#and just living with the undersides of the icing being far less detailed

[clanoffelidae]

I have genuinely not gotten a decent night’s sleep since I started learning Blender on Sunday.

Is this the true Blender experience

[tripleaxeldiaz]

don’t wanna hand you all my trouble (don’t wanna give you all my demons)

TW: descriptions of nightmares about eddie's time in afghanistan, description of a panic attack

read on ao3

The nightmares don’t start after Afghanistan. They start when Eddie is seven and there’s a monster under his bed.

It wakes him from a dead sleep, and he swears he can hear the scratch of claws on the hardwood, the gnashing of teeth just beneath his head. He yells for his mom, who comes racing in like a knight in shining armor, even if her armor is just a bathrobe. She scours the underside of the bed and finds nothing, but stays with Eddie until he’s asleep again. He knows if that thing comes back, she’ll protect him no matter what.

He yells for her every time, and every time she comes.

Until one night, his dad comes instead.

That night, he sits Eddie on the edge of his bed, tells him that monsters aren’t real, and that boys shouldn’t yell for their mom every time they’re scared. That boys will one day turn into men who will have to fight off truly monstrous things on their own, so it’s best to start now so Eddie is prepared.

He stops yelling for his mom, but the monsters don’t stop coming.

They change as he gets older — from creatures in the night to fears of losing his friends or his family to worries about failing classes to worries about his future. Sometimes they’re so abstract he doesn’t remember details beyond the ice cold terror in his veins. They wake him every time, sometimes several nights in a row, and every time he fights the urge to yell, to find comfort somewhere other than himself. Reminds himself that he’s a man, and that men have to save themselves. He breathes deeply, tries to slow his racing heart and go back to sleep. He gets better at it, at calming himself down, until he eventually forgets he ever needed someone else to help him in the first place.

Then he goes to war. He sees the monstrous things his dad warned him about, and he’s not even close to prepared.

By the time he comes back, he’s seen and done things that would keep the scariest, gruesomest monster from sleeping soundly. He’s left chunks of himself behind in sand dunes and medic tents, drying into dust, disappearing into the desert. And he’s waking up in a cold sweat almost every night, mind foggy with images of the people he couldn’t save, everything he did wrong. But he still can’t make himself cry out for help, because he still remembers that he has to save himself. Even more so now, because saving himself means saving the people he loves from being exposed to every terrible thing that he sees every time he closes his eyes. 

So the nightmares don’t start after Afghanistan. But they don’t get any easier, either.

~~~~~~~~~~

He gets a few years of peace. Maybe less peace and more pure exhaustion from working nonstop and raising a kid on his own. He rarely falls into a deep enough sleep to feel rested, and there are still some nights where he wakes up to a vague feeling of panic sitting like lead in his stomach. 

The whirlwind of moving halfway across the country and starting his life over again keeps him just as tired. They’ve been in Los Angeles for six months before Eddie finally starts to feel settled. Chris loves his school, they have Carla, and Eddie has the 118. His new family and his new...Buck. For the first time in a while, he feels like he’s on his way to something like happiness.

So of course, one day, one seemingly good day where calls are light and Buck keeps shooting sunny smiles his way, he goes to take a nap in the bunks and is met with blood and screams. He’s trying desperately to move nameless bodies to safety, but he’s not fast enough, not strong enough. They’re screaming his name now, trying to get his attention as they’re picked off one by one. They get louder and louder and louder until—

“Eddie!”

He wakes with a start, doesn’t see bodies any more, just Buck, his brow furrowed in concern, hands held out placatingly towards Eddie. His head whips side to side a few times, remembering he’s at work and he’s safe. He sits up on the bunk, still shaken, crossing his legs as Buck moves to sit down beside him, slowly, like he’s waiting for Eddie to tell him to leave. Eddie doesn’t.

“Sorry Buck, I didn’t mean—”

Buck shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize. Are you okay?”

It’s been a while since anyone has asked him that.

“I’m fine, just a bad dream.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No one’s ever asked him that.

And the thing is, his first instinct is to say yes. Because he does — he wants to expel some of the pent up terrors so that maybe he can sleep soundly again. He wants to drain it from his mind, watch it all swirl down the sink and into the ocean, get rid of it for good. 

But he knows it’s not that easy. And he still hears his dad’s voice telling him to save himself.

“I’m alright man, but thanks.” Buck doesn’t look like he believes him, but he lets it go, heads out of the bunk room with one last glance at Eddie, brow still furrowed. The door shuts behind him, and Eddie falls back on the bed. Lays there for another 30 minutes but can’t fall back asleep.

He stops napping at work after that. It’s easier to deny the nightmares when no one can see them.

But then Shannon comes back. Then she’s gone for good. Then Buck gets crushed by a ladder truck. Then he almost loses Chris and Buck to a tsunami.

Suddenly real life is more of a nightmare than anything he sees in his sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

The solution, it seems, is exhaustion. After back to back shifts, after staying up with Chris as he cries through his own nightmares, Eddie is able to sleep for at least a few hours at a time. He hesitates to call it “peaceful”, but he doesn’t hear any screams, at least. 

But as Chris slowly starts sleeping through the night again, he has to find other ways to tire himself out. Sometimes it’s a midnight workout in the living room, sometimes it’s deep cleaning the kitchen at 1:00am. Sometimes it’s just staring listlessly at the TV until his eyes are too heavy and he passes out on the couch, woken by sunlight and reruns of Golden Girls. It’s not perfect, it’s probably not healthy, but it keeps him rested enough to make it through the day, and he doesn’t feel ice anywhere.

He should have known it was too easy, too good to be true.

He turns off the TV, spreading a blanket over Buck where he’s dead to the world on the couch, passed out halfway through the baseball game they were watching after Chris went to sleep. His curls are soft on the pillow and he looks relaxed like this, far more relaxed than Eddie can ever remember seeing him when he’s awake. It’s overwhelmingly tempting to run his fingers through those curls, trace down his jawline, over his birthmark, but Eddie shakes the thought from his head and quickly heads toward his room. He sticks his head into Chris’s room, smiling as he hears his heavy breathing, sees him star-fished on his bed. As he gets into bed himself, he can’t help but marvel at how normal tonight was. His best friend and his son eating dinner together, watching a movie, sharing easy jokes and laughter like the past few months hadn’t scarred the both of them, physically and emotionally. And Eddie got to witness it all, felt a contentment settle in him that follows him as he closes eyes, that almost makes him forget what can happen when exhaustion isn’t forcing him to sleep.

Almost.

He feels the bullets whizzing past him, feels the scratch of sand underneath his hands. He looks around at the carnage, but the bodies aren’t nameless this time. It’s his platoon, the 118, Shannon, Christopher. Buck. They’re all lying motionless and it’s his fault, their blood is staining every inch of him and he can’t scrub it off. He hears screaming and crying, doesn’t realize it’s his own until his throat is raw and he tastes salt. He failed again, and no amount of tears will fix it.

He’s still crying when he wakes up, gasping for air, still feels sand between his fingers. He tries to calm down, taking shuddering breaths in and out, but it’s too much and not enough and he feels light-headed. He hears movement down the hall and quickly slips out of bed and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, sinking to the ground. He’s shaking so bad his teeth are chattering, and he clamps a hand over his mouth as another scream threatens to fall out of him without his permission. 

This is far and away the worst he’s ever been after a nightmare, and he’s not sure what to do. He feels even more lost and helpless than usual, and he has no idea when it will stop.

The first knocks are so soft he misses them, mistakes them for his body shaking the door as he leans against it. The second knocks are louder, a little more urgent, followed by a twist of the doorknob.

“Eddie? It’s me, can I come in?”

Eddie doesn’t answer, just shifts to lean against the bathtub so the door can open. The knob turns again and there’s Buck, looking wide eyed and a little scared himself, like he too just woke up from some horror in his sleep. Eddie meets his eyes and sees them soften as he takes him in — he’s not sure what he looks like, but his face feels puffy and he can feel dried tear tracks, so it’s probably not pretty. He looks away as Buck moves towards him, sliding to sit next to him against the bathtub. He’s close but they’re not touching, which is good because Eddie is fighting down another wave of agony, another scream is trying to claw its way out, and he doesn’t think he can handle any kind of interaction just yet.

Buck must feel it too, somehow, because he waits. Doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t say anything, just waits.

Eddie calms down — not completely, but enough to feel like he can function — and leans his head back against the cool edge of the tub, taking a deep breath. He chances a look over to Buck and sees him watching. He tries to smile, reassure him that this is nothing, but it feels like more of a grimace. It’s too much this time, even for his well-conditioned brain, and he can’t fake it.

Buck’s eyes search his face, and Eddie sees his hand twitch toward him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Can I touch you?” Buck asks softly. Eddie freezes — he hadn’t ever really considered that that’s a thing you can ask at a time like this, something he could say no to — before nodding, because his whole body is still buzzing and he thinks Buck might be able to ground him. 

He usually does.

Buck reaches his hand out slowly, wrapping long fingers around Eddie’s before sliding them together. He brings Eddie’s hand into his lap, holding it between both of his, slowly tracing his thumb over Eddie’s knuckles. He still feels like a live wire, but he doesn’t want to scream anymore. He meets Buck’s eyes and sees understanding and sadness and other things that Eddie’s always hoped to see but can’t process right this moment. He hopes he’ll get to see them again soon.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

There’s that question again. 

And Eddie does, actually truly does. It’s clear he can’t save himself like he’s been told he’s supposed to, and maybe he shouldn’t have to, so he wants someone’s help. He knows Buck will help him, will protect him from whatever he can’t handle on his own.

He always does.

But Eddie’s tired and ripped open and doesn’t want to think about or relive anything right now. He squeezes Buck’s hand where it’s still tightly clasped. 

“Not yet. But I will.”

Buck’s shoulders relax just a bit, like he’s relieved it wasn’t an outright refusal. They stay on the ground together until Eddie moves to get up, holding tighter when Buck tries to disentangle their hands. They walk towards Eddie’s bed together, and Eddie scoots to the far side, still not letting go.

“Will you stay? Please?” Eddie asks, whisper loud in the quiet room.

Buck pauses for a moment before climbing in as well, settling under the covers on his side, facing Eddie. Buck looks nervously down at their hands then back up to Eddie.

“Can I—”

Eddie’s grabbing Buck’s shirt before he finishes, pulling them as close together as possible, wrapping his arms around Buck’s waist and burying his face in his chest. Buck doesn’t hesitate to press his face into Eddie’s hair, hands rubbing is back slowly, soothingly.

“Of course I’ll stay, Eddie. I’ll stay as long as you’ll let me. I promise.”

For the first time in too long, Eddie falls into a dreamless sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, he talks. Not much, but more than he has since he was seven. He feels a little less tense afterwards, breathes a little easier.

The next day, he talks more.

The next week, more.

So on and so on.

And Buck stays. Just like he promised.

[my-soul-sings]

This Is Everything I Never Wanted: Chapter 1

Fandom: Wannabe Challenge Characters: Everyone! Mainly Taehee VS. Yooha (but not TaeheexYooha) because I’m here for the drama and tea  👀☕️ 

Summary: An alternative account of events in which Taehee was the one who summoned Yooha from the scroll instead of MC.

A/N: I live for Taehee and Yooha's brawling in the game. This idea popped into my head last night and I went ham on it, enjoy this crack-fic, I hope it makes you smile/laugh. :)

Now up on AO3!

***

It all started the day Biho came home with a scroll painting. Frankly, it looked weird. There was a man with long, silver hair on it, and Taehee didn’t like the weird aura coming from the scroll. Or maybe it was just the man’s face he didn’t like. Something about it pissed him off—probably that annoying, arrogant smirk on his face. 

But Taehee couldn’t object to Biho hanging it up on the wall in the living room, especially not when he looked so mesmerised by the picture of the sea in the background. The younger man had always been fascinated by the sea, so Taehee decided to leave it alone. MC also seemed to like it too, and if the house owner herself had no complaints, who was he to protest? 

On hindsight, he should have said something. Insisted on his way—something he rarely did and would probably be easily forgiven for.

At first, Taehee kept noticing the painting, unnerved by the feeling that the man’s eyes were following him, watching his every move. He swore it wasn’t his own imagination, and he felt goosebumps rise on his skin whenever he walked past it. He couldn’t ask Biho to put it in his own room though; the wall in their room already looked messy enough because of Hansol, who had a compulsive need to buy posters of his favourite musicians. 

With little options at his disposal, Taehee tried to brush it off. Ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there. 

It took a few days, but soon enough he practically forgot that the painting even existed, for the most part. And life went on, as per normal.

That is, until Cleaning Day.

It was his favourite day of the year, as excruciating as it could get at times. No matter how clear or detailed his instructions were, his housemates never seemed to understand how to clean properly. That, or they simply didn’t care, which Taehee didn’t understand. 

It was easy enough to be patient when it came to MC. After all, she was probably just tired. He could manage doing part of her share of the work.

But Biho and Hansol? Those two hardly ever performed up to par. Hansol would say that he had finished wiping the shelves, and Taehee would swipe a finger on the underside of the wood, and there would be a sheet of dust coating the pad of his finger.

Biho was no better. After making a towering stack of his books and simply leaving them in the corner of the room, he would find a place to sleep, even if it meant hiding under the bed to avoid Taehee’s attention. Or wrath. 

After a full three hours of back-breaking work that day, Taehee had neared his limit. The breaking point came when he just finished washing the toilets, and he arrived in the living room to the sight of all three of his housemates knocked out blissfully on the couch.

“You... haa...” He had no words. He was exhausted too, but the kitchen had yet to be touched. And yet the three of them were already resting as if they had accomplished a lot over the past three hours compared to him. 

In his mind, the list of chores still unfinished gnawed away at the remaining strands of his sanity. That wasn’t even including the things that he’d probably have to re-do, courtesy of his housemates’ terrible cleaning standards. 

The thought of the work left undone was enough to draw another long sigh from him as he deflated a little, a frown appearing on his face. Taking care of his house was a huge weight on his shoulders. In fact, it started getting a little too heavy for his shoulders to bear.

It took Taehee a hot minute to realise that the weight was no longer metaphorical.

“Ew. I’m finally out of the damn scroll after so long and the first thing I see is a guy’s sweaty back? What the hell?”

He heard a foreign voice in his ear. A man’s voice. And then he realised there were arms wrapped around him, as well as a pair of legs and unfamiliar shoes behind him.

Shoes. In the house. That he just mopped. Twice.

Taehee turned around, about to let loose a string of curses at whoever it was, when he realised just what exactly he was looking at. 

It was a man he didn’t know, dressed in some traditional cosplay, his curious grey eyes scanning the house around him. 

Instinctively he jumped back, confused and alarmed by the presence of a stranger whom he didn’t recall letting in. Where could he have come from? The doors had been locked and the windows were open but they certainly weren’t big enough for a man this size to crawl through easily.  

But wait... there was something familiar about him. Taehee couldn’t quite place his finger on it just yet, but he didn’t like the feeling of deja vu washing over him. Or the sense that this guy wasn’t just an ordinary man—if he was even human at all. 

“Hey.” Taehee’s attention snapped to the man who was now looking at him. He bristled, for some reason already disliking the guy and his narrow eyes. 

“Were you the one who summoned me?” the stranger questioned.

“What?” Taehee had to be dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or both. It was probably from being overworked, which he blamed his housemates wholeheartedly for (except for MC). 

"Do you not speak Korean?” the stranger prodded when Taehee went silent for a tad too long.

“O-Of course I do,” he replied, not sure why he felt the need to be polite with this intruder. 

Wait. He didn’t. 

“How did you get in the house? I can call the police on you, this is trespassing.” 

“You’re asking me?” the strange man sputtered, raising his hands. “You’re the one who summoned me! You called my name!” 

He could at least come up with a more reasonable-sounding excuse. Taehee didn’t know who he was, let alone his name, for goodness’ sake. 

“I didn’t call your name. I don’t know who the hell you are, but explain yourself. Who are you and how did you get in here? I’m not joking when I said I will call the police,” Taehee warned, holding up the used toilet brush in his hand as a makeshift weapon. Even if it didn’t do much physical damage it would at least disgust the guy enough to make him go far away.

“Hey, hey, I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding here. I, need you, to explain to me where the hell I am. What year is it anyway? You guys have some interesting clothes,” he said, his eyes trailing over to the three sleeping housemates. How they were sleeping through this was beyond Taehee, but he felt alarm bells go off in his head when he noticed the man’s gaze lingering on MC’s sleeping form.

Before he could attack with the toilet brush though, suddenly a blinding white light engulfed the man, and Taehee had to squeeze his eyes shit. 

When he opened them again, the light had vanished and the man now sported a shorter haircut, his silver wavy locks styled in a more modern way. His costume had also disappeared, now replaced by a blue silk shirt, a silver necklace hanging around his neck and a pair of long black slacks. Thankfully, the shoes were gone. 

“There. Much better.” He walked casually over to the television to check out his appearance reflected on the blank screen. “Not bad,” the narcissist muttered to himself.

“What did you just do?”

“Changed into something more appropriate. You sure your brain is alright?”

Taehee ignored the insult. “You still haven’t explained yourself properly.” 

“I told you. You summoned me here by calling my name.”

He was quite persistent with this ridiculous story. Deciding to play along in case he could get more information out of him, Taehee asked, “What’s your name?”

The stranger stared at him like he was stupid, but Taehee maintained his frown long enough that the intruder finally relented begrudgingly with a dragged-out sigh. “It’s Yooha.”

Yoo-ha. Yooha? Taehee didn’t know anyone by that weird name, much less said it out loud for no reason.

Unless...

“You... haa....” 

Could it be... it was all because of that resigned sigh that had escaped his lips when he stepped into the living room just now? 

The realisation struck Taehee like a bucket of ice cold water being poured no him. That counted? Seriously? 

“What’s your name?" Yooha asked. 

“Taehee,” he replied thoughtlessly, before biting down on his tongue. This was hardly the time for introductions. “Now tell me, what are you? Where did you come from?”

In response, Yooha gestured casually to the wall by the television. More specifically, the painting that Biho had bought the other day, except now it looked ostensibly different: 

The man in it was no longer there.

“I was trapped in that painting, but you called my name so I was finally released,” he explained, the nonchalance in his drawl grating on Taehee’s nerves. Was this a joke to him? 

But... the more Taehee thought about it, the more he realised there was no other way to make sense of this bizarre situation. Yooha’s explanation seemed to be the only logical one, even if impossible. Unless, of course, he was dreaming. But a quick pinch to his arm and the sting that followed indicated that he wasn’t, quite unfortunately.

There was a groan, and Taehee glanced in Yooha’s direction. “What.”

“It’s just...” he scratched his head, his face contorting with a perplexed expression. “I’m not happy about this... but since you’re the one who summoned me out of the scroll, I’m now bound to you as a servant.”

“Come again?” Taehee gawked, which earned him an exasperated sigh.

“Of all things, I had to be bound to a mere goblin...” he grumbled to himself. Then, raising his head, he gave Taehee a hard look. “You’re not very smart, are you?”

“I’m a doctor. And wait- are you by any chance... a seon-ho?”

“Finally saying something sensible, are we?” the man scoffed with an eye roll. Taehee had to purse his lips into a thin line to keep from making a sharp remark. There was no need to prove himself to this complete stranger who was now calling him his... servant? The hell?

“So what,” Taehee began, “I’m your... master now?”

“Ugh, it sucks when you say it out loud, but yes. That’s right.” Yooha plopped onto an empty chair, stretching his limbs and settling into a comfortable position. He sort of resembled a cat.

“And who are they?” Yooha jabbed a finger at the pile of sloths as well as MC on the couch, who were still asleep. 

“The people I live with,” Taehee replied, eyes narrowing at him. 

“Three guys and a girl? What’s up with that?” 

“None of your business.”

“Ooh. Master is feisty.” He paused, a devious smirk playing on his lips. “Is it because of the girl?” 

“Shut up,” Taehee snapped quite uncharacteristically. It had been less than fifteen minutes and already this guy was seriously wearing his patience thin. “And stop calling me ‘Master’. It’s gross.”

"Yeah, I will. I almost threw up after saying that.” 

A moment of silence passed, neither knowing what to say. This was a weird situation, to say the least, and Taehee wasn’t sure if he had fully processed it yet. A lot had happened today and he just wanted to take a nice, hot shower and go to bed. Screw dinner, he was too tired to cook. Maybe when he woke up, this would all go away, including this pesky nuisance, and everything would go back to normal. 

“So...” Yooha spoke up, unceremoniously interrupting Taehee’s attempt to comfort himself. “What now?”

Taehee shrugged, but before he could say anything, he heard a voice. 

“Taehee...” MC mumbled. Her sweet voice usually made his heart flutter, but right then, it made his entire body go rigid. 

“Who’s that?” 

[readbookywooks]

In Latitude 47 degrees 24' and Longitude 17 degrees 28'

IN THE AFTERMATH of this storm, we were thrown back to the east. Away went any hope of escaping to the landing places of New York or the St. Lawrence. In despair, poor Ned went into seclusion like Captain Nemo. Conseil and I no longer left each other. As I said, the Nautilus veered to the east. To be more accurate, I should have said to the northeast. Sometimes on the surface of the waves, sometimes beneath them, the ship wandered for days amid these mists so feared by navigators. These are caused chiefly by melting ice, which keeps the air extremely damp. How many ships have perished in these waterways as they tried to get directions from the hazy lights on the coast! How many casualties have been caused by these opaque mists! How many collisions have occurred with these reefs, where the breaking surf is covered by the noise of the wind! How many vessels have rammed each other, despite their running lights, despite the warnings given by their bosun's pipes and alarm bells! So the floor of this sea had the appearance of a battlefield where every ship defeated by the ocean still lay, some already old and encrusted, others newer and reflecting our beacon light on their ironwork and copper undersides. Among these vessels, how many went down with all hands, with their crews and hosts of immigrants, at these trouble spots so prominent in the statistics: Cape Race, St. Paul Island, the Strait of Belle Isle, the St. Lawrence estuary! And in only a few years, how many victims have been furnished to the obituary notices by the Royal Mail, Inman, and Montreal lines; by vessels named the Solway, the Isis, the Paramatta, the Hungarian, the Canadian, the Anglo-Saxon, the Humboldt, and the United States, all run aground; by the Arctic and the Lyonnais, sunk in collisions; by the President, the Pacific, and the City of Glasgow, lost for reasons unknown; in the midst of their gloomy rubble, the Nautilus navigated as if passing the dead in review! By May 15 we were off the southern tip of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. These banks are the result of marine sedimentation, an extensive accumulation of organic waste brought either from the equator by the Gulf Stream's current, or from the North Pole by the countercurrent of cold water that skirts the American coast. Here, too, erratically drifting chunks collect from the ice breakup. Here a huge boneyard forms from fish, mollusks, and zoophytes dying over it by the billions. The sea is of no great depth at the Grand Banks. A few hundred fathoms at best. But to the south there is a deep, suddenly occurring depression, a 3,000-meter pit. Here the Gulf Stream widens. Its waters come to full bloom. It loses its speed and temperature, but it turns into a sea. Among the fish that the Nautilus startled on its way, I'll mention a one-meter lumpfish, blackish on top with orange on the belly and rare among its brethren in that it practices monogamy, a good-sized eelpout, a type of emerald moray whose flavor is excellent, wolffish with big eyes in a head somewhat resembling a canine's, viviparous blennies whose eggs hatch inside their bodies like those of snakes, bloated gobio (or black gudgeon) measuring two decimeters, grenadiers with long tails and gleaming with a silvery glow, speedy fish venturing far from their High Arctic seas. Our nets also hauled in a bold, daring, vigorous, and muscular fish armed with prickles on its head and stings on its fins, a real scorpion measuring two to three meters, the ruthless enemy of cod, blennies, and salmon; it was the bullhead of the northerly seas, a fish with red fins and a brown body covered with nodules. The Nautilus's fishermen had some trouble getting a grip on this animal, which, thanks to the formation of its gill covers, can protect its respiratory organs from any parching contact with the air and can live out of water for a good while. And I'll mention - for the record - some little banded blennies that follow ships into the northernmost seas, sharp-snouted carp exclusive to the north Atlantic, scorpionfish, and lastly the gadoid family, chiefly the cod species, which I detected in their waters of choice over these inexhaustible Grand Banks. Because Newfoundland is simply an underwater peak, you could call these cod mountain fish. While the Nautilus was clearing a path through their tight ranks, Conseil couldn't refrain from making this comment: "Mercy, look at these cod!" he said. "Why, I thought cod were flat, like dab or sole!" "Innocent boy!" I exclaimed. "Cod are flat only at the grocery store, where they're cut open and spread out on display. But in the water they're like mullet, spindle-shaped and perfectly built for speed." "I can easily believe master," Conseil replied. "But what crowds of them! What swarms!" "Bah! My friend, there'd be many more without their enemies, scorpionfish and human beings! Do you know how many eggs have been counted in a single female?" "I'll go all out," Conseil replied. "500,000." "11,000,000, my friend." "11,000,000! I refuse to accept that until I count them myself." "So count them, Conseil. But it would be less work to believe me. Besides, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Americans, Danes, and Norwegians catch these cod by the thousands. They're eaten in prodigious quantities, and without the astonishing fertility of these fish, the seas would soon be depopulated of them. Accordingly, in England and America alone, 5,000 ships manned by 75,000 seamen go after cod. Each ship brings back an average catch of 4,400 fish, making 22,000,000. Off the coast of Norway, the total is the same." "Fine," Conseil replied, "I'll take master's word for it. I won't count them." "Count what?" "Those 11,000,000 eggs. But I'll make one comment." "What's that?" "If all their eggs hatched, just four codfish could feed England, America, and Norway." As we skimmed the depths of the Grand Banks, I could see perfectly those long fishing lines, each armed with 200 hooks, that every boat dangled by the dozens. The lower end of each line dragged the bottom by means of a small grappling iron, and at the surface it was secured to the buoy-rope of a cork float. The Nautilus had to maneuver shrewdly in the midst of this underwater spiderweb. But the ship didn't stay long in these heavily traveled waterways. It went up to about latitude 42 degrees. This brought it abreast of St. John's in Newfoundland and Heart's Content, where the Atlantic Cable reaches its end point. Instead of continuing north, the Nautilus took an easterly heading, as if to go along this plateau on which the telegraph cable rests, where multiple soundings have given the contours of the terrain with the utmost accuracy. It was on May 17, about 500 miles from Heart's Content and 2,800 meters down, that I spotted this cable lying on the seafloor. Conseil, whom I hadn't alerted, mistook it at first for a gigantic sea snake and was gearing up to classify it in his best manner. But I enlightened the fine lad and let him down gently by giving him various details on the laying of this cable. The first cable was put down during the years 1857-1858; but after transmitting about 400 telegrams, it went dead. In 1863 engineers built a new cable that measured 3,400 kilometers, weighed 4,500 metric tons, and was shipped aboard the Great Eastern. This attempt also failed. Now then, on May 25 while submerged to a depth of 3,836 meters, the Nautilus lay in precisely the locality where this second cable suffered the rupture that ruined the undertaking. It happened 638 miles from the coast of Ireland. At around two o'clock in the afternoon, all contact with Europe broke off. The electricians on board decided to cut the cable before fishing it up, and by eleven o'clock that evening they had retrieved the damaged part. They repaired the joint and its splice; then the cable was resubmerged. But a few days later it snapped again and couldn't be recovered from the ocean depths. These Americans refused to give up. The daring Cyrus Field, who had risked his whole fortune to promote this undertaking, called for a new bond issue. It sold out immediately. Another cable was put down under better conditions. Its sheaves of conducting wire were insulated within a gutta-percha covering, which was protected by a padding of textile material enclosed in a metal sheath. The Great Eastern put back to sea on July 13, 1866. The operation proceeded apace. Yet there was one hitch. As they gradually unrolled this third cable, the electricians observed on several occasions that someone had recently driven nails into it, trying to damage its core. Captain Anderson, his officers, and the engineers put their heads together, then posted a warning that if the culprit were detected, he would be thrown overboard without a trial. After that, these villainous attempts were not repeated. By July 23 the Great Eastern was lying no farther than 800 kilometers from Newfoundland when it received telegraphed news from Ireland of an armistice signed between Prussia and Austria after the Battle of Sadova. Through the mists on the 27th, it sighted the port of Heart's Content. The undertaking had ended happily, and in its first dispatch, young America addressed old Europe with these wise words so rarely understood: "Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth to men of good will." I didn't expect to find this electric cable in mint condition, as it looked on leaving its place of manufacture. The long snake was covered with seashell rubble and bristling with foraminifera; a crust of caked gravel protected it from any mollusks that might bore into it. It rested serenely, sheltered from the sea's motions, under a pressure favorable to the transmission of that electric spark that goes from America to Europe in 32/100 of a second. This cable will no doubt last indefinitely because, as observers note, its gutta-percha casing is improved by a stay in salt water. Besides, on this well-chosen plateau, the cable never lies at depths that could cause a break. The Nautilus followed it to its lowest reaches, located 4,431 meters down, and even there it rested without any stress or strain. Then we returned to the locality where the 1863 accident had taken place. There the ocean floor formed a valley 120 kilometers wide, into which you could fit Mt. Blanc without its summit poking above the surface of the waves. This valley is closed off to the east by a sheer wall 2,000 meters high. We arrived there on May 28, and the Nautilus lay no farther than 150 kilometers from Ireland. Would Captain Nemo head up north and beach us on the British Isles? No. Much to my surprise, he went back down south and returned to European seas. As we swung around the Emerald Isle, I spotted Cape Clear for an instant, plus the lighthouse on Fastnet Rock that guides all those thousands of ships setting out from Glasgow or Liverpool. An important question then popped into my head. Would the Nautilus dare to tackle the English Channel? Ned Land (who promptly reappeared after we hugged shore) never stopped questioning me. What could I answer him? Captain Nemo remained invisible. After giving the Canadian a glimpse of American shores, was he about to show me the coast of France? But the Nautilus kept gravitating southward. On May 30, in sight of Land's End, it passed between the lowermost tip of England and the Scilly Islands, which it left behind to starboard. If it was going to enter the English Channel, it clearly needed to head east. It did not. All day long on May 31, the Nautilus swept around the sea in a series of circles that had me deeply puzzled. It seemed to be searching for a locality that it had some trouble finding. At noon Captain Nemo himself came to take our bearings. He didn't address a word to me. He looked gloomier than ever. What was filling him with such sadness? Was it our proximity to these European shores? Was he reliving his memories of that country he had left behind? If so, what did he feel? Remorse or regret? For a good while these thoughts occupied my mind, and I had a hunch that fate would soon give away the captain's secrets. The next day, June 1, the Nautilus kept to the same tack. It was obviously trying to locate some precise spot in the ocean. Just as on the day before, Captain Nemo came to take the altitude of the sun. The sea was smooth, the skies clear. Eight miles to the east, a big steamship was visible on the horizon line. No flag was flapping from the gaff of its fore-and-aft sail, and I couldn't tell its nationality. A few minutes before the sun passed its zenith, Captain Nemo raised his sextant and took his sights with the utmost precision. The absolute calm of the waves facilitated this operation. The Nautilus lay motionless, neither rolling nor pitching. I was on the platform just then. After determining our position, the captain pronounced only these words: "It's right here!" He went down the hatch. Had he seen that vessel change course and seemingly head toward us? I'm unable to say. I returned to the lounge. The hatch closed, and I heard water hissing in the ballast tanks. The Nautilus began to sink on a vertical line, because its propeller was in check and no longer furnished any forward motion. Some minutes later it stopped at a depth of 833 meters and came to rest on the seafloor. The ceiling lights in the lounge then went out, the panels opened, and through the windows I saw, for a half-mile radius, the sea brightly lit by the beacon's rays. I looked to port and saw nothing but the immenseness of these tranquil waters. To starboard, a prominent bulge on the sea bottom caught my attention. You would have thought it was some ruin enshrouded in a crust of whitened seashells, as if under a mantle of snow. Carefully examining this mass, I could identify the swollen outlines of a ship shorn of its masts, which must have sunk bow first. This casualty certainly dated from some far-off time. To be so caked with the limestone of these waters, this wreckage must have spent many a year on the ocean floor. What ship was this? Why had the Nautilus come to visit its grave? Was it something other than a maritime accident that had dragged this craft under the waters? I wasn't sure what to think, but next to me I heard Captain Nemo's voice slowly say: "Originally this ship was christened the Marseillais. It carried seventy-four cannons and was launched in 1762. On August 13, 1778, commanded by La Poype-Vertrieux, it fought valiantly against the Preston. On July 4, 1779, as a member of the squadron under Admiral d'Estaing, it assisted in the capture of the island of Grenada. On September 5, 1781, under the Count de Grasse, it took part in the Battle of Chesapeake Bay. In 1794 the new Republic of France changed the name of this ship. On April 16 of that same year, it joined the squadron at Brest under Rear Admiral Villaret de Joyeuse, who was entrusted with escorting a convoy of wheat coming from America under the command of Admiral Van Stabel. In this second year of the French Revolutionary Calendar, on the 11th and 12th days in the Month of Pasture, this squadron fought an encounter with English vessels. Sir, today is June 1, 1868, or the 13th day in the Month of Pasture. Seventy-four years ago to the day, at this very spot in latitude 47 degrees 24' and longitude 17 degrees 28', this ship sank after a heroic battle; its three masts gone, water in its hold, a third of its crew out of action, it preferred to go to the bottom with its 356 seamen rather than surrender; and with its flag nailed up on the afterdeck, it disappeared beneath the waves to shouts of 'Long live the Republic!'" "This is the Avenger!" I exclaimed. "Yes, sir! The Avenger! A splendid name!" Captain Nemo murmured, crossing his arms.