  witch  in  the  woods,  𝖟𝖊𝖊𝖛   𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖊   𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖑𝖊.  |  adored  and  bewitched  by  𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔶,  21+,  she /  her,  check  carrd  for  rules  !  a  very  descriptive  writer  looking  for  long  term  stories. ✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

[hochmvt]

“Octavia, would you mind waiting in the diner over there? I wanna ask you some questions, but... I need some time, okay? Just order whatever,” he spoke calmly to the redhead and thanked her as she nodded. Then silence fell and Isaiah looked back at Zeev and the longer he looked at him, the more his heart felt like it was breaking. The silence didn't convey the feeling of the calm before the storm, but instead the silence that followed—when everything lay in ruins and the fallen tree trunks and debris had buried everything that was dear and sacred. From the look on Zeev's face he had caught a glimpse of from a a few feet away, he could see that his rash decision and blindly following a base instinct had irrevocably damaged something very fragile and delicate. Not on purpose or out of malice—he could never do that to the Sundawner, and Isaiah just hoped Zeev was aware of that—but even curiosity or upright kindness could hurt if one wasn't careful. His look wasn't reproachful, that might have made it easier. There was disappointment, hurt and seeking in his gaze: as if he was searching for his boyfriend in the outer shell of Isaiah. Knowing that he himself was the reason was what hurt the most. Guilt coated every remote corner of his insides and even though he felt that last night's experience was special and unique, at that moment he wanted nothing more than to turn back time and undo everything that had happened. 

Zeev's every word hurt. Not because Isaiah felt wronged, but because every one of them was true. They weren't necessarily Isaiah's truth, because in no reality in this world would he put anything above Zeev, above his safety, his care, his love. Zeev was everything and so much more that Isaiah had dreamed of in his life, and most days it still felt more than surreal that he was dating the current millennium's grand prize. Zeev's words settled on Isaiah's skin like fine snowflakes, making him shiver more and more until they eventually turned to frostbite. It didn't matter if the words were the truth, his truth, or not: Zeev spoke what he felt and Isaiah knew that demanded a lot from the witcher. He would never negate his feelings or his perceptions, especially not when they were as fragile and fresh as they were now. It wasn't about rationality or irrationality, but about Isaiah wanting to create a space for him in which he could unfold and speak his mind. And where he could also let himself go when his heart was heavy. Even if Isaiah himself was the trigger.

He cautiously took a step towards him. Zeev was not startled, but his arms tightened slightly. Isaiah's peace offering to gently reach for the other's hand died before the thought was felt to completion. And at the same time, he greatly was respectful of Zeev not seeking physical contact at the moment. Isaiah stopped in place, kneading his hands a little and shifting his weight slightly. The wooden floor creaked slightly beneath him. And Isaiah did not interrupt Zeev as he spoke, his gaze remaining on him the entire time, giving him his undivided attention, no matter what shadowy figures were hiding elsewhere. If Sebastian lay bleeding in front of him now, writhing in pain, he would presumably still only have eyes for his boyfriend. Isaiah was aware of the other man's fear of loss and he knew that it was primarily what spoke to him. That was why it was essential to see Zeev's feelings, his anger and his pain for exactly what they were: Important. Real. And they had every right to exist. You could see it in the other's trembling hands and reddened eyes, in how the lump in his throat was so big that he sometimes choked on his own words. How much he would have liked to just give him a hug.

But Zeev took the step first and Isaiah wrapped his arms gently around the other man's waist without speaking, without giving him a long explanation or an apology that would never do justice to what he actually felt or put the situation and what had happened in any particular light anyway. “I'm sorry, my love,” he whispered eventually into the silence between them and gently stroked the other's back, kissing his cheek and running his fingers through the blonde, slightly disheveled strands again and again. “I love you, more than anything... I am with you, this is the two of us, I'm so sorry, my love,” he spoke softly, merely holding the Sundawner and gently stroking his hair. “I got too caught up, my mind leapt and before I knew I was moving. That wasn't fair to you, that's not how this is supposed to be. I will do better, you will always be my priority. You will always be what I care most about. You will always be everything that my life revolves around.” And as Isaiah spoke, his arms tightened around him. His embrace was the real apology.

Carefully, at some point, he had lifted Zeev up wordlessly—and quite effortlessly, despite his tiredness and exhausted limbs, as if their own little microcosm in which they moved had a gravity of its own—and they had gone back to the motel room. Shortly after he had laid Zeev down on the bed and lay with him, he had taken him in his arms again, caressed his forehead, his nose and his cheeks, kissed away the tears. This is how it should always be, he told the other wordlessly through his gestures, this is where you belong, my darling. With me. With me. I'm sorry. They just lay quietly next to each other, in between Zeev had let himself fall and just stayed close to him, as if he had repeatedly reassured himself that Isaiah was back with him. “I will always come back to you, Zeev. I will never abandon you. You are the love of my life,” he spoke softly against the other's lips and stroked his hair, still holding him like the calm sea was no longer aware of its tides, steady and unwavering. To Zeev he would always offer a gentle sea.

Softly, he kissed the other's neck as he closed his eyes and breathed in the other's scent. Isaiah still didn't explain himself. Did not defend himself. Didn't talk about his feelings of guilt or the inexplicable inner urge that made him run blindly. He held Zeev for a long time, pressed his lips gently against the crook of his neck and breathed him in like home. Because that's what he was. In this moment of silence and intimacy that never needed words to begin with, he let the shame and sorrow settle like fine dust glimmering in the sunlight of the unfamiliar motel room, unbrushed and eventually untouched. And in that silence, he whispered promises against the Sundawner's skin, not in speech but in presence: You won't have to chase me anymore. If I'll ever get lost, I'll take you with me. No more empty beds, no more vacant mornings. I choose you. Every time. In every life. Even when I forget, you will always linger on my mind.

And while Zeev eventually fell asleep in his arms, utterly tired and exhausted, Isaiah simply stayed close to him, listening to the steady, slow breathing rhythm of the man he loved most in this world and he became painfully aware that the most exciting thing he had ever sought in his life was resting in his arms. And for today and all the days that followed, all of this would be enough. While Zeev rested, Isaiah had lain awake for a long time, finding respite and rest from the feeling that he was lying here with his boyfriend, who he already knew would eventually ask him to be his husband, and yet the emotions raged within him as the silence of the room gave him more space to be alone with the feeling of his guilt.

Every breath Zeev took reminded Isaiah of another second he had to go on living with himself and what he'd done, and his limbs went numb and the cuts on his legs ached, but he just lay still with Zeev as a sign that he was there, a sign he wouldn't leave another time.

The podcast host had to reckon with the way he made someone he loved feel like an afterthought, even if he never meant to. That was the worst part. He hadn't meant to. None of it had been calculated. He hadn't weighed the options and chosen to leave Zeev behind. His brain just... moved like it always had. A flicker of something strange in the woods—and then he was gone. Gone the same way he used to be as a kid, when his classmates were playing tag and he was chasing shadows instead, especially after Carter had disappeared. Gone like he'd always been, only now there was someone waiting for him, someone who loved him enough to notice the empty space he left behind. And Isaiah hated himself for who he was. For the way his brain was wired and how he always seemed to fall out of place.

What if eventually, Zeev would realize that Isaiah was wired too differently to be loved? That he was too reckless to wait for? And that he would be a waste of time: That it was the idea of him that Zeev had fallen in love with and not what all of that entailed? The restlessness. The urges he succumbed to when it came to the unexplainable. The mess he left wherever he went. As his gaze wandered through the room, he noticed how Zeev's clothes were folded neatly and Isaiah's were scattered, his shoes were kicked off carelessly, while Zeev's were neatly next to the door. Would he, like the other people he dated before, realize that he was too much to handle to fight and fight and fight and at one point, one fight would result in ending things? Was holding onto what he always dreamed of in his life be good for him, if it'd result in heartbreak too great to live through? Would he eventually end up alone, as he had always predicted it himself?

He carefully stroked the other's chest, smiled faintly and felt his heartbeat on his palm, his fingertips brushed the delicate chain hanging around his neck and he closed his eyes. Beneath his fingers stretched everything he never thought he had. And something about that felt frightening. Not Zeev, but that Isaiah himself held the power of destroying all this with his nonsense and absent-mindedness eventually. There were so many things he still had to unlearn. But now, as he lay there holding the man who had every reason to walk away, Isaiah felt the full, unrelenting weight of what it meant to be seen—and thus, the responsibility that came with being loved in return. In that quiet, however, he also made a decision. He gently kissed the other's lips, wiped his own tears from his cheeks and whispered soft apologies against the other's warm skin, then embraced him again and quietly promised that he would be with him again and again. Show up. Again and again and again. Even when his thoughts begged him to chase something. Even when he felt the familiar feeling in his chest: He. Would. Stay. He would look back, reach out for Zeev's hand, holding it tight, just to make sure he'd never leave without him knowing.

As he lay there, he pondered about how to fix what had happened and as he came to no conclusion, he made a promise to himself that he wouldn't let it happen again, hoping that, if he could manage that (and if he learned to unlearn all the things he hated himself for and, most importantly, to think before he acted upon his impulses and vanishing into the night), Zeev would keep choosing him, too.

By mid-afternoon, Zeev had woken up again, the sun was high in the sky and it's light fell through the windows. The Sundawner had taken care of the scrapes and scratches, though Isaiah had emphasized several times that he didn't have to do all that, but Zeev had simply insisted. So Isaiah had kept still and not made a sound as his boyfriend patched him up, repeatedly stroking his hair and thanking him. Quietly, he had leaned forward, kissed the witcher gently and stroked his cheek with his thumb, looking at him with all the love he felt for him.

It was strange to think about Octavia first meeting him in boxer shorts and then meeting him in jeans. As they joined her, he politely introduced the two of them: “Octavia, this is Zeev, my boyfriend. We're currently investigating a case around here... Zeev, this is Octavia, she, uh— found me in the woods, when— Last n—" He got hung up on the N several times and decided to end the sentence there. As Octavia introduced herself to Zeev, Isaiah kneaded his hands lightly and watched them interact, before offering Zeev his seat and sitting down next to him. He placed his hand on the other's thigh, kissed his cheek and ordered food a little later, inviting Octavia to do the same again and ordering a milkshake for himself and hot water for Zeev, taking the infuser with the tea blend for him out of his jacket pocket and handing it over to him.

While they waited for the food, as well as during early dinner itself, they talked about everything and nothing at first, until Isaiah and Octavia finally filled Zeev in on what had happened the night before. Isaiah had already finished his burger and was eating his fries with one hand while stroking Zeev's thigh with the other, glancing back and forth between the two of them as they talked. At one point, he took his notebook out of his pocket and drew a rough sketch so that Zeev could visualize what he had seen. Octavia reported first and foremost, also describing her view of things, what she had experienced up to that point. Isaiah kept quiet for the most time, because the guilt of everything that happened had made it hard to talk.

As he licked a bit of burger sauce off his thumb, he leaned back, thinking and crossing his legs. “That... entity that I saw, the one in the woods last night... You've ever seen something like that? You've been chasing it, I assume? Considering you camped out there,” he finally spoke to her and she stopped chewing in the middle of her bite and looked at him. Then she nodded. “I've heard about it, but I've never seen it... But I have no idea what it is, I don't think it's malevolent, but it's not indifferent either. It cares, I think.” Isaiah tilted his head sideways. “What do you mean?” he asked, eating some more fries. “Well, I think the better question is why it showed you. Deities like that... don't just wander into motel parking lots. And they don't usually let people walk away unchanged.” Isaiah chewed on the inside of his cheek and looked over at Zeev. “Do you notice anything different about me?” he finally asked. Zeev looked at him and shook his head.

Silently, he looked at his skin and still felt the touch of this being, as if he were standing in the sun and his arm was being warmed. It was as if something had taken root inside him, just waiting to blossom. And until then, he hadn't given a thought to Sebastian. He had thought about Octavia and that he liked her, but first and foremost only about Zeev. Zeev in his arms, Zeev in bed with him, Zeev, Zeev, Zeev.

The small bell above the front door of the adjoining diner rang and the sweltering heat of Montana was brought in with the opened door. Heat that the air conditioning had probably been desperately trying to fight for days. Isaiah hadn't looked up immediately, but was still chuckling at Zeev's remark, leaning over and kissing his shoulder, which Octavia had taken a picture of. A beautiful photo for sure. But as the American leaned back again, his gaze went briefly towards the door and eventually lingered on Sebastian. Or rather, what was stuck on him. Not behind him, but on him. Absentmindedly, he took his hand from his boyfriend's thigh as he eyed the figure that clung to Sebastian's shoulders like tar, shadows bleeding beyond his silhouette and fading into nothingness. It had no clear shape, no face, but Isaiah sensed it had one, the way the figure's eyes lingered briefly in space and then back on Sebastian.

Even after he blinked, it was still there. “Zeev,” he murmured softly as his gaze continued to linger on Sebastian. “Do you see that?” The witcher glanced towards Sebastian, gently stroking the podcast host's thigh and then his forehead, feeling the temperature. Octavia had tilted her head slightly to the side. “I see a guy in desperate need of moisturizer, but to call him an 'It' because of that... I thought differently of you, Isaiah. Is that this Sebastian man?” she asked and Isaiah looked at Zeev. “What do you see?” the Sundawner asked quietly, cupping the other's face, his thumb stroking his cheek, and Isaiah looked around again, back at Sebastian. And again to that creature.

“There's something clinging to him, literally... Not like a metaphor. Like a shadow, a... thing, I don't know, I've never seen anything like it before,” he spoke as his gaze returned to Sebastian and his unwelcome companion. “It's— It looks like it's feeding on him.” Octavia turned to Sebastian as well. “Feeding on what though?” she asked. “I don't know... On guilt? Or pain or... I don't know? I— It doesn't look like it's possessing him... Maybe it followed. I think something happened, something he hasn't told us and— And whatever this thing is... it's not allowing him to forget. He—” He didn't seem to notice it either. Their eyes met briefly, Sebastian gave him a fleeting smile and then ordered.

“And you can see it?” Zeev asked concerned and slid a little closer to his boyfriend, taking the blonde's hand in his own. Isaiah gripped it tighter, the more time passed, the colder he felt. This creature moved on him, as if it was born of the land, not shaped by it. The American nodded silently and as he stared, the creature seemed to shift. It was not a parasite, not a ghost, not a classic shapeshifter. It was a creature of grief and terror and rage, molded by centuries of trespassing and overstepping boundaries, nature willfully and unmistakingly set.

As it crawled off Sebastian's shoulders, it looked almost like a deer. The long legs were bent peculiarly, the ribs clearly visible, as if this day had been preceded by a long period of starvation. Even the fur looked out of place, in large parts one could see sinews of light underneath, covered by oil and soil. His gaze wandered to the antlers, twisted like burned roots, clasped with barbed wires and pieces of metal Isaiah couldn't determine the origin of, that cut into the wood, it's carving making the roots below bleed black blood. Isaiah gulped, realizing that it seemed like it had risen from an old, violated forest, reclaiming the wreckage left behind. And yet, it moved without making a sound.

The deer-spirit now stared at him. But Isaiah didn't feel in danger, something about the gaze (if one could call it like that) said that all was well, and yet he had the urge to flee. That, however, never really left when confronted with something you never experienced before. He pressed himself more against Zeev, sliding further over to him on the bench, scrutinizing the elongated face of what was in front of him. In this enclosed space, Isaiah felt a gentle breeze as this being in front of him “breathed” and looked at him silently. For seconds that felt like hours, it stood before him, scrutinizing him as if it were making up its mind.  Then, as though he were no threat—no foe—it retracted until it reached Sebastian once more.

There, it crawled onto his shoulders again and embraced the man by shifting shape once more. A strange hug, in a way. Isaiah exhaled shakily and took a napkin before attempting to draw on it with a ballpoint pen. They both had to see it: the skeletal legs, the ribs covered only by skin and not muscle tissue or flesh, and those twisted antlers, overgrown and crowned with crimson and decay. It looked more monster than animal, even though Isaiah despised the word. 

And yet there was something regal about it. As Isaiah looked up at it again, it had its own touch of tragedy to it. The tired, slow, exhausted movements. It needed rest. It didn't feed on Sebastian, it longed for rest. For peace. Isaiah furrowed his eyebrows compassionately and pushed the napkin away, sharing his thoughts with the others and feeling his heart grow heavy, even if he was only interpreting. His interpretation had given the creature a face, and regardless of whether it turned out to be true or a lie, the podcast host had fallen for a narrative that now expressed itself in empathy. He chewed the inside of his cheek and leaned against Zeev's shoulder, loosening his grip on his hand and apologizing quietly. “Have you ever seen or heard of anything like this?”

Ever  since  Zeev  knew  what  it  was  like  to  wake  up  in  his  personal  home,  where  everything  was  to  some  extent  his  own,  mornings  elsewhere  seemed  a  little  hazy.  Overnight  stays  in  hotels,  motels  and  holiday  flats  had  almost  become  a  ritual.  Apart  from  the  unfamiliar  smell  and  the  lack  of  personality  within  the  rooms,  which  were  so  bare  and  loveless  that  Zeev  often  considered  taking  personal  mementos  with  him  just  to  add  some  homeliness  to  the  room,  the  light  fell  differently.  Zeev  was  acutely  aware,  even  if  Isaiah  had  never  revealed  it,  that  he  always  sought  to  find  flats  that  faced  the  sun,  so  that  he  would  wake  up  with  the  sunrise  in  the  morning.  Nevertheless  it  would  always  be  different  from  home.  As  if  she  was  less  warm,  less  ambitious,  as  if  she  missed  him  someplace  else. 

Mornings  that  had  to  be  spent  without  the  sun—whether  because  of  bad  weather  or  the  change  of  seasons—were  only  half  as  bad  as  soon  as  he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  what  provided  him  with  sunlight  without  ever  seeing  the  sky.

But  there  was  no  trace  of  Isaiah.

Most  likely  he  had  gone  over  to  Sebastian,  if  he  judged  his  curiosity  correctly.  While  it  did  cause  Zeev  a  certain  amount  of  discomfort,  it  wasn't  as  if  Isaiah  had  gone  completely  off  the  deep  end.  He  might  be  a  little  overzealous  at  times,  but...  Zeev  stopped  that  train  of  thought,  knowing  full  well  that  whatever  came  next  was  unfortunately  not  unlikely. It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time  either.

Perhaps  he  was  just  outside  the  door,  dragging  on  one  of  the  few  cigarettes.  The  excitement  often  caused  his  mind  to  spin,  jumping  from  one  theory  and  hypothesis  to  the  next.  Logic  always  seemed  difficult  to  follow,  especially  in  the  face  of  the  supernatural,  which  could  certainly  push  even  a  mind  as  open  and  experienced  as  Isaiah's  to  its  limits.  However,  something  like  ‘it  simple  is’  was  not  an  answer  he  accepted  and  it  was  a  quality  Zeev  valued  greatly. Finding  understanding  of  the  world  around  him  not  only  made  him  insanely  attractive  in  the  witcher's  eyes,  but  also  the  greatest  inspiration.  Nevertheless,  as  of  right  now,  Zeev  was  lying  alone  in  bed  and  that  clouded  his  morning  immensely. 

Frowning,  his  gaze  flew  over  to  the  table  on  which  Isaiah's  laptop  was  propped  open.  The  small  light  implied  that  it  was  in  standby  mode.  Zeev  remembered  Isaiah  switching  it  off  and  closing  it  when  they  had  gone  to  bed.  That  wasn't  a  cause  for  alarm  per  se  since  Zeev  had  expected  Isaiah  not  to  enjoy  a  restful  night's  sleep,  but  something  in  Zeev's  inherent  sense  of  foreboding  announced  itself  with  unsettling  precision. 

His  gaze  travelled  around  the  room,  searching  for  his  lover's  tangled  head,  but  found  only  a  dreary  wasteland.  The  motel  room  had  already  been  unappealing  in  its  colour  scheme,  with  its  old-fashioned  beige  walls  and  patterns  resembling  something  of  a  senior  citizen's  living  room; without  the  bright  splash  of  colour  Isaiah's  life  reflected,  everything  seemed  even  stranger  than  it  already  was. 

Less  gracefully  than  he  was  used  to,  he  slipped  out  of  bed,  out  of  his  pajamas  and  into  his  clothes,  slipped  on  his  shoes  and,  before  he  had  even  glanced  in  the  mirror,  opened  the  motel  room  door.  And  saw...  nothing.

At  least  not  what  he  wanted  to  see.  No  bent  back  that  he  would  have  loved  to  run  his  hands  over  and  feel  the  muscles  tense  with  surprise  beneath  them,  no  body  that  would  have  turned  towards  and  towered  over  him, no  smile  that  greeted  him  and,  despite  the  tiredness  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  would  have  been  hard  to  beat  in  terms  of  beauty  and  honesty. 

Instead,  he  was  alone.

Frowning,  he  walked  over  to  Sebastian's  flat;  admittedly,  he  was  awake  very  early.  Isaiah  usually  slept  well  past  dawn.  When  something  was  bothering  him,  however,  sleep  was  a  difficult  endeavour.  Whether  Sebastian  was  a  morning  person,  slept  at  all  (which  Zeev  highly  doubted)  or  was  currently  knocked  out  didn’t  matter  to  the  witcher.

Nevertheless,  he  knocked  very  lightly  on  the  door  and  listened.  There  was  such  a  sudden  and  loud  rumbling  inside  that  Zeev  pulled  his  head  back  and  pushed  the  door  open  in  a  leaping  action.  The  entire  room  was  trashed,  mirrors  had  been  smashed,  there  were  notes  on  the  floor  and  they  were  all  written  with  the  same  onomatopoeic  phrase: Clap  Clap.

Zeev  couldn't  say  what  had  caused  the  noise,  as  the  devastation  was  too  extensive.  It  could  have  been  literally  anything.  The  blonde  didn't  bother  asking  if  everything  was  okay.  Sebastian  stared  at  him  from  the  ground,  his  eyes  dark  with  fatigue.  Reddened  from  overexertion  and  lack  of  sleep. 

It  was  difficult  to  explain  the  unease  Zeev  felt  towards  him.  After  all,  the  young  man  was  just  a  victim  of  circumstances.  And  yet  Zeev  couldn't  help  but  see  something  in  him  that  was  tantamount  to  a  threat. Like  a  scapegoat. 

So  Zeev  asked  the  only  thing  that  interested  him:  “Where's  Isaiah?”

Sebastian  looked  at  him  from  his  crouching  position,  making  him  appear  somewhat  like  a  guilty  child,  and  shook  his  head.  That  brief  gesture  was  enough  to  send  heat  sliding  through  every  cell  in  Zeev's  body,  heating  him  up  like  the  sun.  From  the  soles  of  his  feet  to  the  top  of  his  skull.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  offer  his  help  to  the  battered  man,  only  his  puny  state  was  never  on  par  with  anything  that  concerned  Isaiah. He  was  his  priority,  in  all  matters. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Zeev  remembered  the  existence  of  his  smartphone,  which  he  simultaneously  snatched  from  the  table  in  his  motel  room  upon  returning  and  unlocked.  Even  before  Zeev  read  the  messages,  he  realised  the  time  they  had  been  sent. 

Then  his  eyes  scanned  every  word,  causing  his  heart  to  rattle  and  shake  within  the  narrowing  cage  of  growing  sorrow.

 I'm  safe Don't  worry  about  me Chasing  friendly  giant I'll  be  back  soon,  please  meet  up  with  Sebastian  at  9 Or  was  it  10 Don't  worry  about  me  please I  promise  you  I'm  safe I  love  you More  than  strawberry  cake

 None  of  this  made  him  stop  worrying.  Fundamentally,  while  he  was  pleased  that  he'd  apparently  thought  of  him  to  fill  him  in  on  his  disappearance,  it  also  meant  that  he'd  willingly  left  him  behind.  He  had  felt  enough  guilt  to  come  forward  in  some  way—and  that  seemed  to  be  the  end  of  the  matter  for  Isaiah.

For  Zeev,  it  revealed  only  one  thing.

He  didn't  know  what  exactly  had  brought  tears  to  his  eyes.  Probably  a  combination  of  all  the  current  facts  swarming  his  blonde  head.  And  every  message  he  sent  him  wasn't  delivered—and  although  that  shouldn't  surprise  him,  it  tore  at  the  last  remnants  of  his  heart.

Where  are  you? Please  send  me  your  location Isaiah  come  back Pleadje wheje  are  u I  thought  we  re  dougk  thisbtogegher u  coulkd  have  wolen  ne  up

 There  were  hobbies  that  weren't  worth  the  effort.  Be  it  because  of  a  lack  of  recognition  or  ultimately  rather  mediocre  results  that  didn't  stand  out  in  the  crowd.  Octavia  thought  less  about  either  as  she  lay  on  the  sleeping  mat  and  dug  her  chin  into  the  palm  of  her  hand.  She  alternately  tapped  her  pink  nails  against  her  round  cheek  and  sometimes  lightly  scratched  at  blemishes  until  she  remembered  that  it  would  only  make  things  worse. 

For  weeks  now,  she  had  been  trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  was  supposedly  roaming  the  nearby  woods.  There  had  been  talk  of  strange  natural  phenomena,  which  she  had  read  about  in  various  forums.  Hikers  and  campers—especially  those  who  wandered  through  the  woods  to  find  mushrooms  and  other  delicacies—had  spoken  of  strangely  widespread  occurrences  of  plants  and  fungi  that  shouldn't  actually  exist  in  this  region.  There  had  also  been  talk  of  a  strong  presence,  which  among  spiritualists  could  mean  anything,  but  Octavia  wasn't  too  picky.  She  wasn't  necessarily  dependent  on  finding  fantastic  material  for  her  Reddit  and  her  blog,  but  she  was  still  eager  to  finally  have  something  to  show  off  again.  Even  if  she  was  the  only  one  gazing  at  it  at  the  end  of  the  day. 

Suddenly  she  noticed  the  change  in  the  air.  It  was  as  if  she  was  breathing  in  fresh  oxygen  for  the  first  time,  while  everything  else  had  fallen  victim  to  air  pollution.  The  smell  of  freshly  mown  grass  wafted  around  her  nose,  she  tasted  the  warm  humidity  of  a  thunderstorm  in  the  hottest  summer  and  she  smelled  the  lilies  that  her  former  neighbour  had  owned  when  she  had  lived  in  Springfield.  Something  moved  into  the  clearing  and  the  trees  gave  way.  The  presence  made  room  for  itself  on  an  earthly  plane  that  didn't  really  have  enough  space  left  to  offer.  Nevertheless,  it  pushed  its  way  in,  which  may  explain  the  sluggishness.  As  if  the  creature  was  wading  through  deep,  heavy  bog  water.  No  matter  where  it  stepped,  it  seemed  to  wake  the  earth. 

The  sight  alone  was  breathtaking,  and  when  the  creature  itself  began  to  literally  bloom,  it  filled  Octavia  with  an  abundance  of  joy  and  gratitude  that  brought  tears  to  her  eyes. She  could  hardly  describe  the  variety  of  her  emotions,  they  were  simply  so  vibrant  and  evocative. 

She  was  glad  to  have  switched  to  Kodak  Portra,  for  this  beauty—even  if  she  couldn't  possibly  capture  it—had  to  be  brought  to  life  in  all  its  compositions.  She  wished  the  smell  was  one  of  them.  Just  as  she  set  up  her  Minolta  and  positioned  it  on  the  tripod  so  as  not  to  shake,  checking  the  flash  once  more,  she  saw  another  figure  emerging  into  the  clearing.  A  scantily  clad  young  man  stumbled  out  of  the  undergrowth  and  approached  the  entity  with  a  composure  she  could  not  have  mustered. He  also  ruined  her  picture. 

That  really  was  her  luck,  wasn't  it?  She  had  spent  hours  waiting  and  then,  when  she  finally  met  a  legitimate  nature  spirit,  a  human  had  to  force  his  way  into  her  image. And  then  he  wasn't  even  wearing  trousers.

Octavia  would  not  give  up,  however,  and  decided  to  capture  the  moment,  even  if  the  experience  was  unlike  anything  else.

Testingly,  she  raised  a  hand  and  covered  her  pale  left  eye.  As  if  whitened  by  the  unlimited  sunlight

The  creature  seemed  to  have  disappeared,  leaving  behind  a  vague  silhouette  framed  by  mushrooms,  branches  and  mire.   As  if  it  had  put  together  a  garment  from  various  parts  of  the  forest,  worn  with  pride. 

Slowly,  her  hand  sank  again  and  she  smiled  at  the  creature  as  it  moved  leisurely  away,  disappearing  swaying  between  the  tall  trees  that  welcomed  it  like  a  warm  home  after  a  long  journey. 

The  excitement  died  down,  leaving  behind  the  freshness  of  the  night  and  the  shallow  wind—as  well  as  the  stranger  in  the  field.  She  carefully  packed  up  her  things  and  approached  slowly,  without  drawing  attention  to  herself  directly.  Firstly,  she  wanted  to  assess  the  stranger's  mental  state. 

She  might  have  been  the  one  sitting  in  the  cold  for  hours  with  the  suspicion  that  something  supernatural  might  be  happening, but  he  was  still  a  man  in  the  woods. 

The  closer  she  got,  the  more  the  redhead  began  to  suspect  that  she  knew  him.  Admittedly,  she  didn't  know  many  people  to  make  such  a  claim,  and  yet  the  sight  of  him  evoked  something  familiar  in  her.

And  then  her  green  round  eyes  widened.

Of  all  the  mythical  creatures  she  had  expected  to  see  tonight,  spotting  Isaiah  Pines—host  of  the  very  successful  podcast  The  Distorted  Files,  showing  off  tender  calves  pale  enough  to  reflect  the  moonlight  and  having  potentially  ruined  her  pictures  with  overexposure—hadn't  been  one  of  those.  Still,  that  was  the  joy  of  spending  hours  upon  hours  on  caffeine  and  listening  to  The  Waterboys  without  end. 

Fate,  if  there  was  such  a  thing,  held  many  surprises.  Sometimes  they  came  in  the  shape  of  a  tall  blond  man  who  she  listened  to  frequently  when  waiting  for  perfect  opportunities.. 

She  chuckled  over  herself.  Seeing  an  internet  famous  persona  apparently  had  her  more  confused  than  watching  a  two  stories  tall  forest  entity  engage  with  said  human  and  then  disappear  without  an  obvious  trace.

As  it  is  with  wildlife  photographers,  they're  not  made  to  engage  with  what's  displayed.  They  let  nature  play  out  like  intended.  The  beauty  of  the  untouched.  Still,  Isaiah,  as  he  turned  and  scratched  his  head,  seemed  to  be  lost.  And  she  felt  pity.

She  whistled  loudly  from  between  her  full,  round  lips,  catching  his  undivided  attention.  Signs  of  desperation  flitted  across  his  face  and  he  seemed  to  feel  caught  out  in  a  way  Octavia  couldn't  quite  interpret. 

She  was  highly  amused  by  the  sceptical  way  he  looked  at  her,  when  only  seconds  ago  he  had  been  touching  a  forest  deity. 

“I’ll  be  completely  honest  with  ya, blondie,  I  wish  I  could  say  you’re  the  first  dude  in  boxers  I’ve  had  in  front  of  my  camera.  In  the  woods,  too.”  The  woman  snorted  as  if  having  cracked  the  best  joke  ever.  “Don’t  ya  worry,  I’m  not  here  for  you.  I  believe  we  came  here  for  very  much  the  same  reason,  but  I  gotta  admit,  your  choice  for  hiking  is  quite…  something.  But  I  ain’t  judging,  whatever  keeps  ya  comfortable,  eh?” 

On  the  other  hand,  as  she  looked  at  his  legs,  there  was  hardly  any  question  of  him  being  comfortable.  The  red  streaks  looked  anything  but  intentional  or  enjoyable.

“C’mon,  Earl  Shaffer,  let  us  get  outta  here.  Can’t  have  ya  catch  a  cold.” 

She  gave  him  a  playful  wink  and  started  moving,  regardless  of  whether  he  was  really  following  her  or  not.  Her  gait  was  lively,  fuelled  by  the  recent  events.

Eventually  he  found  his  voice  again—thankfully,  she  didn't  want  to  incur  the  wrath  of  his  endless  array  of  fans—and  finally  asked  her  what  she  was  doing  here  and  who  she  was.

“As  I  said,  same  thing  as  you.  Although,  you  did  want  to  find  the  entity,  didn’t  you?  Were  you  camping  somewhere  here?  Will  this  be  part  of  your  next  episode?”

The  surprise  on  his  face  spoke  volumes.

“Your  calves  gave  you  away,”  she  claimed  with  a  serious  expression.  “Kidding,  I  just  remembered  your  face  from  Reddit  and  since  you  loosened  your  tongue  it’s  quite  obvious.  Pleasure  to  meet  you,  Isaiah.  I’m  Octavia.”  She  smiled  lovingly  and  offered  him  a  hand,  which  she  rubbed  against  her  trousers,  but  somehow  only  made  it  worse  dirt-wise.  She  listened  attentively  as  he  vaguely  explained  why  he  was  in  Montana  and  that  he  urgently  needed  to  get  back  to  the  motel.  Finally,  he  asked  how  much  she  knew  about  the  creature  they  had  both  met.  Meanwhile,  Octavia  couldn't  help  noticing  how  often  he  got  stuck  on  her  left  eye  when  he  looked  directly  at  her. 

A  predictable  reaction  from  most,  she  couldn't  blame  anyone.

“Just  some  loose  hearsay,  honestly,  but  more  often  than  not  deities  like  these  are  just…  existing?  Like,  not  every  bird  has  a  story  ,  you  know?  You  just  gotta  know  where  to  look  if  you  want  to  find  a  specific  one.  How  did  you  find  it?  I  literally  waited  ages  for  a  shot.”

“I  didn’t,”  he  explained  with  a  slight  tug  of  his  shoulders.  “It  found  me.”

“And  then  you  ran  after  it?  Did  it  say  something?  Do  something?”  She  tilted  her  head  in  fascination  and  fell  back  to  walk  beside  him  instead  of  ahead.  His  stride  had  slowed  and  his  shoulders  sagged.  Something  was  making  him  anxious,  but  she  wasn't  sure  if  it  was  her. She  wouldn't  be  surprised  though.

He  finally  shook  his  head. 

“No,  it  didn’t.  Just  watched  me,  I  guess.”

“Maybe  it  got  starstruck,”  she  quipped  encouragingly,  nudging  him  gently  with  her  shoulder  as  if  they  shared  a  kinship.  In  fact,  Octavia  found  it  much  easier  to  relate  to  Isaiah  as  he  already  held  a  recognizable  familiarity  to  her.  However,  she  was  also  aware  that  she  was  merely  a  stranger.  A  common  problem  that  came  up  bitterly  with  most  people.  She  wasn't  necessarily  shy  when  it  came  to  socialising. Internet  personality  or  not.  “Just  because  humans  are  mesmerized  by  rare  sights,  doesn’t  mean  any  other  creature  can’t  be,  too.  Ever  seen  a  cat’s  reaction  to  their  first  christmas  tree?”  She  giggled  lightly  and  noticed  how  he  drifted  off  into  his  thoughts.

She  lowered  her  head  and  pursed  her  lips  in  silence.

After  a  while  of  awkward  silence  between  them,  she  cleared  her  throat.  Unable  to  bear  the  heavy  air  between  them.

“What  did  it  feel  like?”

“Hm?”

“The  creature,”  she  specified.  “You  touched  it,  didn’t  you?”

“Like  coming  home.”

She  nodded  faintly  and  let  the  image  sink  in.  If  there  was  a  home  to  return  to,  it  was  certainly  a  nice  feeling.  But  what  was  a  home  if  no  one  was  waiting  for  you?  When  all  that  remained  were  recollections  of  past  events?  Irretrievable  snapshots  that  would  never  have  the  same  intensity  as  when  they  happened.

“Sounds  beautiful.”  Smiling  weakly,  she  looked  up  at  him,  tilting  her  head  back  and  squinting  past  her  red  corkscrew  curls.  “C’mon,  it’s  not  that  far  anymore.  If  we  keep  it  up,  we’ll  be  back  around  sunrise.”

 “Is  that  your  boyfriend?”  she  wondered,  tilting  her  head  slightly,  her  voluptuous  red  locks  wiggling  like  a  swarm  of  spiral  coils.  They  had  reached  the  entrance  area  of  the  motel,  a  few  cars  scattered  at  the  edges.  The  sun  indeed  had  risen  by  now,  a  few  minutes  later  than  Octavia  had  predicted—but  taking  into  consideration  that  her  sense  of  time  wasn’t  truly  the  best,  she  felt  rather  proud. 

In  front  of  the  eggshell  coloured  facade  of  the  motel  complex  moved  a  blonde  man  from  left  to  right,  kneading  his  own  hands,  his  lips  curled  as  if  speaking  to  himself  in  hushed  tones.  Suddenly,  as  if  they  had  yelled  his  name,  his  head  snapped  upwards  and  for  a  second  Octavia  would  have  assumed  he  had  broken  his  neck  for  he  didn’t  move  a  single  muscle  for  several  seconds.  His  face,  however,  didn’t  display  a  single  emotion—or  did  she  just  miss  the  twitch  of  his  lips? 

The  closer  they  came,  the  more  life  returned  to  the  man.  He  didn’t  look  at  her  for  a  single  second,  his  golden  eyes  fixated  on  the  Podcast  Host  next  to  her.  Looked  at  him  from  top  to  bottom  and  pressed  his  lips  tightly  together.  Only  when  she  came  to  a  halt  a  few  feet  in  front  of  him  did  his  attention  switch  to  the  redhead.  She  flinched  as  if  she  had  been  hit  in  the  face. 

She  suddenly  struggled  to  breathe.

“Who  are  you?”  his  voice  was  sharp,  cutting  in  between  the  three  of  them.  Drawing  an  invisible  line  into  the  ground  that  Zeev  didn't  dare  to  pass  over.  He  remained  unmoving.  The  electrical  buzzing  of  a  vintage  snack  machine  was  the  only  sound  of  this  early  morning,  right  next  to  Zeev’s  voice.  The  hint  of  redness  within  his  eyes  either  implied  lack  of  sleep  or  something  more  saddening. 

“Hi!”  she  greeted,  offered  her  hand  and  smiled  overwhelmingly  joyfully  at  him,  but  her  hand  fell  untouched.  “I'm  Octavia  Lockwood,  part  time  Wildlife  Photographer  and  some  time  boyfriend  rescuer.”  She  tried  to  joke,  but  considering  the  lack  of  sympathy  he  held  for  her  yet—the  problem  of  not  knowing  people,  she  reminded  herself—he  didn't  seem  very  amused  by  the  remark. 

“Lovely,” Zeev  murmured.  “Would  you  mind?” 

Apart  from  the  reaction  displayed  on  her  face,  she  physically  responded  to  his  unsettling  aura;  shivering  and  tensing.  She  stared  at  him  for  a  few  seconds  longer  before  obeying  in  the  eye  of  danger. 

Empathetically,  she  looked  up  at  Isaiah,  beating  herself  to  a  weak  smile  and  lastly  created  some  distance  between  the  two.  This  wasn’t  her  place  to  be  anyway.  She  didn’t  know  either  of  them. 

 “Are  we  in  this  together  or  are  we  not? This  is  your  time  to  clarify.” 

His  face  was  expressionless.  From  the  context  alone,  it  was  obvious  that  the  witcher  was  anything  but  amused  by  his  boyfriend's  nightly  disappearance.  Surely  a  dispute  could  arise  about  Isaiah  being  able  to  make  his  own  decisions,  and  that  wasn't  something  Zeev  ever  questioned. 

However,  he  could  inform  him  of  the  consequences. 

It  wasn't  hard  to  blame  the  witcher  for  being  overprotective,  and  Zeev  was  willing  to  work  on  that,  but  moments  like  these  made  him  feel  like  it  was  justified.

“This  is  important  to  me,  Isaiah.  You're  important  to  me.  I  get  that  you're  excited  and  I  know  you're  not  used  to  that, but  I'm  right  here. You  shut  me  out  the  second  something more  interesting  looms  around  the  corner.” 

He  paused  for  a  second,  unable  to  keep  his  eyes  on  Isaiah.  Dirtied  and  tired,  legs  covered  in  scratches  and  red  streaks,  guilt  on  his  face  that  didn’t  help  the  witcher  to  voice  his  feelings  at  all.  “There’s  not  much  to  say  that  you  don’t  already  know,  which,  frankly,  makes  this  even  more  disheartening.”

His  jaw  clenched  and  he  rubbed  his  palms  over  his  thighs,  the  scar  tissue  reddened  by  the  pressure  his  thumb  had  exerted.

“I'm  glad  you're  okay,  but  what  exactly  am  I  doing  here?  If  you  allow  me  to  be  part  of  this, don’t  ignore  me  deliberately  when  it  suits  you  best.  I  love  you,  more  than  anything,  but  I  don't  want  to  wake  up  once  again  and  be  the  fool  to  think  we  were  in  this  together,  while  you're  lost  in  the  woods  or  worse  case  chewed  and  spit  out.  I  assume  I  won't  be  able  to  do  much  against  the  latter,  but  I'd  appreciate  it  if  I  had  the  chance  to  try… If  you  get  lost,  let  me  get  lost  with  you.”

His  priorities  were  obviously  set  and  Zeev  couldn’t  demand  of  him  to  change  his  ways—but  that  wouldn't  diminish  his  feelings  nor  invalidate  them. 

His  jaw  tensed  and  he  glanced  up  to  the  sky,  his  eyelashes  batting  as  he  tried  to  swallow  down  his  emotional  outburst.  He  inhaled  deeply,  sighing,  eyes  damp  but  not  gushing,  and  looked  back  at  his  boyfriend.

His  first  instinct  was  to  punish  him  with  rejection.  To  deprive  him  of  love  by  turning  away  and  ignoring  him.  Every  fibre  of  his  body  suggested  that  this  was  the  only  correct  consequence.  Zeev  allowed  this  impulse  for  a  few  heavy  seconds.  He  squinted  into  the  towering  clouds  that  hid  the  sun  and  cast  shadows  over  them.  He  inhaled  deeply  and  closed  his  eyes.  The  cold  around  the  tip  of  his  nose  drifted  away  as  it  drove  the  clouds  further  on  their  journey.  And  so  the  momentum  dried  up.

He  was  not  like  his  mother.

“Stop  leaving  me  behind…”  his  voice  broke  lastly,  stepping  towards  him,  unable  to  keep  his  distance.  He'd  been  separated  from  him  longer  than  he  had  aspired  all  morning  and  the  relief  to  actually  see  him  alive  and  well  and  returned  couldn't  be  entirely  overshadowed  by  his  anger  and  sadness.  Zeev  wrapped  his  arms  around  him  like  a  toddler  who  had  yet  to  learn  that  not  all  goodbyes  were  forever. 

However,  this  wasn't  a  walk  in  the  park  or  a  traditional  job  where  the  biggest  dangers  were  unhappy  clients  who  hadn't  read  the  fine  print.  More  than  his  fear  for  the  well-being  of  the  one  person  Zeev  loved  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world—more  than  the  daily  awakening  of  the  sun  and  how  its  light  spilled  onto  the  world. 

His  real  resentment  crystallised. 

He  had  left  him  behind. 

Again.