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beautiful-basque-country · 4 months

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ON BASQUE AND ITS TIES WITH GEORGIAN, ARMENIAN, AND TAMAZIGHT.

American linguist Morris Swadesh (1909-1967) created a world map of current languages according to comparative linguistics, taking into account their common origin. The lexico-statistical or glottochronological Swadesh method is based on taking 215 words in two groups of 100; key words such as personal pronouns, low numerals, parts of the body, kinship names, some action verbs, some adverbs of time and place, objects of nature, very common actions, bodily actions and questions.

Swadesh claimed that in the basic vocabulary the rate of change is so regular in languages, that he had been able to create a system of measuring the elapsed time in which two languages were related in the past and that today are separated geographically.

According to Swadesh, that basic vocabulary of 100 or 215 words changes less than 20% per millennium in each language. These variations in vocabulary leave a common ground between two or more languages related to each other, which is measured chronologically, thus establishing the time distance between a language and its more modern relatives. If the number of words with the same root between two languages in these two groups of 100 is less than or equal to 5%, it is considered a similarity by chance (the figure does not respond to anything specific, the method has many random parts), and if it is greater it would be the result of some common past.

There is a formula to know the time elapsed between the period in which the contact occurred and the current moment, and the result with Basque was the following (with the rest of the languages with which Basque has been compared by this method the result is inferior and not significant):

list 215 list 100

Northwest Circassian Caucasian:

6.62% 7.52%

Northwest Avar Caucasian:

3.80% 5.37%

Georgian, South Caucasian:

4.73% 7.52%

Rift Tamazight (northern Morocco):

6% 9.67%

Southern Tamazight (southern Morocco)

7.38% 10.86%

Many of the similarities considered good are more than questionable, since the evolution of words and languages is not taken into account, some borrowings from other languages are considered good, etc.

Nor can we forget American linguist R.L. Trask, that compared Hungarian and Basque and found in 2 hours of searching 65 similar words that could only be the result of chance, but that lead to question many investigations: this exercise tested by other researchers with other unrelated languages has given the same surprising result. R.L. Trask said “I can't understand why some linguists get so excited when they find two dozen Basque words that look like two dozen other Berber or Sumerian words.”

Basque and the languages of the Caucasus

The Caucasus is located 4,000 kilometers from Garonne-Pyrénées-Ebro where the Basques live. In the Caucasus, about 50 different peoples coexist with almost 22 languages. The main difficulty in establishing the Basque-Caucasian relationship consists of this lack of unity.

Swadesh's lexico-statistical ratio of Circassian and Georgian to Basque is 7.52%, higher than any other language in the world. The supposed contact would have occurred in the Magdalenian, about 10,000 years ago. With the rest of the languages of the Caucasus, current Basque is similar in typology (verbs, the ergative, etc.) and in the etymology of some words, but its lexical-statistical relationship with all of them is less than 5%.

There are also parallels between Basque and Georgian in syntactic aspects, such as the use of the ergative (transitive-intransitive verbs, “Nor-Nork” forms) that do not occur in any other European language, the reflexive way of making sentences such as: “I have seen my head in the mirror” (nire burua ispiluan ikusi dut), and not: “I have seen myself in the mirror”, the use of base twenty to count, etc.

But many current or recent renowned linguists are skeptical about the relationship with the Caucasian languages. Basque linguist Koldo Mitxelena (1915-1987) said that: “In summary, there are some Basque-Caucasian lexical similarities that cannot be demonstrated to be possible, but on the other hand there are a large number whose extraordinary implausibility can be demonstrated (…). Even if Basque and the Caucasian languages go back to a common origin, the number of missing intermediate links must be so high that it is to be feared that, due to not knowing them, the ancient ties of kinship will not be established."

If there is a relationship, for both Koldo Mitxelena and Xabier Kintana, it has to go back to the fifth and sixth millennia or earlier.

Basque and Armenian

Armenian linguist and Basque philologist Vahan Sarkisian, creator of the Basque-Armenian Dictionary and a Grammar of the Basque Language in his language, is the main promoter of the "Basque-Armenian theory" and the one who has done the most work in recent years on ethnolinguistic kinship between both peoples.

This prestigious Armenian linguist affirms that "the best promoters of this theory were neither Basques nor Armenians and, therefore, they had no direct interests in the issue. I am referring to the Englishman Edward Spencer Dodgson and the German Joseph Karst. The former knew well Basque. In Paris he began to study Armenian and quickly detected the similarities, which he initially summarized in a list of 50 words. Karst was an Armenianologist and, when he came into contact with Basque, he compared issues related to anthropology, the phonetic system, the grammar and the lexicon and extracted more than 400 similarities. (...) We understand without problems, for example, what Zabaltegi, or Ormazabal means, because it means exactly the same in Armenian. We feel at home, and that already means something. Armenian is considered an Indo-European language (Basque is the only pre-Indo-European language in all of Europe, prior to the invasions of these peoples), but if we bring to light the twenty most important regularities of the language we will see that they coincide more with Basque than with any other neighboring languages such as Georgian or Persian. And not only referring to the lexicon. In Armenian, for example, words are not formed with an initial -r, our throat has a hard time pronouncing it. The same thing happens to the Basque language, to the Basque throat.

Neither Armenian nor Basque recognize the accumulation of consonants, they are unpronounceable to us, while in other languages neighboring ours, such as Georgian, groups of up to five or six consonants are common. We could mention many other characteristics that separate us from our neighbors and bring us closer to Basque, such as the postponed article, the way of forming the plural, not to mention toponymy, which provides an enormous amount of similarities. (…) I believe that this type of coincidences - which even affect the articulation apparatus, which has a physiological nature - cannot arise from mere contact, they cannot be imported or exported. Karst said that Armenian and Basque are two varieties of the same linguistic stem (…) The only thing I would dare to say with any certainty is that perhaps in ancient times the entire area was occupied by the same ethnic-cultural element, which gave way terrain to other elements, leaving vestiges in Euskadi and Armenia, as survivors of a great and ancient civilization.”

It is curious that Armenian – which does not give any relationship with Basque through the Swadesh method – and Georgian are, apparently, more similar to Basque than to each other when they are neighboring peoples. To conclude this short summary, let's share a toponymic curiosity: in Georgia there is Mount Gorbeya (like the highest mountain in Bizkaia and Alaba), in Armenia is the sacred Mount Ararat (like the Aralar mountain range between Alaba, Gipuzkoa and Alta Navarra), and also a mountain named Gora (mountain in the language of the area and "up" in Basque). The curiosity is even greater because the Araxes River bathes Mount Aralar, and in the Armenian Mount Ararat there is a river called... Araxes.

Basque and Tamazight

Tamazight, by the Swadesh method, is not related to Arabic or Egyptian; nor with Georgian, but with Basque, as well as the Cadmitosemitic languages from which it comes. Therefore, Basque is a language that may have common elements with Georgian and Berber, but they do not have any with each other.

The percentage of lexical-statistical relationship of Swadesh of Basque with Southern Tamazight is 7.38% and with Rift Tamazight is 6% (taking the 215 words because with 100 the percentage increases). Therefore, by this method there would be a relationship or common substrate between both languages. Based on the percentage relationship, contact would have taken place about 8,000-9,000 years ago.

In Berber the names given to animals are very similar to those given in Basque. «Aker» & «iker» (billygoat), «asto» & «ezet» (donkey); They also coincide in the way of saying horse, crow, river, brother, lie, name ("Izen" and "isem"), "I" and others.

Within this analysis we must mention the Guanches, native inhabitants of the Canary Islands before the arrival of the Spaniards. From the writings found (archaeology confirms this) it is believed that the Guanches would speak a Tamazight language that, due to the isolation of the islands, would maintain a greater degree of relationship with Basque. There are those who even see Basque place names in the Canary Islands such as: Los Llanos de Aridane (Harrigane: stone peak), Argindei, Tinizara (Tinitzaha), Tajuia, Tenegia, Jedei (Iedegi) in La Palma and in Lanzarote: Masdeche (Mahats- etxe: grape-house), Haria, Orzola, Guinate (Gainate: high step), Yaiza (haitza: rock), Ajache, Tesegite, Mozaza etc.

An anecdote that is often told is that the first conquerors of the Canary Islands believed that the natives spoke Basque.

Between Basque and Tamazight the similarities are reduced to the lexical or lexicographic level, since syntactically and grammatically there does not seem to be any relationship, both in current speech and in the past; there are just similarities in verbal articulation or in the use of some particles.

Julio Caro Baroja said in this regard: “I must warn in any case that the relationship between Basque and the African languages called Hamitic is not as founded as claimed. On the contrary, the hypothesis of a relationship between Basque and the Caucasian languages, which is perhaps the one that has produced the least interest in the Peninsula, seems to be the most prudent, because it is based on linguistic, morphological and strict observations.

Koldo Mitxelena had the same opinion, and believed it was necessary to study more the relationship between Basque and the Caucasian languages which, unlike the supposed kinship with Tamazight, did cause serious doubts.

[x]

@knario47

#euskal herria #basque country #pays basque #pais vasco #euskadi #linguistics #euskera #euskara #basque #language #armenian #georgian #tamazight

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pragmaticide · 2 days

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Wataten!: A Cupid Flew Down to Me???

Plot:

There has never been a niche for "love" for Charles, an abruptly-emerged chemical prodigy, a brilliant savant, and a wealthy young lad free from worries regarding sustenance and attire——all the exquisite words that can embody success can unearth a flawless fitting point on him. Well-acquainted that he possesses the wherewithal to be pretentious, he looks down upon the hoi polloi, firmly believing that only a few rational virtuosos can propel the world.

Until a bizarre man donning a pink attire, holding an exaggerated wand, and professing to be the "Cupid" barged into Charles' existence; with the plea rationale that "Charles can utilize himself to abet in the research experiment", hoping to linger by Charles' side...?

Whit did not come to discourse on love with Charles, nor did he desire him to espouse someone else, but with a singular mission - to instruct Charles on how to love the world and endow him with the ability to "love people".

In the game, players will tread in Charles' footsteps and collectively experience this transmutation of concepts. Charles was initially imbued with resistance towards Whit's tutelage, but as time elapsed, he began to reassess his own perspective *periodically*. He will progressively discern that love is not merely a romantic sentiment, but rather a power that can metamorphose the world.

在 Charles 的世界中，从未有过“爱”的一席之地。

他是横空出世的化学天才，是才华横溢的科学家，是衣食无忧的富家子弟…似乎所有能够代表成功的美妙词汇，都能在他的身上找到完美契合点。他深知自己有自命不凡的资本，也正因此看不起大多数人，坚信只有少数的理性的天才才能推动世界进步。

直到某个穿着粉色裙子，拿着夸张魔杖，自称“爱神”的男子闯入了 Charles 的生活；以“Charles可以利用自己来协助研究实验”为请求理由，希望能留在Charles身边…？

Whit 并非前来与 Charles 谈情说爱，也并非要让他与他人成婚，而是带着特殊的使命——教导 Charles 如何去爱这个世界，让他拥有“会爱人”的能力。

游戏中，玩家将跟随 Charles 的脚步，一同经历这场观念的碰撞与转变。Charles 起初对 Whit 的教导充满抵触，但随着时间的推移，他逐渐开始重新审视自己的观点。他将逐渐发现，爱并非仅仅是浪漫的情感，更是一种能够改变世界的力量。（缘神，启动！）

This game will be available on steam on 1919/8/10. Players can look forward to experiencing it and immerse themselves in its exciting world.

#danganronpa despair time #drdt #charles cuevas #whit young #charwhit

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opencommunion · 27 days

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"The time that elapsed between the challenge posed by the ‘new historians’ addressing 1948 and their disappearance from the scene was short – less than two decades. The reason for this brevity is doubtless to be found in the fact that the 1948 war is not only a story closely linked to current politics but also a foundational myth. According to Louis Althusser, foundational myths are those most easily absorbed by society and according to which the social order is structured and maintained. They provide the narrative that justifies the existence of the state, and as long as they remain relevant to the existing social order, they retain their force.

... Almost immediately after the outbreak of the Second Intifada a reinvigorated Zionist consensus, which had somewhat eroded at the height of the Oslo days, reasserted itself with force. Public discourse in Israel was reshaped along strictly consensual lines. Thus, just as the atmosphere and politics of the early 1990s had been conducive for local historians to open a window onto the Palestinian narrative and even to contemplate acceptance of some of its major claims, so the changed conditions after 2000 provided fertile soil for a new generation of historians to entrench and barricade the narrative behind a wall of negation and fortify the collective identity in the face of renewed struggle.

It is important to emphasise that while the new Zionist consensus was immediately restored and re-embraced, the new historiographical narrative, which had already begun to assert itself prior to 2000, did not exactly reproduce the classical Zionist narrative. It is not only history, but also historiography, that does not repeat itself. What emerged instead was a new/old narrative, updated to the shifting political realities on the one hand and to take into account and absorb the new information coming out of the Israeli archives on the other.

The new historiography was Zionist in its ideological orientation, its mode, and its colouration, but it avoided the omissions, distortions, and denials of fact that had characterised the classical Zionist version. The post-Zionists and ‘new historians’, whose work had been based on Israeli archival sources to the extent that these were accessible at the time, had brought to light new facts concerning expulsions, massacres, and other war crimes committed in 1948 that the neo-Zionist generation could not ignore. Most important for their emergence was the release in 1998 of major new documentation from the archives of the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) and the Hagana, enabling professional historians in Israel to see with their own eyes, in government documents, the magnitude of the 1948 ethnic cleansing. Even ‘nationalist’ and Orientalist historians, who had scorned Arab or Palestinian sources and relied exclusively on Israeli sources, could no longer deny the massive, intentional expulsions. Thus, from a purely factual standpoint, the neo-Zionist version of 1948 did not differ significantly from that of the post-Zionists or the new historians. The difference lay in the response or interpretation of the facts. What the new historians saw as human and civil rights abuses or even as atrocities and war crimes are treated in the new research as normal and sometimes even commendable actions by the Israeli military. What the post-Zionists interpreted as shameful chapters in Israeli history are, in the new research, justified. From the neo-Zionist perspective, acceptance of the factual claims of the new historians was accompanied by the categorical rejection (shared by the Israeli public at large) of the contemporary moral implications that these critical new historians drew from their findings concerning Israel’s crimes in 1948, first and foremost being the dispossession of the Palestinians. ... A few words should be said about [Benny] Morris, one of the most important of the new historians, who, following what he described as his ‘turning point’ in 2000, could be said to embody both of neo-Zionism’s hallmarks: its positivism and (in his political writings and interviews) its moral justification of the ethnic cleansing that took place during the 1948 war. Morris did not shy away from providing evidence damning to the Zionist narrative. His book The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem, 1947–1949, provided the first systematic evidence, based on IDF sources, of major expulsions during the 1948 war. When the documents were first released in 1998, showing the expulsions to be far more premeditated, systematic, and extensive than had been shown in the more limited documentation available a decade earlier, Morris, ever the positivist, undertook what he referred to as the correction of a mistake, and so he revised and expanded his book to reflect the new evidence. By the time the new edition was published in 2004, however, the Second Intifada was well underway, and the revelation of what would earlier have been seen as damning new information about 1948 now fused conveniently with the closing of the public mind with regard to the Palestinians in the wake of the uprising. In this new atmosphere, not only were Israel’s brutal military operations against the Palestinians during the new intifada seen as justified, but so was their systematic expulsion in 1948. Morris, who had earlier been wrongly accused of being an ‘Israel hater’ and a post-Zionist, now set an example for the neo-Zionists, inasmuch as he was ideally situated to provide hindsight justication for the 1948–49 expulsions. In an interview with Ari Shavit published in Haaretz on 9 January 2004, he provided the ultimate justication for the ethnic cleansing in 1948: ‘Without the uprooting of the Palestinians, a Jewish state would not have arisen here.’ Furthermore, he faulted Ben-Gurion for failing to ‘cleanse’ the ‘whole Land of Israel, as far as the Jordan River’, which ‘would have stabilised the State of Israel for generations.’"

Ilan Pappé, The Idea of Israel: A History of Power and Knowledge (2014)

#library #zionism #colonialism #history

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focsle · 2 years

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you ever read journals from gay or bi whalers????

Not explicitly, but that’s so often the way of things regarding lgbtq+ history. Are the men whose journals I’ve read who occasionally describe their fellow whalers as fine/good-looking or handsome attracted to them, or simply using complimentary language? Does one man saying he played as another man’s “lady” at a dance during a gam mean anything regarding his identity in relation to other men, or was it simply the language he used to say he danced as the opposite partner in an all-male space? Who knows! Maybe, maybe not. Is a mate goading the men in his boat's crew by saying:

"I love you, my dear fellows, yes, yes, I do; I'll do anything for you, I'll give you my heart's blood to drink"

anything? Dunno! Sure is hot and weird tho!

Scholar Margaret Creighton highlighted one whaler, Elias Trotter, as someone who forged--if not romantic--very close emotional relationships with other men. This included both men he met briefly on gams as well as men aboard his ship.

He described one man, Charles Wheeler, on a gam saying that he ‘drew my attention on account of his manly beauty, activity, and intelligence’, and spent the entire gam speaking with him alone for hours, lamenting at the end the inevitable parting when both ships went on their way. He also developed a close relationship with someone on his ship named Longworth.

Dan W. Everton is a graduate student who spent time researching Trotter, and at a talk highlighted an excerpt of Trotter’s description of Longworth. I found it very poignant and it gives a little bit of insight to one man's perception of another, as well as the specificity of life at sea:

“During the night watches Longworth and myself will paint a pleasing future and will count and cipher out the many days to elapse before we tread our native soil. Will build many castles in the air and then with sober thought will crush them. How truly does sympathy entwine around the heart and produce friendship in its purest, fondest state. How such interchange of thought foments affection? I flatter myself tis even so with us, for, when after these interchanges of thought, of hope, of sympathy I know and feel that the friendship between us grows stronger and more lasting. At sea, there is no formality. Man acts himself and tis here that none has an opportunity of seeing his fellow in all his impurities as well as in all his goodness. I take pride in writing that, in every circumstance and in all duties, Longworth during the last twelve months has shown himself to be one of nature’s noblemen, so kind, so good, so free.”

Since Trotter’s journal hasn’t been digitized I haven’t been able to read it myself since I don't have physical access to the collection it lives in! I'm really hoping that it will be digitized (or fully transcribed) one day though.

The only (very scant) records I’ve seen explicitly regarding same sex activity on whaleships have been non-consensual instances in which there was disciplinary action taken. And that disciplinary action was also in connection with other violence/threats of violence from the man in question that led to his expulsion.

How consensual same sex relations on a whaleship may have been regarded and navigated is a bit of an unknown. But as with any same-sex occupation (especially something as lengthy and isolating as whaling, where one would maybe get liberty ashore every 6ish months) there were undoubtedly going to be same sex acts and partnerships. To say otherwise would be silly, I think. The absence of their mention gives me the sense that it was something people tended to look the other way with (or circumstantially accepted) if parties were consenting, rather than that they just didn’t happen at all. Herman Melville’s ‘oh I love you my fellows’ Moby Dick chapter that’s just an extended mutual masturbation pun has to come from somewhere. And not just from the notion that Melville likely loved men. But uhhh if you want a gay/bi whaler, there’s probably Melville, at the very least.

#asks #anonymous #awhalin

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transgenderer · 1 month

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Kleine–Levin syndrome (KLS) is a rare neurological disorder characterized by persistent episodic hypersomnia accompanied by cognitive and behavioral changes. These changes may include disinhibition, sometimes manifested through hypersexuality, hyperphagia or emotional lability, and other symptoms, such as derealization. Patients generally experience recurrent episodes of the condition for more than a decade, which may return at a later age. Individual episodes generally last more than a week, sometimes lasting for months. Patients commonly have about 20 episodes over about a decade. Several months may elapse between episodes.

The onset of the condition usually follows a viral infection (72% of patients); several different viruses have been observed to trigger KLS.[2] It is generally only diagnosed after similar conditions have been excluded; MRI, CT scans, lumbar puncture, and toxicology tests are used to rule out other possibilities. The syndrome's mechanism is not known, but the thalamus is thought to possibly play a role. SPECT has shown thalamic hypoperfusion in patients during episodes.

KLS is very rare, occurring at a rate of 1 in 500,000, which limits research into genetic factors.[2] The condition primarily affects teenagers (81% of reported patients), with a bias towards males (68-72% of cases), though females can also be affected, and the age of onset varies.[2] There is no known cure, and there is little evidence supporting drug treatment. Lithium has been reported to have limited effects in case reports, decreasing the length of episodes and duration between them in some patients.[3] Stimulants have been shown to promote wakefulness during episodes, but they do not counteract cognitive symptoms or decrease the duration of episodes.

Patients with Kleine–Levin syndrome (KLS) experience recurring episodes of prolonged sleep (hypersomnia).[5] In most cases, patients sleep 15 to 21 hours a day during episodes.[6] Excessive appetite (hyperphagia) and unusual cravings are present in half to two thirds of cases.[6][7][8] About half of patients, mainly male patients, experience dramatically increased sexual urges (hypersexuality).[9][7] Several other symptoms usually accompany the syndrome, including marked changes in mood and cognitive ability.[5]Derealization and severe apathy are present in at least 80 percent of cases.[10] About one third of patients experience hallucinations or delusions.[7] Depression and anxiety occur less commonly; one study found them in about 25 percent of patients.[10] Individuals usually cannot remember what happened during episodes.[6] Repetitive behaviors and headaches are commonly reported.[7] Some patients act very childlike during episodes,[11] and communication skills and coordination sometimes worsen.[6]

The first time a patient experiences KLS, it usually occurs along with symptoms that are similar to those of the flu or encephalitis. In at least 75 percent of cases, symptoms occur after an airway infection or a fever. Viruses observed before the development of the condition include Epstein–Barr virus, varicella zoster virus, herpes zoster virus, influenza A virus subtypes, and adenovirus. Several days after symptoms first occur, patients become very tired.[9] In cases that occur after an infection, KLS usually starts within three to five days for teenagers and fewer for children.[16] In other cases, alcohol consumption, head injury, or international travel precede symptoms.[9][14] Lifestyle habits, such as stress, alcohol abuse and lack of sleep and stress, have also been proposed as possible triggers.[5] First episodes of KLS are preceded by a clear event in about 90 percent of cases.[8] Recurrences generally do not have clear triggers; only about 15 percent have a precipitating event.[17]

Population-based studies of KLS have not been performed. Its prevalence is about 1 to 2 cases per million people,[8] although recent studies conducted by a French research team point to a higher number of 3 per million people.[25] It occurs most frequently among Jews in the US and Israel. First-degree relatives of people who have the syndrome are much more likely than the general population to have it, although only in about one percent of cases do family members contract it. About 68 to 72 percents of patients are male. Patients with the syndrome are more likely than the general population to have genetic disorders, and about a third of people with the syndrome encountered some form of birth difficulty.[26] In a study of 186 older patients, about ten percent had preexisting psychiatric issues.[6] One study found that about ten percent of patients had a neurological condition before KLS developed.[8] The condition does not appear to occur most frequently in one season.[11]

??? extremely strange disorder.

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markrosewater · 6 months

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Re: working ahead; I was not asking elapsed time on a set, I was asking delay between set being done and release. So to clarify: do you consider the distance vertebrae when a set is finalized and the release of that set to be the optimal amount of time, or would you prefer it to have less delay to better capitalize on trends, market research, and other feedback?

There is no delay. Once R&D finishes with our work, there are a whole host of teams that have to do theirs. A set has to be edited, programmed for digital, laid out, printed, shipped, etc.

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hyperesthesias · 6 months

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Foresight & Respite

Notes: Boring. My inner Bronte came out again. Sorry. (I promise the next chapter [after Starlight Immemorial] is going to be really good. Viktor will have a spiritual sexual awakening.)

Context: Anya and Viktor are childhood friends from Zaun, who reconnected six months ago. Anya is a mage, theoretical physicist, and wealthy donor to the Academy. She is a different humanoid species, who lives for centuries. She has previously offered to become Viktor's patron, but he has worries about being unable to repay her. Anya is worried Viktor is being overworked, and offers her patronage again. They have their 'first fight'. Starlight Immemorial directly follows this chapter.

Tag List: @uniquedeerwitch @funcoolchickie (Please let me know if you would like to be tagged!)

AO3 link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Days elapsed into weeks after the Symphony Ball, in which Viktor could not recall a time in his life spent without Anya. He was required to chaperone her to presentations and proposals given by department heads from the physics and astronomy college, where she listened with great attention and happiness to hear of the progress being made in the concept of light travel. After a myriad of lectures, she confided in Viktor that she had a contact at the energy research facility where she used to work, who had access to a hadron collider.

“Perhaps I can ask her for an appointment with the laboratory where it is located,” she suggested, excitedly. She walked with her companion among the halls of the Academy, from the physics college to the engineering department, where Viktor was set to lead the next lecture of Engineering 101. “That way, maybe you and your partner might be able to find some answers about the crystal, and what it can do.”

Viktor nodded and put the back of his hand, occupied with his daily notebook, to his mouth as he yawned.

“Certainly, I know the idea of visiting a hadron collider cannot be boring you,” she eyed him. “How much sleep did you get last night?” she asked and leaned to see his face.

He tried to shy away from her prying judgment, but he conceded to her concern. “I got enough.”

“Your body disagrees.”

“My body disagrees with everything,” he miffed. They turned into the lecture hall, where he held the door open for her. The classroom was empty, and it allowed them to prepare for the first wave of students for the day. He settled himself at his desk, and set his notebook down, opening its pages to the lesson plan of the day.

Anya pulled down the chalkboards and erased the previous day’s scrawlings. “You do too much, Viktor. You cannot subsist on caffeine and curiosity alone.”

“It has worked so far,” he glanced at her.

She huffed and returned his look as she wandered to the edge of his desk, where a pile of papers sat, waiting to be distributed. “Have you thought about my offer?” She picked them up, and waited to see if he would reply.

His sight broke from his notebook, but he did not look her in the eye; he did not have the wherewithal. Her offer had been exceedingly generous, and while its promise had crossed his mind repeatedly in the weeks they spent together, he gave it neither credence, nor consideration. Anya was the cause of so much gratitude in his life already, that should she be his benefactress, he would be indebted to her forever.

“My offer will always stand, Viktor. It will not expire,” she said, without a reply from him.

She passed out each paper to each desk within the lecture hall, and when she was finished, took her place at the side of his desk, waiting for the students to arrive. She found great joy in participating in the class as an aid – from distributing papers, to quietly answering students’ questions, and lulling a student’s infant, who lain restless in her mother’s arms during afternoon lectures. Being present there allowed her to mull over aspects of engineering she did not normally have the opportunity to think about. Though she, also, was adept in the mechanics of engineering, her work in the energy research lab had been primarily dedicated to the theoretical applications of light and radiation. She vigorously applied herself to the study of quantum energy, and how to pass an object of light from one point in time to another. Her desire was always to see the stars and mingle among them – one day, she promised herself, perhaps two hundred years thence, she would be able to see them for herself. But her calculations and her sciences had all been theoretical. Viktor was the machinist, even as a child – able to create a seemingly living thing from nothing at all: mechanized trinkets and autonomous beings that relieved his responsibilities of chores. Together, their knowledge was enviable and dynamic.

Two classes passed the day, and by the third, Viktor finished his second cup of coffee. He disliked its bitter taste, though Anya always had it sweetened perfectly to his liking. As the students filed in and began their quiz, he realized he did not know how Anya ordered his coffee, only that she knew to appeal it to his palate. The intimacy of his interests being perceived by another was foreign to him, though not unwelcome.

The class completed their quiz quietly and without incident, and Viktor leaned forward onto his desk to relieve pressure from his spine. He remained there for the entirety of the test, and by the time every student was finished, Viktor was still languid on his table. Anya peered over his shoulder, and saw his eyes closed, and his breath heavy and idle. He was asleep. She smiled to herself and ventured to wake him, but he did not rouse with her attempts.

Anya stood from grading papers, and gently took his notebook from under his elbow, where she read through the lesson plan he had written out: it was half in their native language, and half in the common tongue. The class was simple, and there were no topics of which she was unfamiliar, thus she proceeded to teach the final class of the day.

She enjoyed it thoroughly, and answered every question with grace and knowledge. She was a patient teacher, who expounded when necessary, and who had no qualms in walking among her students when they needed individual assistance. When her lecture was almost complete, the infant who was regularly toted to classes with her mother, began to fuss and whimper; Anya did not hesitate in continuing her offer to soothe the child – she had a pointer in one hand, and the infant in the other as she finished the lecture.

Viktor woke to the sound of students bustling and chairs scraping against the flooring. He was mildly disoriented, and could not perceive the time. When he opened his eyes, he saw his class filing to exit, and Anya at the head of the room smiling and playing with the child in her arms. Its mother was approaching her from the rear of the class, but Anya did not rush her or show her any impatience or malice. Instead, she took the child’s hands as they reached for the shimmering fabric of her veil, and kissed them. Viktor felt as if he was woken to another dream.

As the child was returned to its mother, Anya returned to Viktor’s side with a soft smile. She traced a finger along the edge of his face and placed her hand on his upper arm. “You cannot outrun your mortal needs forever,” she said.

He let a long sigh, and rolled his brow along his arm. “I can’t sleep.” He forced himself to sit upright and stand – he leaned heavily on his cane as he forced his exhausted legs to move against their will.

Anya began to pack their belongings and reset the classroom. “What troubles you?”

By the time she finished, he made it to the exit, where he held open the door for her. He leaned against its frame as he thought on how to answer her. “The night Jayce and I unlocked the crystal’s potential – the feeling of being weightless – it was…incredible.” He looked at her as she came to his side, still trying to find the words to describe it. “I felt…whole, again. A feeling I have not had since my earliest memories. Something I long to recreate.” They began to walk the halls of the Academy, towards his apartment near the laboratory. “My every waking moment is spent trying to decipher it, trying to apply it in a way where others can feel its benefit – where I can feel its benefit, again. But my energy is limited, and there are only so many hours in a day, until my body can no longer function.”

Anya remained quiet for a while, until they approached his apartment door, and she asked again: “Why will you not accept my offer of patronage?” Frustration laced her voice, that her friend would not accept a gift she readily gave: “Is it pride?”

He furrowed, offended, and unlocked his door. “No, it is not pride.”

“What is it, then?”

“It is unfair,” he insisted.

“If my offer is not enough, I can amend it –”

“It is unfair that I have nothing to give you in return,” he said.

“I do not want you to repay me. I want only your wellbeing.”

“No, Anya,” he contended. “You are stubborn.”

She drew back, insulted, but ventured to assume his ire was due to his lack of sleep. “I am not the only one who is obstinate.” Satisfied that her friend was safely returned to his home, she quitted him and the Academy.

Viktor sighed and leaned his head on the doorframe of his apartment. He had a preternatural fear of power imbalances and debts he could not repay. He saw them paid for in blood and slavery as a child in Zaun, and he vowed never to be placed in a position that could indenture him to the will of another.

As he settled himself into his apartment – removing his shoes and his tie as he reclined on the sofa, with a hand over his eyes – he felt foolish for projecting his fear onto Anya. She, of all others in his life, knew the primal fear of subjugation, and he felt ashamed that he would – even subconsciously – presume her of such a sin. The offer of her patronage was a reflection of herself: pure and kind-hearted, with little expectation of return; he called to mind the afternoons as children, where they would sit in silence, and she never attempted to pry from him a word or an answer. She was not stubborn for the sake of stubbornness itself, but she was eager in her generosity, a trait which was foreign to him.

He reached for a drawer in the side table, and made from it a discreet pillbox; he took from it two pills and swallowed them dry. As his eyes drifted closed, he pondered the wording of the apology he owed her, which he would present to her the next day.

Viktor arrived at the lab in the late morning – he fell asleep on the couch, and remained there for the duration of the night; his back was sore, and his neck was stiff, it took him a half hour more than usual to ready himself for the day. When he arrived, he heard Jayce’s voice and laughter, and Viktor opened his notebook, searching for a scheduled meeting or a projected visitor; he found none in his calendar.

Instead, as he entered the lab, he saw Anya standing over the workbench, she listened as Jayce described his vision for HexTech to her. She had her own notebook on the bench, with notations and suggestions written in their native language, which Jayce could not read.

“Viktor!” Jayce called to him. “Man of the hour. I was just telling our visitor about how you used mechanical resonance to stabilize the crystal.” While his words were true, he hoped their emphasis made a positive and lasting impression on Miss Anya.

Viktor eyed Anya and greeted her with a light bow of his head. She returned the gesture, but said nothing. “It was simple, really,” he cleared his throat, averting his gaze from her. “Crystals operate vibrationally – all it needed was some tuning.”

“And is it tuned now?” Anya raised a brow, referring to his attitude, rather than the crystal.

He nodded once, and pursed his lips, still shying himself from her regard. “Yes. It is…tuned.” Viktor gathered his decorum and straightened his back with a wince as he motioned from her to his partner. “Jayce, this is Miss Anya. She is a donor to the Academy; she graduated here from the Physics and Astronomy Department.”

“She’s more than that – she told me she’s the contact you’ve been sharing our notes with.”

Viktor looked at her, pleased that she felt safe enough to divulge part of her involvement. “Yes, Miss Anya and I have worked together before.”

She took her notebook and began to approach Viktor. “We are friends.”

Viktor knew she meant to educate Jayce on the nature of their relationship, but he also knew it was a reminder for him. He spent years friendless and alone, that he knew the reminder of its meaning was necessary. “Indeed.”

“May I speak with you, Viktor?” she asked.

“Please,” he agreed and motioned for the hallway outside the lab.

Jayce watched the pair exit the lab and disappear into the shadows; he could hear vague words in another tongue, hushed and reticent, and he wondered how they knew each other. Viktor never spoke of a romantic interest – he rarely divulged personal details about himself at all. But he recognized in Viktor a look of indelible love – great admiration and awe: he looked on her as if she were carved of marble, sacred and haunted, possessed with the spirit of some greater thing than he.

“I wanted to apologise for yesterday afternoon,” Anya said.

Viktor shook his head, adamantly. “No – it is I who should apologise.”

“I did not mean to pressure you, or make you feel uncomfortable,” she continued.

He sighed and put his head in his hand. “If I felt any discomfort, it was of my own making – not yours,” he paused and shook his head again. She looked on him with worried eyes, and saw what lay beneath him. It was futile to lie to her, or obscure any truth about himself. “I want to accept your offer. But nothing I do will ever be enough to repay you.”

“I know this worry weighs heavily on your heart,” she said and took his hands. “I have thought of a solution: I will be not only your patron, but your investor. That way, anything I have given to you, will be inherently paid off by the work you produce. You will never have to worry about a debt unfulfilled.”

His shoulders dropped as his breath fled from him, and a weight was relieved from his soul.

“Will you accept my offer, with these conditions?”

He nodded, still breathless, and his hands held onto hers with gratitude. “I do.”

“I hate to see you so tired…” she passed one hand along the darkness gathered beneath his eyes, “...my dear Viktor.”

“Forgive me for how I acted yesterday,” he said and kissed her hand. “My mind has been tired, and I have not felt myself.”

“Hopefully now you can rest – unworried about provision. Rest – though I know you despise it –, and dedicate yourself to the science you love. Leave the assistant work behind. You work for no one, but yourself."

"And Jayce."

Anya looked towards the lab, where the broad outline of his newfound friend could be seen in the distance. She hummed, unconvinced. “He is young. But he speaks with such conviction.”

“You doubt him?”

“I do not doubt his intentions for the good of all sentient beings, but he is sure of himself, and of his goals. Such conviction can make someone blind. It can cultivate hubris.” She looked at Viktor again, and pressed her fingers into his. “Follow your endeavours wherever they might take you – but do not forget yourself, my dear Viktor. Stay, always, my wonderful friend.”

He looked on her with curiosity, but heeded her nonetheless; his thumbs caressed the tops of her hands, and he nodded carefully in agreement. Her kind were blessed with the gifts of magic and foresight, and he wondered if there was some figment of the future to which she had been privy; but he hesitated to ask, and found himself afraid of her answer.

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retlasute · 10 months

Text

॰ In The Rich Man's World ॰

• ✦ You are the best archeologist the Speedwagon Foundation has ever hired. But you know that your intelligence and capacity are not the attributes that keep you in this very important position in the company. And your salary? It's not enough to pay to fix your Cadillac. The last few months have been summed up in tracking eccentric phenomena of nature; as well as weekly receiving a batch of corpses hundreds of years old to analyze and deliver them to other departments of the Speedwagon Foundation. But the reasons for such an arduous and unique investment in research of Incorruptibility are still a mystery to you. ✦ •

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Graphic depiction of violence, sexual assault, explicit language, recreational drug use, alcoholism, Steel Ball Run spoilers, period typical attitudes, sexism, NSFW, and a bunch more

Word count: 5321 (yeah i only write long shit)

☆ Table of contents

Next Chapter

Chapter 1 - Knowing Me, Knowing You

You rolled over on the bathroom floor and mumbled something like ''Aaaaargh!''. You chewed on some dry air and spit it out; opened one eye to see if it really would open; then you opened the other and closed the first; closed the second one, straightened up, opened your eyes again, and stretched. It was a daily practice and this time the only notable thing was that you had a hangover and that it had happened on a Wednesday morning and...

Yesterday was Monday.

Well, you knew it was Wednesday. But there was a problem: even though you had no doubt that yesterday was Monday, there was a gap between Monday and now, a gap that should have been filled by Tuesday. If a person falls asleep and lies there all night without dreaming, he is aware, when he wakes up, that time has passed. The person has not done anything that he can remember; he thought of nothing; he has no means of calculating time, and yet he knows that some hours have elapsed. The same happened to you. Tuesday was gone for five hours of last night's sleep.

But you didn't sleep on Tuesday. No, no. You were pretty sure you were drinking, judging by the bottles of wine strewn about in the hallway. In fact, you never slept more than five hours at a time, and there was no particular reason why you should now. Monday was the day before yesterday; you had gone to bed and slept at your usual hours, then you woke up – and it was Wednesday.

It felt like Wednesday. It was a Wednesday feeling that hung in the air.

You put on your coat and got up. You weren't mistaken. You knew what day it was.

''What happened to yesterday?'' You mumbled. ''Oh... Yesterday was Monday.''

That was enough until you changed your clothes and showered.

''Monday.'' You mused, picking up your lab coat. If you were restless enough, you would think about it more. But you weren't. You were comfortable with that, for some reason.

In general, you were a very conformed person, who got into a routine and only got out of it by force. You work as a researcher and archaeologist for an oil company called Speedwagon Foundation, earning $18 an hour; that's why you had been practicing your profession for two years and would continue to practice it if you could find a Tuesday to go back to the laboratory.

Guided by reflexes, as usual, and without making any mental effort, you ate breakfast and got into your Cadillac Seville. Your father bought this car just after its launch year, but he soon gave it to you as he found public transport and taxis too dangerous.

In less than fifteen minutes you arrived at the Speedwagon Foundation building. That was one of the dozens that were scattered across the United States. But that particular building, located in a quiet industrial neighborhood in Washington, had a special air on that Wednesday.

You parked your car, locked it, and pocketed the keys, walking on the cracked cement of the floor while trying not to overbalance in your heels. Though the hangover destroyed you, you still had to maintain the professional, seductive air that seemed to be the only thing keeping your job in this place, according to your boss.

When entered the building, you greeted all of your co-workers. And there was something there that made you stop and think.

It was all unfinished.

The tables were still in place, but the hostess wasn't there. Also, the chairs sharing their usual cushions, the slightly cracked tables, the beige wallpaper with two repeating swans, the tube television in the corner of the break room, and the sloping armchair. But everything was about to be finished. Not that there were holes in anything. The old Robert O. Speedwagon painting was still there. However, there was the smell of old cut wood, a subtle and stubborn air of the environment under construction in the room and objects. It was indefinable, irresistible, and you remained motionless, absorbed and thoughtful. You looked around suspiciously but didn't see anything you could really be suspicious of. Then you shook your head and walked out into the hall.

On the stairs a four-foot-tall man was delicately scraping the third step from the top with a sharp chisel, making a new scar in the dirty wood. He looked up as you approached and immediately jumped to his feet.

''Hello.'' You said, looking at the little man's leather coat, his pointed hat, and his small, withered, bright-eyed face. ''What are you doing?''

''Fixing.'' He announced. ''Mister Thom has a nail in the sole of his shoe. He came out of the office later on Monday and scratched the wood on this step. The job needs to be done before Wednesday.''

''Today is Wednesday.'' You corrected.

''Of course. Was always. Always will be.''

You ignored him and started up the stairs, absentmindedly making sure it wasn't your heels scuffing the wood. You acquired your impressive passivity thanks to your job and the practice of ignoring everything when you couldn't understand. But one thing still bothered you.

''You said Thom left work late Monday?''

''Yes. I saw Miss Louise lock up the lab just before he went downstairs.''

''You're crazy, man. Louise has a cold, she's not coming to work this week.'' You scolded him.

''She's better, she came to work today.''

''Stop pranking. And why didn't she come on Monday?''

''She came on Monday! I'm sorry, but I have to get back to work. We can't leave anything behind, you know. Tuesday will be over soon and everything should be ready before then.''

This guy is really crazy, you thought and smiled without much conviction. You shook your head. Weird morning, that one. It was a good thing you would soon be at the lab, where you kept a sample of an incorrupt body dipped in formaldehyde, ready to be sent for necropsy. After you got your head together, you could forget all that nonsense. That's all that matters to you: work, eat, sleep, and wait for payday.

The third floor was busy – but it always had been. Just not in that way -. There were a lot of people, even from other areas, concentrated in Ward 2. That was your ward. Everything was just the way you left it, including the notes on the blackboards and the body parts in formaldehyde. If there was something you didn't know about preserving and finding bodies, it wasn't important. And watching the scene, you couldn't get a general idea of what was going on.

Among the swarm of men in lab coats, a mane of red hair stood out, walking away from the crowd and bumping into you. Louise. You and she were the only women working in that building - if not that company - and that fact brought you together on and off the job. But didn't she have a cold? What was she doing there?

''What's going on, Louise?'' You ask the young woman who has hurried past you, holding her lightly by the shoulders. The hangover headache still had a giddy effect on your mind.

''Oh, (Y/N), where were you last night? I called you a thousand times! We did it, (Y/N)!''

''What? Sorry... Can you repeat that? I don't know if I understand.''

''Oh, jeez... Alright,'' she said, looking around to check out the rapt group of co-workers, in a turbulent sea of white and gray lab coats. ''let's go get some coffee.''

She guided you by the shoulders away from the noise, acknowledging your sorry state. People there hardly ever made coffee pure, bitter and made for a person with a hangover; so there were only capsules of latte and cinnamon cappuccino, which Louise was forced to put in the coffee machine to offer to her irresponsible friend. The machine delivered the latte with a perfectly balanced foam, a pleasant temperature, and a flavor worthy of an encapsulated coffee. You drank it slowly, trying to get used to the bitter mix of flavors in your mouth.

''Let's take it easy...'' Louise said, sitting down opposite you and resting her chin childishly in her hands, sliding a report across the table towards you.

''You can just tell me what we did.''

''See for yourself.''

You peeked at the paper over your cup of latte, restraining yourself from spitting it out right away.

Seeing in lay eyes, there was nothing much. But in your eyes, that was a lot. 39.704768, -74.633310. Coordinates, followed by necropsy reports. Radiation measurements, bone structure analysis, endurance tests, and a dozen more tests were done last night when you were partying at a glow party with your friends. So many reports ready in so little time could only mean one thing.

''Is that... What I'm thinking?'' You asked, wiping away the last of the latte that clung to your lips. ''That's it...''

''Project Ecclesiastes. Yes.''

You smiled, took a deep breath, and laughed. A relieved, choppy laugh you've been saving for months for this moment. You didn't sleep well and your legs were wobbly, even though you were now sitting up.

''Where is it? Does Thom already know about this? Oh, of course he knows! Where is Thom?! You said that to...''

''Hey, hey, calm down, (Y/N)! We have all the time in the world. Have your coffee and let's see the finished project when everyone leaves the lab. See, the kitchen has never been so empty! Nobody wants to miss work today!''

''You're right... But do you already know its identity? I mean... Did all these exams point to something relevant?''

''Nothing truly relevant, but it's certainly intriguing. Male, died aged thirty-three, of typical Middle Eastern origin. Dark brown to black hair, brown eyes...''

''Eyes?''

''Yeah, eyes.''

''Eyes?!''

''Eyes, (Y/N)! We have never found a body in such a good state of conservation!''

''Oh my God!''

''What are you doing here? Talking about makeup and hair, drinking coffee? Do you think you're in a restaurant?'' A voice in the background echoed and you both looked towards the door. A man in a lab coat and disheveled hair had come in to drink a glass of water. You assumed he was one of Louise's coworkers, as you've seen her hanging out with him a few times, although she didn't seem to like him very much.

''(Y/N) was late and I offered her a coffee, that's all, Ed.'' Louise snapped, frowning.

''Oh, so she got a coffee for being late to work? If that's the case, I'm going to change my alarm clock starting today.''

''Excuse me...'' You got up quickly, slightly embarrassed, and started walking towards the door with the cup of latte in your hand, causing the unfriendly conversation between Louise and her co-worker to become muffled behind you.

You walked in long strides to the laboratory where you used to work; it wasn't yours, but essentially everyone knew you were the person who spent the most time there. Louise, cursing, ran after you; but suddenly, in the space between you two, a big pale hand appeared. The void receded, displaying an opening between the laboratory and the inconsistent, blind nothingness. From there emerged a tall man wearing formal clothes and a lab coat with more pockets than usual. Louise bowed her head in front of the newcomer. There was no one in that building with more noble and imposing features, with shoulders so broad that they looked like a large trunk. The man stopped with the backs of his hands propped on his hips, looking at Louise as if she were something someone forgot to sweep up.

''Thom!'' You and Louise said in unison, your eyes wide, but she cared far more than you did to show respect.

''Good morning to you ladies.'' He said sharply. ''(Y/N), I hope I brought some justification for your lateness on such an important day.''

''Oh... Yes, of course. I wasn't feeling very well, you know... But what's going on?'' You asked, baffled by your lack of professionalism.

''You'll need to see for yourself.'' He walked forward, ignoring the space your body occupied and bumping into you. ''I thought Louise had already explained everything to you.''

Louise murmured and you were silent, looking at some things on your desk that you didn't remember putting there. On the table were a ton of papers and cups of cold coffee; as well as your computer and various tools and scalpels... a complete mess. But what really caught your attention was a kind of pile lying on the floor. It was the same size as glass, its ends were shaped like a nut on a screw, and the two poles connected with an aluminum cable whose sides extended into other wires attached to a structure that you imagined was built in the space of time that should have been Tuesday. Louise didn't seem to notice, or at least she already knew it was there.

Thomas Foster, responsible for managing the main headquarters of the Speedwagon Foundation in Washington DC. He stopped in front of your desk, making a smooth gesture for Louise to go away and close the door behind her. You noticed all his gestures, but you didn't say or did anything, leaving Louise to obey him promptly. Dark brows, elegant and shapely lifted, intrigued and inquiring, as he smoothed over a few messy strands of your hair.

''Ecclesiastes.'' He muttered as you looked around the lab, looking for any signs of the corpse amidst the mess.

''Neither the wise nor the fool will be remembered forever... Both will be forgotten.'' You completed, inert.

The hangover still clouded your mind, but now the clear figure you were looking for was just ahead, on top of an ordinary stainless steel autopsy table. Delicate, reminiscent, with vivid and aged traits of someone who once was. Man. Thirty-three years. Middle East. Brown to dark hair. Maybe that was your life's work, but that wasn't what blew you away.

''You... You went to get the body instead of me?''

''You weren't answering the calls, so yeah.''

''Oh... I'm sorry, I don't know how I could have been so careless. I...''

''It's okay, (Y/N).'' You felt the warmth of his hand on your shoulder. The heat was so strong it seeped through the fabric of your clothes. ''Louise was a great help.''

''So... you worked with her late?''

''Yes. Why?''

''Nothing... I just thought she had a cold.'' You cleared your head and smiled. ''Come on, Thom, do what you always do. Answer some of my questions.''

He smiled and corrected his posture, his relaxed eyes looking directly into your face.

"What's on your mind, (Y/N)?"

''I read the report, but most of the results were blurred. How many parts were the corpse divided into?''

''Nine. Legs, arms, ears, torso, eyes and head. Some kind of... accessory was found next to the corpse, let's do a DNA test to confirm whether or not it belongs to the corpse.''

''Was the corpse recently divided?''

''Evidently not.'' He replied, motioning you to approach the corpse for a better look. ''There are official records from 1890 that mention the location of a vertebral column with the same characteristics that we found in this corpse. We're talking about a corpse that's at least... I mean... At least 85 years old since it was... Ah, you know.''

You looked at him and his sudden nervousness at mentioning it, raising one of your eyebrows as if your look said it all. He didn't look back at you and took a deep breath, he looked a bit stressed and tired. So you looked back at the corpse and figured the news in question must date from 1890 onwards. So it wasn't exactly the headlines of the day. In the office, the only subject was a phenomenon that you had been studying for months called Devil's Palm.

''I saw the coordinates that found the corpse. They were the same ones I had recorded on my DP tracker. Is there any explanation for this?''

''Explanations, no. Pieces of information, yes. The corpse was kept in a kind of iron coffin, a farmer found it and reported it to the fire department.''

''And how did they let you take it?''

''It is not relevant information. What you need to know, (Y/N), is that we still have a lot of work to do, and you will have a partner in the future.''

''Right... Wait, partner? They didn't tell me anything about it.''

''I'm saying it now, in advance.''

''But why? Did I do something wrong? I mean... I wasn't on my work schedule when Louise called me yesterday, technically not my fault, and...''

"It's okay, (Y/N), you didn't do anything wrong." He cut you off, placing a hand on your shoulder and looking at you calmly. ''I can't tell you for sure who your partner will be, but I have some idea who it is.''

You stayed quiet and stared at him. Thom leaned toward you, close to your face, speaking out of the corner of his mouth like a movie gangster in a roguish way.

''I, huh... borrowed some reports from the boss.''

''You're the boss, Thom.'' You gave a not-very-genuine smile.

''Yes, your boss. But I also have a boss. You won't tell anyone, right?''

Amused, you promised not to reveal his terrible secret and looked around for a comfortable armchair where you could receive the latest revelations from the 19th century and your laboratory. The chair closest to the window seemed suitable when Thom poured him a glass of whiskey as he sat down. And by the way, thank god you had sat down. That heel was strangely uncomfortable today like there were dozens of needles inside the insole. Strange, you thought, these weren't usually uncomfortable heels.

You drank the whiskey elegantly and ignored the pain in your feet.

''Incredible luck, (Y/N).'' He exclaimed excitedly, flipping through the already battered stack. ''I found a whole series of military and informal dispatches that mention the corpse. All of them are concentrated over a period of 116 days.''

''116 days? In 1890? How did these dispatches stand the test of time?''

''Like I said, incredible luck.'' He dragged his chair closer to yours, carefully sorting through a pile of documents and spreading them out on the table. ''The oldest is from September 16, 1890, and the most recent is from January 19, 1891. Do you know what happened during that time frame?''

''I don't know... Oklahoma and fried chicken come into existence?''

''Also... I mean, I don't know, but maybe. I'm talking about Steel Ball Run, (Y/N).''

You can't help but laugh.

''Steel Ball Run?'' You asked, crossing your arms.

''Never heard of it?''

''Well, yes, but when I was nine. I had to do a paper for school about it... We all came in with hobby horses and cowboy hats. I'm not surprised it's on the list of the silliest events of mankind.''

He laughed but in a short way.

''The Steel Ball Run was what it was and there's nothing I can do about it. I just want to find out. The documents and letters are strange, for that particular time; most are without stamps or signatures, and everything indicates that the main means of delivery was through carrier pigeons. One of the letters, received in the United States on October 29, 1890, bears the coat of arms of the Vatican.''

''Vatican? Talking about the corpse?''

''Yes.''

You were stunned for a few seconds, but then you recovered.

''So it's definitely an incorrupt body...''

''I'm not sure, check it out.''

He handed you the letter, a knowing smile on his face. You read it slowly and calmly, letter by letter.

''Signor Gyro Zeppeli,

There are no existing records of such saints.

That is all.''

Thom, unable to sit still any longer, stopped your reading.

''See it... At that time they already had suspicions that this corpse belonged to a saint, although they were not confirmed.''

''And they didn't even need confirmation...'' You commented, looking at the pile of other letters about the corpse that were sent in that period. ''Who is that Gyro Zeppeli? A researcher?''

''I looked him up in the university database that held these files.'' He stopped to drink more whiskey. The gulp visibly traveled down his long, chiseled neck, making his Adam's apple shimmer. ''I have a lot of information about a long Italian lineage called Zeppeli, but only one record about Gregorio Zeppeli's eldest son, Iulius Caesar, leaving for the American continent in March 1890.''

''What a presumptuous name... But using a false identity on another continent? Now I don't think he's a researcher. Is he an ancestor of Jimmy Page?''

''Jimmy Page?''

''You know, the guitarist from Led Zeppelin.''

''Led Zeppelin? I thought it was a person, not a band!'' He said, laughing.

''Jesus, Thom!'' You laughed along, raising your eyebrows. ''And you still insist on saying you're not old!''

''I'm not old, just too mature for rock bands!''

''Ah, yeah, yeah... sure.'' You replied with an enhanced tone of irony, still laughing. ''But this Zeppeli family... were they aristocrats or something? You said they had a lot of records about them.''

''An extensive lineage of doctors and executioners from the kingdom of Naples. They developed a unique technique... Ever heard of the Fibonacci sequence?''

''Fibonacci? I got a bunch of red marks in high school because of this bastard. Are you telling me he was a Zeppeli?''

''No. Fibonacci was a Fibonacci, (Y/N).''

''Oh, of course.'' You laughed. ''Anything else?''

''Well... '' His eyes lifted to his face. ''Just some theories from me and... we need to talk about your future partner.''

''Let's talk about me later.'' You got up slowly and took the bottle of whiskey to fill both your glasses. ''Tell me what you're thinking, Thom.''

You can see that, despite his apparent outward restraint, he was bubbling over with whatever he had discovered, like a little boy with a frog in his pocket. Obviously, you would have to listen to everything he had to say this time, sitting on the arm of his chair, with your thighs resting against his torso and his arm draped around your hip.

Thom was so absorbed with the corroded papers that he barely looked up when he felt the rising heat of your body. Now and then he would reluctantly hand you over and peek at them as if he couldn't bear to have the papers out of his sight even for an instant.

''Really?'' You said politely, fingering the grimy pieces of paper. ''Hmmm... yes, very interesting.''

In fact, the ornate handwriting was so worn and elaborate that it didn't seem worth deciphering. One leaf, better preserved than the rest, bore a sort of crest at the top.

''Steel Ball Run, right?'' You asked, carefully analyzing the stamped paper, with the faded figure of a horse galloping on a horseshoe and the letters printed underneath in a kind of ranking, clearer than the manuscripts.

''Yes, that's right.'' He said, even more beaming. ''A record of the winner of one of the stages, as you know.''

You didn't know, but you nodded intelligently, knowing as you knew your boss in the mad rush of discovery. It was seldom necessary to do more than shake the head now and then, exclaiming "Oh, really?" or "Absolutely fascinating!" at appropriate intervals.

After a certain amount of deferential exchange between you and Thom, he has earned the honor of telling you about another discovery. Evidently, most of that old paperwork indicated that the promoter of the Steel Ball Run, the famous Stephen Steel, was not only an undefeated organizer of the race but also a trusted agent of the twenty-third president of the United States, Funny Valentine, coming up with the idea of the transcontinental race fully sponsored by the government and by the oil company Speedwagon.

''The investments in the search for this corpse are for a reason after all.'' You elegantly urged him to say more about it.

''Yes, that's true, but we still don't know the exact reason.'' He said, taking the paper from your hands and placing it on the table. ''I'll need to check more things out of the university's kept records.''

''All this is... absolutely fascinating.'' You murmured, letting your attention drift to the man's slender hands that were now sliding over the thin fabric of your pantyhose. ''Really, we still have a lot of work to do.''

His breathing became deeper and deeper. He made you get up and sit on his lap, bending you down to kiss him. This went on for a long time and his hands trailed down, finding the buttons on your blouse and unfastening them. His warm breath tickled your breasts. Finally, your clothes were open from neck to waist, covered only by your bra.

''Oh...'' He said, in a different voice. ''We still have unfinished business.''

''Unfinished business?'' You questioned in a low voice as you ran your hands through the short, black strands of his hair.

"We haven't talked about you yet, (Y/N)..."

You cut him off with yet another kiss. He groped your back in gentle, steady motions, pressing you against his body until your hips fit perfectly.

''Then say it.'' You replied, tilting your head to lightly nip his earlobe.

Affected by the numbness of anticipated pleasure, Thom enunciated his words practically and automatically.

''Your new partner...'' He began, his face buried between your breasts. ''It's Louise... she got promoted... she's going to work in the lab next week.''

You stopped suddenly, surprised. The only words your mind recorded were ''Louise'' and ''promoted''. Sensing your hesitation, Thom lifted his head and looked at you.

''Something wrong, sweetheart?''

Your wide eyes stared into his and an icy wave of indignation coursed through your body. The fact that your new partner was Louise wasn't something that bothered you, but why would she get a promotion and you wouldn't? Why were you angry about this? She was your friend, and you weren't jealous or envious. Thom was your boss who occasionally asked you to have sex, that should put you in some privileged position, right? You liked him but at the end of the day you were preserving your career.

''Louise was promoted? But she isn't even a scientist...''

''Well, yes. She works in the HR department... she will start to regulate the laboratory area.''

''She will... Will you supervise my work, Thom?''

''What?'' He let out a nervous laugh. ''Don't get me wrong, (Y/N). We just thought you might need some assistance now that...''

''Assistance?! You put Louise to supervise me!''

You quickly extricated yourself from his arms and stood up, fastening the buttons on your blouse and straightening the rest of your wrinkled clothes. Undeniably outraged by this turn of events, Thom made a frustrated gesture with his hands and also stood up, looking at you as he ran a hand through his hair. He always did that when he was too stressed.

''What did you want me to do, (Y/N)? Louise has been a great worker within her department!''

''A great worker?! What about me?! I've been tracking the fucking Devil's Palm for months, I developed an automatic tracking program that you used to find that damn corpse! That shitty dry body is here, in this lab, because of me!''

''For God's sake, (Y/N), you were totally wasted the night we needed you! The corpse is only here because Louise talked to that farmer!''

''Oh, good for her! I was already done with my damn shift, Thom. I developed the program that you guys use so much! I should have been promoted!''

''You're lucky you're not unemployed right now, (Y/N)!'' This time, his voice was loud and angry enough for the entire building to hear, including the poor janitors behind the door.

''What?'' Shaken, you stammered. "What did you say?"

''Do you know how many complaints I get every day because of your insubordination? Or did you think that working hungover and offending your co-workers are things the Speedwagon Foundation condones? I'm the only reason you're still here, (Y/N). You are a damn ingrate, you should be silent and keep your head down!''

Yes, silent and head down. You thought. That was the way to face the situation and leave that room in cold blood. Your blood, however, was far from cold. You were seething with anger and agitation and could not calm down. After a few seconds in this state, your face was flushed, and your head began to throb.

''No.'' You said. ''I'm the one who keeps everyone in this company. It's because of me that the corpse was found, it's because of me that we'll never lose the location of the Devil's Palm, and it's because of me that the competing foundation didn't beat us! It's because of me, I deserve the credit! I developed the program, I examined dozens of batches of mummified corpses, and I finished the necropsy on each one of them! Me, Thom, just me! All the other good-for-nothings only served to pass me scalpels! It's because of me that your boss hasn't slit your neck yet, because he doesn't know you go around banging the employees!''

''You're crazy, (Y/N)! You have to thank me for still working here!''

You glared at him, snorting. Ideas of what to do next were in short supply at the moment, despite the time you knew you'd spend hammering away at the problem. You decided, then, that storming out of that building was the best alternative you could have. And you did.

The door opened violently and you saw a mixture of surprised and curious faces in the hallway, including Louise's, who was holding two cups of latte – one of which you deduced was yours –. You ignored everyone and kept walking, not bothering to be followed by the red-haired girl.

''Hey, (Y/N)! What happened? I heard a lot of screaming.'' She questioned, walking hurriedly and being careful not to spill the drink she was holding, that's when she noticed that she was too far away from you. ''Damn, how can you walk so fast in those heels?''

You didn't look back, you just deftly descended the stairs, not worrying about scratching them again and prepared to walk through that door and add that event to your list of recalcitrance at that company.

''Oh, alright, you want to be alone...'' You heard Louise babble while she was still going down the stairs. Obstinate, you just opened the door and walked through it to the parking lot. ''I'll call you later, okay? Just to make sure you're okay!''

#jojos bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #diego brando #johnny joestar #johnny x reader #jjba part 7 #jesus #steel ball run #gyro zeppeli x reader #Diego Brando x reader #time travel #archaeology #speedwagon foundation #jojo kimyou na bouken

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the-service-weapon · 4 months

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Honestly, Canon!Saga will hightail it the fuck out of Bright Falls first chance she gets. She may end up working for the FBC but will always be wary of Bright Falls. She will never like Alan for endangering her daughter and putting her through hell.

But I am a fan of transformative works—so this is me focusing on a different version of the characters.

In my version, Saga joins the FBC and, unfortunately, ends up joining the ExSpouse club along side Casey and Kirin as a result.

By this point, 5 years has elapsed and her daughter has started college (maybe even at a west coast school?). So, when the FBC asks her and Casey to relocate to Bright Falls to help resettle The Lake House—whose main mission is to explore/research the Dark Place, but now also potentially recover Doctor Darling—she agrees.

Casey agrees because Saga agrees.

He is technically semi-retired and only works for the FBC on a part-time basis, so he doesn’t go out on field missions a ton—but I like to think being possessed by the Dark Presence gave him some mild but handy parautilitarian abilities.

The one that makes him most valuable to the FBC, however, is his interesting bond with Alan—who seems to have become a figure who can pop in and out of different versions of reality at will via his writing.

The FBC would very much like to have Alan as a permanent member of their team—I’m not convinced they didn’t try to capture him for interrogation after the event of Alan Wake 2 but lost him after he used his own blood to write his way out of their cell someone got fired over that—but he’s keenly eluding them.

Alan has very little interest in helping the FBC, his primary goal is finding Alice and he’s pretty pissed at them for tossing him in a cell right after he escaped 13 years of imprisonment.

However, he does feel guilty about what he put Saga and Casey through, so he’s willing to help them (with them kind of acting as liaisons between Alan and the FBC, when they really need info).

Anyway, due to the metaphysical bond between him and Casey, Casey can sort of…summon Alan into their reality.

It’s similar but not as direct a method of communication as Saga’s Mind Place technique (which is still spotty if she and Alan aren’t on the same plane of reality) but functions by Casey essentially focusing on Alan psychically and appearing as one of Alan’s “echoes”—which Alan sees while feeling an overwhelming compulsion to appear before Casey.

The visions will become more and more intrusive and the pull stronger and stronger the longer Alan attempts to ignore the “call.”

While Alan has discovered he can shut out Saga if he really wants to, he simply can’t manage it with Casey—who delights in discovering he now has a certain level of control over Alan.

If Alan ignores the call for too long, the visions become an overwhelming cacophony and the pull so great—he’ll be ripped out of whatever reality he is in involuntarily and deposited right at Casey’s feet.

(Again, Casey loves getting to do this. He’s almost disappointed now when Alan comes without much of a fight.)

However, Alan also discover the easiest way to voluntarily hop between any reality is find an Agent Alex Casey (real or fictional, such as worlds where Alex Casey is played by certain Finnish actors) and simply write the words “Time to visit my old friend, Casey.”

Alan will then immediately appear within a certain physical proximity to whatever version of Casey he focuses on.

It takes him a while to figure out the physical distance directly correlates to how close emotionally he is to that version of Casey.

He doesn’t have to travel realities by that method—it’s just the simplest way to do it.)

So, anyway, the whole gang ends up operating out of Bright Falls.

And—even better—Ilmo wiggles his way into being the guy who supplies their headquarters coffee supply.

Maybe he gets Saga to vouch for him—and is actually on the FBC’s payroll as a look out for paranatural shit on top of providing them excellent coffee—but either way he’s regularly in their office.

Hijinks ensue.

#alan wake 2 #yes this is compatible with au’s where Alex becomes Alan’s handler #yes it is sexy #and I ship them #no it will not stop Alan from rescuing Alice #our writer has two hands #also I ship illmo and Saga #I’m not sorry

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the-nihongo-adventure · 2 years

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🇯🇵vocabulary | online learning | 1

1. 教師　【きょうし】　→　teacher

2. 研修　【けんしゅう】　→　training

3. 了解　【りょうかい】　→　comprehension, understanding

4. 招待状　【しょうたいじょう】　→　written invitation

5. 確認　【かくにん】　→　confirmation

6. 努力　【どりょく】　→　effort, endeavour

7. 合格【ごうかく】 →　passing (an exam), success

8. 主催者　【しゅさいしゃ】　→　organiser

9. 交流　【こうりゅう】　→　(cultural) exchange

10. 国際交流　【こくさいこうりゅう】 →　international exchange

11. 日時　【にちじ】　→　date and time

12. 内容　【ないよう】　→　contents, substance

13. デザイン　→　design

14. 受講　【じゅこう】　→　attending lectures

15. 費　【ひ】　→　cost, expense (used as a suffix)

16. 講座　【こうざ】　→　course (e.g. of lectures)

17. お知らせ　【おしらせ】　→　notice, notification

18. 話題　【わだい】　→　topic, subject

19. 条件　【じょうけん】 → condition, requirement

20. 場面　【ばめん】　→　scene, setting

21. 開発　【かいはつ】　→　development

22. 体験　【たいけん】　→　experience

23. 実際　【じっさい】　→ practicality, reality

24. 教材　【きょうざい】　→　teaching materials

25. 課題　【かだい】 →　assignment, task

26. 活動　【かつどう】　→　activity

27. 国籍　【こくせき】　→　nationality, citizenship

28. 研究　【けんきゅう】　→　study, research

29. 返事　【へんじ】　→　reply, answer, response

30. 場合　【ばあい】　→　case, situation

31. 検索　【けんさく】　→　looking up (e.g. word in a dictionary)

32. 連絡　【れんらく】　→　contacting, getting in touch, communication

33. 講師　【こうし】　→　lecturer, instructor

34. 行動　【こうどう】　→　action, behaviour

35. 経つ　【たつ】　→　to pass (of time), to elapse

These are words I noted down while registering for an online course on Japanese teaching, so I used the theme of “online learning” for this vocab list.

#japanese #langblr #日本語 #vocabulary #words #learning #the nihongo adventure #13/10/2022

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 19 days

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Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 9: Pressure

Klaus pinches the bridge of his nose, doing his best to keep his temper in check. It’s proving exceptionally difficult. He’s getting close. He just needs to be patient for a little longer.

Full of displaced energy, he paces the length of the sitting room, wearing down the fibers in a 500-year-old rug. The object of his frustration sits in a wing-back chair in front of him, posture rigid and fingers clutching the armrests. Unease radiates off of her in waves.

They’ve been here for an hour now, sequestered in this quiet corner of the manor. For all his blustering, all his threats, questioning her has been more tasking than he’d expected.

She answers his questions politely enough. Things like:

How do you know Elijah? He saved my life.

What were the two of you planning? Nothing.

How are you able to do magic in the city? I don’t know.

Round and round they go in this dizzying little dance. She’s a stubborn thing, determined to circumvent his questions at every turn, to lie without lying. If he were anyone else, he might believe her. She’s but a novice compared to Klaus’ expertise in falsehoods. And he has had a millennium to perfect the art of getting people to talk. It is rather a point of pride.

Though she doesn’t give him the answers he’s looking for, the time elapsed isn’t without value. The entire time, he’s been sizing her up, surveying her every reaction. He knows her tells. She taps her fingers when she’s holding back, crosses her legs when a question makes her particularly uncomfortable. He uses these as his lead line, following faithfully until he has her where he wants her.

They will get there and soon.

If his unnaturally long life has taught him anything, it’s this: everyone breaks. It’s only a matter of finding the weakest spot and applying the right amount of pressure.

Most times, that pressure is violence. People respond very well to it. He doesn’t harm her, is determined not to unless she leaves him no choice. Not out of any notions of chivalry, but because he doubts it’ll be effective. And, ultimately, he will need her compliance.

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Really?” he asks, voice flat.

“Really.” Her fingertips press into the armrest. Not entirely the truth, then. It’s no matter, Klaus has done his research.

“I’m disappointed with your dishonesty. And here I thought we were getting along so well, but I suppose there’s nothing to be done,” he says, forlorn. He turns to her then. He wants to see her face for the next bit. “I’ll have to look for answers elsewhere then. Perhaps that charming little cousin of yours can help me, or maybe the pretty bartender from Rousseau’s.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Oh, but he would. He knows it and he knows she does too because her eyes flash with disbelief, anger, and then go bright with fear.

He restrains a grin. And there it is, the first crack in her defenses.

He watches her without a word as it spreads, fracturing like porcelain, and it is a beautiful sight to behold. When she exhales a broken shuddering sound, he knows he has her.

All she needs is one last little push.

“It’s frightening really, how easy technology makes everything.” He pulls his cell from his pocket and unlocks it. In his periphery, she fidgets uncomfortably at the non sequitur. With an air of disinterest, he continues, “For example, all I have to do is press this one little button and someone on the other line will snap darling Arabella’s neck like a baby bird. Hypothetically, of course.”

His thumb hovers over the dial button. Their eyes meet, locked in a life-or-death game of chicken, each waiting to see who caves first.

Her fingernails dig into the wood, nail beds white. Her cheek twitches, her eyes blaze in a last-ditch attempt at resistance. He moves his finger to make the call and—

“Wait!” she blurts out, and he has to repress his satisfaction. “Wait, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just please don’t hurt her.”

He takes his hand off the button, sets the phone within reaching distance on a nearby end table. “How very sensible of you.” Her chest heaves, as if she’s run a great distance. “Now, tell me how you came to be in league with my brother—the truth this time, love”

He hears her inhale as steadies herself and settles into a nearby chair, waiting patiently for her to gather her thoughts. She starts slowly, telling him of her arrival in New Orleans for a funeral, her lack of affinity with her own kind, and finding Jane-Anne’s body. He listens to the exposition absently, tucking the information away somewhere to be fetched should it prove relevant at a later date. Then she mentions his brother and his interest piques.

“A few weeks ago, a pair of nightwalkers attacked me on the Riverwalk. An Elder in the French Quarter coven sent them after me.”

“Of course.” Klaus has to suppress an eye-roll. Why is it that every time he turns his back, there’s another witch with a finger in the pie?

She shoots him a pointed look. “I held them back for a time. But there was no way I was going to walk away from it. That’s when Elijah stepped in.” Klaus snorts. Now that does sound like Elijah. “I was in pretty rough shape so he took me somewhere safe to see to my wounds-”

“This is all very precious, but will we arrive at an answer to my question anytime soon?”

Annoyance flashes in her eyes once more and this time, she puts a voice to it. “I’ll get there much faster if you don’t interrupt me.”

“Apologies, apologies,” he says, hands raising in a placating gesture. He can’t help a small, amused smile. She is a fiery little thing. “I’ll hold my questions until the end. Continue.”

“While he was cleaning me up, we talked. He told me about your family’s own trouble with the witches.” He straightens in his seat, leaning forward a fraction. Her eyes widen, as if catching his sudden intensity, because she adds, “He didn’t tell me much, only that the witches have some sort of leverage over you and brought you back to town to distract Marcel.”

His eyes narrow, assessing her. When he doesn’t detect any hint of a lie, he eases into his chair.

“That’s when he offered me a deal. His protection and resources for information.”

“What kind of information?”

If she’s irritated at his interjection, she doesn’t show it and Klaus doesn’t particularly care. He senses she’s reaching the zenith of the tale.

“On the witches, the vampires. Anything that might be connected. I refused, at first.” Klaus quirks a brow, savoring the mental image of the bewildered fury that Elijah undoubtedly experienced at having his careful plans thwarted. “I was going to go back to my life in New Mexico. I wanted nothing to do with any of it.”

“But things change.”

“Things change,” she echoes with a faint nod. “Let’s say I have my own score to settle with the witches now.”

In the fire's light, her eyes burn like melted copper. Her jaw tightens imperceptibly. It’s something he recognizes, has seen demonstrated many times over; mostly in himself. A consuming desire for retribution.

A shadow crosses her face, and the light dims, something sadder chasing it away. “And here we are.”

“Here we are,” he repeats, shifting to rest his ankle over his opposite knee. “But you missed one key detail.” Her head shoots up, expression curious. “You’re a witch. One that's used magic in Marcel's New Orleans and lived to tell the tale."

“Elijah...had a theory. My powers aren’t connected to the ancestral well like the rest of the coven. They’re weaker for it, but also means that whatever Marcel uses to track magic use, it keeps me off his radar. I’m…I’m sure that was a big factor in Elijah’s plans, but what those were, he never told me. And it’s not like I can exactly ask him now.”

He suspects there’s more. There will be time enough for that later. For now, he has exactly what he needs. It’s better than he could have anticipated, this little gift that his brother all but delivered to him on a platter.

Marcel has his secret weapon, his ace in the hole. And now Niklaus has his.

All that he has to do is keep her hidden. Miles away from New Orleans, protected by bayou and forest, there’s no better place.

She adjusts in her seat, a rustle of fabric that shakes him from his thoughts.

They’re at their limit for tonight. The girl, Lucie, is exhausted. He can see it in her slouching posture, the dimness of her eyes, and the dark circles beneath them.

He rakes a hand through his hair and concedes to his own exhaustion.

"That's enough for now," he says, rising. “The room at the end of the hall is mine, and Hayley’s claimed the one nearest the door. Take your pick of any of the others.”

He senses Hayley’s unsettled presence at the door where she’s been listening in for the last thirty minutes in a woeful attempt at subterfuge. Her breath catches, anger rolling off of her in waves.

Wolves and their tempers.

“Hayley, would you be a dear and show Lucie to the upstairs?” Hayley appears in the doorway. When Lucie hesitates, he adds, "Don't worry, love. It's not a full moon. She wont bite."

Hayley shoots him a sour look, then ushers for the witch to follow.

Two sets of footsteps retreat down the hall and up the creaky staircase. Klaus listens until there’s nothing left but the dull rumble of distant conversation before settling in with his thoughts.

The witch will know about Hayley and the baby soon enough if Elijah truly hasn’t divulged the full truth. Embers roil in his gut, hot and angry and so sudden, that he takes a moment to recognize the emotion as protectiveness. A desire to rip out her throat and silence forever her knowledge of his child. The ferocity confuses him. He stamps it down. Protectiveness leads to love and love leads inevitably to disappointment and betrayal. He slows his breath and curates his thoughts until the heat fades and there’s nothing left but cold pragmatism.

He needs this witch alive, needs her powers if he hopes to one-up Marcel in this drawn-out game of power. And if she should prove a complication, there’s no reason he can’t do away with her later.

____

The tall, model-esque woman leads her through trimmed hallways and up the staircase to the second floor. All the while, neither woman speaks a word.

Lucie watches her long brown hair swish back and forth across her back as they go, still wondering at this unexpected third party even as they come to a halt just beyond the top landing.

She expects the woman to show her to an open room and then leave her to brood in peace. Instead, she turns to her, arms crossed over her green tank top and looking unmistakeably angry.

Great.

Still, she doesn’t speak. Lucie shoots her a look as if to say what do you want?

The other woman eyes her head to toe, sizing her up. It doesn’t take a body language expert to see the blatant disdain radiating off of her. She huffs in annoyance, attempting to side-step the new hostile to find a bed to face plant into.

An arm darts out, followed by a body blocking her path.

Lucie rolls her eyes, stepping back so she can look her in the eyes. They’re almond-shaped, almost golden, and glinting with distrust. “Do you mind?”

“Listen, I know I have no say in you staying here, but we need to get a few things straight." Lucie’s brow arches, mirroring her posture, and she waits for her to continue. “I don’t know where Klaus found you or what your deal is, but I’m done with witchy bullshit. So if you even think about doing anything to me or my baby, I’ll kill you.”

“Noted. Any more threats or can I go to sleep? It’s been a hell of a day.”

Hayley eyes her long enough for Lucie to wonder if they’ll spend the entire night in the hall, and then, finally, takes a step away and frees her path.

Lucie doesn’t think, just grabs the handle of the nearest door and slips inside. It closes behind her with a soft click, the wood grain smooth and cold where it meets exposed skin as she presses her back against it to hold some of her weight.

Though it’s well into the later hours of the evening, she doesn’t bother with the lights. She feels a distinct aversion to the idea. The overhead light would bring the room into relief and only confirm the harsh reality of her situation, of the uncertain future now before her.

So she leaves it off, not that it matters in the end. The moonlight filtering through the open curtains is bright, bathing everything in a deep blue. It’s more than enough to navigate her way around the mahogany dresser, tiptoeing around a priceless chest to the bed. It’s the focal point of the room, the wooden knobs of the headboard intricately carved. Even in the dark, she can tell the craftsmanship is fine, and ornate but somehow more elegant than gaudy.

She settles on the edge, the plush mattress creaking under her weight. The comforter is soft as kicks off her boots and draws her knees to her chest.

The glass window is slightly clouded, a testament to its age, alongside the brittle-looking panes framing it. Beyond it, the night is clear and quiet. Growing up around the hustle and bustle of New Orleans, she finds the silence oppressive. It makes her uneasy, finding it hard to settle even as her thoughts turn back to the night’s events.

As angry as she is at Arabella, as unsure about her role in Violette’s death, she can’t bear the thought of Klaus harming her. Or Cami, for that matter. Yet the second part of his threat would have frightened her more if she hadn’t seen the two of them interact at Rousseau’s. She remembers the soft way he’d looked at her. True, she doesn’t know Klaus well, but something tells her he doesn’t look at just anyone like that.

In the end, she hadn’t told him much — not as much as she could have. Still, Lucie’s skin crawls, unable to escape the wrongness, the sensation of having resisted and yet somehow moving right where he wanted. Like a marionette on a miniature stage, dancing with the illusion of autonomy but the strings guided by someone else’s hand.

She isn’t sure how long she stares out the window, knees hugged into her chest. Only that at some point, she cracks open the window and finds her way under the thick covers. There’s a weight to the air here that the city lacks. Dense like the blanket holding her in place.

She’s on the verge of sleep, eyes growing heavy—

Wait. Did she say baby?

____

After the first night, Lucie finds herself mostly alone. She’s scarcely seen hide nor hair of Klaus since his interrogation, and Hayley makes herself scarce. On the odd occasion they cross paths, the interaction is clipped to the barest amount of communication necessary.

Not that Lucie minds. She’s content to give her new housemate a wide berth. Call it a healthy mixture of standoffishness and self-preservation. Despite a lifetime in a coven of witches and decent working knowledge of vampires, she knows relatively little about werewolves. And though she’s fairly certain they aren’t a threat unless there’s a full moon, she isn’t willing to stake her life on it. Besides, something tells her that, wolf or not, Hayley can hold her own.

So she keeps to herself, stifling curiosity down in pursuit of other distractions. The house—even if it can even be called that—is massive in a way that borders on ridiculous.

She spends a lot of time exploring. At first, it’s with the hesitation of a child afraid of being caught out of bed. But with each venture, she grows bold, until the trepidation abates and is replaced with a surprised realization that Klaus isn’t lurking in the shadows to bust her and banish her to a locked cell somewhere.

She passes by him one evening, on her way to the kitchen, tries to sneak by the parlor where he’s slumped in an armchair, arms draped over the rests and angled toward the fireplace. Burning logs crackle and pop, the shifting flames illuminating his features in a warm flow. His eyes are fixed on it, reflecting the smoldering embers. Long fingers wrap around a glass of amber liquid. The acrid, earthy smell of bourbon reaches her as he takes a sip, expression indecipherable but markedly serious.

She’s been watching too long now from the doorway. It’s time to move on. When she steps forward, an ancient floorboard creaks, and she finds herself no longer looking at his profile but into tired blue eyes.

Freezing like a deer in the headlights, she waits. For what, precisely, she isn’t sure. Some form of cruel retribution for sneaking about and disturbing his privacy. He’s certainly the tit-for-tat type.

“Long night?” It’s stilted, uncomfortable, but she isn’t sure what else to say.

He stares at her for a stretch of seconds, as if she’s a particularly frustrating riddle. She watches the glass tip; the bourbon disappearing into his mouth.

“Something like that,” he says evenly. “Tell me, do you normally skulk about everywhere like a restless ghost or is this a recent development?”

“No skulking, just ah…going to the kitchen.”

He blinks at her, a vague glassiness to his eyes, but alert nonetheless. Then, slowly, he inclines his head and turns his attention back to the flames and whatever he’s puzzling over in his head.

Lucie recognizes the dismissal. Normally his imperiousness would make her bristle, but mostly she’s relieved and mildly bewildered.

Stunned, she can only manage a small ‘goodnight’ before she leaves him to his drink.

____

If there’s one thing Lucie has these days, it’s time—in abundance. Long uninterrupted stretches with no occupation and no purpose beyond running down a clock that only resets itself at the end of every day.

All the while, Klaus plays his cards close to the chest. He doesn’t tell her how long she has to stay here, or what he’s planning to use her for. In fact, beyond the night in the parlor, she only catches glimpses of the Hybrid over the first few weeks. A pass by in the hallway, the muffled sound of his voice behind closed doors late into the night.

He offers her no deals, no equal partnership in his plans. To him, she’s a toy. A magic dispensing wind-up doll, fetched when it serves a purpose and then promptly placed back on the shelf to gather dust when its utility is done.

In a way, Lucie is relieved to be left alone on her shelf. She’s had more than enough of threats to last a lifetime and engaging in small talk seems like an acute form of torture.

She resigns herself to it, this strange half-life she’s found herself in, and waits for Klaus to determine a use for her. But it’s its own brand of hell, being trapped inside your own head.

There’s too much time to think. And so often these days, her thoughts turn to her ghosts. It’s like they follow her, Peter whispering her ear over her shoulder or Violette leaning over her at night. All the what-ifs and why-nots bounce echoes on an endless loop, intermingled with fury and guilt.

It forces her to dwell on the culmination of all the emotional turbulence she’s been at the mercy of since she arrived back in Louisiana. Likely even longer than that, if she’s being honest with herself. It shouldn’t surprise her, this inevitable come-down, but it does. The uncertainty and fear of those first days out here in the middle of nowhere trickle away from the drudgery of routine and boredom of an indefinite stay. It isn’t long before it twists itself into a lingering melancholy.

There’s a slowness to everything she does during these autumn days that blend seamlessly into one another, like wading through knee-deep mud. All the while, the pain creeps in and makes a home in her chest—dense like swallowed stones.

Every day, she makes it a point to acquaint herself with another part of the manor. She gets to know the stern faces outlined in faded oil paintings, learns which rooms get the best sun in the morning and which offer the most shade in the warmer parts of the day. She roams the hallways until she knows which boards creak and which parts of the wallpaper are starting to peel. If she expects familiarity to breed fondness, she is sorely mistaken.

Every priceless vase, every draped bolt of rich heavy fabric grates makes her uneasy. Like four centuries of inhabitants are watching her with judgemental stares. She judges them back with equal fervor.

Any lingering doubts or confusion about Klaus’ permissiveness about letting her have free run of the place are conclusively stamped out when she finally ventures out onto the grounds.

It’s early morning and uncommonly chilly. The grass is tipped with crystals of frost as she steps out on the front porch, wrapping a long cardigan tighter across herself. It’s one of several articles of simple, but sensible pieces that had turned up nearly folded on her bed a few nights into her stay. At first, she suspected they were loans from Hayley, but the fit of the clothes debunked the theory. After all, the other woman is long-legged and has at least half a head on Lucie. She figures the most likely option is that Klaus compelled some poor woman to part with a chunk of her wardrobe. At least she hoped that was the case. In those first days, she spends extra time examining the garments for blood.

The air is crisp, whispering promises of a rapidly approaching winter. At the edge of the horizon, the sun is a faint line of pale yellow. She watches it creep its way higher and higher from the east.

She tries her best not to think of Elijah. Most of the time, she does a good job. But now and then, in more idle hours when the harder feelings grow teeth — like this one—she thinks of him, wondering where he is and what he’s doing. Sometimes, trying to decide if he’s even alive.

Beyond the exposed, sprawling orchard, the entire property is walled in by nature. Dense thickets of brush and jagged trees almost certainly conceal steep inclines and murky marshland. Should she run, a broken neck or tumble into a bog would likely do her in, if whatever made its home in the harsh wilderness didn’t find her first.

Lucie feels stranded in a way she’s never experienced before.

____

In these sluggish, lonely days, she finds her greatest solace in a corner room on the first floor.

She would be hard-pressed to name a single book she’s finished in years, but she finds comfort in the study all the same.

She’s nestled into the cushions of the window seat, an ancient volume cracked open over her lap. It’s late afternoon. The breeze beyond the window is soft as it combs through blades of grass. She resists the urge to crack the window open. The room always smells of polished wood and parchment and spice. It’s become one of her favorite things, enough that she’s loathe to disturb it.

The page rustles as she flips it. A compendium of genealogy, the neat, scrawling script, outlines centuries of New Orleans bloodlines. She’s ginger with it. The book is undoubtedly priceless just like most of the collections that line the shelves.

She pauses. This section diagrams the branches stemming from one of the casket girls. Lucie skims the lines without really seeing, her vision blurred by the sudden prick of tears. It’s October 22 -what would have been her brother’s thirtieth birthday. They should be out celebrating, instead, she’s a prisoner in some bayou, and her brother, her brother is…

She closes the book with a little more than necessary. The nearest pillow suffers its intended fate instead, careening through the air as she chucks it blindly to the side as she cries out in frustration.

She watches its path. It bounces once, twice, and settles by the doorway, right next to a pair of bare feet.

Mortified, she follows the long legs upward to a pair of wide eyes and a bowed mouth with slightly parted lips.

Hayley blinks at her. Lucie’s face is hot as she averts it, batting desperately at her damp cheeks.

“Do you need something?” Her gaze fixes beyond the window, her voice thicker than she’d like.

“No...no,” Hayley says behind her. “Just heard a noise and thought I’d check it out.”

Lucie clears her throat and nods. When she finally dares a sidelong glance at the doorway, Hayley is gone.

She thinks the incident is forgotten, that maybe by some miracle, Hayley had missed the worst of her outburst. Until the next morning, when she’s greeted by the smell of cooking oil and the distinctive crackle of frying food as she descends the stairs.

Feeling better if not somewhat drained after a night of crying into her pillow, she follows the noise, rounding the corner into the kitchen to find Hayley hunched over the stove.

Her back is to her, but she must hear her enter because she says, “There’s a plate for you over on the table. If you want condiments, get them yourself.”

Lucie is glad she can’t see her bewildered expression as she pours herself a cup of coffee. She settles into a spot in the sunny breakfast nook and pulls the plate toward her for inspection.

The toast is burned at the edges and the eggs are a bit shiny. Lucie is grateful all the same. Knowing a peace offering when she sees one, she seizes a fork and spears a piece of egg into her mouth. The texture is interesting, but the flavor is good. She’s never been a picky eater.

Not long after, Hayley slips into a chair across from her with her own plate.

They each dig into their respective breakfasts, both seemingly content to sit in silence. Lucie tears a corner off her toast, using it as a vessel to scoop up her eggs.

“Listen, I get what it’s like, being dragged into all this and not having any say.” Lucie’s gaze darts to her face, confused. “God, I suck at this. What I’m trying to say is maybe I was a little harsh with you that first night.”

Hayley doesn’t seem the type for apologies, but she thinks this is as close as it gets.

She struggles to find a response, settling on a soft, “Thank you.”

Hayley nods, taking a long gulp of orange juice. “I meant what I said, though. Mess with me or my baby and I will kill you.”

Fair enough. They return to their meals in silence. Though, perhaps one that’s less uncomfortable than before.

She spares Hayley the odd glance, gears in her head turning all the while.

Hayley huffs after a few minutes pass. “I can hear you thinking from here. Whatever it is, you might as well ask before your ears start smoking.”

Lucie’s head pops up, locking eyes with Hayley. She only looks mildly annoyed.

“You keep mentioning a baby. You’re pregnant?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Nope,” she says around a bite. “Should I have?”

“I guess not,” Hayley shrugs. “I figured if Klaus didn’t tell you, Elijah would have.”

Lucie stills a little at the name, gingerly setting down her fork so it doesn’t clatter against her plate. Hayley seems suddenly subdued. It seems obvious now, sitting across from her in their home, but she forgets sometimes that Elijah existed here, and lived a life beyond their harried encounters. It occurs to her that the woman across from her likely feels his absence just as keenly. Does she ever feel betrayed too?

She wants to bring it up, but can’t find the words, their peace is still too tenuous. All she manages is a slight shake of her head.

“Well, it’s true. Say hello to the resident knocked-up werewolf.”

“And the father?”

Hayley gives her a pointed look, waiting for her to put the pieces together.

“Klaus? You can’t be serious. I thought vampires couldn’t have children.”

“They can’t,” Hayley confirms. “But werewolves can. And Klaus is a hybrid, so…”

Lucie tosses her head in disbelief. “Elijah mentioned the witches had some sort of leverage over Klaus but never specified what. It makes sense now.”

“‘Leverage’,” Hayley snorts, putting down her glass of orange juice. “That’s a nice way of saying that they kidnapped me, took me to the bayou, and performed some freaky ritual to connect me to Sophie Deveraux.”

Lucie pauses, something else clicking. “The witch that performed the spell, it was Jane-Anne, wasn’t it?”

“For all the good it did her.”

And another piece of the puzzle falls into place. For the first time since she came back, she thinks she’s starting to understand. Losing her daughter in the Harvest Ritual and no doubt desperate, Jane-Anne performed a spell to link the mother of Klaus’ unborn child and that’s how they’d brought him here.

Horrible, but objectively it fits. But it still doesn’t explain what their end goal is.

She sighs, trying to put it all together is giving her a headache.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Huh?”

“Thinking too hard.”

#elijah mikaelson fic #elijah mikaelson x oc #elijah mikaelson x ofc #keepsdeathhiscourt fic #original female character #elijah x ofc #elijah x oc #the originals fic

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