#but still letters at the front being. categorising

[birdricks]

i find the dimension codes in rnm sooo fascinating bc like… how are they decided. if ricks are the only ones capable of interdimensional travel its safe to assume they are the ones who decide on them right …. and based on prime being the one to distribute portal tech perhaps his dimension really is considered the Origin. dimension 1.

[camillathe6th]

Snippet. Batchmate.

DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Malin Rydén of course. CONTEXT: This month we learned that Regenes had specific ways to categorise relationship statuses through sign, among which two taps to the navel to signify ”batchmate”, ie: close friend, or the closest thing you get to family. I ran away with it because I’m a sap. WHAT TO EXPECT: Una being quite sweet (to be fair she has a concussion).

(2010)

It happened fast as a blur, and blur the world still does. You slump against the walls of the elevator, head thump-thump-thumping. The bones. Hurt. The flesh, hurt. You can let that go. Just flesh. You know the drill. Just flesh. If only your mind could think, think a little better, you could let the hurt go.

Instead you close your eyes and let it flood.

“Hey. Hey, Sidestep? Oh, shit. Eyes open, cuz!”

Ding, sings the elevator, and moan, makes your mouth, when she slides your throbbing arm around her neck. You feel that grinding click, right behind your deltoid. Hmm, not good. Slow to heal, the shoulder.

“I’m okay,” you say through the fog.

See? You can hobble just fine. You barely need her body-crutch. Barely.

Just a little.

Just… a little more.

Strong and solid she advances between the dancing walls.  

“Wait,” you say, after a century of walking. “Wait, Anathema, where are we?”

“Headquarters. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes. No. We shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to be here.”

“Tough luck then,” she snorts, and you whine through cotton thoughts.

It’s a flurry of pushes. She pushes you up. She pushes you forward. She pushes open a door. She pushes you down. Under you a seat. Around you boxes, or lockers, or… or. You don’t know. Letters don’t mesh well into words, tonight. You remember a time when words were barely needed at all. The tiredness felt purer then.

“Are you with me?”

“Totally with you,” you lie, and open your eyes again. You shouldn’t close your eyes, she said. Right. You shouldn’t close your eyes. You’re in danger here. “What is this place?”

“Uh… Stockroom,” she says, rummaging through the shelves. Things open and shut. Clicking and grating. In her mind, faintly, you can feel the focus. She’s determined. Consequences are for later.

“I’ve never been here…”

Whose voice is that? Soft as a dream.

“You’re not allowed here. Come on, look at me.”

She’s kneeling in front of you now, and too late you see her strong cold hands taking off your glove. BRUsquely you recoil; brusquely she keeps you close. No. Not budging.

“Chill, scaredy cat.”

She doesn’t try to clean off the blood and the splits. Instead she slips a new glove around your hand, hard shell, protected knuckles, braced at the wrist. And the other hand. And then around your arm, an elbow pad and two.

And then what? What is she doing up?

“Come on, lean forward for me.”

The shoulder area brace slides over your hoodie, pressing against the pain, hard and good and heavy. Inside your skull you sigh in ache-relief. Clink goes the clasp on your chest. Thump sighs the knee pads on your lap.

“You want to put those on yourself?”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“I’m tired of seeing you run face first into walls without as much as a helmet. You’re not invulnerable, you know?”

“Okay, show off,” you huff, but your hands are clutching the kneepads too hard, and your throat is fighting to close. What is there to say to that? What is there to say? Your flesh is only flesh. Your pain is only pain. It isn’t supposed to matter.

You breathe in. You shiver.

When you look up she’s smiling down at you, all proud and wide in the yellow buzzing lights. Little white teeths like pearls. Precious, the smile, precious as a jewel. You swim through the fog.

“There are cameras everywhere,” you mumble.

You see them. Right above. Cameras in every corner, trained on you.

“I don’t care. I don’t think the Marshal will, either.”

“Anathema…”

You squeeze your eyes closed, and in the dark of your eyelids the swell of your heart feels a little less like a maw. A little less like your demise.

You breathe out. You shiver.

From the depths comes the gesture unbidden; a tap, then two, right to your navel. And human words too:

“Thank you.”

[chibimyumi]

The Circus Arc

Last week somebody asked me what my favourite manga arc is, and without a second of hesitation I answered 🎪. As I have already publically declared my love, it is only natural for me to write a love letter to the Circus Arc.

Why do I consider the Circus Arc the best still after more than a decade?

I. The true story

First of all, the Circus Arc is in my opinion the first arc wherein we truly get to meet the characters, as well as the series itself.

A protagonist who is dispensable in their own story is not a true protagonist. As touched upon in this post, before the Circus Arc O!Ciel was actually little more than a plot device to show off Sebastian’s many assets. “The Watchdog has a case because the Queen said so, Sebastian solves it.” “The Watchdog was kidnapped because Yana TOLD us he made life for the mafia a bit hard, so Sebastian saves him.” When Sebas said to his master “you truly have no other talent except for getting yourself abducted,” it sure rang very true until that point. It wasn’t as much a story of O!Ciel’s revenge as it was Sebas saving the day because: demon powers.

In the Circus Arc however, we truly got an insight on why this little boy could indeed have made life for the mafia hard, and why after two years the Queen still hasn’t fired him. As discussed in the post mentioned before, almost as a compensation for his prior starfishhood, O!Ciel had insisted on doing the investigation himself, even at the cost of his own health. We saw him actively cooking up strategies as well as dealing with any situation as they were met. O!Ciel really displayed a commendable aptness at playing the cards he has been dealt in the Circus Arc. In contrast, while Sebas did make many accomplishments, all his actions were the undertaken because of O!Ciel’s orders. In the Circus Arc we truly got to see how the boy is the chess player, and demon the black knight.

II. Our protagonists - into the core

The Circus Arc is likewise the arc wherein we actually get to meet our two main characters outside their token function.

We have seen Sebastian’s establishment as “the pawn that can move across the entire chessboard in one single move”. But without O!Ciel’s input or any price that the master would have to pay, Sebastian is easily just an ‘instant-win card’, an ironic “deus” ex machina, if you will.

As discussed in this post and this post, in the Jack the Ripper Arc Sebastian was quite dissatisfied with his master and therefore decided to teach his master a lesson at the cost of more innocent lives. However nasty, it had been O!Ciel who ordered for a subpar move, and technically the pawn “did nothing wrong.”

In the Circus Arc O!Ciel became meticulous about decisions regarding his chess piece. Principally there was nothing wrong with the order O!Ciel had given his butler about releasing the snakes before the first stringers would return, and Sebas who was bound to perfect completion of any order also didn’t do anything wrong, technically. However, it had already been established that as long as Sebas sees the interest himself he would find any loophole in orders to still benefit his master in one way or another. As it is, considering how Sebas did decide to release the poisonous snakes while his master was in the danger zone, we are left with a chilling conclusion that Sebas simply ‘did not see the interest’ of shielding O!Ciel from danger. For the first time we truly learn the extent of Sebastian’s nondiscriminatory nastiness; how indeed all humans are the same to him. For the first time we truly understand that O!Ciel is paying with much more than his soul for Sebastian’s services. This demon is a double-edged sword, but much more than swinging outwards, this sword has a tendency to swing inwards the moment the wielder allows for any opening.

Previously discussed in this post, we also see the full extent of Sebastian’s manipulativeness and toxicity in the Circus Arc. Sure, in other arcs Sebas is also manipulative, but all of those actions could still be categorised under “merciless honesty”. In the Circus Arc however, O!Ciel objectively did nothing wrong to be triggered and exhausted from the Circus shenanigans, and yet Sebas was unnecessarily re-triggering and victim shaming his master for some extra “flavouring”. If there had been any doubt whether Sebas is bad for O!Ciel, then surely the Circus Arc put all doubts to rest.

For the first time in the manga we also see a genuine obstacle for Sebastian that is for not also the final hurdle to overcome, like in the Ripper, Curry, Campania or any other arc really. In the Manor Murder and Werewolf Arc there were of course Earl Grey and Wolfram respectively, but in those cases Sebas mostly tried to outrun the obstacles. In the Circus Arc however, William is likewise a supernatural being, and Sebas knew very well that he can’t just neutralise William without causing more trouble than good. Hence we saw how Sebas tried to negotiate with William, and we learned that even Sebastian cannot just avoid hurdles. Negotiating with William did not work of course, so the story forced Sebas to be creative. It truly was great to see Sebas use his brain rather than demon-muscles to overcome a problem for a change.

While getting “creative”, Sebas displayed his aptitude for preying on humans in our weakest of moments. As explained in this characterisation of Sebastian, Sebastian is not terrifying because he has super powers, but because he understands human weaknesses like no other and uses our own weaknesses against us. Click here for an analysis of Sebas’ cross-media manipulation of Beast.

In this same arc we likewise truly understand the looming threat O!Ciel is dealing with, an explicit revelation of the monster Sebastian is. This scene from underneath is the most explicit moment telling us that Sebas is not just dwelling on Earth comfortably; he is holding out under a cover. This scene almost served as an alarming reminder to us: “beware, the demon can snap”.

What about O!Ciel? In our boy we saw his tremendous dedication to his job. Except for purposes directly related to the investigation, never once did he order Sebastian to make life easier for him. He never made Sebas secure food for him or do any of the chores for him. Surely Earl Phantomhive would consider himself above wrestling for food or scrub some floors, and yet he was willing to just take on any task without complaining. In no other arc do we see just how effective O!Ciel is as the Watchdog exactly because he is so versatile both in playing the ‘cute little boy’ card as well as the ‘feared Watchdog’ card.

Doll was an exceptionally well chosen “obstacle” for O!Ciel (more about her later). When Doll briefly wondered about why a peasant boy like Smile would speak in flawless RP, we saw O!Ciel’s ability of thinking on his feet, giving a very logical explanation of: “I served in a Lord’s household where I learned to speak proper.” When Doll caught him red handed when he sneaked into Snake’s tent O!Ciel also immediately pulled the “I didn’t steal anything!” card, skillfully tying it into his previous story as ‘the page boy who was fired for stealing’. We learned that the Watchdog really is willing to carry out his job through any means necessary, not just ‘the cool and edgy means’.

One of the best ways to get to learn a person is judging from their gut reactions. When O!Ciel was triggered in the final showdown he no longer had any energy to put on a strong front or think about matters rationally. He was in emotional pain and his gut reaction was to want that pain gone.

Even Sebastian who would not directly benefit from the case being completed advised his master against burning down everything. Even with the Queen’s commission as leverage however, the boy still yelled to have everything reduced to ashes. In this moment we also understood just how traumatising everything was to O!Ciel personally. This trauma response didn’t come from nowhere; everything that happened up until that point had been a logical build-up towards this inevitable result.

III. The Side Characters

A story cannot be told with just the main characters; you need to care about the interactions they have with others too. In my opinion the Circus Arc has delivered the most memorable side characters that linger with us even after death. In particular Joker and Doll.

Joker is a very fun, charismatic character as well as a person with many different sides. He is lawfully inexcusable, but we cannot help but sympathise, or at least understand how he too is a victim compelled into evil. Rationally we reject Joker’s actions, but partially it is because we have the luxury to do so. “Is this self defense? Would we, or how would we have done anything differently had we been in his exact shoes?” is a question worth considering.

Doll too; we see a child who lived a relatively happy life in the recent past. In the anime they made it explicit that Doll was complicit in all the kidnappings of the children, but in the manga it is more ambiguous whether Doll is fully aware of Kelvin’s agenda. This gives the effect that with the revelation of Joker always having taken most of the bullets, we understand that the torment Joker has been suffering was the price he paid to buy his siblings a more-or-less normal life. If O!Ciel sold his soul to the devil in the literate sense, Joker did so in the figurative sense in exchange for his family’s happiness.

IV. The Antagonists?

We do not spend too much time with Baron Kelvin, and he is a relatively simple character. But that is not bad as long as the villain’s threat reaches us. The horrors of Kelvin have always been quite clear; when children are harmed it triggers a gut reaction of disgust in most viewers. But the kidnapped children were not the functional victims in this story, it is the first stringers with Joker in the centre.

Kelvin has made a bunch of crippled children fully dependent on him, and used their own dependency as a currency to satisfy his own greed. Never once did he allow these children to forget how he could easily return them to the gutter from where he collected them. The kidnapped children were just numbers in the newspaper, but the first stringers are characters we spent time with. We have seen their suffering and we know they are just trying to get by. So it is all the more heartbreaking that children who merely wanted their basic human rights were turned into the antagonists that had to be exterminated. In the showdown between Joker vs Watchdog, the dynamic is shifted from “heroes vs child-kidnapping villains” to “villain-protagonists vs anti-villains”.

The Circus Arc is very special in how the villain impacts the readers, because the people affected matter to us. In the earliest arcs we didn’t REALLY care about O!Ciel, but he was the main person who suffered from the villains. With Sebastian around however, we don’t really worry. In the Ripper, Mansion, Campania and Potter Arc the main victims are characters we don’t spend any time with, so emotionally we don’t really care whether “evil gets vanquished”. In the Werewolf Arc we do have Sieglinde and Wolfram, and it is heartbreaking to see Sieglinde discovering that all her happiness had been a big lie and that to even her own mother she was nothing but a tool. But in the very least she did grow up happily, she survived and has a fresh chance to start a new life, and the person closest to her (Wolfram) is still with her.

For the first stringers however... all had been meaningless, all is finite.

As expertly described by Sebas in the musical adaptation of the Circus Arc, humans are pathetic because we are merely “accumulating sins in the version of hell [we] have chosen to live.”

V. From foil to team members

The servants at the Phantomhive manor were originally just designed to be foil for Sebas to demonstrate his awesome butler skills. I don’t know whether they were liked at first, but for one I do know that many found them quite annoying or pointless too.

The Circus Arc is the first time we see the significance of the Phantomhive servants, that they’re not just there waiting to be fed by O!Ciel because... he’s a philanthropist of some sort? Yana had made some questionable decisions at first, and she clearly regretted those ‘choices’. I personally see the Circus Arc as her first demonstration of her skills as story writer, and her public proclamation of: “this is Kuroshitsuji’s potential!”

Had the entire series started with the Circus Arc, then surely the animated series would have gotten a much higher budget and a better time-slot for airing.

VI. Humour

The humour in the Circus Arc is also great, but nothing was shoehorned in there for the sake of laughs, neither do these moments disturb the tone of the story.

Everything was funny because they were the inevitable consequences of putting these people together. William had been established as a demon-racist plank, and when made to cooperate with a demon, of course he would say: “my hands will rot”. When called “four-eyes”, of course he would say: “it’s SUIT”.

Many of the comedic moments are centred around our protagonists’ inconveniences, but nobody is inconveniencing them for the sake of inconveniencing them. When Sebastian was not trying to leave the vicinity William mostly let him at peace. O!Ciel for example also couldn’t do many things simply because Doll was clinging to him. But she did not know what was at stake and her actions were well grounded in her immense desire to make new friends. “You are young, I am young. You lost an eye, I lost an eye. Let’s be FRIENDS!”

This is in stark contrast with how ‘funny inconveniences’ were staged before using Lizzie or Grell for example. Lizzie was a drag to O!Ciel because... she’s a girl who wanted everything to go HER way... and Grell was a drag to Sebas because she... is a girl who wanted everything to go HER way.

VII. Ending

The ending of the Circus Arc also carried a bitter-sweet tone that most other arcs do not present. The thematic of “demons dwell in the human nature of stepping on others” is perfectly addressed in the Circus Arc, but it does not end with: “so don’t be evil!”. The Circus Arc simply highlights the issue and reminds us that ‘stepping on others’ does not exist in a vacuum.

Had the objective of the series not been established as “boy who swore on revenge”, and instead be: "rethinking evil”, then the Circus Arc alone would have told the story sufficiently.

The finale of the Circus Arc resonates with its audience because the core principle on which Kuroshitsuji is built is a narrative humankind has always wanted to externalise, but without success: “demons are only as evil as humans allow their own evil to show”.

[unicyclehippo]

First impressions after the live show? Beaujester impressions or otherwise

‘Ah. Would you mind looking after Luc for a little while?’ Yeza asks with a somewhat nervous - but excited - smile.

Beau salutes him from the bathroom. ‘No worries, dude. Go get her.’

Yeza laughs, fumbles to return the gesture. ‘Thank you. Thank you, everyone. Ah - if you’ll just...excuse me,’ he says and in amongst the Nein’s gentle teasing, the halfling bobs an awkward bow and leaves, hurries back to his wife.

As Jester disappears into Marion’s chambers, her quiet apology for the bathtub reaching the bathroom, Beau does her best to sweep up the clay and the soot left by the burned incense, the pieces of the bathtub. These she separates, drops into a box Beau suspects once held a gift of some kind or is, like, some unnecessarily fancy bin. The largest of the pieces she just sets beside it. Maybe... if she figured out where all the pieces were supposed to go, Jester could mend it? Beau grimaces down at the hundreds of ceramic shards. Maybe not. 

‘Beau?’

‘Huh? Oh, hey! I was just -’ She waves a hand toward the mess. Her other hand is cupped, middling sized shards held in it that she’d found under the shelves. ‘D’you reckon you could mend this thing? Or...?’

Jester grimaces too, looking at the extent of the problem before her. She steps into the bathroom beside Beau, shoulders jumping in surprise as something crunches underfoot. She smiles guiltily.

‘It would take a really long time.’

‘Right, right, right,’

‘But I promised my mama I would buy her a new one. Or find someone for her who will buy her a new one.’

‘Maybe you could ask the Gentleman.’

‘Beau.’

‘What? Is that - that’s stupid, got it,’

‘No!’ Jester grabs her arm, shakes it, not caring a bit that the shards Beau collected drop to the ground and break even more. ‘Beau!’ she squeals. ‘That’s a great idea!’

‘Oh no.’

‘Yeah!’

‘No, no, see I was just kidding - ‘

Jester squeals louder. ‘Oh my gosh it will be so romantic, I can send him a message and he can pick out the most beautiful bathtub and I can write -’ She goes a little breathless for a second, tail flicking right at the tip with excitement, eyes darting over Beau’s face. It’s clear that Jester isn’t looking at her, but rather past her to all the many plans she can concoct. ‘I can write a letter,’ she says quietly. ‘I have his handwriting now, I can say, Oh Marion, in your time of greatest need I am - um - fulfilling that need,’

‘We can workshop it. Or not. Because that’s - it’s an idea,’ she says, dropping the adjective she would ordinarily tack onto that. ‘But it’s maybe, you know, a tiny bit, uh,’

‘Too soon?’

‘I was gonna say hurtful,’ Beau tells her bluntly. 

Jester’s face falls. ‘What do you mean? You mean - getting them together?’

‘N-no, not exactly. But, y’know, if the guy you liked walked out on you and then you had a kid and you raised her alone for years and he never came back and eventually you figured, y’know, he was either a piece of shit or something bad happened to him or maybe both or maybe he didn’t care or maybe he did and maybe he wasn’t ever in love with you or maybe he was and you flat out don’t know, and then you find out that he’s this crime lord up in Zadash and your bathtub breaks and that is what he writes to you about?’

Jester blinks, her surprise bleeding into faintly troubled, and thoughtful, and a soft distant kind of expression Beau doesn’t fully recognise. ‘Probably not the best.’

‘Prob’ly not.’

‘Hmm. I’ll think on it.’

‘Sure, yeah, you do that. I’ll - edit your letter, if you want. Help you workshop it.’

‘Even though you think it’s a terrible idea?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Beau is quick to point out, mind racing backwards in their conversation to make sure that yeah, she definitely hadn’t said it. She had thought it, but that’s not the same thing. Jester is smiling at her when she comes back to the here and now, the mischievous smile that tucks into her cheeks, makes her dimples pop and her eyes glint. Beau rolls her eyes, shakes her head. Grumbles, without any real annoyance to the word, ‘Tricky.’

‘Well, I am a trickery gods protégé.’

//

Beau cleans for a little longer, waves Jester away to help Caleb with getting the magic he wants and starting on their clothes. With Caleb and Fjord gone to Yussa’s tower, and Caduceus following closely after when he sees Fjord step out, and with Yasha looking for a dog for their dinner (a joke? Uncertain), Beau realises that she is the only one left, and that they had all completely glossed over one very important fact. 

‘Shit! Luc!’

She sprints down the steps from the third floor and when she hears the familiar sound of a shriek of dismay, follows it to Carlos and Luc and a smashed bottle on the floor. 

‘Luc!’

‘That,’ the boy says, backing up, brown eyes wide, ‘was an accident.’

‘You need to be more careful, lad!’ Carlos cries, and scrubs his hands over his head, disturbing the slicked combover. ‘Enough with the sword! And the crossbow! Please!’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Luc insists, and Beau closes the distance quickly. Luc is in zero danger from Carlos, who seems more interested in making sure that the wine doesn’t soak into the nearby carpet - and that Luc doesn’t step onto any glass - but seeing the tall man towering over the young boy, and the raised voices, has her moving faster and her heart pounding in her chest. 

‘Everything alright here?’ she demands, staring at Carlos. Without her meaning to, without looking, she sets a gentle hand down on the top of Luc’s curly hair, guides him backwards and behind her. 

‘What? Oh - Jester’s friend. Yes, yes, it’s fine,’ Carlos sighs, and he lets out his breath in a gusting sigh. Runs his hands over the combover again. His brown eyes take in Beau before him, interposed between him and Luc, and his stance softens. ‘The lad is fine,’ he assures Beau. ‘Just rambunctious.’

‘That’s a good thing,’ Luc whispers up to Beau. He holds the back of her pants with one hand, peers out around her thigh to grin up at Carlos. ‘My dad says it means I’ve got lots of beans, but I haven’t had beans and toast since we left Felderwin.’

‘Do you like beans and toast?’ Beau asks.

Luc shrugs. ‘It’s fine? The fish here is weird but it’s fine too.’

‘Not a picky eater, huh?’

‘No, there’s heaps of stuff I won’t eat. I hate sprouts - ‘

‘Same.’

‘ - and there’s this red root that stains everything but my dad uses it for inks and dyes and stuff so we used to have it all the time,’

Beau lets him ramble on about food and shifts her attention to Carlos. The man has settled like a spooked chicken and he nods to Beau, hands lifted slightly. She relaxes a smidge. Fishes a few gold pieces from her pocket and sets them on the bar top. Then, as Luc continues to ramble, she leads the boy to the stairs. 

‘ - and there’s this gross, like, pea thing and pea is already a funny word,’ he tells Beau, who snorts obligingly, nods, ‘but it tastes like sand. That’s probably my least favourite, it’s gross.’

‘Yeah, that sounds like shit.’

Luc giggles, eyes wide. ‘You said a bad word.’

‘What? Oh fu- uh - right. You’re a kid. Shi - ah crap. Balls. Oh no.’ Beau stops, rubs a hand over her face. Luc is fully laughing now, little hand clutching at the railing post he had dented earlier with his sword, and when Beau peeks through her fingers she finds that his smile is wide and honest and delighted. 

‘You’re really funny. And rude.’

‘I’m - the rude part is right,’ she agrees. ‘Uh. Look, your mum and dad are gonna be - uh - talking for a bit so we told them we’d keep an eye on you. Is there anything you’re, like, wanting to do or do I...have to entertain you?’ 

Luc rolls his eyes. ‘I don’t need to be baby sat. I’m five.’

‘Oh, cool, basically an adult. You should probably be getting a job soon.’

‘What? No!’

‘No?’

‘No! I’m not old enough to get a job.’

‘But you’re five.’

‘That’s too young!’

‘Is it?’ Beau asks, feigning ignorance. ‘Shit, okay, what do you wanna do then?’

‘I dunno!’

‘Figure it out, or I’m gonna - uh - feed you sprouts.’

Luc gasps. ‘You wouldn’t.’

Beau grins, a little feral, mostly amused. She crouches on the landing in front of him so they’re almost of a height, her still a little taller than the young halfling. ‘Your mum hasn’t told you about me,’ she guesses. Luc shakes his head. ‘My name is Beau, and I’m a monk. I trained for years,’ she tells him, ‘to become a spy.’

‘Whoa.’

‘Yeah. Pretty cool, right?’

‘Yeah!’

‘One of my lessons was on how to torture people.’ It is only as she says it that she wonders if maybe a joke like that is a bit dark for a five year old, but Luc’s eyes only seem to widen further, sparkle a little more. It’s super weird - but weirdly nice - to be on the receiving end of what Beau can only categorise as extreme fascination. ‘I won’t stop with sprouts. I brought with me food from Xhorhas. They have vegetables,’ she tells him, voice dropping low and ominous, ‘that are soft and squelchy. Like boogers.’

‘No.’

‘Yep. Super gross. But good for you. And I’ll tell your dad that and he’ll make you eat them for every. Single. Meal.’

Luc shrieks and sprints away from her up the stairs, laughing as Beau pushes to her feet and follows. She lets him get fairly far ahead before her own competitive nature comes out and she picks up the pace, taking the stairs two at a time. It isn’t long before she catches up with him and it’s easy to hoist him off his feet and up into the air, hold him by the ankles as she marches him back down and out into the courtyard behind the Chateau. She had seen it when they arrived, the manicured yard, and the small training dummy raised there with a painted target and many, many dents from wooden crossbow bolts. Luc wriggles free when she lowers him down and races ahead, yelling back to her all the while about training, and look how high I can climb, and what is the coolest monster you’ve seen, and what’s it like being a monk? 

It’s weirdly easy. Hanging out with the little dude, and answering all his questions - leaving the fallout for answering all of them honestly to Yeza and Veth to deal with in the future at some point - and catching the bolts when they whizz too close to her face, which sends him into another spiral of questions, and begging her to show off some of the cool monk shit that she can do. They’re in the middle of practicing wall-jumps - or, she is and he is jumping as high as he can in place with his stumpy little legs - when the others return and he slumps, exhaustedly, into her shoulder when she picks him up this time. Loops his arms around her neck in a loose hug. 

Beau feels something twist in her chest as she hugs him back, carries him to his room, and she wonders if TJ will be anything like Luc. Outgoing, carefree, happy. Or if he’ll be more like her. 

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG183!

- I’m not sure I can manage to put it into words quite right but: sounds-wise, this episode’s domain didn’t feel mind-blowingly new, it wasn’t something that felt “Oh! I’ve never heard something like this before!”? But the echoes, grinding and scratching were timed so well, giving so much strength and gravitas to the conversations, that it perfectly scratched an itch. I could hear that there was something close to Jon and Martin, that it was big, and mostly deserted, that it stood eerily in the overall wasteland, that they were two people alone against a whole world, a whole machine with gears and a mechanism ready to crush anyone?

- I LIVE for artist!Martin giving his commentary and overall throwing shade at the Fears’ taking of artistic licence liberties:

(MAG183) MARTIN: Oh, bugger off! ARCHIVIST: Everything all right? MARTIN: Oh, no, what e–, what e–, what even is that? It, it’s like Escher ate a bad cathedral and threw up everywhere.

He had shown interest in the Stranger’s carousel upon learning that the statements had been a poem, but shots fired for that tower, uh.

- Jon and Martin were so cute starting the episode! Their quick banter was adorable!

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: It’s a building. A tower. … In a sense. MARTIN: Oh yeah? A–and what sense might that be? ARCHIVIST: [FAINTLY OMINOUS] … The Tarot sense. MARTIN: [SPLUTTERS WITH LAUGHTER] Really? ARCHIVIST: Wha–? No? Sorry, it… felt like a good line…! MARTIN: No, no, it was, I just… I dunno, I… [FOND EXHALE] You did the look, and…! It’s fine, sorry.

Martin being IN LOVE and appreciating Jon’s cuteness! The return of Jon showing that he’s an occult/horror nerd! We had seen in season 2 that he was generally very knowledgeable about anything related to the supernatural, and in season 4 that he was into Neil Lagorio’s movies, I’m happy to get another trace of it!

(MAG076) MELANIE: So I came here to dig a bit deeper. ARCHIVIST: Really? Our… our library is extensive, but it’s hardly focused on the Second World War. MELANIE: No, but the most detailed description of the crash that I could find came from the report of a man called William W. Hay. And later in life William Hay… ARCHIVIST: Became a noted occultist, whose memoirs and researches were only ever published in a heavily edited form. And we have unexpurgated copies. MELANIE: Exactly.

(MAG136) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Statement ends. Hm. Neil Lagorio… You ever see any of his work? DAISY: No. Not really into films. ARCHIVIST: Oh, they were… Well, let’s just say that it’s not a complete shock there was something unnatural to them. Didn’t know we had copies in the Institute, though; let alone original cuts. [CHUCKLE] Records indicate they [PAPER RUSTLING] ended up in… Artefact Storage. DAISY: Probably best that they stay there. ARCHIVIST: … Yeah. Yes, of course.

But SOB x2 since:

* Tower-in-the-tarot-sense meaning ominous stuff… and change. (While Jon knew they would soon come face to face with the choice to take the route through Martin’s domain.)

* Crying over the fact that we’ve seen and learned quite a few outside-of-the-job aspects of Jon this season, comparatively to the previous ones? He’s cute! He’s making jokes! He mentioned his student days a bit in MAG165, and visiting Upton House as a kid in MAG180! And this is happening when the world has been forked over and Jon&Martin certainly won’t survive together past MAG200, which means they have at most seventeen episodes together remaining. Martin, and we alongside him, are seeing so many different, more casual aspects of Jon, and it’s at the end of things…

- I really like how information bounced around in this episode? It felt even more dynamic than usual, quickly shifting depending on some reaction, or going from an association to another:

(MAG183) MARTIN: What, what’s the deal, though? Parts of it almost look like– ARCHIVIST: The Institute. MARTIN: Yeah…! ARCHIVIST: Yes. [INHALE] It makes sense, after all it was… built on the ruins of what Robert Smirke constructed…! MARTIN: Smirke? … What, no! But, but, surely he’s– ARCHIVIST: Dead, yeah, I mean, yes. [CHUCKLING] Very much so! This place is… an homage, shall we say. A monument. To him, and those like him, who tried to… categorise the world with themselves at the centre. In so doing, constructed the architecture of its suffering…!

Ohohoh about Martin feeling like the tower looked a bit like the Institute, and Jon drawing similarities through Smirke – the Institute being built on the ruins of a Smirke building, and the current domain being dedicated to people like him. The Institute is coming closer and weighing on their minds, isn’t it? I really like that Martin immediately worried about Smirke potentially being alive-ish, since:

(MAG138) MARTIN: “The Eye has marked me for something, of this I have no doubt. My… humble hope is that it may be a swift death, an accidental effect of your own researches, which I once again implore you to abandon. It is likely too late for me, but I will not…” [PAPER RUSTLE] Uh… [INHALE] The, hum… The letter ends there. Uh… Ap–apparently Robert Smirke was found collapsed in his study that evening, dead of, uh… [FLIPPING THROUGH PAPERS] Apoplexy. Mm. I–I don’t know how the letter reached the Archives, I mean… Well, I can guess, but…

… he had read Smirke’s last words before he died. (But Martin has seen enough by now to know that there is always a risk for people to not have actually died; on that front, we’re safe, Jon confirmed! Loving Jon’s chuckle: ah yeah, no, Smirke, “very much so” dead from Jonah.)

(Also loved the “[those] who tried to categorise the world with themselves at the centre” shade: yep! That’s West-Eurocentrism and Smirke’s little gang for you!)

- About the way the world works now since the Change, I’m curious about Jon’s wording as “the architecture of [the world’s] suffering”, since it’s echoing the title of Smirke’s statement, “The Architecture of Fear”: my understanding is that right now, the world is mostly running on a loop of people’s fears => feeding and shaping the landscape => which hurts people by turning those realised fears against them => squeezing the fear out of them => feeding the landscape, etc.

What is quite curious is the status of Smirke’s taxonomy in the current world. Jon went off on a rant about how Smirke and people who attempted to classify had been wrong all along because it was meant to fail… while he himself has persistently been using the very same classifications during this very season:

(MAG166) ARCHIVIST: Look, we can talk about it later, we’re– coming to a… “domain of The Buried”, and [STATIC RISES] I would really rather… […] God, I hate The Buried. [DEEP BREATHS] … End recording.

(MAG172) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] “Knowing”, “seeing”… i–it’s not the same thing as… understanding. Every time I try to know what The Web’s plan is, if it can even be called a plan, I see… a hundred thousand events and causes and links, an impossibly intricate pattern of consequences and subtle nudges, but I–I can’t…! … I can’t hold them all in my head at the same time. There’s no way to see the “whole”, the, the point of it all. I can see all the details, but it doesn’t… provide… context or… intention. I suppose The Web doesn’t work in knowledge, not in the same way.

(MAG173) MARTIN: That’s the avatar for this place? ARCHIVIST: Callum Brodie, thirteen years old. He guides the children through their fears of The Dark.

(MAG174) ARCHIVIST: I’m not entirely sure what you were expecting, it’s The Vast. The clue is in the name! MARTIN: Yes, all right…!

(MAG176) MARTIN: … Besides, I thought The Hunt was meant to make you go faster. ARCHIVIST: Depends on the type of pursuit. [INHALE] Besides, the chase isn’t… really the point of this particular place.

(MAG177) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Bad therapists. Let’s just say it’s the fear of bad therapists, filtered through The Spiral. BASIRA: That’s… a lot more nuance than I’ve gotten used to since everything went wrong. ARCHIVIST: Yes, well. The Spiral is nothing if not insidious. […] You just heard what The Spiral does to people, you can’t… trust her.

“constructed the architecture of [the world’s] suffering” kind of implies that they did manage something, even if it doomed the world? Is it specifically about Jonah using the division into 14 in his incantation? We’ve seen that that one had limitations, since The Extinction also got there anyway… But at the same time, true that at this point, we would still force-apply Smirke’s labels to anything anyway.

- Loved Jon sounding awfully pedantic and (fake-)poetic at the same time:

(MAG183) MARTIN: [SIGH] Bit of a mouthful. ARCHIVIST: Would you prefer I described it as a… “cascading recursion of shifting arrogance and hubristic dead-ends”? [STATIC RISES] [THE DOOR CREAKS OPEN] [CONSTANT HIGH-PITCHED FREQUENCY] HELEN: I would. [FOOTSTEPS] [THE DOOR SHUTS] [STATIC FADES] MARTIN: [SIGH] Hello, Helen.

AND HELEN HAVING THE BEST ENTRANCES. It also cleared up something for me (unless I had already realised it and forgot about it since then): the high-pitched sound we hear when she’s around is the mark of Helen and Michael, not of the corridors – if the door is open or characters are inside of the hallways, we’ll hear some of the usual crackling static, but we heard it rise when Helen arrived and fade when the door shut behind her (and same thing with her departure, it was briefly heard when she opened the door).

- Shots fired, MARTIN PLEASE:

(MAG183) MARTIN: [SIGH] Hello, Helen. Might have guessed you’d be into weird architecture. Very much your area of expertise, no? HELEN: Hmm, depends! Would you describe “petulant poet” as your area of expertise? I am weird architecture.

And Helen went equally incisive on that one, but also UUUUUH WAS IT A SPECIFIC REFERENCE TO PETER’S COMMENT ABOUT MARTIN…

(MAG158) MARTIN: I’m… saying no. I refuse! Game over. [KNIFE CLATTERING ON THE GROUND] PETER: Martin, this is not the time for petulance; there are bigger things at stake, here.

This was the only time someone referred to Martin as (acting) petulant… I mean, Helen not missing one second of MAG158 wouldn’t be surprising (she did tell Jon at the end of MAG157 that she would be enjoying the show), but ;; Little chilling when remembering Elias-Peter-Martin in the Panopticon and Martin refusing to kill Jonah there…

- I was right to suspect that Helen might have been unable to know where Jon&Martin were over their stay at Upton House, and that she wouldn’t be pleased about it!

(MAG183) HELEN: Anyway, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you, but you both just vanished. ARCHIVIST: Aaah… Right, I see…! HELEN: I was so looking forward to catching up after that whole Basira and Daisy thing, but then, pfft! You both disappear. I’d be very keen to know how you managed that little trick. MARTIN: Why, it caught us by surprise too, I mean, we, we actually ended– ARCHIVIST: [FIRMLY] We found somewhere to rest. That’s all. MARTIN: … Oh, yeah. Ah, yes, hm. HELEN: Fine. Be like that. I can appreciate the particular pleasure of a kept secret. ARCHIVIST: I’m sure you can.

* Salesa’s zone seems to be protected as long as you don’t physically find it? I wonder how Annabelle managed to find it, still, since Jon only become aware of that blind spot when they arrived nearby; how did she become aware of it in the first place? Did it feel like a hole in the world’s web?

* Awww for Jon keeping the secret and conveying to Martin that they should keep quiet about it ;w;

* AHAHAHHAHA for Jon’s “aaah”, which was absolutely a mischievous grandpa sound. Jon ready to cause trouble, with a smug smile on his face.

- … I love how Helen could observe that the dynamic of the exchange was slipping out of her control (Jon&Martin knew something that she didn’t, didn’t feel threatened by her, and Jon was amused to keep it out of her reach) and immediately tried to go for the throat again:

(MAG183) HELEN: Anyway. Such a shame about Basira and Daisy. I was really rooting for them to make up. MARTIN: [SPLUTTERS] Since when? What happened to– I mean, how did you put it… a, “a quick shot to the back of her head, and then back in time for tea”, or whatever?

Martin: Forgive and forget? NO, RESENT AND REMEMBER AHAHAHAHAH.

Direct reference to the fact that Helen indeed ~offered her door to Basira~ to quickly get to Daisy and execute her:

(MAG177) HELEN: I can offer a shortcut. Take you right to that murder machine you call a partner. MARTIN: Basira… Jon can’t go through Helen’s doors, we, we couldn’t come with you. HELEN: Basira is a strong, independent woman. She doesn’t need you two holding her hand. Anyway, it’ll be dead quick. Two minutes, door-to-door, quick shot to the back of Daisy’s head, and we’ll be home before you know it!

Laughing that Martin added the tea mention (Martin, you single-track minded tea-aficionado), but I’m glad that he remembered it full well to throw it in her face; it wasn’t even a personal attack towards Martin, it was something Helen tried to do to Basira, I’m glad that Martin is still absolutely offended about it ;w;

- I felt like Jon and Helen had two definitions of “what we want”: Helen potentially talking about quick, short-term wants (even if they turn out to be self-destructive), while Jon was more about well-thought decisions and choices?

(MAG183) HELEN: [EXASPERATED SIGH] Oh, give over. I was obviously just prodding her, trying to make a point. She didn’t want to kill her. ARCHIVIST: What we want doesn’t matter much these days. HELEN: Oh, [RASPBERRY NOISE], nonsense. What we want is the only thing that matters these days. And Basira wanted to join Daisy. ARCHIVIST: She made her choice. HELEN: With your assistance. ARCHIVIST: It was still her choice. HELEN: [SIGH] What a waste. ARCHIVIST: No. [INHALE] It wasn’t.

There have been a lot of discussions about “choices” and “wants” throughout the series (with big moments in MAG092, MAG117 and MAG147), so it felt a bit nice that Jon seems to have reached a point where he could draw a line between both? Jon, Martin and Basira didn’t want this world, don’t want the way it operates and what it inflicts on them; it doesn’t mean they can’t weigh options and make specific decisions – Basira, to honour her promise to Daisy and kill the monster she had become; Jon, to not smite for revenge (and Martin, to face his own domain).

I LOVE HOW JON WAS FIRM ABOUT BASIRA’S CHOICE MATTERING ;w; It once again reminds me of Martin’s line to Simon: “I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever.” (MAG151); the little things, the individual existences and choices, their own stories, still having value in the expanse of the universe…

- Martin! It’s a delight to see him so firm, having faith in Basira although he’s been so worried for her:

(MAG179) ARCHIVIST: Martin, this is what she needs. MARTIN: No, no! I–it’s…! BASIRA: It’ll… MARTIN: It’s completely– […] … We’re not doing this. BASIRA: [SOFTLY] Martin. Please. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … [SIGH] You’d better look after yourself. BASIRA: I will.

(MAG180) ARCHIVIST: How are you doing? About… MARTIN: Yeah, yeah. Yeah. I’m… I don’t know. I’m–I’m not sure how to feel; just… pressing on, you know? ARCHIVIST: I do. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Do you think she’ll be okay without us? ARCHIVIST: Oh, she’s made it this far. MARTIN: … Yeah. I just worry.

(MAG183) MARTIN: Basira is… She’s going to be okay.

And then pointing out that he was involved in the discussion too and that he wanted to know what the other two knew already and not be kept out of the loop:

(MAG183) HELEN: Oh. Is she? Do you want me to tell you what she’s been up to while you were “resting”? Where she is right now? ARCHIVIST: You don’t need to. I already know. MARTIN: I don’t. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: She’s currently moving through, uh… “The Void.” [STATIC FADES] Hungry shadows drifting in the dark. She’s been there a long time now, struggling to find the path. MARTIN: But she will? ARCHIVIST: I think so. HELEN: Yeah, she does always seem to manage, doesn’t she? It’s impressive. Although a little bit… tempting at times.

I’m not absoooolutely sure about Basira’s status: is “the void” a space between domains, or is it a Dark domain that Basira is having trouble finding the exit of, since unlike Jon, she can’t just “know” the paths? I suspect the latter but I’m not 100% certain. If it’s indeed The Dark, that’s a close to home one for her, since she had a few brushes with it over the course of the show – the Section 31 expedition to save Callum Brodie, leading to Rayner’s death and Basira’s decision to quit the police, her research to find out more about the People’s Church of the Divine Host (as shown in season 3) and her overall worry about them, which allowed Elias to convince her that they would attempt another ritual in Ny-Ålesund, leading to her discovering what “Rayner” was and travelling there with Jon, finding Manuela and the Dark Sun mid-season 4…

;ww; for Jon having faith in Basira, too… And the fact that once again, Basira has it a bit rougher than Jon&Martin (Jon had already told Martin that it had been a difficult journey for her, before they reunited). Helen does have a point that Basira seems to manage to find her way out in general: she had successfully escaped The Unknowing on her own, she had survived The Flesh’s attack on the Institute, she had pursued Daisy in the apocalypse… Basira has already gone through Helen’s corridors (offscreen at the end of MAG143, to return to the Institute), I’m YIKES about Helen implying that it would be “tempting” to grab her. (… But at the same time, why hasn’t she done it already, if she is capable of doing it? It might be a bit more complicated than that?)

- … I love Martin, I love that he was RIGHT to point out that Helen had just waltzed in to try and steer chaos:

(MAG183) MARTIN: Look, Helen, what do you even want? Okay, you keep turning up like a bad penny and, honestly, it, it seems like it’s… it’s just to be a dick! HELEN: Gasp! I am trying to be friends, Martin. Forever is a long time. And I occasionally like to have some company that isn’t… screaming. MARTIN: … What do you even think friendship is? HELEN: I dunno, do I? The only personhood I have is from someone I ate.

It feels like Helen has REALLY tried hard to make up for the weeks(?) she couldn’t find Jon and Martin? She went extra-hard on them: first with Basira, then implying to Jon that he had manipulated her into killing Daisy, then pointing out that Basira was not safe at the moment and still at risk of falling prey to other Fears (including herself), then trying to mock Martin about his domain, trying to guilt-trip Jon for not having told him about it yet, and when she finally managed to get Martin shocked and upset… job done, byebye.

Is it that she’s trying to get Jon so riled up he ends her? “Helen” used to like Jon and to turn to him (MAG101: “Helen liked you so… there’s a lot to consider. But I will help you leave.” / MAG115: “Before, talking to you made Helen feel better.”), before she was absolutely Down With Doors And Murders (MAG146: “We do what we need to do when it comes to feeding, don’t we? … Don’t we, Archivist?”), is it a remnant of that? Or is it really just an attempt at confusing Jon and Martin further, feeding from them Spiral-style?

- More about Martin’s domain later, but the reveal was BRUTAL, and yet not coming out of nowhere; we knew he had one, we knew he had almost been trapped in the Lonely house in MAG170 and the question was whether or not it had been (/was still) his domain once Martin got freed from it, but there was also the question of how Martin was able to walk in the apocalypse unharmed (was it due to Jon’s proximity, Martin’s connection to The Eye as an assistant, etc.), and Basira’s own status after Daisy’s death… so, yay! Answers and clarifications, and as usual, nothing feeling like a plot-twist, just things that make sense, and that we already had most of the information about!

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: Martin… MARTIN: Are there people, Jon? ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: Are there people in my domain? ARCHIVIST: Not many. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Do you need to do your… your thing? Make a statement about whatever’s going on in there? … I could use a moment to think. ARCHIVIST: Sure thing. Yeah, I–I’ll… [INHALE] Yeah. [EXHALE] [BAG JOSTLING] [DEPARTING FOOTSTEPS]

Sobbing a bit about Martin’s priorities (“Are there people, Jon?”) and Martin asking for a quick me-time. It wasn’t ice-cold, Martin turned it into something useful for both of them (expecting that Jon would have to give his statement anyway), but aouch, he sounded absolutely shattered inside while blank on the surface…

- Yes, yes, yes, reminder that Smirke’s categorisation is arbitrary and just like the Doctor’s theory, sometimes just doesn’t work, because it’s trying to force-apply rules and a classification over something that resists it (and because the classification is not perfect from the start), but hey, that’s most theories and classifications out there anyway, so: Escher reference, the functioning of the Tower reminding me of the Great Twisting, and the reasonings sometimes reminding me of Gabriel’s work (MAG126), plus Helen popping by – it was Spiral stuff, right?

Well! I felt like it looks like Spiral, but the Doctor’s fears by themselves:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: “But it is not the fall that terrifies him, not the pain of the impacts, but the fact that none of them should be there. That it doesn’t make sense, and it must make sense, there must be a system, there must be, because if there isn’t– [THE BODY LANDS WETLY] He lands with a heavy smack onto rough limestone, and lies still, his body twisted and broken. He knows it will knit itself back together, slowly, painfully, as it always has before. But the thought of starting over, of composing yet another theory, fills him with a deep dread.”

… are more something I would identify as Eye (fear of a truth) and Hunt (fear of having to return to the start, to have to elaborate a new theory from scratch, again and again, of being trapped forever)?

It was really reminiscent of Smirke thinking back over his life, his hubris and the pride of being the one who would have found the answer, to the point where he would reject reality if it didn’t match his taxonomy (refusing to, well… do what you do with a theory: change, or evolve and perfect it when its flaws are pointed out):

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “I believed then, as I still believe now, that these places I saw were the Powers themselves, expressed in their truest form, far more entirely than any ‘secret book’ can claim. And if, as I came to believe, the Dread Powers were themselves places of a sort, then surely with the right space, the right architecture, they could be contained. Channelled. Harnessed. So yes. Hubris. Not simply in that, I suppose, but in believing that those I brought into my confidence shared my lofty goals. […] Would you have me separate The Corruption between insects, dirt and disease? To, to divide the fungal bloom from the maggot? No. No, I… stand by my work. And thus, we must conclude that the only explanation is a new Power, created from what was once others, yet also distinct. And if such change is possible, how then can any “true balance” be achieved through immutable, unchanging stone…?”

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: “If they are feeling very confident, they may lean down and stretch a curious tongue beyond their chipped teeth and rotten gums, desperate to add another sense to their observances – more evidence to support their declaration of what the world must be. […] They must simply study and learn, if they are to escape the labyrinth. They will be the first to escape. The one who sits in the central chamber cannot remember his name. But he knows that people called him “doctor”. He made sure of that; to ignore it would have been the greatest disrespect, and he will not be disrespected. […] He knows, for a fact, that this is the central chamber because he is the one sat here. […] They’ll all remember him forever, the first to escape the Monument. His name will be hallowed with the greats: Doctor, uh… Doctor…”

Same old pride, Leitner knew that well too (MAG080: “But I think, in my heart, I dreamed of my work becoming known. That ‘The Library of Jurgen Leitner’ would stand as a symbol of courage and protection. Hubris.”) and Gerry didn’t have many nice things to say about it (MAG111: “Flamsteed, Smirke, Leitner. Idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing.”). Loved how the statements came for Smirke’s life and was absolutely ruthless about it – but maayyybe a bit too ruthless, even? Jon didn’t express much sympathy for “fools like Smirke” either, and this is a rare case in season 5 where I find that the statement was a bit lacking in empathy for… people who were technically victims. I mean! Insufferable pedantic academics sure are a type, they’re really not having the worst life out there, but it makes me feel a bit weird, with season 5’s overall tone, that the episode had that vibe of “serves them well, they’re insufferable” about people who were technically still trapped in a domain and suffering from it?

… I still laughed a lot about the Doctor vs. Professor rivalry and how they solved their argument:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: “The doctor that lies on the floor has recovered, just enough to laugh. ‘You’re still working on mineral theory? How painfully outdated.’ A flash of genuine fear crosses the face of the professor at this dismissal, before he picks up his chunk of granite, and begins to smash the doctor’s head in, yet again.” [SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PEER REVIEW]

Academia unleashed.

(- OKAY, I HAVE TO CONFESS that when the character could only remember his title as “Doctor”, with Smirke having been mentioned earlier, my mind just jumped to Doctor Fanshawe… ;; He had left a strong impression on me, okay.)

- ;w; Over the fact that Martin got his me-time and that it was enough: he was clearly tense, but he came back with direct questions and knew what he wanted cleared up…

(MAG183) MARTIN: Finished? ARCHIVIST: Yes. MARTIN: Good. … I need you to explain something to me. ARCHIVIST: All right.

- I can’t believe that Martin Global Heartthrob Blackwood made The Eye FALL FOR HIM too:

(MAG183) MARTIN: How do I have a domain? That doesn’t make any sense. ARCHIVIST: It’s like I said. [INHALE] Everything here is either watcher, or watched. MARTIN: [SIGH] Subject or object, yes, I know, we’ve been over this. ARCHIVIST: Well, you’re a watcher, Martin. You worked for the Institute, you read statements, The Eye is… fond of you. You’re not getting thrown into your own personal hell, which means…

Jane, Peter, Simon, Elias, Salesa, Annabelle, now Beholding – do you have any limit, Martin.

!! I’m excited over the fact that Martin’s entanglement with Beholding stuff was acknowledged! Comparatively, Melanie had read 2 statements (MAG086, MAG106) and Basira 1 (MAG112). Meanwhile, Martin had read 12; plus, although Tim, Melanie, Martin and Basira had taken (… or tried to take) one live statement each in MAG100, Martin had also taken 3 additional full statements:

MAG084, Adrian Weiss (Corruption) MAG088, Enrique MacMillan (Buried) MAG090, Ross Davenport (Flesh) MAG095, Luca Moretti (Slaughter) MAG098, Doctor Algernon Moss (Dark) MAG100 (live), Lynne Hammond (Desolation) MAG104 (live), Tim Stoker (Stranger) MAG108, Adonis Biros (Lonely) MAG110, Alexia Crawley (Web) MAG134, Adelard Dekker (Extinction) MAG138, Robert Smirke (Eye) MAG142 (live), Jess Tyrell (Buried, Eye) MAG144, Gary Boylan (Extinction) MAG149, Judith O’Neill (Extinction) MAG151 (live), Simon Fairchild (Vast) MAG156, Adelard Dekker (Extinction)

With Simon highlighting that Beholding had compelled him through Martin:

(MAG151) SIMON: Hm! No wonder I’m so sympathetic to The Lonely. You know: this really is a place for self-discovery, isn’t it? [CHUCKLE] “Statement ends”, I suppose! MARTIN: Uh… I’m sorry? SIMON: Oh! Nothing, just my own hubris. I should have known. When I came here, I said to myself: “Simon,” I said, “you’re going to answer this young man’s questions, but you’re not going to give The Watcher a statement. You’re better than that.” But it’s a hard one to resist, isn’t it? You get in the flow of talking about yourself, and it all just… tumbles out. MARTIN: Mm, does seem like it.

Elias might have been eyeing him as back-up Archivist, too (although since then, we’ve learned of his bet with Peter which would have already been running at the time – it might have been that Elias mostly wanted to ensure that Martin wouldn’t die during the Unknowing because he’d be needing him afterwards):

(MAG116) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] What about Martin? MARTIN: What about me? ARCHIVIST: He should stay behind. MARTIN: What?! ELIAS: Really. MARTIN: Why? ARCHIVIST: Too many people might attract attention. MARTIN: No, no, I can help, I’ve been reading the statements! ELIAS: … Quite right, er, probably best he does stay behind. BASIRA: What, so you have a backup if Jon doesn’t make it? ELIAS: I’m sure that won’t be necessary.

Martin did a lot of research, read these statements aloud, took live statements, was hinted as a potential replacement; tape recorders have spawned around him like they do with Jon, even outside of statements, and Martin had been exceptionally kind towards them on multiple occasions; there had been that little moment of Martin somehow knowing that Jon was alive back in season 3 (MAG088: “It’s the not knowing, you know? I mean, Jon’s still alive. Not sure why, but I’m sure of that. But Sasha, I…”), shortly before we had learned about Jon’s own Knowing powers developing; we don’t know why and whether that was Beholding or The Web or something else, but Martin had been able to know how to get Jon out of the Coffin in season 4:

(MAG134) PETER: What does puzzle me, though, and I mean that genuinely, is… why you were piling tape recorders onto the coffin, while Jon was in there. [PAUSE] It’s a question, Martin, it’s– it’s not an accusation. MARTIN: I don’t know. And I just… felt like it might help. He’s always recording, I thought… it–it might help him… find his way out. PETER: Interesting. Were you compelled? MARTIN: [SULLEN] … I don’t know. … M–maybe? I–I, I definitely wanted to do it… PETER: But? MARTIN: I’m… I’m not sure where the idea came from. PETER: You should watch out for that. Could be something dangerous. MARTIN: Sure.

… And Peter’s whole plan relied on the fact that Martin was initially touched by Beholding:

(MAG134) PETER: [BREATHES] I’m still working out some of the kinks. But I believe I have a plan. However, it requires this place, and it requires someone touched by The Beholding. Elias was, perhaps unsurprisingly, unwilling to help.

(MAG158) PETER: It’s quite simple, really…! I want to use the powers of this place to learn about The Extinction: what it’s doing, where it’s manifesting. Then we can stop it. MARTIN: And you need me for this? PETER: Correct! Without a connection to The Eye, any attempt to use it would likely end… very messily indeed! But thankfully, it just so happens that you hold such a connection. MARTIN: So that’s it… Both “lonely” and “watching”. PETER: You must admit you’re the perfect candidate. MARTIN: I suppose I am.

Beholding baby!! Now coming in an additional Lonely flavour.

- Mmmmmmmm… The way Jon put it, it seems that Beholding is consciously rewarding its servant and:

* It could be Jon trying to make sense of something else, that he doesn’t understand? Gertrude didn’t think that the Fears were able to “think” at all (MAG145: “Sometimes, I think They understand us as… little as we understand Them. We don’t think like They do.” “I’m not actually convinced they “think” at all.”); reward&affection could be primitive enough feelings for a blob of terrors to work out (Martin fed Beholding as an assistant by reading statements => Beholding grants him things in the hope of getting fed even more?), but I don’t know, I can’t help but wonder if this is just Jon humanising the Fears a bit too much? It’s curious that Beholding got “fond” of Martin precisely when Jon himself fell in love with him – could Jon’s feelings have influenced Martin’s position in the apocalypse, could Jon be having a bit more power over the landscape than he realises?

* … If Beholding is rewarding its servants, that doesn’t bode well for Elias. WELL, no, I mean: it might mean that Elias is having a Great Time as a Beholding acolyte, which means it doesn’t bode well for my desire to see Elias get absolutely wrecked and wrong about being the “king of a ruined world”. I want him to have miscalculated, damnit! x’D

- I’m having so many feelings over Martin himself being unsure of what he wants, whether it’s better to know or to remain ignorant…

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: It’s like I said. [INHALE] Everything here is either watcher, or watched. MARTIN: [SIGH] Subject or object, yes, I know, we’ve been over this. ARCHIVIST: Well, you’re a watcher, Martin. You worked for the Institute, you read statements, The Eye is… fond of you. You’re not getting thrown into your own personal hell, which means… MARTIN: [QUIETLY] That one of them belongs to me. But that’s… Ho–how can I be a “Watcher”? I, I didn’t even know it existed! ARCHIVIST: But you’ve suspected for a while now, haven’t you? MARTIN: Maybe? But that’s not “watching”! ARCHIVIST: Do you want me to tell you about it? MARTIN: No. … Yes. N–no, no, I don’t know, I don’t know. [SIGH]

Is it a remnant of his discussions with Tim in season 3? He’s basically gone the reverse of Tim about it:

(MAG098) MARTIN: Y’know, I think he thinks that the distance keeps us safe, you know? Like, like, if he just makes sure that we’re not involved, we’re somehow fine. TIM: He’s an idiot. Look, we didn’t know what that door was, and it still trapped us. Ignorance isn’t going to save anyone. MARTIN: No, I mean, you’re right, I guess.

Martin has seen enough to know now that ignorance doesn’t protect anyone, but also that knowledge can be used as a weapon – that the horrors are just made to hurt. I feel like, in his situation, noping out of Jon’s statements was one of his only ways to assert his boundaries (which had been denied from him — and from others — for a long time)? But here, the situation is different; it’s about Martin’s own involvement, he knew the knowledge would hurt anyway… but it’s also his load to bear? To at least face what is happening, since he’s benefitting from it, since he’s been made complicit (without ever wanting to)? It still goes perfectly with the exploration of exploitative and oppressive systems: Martin, unknowingly and unwillingly inflicting hurt, still being in a better situation than others… while not being directly responsible for it, not wanting to benefit from it. It really makes me want to see Jon&Martin find a way to reverse or improve things, to get people out of the domains or giving them the keys to escape them, and I don’t know if I can even hope something about this ;; (On the Jon&Martin front, things are so good; but it still feels so unfair for… everyone else.)

- Martin having a domain and being classified as a “watcher” finally explains why he hadn’t been impacted by the apocalypse since the Change! He had been able to get out of the domains’ grasp even when he wasn’t around Jon (he had fallen behind at the end of MAG163, he wandered around in the Web’s theatre, he left Jon alone for most of the statements), and there was still the question of… how he was still surviving without eating, and at the same time wasn’t (at least as far as we knew) trapped in a domain:

(MAG161) MARTIN: [MIRTHLESS HUFF] What about food? ARCHIVIST: What about it? When’s the last time you thought to eat, o–or even felt hungry? MARTIN: [FAINT] What…? Wha… Uh… I don’t know. ARCHIVIST: No. Whatever is sustaining us now doesn’t need us to eat. MARTIN: That… that can’t be possible– ARCHIVIST: It’s a new world, Martin, the natural laws are whatever they want them to be. And I suspect they don’t much care to keep humanity fed and watered.

I was wondering if it was Jon’s influence, or Martin being “trapped” in Jon’s domain, and Jon had also alluded to the possibility that they were themselves trapped in their quest towards the Panopticon:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “Free” doesn’t really exist in this place. MARTIN: Apart from us. ARCHIVIST: I suppose. I–in a sense, though… [CHUCKLING] how much of that is because we are trapped in our own quest to– MARTIN: Okay, let’s, let’s not dive into another… ontological debate right now, not here. ARCHIVIST: Fair enough.

And Jon had even specifically told Martin that he had a domain, shortly before Martin got almost imprisoned in the Lonely house:

(MAG167) ARCHIVIST: We all have a domain here, Martin. The place that feeds us. MARTIN: Oh. [PAUSE] Where’s yours? ARCHIVIST: [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLE] I mean, we’re… traveling towards it. MARTIN: Oh! Right, obviously. [CHUCKLING] Duh. Hum… What about me? ARCHIVIST: … Would you… like me to… ? MARTIN: No, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. ARCHIVIST: … Okay!

(MAG170) ARCHIVIST: I, I didn’t want to… look too ha–, I–I–I promised I wouldn’t… know you, and, and with the fog in all–all the rooms, I’ll, I just, I lost y–, I… I–I’m sorry. MARTIN: It’s okay. ARCHIVIST: … No, I… I tried to use the… to know where you were, but… it was… You–you were faint. It was so strange, i–it took me so long just to find you…! [RUSTLING OF CLOTHES] MARTIN: Jon, it’s… okay. I promise it’s okay. This place tried, it really did, and honestly I… I wanted to believe it. But I didn’t. ARCHIVIST: This… “place”, i–it… [STATIC] My god…! […] I, I just… I wanted to make sure that you knew what this place was. MARTIN: It’s The Lonely, Jon. It’s me. ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Not anymore. MARTIN: Hm! No. [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] No…! Not anymore.

And alright, that finally answers it: the Lonely house wasn’t his domain, wasn’t meant to be (but he was susceptible to it, got almost trapped in it as a “watched” although he eventually managed to reject and break free from it). His own domain was elsewhere, and Martin himself was amongst the “watchers” all along; Martin is living a bit like Helen in this apocalypse, having a fixed domain, but able to navigate elsewhere.

Aouch for Martin, since he had been encouraging Jon to smite domains’ rulers as soon as he discovered that Jon could do it; it was already murky territory for Jon himself (if the “avatars” and “monsters” just deserve to die, what about Jon?), it was awful with Callum (Martin himself drew the line at smiting a kid)… but now, we know it was directly including him, too, and that he had been fed through people’s pain all along. No wonder Helen had encouraged the smiting so hard, if she already knew they were kind of neighbours…

… Double-aouch for Jon, because he had offered twice the option for Martin to stay elsewhere, permanently:

(MAG170) ARCHIVIST: M–Martin, if you… did; i–if you wanted to forget… a–all of it, stay here and just… escape. I… I would understand. MARTIN: … N–no…! It’s comforting here, leaving all those… painful memories behind, but… It’s not a good comfort, it’s… I–it’s the kind that makes you fade, makes you… dim and… distant.

(MAG181) ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry, I… It would have been nice to stay. MARTIN: [WISTFULLY] Yeah… I’d almost forgotten what it was like, you know? A bit of peace, eh! ARCHIVIST: I mean, you could have… MARTIN: No, don’t say it, Jon. You know I never would. I–I can’t just “forget” about all the people out here! Besides, I’d rather be trapped in a post-apocalyptic wasteland with you than spend one more moment in paradise with her.

And Jon probably didn’t know what Martin’s domain was exactly, back then, since we heard the knowing static kick in when he described the domain in this episode? But he probably knew, already, that Martin having a domain didn’t mean that he belonged to it as a victim, but as a ruler, and that it would hurt Martin so much. (“No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most! … Even me.”, indeed ;;)

- I AM HAVING SO MANY FEELINGS OVER THE DESCRIPTION OF MARTIN’S DOMAIN…

(MAG183) [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: It’s a small domain. A swirling mix of The Eye and The Lonely. Inhabited by a few lost souls whose fear is not of their isolation or their agonies, but that no-one… will ever know of them. That they shall suffer in silence, and be mourned by nobody. That’s why you can’t really see it. It’s why even if we do travel through it, you won’t be able to see… any of the people trapped there.

… It reminds me so much of what Martin probably experienced in his own flat, when Prentiss besieged him for two weeks and Martin was unable to contact anyone, and nobody came to check on him? Did Martin’s domain grow from his own old fears…?

It also reminds me a bit of Naomi’s brush with The Lonely:

(MAG013) NAOMI: The fog seemed to follow me as went and seemed to swirl around with a strange, deliberate motion. You’ll probably think me an idiot, but it felt almost malicious. I don’t know what it wanted, but somehow I was sure it wanted something. There was no presence to it, though, it wasn’t as though another person was there, it was… It made me feel utterly forsaken.

Overall, the description is extremely… typical from what we’ve seen of The Lonely: there was Naomi’s misadventure, Ethan disappeared and nobody even claimed his backpack (MAG048), Yetunde Uthman had “disappeared a year ago. And nobody noticed” (MAG150)…

(But from that description alone, it doesn’t sound very Beholding, despite what Jon said? I’m curious about the Eye aspect of it…)

- Can’t believe that Martin canonically turns out to be the Lonely Eyes love(hate)child, gdi. It really was a custody battle in MAG158.

- Extra-sad that Jon warned Martin that there was meaning in the fact that Martin didn’t know anything about his domain, and wouldn’t even be able to see people in there… It’s just so cruel, both for them, and for Martin, to learn that he’s been unknowingly contributing to their misery (because they fed him and he didn’t even know about them)?

Pretty sure that Martin will stay with Jon to hear that statement, at the very least ;; (Or could he ask for something more? We’ve seen Jon extracting Breekon’s statement in MAG128, I wonder if he could put something into someone’s head like Elias had done, allowing Martin to give that statement himself…)

- I’m wondering about Jon’s own domain, too, now! He said they were heading towards it, so it’s either the Panopticon, the Institute or the Archives, or a mix of those… or something close to it, on their way to it. If Martin’s domain is a mix of Lonely&Eye, is Jon’s pure Eye? A mix of the 14/15? A Web&Eye mix, given Jon’s own personal fears?

I know that Jonny (lovingly) called out the obsessive classification in this episode through Jon, who went off on a rant about the “neat little boxes”, but he’s still using the Smirke classification this season:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: It’s a small domain. A swirling mix of The Eye and The Lonely.

(AND IN THIS VERY EPISODE… Jon…)

- On the one hand: feeling directly called out by Jon’s rant about how the divisions between avatars/monsters/humans/victims wasn’t and isn’t working, that reality escapes that division because it’s much more complicated than this:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: [HEATED] Avatar isn’t a thing, Martin, it’s not–! It’s just a word. A word used by… fools like Smirke to try and sort everything into neat little boxes, to reduce the messy spray of human fear into a checklist: Human, avatar, monster, victim. Only now, now, there’s a binary. There’s finally a clear dividing line and… [SIGH] Well. I’m sorry you’re not happy with which side you’ve ended up on.

(It felt especially relevant with Callum Brodie: could we really tell that he was an “avatar” when he was still a freshly wounded kid, even if a tormentor himself?)

On the other hand, well, that was still a useful distinction to have to identify servants, and mostly, I’m not extremely convinced by Jon arguing that there is now a Clear BinaryTM in the new world, between the “watchers” and the “watched”, since:

1°) Helen herself explained the dichotomy to Martin (MAG166: “And so, there are now exactly two roles available in this new world of ours: the watcher, and the watched. Subject, and object. Those who are feared, and those who are afraid.”). Given that she mostly tries to confuse them… that’s a red flag.

2°) Despite Jon defending that binary, we’ve run into plenty of examples of things… not fitting into that new classification. He himself acknowledged that Basira’s status wasn’t established yet; we’ve seen Salesa, protected by his camera from the chaos; Jon has been unable to know about Georgie and Melanie, only hypothesising that they might in what-used-to-be-London; Martin, a watcher, could still have fallen prey to another domain… That’s already a lot of special cases around that “clear dividing line”…

3°) Somethingsomethingsomething about how it’s in Beholding’s best interest that Jon believes in a clear, unchangeable, dividing line which serves Beholding’s own interests. If things feel fixed and unchangeable, then there is no point trying to fight against it or find a loophole, right?

Given that a Watcher can get trapped in another domain… does that mean that it could be the case for Jon, too? We got a threat of it in MAG172, when Jon began to give the statement of the following act – if Martin hadn’t interrupted him, would Jon have ever been able to stop?

- Confirmation that Daisy had “trapped” Basira in her Hunt! I was suspecting it since Jon’s first wording:

(MAG164) MARTIN: Is Basira alive? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] MARTIN: Is she… in… o–one of these places? [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: She’s alive. Out there, not… trapped in a–a hellscape, but… moving. [STATIC DECREASES] Hunting. She’s… she’s looking for Daisy. She’s a few steps behind.

(MAG183) MARTIN: … What about Daisy? Or Basira? ARCHIVIST: Daisy carved through the domains of others. Basira… well… In a very real way she was a sufferer in Daisy’s domain. Maybe the only one. Hunting, following, hurting. Now Daisy’s dead, she’s… free. Sort of. She’s inherited something of Daisy’s ability to move through the other domains. For now, she’ll… feed off what she sees in them. As to whether the Eye ultimately gives her a domain of her own… I don’t know yet.

* And now, Basira seems to have a peculiar status… Is it because she killed Daisy? Is it because she killed the ruler of her domain? Jon explained that a ruler’s death didn’t change much for the domain itself, but maybe it operates differently if a victim kills a ruler (… they become the new ruler?)

* Another reminder that Jon cannot see the future.

* Big Eyeball didn’t immediately give Basira a domain, but Martin got one. I see that favouritism, uh. (Joke, it does make sense given how Martin recorded a lot of statements and had worked at the Institute for years and years.)

- I love how Jon managed to explain why he hadn’t told Martin everything, and how Martin… indeed agreed that Jon had been mostly trying to respect his wishes about not knowing ;; It’s true that Martin had been adamant about not hearing much of the horror:

(MAG163) MARTIN: J–Jon, enough! Enough! [STATIC FADES] … Please don’t tell me these things. ARCHIVIST: I… I’m sorry, I– There’s just so much! There’s so much, Martin, and I know all of it, I can see all of it, and I– It’s filling me up, I need to let it out! MARTIN: I’m sorry, but tough. Okay? Tha–that’s not what I’m here for. [VOICE IN THE DISTANCE: “No… No!”] MARTIN: I can’t be that for you, I–I just can’t.

(MAG167) MARTIN: Oh! Right, obviously. [CHUCKLING] Duh. Hum… What about me? ARCHIVIST: … Would you… like me to… ? MARTIN: No, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. ARCHIVIST: … Okay!

(MAG183) MARTIN: You didn’t tell her any of that. ARCHIVIST: I didn’t think the metaphysics of her place in the fear ecosystem was something she’d be particularly interested in at that moment. MARTIN: Fair. But you seem very reluctant to tell anyone any of this stuff. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I did try, right at the start, but y–you didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I didn’t push it. It’s hard, I have so much knowledge but… how do I decide what people want me to share, and what they never want to know?. MARTIN: I guess that makes sense.

But Martin seems to acknowledge that indeed, Jon had been trying his best about it…

(And now, I wonder if there is still other stuff that Jon hadn’t told Martin, in the same vein…)

- First choice for Martin:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I was going to bring it up at the crossroads. Inside. I only just realised we would be going this way. […] MARTIN: I guess that makes sense. … So what did you mean about the crossroads? When you were talking to Helen. ARCHIVIST: It’s a maze in there, something between a, a Rubik’s Cube and a Magic Eye picture. I can find us the way through easily enough but… well. For us, there are two ways out. Two paths to London. MARTIN: What are the choices? ARCHIVIST: One would be a long, winding route, we’d see a lot of horrors, but remain… personally untouched. MARTIN: And the other is my domain. ARCHIVIST: Eventually. It’s a shorter path, with faces we know along the way. Including Helen. MARTIN: I thought Helen was her domain, wi–with all the doors and that? ARCHIVIST: She is, but she has a… position within this pseudo-landscape, like any other. MARTIN: O–okay. [INHALE] So, so, I mean, I suppose we’ve got to do that one, right? ARCHIVIST: We don’t have to, w–we–we could just– MARTIN: What, what? We could, we could dodge around it? Take the path of denial? I guess, but… what is it you keep harping on about? “The journey will be the journey”? [SIGH] I mean… It’s pretty obvious that this one is my journey.

! Glad that Martin didn’t hesitate and immediately understood what it was about – that it mattered to do it that way, that Martin had to face it, that this is how this world works. No hesitation about it. He got a demonstration with Basira, but still, he was quick to accept it.

I’m expecting a few episodes before Martin’s domain, so… with the overall rhythm of the season, they might reach the Institute by MAG189? And Hill Top Road during Act III?

- Since Jon mentioned that the path Martin ended up choosing had:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: Eventually. It’s a shorter path, with faces we know along the way. Including Helen.

I wonder about those “faces we know”, since we’re running super-low on ~avatars~. Different options:

* Institute staff. Rosiiiie?

* Melanie&Georgie. A bit unlikely, given that Jon had trouble knowing what was the deal with them, I feel?

* Since Helen will be there, people who gave live statements to Jon and were trapped in his nightmare zoo. I’m mostly thinking about this one, especially since Jon’s “No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most! … Even me.”… (And if it’s about an internal and metaphorical journey, I feel like having to face people that Jon hurt, first unaware (he didn’t know about the nightmare zoo when he signed to become the Head Archivist), then partially unwilling but still doing it (he felt guilty about it but still hid it, still chose self-preservation instead of warning the others about it), would have its place…)

- In the same fashion, who is trapped in Martin’s domain? Unrelated people? Live statement-givers? (;; I’m thinking of Jess, who had the misfortune of being compelled by Jon and of giving a statement to Martin…)

… Given that it’s confirmed to be a “journey” for Martin too, I can’t help but squint at Jon’s wording, because. “Faces we know”. The only thing we know of Martin’s father is the fact that he looks like Martin… (MAG118: “The thing is, though, Martin: if you ever do want to know exactly what your father looked like… all you have to do is look in a mirror~ The resemblance is quite uncanny. The face of the man she hates, who destroyed her life, watching over her, feeding her, cleaning her, looking down on her with such pity–”)

- I’ll be having Annabelle’s words stuck in my head (ha) for a long time but:

(MAG181) ANNABELLE: Don’t worry, Martin. We’ll meet again. Hopefully when you’re feeling a little bit more… open-minded…! MARTIN: I wouldn’t count on it. ANNABELLE: I would. MARTIN: [SIGH]

… Was it a reference to Martin learning about his own domain and about how the world operates, his place in it? I think that Martin might be even more resolved to turn the world back at whatever cost, now that he knows that he is himself sustained by fear…

(LISTEN, THIS IS ABSOLUTELY HOW WEB!MARTIN CAN STILL WI–)

- !! Footage of Martin saying “I love you” for the first time ;w; I love how it was the thing he was certain about, both a slight decompressing joke and a true statement, a reminder that he has faith in Jon, that he has something to cling to?

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: If you’re sure. MARTIN: … I’m sure I love you. [FOOTSTEPS] ARCHIVIST: I love you too. [FABRIC RUSTLES] Let’s go.

(He had mentioned that he was “in love” in MAG170, I’m happy to hear him telling Jon, too!) And the fabric RUSTLED, SO LONG AND SO HARD, AND AT LEAST TWICE!! I love how the tension from right before and after the statement had faded by the end of the episode ;w; Rollercoaster of little emotions…

MAG184’s makes me think of something Leitner had said (more lore about the Fearpocalypse?), and of Vast and Corruption… with very different vibes. If Corruption, and keeping in mind that Jon has announced that they will be encountering “faces [they] know along the way”, it cooould contain Jordan Kennedy, the exterminator from Pest Control…? Especially given that both Jon and Martin had met him (Jon took his live statement, and Martin pleaded offscreen for him to get them the jar of Prentiss’s ashes to comfort Jon).

(Yessss, I am absolutely aware of the irony of still using Smirke’s categorisation after another episode in which we were told again that it is bollocks, but if Jon himself still occasionally labels the domain as one of the 15, so can I ♥)

[childotkw]

Hi 👋 I love you 😘 but I agree with Dumbledore, please hear me out! this is gonna be long..

Just keep in mind that Tom never had to answer to any of his actions before Dumbledore’s visit. While people suspected that he had a hand in the torment and that he was guilty, they never did hold him to it, they just didn’t have enough evidence to actually punish him, in short. He gets off, while the victim suffers.

Tom is not afraid of the consequences, think about it, a child who isn’t afraid of punishment, a child who is arrogant enough to think that he’s above getting caught -or god forbid-getting hurt, isn’t it more dangerous and damaging to a child to grow with that kind of mentality and entitlement? Especially in the Wizarding world, where any crime can land you in Azkaban 😨 with great power comes great responsibility, Dumbledore knows this, so he warns him from the Ministry and getting expelled.

If anything, Tom should be grateful to Dumbledore when he’s older and more mature. Dumbledore could’ve easily made the choice to not interfere, to smile kindly and give him his Hogwarts letter. But no, Tom needed a reality check as soon as possible, and Dumbledore gives him just that. I honestly would’ve looked down on him if he hadn’t interfered, if he just brushed it off, I am sure someone like Slughorn would.

If punishing Tom for a wrong he did is enough to turn him into an enemy, then that’s Tom’s own entitlement, not Dumbledore’s. By burning his possessions he showed him the gravity of the situation, by punishing him, by holding him accountable. He taught him that he can lose everything he ever had in a fleeting moment, because of his own actions.

As a fellow orphan myself, I have a lot of empathy and understanding towards Tom’s circumstances, hell I’ve been in most of the situations he was in if not worse. But I won’t excuse his actions or wrongdoings, same goes for Dumbledore: what the hell is he thinking! Making a child go alone in— Anyway, that’s why I think I have an understanding to what Dumbledore was trying to achieve. I see these lessons as the following:

Upon first meeting him Dumbledore is nothing but patient and gentle when he was dealing with Tom’s hostility-except for when he was punishing him, but even then- he’s firm, but not malicious, because when Tom asks about his father, Dumbledore immediately softness.

When Tom openly disrespects him, he corrects him, and Tom catches himself little by little. In those few minutes: he gave him every tool he needed to exceed in Hogwarts, but most importantly, something I really respect, is his choice in not revealing Tom’s true nature/ability to the other teachers, even when Tom opened the chamber, and framed another orphan and killed a student, he gave him a chance to do better.

So, isn’t it fitting for Tom to have a feather from Dumbledore’s Phoenix? When Tom was going to rebirth in the Wizarding world anew, much like Harry did.

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

Hey there!

Firstly, thank you for being so polite about this. I know a lot of these discussion can get hot really quick 😊

So, largely, I fully agree with you. Children need discipline and structures and to be corrected when they do things wrong – it’s the most effective way for them to learn what’s dangerous and what’s not allowed on a societal level.

And you’re right. Tom’s behaviour at the orphanage was left unchecked for far too long, and as a result he got used to be the uncontested big fish in the pond – and the second a larger fish came along he didn’t handle it well.

Tom’s actions – tormenting the other children, stealing, killing the rabbit, scaring the adults – was not okay, and I would never condone that sort of behaviour. Dumbledore recognised that Tom was going to be a problem. And that’s fine. The younger those traits are identified, the better you can try and curb such things.

And I’m not saying that Tom didn’t desperately need the reality check that Dumbledore provided. He needed to be aware of the rules of the world he was entering into. And Dumbledore’s initial approach to talking to Tom was correct. Gentle, patient, firm when necessary.

My issue is with the way Dumbledore chose to demonstrate both his power (in comparison to Tom’s, it would have come across as a classic I could crush you like a bug display), and the concept of punishment. 

I don’t care how troubled a child is. I don’t care how disturbing their behaviour is. Burning their only possessions – even if they were stolen – in front of their eyes is not an appropriate response in any scenario. Dumbledore, in that move, made Tom immediately categorise him as a threat.

(Off topic, but the scene in Brave when Elinor burns Merida’s bow is a perfect example that no matter what age a person is – if you destroy their property, they’re going to react strongly.)

Tom was 10/11 during this meeting. Dumbledore was almost 60. He’d been a teacher for decades at that point. He should have known, with all his years of experience, that such a violent and sudden form of punishment would do nothing but aggravate the situation, and potentially exasperate those traits. With a boy like Tom, Dumbledore should have taken a different approach to explaining the consequences of his actions.

It’s not like he had no warning that Tom wasn’t troubled in some manner. The matron warned him off, and Tom’s own words of “she wants me looked at” should have set off all the alarm bells. Dumbledore’s inability to measure the strength of his own teachings with Tom is what I had a problem with.

I don’t claim to be a budding Dark Lord. I had a very stable upbringing – but I still would have tried to cut a bitch if they ruined things that I considered mine.

But I respectfully disagree with Dumbledore not revealing Tom when he was younger. The second someone - a young girl - was murdered, Dumbledore should have acted. I can’t excuse the fact that he still didn’t act against Tom, didn’t even try, until he was running around starting a war.

I guess I just don’t like Dumbledore, and I do acknowledge that that colours my perception of him. As does the fact that I like Tom more. I am automatically skewed in his favour. But still, for me, and likely for Tom, Dumbledore came across as threatening and dangerous. Which is not something I believe any authority figure should present themselves as.

[faltien]

All Of These Years Together (But Still I Want More)

Rating: T

When Khun first meets Bam, he's crying, curled into a ball.

"Hey." Khun calls. "Why are you crying?"

Bam looks up, and golden eyes meet his own, time slowing. Just like that, their future begins.

OR: Khun and Bam through the years, featuring Gay Disaster Khun, Ultimate Wingman Rak and Cinnamon Roll Bam.

Khun is ten when he first meets the boy with wide, gold eyes. He’s gotten into another fight with Kiseia, and storms out of the house under the pretence that he needs fresh air, all the while fuming at her pig-headedness. Kiseia is usually rational and logical, but when it comes to their big sister, she is anything but, her fierce emotions of love and adoration getting in the way. Khun can respect that Kiseia cares for their older sister, yes, but he cannot respect how she lets her emotions cloud her mind, whirling her thinking into a storm. Khun, to the contrary, is calm and rational in all situations, keeping his emotions tightly locked away behind vaults enforced with steel and iron. Showing emotions signifies weakness, a voice in the back of his mind hisses. Khun has wandered down to the edges of the garden when he hears someone crying. Usually, Khun would ignore it and continue along his way, but today Khun is curious, almost feeling drawn to the sound of the sobbing. He walks down to the fence that separates the Khun estate from the rest of the world – a tall, metal, white thing, made with bars, twisting into fancy spires at the top – and calls out,

“Why are you crying?”

The sobbing halts, and then a brown head looks up, glancing around wildly, before settling on Khun. Gold-brown eyes rimmed with crystalline tears bore into Khun. The boy is curled up into a ball, crouching on the hard gravel path. Khun waits passively while the boy takes another heaving breath, before he mumbles,

“Rachel said she was going somewhere special, and told me not to follow her, but I did and now I’m lost and I don’t know where she is!”

At the end of his statement, the boy’s lip wobbles and his eyes well up with fresh tears. Khun sighs and rolls his eyes, fully prepared to turn away, but for some reason, he doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly, placing his hands on his knees and asks,

“Do you want me to help you find her?”

The boy’s eyes light up, and Khun feels something fluttering in his stomach that he quickly squashes. The boy looks hopefully at him.

“You’d really do that?”

Khun nods. It’s not like he has something better to do, and something about the boy makes Khun curious. It’s a mystery Khun will have to get to the bottom of. The boy beams, and Khun swears light seems to emanate from it, dousing Khun in warmth.

“Thank you, Mr…” he trails off.

“Khun.” Khun supplies. “Khun Aguero Agnis.”

The boy smiles again. “Thank you, Mr Khun! I’m the Twenty-Fifth Bam!”

Khun turns the name over in his mind. The Twenty-Fifth Bam? What sort of name is that? he thinks, before smiling.

“Pleased to meet you, Bam!” He sticks his hand out through the gap between two metal bars, and watches as Bam stares at it somewhat wonderingly. Bam holds his hand up too, seeming unsure of what to do with it, so Khun takes his hand and shakes it firmly. Bam’s hand is warm and slightly clammy. Then he lets go of Bam’s hand and climbs over the fence, landing on the ground in a crouch.

“Right.” He says, dusting himself off. “Which direction did she go in?”

Bam points wordlessly to the left and Khun mentally maps out the possible places that a ten-year-old would deem ‘special’ enough to want to go to by themselves. He comes up with multiple potential destinations and mentally sighs. This is going to take a while, he thinks somewhat forlornly.

“Let’s go.” He declares, turning to Bam.

“Okay.” Bam says, and follows Khun as he strides away confidently. After a while of walking in quietly, Khun decides to break the silence.

“So, Bam,” he begins. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Did you just move here?”

Bam hesitates, before replying, “Ah, I guess you could say that?”

Bam scratches the back of his head. A nervous gesture, Khun notes absentmindedly, categorising it away as such, before wondering why he’s bothering.

“You see,” Bam starts, “I don’t have parents, so I live in an orphanage. Recently, the caretaker of my old orphanage decided we didn’t have enough room, so she decided to move me and Rachel to the orphanage here. I arrived a couple of weeks back, and this is the first time I’ve been so far away from it.” He ends his statement by chuckling somewhat awkwardly.

Khun inspects Bam critically. His eyes are wide and honest, and something about his demeanour radiates innocence, so Khun accepts the statement without picking at it too much.

“I see.” Khun says.

“What about you, Mr Khun?”

For a moment, Khun is surprised. He hasn’t heard of my family? Khun finds that slightly suspicious. Khun Enterprises is one of the biggest companies there is, and consistently makes it on the Ten Great Companies list, among others such as Aries Corporation and Yeon Factories. But when he turns to ask Bam about it, Bam flashes him a smile, and Khun dismisses the notion.

You know what? Khun thinks, mentally waving away the strange fluttery sensation from earlier. Never mind. If he meant me harm, he would’ve done something by now.

Clearing his throat, Khun decides to throw Bam a bone. “I live in the mansion back there, as you probably saw. Nearly my entire family lives there, and it’s the headquarters of our business.”

When he turns to look at Bam again, he has stars in his eyes.

“Wow, you live there? That’s so cool! What’s it like, living in a house that big?”

Khun is taken aback.

“What, did you think I snuck in? Of course I live there.”

He’s surprised when Bam flushes red, rushing to defend himself.

“I didn’t think you snuck in or anything! I just thought you were a guest there or something!”

Khun chuckles, smirking. “Why would you think that?”

Here Bam hesitates. “It’s just that……Rachel told me the people who lived in the big house were really mean and cold, and that I should stay away from them.”

Khun is silent for a moment. Mentally, he agrees with that statement. It would be best if Bam were to stay away from his family. Bam seems to take his silence as hurt, though, and hurries to tack on,

“But I don’t know why she said that! After all, I think you’re really nice, Mr Khun!”

It’s Khun turn to flush red now, caught off guard, and for a second, he flounders for words. No one has ever called him nice before. Once the brilliant red on his face has returned to its usual pale white, Khun comments,

“Really? I think you’d be the only one to think that.”

Bam doesn’t seem to know what to say after that, and so silence descends upon their walk once more, until they reach an intersection. Khun calculates whether to turn left or right. He asks Bam,

“What exactly does Rachel like?”

Bam’s eyes light up once again and he starts to chatter about everything Rachel likes – from her favourite food to her favourite colour to her favourite thing to do, which happens to be stargazing. Khun snaps his head around to look at Bam as he says the last bit, enquiring,

“Stargazing?”

Bam startles and stops talking for a moment, probably surprised at being interrupted so abruptly. Khun feels bad for a split second before he brushes it off with surprising difficulty.

“Uh, yeah.” Bam says. “Late at night, she’ll sneak out and go to look at the stars. Sometimes she’ll even take me with her!”

Khun hums thoughtfully. “Alright!” he declares. “I know where she is.”

Bam gasps. “Really?”

Khun nods. “Of course!” he says, and takes a right turn. Now that Khun knows definitively where he’s going, he navigates the twists and turns of the path easily, keeping an eye on the cars rushing by. He’s reached a pedestrian crossing and is about to cross the road when he feels a tug on his shirt. He turns around and raises an eyebrow at Bam, who fiddles with his sleeves, golden eyes downcast.

“Um…” Bam begins. “Rachel always holds my hand when I cross the road.”

Khun sighs. Usually he would brush a request such as this off, but he guesses he can make an exception. He seems to be making a lot of exceptions today. Khun turns back around to face the road, this time sticking his hand out behind him. He doesn’t even need to face Bam to know his eyes are lighting up, a smile blooming across his face like a flower. Bam grabs his hand and swings it merrily as Khun leads them both across the road. They take another right, and after around 5 minutes of walking, Khun abruptly stops, causing Bam to crash into him. Khun turns around, the question already half-formed on his lips – Are you alright? – before realising what he’s about to ask and snapping his head back around. What’s wrong with me today? Khun thinks. Again, if it was anyone else, Khun would’ve turned around, yes, but not to ask if they were alright, but rather to lecture them about how they should be watching where they’re going. And Khun realises with a funny feeling that all of the exceptions he’s made today have been for Bam. That’s odd. He thinks, furrowing his brow.

“Why’d you stop?” Bam asks, and Khun tucks away the dilemma to sort through it later.

 “We’re here.” Khun replies, and points to the large, dome-like building with a sign on the front that reads in thick black letters, Planetarium.

“What’s a planetarium?” Bam asks.

Khun, already used to Bam’s odd questions by now, replies, “It’s a place where people can go to view stars and planets and stuff.”

Bam lights up and Khun vaguely regrets not bringing sunglasses. “Oh! So that’s why you asked about the stargazing!”

Khun nods, only to realise when a lady walking by coos at them, that they’re still holding hands. He drops Bam’s hand like it’s an iron poker, ignoring Bam’s curious look and beginning to walk stiffly inside. Bam jogs to catch up, entering the planetarium with Khun and looking around once they enter.

“Do you see her?” Khun asks him, and Bam looks around once more, before his eyes settle on a short girl with blonde hair and freckles.

“That’s her!” Bam almost yells, drawing a few looks from the surrounding people. He smiles sheepishly.

“Ah, well, that’s good.” Khun says. He wonders what the sinking feeling in his stomach is. He expects Bam to run off to Rachel, but instead Bam clasps one of Khun’s hand with both of his, leaning into Khun’s personal space slightly and declaring earnestly,

“Thank you, Mr Khun! And I meant what I said earlier! I think you’re really nice, and I don’t know why anyone would think otherwise!”

Khun blushes, the fluttery feeling from earlier returning in full force.

“It was nothing.” He insists, cursing his pale complexion.

Bam turns, seemingly about to run off, when he turns back and asks, “Can I see you again tomorrow?”

Khun hesitates. His mind comes up with a slew of reasons, excuses why he can’t – You’ve got to study, to go to school, to learn how to run the business, to help promote your sister in Jahard’s company – but instead what comes out of his mouth is,

“Of course.”

Bam beams, before he waves and turns back around, running towards Rachel. Khun stays there, smiling for a bit, before turning back around and heading back home, his mood noticeably better.

On the way back, he wonders if this is how Kiseia feels trying to say ‘no’ to their older sister. If, so, Khun might be able to understand.

___________________

Khun is twelve when Bam transfers into their school, standing in front of the class and introducing himself as,

“The Twenty-Fifth Bam!”

Gold eyes dart around the classroom, resting briefly on each of their faces before they come to rest upon Khun. Bam’s entire face lights up and he smiles. Khun has come to learn over the past two years of meeting up with Bam every so often that Bam does that a lot – smiling. It’s different from what Khun’s used to, because Bam’s smiles are genuine, filled with warmth, so unlike the icy smirks of the Khun family. Khun has grown to like that warmth.

The teacher asks, “Bam, why don’t you go sit next to Khun?”

Whispers break out though the class murmuring about how unlucky Bam is that he has to sit next to the proclaimed ‘Ice King’, but Bam ignores them, scurrying into the seat next to Khun and beaming brightly at him when Khun turns to greet him. Ugh. I might actually need sunglasses if this keeps up. Khun thinks.

“Hi, I’m Bam, nice to meet you!” Bam declares, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Khun raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, other than a curt, “Khun, pleased to meet you too.”

Bam nods, and turns back to the front, appearing to listen attentively to what the teacher has to say. Khun, on the other hand, is bursting with well-hidden curiosity. He didn’t say anything about transferring to my school. Is it possible he didn’t know? No, he definitely knew the name of my school. I’ve mentioned it multiple times.

By the time break time rolls around, Khun has thought himself through multiple scenarios, barely paying attention to what the teacher has to say. He’s startled out of his thoughts by the bell ringing, and the class murmuring to each other as they stand up, stretching and beginning to head to the cafeteria. Bam stands up too, and smiles at him again. Why does he smile so much? Khun finds himself wondering. Khun stands up too, grabbing his bag, swinging it across his shoulder and walking out the door. Bam scrambles to catch up, grabbing his bag and falling into step beside Khun. The walk to the cafeteria is silent, and they don’t talk even as they grab their trays full of sub-standard school food. Bam looks around, seemingly trying to find a place where they can sit, but Khun shakes his head and gestures for Bam to follow him.

It’s vaguely reminiscent of how they first met, Khun thinks, as he leads Bam up to the roof, ignoring both the sign that says ‘DO NOT ENTER’ in large, angry red letters and Bam’s alarmed look upon reading the sign. He shoulders the door open before walking to the centre of the roof and plopping his stuff down, watching Bam hesitate slightly before doing the same, his books making a thud as they hit the concrete roof. As soon as Bam is seated, Khun can’t contain his curiosity.

“You didn’t tell me you would be coming here!” It comes out more accusing than Khun would’ve liked, but Bam doesn’t seem to care. He smiles weakly,

“It was a surprise!”

Khun rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I sure was surprised when you showed up out of the blue.”

Bam winces, rubbing the back of his head. He’s nervous, Khun notes.

“Sorry, should I have told you?”

Guilt stabs Khun like a knife to the chest, and he shakes his head.

“No, it’s fine.”

Bam stills seems unsure, so Khun smiles and adds on,

“I’m glad you’re here actually. It means I can see you more often.” Khun realises he’s not lying as he says that. He shoves the implications of that away and focuses on his food.

Silence descends upon the rooftop once again until a thought strikes Khun, and the words are tumbling out of his mouth before he realises what he’s saying.

“What about Rachel?”

Bam smiles, but it’s decidedly more strained.

“Oh.” He says. “She, um, studied hard and got a scholarship to a school that focused on astronomy.”

Khun is still curious, so he probes a little further. “Why didn’t you follow her?”

Bam’s smile slips a bit. “It was an all-girls boarding school.”

Khun doesn’t know what to say for a bit. “I’m sorry. I know how much you cared for her.” Even though she never cared for you even half as much, is what he doesn’t say.

Bam’s smile drops from his face completely. “Yeah. I did.”

The wind plays with emerald green leaves for a bit, swirling them over their heads, and Khun tilts his head up to look at them. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps.

“I really, really did.” Bam repeats softly, and when Khun turns to look at him, silver tears are slipping out of Bam’s eyes, falling onto the concrete softly. Khun freezes. He’s not equipped for situations like these. But Bam is crying silently, nothing like the heaving sobs he had been doing when Khun had first met him, so Khun shuffles closer to him and awkwardly loops an arm around Bam’s shoulder. Bam leans against Khun, and Khun feels tears begin to soak his white dress shirt. Khun finds he doesn’t really care though. He’s glad his father decided to send him to this school to learn about ‘commoners’ if it means Khun can be here with him. It’s at that moment, with Bam sniffling softly into his shirt, that he realises he’d do anything for Bam, even if he has to burn down the world around them. Khun doesn’t know what to do with that revelation either, so he shoves it into a box in the back of his mind that’s slowly growing fuller and thinks he’ll pick it apart later.

___________________

A year later, Khun and Bam meet the final addition to their trio – a loud, noisy transfer student named Rak. When he introduces himself to the class, he does so by puffing out his chest and declaring loudly,

“I AM THE GREAT RAK WRAITHRAISTER! ALL YOU TURTLES MUST BOW DOWN TO ME!”

Silence descends upon the class for a moment, and Khun swears he can hear crickets chirping. Then the class bursts out into laughter, and Rak flushes at the front of the classroom.

“HOW DARE YOU LAUGH AT YOUR LEADER, TURTLES!”

The teacher yawns. “Rak, would you please sit next to Bam?”

Rak huffs, but doesn’t argue, stalking angrily down to sit next to Bam, who smiles politely at him and introduces himself. Khun raises an eyebrow at Bam who mouths at him,

It would’ve been rude not to introduce myself!

Khun knows this, but he also knows that half the students in their class wouldn’t have bothered to introduce themselves. So he shrugs, turning back to the board and watching the teacher drone on about algebra. Bam seems to have made quite the impression on Rak, as the transfer follows him and Khun to the cafeteria, and then to the roof. There’s an awkward silence, broken only by Rak noisily eating his food, before Rak turns to Khun, eyeing his banana. He says,

“Blue Turtle, if you’re not going to eat that, give it to me.”

Khun stares at Rak for a bit. He isn’t particularly fond of bananas, but he doesn’t hate them either. He’s debating the pros and cons of giving Rak the yellow fruit when Bam says,

“Here, Rak, you can have mine.” He hands Rak his banana, and Rak smiles.

“Hahaha, I knew you would be unable to deny your leader, Black Turtle!”

Khun is only mildly annoyed, but that annoyance intensifies when Rak mutters something about ‘stupid Blue Turtles’ under his breath. Khun’s eyebrow twitches.

“Eh?” He says. “Who are you calling stupid, -”and here Khun tries to think of an insult, but for some reason what slips out of his mouth is, “gator?”

Rak turns to look Khun fully in the eye.

“Why, of course, you, Blue Turtle!” he explains, with absolutely no hint of sarcasm.

Why you little – Khun thinks, before snapping, “Really? Because from over here you look pretty idiotic yourself.”

Rak draws himself up to his full height – which admittedly isn’t very impressive – and quirks an eyebrow at Khun.

“Oh?” he says. “You dare to defy your leader, Blue Turtle?”

Khun smirks, the smug grin falling onto his face like he was born to wear it – which he was.

“I don’t see any leader here.” He replies coolly. “Except for, of course, me.”

Rak takes a step forward, right into Khun’s personal space. He opens his mouth to speak again, but then the tension is shattered as Bam bursts into laughter, the almost melodic notes filling the air.

Khun and Rak turn to face him, and Bam smiles. “Sorry.” He says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your…..argument.” Khun has a feeling he means ‘fight for leadership’. “But it’s good to see you getting along with each other!”

“What?” Khun and Rak splutter at the same time.

“I could never get along with an idiotic gator like him.” Khun harrumphs, as Rak says,

“Me? Get along with a cocky, stuck-up Turtle like that? HA!”

They both turn and glare at each other, even as Bam bursts out laughing again.

“Come on, let’s eat!” Bam declares, plopping himself on the ground again. Rak follows his example, and they both shoot Khun a look. So he sighs, walking over and crossing his legs as he sits on the sun-warmed concrete. When the bell rings, they pack up and walk back to class together. Rak sits with them the next day, and then the day after that, but Khun doesn’t complain. He also doesn’t complain when Rak begins to walk home with them, and partners with them in group projects. And the funny thing is, neither does Rak.

___________________

It’s the middle of summer, and Khun is sixteen. His mother is applying more pressure on him than ever, grooming him to be the perfect little businessman to run the perfect little company. It grates on Khun’s nerves, but he’s been playing this game for as long as he can remember, so he attends company parties and events, bantering with the other attendees using sharp words and wearing an even sharper smile. He trains his wit, trains it and conceals it so that those who wish to stand against him won’t know what hit them until it’s too late. He’s been born for this, raised for this, and yet a part of it bores him, tires him.

His only reprieve is when he’s with Bam, and occasionally Rak. Bam has grown over the years, and is now around the same height as Khun rather than a few centimetres shorter than them, and Rak…..well Rak has grown from a ‘mini-gator’ into a full sized alligator. Khun likes to laugh at Rak when he bumps his head on doorframes attempting to enter them, which is more often than Rak would probably like to admit. Their little group has also grown, with some additions over the years such as Hatz, Shibisu, Anaak and Endorsi. They’ve trickled in as time has passed, drawn in by Rak’s loud demeanour, or Bam’s charming, innocent one. Anaak, Hatz and Shibisu join after Rak intervenes in one of Anaak and Hatz’s famous fights, somehow managing to calm them down. Bam draws Shibisu in by empathizing with him about being the main one to break up said fights most of the time, and Endorsi joins a bit later after she loses her lunch money and Bam offers to buy her lunch.  Because of that break times are chaos, loud and noisy, and it makes Khun think somewhat wistfully to when it was just him, Bam and Rak. Even so, Khun is fond of their odd little friend group and wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Because of their aforementioned chaos, Khun isn’t exactly surprised when they send Bam to his door at 9:00 on a Saturday morning, phone clutched in one hand and looking ridiculously hopeful. (And cute, but Khun will shove that thought into that box in the back of his mind which has grown worryingly full.)

Khun sighs as he glances around leisurely and notes the unnatural rustle of the bushes, pretending not to notice the fact that he can see one of Rak’s arms and the top of Shibisu’s head.

“Good morning, Bam.” He drawls. “What brings you here on this fine, Saturday morning?”

Bam laughs awkwardly and looks at the bush in which Khun can clearly see Shibisu. He looks pointedly away, but notices Shibisu making a ‘Go on!’ gesture to Bam out of the corner of his eye. He tries not to sigh.

“Ah well, good morning, Khun!” Bam begins. “Shibisu –” Here Khun sees Shibisu make a ‘Wrong thing to say!’ gesture with his hands. “I-I mean I-” Shibisu nods encouragingly. “was wondering if you’d like to go to a café with us.”

“Us?” Khun asks.

Bam nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! As in me, Rak, Shibisu, Endorsi, Hatz and Anaak!”

Khun considers it. If he says yes, he’ll most likely be dragged into whatever they’re planning, which clearly isn’t just to go to a cafe. On one hand, he’ll get to spend time with Bam. On the other hand, Khun doesn’t really want to be a menace to society like the rest of them. He thinks about what he could do at home, and comes to the conclusion that he’ll forgo the shenanigans today, and ring Bam and Rak tomorrow to organise something. The ‘no’ is on the tip of his tongue when he sees Shibisu make a ‘Smile!’ gesture at Bam.

And so Bam turns to Khun, and with a blinding smile, asks, “So? Will you?”

 Khun finds himself in the backseat of Endorsi’s older sister, Yuri’s car, as Yuri drives them to whatever godforsaken place they’re going to. Shibisu and Rak are singing along with the radio as loud as they can, while Endorsi applies makeup in the mirror. Anaak and Hatz are arguing about something again, and Bam is trying to be the peacemaker. Again. Khun curses his own weakness to Bam’s smile and then curses Shibisu for utilising that weakness. That son of a bitch, Khun thinks, as he glares at Shibisu belting out the lyrics to ‘Call Me Maybe’. Shibisu notices his glare and winks at him. Khun glares harder, hoping that maybe if he does, Shibisu will stop singing. It’s giving him an earache. When Shibisu doesn’t stop singing, and in fact, only gets louder as he reaches the chorus, Khun turns to look out the window, watching the other cars whiz by. He wonders how Yuri is putting up with this. After he’s stared out the window for approximately ten minutes – Rak and Shibisu are now duetting ‘Friday Night’ – he feels someone tap him on the shoulder. It’s Bam, and he says something, which is drowned out by Rak’s hideous singing.

Khun says, “I can’t hear you!”

Bam moves closer. “What?” he asks.

He repeats himself. “I can’t hear you!”

Bam moves closer still. “What?” he asks again.

“I can’t hear you.” Khun says, and they’re close enough that this time, Bam can hear him.

Bam nods. “I was just wondering if you were alright. You looked a little bit sad.”

Khun wonders what he must’ve looked like. “No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Bam asks. “You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to.”

Khun thinks of Shibisu’s ingenious plan. Fat chance of that happening, he thinks. But he doesn’t want to worry Bam so he flashes him a smile and lies through his teeth, “I wanted to come.”

“Oh okay.” He says. “That’s good.”

The conversation is over, but the problem is, Bam doesn’t move away. He seems perfectly content where he is, almost squished up against Khun’s side. Khun tries to remember how to breathe normally. He’s hyperaware of how close Bam is, close enough that he can smell his shampoo, and Khun tries not to dwell on how Bam’s shoulder will brush against his as he talks with Hatz and laughs at something Anaak says. He feels butterflies rise in his stomach, and his palms begin to sweat. He looks at Bam’s hair and notices how soft the brown curls appear to be. He wonders what Bam’s hair would feel like if he were to reach over and run his hands through it. Then he realises what he’s doing, so he takes the thought and tries to quickly and swiftly kill it before it really takes root in his mind.

Khun focuses on his breathing and tries to calm his racing heart, and a part of him thinks, Wow, isn’t this pathetic? The great Khun Aguero Agnis, almost defeated by his own emotions. How the mighty have fallen. He kills that thought too, and focuses on things that will snap him out of it, like Shibisu’s horrible singing, which thankfully, has not gotten any less hideous, nor has it gotten any quieter. He supposes he can forgive Shibisu for dragging him out here.

“Khun?” Bam faces him to ask him a question.

“Yeah?” Khun responds, turning to look at Bam and just as he does, Yuri takes a sharp turn, causing Bam to be thrown against Khun. And suddenly Khun’s forehead is pressed against Bam’s and he’s staring into two wide, molten gold pools, shifting around, catching the light in a way that makes Khun’s breath catch in his throat. When Bam exhales, Khun can feel his breath fan across his cheeks and lips, and suddenly Khun wonders what would happen if he were to tilt his head forward a bit and press their lips together, but just as the thought has flitted through his mind, faster than a hummingbird’s wings, Rak starts yelling at Yuri, breaking the spell, and both Khun and Bam move backwards at the same time, apologising.

“Sorry.” Bam mutters, blushing.

Khun waves it off. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He says, trying to will away his own blush and calm his racing heart. In the background, Rak finishes yelling at Yuri. Or rather, Yuri shuts him up with a death glare that could kill a man. It is a well-known fact that one does not mess with Yuri. The second half of the journey is considerably quieter than the first half, so Khun startles when Shibisu announces in a sing-song voice,

“We’re here!”

Khun raises his eyebrows when he sees where they’ve stopped.

“An amusement park? I thought we were going to a café, not terrorising some poor employees and young children.”

Rak chortles. “Haha, blue Turtle, did you really think we were going to a café? And you claim to be smart?”

Endorsi pipes up, “If you really want to go to a café so much, we can always go to one here.”

Khun waves away the suggestion. “Don’t bother.” He says. “I already knew you were up to something.”

He looks around and begins to walk towards a ride before being stopped by Shibisu.

“That’s not all though!” Shibisu says gleefully. Khun begins to get a very bad feeling about this. “Today, we will do the ultimate test of friendship! Today, those who walk out with their friendship intact will be deemed the purest of friends! Those who-”

“Shut up and get to the point.” Anaak says, glowering at Shibisu.

Shibisu laughs nervously. “Today, we’ll be picking rides for the others to go on.” He finishes lamely.

Hatz frowns. “That doesn’t sound that bad.”

Khun nods. “For once in my life, I can actually agree with the idiot.”

Hatz bristles. “Who are you calling an idiot?!”

“Hahaha.” Shibisu leans forward and pats them both on the back. “No need to fight, my children.”

“Shut up. I’m not your child.” Is said in unison by both Khun and Hatz. Shibisu, of course, glides right past this.

“Okay! Let’s start picking!” he declares with finesse.

“Alright.” Anaak says. “You go on that one.” She points to a ridiculously tall ride, in which you get into a carriage where you’ll be slowly transported to the top, before being dropped down as fast as you can. Shibisu pales.

He fake laughs. “How about you pick for me, Endorsi?”

Endorsi looks up from where she’s been reading a fashion magazine.

“That one.” She says, pointing to a rocking ship that gradually gets faster and faster until you’re being flung upside down.

Shibisu, desperate now, turns to Khun. “What about you?”

Shibisu’s eyes search Khun’s icy blue ones, looking for any shred of mercy. He finds none.

“I know!” Khun says, with false cheer. “What about the Turning Terror?”

The Turning Terror is a rollercoaster that has more loops than you can count on two hands, and goes upside down more than a dozen times. It’s a miracle it hasn’t been taken down due to safety violations yet.

Shibisu slumps, resigned to his fate, and Bam pats his back while Shibisu mutters about ‘merciless friends’ and ‘traitorous bastards’.

“Bam!” he cries, throwing himself at him. “You’re the only one that understands me!”

Khun feels a spike of annoyance. “Shibisu!” he calls. “Shouldn’t you be going on your ride now?”

Shibisu turns to glare at him. “I…” he declares, drawing himself up, putting a hand on his chest, “will have my revenge against all of you!” Then he begins to trudge dejectedly towards the Turning Terror, going to wait in line.

“ALRIGHT!” Rak yells, making them jump. “I WANT TO GO NEXT! HAHA! YOU WEAK TURTLES, WHATEVER RIDE YOU PUT ME ON, I WILL BE ABLE TO WITHSTAND IT! I AM YOUR LEADER!”

Anaak raises an eyebrow, while Hatz points to a ride aptly named ‘Flower Fun’. It’s filled with screaming little girls and boys dressed as princesses and covered in fake flower petals. Rak hesitates.

“I thought whatever ride we put you on, you’d be able to withstand it!” mocks Anaak. Rak flushes.

“Of course I can!” he says, and pridefully strides towards it. Khun makes sure to take multiple pictures of little kids crawling all over Rak as he goes to sit in one of the ‘flowers’. Rak looks to be in pain, even though he tries to hide it, as the kids crawl all over him, hanging off his arms and grabbing at his face and hair with sticky, candy-coated fingers.  Khun shudders. He doesn’t do well with children, and he can only imagine what their fingers would do to his hair. To put it into perspective, Khun is the type of guy, to, if on public transport, see a child crying, tell them to shut up and learn to deal with it.

 Hatz dares Endorsi to go on a tornado ride, perhaps forgetting for a moment that while she is stylish, she does not fit into the stereotype of a girl that cries about broken nails and ruined hair, but rather the type of girl that starts a new fashion trend based on it. To put it shortly, Endorsi is a badass, so she owns the crumpled, ruffled look the tornado ride presents her with. Then Endorsi dares Anaak to go on a tall waterslide, to which Anaak gives her the middle finger and goes off to do. Khun dares Hatz to go on a spinning ride, and Hatz looks faintly green at the idea of having to go, but walks off to do it all the same, Endorsi accompanying him.

Then it’s just Bam and Khun left, so Khun turns to Bam and asks him,

“So? What ride do you want me to go on?”

Bam chuckles awkwardly. “I don’t really know….? I guess you could go on-”

He’s cut off as Shibisu, having just got off his ride, yells,

“WAIT!”

Khun turns back around to see Shibisu, looking quite undignified, hair a mess, clothes crumpled, pale as a sheet, lurching towards them. Unfortunately, unlike Endorsi, the look doesn’t fit him.

“I want to pick the ride Khun goes on!” he huffs, looking quite sick.

“Shibisu, are you alright?” Bam asks him. Shibisu waves his concern off.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He turns to Khun with a shaky, evil smile, and the bad feeling from earlier returns, hitting Khun like a truck full of cement.

“I say you go on…” Shibisu trails of dramatically, before whipping around as fast as his motion sickness will allow, “that one!”

‘That one’ is a pink, red and white ride, decorated with hearts, swans and pictures of Cupid. Decorating the front, in cursive, pretty writing are the words, ‘Tunnel of Love’.

Khun exhales in relief. It’s not as bad as it could have been. But Shibisu, apparently, isn’t done, because he continues his sentence.

“With Bam!”

Khun’s heart stops. “What?” he chokes out, an embarrassed flush already making it’s way to his cheeks.

Evidently, Bam feels the same way, blushing as he turns to ask Shibisu, in a much more dignified way than Khun,

“Go in the Tunnel of Love? With Khun?”

Shibisu cackles, looking very pleased with himself. “Of course!” he says.

Khun, having recovered his wits, looks Shibisu dead in the eye and says, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Eh? Why not?” he asks. “After all, everyone knows you-”

Khun glares at him, effectively cutting him off. “Not a chance.” He hisses.

Just because Khun likes Bam – not that he’d ever admit it to Shibisu -  doesn’t mean he’s willing to go on a stupid ride like this with him in a stupid amusement park.

“Well,” Shibisu says, their positions reversed as Khun searches for mercy, “good luck.”

And then he pushes them towards the very pink, very romantic-themed, ride. Khun curses his luck and Shibisu as he resolves to murder him next time he sees him. He turns to glare at Shibisu a final time as he and Bam are ushered onto a pink-and-white swan shaped boat.

Revenge, Shibisu mouths.

I’ll kill you, Khun mouths back.

Toodles, Shibisu smirks, as he and Bam are entering the tunnel, and then makes a kissy face at Khun.

That bastard! Khun thinks indignantly, fuming. Then they enter the tunnel, and Shibisu’s face is out of sight. Cheesy, romantic music plays in the background, and ambient artificial lighting shines down from fake candles. On the walls are painted pictures of famous, madly-in-love couples, such as Romeo and Juliet and Cupid and Psyche. Khun clears his throat and turns reluctantly to look at Bam, trying to avoid eye contact. An awkward silence reins for a few minutes before both Bam and Khun attempt to say something at the same time.

“Why do-”

“This is-”

They both stop and Khun puts on a strained smile, a voice in his head screaming about how awkward it is and making death threats toward Shibisu.

“You go first.” Khun says.

“No, you can go first.” Bam says.

“You go first.” Khun repeats. He kind of wishes he could disappear right now. Maybe if he wishes hard enough, the earth will swallow him up and take him out of this awkward, pink themed torture.

“If you insist,” Bam says, before continuing. “Why do you think Shibisu sent us here? You would’ve though he’d have opted for some torturous ride like the others.”

Why indeed. Khun thinks, gritting his teeth. He forces a laugh. “Well, you know how Shibisu is. Maybe he put you in here to tell you to get a girlfriend or something and put me in here to taunt me over the fact that I’ll probably be forever alone.” Khun half-jokes. Please don’t question that, he begs. Bam doesn’t question it, but instead looks over at Khun with earnest eyes.

“I don’t think you’ll be forever alone, Khun!”

“Really?” Khun asks, doubting it sincerely.

Bam nods. “After all, you’re really nice, and smart, not to mention pretty! Anyone would be lucky to have you!”

Khun is certain his brain cells have stopped functioning, the scene playing on repeat behind his eyes.

Bam thinks I’m pretty? Is currently the only thought running through his mind. Then he realises he’s taken far too long to reply and scrambles for a semi-intelligent response.

“Thanks for saying so, Bam.”

Then Bam looks down, fiddling with his sleeves.

“Actually, Khun,” he says, glancing up at him slightly, “I, um, I have something I want to tell you.”

Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the fake candles. Khun doesn’t know, but for whatever reason, Khun’s heart begins to pound, his mouth becoming dry. There’s no way in hell, Khun thinks. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

Bam looks up, and his eyes are blazing. “I really li-”

He’s cut off as something crashes into the back of their boat, and it tips over, capsizing and dumping Khun and Bam into the freezing, cold, probably dirty water. Khun meets Bam’s eyes in the water, and then they both swim upwards, breaking the surface and gasping for air. Khun turns around to see another swan boat, and two people in it who are looking at them, horrified.

“I’m so sorry-” one of them says. “It just- they started-we didn’t-”

The other one cuts them off. “The engine malfunctioned, and we couldn’t do anything to stop the boat when we saw you.”

“It’s fine.” Bam says. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Hysteria and amusement bubbles up in Khun’s throat, and he struggles to suppress it. But looking around, Khun can’t help it. He starts laughing. Honest-to-good laughter, spilling up out of his throat and into the air. His hair is absolutely ruined, he’s soaking wet, and not to mention freezing, but something about the situation strikes him as funny. He doesn’t know what. His nervousness from earlier when he thought Bam was going to confess is dissipating, leaving behind amusement. He tries to get his laughter under control.

“Sorry,” he says through chuckles, “It’s just-” He turns to look at Bam and forgets what he was saying, because Bam is looking at him as though starstruck, face set in an expression of wonder. It’s a good look on him, Khun thinks, followed by, Is he looking like that at me?

Bam shakes his head. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Nothing.” Khun says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you want to go onto our boat?” one of the people asks, and Khun nods, swimming to the edge of the boat and heaving himself onto it. Bam does the same.

“So how are we going to get out of here?” the same person asks.

Khun points to the oars, there just for show, considering the boat is electric, and says,

“That’s how we’re going to get out of here.”

 Fifteen minutes later, Khun is out of the water and bundled up in a cheap blanket. It’s neon green and orange and covered in black skulls. Khun stares at it with an expression of extreme disgust. He and Bam are waiting patiently for the guy who runs the ride to give them the thumbs up to go. Shibisu sprints up to them, and Khun turns his expression of disgust to him instead.

“Bam! What happened?” asks Shibisu, ignoring Khun entirely, perhaps for fear of his life. Bam opens his mouth to answer, but Khun shakes his head sharply, cutting Bam off. Bam shoots him a quizzical look, but Khun ignores him in favour of putting a hand down on Shibisu’s shoulder and squeezing it. Hard. Shibisu yelps.

“Hey there, Shibisu.” Khun says, smiling. Shibisu turns around, smiling nervously, refusing to meet Khun’s eyes.

“Hey Khun….” Shibisu says. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Really.” Khun says flatly, eyes boring into Shibisu’s soul. “I could’ve sworn we made eye contact for a second there.”

“You must’ve imagined that.” Shibisu laughs nervously. He starts backing away. Khun starts advancing, the effect somewhat ruined by the wet slurping sound his clothes make with every step.

“I don’t think I did imagine it.”

Shibisu stops and looks up. His face is grave. “If it makes you feel better, you’ve always been my favourite child.”

Khun doesn’t stop advancing.

Shibsu nods, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. “More so than Hatz and even Anaak!”

Khun stops at this. He looks into Shibisu’s eyes, and sees hope for the future in them. Khun puts a hand on Shibisu’s shoulder, the gesture friendly, and smiles beatifically at him.

Shibisu looks relieved. “I thought you were actually going to-”

He’s cut off as Khun punches him in the stomach, smiling all the while. Shibisu collapses to the ground just as Hatz and the others arrive, stepping over Shibisu’s body, lying defeated in the dirt.

“What happened?” Hatz asks.

“Yes, tell your leader what happened.” Rak agrees. In the background, Bam helps Shibisu up. Shibisu sobs, once again wailing about how Bam is the only one to understand him. Bam smiles and nods politely.

Khun decides to keep things curt. “Bam and I were in the boat when it capsized, and we fell into the water.”

“Not that.” Rak says, waving it away. “What happened in the tunnel?”

Hatz nods. Shibisu limps over to listen, leaning on Bam heavily for support. Khun looks at his friends, lined up, looking at him curiously. He shakes his head disbelievingly, fixing them each with a disappointed look.

“Nothing happened.”

Rak squints. “Are you sure?”

Khun snaps, “Yes! I’m sure.”

He then watches as Hatz, Rak and Shibisu, who can now apparently walk properly now that the conversation’s over, walk away.

“They certainly have their priorities straight.” He mutters.

Bam laughs. “I can’t say I’m shocked.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Khun says. He turns to look at Bam and is reminded of that moment in the tunnel again, when Bam had said he had something to tell him. He turns the half-formed phrase over in his mind. “I really li-” Bam had said. Was he going to say he liked Khun? It’s now or never, Khun thinks, and decides to take the plunge.

“What were you going to say in the tunnel?”

“Huh?” Bam stutters. “Oh….” He laughs nervously. “I was going to tell you that I, um…”

Khun holds his breath, waiting nervously.

“I was going to tell you that a man called Jinsung came to the orphanage and decided to adopt me, and that I think I really like him!” Bam blurts out.

Silence hangs thick in the air for a moment, and Khun can’t help but feel disappointed. Bam never promised you anything, he chastises himself and smiles.

“That’s really good!” he says, and he means it. Khun is sincerely happy for Bam, because it means that Bam will have someone to make sure that he takes care of himself and that he’s eating properly and sleeping well. Bam nods.

“Yeah, it is. He even lives near here, so I won’t have to change schools or anything!”

“That’s good.” Khun scrambles for something to say. “What’s he like?” he asks.

Bam scrunches up his face a bit, as if he’s deep in thought, and Khun waits patiently. Cute, he thinks.

“Well, he works for this company called FUG, and apparently he’s pretty high-ranking there. Oh yeah, he wants to change my name to Jue Viole Grace.”

“Jue Viole Grace?” Khun tries out the new name, disliking how it rolls of his tongue.

Bam laughs. “It’s fine. You and the others can still call me Bam. It’ll be weird for you to call me that anyway.”

Khun nods. “Yeah.”

“He also apparently has adopted kids in the past. I don’t know for sure, but I heard he adopted some kid called Karaka, and that they-”

Khun attentively listens to Bam’s chatter, even as half of his mind wanders. He recalls what Bam said earlier. “I don’t think you’ll be forever alone, Khun!” Khun smiles to himself, but it’s bittersweet. Because Khun is certain he will be, because Khun likes – no, loves Bam, Khun is certain he loves Bam, remembering how he had looked in the tunnel, all golden-eyed determination, his gaze piercing Khun, making Khun’s heart beat faster and faster, causing emotions to bubble up in him. Khun loves Bam, and he’s in too deep to stop now. And because Khun is also certain that Bam will never love him back.

He ignores the voice at the back of his head telling him the other thing that Bam had said. “After all, you’re really nice, and smart, not to mention pretty! Anyone would be lucky to have you!”

___________________

They’re eighteen and they’ve just graduated and it feels surreal. A part of Khun can’t believe it. He’ll never return to Evankhell High School, at least not as a student. Rak and Shibisu are crying, though Rak is trying valiantly to hide it. Shibisu, on the other hand is sobbing openly onto Anaak’s shoulder, while Hatz pats him awkwardly on the back. Endorsi is going around, ever the social butterfly, asking people to sign her yearbook. And Khun stands watching it all, the tears, the heartbreak, the excitement. It feels….nostalgic.

“It feels weird, doesn’t it?” Bam is suddenly standing next to Khun, smiling softly, and Khun starts.

“Sorry,” Bam says sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine.” Khun says. “I guess it does feel weird to know that we’ll never come back here to learn.”

“At least we won’t have to deal with Mr. Han Sung anymore.” Bam jokes, and Khun smiles.

“Yeah, I guess.” And then there’s silence between them, but it’s a companionable silence, one born of many days spent together, laughing and joking and crying. Khun thinks that he’ll miss this. They’ve been standing there for a while when Khun notices a gaggle of girls out of the corner of his eyes. He only notices them because they’re giggling a lot, pushing one of the girls, who is blushing furiously, towards them. Oh. He thinks, and his heart sinks. He knows what’s happening. The girl who is blushing furiously makes her way over, knotting her hands in her skirt, and stops once she’s in front of them. She’s going to confess to Bam, Khun thinks. After all, it makes sense. How could anyone not love Bam? Bam, who is reliable, kind and empathetic. Bam, who would do anything for his friends, whose loyalty knows no bounds. She looks at them nervously, before bowing at a 90 degree angle, shoving out a box of chocolates. Khun prepares for his heart to be broken.

“Khun….I’ve, um, liked you for a while now, and I was wondering if you’d go out with me!”

……What? Khun reflexively glances at Bam, who seems as surprised as him, shock and a hint of something Khun can’t quite identify in his eyes. He looks back at the girl, still waiting for his answer.

“Sorry.” Khun says. “I can’t accept your confession.”

The girl looks up, heartbreak visible in her eyes. “Could you at least give me a chance?”

Khun shakes his head. “Sorry, I can’t.”

“Why?” she asks.

Khun takes a deep breath. “Because I like someone else.”

“Oh…” she says, and her lip wobbles, tears welling up in her eyes. “I understand. Thank you for explaining.” She turns around, and Khun pretends not to hear the quiet sniffles, more for her sake than his. Her friends crowd around her almost instantly, comforting her and telling her it’ll be okay. Khun turns away to give her some privacy, and almost bumps into Bam, who is staring at the crowd of girls, seemingly transfixed, an expression Khun can’t read on his face.

“Bam?” he asks quietly.

“You like someone?” Bam blurts out, and immediately flushes. “That was rude, sorry.”

Khun shakes his head. “It’s fine. And…yes, I do like someone. I’ve liked them for a while now.”

“Oh.” Bam says. Khun waits for the inevitable question, Who do you like? but it never comes. Instead, Bam shakes his head as if to snap himself out of something, and mumbles,

“Sorry, I’ve, um, got to go somewhere. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then he walks away, head downcast, a dejected air around him. Khun almost doesn’t notice the box of Khun’s favourite chocolates clutched in Bam’s right hand.

 The next day, Khun still hasn’t heard from Bam, despite him saying, I’ll see you tomorrow. Khun thinks it over. Maybe he forgot? He decides to wait a bit longer. That night, he calls their friends, but none of them have heard from him since yesterday. Khun is worried, so the day after, he drives over to Bam’s house and knocks on the door, a bag of Bam’s favourite food clutched in his hand. Bam’s adoptive father, Jinsung, opens the door.

“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.” He says, before looking up from his phone. “Oh. It’s you. Come in.” he steps to the side, allowing Khun to enter.

“I assume you’re here for Viole?”

Khun nods.

“He’s in his room, and has been for a day now, I think. Wouldn’t even leave to go eat. Good luck dragging him out.” Jinsung returns to the lounge room, where Khun catches sight of another male, presumably Karaka, Bam’s adoptive brother who’s almost never home. Khun turns to the left and begins to walk up the stairs, wondering why Bam would shut himself up in his room. When he reaches the top of the stairs, he walks down the hallway and knocks on Bam’s door.

“Coming!” Bam calls, and he hears some scrambling from inside. Then Bam opens the door and Khun is confronted with the sight of him. Khun is shocked. Bam looks…well, he’s seen better days. He looks tired, deep purple bags under his eyes, not to mention the fact that they’re puffy and swollen.

“Khun!” he exclaims when he sees who it is. “Why are you here?”

“Because you seemed sad on Friday, and then you disappeared off the face of the Earth on Saturday, so I was worried.” Khun says matter-of-factly, walking past Bam into his room, which definitely isn’t in a better state than Bam. The blankets on the bed are crumpled, paper is scattered all over his desk and the floor and there’s two bags of used tissues on the floor. Khun turns to Bam and raises an eyebrow at him. Bam flushes and walks in, picking up the bags of tissues on the floor while Khun works on making his bed.

“You don’t have to help.” Bam says softly.

Khun shakes his head. “I want to.”

Bam disappears for a second, most likely to deposit the tissues downstairs. Khun finds Bam’s phone on the bed, and, finding that it’s out of charge, plugs it into a charger. Bam returns and begins picking up the papers on the floor and on the desk. Khun finishes making the bed – Endorsi likes to joke he could work as a cleaner at a hotel with how efficiently he makes them – and watches as Bam leaves again and returns with a vacuum cleaner. He vacuums the floor, Khun watching silently. When Bam finishes, Khun picks up the bag and hands it to Bam, who lights up when he sees what’s inside.

“Thank you Khun!” he beams, and Khun smiles softly, melting a little bit inside.

“It’s alright.” Then he recalls what Jinsung had said. “When was the last time you ate?”

Bam looks up guiltily, half a bun inside his mouth. He swallows. “This morning…?” he tries. Khun fixes him with a look. “Yesterday night…?” he tries again. Khun continues to stare. Bam slumps.

“The night before yesterday.”

Khun sighs, before an idea blooms across his mind. He straightens and says,

“When you finish eating that, get changed.  We’re going out.”

Bam looks at him questioningly before nodding. Khun exits his room and walks down the stairs. Jinsung looks up.

“Bam and I will be going out soon.” He informs him.

“On a date?” Jinsung asks, and Khun splutters.

“No!” he says.

“Will anyone else be there?”

“No.”

“Where are you going?”

“To one of Bam’s favourite places.”

“Are you doing it to see him smile?”

“Yes.” Khun blushes as he says this, and he feels the need to clarify. “As friends do.”

Jinsung raises an eyebrow. “So, a date.” He says, and Khun shakes his head.

“It isn’t a date!”

Jinsung shrugs and says, “Well, you know what they say, ‘If it looks like date, and acts like a date, it’s a date.’”

Khun begins to feel like he’s fighting a losing battle. “It’s not a date.”

Thankfully, he’s saved from anymore arguing as Bam clatters down the stairs.

“I’m ready!” he says.

“Alright, let’s go.” Khun says, and begins to walk out the door, Bam behind him.

“Have fun on your date, kids!” Jinsung calls, and Bam is quiet for a second.

“It’s not a date.” He replies softly, before turning to Khun with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about him.”

“I don’t mind.” Khun says, realising the implications of his words half a second too late. He turns to Bam, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed, instead looking dejectedly at the floor, as if Jinsung’s words have reminded him of something.

“Hey, you alright?” he asks, and Bam looks up.

“Yeah I’m fine.” He says, smiling. Khun notices it’s strained. They climb into Khun’s car, and Khun starts up the ignition, turns on the radio, absentmindedly adjusting it to Bam’s favourite station before backing out of the driveway.

“Where are we going?” Bam asks.

“It’s a surprise.” Khun replies, and Bam nods, seeming content to stare out the window, humming along to the music. He doesn’t bother to probe, to ask what made Bam sad, because he can sense Bam doesn’t want to share that, so Khun will respect his unsaid wish. The rest of the journey is quiet, Bam’s humming and the radio being the only sounds. When Khun pulls up, Bam looks around.

“Is this….?”

Khun nods. “It’s the ‘secret place’ you told me about when we were 12.”

Bam beams, and Khun can swear actual sunshine pours out of Bam’s smile. “I can’t believe you remembered! Even I forgot!”

“Of course I remembered.” Khun says. After all, you showed it to me, he thinks. “Well, let’s go.” Khun says, getting out of the car. The ‘secret place’ is a little clearing near the orphanage Bam used to live. It’s a little way off the path, well-hidden, and you have to battle through some brambles to get to it, but Khun can still remember how excited Bam had been to show him it.  He can almost see Bam – younger, his chestnut curls a little shorter – running to show him it.

“Isn’t it so cool, Khun?” Then, he had taken on a slightly melancholic look. “Rachel and I used to go here together. She’d tell me about the stars.”

At the time, Khun hadn’t known what to say, to do, so he’d stayed silent, hoping his presence would at least help comfort Bam.

Bam had turned around and laughed sheepishly. “But you probably don’t want to hear about that.”

Now, six years later, Khun pushes through the brambles, wincing as one of the pricks him. They’ve become more unruly since he was last here, which would make sense, considering it’s been around three or four years. And then he’s there, in the clearing, smaller than he remembers, but that makes sense considering he’s grown. He walks to he centre of the clearing and sits down, leaning back on his hands while he looks up at the vibrant blue sky, broken only by white puffs of clouds moving leisurely across it.  He waits patiently for Bam to sit beside him, and after a few minutes he hears footsteps and a thud. Bam sits down next to him, looking at the sky too.

They sit like that for a while, when Bam quietly asks, as if afraid to break the silence,

“Why did you bring me here?”

Khun looks at Bam out of the corner of his eye. Bam is still looking upwards, golden eyes fixed to the sky, tracing white wisps across a canvas of blue. After a moment of staring, Khun slides his eyes back.

“Because once, you told me you liked to come here when you were sad.”

Bam startles, tearing his eyes away from the sky, resting them upon Khun, scrutinising him intensely.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course I did.” Khun replies once again, and wonders why Bam thinks he would forget things like this. Because of course Khun will remember, because it’s Bam, and need he say more? Bam stares at him for a few more moments, before looking back at the sky.

“The person….” He says suddenly. “How long have you liked them for?”

Khun’s surprised to say the least. Why would he ask that? he wonders, before coming to the conclusion that Bam’s probably just curious, considering the fact that Khun has never told Bam that he’s liked anyone, despite other secrets that were shared between them, exchanged easily under the cover of velvet blackness and diamond pinpricks in the sky.

“For a very long time.” Khun settles on saying, and it’s true. Loving Bam was easy, and it didn’t take long for Khun to fall after meeting him, even if he didn’t realise it at the time. And by the time he realised, he was in too deep to stop, to slow his descent, nor had he wanted to, so he hadn’t even tried.

“What would you do,” Bam begins, “if someone who wasn’t that person, but who was close to you, say, like Shibisu, was to confess to you?”

Khun wrinkles his nose at the thought of Shibisu confessing to him. “I would reject them.”

“Oh.” Then Bam’s quiet again, and Khun gets the faint impression of something slipping away from him, but he doesn’t know what to do, so he says,

“Bam, remember, I’ll always be there for you. If you ever need a friend, call me.”

“A friend…” Bam says, then smiles, but Khun notices it looks a bit sad. “Thank you, Khun. I’ll always be your friend too.”

Friends….Khun thinks, and feels the word twist painfully around in his chest.

___________________

Khun is nineteen when Rak suggests the best-worst thing Khun has ever thought of. They’re in their first year of college and slowly getting used to it: the feel of freedom, the differing schedules, the teaching, it’s all so new. Khun can’t help but be slightly overwhelmed, but he hides it well. Their friend group still meets up often, despite going to different colleges, discussing random things and comparing about the different learning styles. Khun’s also considering moving out, having gotten in a dispute with his family about which college he should attend. Khun’s family had wanted him to go to a prestigious, high-class college, one that cost more than most people would earn in a year to attend. Khun, on the other hand, had wanted to go to a cheaper, simpler college, for reasons he had not told them. The reason, of course, was because Bam (and Rak) were going to go there. In the end, they had icily agreed to let him go, albeit very reluctantly, and warned that if his marks weren’t up to expectation, they would pull him out immediately. Khun had agreed, but since then, there had been a lingering tension in the air, one that would spark and fizzle with every interaction Khun shared with his family.

So, Khun’s considering moving out. He’s looked at a few apartments situated near campus and is currently in the process of enquiring about one. And that’s where the trouble starts. Bam’s also been looking for an apartment, explaining that unfortunately, his father will be moving away temporarily for work soon, and that he’ll be renting out the house while he’s gone. However, unlike Khun, Bam doesn’t have large amounts of money, instead having a very modest amount, which he’s expected to be able to rent an apartment with.

It’s late afternoon, and the seven of them are meeting up at a café. They’re talking about their lives, how they’re adjusting to the differences in work, when Bam begins talking about moving out.

“I don’t know how I’m going to find an apartment!” he complains, banging his head against the table. “They’re all so expensive, and I don’t have a lot of money.”

Rak nods, “I have also been looking for an apartment, Black Turtle. They are all very expensive.”

Khun frowns. “Really? I haven’t had much trouble finding one.”

Rak turns to look at him from the corner of his eye and snorts. “Hah! Easy for you to say, Blue Turtle. However, unlike you, Black Turtle and I don’t have a family fortune.”

“I’m not that rich.” Khun protests. “My apartment wasn’t even that expensive.”

Rak suddenly looks at him, scrutinising him intensely. “Have you already rented an apartment, Blue Turtle?”

“Yes, why?” Khun responds suspiciously.

“How big is it?” Rak asks.

“Well, it has two bedrooms, a kitchen, a lounge, a bathroom…” Khun trails off as he notices Bam staring at him, slack-jawed. “What is it?”

“Huh? Oh, I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just…” Bam hesitates. “That sounds very expensive.”

Rak seems to be deep in thought, staring intensely at the table. Then he jumps up, a cunning smile on his face. “I know! Let’s move in with Blue Turtle!”

“What?” Khun chokes out, looking towards Bam. Bam is also staring at Rak, seeming surprised, an expression of thoughtfulness on his face. Rak nods, satisfied, then continues.

“There are two bedrooms, so two of us can share one, and from what Blue Turtle was talking about, it seems like they’ll be plenty of room.”

Khun glares at Rak. “Have you forgotten you need to get my permission for this, gator?!”

Rak harrumphs. “I am the leader. I don’t need things like ‘permission.’”

Bam laughs nervously. “I don’t know, Rak. It is Khun’s apartment.”

Rak frowns. “He should be courteous.”

“Courteous?” Khun splutters. “It’s my apartment!”

Bam looks between them, hands raised weakly. “Ah…”

Rak looks Khun in the eyes once more before dropping his gaze, rolling his eyes. “Consider it, Blue Turtle.”

Khun shakes his head. “No.”

Rak raises an eyebrow. “You say that now, Blue Turtle, but mark my words, you will change your mind.” Then he very purposefully slides his eyes towards Bam, before getting up and declaring loudly, “YOUR LEADER MUST NOW DEPART!”

 After that, the rest of them slowly leave, until it’s just Khun and Bam.

“I guess I better head home now,” Bam says, grabbing his bag and standing up.

“I’ll walk you.” Khun says automatically.

Bam hums in agreement. His house isn’t too far away from the café, so he can easily walk home by himself. Neither of them mention it though. They fall into an easy pace, walking side-by-side, and Khun admires the scenery as they walk through the streets. There’s quaint little shops littered here and there, and children run past them, squealing. There are few vehicles on the road, so the cars don’t zoom past like usual, and Khun can hear faint music playing from a shop across the street. They pass a toy store, and Khun spots an alligator plushie. It reminds him of Rak, and a surge of irrational annoyance shoots through him.

“I can’t believe that gator.” Khun mutters. “Not even asking if he can move in…..!”

Bam laughs, the sound like tinkling bells. “Well, it’s just like Rak to do so.”

“Yeah, I know.” Then Khun turns to Bam and asks, “Is it really that difficult to find an apartment?”

“Hmmmm.” Bam considers the question. “Yeah.”

“Oh.”

Bam brightens up. “I didn’t get a chance to mention this earlier, but I did manage to find one! It took a lot of searching though.”

“Really? That’s good. What’s it like?”

“It’s not as big as yours, and it’s got one bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom, but I’m not in any position to complain, so I’ll take what I can get.”

“Where is it?”

Bam hesitates. “It’s a bit out of the city.”

“A bit out of the city?” Khun frowns. The college they attend is in the middle of the city.

“Yeah.” Bam doesn’t elaborate.

“How far will you have to travel?”

“Ummm…. I’ll have to get up at 4:00, catch a bus, arrive at the train station at 5:00, and then I’ll arrive at 8:30 before catching another bus to the campus, and arriving at 9:00.” Bam rattles off.

“You have to travel for five hours?!”

Bam nods. “It’s fine though. I don’t mind.”

Khun narrows his eyes. “At what time will you get home?”

“5:00.”

Khun stares at Bam. Bam fidgets under his gaze. “Okay, it’s actually 7:00.”

Khun continues to observe Bam until he gives in with a defeated sigh.

“10:00.” Is what he offers up.

Ten? Khun calculates. Even if Bam goes to sleep as soon as he gets home, he’ll still be sleep deprived. He frowns, and opens his mouth, but then Bam says,

“Thank for walking me home, Khun!”

Khun realises they’re outside Bam’s house. Bam proceeds to open the gate and rush inside before Khun can get a word in, and Khun doesn’t stop him, lost in his head. He thinks about the dilemma even as he walks back to the café, gets into his car and drives home. Later that night, he calls Rak.

“Hey, gator,” he says. “What was your proposition again?”

 The next day, Khun, Bam and Rak find themselves standing in the entrance to Khun’s apartment, surveying the inside.

“Are you sure you’re fine with this?” Bam asks Khun.

No, Khun thinks, looking at Rak out of the corner of his eye. Rak offers him a smug smirk. “Yes.” He says.

“Okay…” Bam says. He doesn’t sound convinced, but he doesn’t push the subject either, so Khun thinks he can live with that. They enter, and Rak and Bam look around.

“It’s really big!” Bam says wonderingly.

“’I’m not that rich’, my ass.” Rak mutters.

Khun rolls his eyes. “Maybe it just seems expensive because you’re poor, gator.”

Rak ignores him and steps further inside. He walks over to the kitchen and immediately begins rifling through the cupboards.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Khun barks, but is ignored once again.

“You don’t have any yellow fruit!” Rak despairs.

“Of course I don’t!” Khun isn’t that fond of bananas.

Rak looks down at him. Khun glowers back.

“Hmph!” Rak says, after around 10 seconds of staring Khun down, before wandering through the rest of Khun’s apartment. “This place is acceptable.”

Khun turns to Bam, who is hovering uncertainly in the entrance. “You coming in?”

“Yeah.” Bam says, before walking in, still not straying too far from Khun’s side.

“Do you want me to show you around?”

Bam nods, so Khun brings him around the apartment, pointing out where everything is so Bam won’t get too lost when he moves in. When he moves in. The phrase brings a tingly sort of warmth to Khun’s mind, washing over his body and making his stomach feel like it’s on a rollercoaster. Khun doesn’t linger on the feeling, shoving it aside, all too used to it. It’s the feeling that accompanies Khun whenever he goes to see Bam, hovering over his shoulder like a cloud. It annoying sometimes, but Khun…. doesn’t hate it.

After around an hour, Khun pulls Rak and Bam up (not that Bam needs much pulling up, considering he’s been sticking to Khun’s side the entire time), and tells them politely to leave. Well. He’s polite to Bam.

“This weekend, right?” Bam affirms.

Khun nods. “Yeah. This weekend.”

“Okay.” Bam says, packing up his stuff and preparing to leave.

 “THE GREAT RAK WRAITHRAISER WILL RETURN!” Rak yells, and Bam waves goodbye as they depart together. Khun sits on his sofa and slumps, hands resting on his head.

“Argh. So noisy.” He says, but really, he’s thinking of Bam’s soft smile when he had seen a seashell he had gifted Khun when he was younger, sitting on Khun’s dresser. He had stared at it for a bit, a soft shine in his eyes, a smile on his lips and his cheeks dusted a soft pink, before snapping out of it and looking at Khun, laughing nervously and starting to prattle on about how he thought the dresser looked especially nice today. Khun had owned the dresser longer than he had known Bam. The rollercoaster returns to his stomach, and Khun is free falling once again. He wonders if he’ll ever stop.

 That weekend, Rak and Bam show up as expected, carrying things such as a change of clothes and toothbrushes. The movers, however, do not. They wait and wait, and by the time the sun has set, Rak has called the company three times. Each time, they’ve been told the movers are on their way. After a while, Khun orders pizza and they sit around his table, eating it.

“Perhaps they took the long route?” Rak asks.

Khun snorts. “It must be one hell of a long route if they’re 5 hours late.”

Bam shakes his head. “They collected our stuff this morning.”

Rak gets a phone call, and after chattering into the phone for a bit, hangs up.

“They went to the wrong house.” He says.

Khun’s not shocked. He figured this was the reason why they were late.

“Where’s the house they went to?” Bam asks.

Rak shoots him a flat glance. “A bit out of the city.”

Bam slumps. “Oh.”

Rak goes on to explain. “They said the movers would be able to make it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Khun exclaims. He didn’t think it’d take that long. “But what are you going to do today? Where are you going to sleep?”

Rak considers it for a second, before laughing haughtily. “Isn’t it obvious, Blue Turtle? One of us can sleep on the couch, and one of us can sleep on your bed!”

“Where am I going to sleep then?” Khun splutters.

“On the floor, of course!” Rak says.

“No.” Khun says.

“Fine then.” Rak says, and Khun makes the mistake of being relieved. “Well, I’m going to be taking the couch!” He continues. “Black Turtle, you can sleep on the floor!”

“Hang on,” Khun says, “Why do you get the couch?”

Rak eyes him. “Because I have back problems.”

Khun glares at him. “What back problems?”

Rak looks at him innocently. “I go see a doctor about them regularly.”

“I call bullshit. If you had actual back problems, you’d know sleeping on the couch is actually bad for your back! ” Khun says.

Rak glares at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he declares imperiously. “I have a doctor’s certificate!” He rifles through his bag and produces an official looking document before whipping it away before Khun can read it.

“Let me see that.” He takes a step forward.

Rak shakes his head. “No.”

“Why not?” Khun asks.

“Because you’ll wreck it!”

“I won’t.” Khun takes another step forward. “Just let me see.”

Rak looks at him suspiciously. “No.”

“Well, I guess if he has a medical certificate I can.” Bam interrupts.

Rak looks at him smugly. “See? Black Turtle agrees.”

“But-”

He’s cut off as Bam shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it Khun. I’m fine with it.”

He turns around to pick up his stuff and begins walking idly to the empty guest room, while Rak grabs his stuff and jumps on the couch. Khun feels as if the situation is spiralling rapidly out of his control.

“Hold up!” Khun almost shouts, and both Bam and Rak turn around to look at him curiously.

Khun coughs, his face burning. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“Where would I sleep then?” Bam asks.

“You can sleep on my bed.”

Bam looks at him shocked, and there’s a faint flush on his cheeks. “I can’t do that!” he protests. “Where would you sleep?”

Khun shrugs. “On the floor.”

“No.” Bam says firmly. “It’s your house. I can’t just take your bed.”

He shakes his head. “Just take it. I don’t mind.”

“No.”

Khun opens his mouth to argue, but just as he does, Rak lets out a bellowing laugh.

“Foolish Turtles! You’re overthinking it. If there’s only one bed, sleep on it together!”

Khun snaps his head around to look at Bam.

“Sleep on the bed?” he asks.

“Together?” Bam finishes.

Rak nods, preening. “Haha. Aren’t I smart, you idiot Turtles? Now your problem is solved!”

The thought of sleeping in the same bed as Bam does funny things to Khun’s stomach and heart, making them somersault and churn around.

“I couldn’t do that!” Bam is protesting, even as Rak laughs and boasts.

“Why not?” Khun asks, the words out of his mouth before he realises what he’s saying.

Bam stops short, shocked, and turns to stare at Khun with wide, gold eyes. Khun curses himself for being an idiot, and then plasters a cool, unbothered expression on his face even as his heart hammers furiously, so loud he wouldn’t be surprised if Bam could hear it.

“I mean,” he says. “It’s not a big deal. As long as we keep to our sides of the bed, it should be fine. And this way, we don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

Rak nods approvingly. “See? Blue Turtle gets it!”

Bam can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Khun, making him self-conscious. He’s about to laugh it off and pretend he was poking fun at Rak or something, when Bam answers.

“Okay.” He says. “I can sleep with you.”

Rak raises an eyebrow, causing Khun to blush and Bam to splutter.

“I mean sleep on your bed! I can sleep on your bed!”

 And that is how, twenty minutes later, Khun finds him and Bam standing awkwardly on either side of his bed.

“So…” Bam starts, his hand straying to the back of his neck. “Do we just climb in?”

“Sure,” Khun replies, trying to maintain his cool. Somewhere, a distant part of his mind is screaming, BAM IS SLEEPING IN THE SAME BED AS ME! He tries very hard to ignore that part of his mind. It gets more difficult as that part only increases in volume as they climb in. Bam’s arm brushes Khun’s, and Khun snatches his arm back like its been burned.

“Sorry.” Bam mumbles.

“It’s fine.” Khun says. His skin tingles where Bam’s skin had brushed against his. They slide in. Khun’s bed isn’t small, but it isn’t big either, meaning that if Khun moves even the slightest bit, his skin will brush Bam’s. He can feel Bam’s body warmth next to him, and it seeps into his skin, warming him. He isn’t sure whether to be grateful or not. Khun lies stiffly, not daring to move a muscle, for what feels like hours. He stares at the ceiling, watching the pale white paint as it it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Khun lets his eyes wander around his room, taking in the dresser pushed against one wall and the desk against the other. The walls are unadorned, save for two pictures – one of their whole group and one of Bam and Khun when they were younger. Outside, the wind howls. There’s a trashcan under Khun’s desk, filled with paper – words written carelessly on the page, thrown away moments later.

There’s also a vanity table, stacked with Khun’s various hair products. His straightener is there too, unplugged and carefully put away. When Hatz had first seen them, he’d laughed and deemed Khun the ‘Hair Straightener Prince’. The mirror reflects Khun’s door back at him, showing light creeping in under the crack at the bottom.  His room is neat and organised, just how he likes it. Khun continues to survey his room, even as he feels Bam’s breathing even out and slow down.

He isn’t sure how he’s going to sleep like this – with Bam next to him, golden eyes hidden from the world, long lashes casting shadows on his skin. It makes Khun’s heart throb painfully because no matter how much he wants this – wishes for this – it will never happen, not in a million years. Still though, night is a place for dreaming, and Khun imagines, in the shadowy half-twilight of it, what it would be like if this was real, if Bam did return his feelings. It’s a foolish dream, but a dream nonetheless, and Khun entertains himself with it until he drifts off.

 When Khun wakes up, he is warm. That’s the first thing he notices. It’s comfortable, so Khun is about to close his eyes and drift off again when he feels warm air brush his neck. For a moment he lies there, trying to process where it could be coming from, until he reaches gradual awareness and realises that there’s an arm thrown across his chest, and two legs tangling with his. A face is also buried in his neck. Bam’s face, to be exact. Khun freezes. Bam exhales again, blowing warm air across his neck, and Khun shivers.

Oh god. He thinks. Whoever’s up there, please give me mercy.

No-one responds, and Khun’s left to try and figure a way out of it on his own without waking Bam up, which while would be helpful in trying to get him to move away, would also be very embarrassing. It’s harder than it sounds, especially when Bam is clinging to him and Khun’s thought process is essentially a process of exclamation marks and love hearts. He first tries to move away, but Bam tightens his grip, bringing Khun closer than he was before.

Well, Khun thinks, that backfired.

It’s incredibly hard to concentrate, and Khun finds himself distracted multiple times by things such as the way Bam is mumbling under his breath slightly, his lips brushing Khun’s skin as he does so, and how warm Bam is, almost burning Khun’s skin. Khun’s heart is going wild, accelerating at a fast pace, and butterflies are fluttering in his stomach like crazy. Khun tries to think, he really does, but he simply can’t. Not with Bam hugging him like this, like he’s something to be cherished, to be loved. Not when it’s all a mistake.

Bam would probably be disgusted if he knew how I felt. Khun thinks bitterly. Bam can’t ever know, can’t ever figure out why Khun gets distracted sometimes looking at him, deeply lost in the gold of his eyes, the way Bam’s lips stretch into a smile when he sees Rak’s antics, the way Bam tilts his head back and laughs, the sound spilling out into the air, joyful and light.

Khun half-wishes he didn’t have to love Bam, didn’t have to feel this way about him, wishes he could be satisfied with friendship and nothing else. At the same time though, loving Bam is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and Khun can’t quite bring himself to regret it. Perhaps it is because in the end, Khun is a human, and humans are selfish creatures.

Khun waits, lying still, contemplating, until he feels Bam shift and move away, lifting his limbs off Khun. Khun doesn’t wait a second for fear that Bam will change his mind, and gets up quickly, practically throwing the blankets off. He stands up and stretches, feeling his back pop and crack, and winces. He turns back around and notes with some amusement that he has accidentally thrown the blankets off Bam, so he walks closer and pulls the blankets on him again. He stands back up and is about to walk away when his eye catches on Bam’s curls. He feels a sudden urge to run his fingers through them, and he stands there for a bit, fighting against it. It’s an uphill battle though, and Khun gives in, so he leans down and fondly runs his fingers through Bam’s hair, feeling how soft it is. And because Khun has no self-control, he leans down and presses his lips to Bam’s forehead, springing back quickly, afraid that Bam will wake up. He doesn’t though, barely stirring, and Khun breathes in relief before heading out of the room.

He doesn’t notice golden eyes snap open as he leaves.

 The same morning, after Khun has graciously fed Rak a breakfast consisting of pancakes and maple syrup, Rak calls Khun aside, showing him something on his phone. It’s pictures of Khun and Bam soundly asleep, with Bam draped all over Khun.

Khun feels a flush rise to his face.

“How did you get these?” he demands.

Rak smirks. “Anyone who came in here this morning could see!”

“Don’t you dare send those to the others!”

“It’s too late!” Rak cackles. “I’ve sent it to every Turtle in my contacts.”

“Weren’t there some teachers in there?”

Rak only smirks once again. He heads towards the door. “I appreciate you letting me sleep at your house for one night, Blue Turtle.”

“Aren’t you moving in?” Khun asks.

Rak raises an eyebrow. “No. What gave you that impression?”

And then he waltzes out the door, leaving Khun behind.

___________________

 Khun is twenty, and regretting a lot of his life decisions. He’s at Endorsi’s birthday party, where he was promised, to put in her words, a ‘good time’. Khun is not having a ‘good time’. In fact, he is having a decidedly terrible time. The pop music blasting from the speakers is loud, and so are the people. The house is packed, but honestly, what did he expect? Endorsi knows all kinds of people, from high schoolers, to those who already graduated college.

“‘Don’t be a stick in the mud, Khun.’, ‘It’ll be fun, Khun.’, ‘You need to live a little, Khun.’” Khun mutters under his breath. “Yeah, right. I’m having so much fun.”

Khun did come with Bam, but he had been whisked away as soon as they arrived by Endorsi, no doubt looking to introduce Bam to her many friends. And while Khun does know what to do at his mother’s or father’s fancy parties, he has no idea what to do at a ‘commoner’s college party’, as his father would call it. So Khun sort of stands there off to the side, trying to avoid the clumsy, drunk dancing of the other party guests. Khun considers trying the punch, but he knows for a fact it contains alcohol, and he doesn’t feel comfortable getting drunk around a bunch of strangers. A couple starts making out intensely next to Khun, so he grimaces and moves outside to the front of the house, deciding to sit on the balcony. The night air is fresh and cool compared to the humid, too warm atmosphere of the house, and when Khun exhales, he can see his breath forming condensation in the air.

He considers going home, but sighs because Bam and him came together, and if Khun leaves, it means Bam will be forced to rely on someone else to bring him home. Besides, Bam and Khun live together anyway, so Khun will most likely be woken up when Bam comes home anyway. Not that he’d be able to sleep, what with Bam at a party with almost no-one he knows, unable to locate those he does. No, Khun decides, he’ll just stay here until Bam decides he wants to leave, and then drive them both home. He checks the time. It’s 10:30, and Khun sighs. He probably won’t be able to leave until 12:00, at the earliest. He’s just settled himself down, preparing to wait, when Endorsi, the birthday girl herself, stumbles outside. Her eyes light up when she’s spotted him, so Khun knows she’s been looking for him.

“What do you want?” he grumbles, because he’s annoyed, god damn it, and he’d rather be anywhere than here.

Endorsi hesitates, which is unusual. Endorsi’s the type of girl to charge forward, strong and unwavering. “Have you, by any chance, had anything to drink?”

Khun narrows his eyes. “No, why?”

She smiles. “That’s great!” And then she tugs open the door further and drags a flushed, very drunk, Bam towards him. “Because someone will need to drive you two home!”

Khun sits up. “You got Bam drunk? Why and how?” As far as Khun knows, Bam usually doesn’t drink at parties, and when asked why, usually mutters something about disliking how disoriented alcohol makes him. Endorsi knows about this, and generally won’t pressure him to drink.

Endorsi winces. “I didn’t mean to get him drunk! It’s just, one of my friends roped him into playing a drinking game.”

“What was the game?” Khun probes.

“Spin the bottle.” She says, and Khun has a heart attack.

“What?” he hisses.

Endorsi rolls her eyes. “Relax, Romeo, he didn’t kiss anyone. He had to take a shot every time he refused, which he why he got so drunk in the first place.”

Khun relaxes, and then levels Endorsi with a glare. “I can drive him home, but I won’t forget this.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I figured you wouldn’t.”

And then she walks back inside, leaving Bam behind. He’s staring up at the sky, looking at the stars. And then he starts crying. Khun panics.

“Bam, what’s wrong?”

Bam is sobbing. “Rachel…sh-she left me! She left me for the stars.”

“Oh.” Khun says.

He continues to babble. “I don’t see what’s so great about the stars. Why did she have to leave me? I was so happy! And then she left and I couldn’t follow an-and-”

Khun walks forward and awkwardly pats Bam on the back. Bam cries for a bit, before he turns around to look at Khun.

“Thank you for comforting me.” He says, through hiccups. And then he gets a better look at who’s comforting him and launches himself at Khun.

“Khun!” he says, his bad mood disappearing. And Khun suddenly has an armful of Bam. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“Um….” Khun says intelligently, because Bam is hugging him, and holy shit, Bam is hugging him! Bam seems to take his silence and sudden stiffness as an invitation to hug him harder, because his grip tightens. It takes an embarrassingly long time before Khun gets his wits in order and remembers that yes, Bam is drunk, and that yes, he needs to drive Bam home.

“Uh….Bam?” he says. Bam squeezes him. “Would you mind letting go?”

“No.” The answer comes as soon as Khun has finished saying the question.

“We need to get home though.”

“No.”

Khun sighs, and then tries to pry Bam’s arms off him. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work, as Bam is much stronger than he looks. Alright, Khun thinks. Time for plan B.

Plan B is Khun attempting to get to the car with Bam hugging him like he’s Bam’s favourite teddy bear. Thankfully, no-one is around to witness it, all of them inside, or else they might’ve gotten quite a few weird looks. Many curse words later finds Khun in front of his car, with Bam still clutching him tightly. He manages to unlock it, before saying once again,

“Bam, could you let go?”

“No.”

Khun tries again. “I need to drive home, Bam.”

“No.”

He thinks for a bit. “Bam, if you let me go, once we get home, you can hug me as much as you want.” His cheeks burn as he says the words, but he considers it a win when Bam doesn’t immediately shoot down the idea.

“You promise?” Bam asks.

Khun’s cheeks flare red once again. “Yes, I promise.”

Bam reluctantly lets him go and climbs into the passenger seat. Khun sighs in relief and walks around to the driver’s seat. He climbs in and starts up the car, shivering slightly and turning on the heater. Warm air blasts him immediately, and he sighs in relief. He reverses out of his parking spot and begins to drive them home. Bam, in the meantime, seems content to sit there, watching the road. Until he asks Khun,

“Can I call you Aguero?”

Khun almost misses a turn, the car swerving violently. He blushes again, and his cheeks might as well be permanently red at this point. Bam continues, with no regard for Khun’s poor heart.

“After all,” he rambles. “I’ve known you for ages now. It’s been 10 whole years! And you’re my best friend, Khun, did you know that? You’re my favourite friend out of Shibisu and….” He pauses, seemingly searching for another friend. “Shibisu, and I really like you, so can I call you Aguero?”

Khun’s dying. He’s dying and he’s in heaven. I really like you, echoes in his hears. He’s drunk, Khun reminds himself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. They reach a red light, so Khun turns and looks at Bam. Big mistake on his part, because Bam is doing puppy eyes. Not the puppy eyes, Khun thinks. Please not the puppy eyes. Bam continues doing the puppy eyes, again disregarding the irreversible damage it’s doing to Khun’s heart. How can a 20-year-old man possibly look so cute? Khun thinks.

“Sure…” He says, sighing.

Bam beams, lighting up the entire car. “Thank you, Aguero!”

Khun has five heart attacks in the span of two seconds. He wonders if he can claim insurance if he actually does have a heart attack due to Bam’s drunken self. Probably not. He fixes his attention back on the road again, waiting for the lights to turn green. Soon, Khun is concentrating on driving once again. Thankfully, the rest of the trip home goes without incident, Bam radiating happiness, and Khun slumps in relief when he pulls into the parking lot for their apartment complex. He turns around to tell Bam to get out, reaching out to shake his shoulder, but Bam is fast asleep, mouth slightly open and head tilted back against the headrest. I didn’t notice when he fell asleep, Khun thinks. He smiles softly, indulging himself and allowing himself to stare at Bam’s peaceful, sleeping form once more before getting out of the car. He walks over to Bam’s side of the car and opens the door, easing Bam out and leaning all of his weight on him before carefully shutting the car door. He tries to half-carry and half-drag Bam back to the apartment, before he gives up and scoops Bam up, holding him in a princess carry. As he passes an old lady, she beams at him and says,

“What a devoted boyfriend you are! Helping him get back alright.” She chuckles. “I wish my children had grown up to be half as gentlemanly as you.”

Khun chuckles awkwardly. “Ah, he’s not my-”

In his sleep, Bam nestles into his arms, murmuring, “Aguero….”

He gives up. “Thank you.” he says. “Have a good night.”

The old woman smiles again. “You too.”

Khun carries on. He struggles to open the apartment door, eventually succeeding by precariously half-balancing Bam against the door as he gets out his keys, then kicking it open and catching Bam before he hits the floor. He kicks the door shut behind him, hearing the automatic lock click into place and sighing in relief.

Finally, it’s over, he thinks.

He carries Bam to his room, depositing him on his bed before attempting to leave. The key word here is attempting, because Bam grabs his wrist, yawning sleepily and exclaiming,

“You said I could hug you.” It’s said in an accusatory tone, and Bam is rubbing one eye as he says it, looking like a child denied of a toy or a piece of candy they particularly want.

“I will. Just let me get a drink of water first.” Khun lies. He’ll leave and then check on Bam later to make sure he’s still asleep.

“No,” Bam says. “I want to hug you!”

“Don’t worry.” Khun soothes. “I promise I’ll be back, just let me get a glass of water first.”

Bam’s eyes blaze. “But if you leave, you might not come back! Like Rachel.”

Khun feels his heart break a little bit. It’s been eight years, yet it seems Bam is still hurting over what Rachel did. He remembers how after she had left, even after he had cried his heart out on the school roof, Bam hadn’t been the same. His smiles were a little more forced, the glow in his eyes duller. It had taken months, months of Khun working tirelessly to cheer him up before Bam had gotten over it enough to smile genuinely, laugh genuinely. But the scars still remain. Khun can sympathize. Rachel was all Bam had ever known, had been with him for as long as he could remember. And then she had left, with scarcely even a goodbye to Bam, nothing but a short letter talking of her yearning for the stars, and the memories they had made together.

Khun’s eyes soften, and he moves towards Bam, leaning down and looking him in the eyes.

“Wherever you go,” he declares. “I’ll follow. Even if it’s to the ends of the Earth.”

“Do you promise?” Bam asks.

“I promise.” Khun replies solemnly. Normally Khun would feel a bit silly saying something like this, but this is for Bam, so Khun is fine with it. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep Bam happy, to keep that shine in his eyes.  And Bam looks at him in wonder, and then says,

“That’s why I really like you, Aguero.”

And then he tugs Khun down and- Bam’s lips collide with Khun’s and they’re warm and chapped, yet somehow soft and it’s everything Khun has ever wanted. Fireworks are going off in his mind, images of gold dancing behind his eyelids, and his heart is pounding, feeling so full of emotions like happiness and yearning and joy that it could burst because Bam is kissing him, lips pressed against Khun’s – But then Khun comes crashing down back to Earth because Bam is drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t realise his actions. And Khun can’t, won’t, take advantage of that.  So Khun pulls away, pulls away because he refuses to take advantage of Bam’s drunken state, despite the fact that it’s what Khun has wanted for years. What Khun still wants.

“I’m sorry, Bam.” He says, starting to rush out of the room, but Bam catches his wrist again, looking so confused, and Khun feels his heart – light as a cloud a few moments ago – sink.

“Aguero?”

Khun laughs bitterly. “You’re drunk, Bam. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Bam frowns. “But, Aguero-”

“Shhh. Sleep.” Khun cuts him off because he can’t bear to hear another word because Bam doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand that this is what Khun has been dreaming of for years, something that Khun wants so badly, but can never have, because who is he kidding? Bam will never return his feelings.

“Aguero-”

“Sleep.” Khun says harshly, unable to look Bam in the eyes.

“Okay.” Bam says, his voice quiet and soft, and he lies under the covers, head against the pillow. It’s quiet for a second, but then he asks,

“Can you stay here with me?”

Khun hesitates. He knows he should say no, for both their sakes, but Khun has always been weak for a boy with brown curls and swirling gold eyes, and a part of him wants this too, so he doesn’t say ‘no’, doesn’t say anything, instead opting to sit down a respectable distance away from Bam. Bam doesn’t try to close the distance. As soon as Bam is asleep, Khun slips out, silent as a ghost in the night.

 The next morning, Khun wakes up with heartbreak heavy on his mind, bitter ashes on his tongue. Bam stumbles out nearly three hours later, complaining of a headache. He walks to the kitchen and fills a glass with cold water.

“Ugh, what happened last night? I can’t remember.” Bam frowns. “Did you drive me home? The last thing I remember was playing Spin the Bottle.”

“Yeah, I did.” Khun replies, answering only the second question.

Bam shoots him a grateful, if not tired, smile. “Thanks, Khun.”

“Call me Aguero.” Khun blurts out, thinking of the way the syllables had rolled off Bam’s tongue last night.

Bam stares at him, seemingly shocked, a pink flush on his cheeks. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Khun says.

“Okay…. Aguero.” Bam says, testing out the name.  

Then he takes another look at Khun, scrutinising him carefully, and asks innocently,

“Did I do anything weird last night?”

“No.” Khun responds, while thinking of warm, chapped lips against his own, and words that will never mean what he wants them to.

“That’s why I really like you, Aguero.”

___________________

Khun is 22, and he’ll be graduating college soon. It feels weird, different from when he’d graduated high school, but just as exciting. There’s not long left now, and Khun wonders what it will be like, not having to learn. Getting a full-time job, being out there in the world, it seems so distant, so far away, despite the fact that Khun knows it isn’t actually. So many people Khun knows are having parties, but he often opts out of them now, remembering a night two years ago with alcohol and Bam and lips pressed tenderly against his. He shakes his head, waving the memory away because it isn’t important – a distant part of him argues that it very much is – and focuses on the present, the here and now.

“Damn.” Endorsi is saying. “I can’t believe we’ll be graduating soon.”

“Yeah, I know.” Shibisu agrees. “It seems too soon.”

“It’s like the years just sped by.” Hatz decides to contribute.

Endorsi turns to Bam. “What do you think, Bam?”

Ah yes. Bam. Recently, Khun has been even more of a gay disaster than usual, often distracted by simple things such as Bam’s smile, something he thought he had gotten over years ago. Not that Khun never got distracted by it before this, but it had been happening an alarming amount recently. A prime example had been when he was talking to a girl called Hwa Ryun and Bam had spotted him, smiling brightly and waving at him. Khun had stared at him for five whole minutes until he got his wits in order and remembered he had been in a conversation. Hwa Ryun had looked at him and clapped his shoulder.

“Good luck.” She had told him solemnly, and then left.

Khun had been left there, cursing his own inability to maintain even a simple conversation these days. Back in the present Bam responds.

“Yeah. It was really fun though.”

Shibisu, Endorsi and Hatz make sounds of agreement.

Bam turns to Khun. “What do you think, Aguero?”

Khun leans back in his chair, taking a sip of coffee. “I agree with Bam. It was fun.”

He ignores Shibisu’s mutter of, “When do you not agree with Bam, aside from things such as his health?”

Bam laughs, and Khun’s eyes are drawn to him. Bam looks particularly nice today. Not that he doesn’t usually look nice, Khun thinks. Bam’s wearing a simple white T-shirt, with an unbuttoned blue collared shirt as a jacket and black shorts. The light dances across his skin, highlighting his eyes. Bam’s brown curls sway softly in the breeze and curl lightly around his ear, and Khun wonders absentmindedly how Bam would react if he were to get up and walk over to Bam. If he would gasp if Khun were to run his hand through his hair, settle his fingers behind Bam’s ears. If Bam would push him away or pull him closer if Khun put his fingers under Bam’s chin, tilted his head up, angled his own head just right, pulled Bam forward and-

“-un! Khun! Earth to Khun!” Endorsi is yelling at him.

“What?” he snaps.

Hatz raises an eyebrow. “Shibisu asked you something, Earrings.”

Khun turns to Shibisu, unleashing the full force of his icy wrath on him. “Yes?”

Shibisu shudders. “I was wondering if you had any plans after college?”

The response is automatic. “I’m going to work in my father’s company.” And take his place as head.

“Really?” Hatz asks. “I thought you disliked your father.”

“Family relations are complicated in the Khun family.” Khun responds.

Bam hums, checking the time. He pales slightly when he sees it. “I need to go.” He says, already standing up. “I promised I’d meet Rak and Anak in the library.”

“I’ll go with you.” Khun says, beginning to stand up, only to be stopped by Endorsi.

“No.” she says. “We have something we need to discuss.”

Bam pauses, looking between them. Hatz and Shibisu nod along.

“We do.” Hatz says.

“Well, I guess I can stay if it’s that important,” Bam begins to say, but Endorsi is already shaking her head.

“Not with you, Bam.” She levels her eyes at Khun. “With Khun. You can go.”

“Oh.” Bam says. He’s looking between all four of them now, seemingly hesitant. “Well, I guess I’ll see you guys later.”

He stands up and walks away, and Khun turns to look at them.

“Alright,” he says. “What’s this about? You guys want me to help you or something?”

Shibisu slams his hands down on the table they’re sitting at, rattling the plates. “This is an intervention.” He says, in a lowly voice.

“An intervention for what?” As far as Khun can see, no interventions are needed.

Shibisu hesitates. “It’s an intervention for, you know, your and Bam’s…..” he trails off, waving his hands vaguely in the air, “relationship.”

“What?” Khun thinks his and Bam’s relationship is fine.

“What Shibisu means to say,” Hatz chimes in, “is that everyone can very clearly see you’re pining for each other, and that something needs to be done.”

Endorsi nods. “Too much tension in the air.”

Khun stands up. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait!” Shibisu says, standing up too.

Khun ignores him, even as Shibisu catches up and falls into step beside him. They walk in silence for a bit, until Shibisu tries again.

“Khun.”

Khun speeds up, and Shibisu sighs.

“Look,” he says. “I’m not asking you to propose to Bam or anything. Just…..at least consider confessing. I assure you whole-heartedly your feelings are not one-sided.”

Then he walks away, leaving Khun with whirling thoughts. He stands there for a bit, just thinking, before deciding to head to the library, where Bam will hopefully still be. Being around Bam always helps Khun feel better when he’s stressed out. He makes his way there slowly, enjoying the scenery, all buttery yellow sunlight and green leaves. When he arrives at the library, Khun looks around, trying to spot Bam.

If I were Bam, he muses, where would I be sitting?

The answer comes to him easily – Bam would prefer sitting in a corner – and he heads to the closest one, quickly finding the head of brown hair he’s looking for. As he comes closer, he’s about to call out when he hears low, aggravated voices. It’s Rak and Bam.

“At least try, Black Turtle!” Rak is saying.

Bam shakes his head. “I’ve tried already before. Both times it failed! If that isn’t a sign, then what is? Besides, I thought he had someone he liked.”

Rak growls. “And I’m saying, that someone is you!”

A derisive laugh from Bam. “As if. He would never like me. Not in that way.”

Khun begins to feel the beginnings of coldness creeping in. Who is Bam talking about? Who doesn’t like him? As far as Khun is aware, everyone on campus likes Bam, and if they didn’t Khun would’ve already had a word with them by now. But then Rak’s next words shatter Khun’s world.

“Just hurry up and tell him you love him, Black Turtle! He definitely feels the same!”

Bam? In love? Ice crackles down Khun’s spine, freezing him in place. Vaguely, he wonders if Bam had felt the same way when the girl had confessed to him years ago, but he shakes off the thought. No way. Khun can’t comprehend it, his mind replaying the words over and over. Tell him you love him. He definitely feels the same! Khun can’t stand it, can’t stand the thought of Bam being with someone else. He imagines Bam confessing, getting accepted – who in their right mind would reject Bam? – growing older with them, imagines all the little mannerisms Khun has analysed in Bam over the years being privy to another person. Imagines the soft smiles Bam will throw him sometimes being shown to another person. Khun always imagined that if Bam did love someone else, he would be able to get over his crush on Bam. Would be able to support him. But now, with icy water trickling down his spine and his mind reeling, Khun doesn’t think he can do that.

Perhaps Khun has grown used to Bam’s affection, to having Bam to himself. Has allowed himself to think – to believe – that Bam could possibly love him back. I assure you whole-heartedly your feelings are not one-sided, Shibisu had said. What a joke. Khun turns on his heel and walks out, not able to bear another word.

 Over the next few days, Khun avoids Bam. He’s ashamed to admit it, but there’s no other way he can phrase it, no other way he can arrange the words to make them sound better. When Bam is at home, Khun stays in his room and doesn’t come out. When he sees Bam, Khun walks away, pretending to be busy. One night, Bam knocks on his door and calls out tentatively,

“Aguero?”

“Yeah?” Khun responds, making sure his voice betrays no emotions.

“Are you alright? I haven’t seen you much these past few days.”

“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.”

It’s quiet outside for a moment, and Khun wonders if Bam has left. Then he hears footsteps padding gently away, and sighs in relief. He feels some guilt, but it’s better this way. Better he avoids Bam, rather than mess things up and make Bam confused. It continues for a week before Khun is confronted about it. The confrontation comes in the form of Rak kicking his door open at 2PM one fine Saturday afternoon.

“BLUE TURTLE!” he roars. “WHY ARE YOU MAKING BLACK TURTLE SAD?!”

Khun startles, dropping his textbook and looking up. “What in the ever-loving hell, gator?”

Rak stands defiantly in the doorframe. “You’ve been avoiding Black Turtle for the past week!” he says accusingly.

Maybe if Khun was feeling better, he would deny it. Would shake his head. But Khun is so tired, is sick of pretending. So he opens his mouth and says,

“What if I am? It’s better this way.”

“How is it better?” Rak explodes. “Black Turtle has been moping around and so have you! As far as I can see, what you’re doing is only going to hurt both of you!”

Khun turns to look at the floor. “It’s better.” He repeats.

“How-!?”

He cuts Rak off. “Because,” he says. “I love Bam, and I can’t stop. And if he loves someone else, I can’t mess that up for him!”

A thick silence settles over the room.

“What….are you talking about, Blue Turtle?” Rak sounds incredulous.

“I heard you guys in the library, okay?”

Rak begins to say something, but Khun holds up a hand, stopping him. “It’s fine. I know Bam loves someone else, and I’m fine with it.”

Rak seems at a loss for words Then he walks forward and stops in front of Khun. And he draws his fist back, and punches Khun.

“What the hell was that for, gator?

“I thought you were meant to be smart, Blue Turtle.”

Rak turns around and walks back towards the door. As he exits, he pauses. “At least try talking to Black Turtle.”

And then he’s gone.

 That night, Khun is lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, Rak’s words playing in his mind. He doesn’t know what Rak had meant by saying that Khun was supposed to be smart. Khun is smart. Khun turns on his side and remembers how all those years ago, Bam had slept here next to him, peaceful and quiet. And that sends him into a spiral of memories, all about Bam, how he had first met him, how Bam had cried when Rachel moved away. Meeting Rak and the others. When they had fallen into the water in the love tunnel when they were 16. Helping Bam study for finals when they were 17. Graduation. Moving in together when they were 19, and going ot that stupid party when they were 20. Khun…doesn’t want to lose this. To lose Bam. He’ll talk to him tonight, he thinks. Khun won’t confess, but he’ll apologise and make up some bullshit excuse. Then they can go back to how they’ve always been. Khun and Bam. Bam and Khun. And when Bam confesses to the person he likes, Khun will support him, be with him every step of the way, no matter how much his heart screams and cries and rips itself into little pieces.

Khun hears the door open and he inhales. He stands up and opens the door to his room, walking up quietly to the front area where he knows Bam will be. When he walks out, Bam is in the middle of taking off his shoes.

“Hey.” Khun says.

Bam looks up, golden eyes meeting cobalt blue, and a wondering expression comes over his face, like he can’t believe Khun set foot outside his room.

“Hi.” Bam says breathlessly.

They stand there for a few moments, staring at each other, until Khun asks Bam,

“Do you…want to come further inside?”

“Huh?” Bam blinks. “Yeah, sure.”

He hurries to take off his shoes, following Khun further inside. Once they’re in the lounge room, they stand there for longer, until they both speak at the same time,

“I’m sorry-” They both break off.

“You go first.” Bam says.

“No, you.” Khun replies, and a ghost of a smile flits over Bam’s face.

“Okay.” he agrees. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to make you want to avoid me, or if I’ve offended you somehow. If you want me to respect your boundaries more, or you want more time, that’s fine. I’ll do anything to make it up to you, Aguero!  I’m really sorry-”

Khun cuts him off. He can’t bear to hear this a moment longer. “It’s not your fault! It was never your fault. It’s mine, and I shouldn’t have been taking it out on you. I’m sorry.”

Bam inspects him carefully. “Are you sure I didn’t do anything wrong? It’s fine if I did, you can tell me.”

Khun shakes his head. “It’s not your fault Bam. It’s mine.”

Bam shakes his head too. “Don’t blame yourself for this, Aguero.”

“I was the one avoiding you.”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t your fault! You’re allowed to want to have time off sometimes.”

Khun feels something akin to anger welling up in him. “You don’t understand, Bam! I could’ve avoided this! I could’ve dealt with this, and I didn’t need to take it out on you!”

Bam’s eyes are blazing gold. “What don’t I understand Aguero? Tell me!”

Khun is angry now, the response out his mouth before he can think. “You don’t understand that I love you, Bam!” Then he freezes. Holy shit, I just said that.

Bam has frozen too, staring at him slack-jawed, shocked.

“I’m sorry.” Khun says, feeling himself pale, and then he’s rushing out, fear fluttering on his insides, intending to head back to his room, but Bam catches his wrist. Bam is silent.

“I’m sorry.” Khun repeats. “I didn’t want you to find out, because I know you love someone else, and I didn’t want to ruin that for you.”

Bam snaps his head up at this. “What gave you the impression that I loved someone else?” he asks boldly, and it’s Khun’s turn to stare at him. A few moments tick by, the air thick and heavy, before the realisation hits Khun like a truck full of bricks.

“What?” Khun breathes. His next words quiet and tentative, said while Khun’s heart is in his mouth. “You love me?”

And then Bam’s eyes are blazing once again, but with a different emotion. He pulls Khun forward and kisses him. Khun is reminded vaguely of that night from two years ago, but brushes off the thought, because that was in the past, and he can’t focus on that. Not when Bam is kissing him now, lips pressed up insistently against Khun’s and hands gripping his waist. Khun feels like he’s flying, knowing that Bam wants him, wants him like he wants Bam. Khun kisses Bam back, pushing his lips against Bam’s like he’s wanted to for years and sliding his fingers into Bam’s hair. Bam’s kiss feels like honey, syrupy and inviting, irresistibly sweet. His lips move against Khun’s silently, and Khun revels in the sensation of it, even as it makes his toes curl. Bam holds Khun tighter, his arms sliding around him, and Khun’s skin tingles where Bam touches it. Everything is right in that moment, and Khun feels whole and warm, down to his very soul. And then Bam pulls back, smiling at Khun, his eyes so very gold, looking at Khun, seeing him completely, understanding him, accepting him no matter what.

“Of course I love you, Aguero. Who else would I love?”

And then he’s tugging Khun back towards him to kiss him again and Khun can’t even begin to describe the vortex of emotions whirling through him at that moment. Somehow, though, he knows he doesn’t need to, because Bam will still know, will still understand, just like he always has. Just like he always will. And so Khun tightens his hold on Bam – he can’t let him slip away – and kisses him with everything he has.

 The next day, Rak watches from a distance as Khun and Bam arrive. He waits, seeing nothing out of the usual yet, but then Khun leans up to kiss Bam quickly and then he’s gone, face flushed red while Bam stares after him like the lovestruck fool he is.

“HA!” He says triumphantly. “I KNEW IT! I knew I would be the one to get those foolish turtles together! Pay up!”

There’s much grumbling around the small table they’re all seated at, but there’s also rustling as people pull cash out of their wallets and hand it over.

“You’re a rich man, Rak.” Shibisu says enviously as he watches the cash being handed over.

“Well, what can I say?” Rak boasts, smugness radiating off him. “I am their leader.”

He returns his eyes to Bam, positively radiating happiness as he walks towards them. “I am happy for the turtles though.” He says, much softer. Rak looks down at his phone as it beeps. It’s a single message from a contact labelled, ’Blue Turtle’. All it reads is ‘Thank you’.

Rak smiles, his fingers already beginning to type out his response. Someone has to look out for the foolish turtles, and if no-one else can do it, Rak supposes he’s up for the job.

[khazadspoon]

ok i haven't written anything for a while but here, take some worldbuilding i did in November for nanowrimo

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

He sighed, shoulders dropping and a frown forming on his lips. “So you don't know anything about the Unnamed?” He asked under his breath. Asher shook their head. “That answers that question, then.”

“Do you know anything about them?” Asher asked in return.

Hunter looked around briefly, eyes scanning for anyone in close proximity, and gave a brief nod. “A little. Not much, but enough to know they are dangerous.”

“I see.”

“You don't, not really. If that,” he pointed to the plume of smoke, “is because of an Unnamed, there is more risk than the council could anticipate.”

Asher gripped his arm and met his eyes pointedly, almost glaring. “Then tell me. I have already said my people want to help yours, so let me help!” They hissed. “Tell me what you know.”

Hunter let out a clipped sigh and took Asher's hand. “Follow me.”

He tugged, guiding Asher between the tents and to a small, dimly lit abode. The canvas looked older than that of the others, more weathered and patched. Hunter slipped inside, hand still clasping Asher's as he tugged them inside behind him. In front of them was a large chest of ancient wood. A shining bronze lock kept it closed, but Hunter fished a small key from his bandolier and opened it with practiced ease.

“We don't really keep books,” he said under his breath, quiet in the dense atmosphere of the small tent. “Our history is told in stories, in dance, in music. We travel a lot and books are an unnecessary weight. But we have… collected some over time, mainly about things that come from outside our culture. Anyone who wishes to can read them, we all have a key, but not everyone likes what the books contain.”

He reached into the chest and drew out a thick, heavy, leather bound tome. The smell of ages-old parchment drifted through the air and tickled at Asher's nose. They reached out almost instinctively and touched the cover. The old leather was impossibly soft under their fingers as Asher traced the letters.

Vorld Histries the title read. It was archaic, some old dialect no longer spoken, and Asher's mouth felt dry. How old was this book?

Hunter closed the box with one hand and carefully placed the book on its lid. He opened it, the creak of its spine joining their hushed breathing. The pages seemed stiff, unused, the ink inside still dark and clear even after so many years. Asher was reminded of the library back in Laer with its lanterns and dark corners, books and scrolls filling the space not occupied with dust. They watched the pages turn, Hunter's fingers carefully lifting each by the top corner.

“This book is the only one we have that mentions the Unnamed. Here, take a look,” he turned it slightly and moved to the side, giving Asher room to settle in front of the book.

The dark ink swirled over the stained page before their eyes, forming words and shapes that they began to understand after a moment of concentrating. The language was definitely old, but the words still made sense if one was given time to process them properly.

Asher began to read, making sense of the words as they went.

Among the many varied peoples of our world, created by forces unknown, there are groups who must be given status of their own right.

Oldest and most respected among these are the Spirits. Easily identified by their white hair and agelessness, they are most known for their capacity as healers and mediums. They inherit the old ways of the world through strong bloodlines and well documented histories kept in great libraries. The turning of the world and the universe beyond is their primary concern. It is not known how many Spirit clans exist, but the oldest live beyond the mountains of the Eastern Shores. Those who have encountered these clans have been treated with the utmost care and hospitality. Spirits can sometimes be found wandering beyond their clan's borders in search of knowledge, trading partners, and new bloodlines to retain a healthy population.

Second in terms of respect, and in some theoretical circles of age, are the Justices that appear from time to time. These individuals have great power over matters of truth and, as the name suggests, of justice or equity. Though not ageless as the Spirits, they live for centuries as single entities and wander through the world setting right to wrongs perceived by the population. Eye witness accounts tell of strange compulsions coming over them when a Justice makes eye contact with them - the urge to speak only truth, to confess hidden wrongdoings, and a loss of higher motor functions.

From there we are led to understand the Powers originated. Individuals born to seemingly normal families but nonetheless granted extraordinary gifts. These gifts range from elemental control, coercive abilities, being able to move objects with simple thoughts, to seeing the thoughts of another person and beyond. They live ordinarily long lives, though have a propensity to expire younger due to many falling victim to frightened townsfolk and superstition.

Entirely set apart from those previous are the Shifters, clans of people who may take the forms of great beasts at will. A sometimes cold and insular people, they nonetheless are known for helping those in need with little need of reward. Many natural disasters have been followed by periods of great integration between the Shifters, of which there are many distinct clans, and the general population. It is worth noting that not all Shifters within a clan can take the form of the same animal - it is well known that clans will hold a diverse range of beasts, both predator and prey, within a single family.

The most elusive, and most destructive, of these phenomena however are the Great Destructions. Called by different names throughout history (Heartless, Unknown, Unnamed, Fire Beings), they are relatively unknowable due to how few have been truly categorised or catalogued. Almost nothing is known about how they are created, as they are seemingly not born into this group. Nothing is known, as well, about the causes of variation within this group. All, however, are created in a moment of cataclysmic destruction - usually taking the form of a large explosion with great and sudden heat followed by an earthquake. Most seem to be destroyed within hours of this event, burning from the inside out and leaving only ash behind. Some, however, emerge unscathed apart from the distinct lack of hair or clothing. It is only advised to stay away from any such event or individual should one occur within one's lifetime.

The page came to an abrupt halt. Asher frowned, pursed their lips and traced their finger over the last paragraph with a feather-light touch.

“And this is all the information you have on these… on the Unnamed?” They asked quietly. Their heart beat erratically in their chest, fast and uneven as they fought to control their breathing.

Hunter nodded silently, his eyes dark as they scanned the page. He gently moved Asher's hand from the book and closed it with careful motions. He lifted the book, opened the chest, and placed it inside before locking it shut again.

“If it is one of these that has been created, then there is a chance it will simply die,” Asher heard him say in a distracted tone. He sounded uncomfortable with the idea, a strange twist to his expression that was strained and deepened by the shadows in the tent.

Asher sat in front of the chest and tugged at Hunter' sleeve, urging him to sit as well. “It seems like that would be for the best, given the fear your mother has for them.”

“Yes.”

“Then why do I get the feeling you don't agree?”

Hunter stared at them, wide eyed and frowning. “What do you mean?”

“I'm just saying, it looks as though you don't think the possibility of this creature dying is the best outcome.” Asher looked their companion up and down, took in the tense slope of his shoulders, the arc of his neck as he looked at the floor between his feet. “Do you know why?”

Hunter shrugged and wrung his hands. The bandolier over his shoulder jingled ever so slightly as he moved. “It just sounds like an awfully lonely existence. To live, to go through- through that, and then to just… die. Alone, no one to mark your passing, only fire and heat.”

The words struck Asher almost like a blow. “For you there is fire, there is heat, and there is dry earth. It does not feel good.”

Hunter's frown deepened and he dug his fingers into the flesh of his palm. “I know there is nothing we can do to help, but…” He sighed and smoothed the crescent shaped marks he had made with his thumb. “Has anyone ever tried?”

The question hung in the dim quiet, heavy and dense with meaning. Asher swallowed the thick lump that had formed in their throat as Yena's words of prophecy came back to them. Fire and heat. They shivered despite the warmth of the air and Hunter's body next to their own. He turned, a question in his eyes. Asher shook their head and dismissed the concern.

“You should speak to Maedhra about it,” they said instead. “She is in charge, so it makes sense to ask if there is any way of rectifying that.”

Hunter shrugged, the motion bringing their bodies into contact. Asher let the contact ground them, focused on it instead of the tremor in their own chest. “There is every possibility I would be told in no uncertain terms that we are not to interfere with something like this.”

“And maybe she would be right. But,” they touched his arm, clutched a little too tight at the fabric of his shirt, “you will never know unless you try.”

A slow smile formed on Hunter's face. “I suppose you're right,” he said softly into the air between them.

“I suppose I am. But allow me to try something before you do anything.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow, intrigued; “alright.”

[kiwiana-writes]

21. “Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy.”

Thanks for the prompt, anon!

NERDERY IS MORE THAN WARDROBE DEEP [rated G, 642 words]

You can read this on AO3 here if you prefer!

~*~

A freak accident, that's what everyone says; even their insurance company doesn't try to lay blame at their feet. It wouldn't have been picked up in a building inspection before they bought the house unless they'd literally torn the wall out, the sort of hidden gradual damage that doesn't give a hint of its existence until the leak bursts through the wall.

If it had happened in the ensuite instead of the main bathroom — which is, effectively, the guest bathroom — they probably would have noticed before they left for work. But it didn’t and they didn’t, which means that by the time they came home not only was the bathroom flooded, but the water was through the floor and into the room directly underneath.

Unfortunately, that room is the home office.

David couldn’t care less about the bathroom; they’d been intending to remodel it anyway, and this is a good excuse if perhaps poorly timed. The office, on the other hand... both his laptop and his tablet are unsalvageable, and he’s pretty sure the ridiculously expensive noise-cancelling headphones he splurged on just a couple of months ago are also beyond repair.

Patrick calls the insurance company to lodge a claim, his own laptop (thankfully left on the dining table that day and not in the office) open in front of him while David paces anxiously around the living room. He’s half-listening to Patrick and half- thinking about a new colour scheme for the bathroom when he realises Patrick has started to list the items that were damaged and he starts paying closer attention.

“Purchase date for the laptop,” Patrick mutters, and David frantically racks his brain. How long has he had it? It was after the wedding, he’s pretty sure, but—

“November 16 2019,” Patrick is saying, and David blinks at him. Did he just make up a date? It’s not like Patrick to lie to an insurance adjuster, but how else would he know?

“I do have the serial number, actually.” And then Patrick is rattling a string of letters and numbers down the phone line, and David’s pretty sure he’s not making those up. He moves to stand behind Patrick and peers over his shoulder to find a spreadsheet of what looks like all their possessions, categorised and with a purchase date and purchase price and yes, serial numbers next to some of them.

Huh.

“So, you basically spreadsheeted our entire life,” David says ten minutes later when Patrick is finally off the phone, a claim number carefully handwritten on a post-it note. “I’m married to a complete nerd.”

Patrick grins up at him from where he’s still seated, head tipped back in an obvious request for a kiss that David is happy to fulfil. “It certainly makes the claims process easier,” he says with a grin. “Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy.”

He looks so proud of himself that David can’t resist climbing into his lap, kissing him a little more soundly. “So did they say what the next steps are?”

“They’ll send a contractor around to look at the bathroom and send them a quote, and once they approve that we can start on the repairs.”

“Ah.” Patrick is still grinning and David really does hate to burst his bubble, but— “You do know what that means, don’t you.”

Patrick’s brow crinkles in confusion. “What what means?”

David kisses him again, hoping to take the sting out of his next words. “It’s just... how many contractors do you think there are in Schitt’s Creek, exactly?”

He sees the precise moment that realisation dawns on Patrick. “Ronnie?”

David nods solemnly. “Ronnie.”

Patrick sighs. “You’re going to have to be the one to deal with her.”

“Honey, that was always a given. Besides, your moodboarding skills aren’t up to an entire bathroom renovation yet.”

Patrick laughs. “Okay, David.”

[Dialogue prompts] // [ASKS OPEN FOR THESE!]

[jamesginortonblog]

"More than just being a warm, affable, effusive and generous man, Stephen was also peculiar. He was eccentric. He had a sinister side and a sad side to him, and that makes for an interesting character to play, with all his vulnerability and layers."

James Norton

What was it about Amanda Coe’s scripts that made you want to take on this role?

I was lucky enough to work with Amanda Coe on a previous project called Life In Squares, which was about the Bloomsbury set and had a similar biopic feel about it. I loved that job and had an amazing time playing Duncan Grant, who oddly has certain similarities to Stephen Ward. There’s a certain warmth and lust for life which they both shared.

Working with Amanda on that job was a complete pleasure, and one knows that when you have that much of a good time on a job it’s because of the quality of the writing. So when I heard that Amanda was writing this, and then the scripts landed on my desk, I knew already that I was in for a treat. As far as the project and tone itself, I guess what makes this show unique is that it is from Christine’s point of view. That makes it special and very timely. It’s no secret that she had various incarnations of her story and it became quite confusing and hard to pin down the final truth. So to have Amanda’s thorough intensive research and work, (she is so attentive and so knowledgeable about the period), but also having a personal angle from Christine, it all makes for a very special script.

What was it about Stephen Ward that attracted you to the part, and do you think this drama will show Ward in a different light?

Playing Stephen and having the opportunity to delve into this man’s mind was the key draw for me for this project. There are extraordinary people involved in this story and I think if you were to meet Stephen Ward now you would be entirely seduced by him and want more of his company. Being in Stephen’s presence was a treat, and something his friends really hankered after once they’d had a taste of it. But, more than just being a warm, affable, effusive and generous man, Stephen was also peculiar, and those are the most interesting people to play. Stephen was eccentric but he also had a sinister and sad side to him and that again makes for an interesting character to play, with all his vulnerability and layers.

What sort of man was he?

One can’t escape the fact that he did groom young women, and that is inexcusable. But why did he do that, and what it did for him is also what's interesting. I could talk about Stephen for hours, but in one of the very first rehearsals Andrea the director really piqued my interest by saying, in her opinion, the heart of Stephen Ward is his obsession with female power. His voyeurism and peculiar sexual appetite are the things that make him this fascinating, weird and unique man. His was a fascination with femininity.

Some would argue that Stephen’s actions actually removed the girls’ power, but perhaps he was empowering them? Do you agree?

Often in dramas, people are very quick to categorise their characters as a way of simplifying things. So you have the hero and the villain and the lover and the victim. The thing about Stephen is that he is, like everyone, in that grey messy area in between. There is no doubt that he did manipulate young girls like Christine and Mandy, and part of it was for his own gain: he was a social climber and he was always hankering after acceptance and being allowed into the Gentleman’s Club. His ticket wasn’t his heritage or his money, it was partly his talent as an osteopath and his career.

He was also known as a man about town, and everyone knew that at Stephen’s house there would be parties and young women and a good time. So, on the one hand you have that slightly manipulative and more sinister side to him, but then on the other hand there is this incredible warmth and generosity of spirit - a man that Amanda has really found in the pen. A paternal man, a loving man who wanted the best for people and saw the best in people, and that’s such a key trait that we often don’t see enough of. He gave people the benefit of the doubt. Most of these women would have been rejected by society, but Stephen, for better or for worse, recruited them and found the best in them and empowered them. It’s a complicated dilemma as on the one hand it was exploitation but on the other it was empowerment.

Can you set the scene as the scandal unfolded? It seems like it was the perfect storm.

It’s 1963 and the counterculture revolution was happening, and there was a tremendous clash of temperament and attitude. Stephen, Christine and Mandy were in the middle of that storm. What makes Stephen so admirable and exciting is that he was a trailblazer. He was brave and individual enough to know whom he was and express himself from a very early age. There is this wonderful line where he says to Christine: "You know I’ve always lived the way I want to live, and you can too little baby. You just have to keep to the odd rule, but as long as you know who you are, and have the confidence to express yourself, then go for it.”

That type of motivation is so seductive and empowering. I think a culture like we have today would have allowed Stephen to be himself. He was born in the wrong time and his expression and sense of individuality was deeply frowned upon and ultimately stamped out. When you have that clash and conflict in society it makes such an interesting context for any story and within that conflict and cultural war zone, Stephen is on the front line.

Did you do a lot of your own research for this part? Did you feel a greater sense of responsibility in playing a real life part?

There is always a responsibility when you play a real person. Not only do you have the responsibility to the family and friends who knew Stephen Ward, but you also have, most importantly, responsibility to him. There are many accounts of Stephen’s character in the public domain, but as an actor you have to find whatever shared ground you and the character have in order to make the portrayal real and authentic.

A lot of information about Stephen is still locked up for some reason - the government hasn't come to share it with the public yet and no one knows why, but there are enough books out there on him that helped me formulate a sense of him. Production created this incredible pack that was so informative. It helped me to get a slight sense of the individual and the unique tone and temperament he had.

I always say that as an actor you have a responsibility to love the person you’re playing. You have to find true empathy, otherwise you will always stand slightly outside of their actions and you won't ever be able to fully invest in their choices. That is what has been so exciting for me. With all the accounts, and the letters that he wrote and the transcripts of the conversations he had, there is a version of this man’s soul, but it’s always slightly out of reach.

What is the relationship between Stephen Ward and Christine Keeler?

When Stephen meets Christine she is 17, has just moved to London and is working in Murray’s Jazz & Cabaret Club. When Stephen arrives in her life Christine’s assumption is that he is a sugar daddy, and of course he is not, he is something entirely different and that is what initially draws Christine to him. It’s partly to do with his self-promotion into the society that he aspires to be a part of, but there is a paternal element to him, particularly where Christine is concerned.

Christine always maintained they never had a sexual relationship, yet he found something extraordinarily endearing and majestic about her, and that’s essentially the foundation for this whole story. It’s what he sees in her when she is this young 17 year-old - she has a power and femininity which she exudes, which he wants to be a part of. It’s such an extraordinary and complex relationship to excavate, and that's what actors crave!

Why is now the right time to tell this story from Christine’s point of view?

It makes total sense for this story to be told from Christine’s point of view. We know what it was like to be a man in the 1960s. We know all about the old boys' clubs, but we don’t know what it was like for a young woman. She was part victim, part trailblazer and an icon of the 1960s. She ultimately was a victim of men like Stephen Ward and John Profumo, who exploited a teenage girl into having sex.

This is a story about a young woman who is the catalyst for change, and so it has to be from her point of view and it has to be told by women. We have an almost entirely female crew - our writer, director, producer, executive producer, costume designer and hair and make-up designer are all women and it’s completely intuitive and completely makes sense. This is an iconic story about a young woman told from a female point of view as it should be, led by women and it is a wonderful thing. I’m immensely proud to be part of this and to be telling Christine’s story from her point of view in an uncomplicated and honest way.

This story is about a very British scandal, but how does a story like this travel?

Britain at that time was very much at the centre of a cultural revolution. People care about our cultural heritage, our music, film and storytelling and fashion. I think the reason this story continues to intrigue people is that these types of scandals like Watergate or Marilyn Monroe and the Kennedys, or the Profumo /Keeler scandal were all events that changed the course of history and they always make for the most interesting viewing.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

the one who blooms in the bitter snow (chapter 2)

Chapter 1 | ko-fi

Caduceus has found a new friend in the widower father Caleb and he watches him grow happier, more comfortable in himself. He dares to hope that he's finally healing from the death of his husband.

He dares to hope for too much.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was one of those days when he felt like he was utterly alone in the world.

Caduceus looked up from the flowerbeds he was kneeling in front of and stretched out his back until he felt a series of dull pops, groaning in relief and raising his eyes to the sky. Still slate grey, still scattering fat raindrops down in erratic sheets.

He smiled.

He took the trowel from the loose grip of his tail and set back to repotting the seedlings in front of him. Days like this were perfect for them, nourishing and encouraging, the Wildmother welcoming them to the garden.

That was why days like this didn’t drive him inside, the way it seemed to do for the rest of the world. The cemetery around him was completely deserted, fog clustering around the stones and the bases of the taller trees, the only true colour aside from greyish green being the dull stars of the flower heads, muted but beautiful still.

Caduceus thought it incredibly beautiful. Though he could see why people thought his little corner of the city was sort of eerie on days like this.

The seedlings safe in their dark black soil, thick and healthful with the rain, Caduceus stood, shaking crumbs from his sodden knees, not caring really seeing as the rest of him was already sodden. His trusty straw hat kept the rain out of his eyes but nowhere else.

There were other odd jobs to be done in the many thick gouts of plant life that sprung up all through the place. Weeding, pruning, scattering used coffee grounds from the café, telling off those who were being greedy with space, encouraging those who were flagging.

It was the kind of work Caduceus loved more than anything, the kind that was familiar, the kind he knew he could do well. He let his mind wander as he walked between the beds, the taller plants boughed by the weight of the rain, letting it drip down perfectly for their shorter cousins below. He would often sing or hum while he worked, something he worried contributed to people’s belief that the Blooming Grove was mildly haunted, when they would hear his lowing voice on misty days.

But not today. It was past time he sent a letter to his mama back home, she worried if he didn’t send at least one a month. Well, she’d worry about him anyway but at least the letters served to reassure her that he hadn’t been hit by a bus.

Mama had always worried about him, being the youngest and smallest of her gaggle of children. And when he’d announced he was leaving the clan- something firbolgs rarely did- to  move to the city- something firbolgs even more rarely did- she’d been close to locking his bedroom door so he couldn’t go.

Caduceus smiled fondly as he knelt by a family of sweet peas whose trellis had gone lopsided. He’d always struggle to explain it to his mama, he knew that. Wanderlust was something that was supposed to be completely alien, something other. As such, there really weren’t words Caduceus could find to help his family understand why he’d decided to see some of the wider world and push the boundaries of their tiny corner where things were still allowed to grow wild.

Caduceus set his jaw, feeling a raindrop run down the back of his short despite his hat.

There were a lot of things he didn’t have words to explain, a lot of feelings and compulsions held inside him that he couldn’t categorise and sort, couldn’t make plain. Some he was less proud of.

But his mama loved him. She understood that his life was his own. And if a letter every week or so would help her feel better, Caduceus would gladly write it.

He used his teeth to bite off a length of twine from the roll in his pocket and began retying the bamboo sticks that held his sweet peas up out of the shade and thought about what he might write.

He could tell her he’d joined a yoga class and how it wasn’t as fun as doing it in the dappled sunlight of the family grove with Clara trying to trip him at every available opportunity but it would suffice. He could tell her how he’d started making little scent bags out of his leftover lavender and vanilla pods to sell at the café and Caleb had said it was the first thing he’d ever found to actually help him sleep. He could tell her about how he’d made her recipe for mushroom risotto and took the leftovers to Caleb and how he’d said it was delicious. He could tell her how Caleb texted him sometimes when he needed someone to talk to. He could tell her how he was falling for Caleb.

The slick, rain soaked wood slipped suddenly in his hands and Caduceus hissed, drawing his hand sharply back to see a large splinter embedded in his thumb, blood beading around it like yew berries.

He groaned and swept his head from side to side, irritated with himself for more than not looking where his hands were going.

He couldn’t be having those thoughts. They shouldn’t be in his mind at all, let alone in his letter to mama.

Caduceus sat back in the wet grass, not caring as rain soaked into his trousers, worrying at the splinter with his teeth and trying to draw it out.

He didn’t understand emotion as well as other people, that much he knew. His social skills would be considered stunted by most standards. But even he understood that thinking those things about someone who’d so recently been widowed, who clearly wasn’t healing well from it, who was vulnerable and anxious and broken inside, was a bad idea for everyone involved.

There was absolutely no purpose at all to longing after something that could only end in pain. Sometimes the briars were just too high, trying to clear them in the hopes that something good would be on the other side would earn yourself bleeding palms and little else.

The splinter came free with a bite of pain. Caduceus tossed it into the grass and sucked at the blood that immediately welled up in the wound. He could take a hint.

He took the long way back to the café, winding his way through the clusters of headstones. There was no neat grid system to the Blooming Grove, things were patchworked together, no size or shape uniform. Caduceus had inherited the dilapidated cemetery like that, time and disinterest having warped it into something far from neat. But even after all the care and attention he’d poured into it he’d kept it without regular squares, clear paths, any kind of uniformity. He liked it like that, he admired the way it had grown free like a wild oak tree twisting and curving erratically towards the sun of its own free will.  

That was how it had chosen to be and he wouldn’t dare tell it any different.

Lugging his bag of gardening tools over his shoulder, he rounded the next corner, finally allowing himself to imagine the honey cake he’d reward himself with when he got back inside.

And saw Caleb standing in the middle of the uncovered pathway, under the arch of hawthorn trees.

He was turned away from Caduceus so he thankfully didn’t see him freeze in ungainly surprise or his fur puff up and send rainwater flying. But, unfortunately he couldn’t miss the loud shout of shock that also leapt out of him and startled several birds from the trees above.

Caleb turned, eyes wide and fearful at first but they softened as soon as he recognised his very wet, very embarrassed firbolg friend.

“Hi there,” he called once he was close enough to be heard over the pounding rain. He looked, rather unfortunately, like a drowned rat even more than Caduceus did. Water ran in rivulets down his face, his many layers were dark and dripping and his hair was plastered to him. By the looks of things he’d long ago given up on moving it out of his eyes.

Who went out in the rain without a good hat on their head?

“Hello, Mr Caleb,” he smiled, “What are you doing out here?”

Caleb gave a wan smile, “What does anyone ever do here?” He inclined his head back towards where he’d been standing in front of one of the graves. His husband’s, Caduceus realised. He’d never looked for it before but he could see now it was one of the newest ones. In amongst some very old ones, strangely, he wondered why that was.

“Of course,” Caduceus smiled back, “I more meant everyone else seems to be hiding from the weather, not going out in it.”

Caleb looked abashed, once of the many expressions that looked unfairly adorable on him, “I know…I didn’t have any clothes right for the weather but Trinket’s at playgroup and the apartment was so quiet, I…I didn’t want to be alone…”

There was a long, stiff moment where the two of them realised how wet they were getting and how there was no sensible way to navigate themselves out of this conversation.

Eventually Caduceus just sighed and smiled a little, “Caleb?”

The human looked up, of course he always had to look up to meet the firbolg’s eyes. Rain slid down his face, looking like tears.

“It’s really good to see you,” Caduceus murmured.

The café was dark, a little naked without the music and the smells of sugar and coffee, the people at the tables. But it was calm, it was dry and it had tea. That was all Caleb needed right now.

He’d started sniffling before they’d taken five steps, his breathing wheezy and ragged by the time they reached the door. Caduceus’ fur kept him good and insulated but after one look at Caleb he’d known he had a nasty chill on the way.

Fortunately, he kept a tin of the perfect remedy for that down behind the counter, hand tied bags of muslin he would often press on customers who came in with runny eyes, sniffles and coughs.

While Caduceus poured, Caleb gingerly stripped down to his shirt, darkened with rain on the shoulders and chest but it was as dry as he could get. Still, it clung to his body in ways that Caduceus caught when his eyes flickered up from the mugs and held in his mind greedily until the guilt twisted again and made him drop them.

“So how is Trinket finding preschool now? Settling in?” he asked, a little more loudly than really necessary to cover his own thoughts.

Caleb looked up from pulling his boots off, distracted immediately by the mention of his son, leaving him with one large black boot on and one stripey orange sock with a hole in the toe.

“He was so excited to go today,” he sighed, sounding proud and sad as only a parent who’d only recently sent their only child off to school could be, “He didn’t cry at all, he let go of my hand straight away and ran through the gates. He only just remembered to wave to me.”

Caduceus smiled fondly, bringing their cups over already redolent with the smells of cinnamon and lemon, a puddle of deep golden honey right at the bottom, “He was always going to take to it like a duck to water. I’m positive he’ll be there tonight with a huge hug, ready to tell you how he missed you like crazy.”

Caleb looked so open heartedly grateful for those words that Caduceus almost couldn’t bear it. The trust it showed, coming from a man who’d spent the last four years stitching himself back together with shaking hands and was terrified of letting anyone else find loose threads.

He was especially vulnerable right now, with Trinket starting preschool- nursery school to his Zemnian father. There was a time when Caleb would rather have lost his own hands between the hours of 9am and 3pm, three times a week, rather than his son.

The fact that he was bearing it so well, still functioning through his anxiety over the loss of control when before it would have bent him double and froze him, was a testament to how far he’d come. Caduceus felt so proud of him for that, for eventually wading tentatively into bereavement therapy, for getting back into a more regular work schedule, for making so many incremental but incredibly important steps since they’d first met in this café.

Caduceus hoped he’d helped Caleb get there, in some small way.

Caleb took a deep drink from the mug though as soon as he swallowed, he began to cough, a deep wheezing cough as thick and dark as the clouds that had caused it.

Caduceus winced, “We need to get you dry and warm.”

“I’m kind of down to my last clothes here?” Caleb said, raspy voiced, plucking at his damp shirt.

“But all of the tea in the world won’t help if we don’t fix that,” Caduceus turned towards his back room, “I must have a clean blanket around here somewhere.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did have all of the tea in the world here,” Caleb went for a smile but it was interrupted by a hacking cough, one that left him shivering, “Fuck, I can’t get sick, Trinket will get it…”

“Well…that’s a possibility,” Caduceus allowed, coming back in with the softest blanket he’d been able to find, a fairly easy task seeing as he rarely bought any for the café that weren’t thick and soft as fleece, “But also you’d be sick. And that’s bad in itself.”

Caleb looked up, the thought obviously not having registered until Caduceus said it, “Well…yeah, I guess.”

Caduceus frowned, turning his back delicately while Caleb stripped off his shirt and pants that were clinging to him like a second skin, though his large ears twitched at every whisper of fabric against skin. He sighed and grabbed hold of the loose trail of hair, wringing the rain out of it sharply, hoping those thoughts would wash out as easily.

“Caleb…you know it’s okay to worry about yourself every now and again…” his distracting annoyance at himself made his tongue more daring.

“You told me to worry less,” came the slightly pointed reply, “And you can turn around now.”

There was a moment then, after Caduceus’ eyes slid down Caleb’s makeshift red tartan toga, before he sharply brought them back up again, when it seemed to occur to both men that Caleb was essentially naked in front of his friend. His friend who was quickly finding himself falling more and more for him, as much as he tried to deny it. Though Caleb wasn’t to know that, at least Caduceus desperately hoped he didn’t.

“I know I did,” the firbolg sighed, deciding even that emotionally testing conversation would be better than going any further down that trail of thought, “But you’re allowed to have a bit of…concern, let’s call it, for yourself. It doesn’t always need to be about you protecting Trinket or anyone else.”

Caleb idly flicked one of the tassels on the blanket, feet shifting awkwardly, “It is though. That’s…that’s all I’ve got left, looking after Trinket. Keeping him safe.” He flinched, face colouring red, “Sorry. That was too much. Sometimes I say things and I don’t think about whose in the room…”

“No,” Caduceus’ voice was soft, his hand even softer as he reached out and pressed Caleb’s shoulder, “You don’t have to say sorry. I’m glad you said it.”

“But it’s a horrible thing to think, isn’t it?” Caleb gripped the blanket tighter, voice taut like a drawn bow, “He’s my whole world, my Mollymauk gave everything to bring him here, I love him so much…but gods, every time I look at him…”

Caduceus sensed his words running out, wanting him to know someone was still listening. He got the heart breaking impression that Caleb had been missing exactly that for a very long time.

“What?”

Caleb shook his head, voice now clearly splintering like ice, “I just want to feel something other than grief. I just want to put it down for a little while, that’s all…”

The rain beat on the windows, marbling and warping what little light there was outside, casting it in waves across the two of them. Caleb looked up, following the ebb of it, meeting Caduceus’ eyes. The helplessness in them was worse than the sight of blood caught in his own fur.

“Please tell me I’m not wrong to want that?” Caleb murmured, his voice less than a whisper.

Caduceus was so rarely still, his ears and tail nearly always twitching as the world went by around him. But he was still now, nothing else in the world mattered to him but Caleb In front of him.

“No,” he said softly, “You’re not wrong.”

With the look in his eyes, he shouldn’t have been surprised when Caleb kissed him. But it was so sweet, so soft, so vulnerable, the kiss of a drowning man, he couldn’t help but give a brief gasp of shock.

Caleb drew back at that, pale everywhere but the tips of his ears which were bright red. The blanket slipped a little, showing a thin chest covered in rust coloured hair.

“I’m sorry…” he started, but Caduceus stopped him with one large hand, coming up to cup his face tenderly.

“You don’t have to say sorry.”

This time, Caduceus kissed him. So he could never say he was entirely blameless.

When he imagined kissing Caleb, Caduceus had always imagined himself bent slightly, compensating for their height difference. But instead, Caleb came to him by rising on the balls of his feet, practically climbing him, to bring their lips together so hard it almost hurt. Hands roved, never settling in one place. Caleb was the far less shy of the two, immediately pulling at the laces of Caduceus’ pants, letting them fall to just above his knees. His linen shirt covered him still but now the shape of his erection was even more prominent.

When they broke apart, they were both panting, lungs burning, neither of them having realised they were prioritising kissing over oxygen.

“Fuck me,” Caleb panted, pupils blown wide like a cat in the dark, “Cad, please.”

Caduceus’ heart fluttered at the nickname and he felt like a teenager again in the blush of realising what wanting truly was. The doubts he’d always nursed about Caleb not finding him physically attractive dissipated.

And fresh doubts about everything else they were doing surged up stronger than before, a tide he wasn’t going to be able to outrun.

No matter how much he wanted to.

Caduceus took a step backwards, in his mind and in the space, “Caleb, listen…”

“What?” the blanket was around his waist now, slipping open just enough that Caduceus could see…

“We can’t do this, Caleb, not right now,” he shook his head regretfully, “Not like this.”

“But…I want to?” fear had begun to creep into his eyes, an uncertainty.

“You’re upset and that’s completely understandable but…it would be too much like taking advantage. I won’t do that to you.”

“I want this, I promise,” Caleb insisted, hands shaking, “I do, I miss it. I miss you so much Mol-…”

He stopped. Caduceus stopped. Everything stopped. But it was too late.

Caduceus took another step back, pulling his trousers back up, lacing them tighter than before. Caleb, sickeningly pale, hands at his mouth as if he could stuff the words back in and have them never be said, looked like he wanted to say something.

Eventually the words came, like blood from a wound, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry Caduceus.”

Caduceus nodded, “I think your clothes will be dry now. Here’s a box of the tea but if you keep coughing, go see a doctor, okay?”

He turned and quickly busied himself behind the counter, moving around jars of coffee beans that didn’t need rearranging, resolutely not lifting his eyes.

“Caduceus, please…”

“It was good to see you, Caleb. Come by any time.”

More sifting of fabric, and a muffled sob before the rain grew momentarily louder, buoying the sound of the bell ringing out as the door opened and closed. Caduceus finally felt safe then to look up, seeing his blanket puddled on the chair, still in the vague shape of Caleb’s body, two cooling mugs on the table.

With a deep sigh, Caduceus sat by them, taking his and drinking for something to do with his hands. The rain was falling as strong as ever, so implacable and constant he wondered if it would ever stop.

And once again he felt alone in the world.

[tonygrantuk]

The methodology of our Scientific and Field Testing for Ranking Factors in Google

There is a lot of talk about whether SEO concepts are hearsay (or should that be herecy), or proven by some form of scientific testing.

More worryingly though, it seems to be an emerging trend for some SEO Influencers to claim that their ‘findings’ are as a result of their testing, yet are unable to validate that testing, if or when asked. This is why this document is being published. It is to clearly outline the methodologies behind our own internal testing, whether scientific or ‘in-the-field’ testing.

By publishing our strategies and thinking, it is then easier for any person to understand our approach, and then decide on how much validity to assign to our SEO statements. An Up-front Disclaimer There are two common categorisations of testing environments. These are scientific testing, such as Single Variable Testing (SVT), and/or In-the-field testing.

The scientific testing is performed as much as possible under controlled measure, as much as that is ever possible.

For example, a Single Variable Test (SVT) will only ever test the impact of one single change to a web asset, such as whether having a keyword in the H1 tag gives a ranking boost, or whether the amount of words on a page matter for ranking, etc.

In these tests, it doesn’t so much matter what the factor is, it is more important that there are no other influences on that pages ranking, and that the same results can be proven over several tests.

The problem here is that the tests are somewhat limited, as they can only really be validated on very clear ranking signals. for most situations, ranking is a much more complex series of actions or reactions that lead to a combined outcome.

So, when it is not possible to isolate a single factor, or a combination of factors that can be scientifically controlled, it then falls to the ‘in-the-field’ testing.

https://maps.google.com/maps?cid=12311973780310212745&_ga=2.75291602.1932654855.1549694075-1765484257.1549694075/g/11fjs8_l0g

In-the-field testing is not a science as such, it is experiential summations derived from perceived reactions to changes, although without being able to clearly declare that the apparent results were as a direct consequence of the changes made on-site, or whether an external factor has played a part, such as a change in the Google algorithm, or an increase in backlinks or any such possibility.

So, in straightforward terms, science based testing should always be more relaible, yet it is far more limiting in its scope. Creating a Controlled Environment To gain any validity to any test, it needs to be carried out under as near to a controlled environment as possible.

This means that if we are running tests across five sites, we ideally need the same things happening at roughly the same time to each site.

For example, if we need to view one site for any reason, and click through to a certain inner page, then we need to do that same thing on each of the other sites, so that no one site is assigned any positive ranking factors, as much as we can possibly control.

This means that while tests are live, we can’t really disclose the sites that are being tested. If one site was shown during a webinar or presentation, and several attendees visited that site, the results would clearly become skewed.

If all sites were shown, it would still be impossible to expect random visitors to go to each, and to treat each one exactly the same. This means that many live sites cannot therefore be disclosed.

Test sites take a long time to prepare and need to be established with equal caution. If Google find out which sites are being used for testing, there is also a high chance that they would be de-indexed, thereby destroying the test and the work so far.

So, while we will disclose what we can, we simply cannot disclose everything, especially while it is still live.

Creating The Test Sites

Another area of debate is how the test sites should be configured and what texts should be used on those sites.

As for the number of sites, it is typical to run a test across at least five sites in unison. This is so that once all sites are indexed and ranking, the test factor change can be applied to the middle site to see whether it goes up or down, in relation to the two above and two below.

It is also common for several pages to be created within each site, especially when the test is for internal link structures.

In any case, we always try to keep one site completely unchanged as the benchmark, but we might use each test site more than once, using different pages, but always allowing for any rank movement to have settled before attempting new tests.

this is purely to allow tests to be performed more rapidly, when we have a stock of already ranked test sites.

As for the words, there is discussion about whether it is best to use lorum ipsum texts, non-words created from english characters (such as a3pzy6b), or whether to use actual English words, yet excluding any words that might inadvertantly impact on ranking (such as best, great, cheap etc.).

For our testing, we are running the gauntlet to some extent as we are using real words from a real book on our test pages.

the thinking here is that the words are clearly in common use.

We took the book shown below in it’s entirity. So, if a word was repeated, then it appeared in our word pool as many times as in the book.

In fact, we ended up with a pool of almost 35000 words, of which over 1000 were the letter (or word) ‘A’.

If a word appears 1000 times, then it is safe to assume that it is a more common word than one that appears only 20 times. By not removing duplicates, we increase the opportunity for the common words to be selected in a similar proportion as with the English language in general.

The book we chose was: Million Dollar Maverick: Forge Your Own Path to Think Differenly, Act Decisively, and Succeed Quickly by Alan Weiss PhD.

We thought this was appropriate as we can truly say we have chosen Weiss Words. What’s Left to Say In the main part, the above does cover the important parts of how we establish our tests.

We created a spreadsheet that auto-generates test pages, randomly creating nonsense sentences, and then allows us to insert ranking factors at the flick of a status switch.

An example is that we can choose to use keywords in the headers, tables, lists, images, formatting etc. All from within the one sheet.

Whether the words in use are right or wrong is important but as every page is built equal, and from the same pool of words, then in theory we should have some parity in our created assets.

So, with all that said, we will close by just stating we will disclose our results as we have proven them internally. We may or may not disclose the actual sites, but we will show proof of the changes we made, the number of pages we used and the variations in rankings that those tests brought.

If anyone wishes to request a specific test, then we will consider this, but please do bear in mind, SEO is an ever-evolving target, and what works today might not work tomorrow.

We hope you found this of interest and that you can now see the effort we put in to testing strategies that we discuss.

If anyone wants to talk deeper about our strategies, then please feel free to reach out to us through our support desk.

[dingdongsnogbox]

Bedtime Stories

Chapter: 2/?

Rating: M

Word Count: 1891

Description: When the Doctor shows up at Clara’s flat one Wednesday afternoon, he’s surprised to find the place empty. Deciding to wait for her to return home, he takes it upon himself to occupy his time by routing through her things. What happens when he stumbles upon a racy book stashed underneath Clara’s pillow?

Author’s Note: So apparently I wrote most of this a year ago and only just found it lying around on my computer... 20 minutes later and I’ve finished it off and now it’s here for anyone who’s still interested in reading this story. I think the award for the longest time taken to update a fanfic ever definitely goes to me...

The Doctor strides up to the TARDIS console purposefully and promptly pulls down on the leaver to send the ship into flight. He doesn’t go far; just takes her to drift in the vortex. Sort of like the equivalent of storming out of one’s own home, only to find one has nowhere to go and winding up hovering about outside uselessly. The Doctor has never been particularly good at storming off and thinks he’s done well to even dematerialise the TARDIS out of Clara’s flat.

“Well, I think I’ve certainly surpassed myself in terms of downright stupid ideas today, hey old girl?” He gazes up at the ceiling of the console room as he finally acknowledges the sheer idiocy of the situation he’s landed himself in. In response, he feels something distinctly resembling amusement tickle the edges of his mind from his ship. The Doctor rolls his eyes. “I should have known you’d be on her side. You women are always ganging up on me.” He remarks as he spins away from the console.

Now all he has to do is solve this mess he’s gotten himself into. There is of course the option of taking a quick trip into the distant future, finding an erotic novel and passing it off as something he’d written himself, but somehow the Doctor can’t quite bring himself to deceive Clara in such a way. Besides, anything written by a human is bound to be pure drivel anyway.

With a resigned sigh, he ponders his options and decides that to write a book, one must first conduct an extensive amount of research. Thankfully, research is an area he is particularly skilled in. Unthankfully, he does not fancy conducting extensive research into this particular area. No, that definitely won’t do. He’ll have to make do with researching existing books within the genre and go from there. He briefly ponders the thought of paying a visit to the library onboard the TARDIS, but dismisses the idea as quickly as it comes. Whilst there’s undoubtedly some literature with a hint of an erotic nature lying around in there, the Doctor likes to consider himself above keeping a collection of such books.

First stop: the nearest bookshop. Well… strictly speaking that could be any bookshop really what with the whole ship that travels anywhere in time and space thing and all, but some locations are easier to land accurately in than others. 21st century London is always an easy one and there’s bound to be no end of bookshops stocking inappropriate novels there. London bookshop it is.

When they land, the Doctor sticks his head out of the TARDIS doors to examine his surroundings. A dank alleyway greets him, and he promptly exits the ship to take a closer look at the street sign in order to remember where exactly he’s parked. It wouldn’t be the first time he forgot where he’d parked the TARDIS, and the idea of wandering around looking for the ship whilst carrying a collection of erotic fiction is far from an appealing one.

Once satisfied that he’s aware of where they are, he leaves the alleyway and strolls out onto a relatively busy street. Conveniently, almost directly opposite the alleyway sits a large, yet somewhat rundown bookshop. Perfect. With a smile, the Doctor makes a mental note to congratulate himself on his excellent piloting skills later.

The inside of the shop is brimming with wall-to-wall books of every genre. Each section is vaguely categorised by a faded sign above the shelves and the Doctor makes a beeline for the one which reads ‘romance’. There, he begins to scan the shelves, skimming the title of each book with a frown of concentration. Unfortunately, the titles seem to give him little clues as to the actual contents of the books. The Doctor is about to resign himself to taking out each one and reading the blurb in the hope of finding those which might be on the more er… exotic side when he catches sight of a sign which reads ‘erotica’ off towards the right. Bingo.

He doesn’t bother to read the titles of the books, simply starts to drag them off of the shelves one by one until half of the section is empty and he can no longer see where he’s walking from behind a precarious tower of inappropriate literature.

Miraculously, he manages to find his way to the checkout desk without falling over anything or bumping into anyone and promptly sets the pile of books down in front of him with a soft thud. The woman behind the counter eyes the collection with a raised eyebrow and slightly widened eyes, clearly alarmed by his choice of purchases.

“You want to buy all of these?” The young woman asks, voice laced with mild disbelief. The Doctor stares at her as though she possesses all of the brain capacity of a turnip. “Well I didn’t carry them all over here just for fun.” He answers dryly and the woman, clearly taken aback by the bluntness of his response, simply ducks her head and begins to scan and bag up the books. The Doctor frowns slightly and wonders if this has something to do with that being nice thing Clara is always babbling on about…

He’s in the middle of pondering over whether he ought to try to engage the woman in further conversation when she interrupts him to state how much his purchase totals to and he hands her over a wad of money without another word. He isn’t often in the habit of keeping money on his person, but he keeps an amount stashed away onboard the TARDIS for emergencies. Buying a bookshop’s entire collection of erotic literature is clearly one such an emergency. The woman behind the counter accepts the cash with some muttered thanks and the Doctor begins to gather up the numerous carrier bags of books that are now sat gathered on the counter in front of him. It’s a struggle but, somehow, he manages to hold all of them at once and hurries rapidly out the shop door and back towards the TARDIS.

Once inside the ship, he practically begs her to move the library as close as physically possible to the console room so that he doesn’t wind up hauling his ridiculous collection of carrier bags along miles and miles of corridors. The TARDIS, for a change, decides to be generous and he finds the door to the library off to the right, a couple of doors down from the console room.

Off to the left-hand side of the extensive room is a large wooden desk, and it’s here that the Doctor empties out the entire contents of his carrier bags in an unceremonious heap. There. Now all that’s left to do is go through the pile and try to figure out what on Earth he’s actually going to write about…

*******************************************************************************************

Two hours in and after reading the words ‘engorged member’ for what feels like the millionth time, the Doctor tosses yet another book over his shoulder into the growing pile of discarded novels behind him. “Humans. You’d think with all of the canoodling they get up to that they’d actually be capable of writing about it, but apparently, that’s too much to ask of a bunch of pudding-brains.” He remarks to himself with an exaggerated sigh.

The Doctor thinks to himself that if he has to read one more poorly written description of ham-fisted foreplay then he might actually select the largest of the novels in the pile and proceed to beat himself over the head with it. It rapidly becomes too much to bear and the Doctor swiftly pushes himself up from the desk.

“Well, you know what they say old girl. If you want something done properly, ask a Time Lord to do it for you.” He speaks to his ship with a grin and feels what seems distinctly like an eye roll in response. One of these days, somebody around here will actually appreciate his wit.

Deciding that it’s about time he starts attempting to write this dreadful book, the Doctor seeks out another desk free from pornographic clutter and seats himself at it with a stack of paper and a pen. He could have done the human thing and used a computer, but he’s a little old fashioned and finds that his superior writing speed hardly makes it an inconvenience to write the whole thing out by hand.

His pen moves to form the cursive lettering that reads ‘Chapter One’ at the top of the first sheet of paper, and then begins detailing the beginnings of his story about an enigmatic, scarily handsome Rockstar from outer space who happens upon a petite, bossy young woman who knows exactly how to put him in his place…

*******************************************************************************************

He’s been writing for some time, when the Doctor hits a mental block and freezes with pen on paper. Despite bragging to Clara about his extensive knowledge in the area, it has actually been a while since he last engaged in… relations with anyone and he finds himself stuck as to the correct response one might give to the situation his story is currently depicting. Frowning to himself, he tries to conjure up the words to describe the reaction he’s looking for and repeatedly comes up short. Blast.

Then an idea pops into his head and he’s jumping out of his seat and running out of the library before the rational part of his brain can catch up and explain to him exactly why said idea is one of the less intelligent ones he’s had.

Back in the console room, the Doctor plugs in the coordinates for Clara’s flat and sends the TARDIS into flight. Moments later, the ship has materialised back in her bedroom and the Doctor is striding out through the doors.

“Clara?” He calls out, his Scottish accent thick as he annunciates her name.

On cue, she appears from the living room with what appears to be a smug grin on her face. “Given up already, have you?” She teases with her arms folded across her chest.

“Not exactly.” He responds, eyeing her calculatingly.

“Well then, where is this master-,” her words die in her throat to be replaced with a sharp intake of air as the Doctor closes the distance between them, winding his arms around her waist and bringing his lips down to suck hard at the soft skin of her throat.

“Doctor-,” Clara manages to squeak out, the word tinged with a mixture of shock and a hint of arousal. In fact, the Doctor feels her go slightly weak in his arms and tilt her head back ever so slightly in encouragement, before she seems to catch herself and places her hands forcefully against his chest.

“What the hell are you doing?!” She exclaims, eyes wide in alarm.

Now, with his gaze on her face, the Doctor takes the time to note the pink flush that has crept over her face and neck and the way her breathing rate has substantially increased. He flashes her what can almost be described as a cheeky smirk and answers: “research, Clara.” And with that, he turns on his heel and walks straight back into the TARDIS, dematerialising and leaving a flabbergasted Clara Oswald in his wake.

[sushilabassyear1fmp]

Friday the 30th April.

In this session I had a tutorial to decide on a final design, this involved getting a mannequin and my toile and placing samples on the stand to see how they would look in practice. My goal for the end of the session is to have a final design finalised so I can my real pattern over the weekend and buy and needed supplies ready for printing onto my pattern pieces on Tuesday.

Once we decided on a final design we discussed ways to give the design more depth on the skirt, it was decided that a tulle, mesh or organza in a white or ivory would be best as it would still be subtle and delicate but give depth and the semi-transparent, showing all the layers underneath.

For Tuesday I need to experiment with which material of the 3 is best for the skirt and purchase it, then I need to prep the fabrics for my final to be scanned in ready to print.

Next week’s schedule.

Saturday 1st of May.

·       Cut pattern out.

·       Start experiments on netting, tulle and Organza.

Sunday 2nd of May.

·       Experiment on final fabric with Machine Embroidery and embellishment.

Monday 3rd of May.

·       Blog catch up.

Tuesday 4th of May.

·       Print session, booked for 9.30am to 9pm.

·       Have all fabric printed.

·       Scan in final samples to be printed.

Wednesday 5th of May.

·       Begin Machine embroidery.

Thursday 6th of May.

·       Interim and tutorials?

·       Machine Embroidery.

·       Embellishment.

Friday 7th of May.  

·       Begin work on outer layers of skirt.

·       Sew skirt pieces together.

·       Sew bodice pieces together.

Saturday 8th of May – Monday 10th of May.

·       Attach outer skirt to base layer

·       Attach bodice to skirt

·       Add invisible zip.

·       Hem.    

·       Plan photoshoot.

update as of 13th of may. 

Final making was delayed due to difficulty with free machine embroidery taking longer than intended, zip issues and minor changes for tis reason the piece was finished on the 13th instead and is pending review on the 14th. 

The photoshoot plan has also been delayed until the 14th at earliest. 

Photoshopping a rough final idea.

This is a rough idea of what I want to create for my final piece. I created it in Photoshop by scanning in samples and adding them to a scanned drawing of the final shape I did. I want text from poems on the bodice with hand embellished gold coins. The fabric will be floral and each panel will be different. The skirt Is going to have falling petals and maybe more embellished coins, the bottom of the skirt will also have coins dangling down.

With this basic idea down I show to my tutors and we go through the good and the bad and create a final idea on a mannequin as the 3d idea will be easier to perceive than a flat photoshopped image. We keep the petal idea but break it up with a leaf emblem on the side panels, we keep the basic skirt idea but take away the coins and we decide to play around with having semi opaque layers for more depth. We like the text but want to only keep it on the front panel. We change up the samples a bit to add the fenced ideas in. Finally we keep the hand embellished coins but only on the front panel with the text.

Base design.

The dress shape is my take on the concentration camp uniforms which Is a high neckline with a basic 1940s skirt. Sometimes the dresses would have a suit like front to the dress but I chose the simpler look as I could do more with the front of the piece if I had one surface to work on. Here are the images I used as inspiration for the shape of the dress, it will have the neckline, back zip and sleeves of figure A with the bust darts and skirt style of figure B.

The skirt will have 3 layers, this is a conceptual choice and not one which would be historically accurate. It will be made of a netting, tulle or organza (this will be decided through experimentation) These layers will have petals on them and all 3 layers will be visible as the overlayers will not be opaque, this will layer petals and give the effect of falling petals, not only that but the petals layering in this way will also represent the time the Gypsies spent on the run away from or in camps due to the Nazi Germans and their allies.  

The gold coins are a rather literal choice, they represent they Gypsies pride, a pride I have learnt a lot about in the book ‘fires in the dark’ The coins are to be hand embellished onto the front of the bodice and will be mostly covered by black embroidery thread to show how their pride is strangled by the Germans, they pride themselves in their wealth and the few clothes they wear for their uniqueness so being forced to wear a uniform in camps would be very demeaning and when the fear for their lives wore off they would feel too uniform, the only thig separating them from the others in the camp is their prisoner number and maybe the colour of their triangle (even then Gypsy women shared their black triangle with convicted prostitutes and criminals). The thread only mostly hides the gold however as you can take the clothes, money and possessions away from a gypsy but their pride is in their hearts and that is harder to remove so it tries to break out of the metaphorical prison it is put in when they were confined to these camps.

The front bodice panel will have machine embroidered text on it, some words describing the Gypsies struggle along with quotes from the 2 poems I have studied as their words are powerful, I won’t add my own interpretation of what happened there as I don’t want to speak FOR those who were there as I was not but I want to give THEIR voices a platform through my work, this way I am being a good ally. The text will be in the style of Maria Wigley who leaves the threads loose at the end of each word, this gives a crowded effect which I liked and want to include as It will show the cramped feeling of being stuck in a camp. My current sample of text embroidery was done by hand and while it was neat it was very time consuming and free machine embroidery is faster, the text will be rougher but this will fit as the text will seem like it is quickly handwritten , as if it was done by the writers of the poems.

The background pattern of the first panel.

Using a sample from a previous print  session I plan to scan it in and use it again, the original sample was created with sublimation and netting (which represented fences) trapped between the print and fabric which added some subtle negative space. This piece shows the beauty trapped behind the fence but also showing through and fighting to get out.

This idea is the same on the back where I will create a more accurate fence negative space idea using photoshop, it is inspired by the sample where I cut paper strips to use as the more abstract fence as I didn’t have time in the session to cut an accurate fence. I really liked how the petals showed through the paper so it wasn’t completely white, this also shows how the sprit of the Gypsies refuses to he held by the fence. I will make sure when I do the photoshop that I lower the opacity of the fence a bit so that the petals show through a little bit.

The side panels are a stark contrast to the front and back in that they are muted and darker tones, this is a reminder of the dark theme while remaining linked to the nature theme. The leaf I used was older and broken which backs up the contrast between this and the delicate petals. The fact that it is the only leaves used in the whole garment helps them stand out. As I still want the panels to match each other I will keep the subtle pinks showing through on the original sample by scanning this sample in too instead of recreating it from scratch. This means the colour palette will not be too greatly affected by the sudden change and it will still be obvious that is part of the same garment. The placement of the leaves will be very intentional with the shape of the leaves matching that of my figure so the leaf works with the bodies natural shape to flatter it.

The skirt will have individual petals falling down it and the current idea for the overlayers is for them to have cut out printed fabrics pieces hand embroidered on.

There will be an invisible zip in the back of the dress, this is for practical reasons and it is not historically accurate for the time period but it is a necessary compromise for the dress to work.

Why petals?

I’ve used what flowers I had around me to create designs, the petals I had were rose petals in pinks and purples. These flowers represent the beauty that the Roma were able to see in the world, that ability to see they good in the world when all is lost is their strength and so they also represent their strength and inner freedom. This contrasts with the decayed leaf on the side panel, which while it works with the shape of the ribs.

Contextual research for final design.

Uniform in camps.

Here you can see an example of women’s uniforms in concentration camps, these are missing the blue and white stripes that come to mind when you think of what prisoners had to wear during these times but not all camps had that uniform. I took inspiration for the dress shape from these dresses, their shape is traditional to the time, I made a few changes to make it simplified and that was it. 

Triangles, numbers and their meanings.

During world war 2 all the prisoners in the concertation camps were labelled with numbers and triangles, for Gypsies they were assigned brown or black triangles, the brown ones were for male Romani while women had black ones, the women were put in the ‘work shy’ group, the same category as drug addicts, beggars, lesbians and prostitutes as they all had to bear the same triangle, this would have been very demeaning to them as Romani women would not like to be categorised with unclean women like prostitutes. The only thing separating them from these groups would have been their numbers, Gypsies had a Z at the start of their number whereas other non-Germans would have a letter correlating to their country of origin like B for Belgian. While the thought of using a black triangle on my final piece crossed my mind it didn’t seem like my place to do something like even though the symbol has been reclaimed by some communities. Instead I will embroidery using black threads not only for contrast against the pink fabric but also to represent the colour of the triangle.

Maria Wigley.

I am inspired by Maria Wigley’s free machine embroidered text, her style is to sew each word in cursive and to leave the threads dangling on purpose , here is an example from her Instagram. I like this style because t creates a crowded feeling which matches my ‘trapped’ theme and makes the amount of text I will add look busier. Her work looks handwritten which is the idea I want on my bodice, instead of typed out style text it is more personal to have it look handwritten as the experiences shared by the poets I am using are personal.  

Becky Earley

This piece by Becky inspired the side panels, her pieces always have very considered textile designs which match the shape of the garment and that is what I want to do with my piece, this will make the piece be more based around the garment form than the textiles being dumped onto a dress.

What challenges I will have to overcome.

With the invisible zip I will have to join the 2 pattern pieces of the back bodice and skirt to the zip and so it is not an easy thing to do as the extra fabric makes it hard to sew and as I have never (apart from in the toile) put a zip in before it could be hard, it will also be hard to line the zip up correctly one both sides of the waist seem, if it doesn’t match the dress zip will be wonky and it could be very noticeable.

I also have yet to decided how to add the 2 overlayers of the skirt to the waistline and to the zip and seam at the back, this will be something I will try and overcome by communicating with my tutors.

[solvetheworldtranscripts]

Solve the World Ep. 1: Meet Jennifer Dash

What you're about to begin is an epic. It's an epic because it features the conquest of the impossible. Full of myths and legends, from microbiology to Minotaurs, from the depths of evil to the heights of possibility. Starting now, and for the next 100 episodes, we'll follow a young woman, as she follows her own intuition into the deepest mysteries of life. Why are we here? What are we supposed to do? How's it all gonna end? Have patience, dear listener. What begins with a whimper, won't end that way. This is not a story about a quiet life of desperation. No, no, this is Homer's Odyssey, Dante's Divine Comedy, Jennifer Dash's quest. Welcome, and brace yourself. It's a bumpy ride.

[Winding, a child sings in a foreign language, a bell tolls]

Solve the World, Episode 1: Meet Jennifer Dash

[Deep, echoing bell toll, the child sings again]

Let me present to you Jennifer Dash. Seventeen years of age, 5'9", dirty blonde hair that falls just to the small of the back, undeniably pretty. But the type of pretty that doesn't stand out in a crowd. Her charm is as such that in one moment she could easily pass for a tall fourteen-year-old, and then the next pull off that college grad look. You would like her immediately if you met her. And you should, Jennifer Dash is a wonderful human being, full of youthful exuberance, naïve charisma, childish glee, and a curiosity that could rival Nikola Tesla.

Today she is wearing an orange shirt, cut-offs, and seventeen dollars wadded up in her pocket, and, as is her style, she sports knee-high socks with matching coloured sketchers. But we get ahead of ourselves. We really do hope you like her. You're stuck with her now, you're stuck with her for quite a while. This is how it goes.

[Thunder cracks]

Awoken by a sound, perhaps a distant thunder, Jennifer became aware that she didn't understand life. She got up, grabbed her favourite old, mouldy black backpack, and pushed open the front screen door, letting it slam on her rear on the way out.

Okay, let's pause right there. We want everything to go well here. The beginning of an adventure, it's gotta hook you, it's gotta get you involved. How is that best communicated? What could possibly draw you into this massive journey, led by a young girl none of us know. It's a daunting task. Focus. Focus on Jenn. She's the valuable one here. She's worth the risk, worth the hours and hours and years spent with her. She's the girl for you.

And she knew, even then, walking out that door, that this understanding of life, it's not the same as figuring out one's own purpose in life or the cliché phrase "I'm going to find myself", none of that business, no. Jenn somehow understood the fallacy of searching for her own special purpose or destiny or whatever you want to call it. To do so would to center all of human history around herself. And that, friends, seemed quite far-fetched to our young protagonist. That's part of what makes Jenn interesting, what makes her unique, and precious in our eyes. For a teenager to see beyond herself like that, in this modern age of distraction? Who does that?

So again, Jenn pushed upon that screen door, uncaring as it slammed her on the rear on the way out. Off. Off to solve the world, somehow. As Jenn walked those first few steps past her door, she began to reason that she needed some sort of system of organisation. She would acquire data, lots and lots of data. Surely one needed facts and figures in order to categorise and therefore digest the world as a whole. But how on earth was she to organise all that stuff the world had to offer? While submerged in these throws of contemplation, Jenn reached the neighbours mail box. She stopped, stared at it, and with little hesitation, opened the box, taking the mail along with her. And so she walked, away from her past, away from her home turf, away from that screen door with someone else's mail in hand.

"But what am I walking toward?" Jenn pondered. There was no sidewalk on this street so she instinctively followed the dotted line in the middle of the road. Perhaps, if she had seen the movie, Jenn would have blurted out, "Follow the yellow brick road!" But alas, she was blithely unaware of that story. So she continued along the dotted line free of any analogous musical melody. What Jenn did think in that moment, as she perused her recently-acquired stolen mail, was this:

"Ok, so, a system. How to devise a system. Perhaps the mail has some insight for me. Mail... mail... mail... how did I come to know this as mail? Somewhere in time, someone taught me about the postal service. And therefore, I assume these papery items found in certain flagged boxes were deliver by men from various far-off lands. And I called this mail. Hmm, I see it now, oh it's so clear! Up until this moment, up until this dotted line, I've built my life upon stolen information. I trusted that this mail service was real, based on the word of others. Why should I accept that information? There! That's a starting point: no belief without direct experience! Ok, ok ok ok. But I shouldn't become a doubter of others. I don't wanna be a skeptic. So... I'll believe the experiences of others, but not their second-hand knowledge. Again, that's a starting point something to build from, a base. Only accept experience as data, or the first-hand experience of others I choose to trust. If I'm to believe that this paper in my hands is mail, then I must meet, someone who delivers the mail and can vouch for the mail system. Or as a second option of intake, I must myself become a mailperson in order to fully embrace the idea of mail. But as far as I know, I haven't met a mailman that I trust. So logically then, I can't accept this mail as mail! Wonderful, Jenn! You're getting it, old girl! I shall call these papers in my hand that I picked out of the box with a metal flag on it: Humphaliandra!"

[Bell tolls]

At that thought, Jenn suddenly held out the mail with both her hands and announced to anyone in earshot, "Hello, humphaliandra! Pleasure to meet you! Pleasure to hold you in my hands like so!" Jenn thought "But wait, I can call this humphiliandra all I want but that doesn't negate my memory. I still know this as mail. I've just given it a new name, but it's still mail. I can't simply erase what I've learned." It came to her then in a flash, in one word: MYTH. Jenn reaslised then that of course she couldn't undo 17 years of life education. She couldn't un-mail the mail. But what she could do, is recatagorise it. Mail became, in an instant, along with all the other lessons Jenn had been taught, a myth. There was data and there was myth. Data was humphiliandra, myth was mail. That's just how it was. Jenn thought, "Ok old girl, everything you've been taught is myth. Everything you've learned from experience is data useful to solve the world. I don't need to write it down, these are commandments to be memorised. This is important. This is vital. What I wanna talk about the process of sending and receiving papers of information using the postal service, I refer to these things as the myth of mail. It remains myth because I have no way, at this time, to be sure that this system of delivery works as I have been told. Therefore: myth. When I simply want to refer to the papers that have appeared inside metal boxes with flags, I refer to humphiliandra, which of course, being observed from my own experience, is not myth but solid-as-a-rock data."

As Jenn now strolled down the center of the street, she sighed. Pleased with herself that after merely traveling a few paces down the road, she'd already grown so wise, and made such dramatic inroads into solving the world. Not knowing where to take her mind next, she drew her attention away from her new-found commandments to the humphiliandra in her hands. A bill from a credit card company, due payment of $174.71, addressed to Red Jeb Heller. "Red Jeb", what a funny name. Address: 300 Room St, Jennings, Louisiana, 70546. Also included in the loot was a Macy's catalogue. Flipping through, the Halloween section caught her eye. Page 67 had a little boy in an astronaut costume. On his left chest, his blue jumpsuit showed off a big ol' NASA insignia stitched in.

Jenn thought, "NASA... When was I first taught that men had walked on the moon? Can't remember. Seems like a fact of life. Every American child is taught their ABC's, their 123's, and that Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and that other guy went to the moon in 1969, officially showing the Russians that capitalism is awesomer than communism. It sure showed them! Look at how Humpty Dumpty's walls fell down, ha! But why should I believe that story? How can I count this as data, as something I know to be true? Maybe the Russians tell their people that they got there first. Maybe they call it Soviet Moon. Or Moon Union. For that matter, how do I know that Russia exists? Never been there. Have I met anyone who's been there? Eh, kibbles and bits, it's too hard to remember the past. New commandment I declare: only people I meet from this moment on count in this hunt to solve the world. Let the past lie down and sleep a while. Who cares for it anyway. Can't help me now. So there's a myth of man going to the moon and a myth of Russians, and Russia. Just like, as I see now on pages 70 and 71, there is a myth of vampires and a myth of zombies. I should treat all these ideas as equal, all things are myth and I need to prove them, one way or the other in order to treat them as data.

A third envelope contained a hand-written letter. It read:

"Hi Red, how are you? I'm okay. You haven't come over lately, have you? Why is that? Is it me? Are you ignoring me, or just the world in general? Yesterday they voted off Tony. I know, crazy. These are treacherous times we live in, old man. You just can't trust people to make the right decisions anymore. Isn't that right? See, you're rubbing off on me, even when you're not around. This pessimism thing, it's kinda cute actually. I miss you. Is it the communists? Has your paranoia grown? You can be honest with me about that stuff. You know that, right? I'm trustworthy. And reliable. Well, perhaps not so reliable, but yknow, I'm trustworthy with secrets and stuff. Even if the Reds-"

Note the plural rather than the honourable singular form of the word.

"Even if the Reds were to bang down my door and torture me for 47 hours straight with voodoo and Chinese water torture, I'd still never give those scumbags your inner deep thoughts. Besides, even if I wanted to tell someone something, who would I tell? I'm not well connec-"

Jennifer Dash turned her gaze mid-sentence from the paper in hand to a bird whistling in a nearby pine tree. Her mind was on the Russians. She thought, "Commies are on everybody's minds, I guess. Even the Macy's catalog! Why else would they have those big, bad, NASA emblems on the outer space outfits? I'll tell you why, old girl. They wanted the whole world to know they're selling good old-fashioned capitalist American astronautic gear, rather than cosmonaut corduroys. Cosmonauts and astronauts, funny words. Two more myths to ponder. I'm hungry."

Jenn stopped walking. Two simultaneous thoughts vied for control of her will. She was dreadfully hungry, and she was well aware that not eating led to bad, bad paths of dark doom. Jenn certainly didn't want dark and doom, she wanted light, bright, and free. Therefore, her body required sustenance. Nevertheless, she had a mission at hand; to solve the world, and the world wasn't about to just solve itself. And at this particular moment, she found herself entering into the first deep debate her adventure would lead her on.

As she continues down the road, to nearly endless physical wonders, this mental quandary will continue to rear it's ugly head. We shall ask this question now, knowing that Jenn won't come to a peaceful conclusion today. Many of Jenn's upcoming perils will be from physical attacks and strange occurrences. This mental moment, however, provides a subtle uncertainty that will continue to lie as a herrang??? for Hennifer and perhaps, for you. The question is this: Can the written word, now read, be included as data, or is it relegated to myth? The Halloween costume of the young astronaut brought this question to stunning reality for Jenn. Does the picture of the boy validate the existence of that costume? Can she trust that picture? What tools does she have to reach a consensus within herself? This small question instantly multiplied and divided itself into thousands of individual quagmires. Jenn pictured vast walls full of books, books full of stories of days gone by, experiments tried, battles fought, knowledge won. But can they be trusted? Any of them? Jennifer was overwhelmed. She took a big breath, and recited aloud what she knew.

"I know I'm holding humphaliandra, also known to me as the myth of mail. I've learned about many myths in my past life. I accept none of them as truth as of yet. They're neither true nor false, they are merely ideas, yet to be realised to me. I see a picture of a boy in a space suit, I do not know whether to believe that he exists or not. I have seventeen dollars in my back pocket, and I am hungry. I will try to feed myself now, using the seventeen dollars as a bartering tool, as the myth of money teaches me. I am hungry, and I will be fed." Jennifer took another big breath, smiled, and started walking again. She saw a fast food shop in the distance. She would test the myth of money next.

Content with her new system, she named the question of books 'flagatorindor'. Jennifer Dash liked to name things. She would dispel the question of flagatorindor one way or the other, by venturing to Macy's in search of the costume. Then, she would hunt down a supposed mailman, and solve the myth of mail. But first, she would quiet her stomach. Food ahead.

Solve the World is produced by me, Dante Stack. I'd like to thank the many generous artists at (freesound.org) and (freemusicarchive.org) where I found all the music and sound effects for the show. Full attribution for those sound effects are located on my website at (dantestack.com/solvetheworld), under 'Show Notes'. If you like the show, then please, express your support and write a review on iTunes, that's the biggest way anyone can help out the show at this point in the game. Besides that, you can also join our Facebook group at (Facebook.com/solvetheworldpodcast). Also, if you're interested, check out my other podcast, 365 Honest Questions, which is on iTunes, Stitchr, or at my website (dantestack.com) Thanks!

Please, continue with us. Continue with Jenn Dash, as she builds off her humble beginnings and uses all her capacities to make sense out of this planet. Next time, Jenn gets more than she bargained for when she exchanges her back-pocket money for fast food, and what she hears just may, just might, lead her forward in her self-proclaimed destiny... to Solve the World.

[wilsondownes]

The Red Serpent: 4. With Measured Steps

Grâce à lui, désormais à pas mesurés et d'un oeil sur, je puis découvrir les soixante-quatre pierres dispersées du cube parfait que les Frères de la BELLE du bois noir échappant à la poursuite des usurpateurs, avaient semées en route quant ils s'enfuirent du Fort blanc.

Thanks to him, from now on with measured steps and a sure eye, I am able to discover the sixty-four dispersed stones of the perfect cube that the Brothers of the BEAUTY of the black wood, escaping the pursuit of usurpers, scattered along the way while they were fleeing from the white Fort.

As in the previous stanza, the poet still draws much attention to the route he is following. From this stanza it appears that he has made good progress, as he has all of a sudden gone from desperately having to chop down vegetation to striding along with measured steps and a sure eye. The reason for this seems to be that he has begun to discover clues. The clues one needs are therefore not only hidden in the two Latin texts, but also en route in the area – which is good news at this point.

4.1 The route from Blanchefort

The poet states that he is able to see scattered stones somewhere along the way. By mentioning this, he is making sure one knows exactly which route he is following. If one fails to see any of the landmarks he reveals, it stands to reason one has no chance whatsoever of reaching the destination.

The ‘dispersed stones’ lie on the route from the ‘white Fort’ – indicating Blanchefort, as was mentioned earlier, as it literally means ‘white fort’. The question, however, is in which direction?

Fig. 10. A menhir along the route

Resorting to Boudet’s book, one discovers that he specifically mentions menhirs (upright rocks) along the road from Blanchefort: ‘At the end of Roko Négro one sees again very clearly the different foundations which served to support the menhirs, but they are overturned and dispersed here and there on the flanks of the mountain, in the greatest disorder.’[35] The poet therefore undoubtedly has in mind exactly what Boudet is referring to here.

So for the first time, one knows exactly in which direction the route goes – in that of Roque Nègre, which is also the direction in which the poet’s friend was staring. Today, this is where the footpath from Blanchefort runs, so one can simply follow it. One is therefore walking in a southerly direction, on the way to the town of Rennes-les-Bains, which lies further down at the bottom of the valley.

4.2 A flight along this route

The poet also points out that this is the way a certain group once fled along to escape ‘the pursuit of usurpers’. It was while the ‘Brothers of the BEAUTY of black wood’ were fleeing that they scattered these stones along the way.

As almost everything in the poem has absolutely no bearing on anything ordinary, this was most likely also an unusual flight. Another fact supporting this assumption is that there are old mines close to Blanchefort wherein an important treasure had allegedly been hidden earlier. The poet could therefore be referring to the time when this treasure had been fled with from the Blanchefort area. Hence, the route he is indicating is nothing less than the way along which this treasure had been transported to a new hiding place. This, in turn, would mean that the riddle embedded in the poem contains the clues as to where the treasure had been taken.

The reference to the stones along the way therefore possibly relates to this fleeing with the treasure. It could be that the stones allude to the landmarks that had been specifically placed to guide one to the new hiding place, therefore representing the directions to be followed through the area.

The poet furthermore states that the ‘dispersed stones’ form a perfect cube when put together. Each ‘stone’ therefore contains a core element of the whole, or an invaluable clue in finding one’s way. As was mentioned earlier, the inner front cover of Le serpent rouge indeed shows a person squatting, deep in thought, in front of scattered ‘dice’, with the caption: ‘Discover the sixty-four stones one by one.’

4.3 The time of Sigebert

Throughout the poem, the poet draws on different ‘layers’ of meaning. In other words, in mentioning an object, or by using an image, he more often than not refers to something related to the object or image. The escape in this stanza could therefore be connected with not only one specific escape, but a few.

There are several flights in the rich history of the region that could be relevant, some of which occurred in the distant past, and others that more specifically bear on the detail in the poem. The events in the distant past are, however, significant, as they put later events in perspective.

The earliest flight that the poet could have in mind, is that with the young Sigebert. Although this son of Dagobert II is not mentioned in earlier sources and therefore does not feature in generally accepted genealogies, his name is characteristically Merovingian; three of these kings have borne this name. However, he had been taken up as Sigebert IV in the genealogy in the document Le serpent rouge, which means the poet considers this version of history to be the truth. According to Jania MacGillivray, Sigebert is first mentioned in church records from the 16th century in the French National Library, as well as in 17th-century priestly documents of St. Vincent de Paul.

It is said that, following the murder of his father on the 23rd December, 679, in the woods close to Stenay, the three year-old Sigebert had been rescued by his half-sister Irmine, eight years his senior. A warrior (‘le Bellison’) called Mérovée Levi, a loyal subject of Dagobert II, subsequently rescued Sigebert from the clutches of Charles Martel and brought him to Rhedae. This Levi was apparently married to the sister of Bera II, the ruler of Rhedae and father of Sigebert’s mother, Gisélle. Like all the Merovingian kings, this Levi was also of Sicambrian descent.

The poet is therefore possibly referring to this flight with Sigebert from the ‘usurper’ Charles Martel. Although Charles Martel himself never went as far as dethroning the Merovingians, his son Pepin III did and subsequently became King of the Franks with support from the Catholic Church.

There seems to be evidence of the said flight with the young Sigebert to Rhedae. In the 42nd edition of the bulletin of the Le Cercle de Saint Dagobert II (June, 1996) – which I also stumbled upon during my visit to the Dagobert II Museum in Stenay – the author André Roth mentions a very old parchment that had earlier been in the possession of the monks of Orval in Belgium. After the French Revolution, the Black Sisters of the Chapel of Mary Magdalene in Mons, Belgium, placed it in the skull of Dagobert II for safekeeping. This ‘valuable parchment’ was written by Irmine, the daughter of Dagobert II and abbess of the monastery of Oeren. It tells of the rescue of her half-brother, Sigebert, who had subsequently been brought to this monastery before being taken to Rhedae, the capitol of the Razès, where he arrived on the 17th January, 681. There is also mention of the ‘Merovingian treasure’, which, according to Généalogie des rois mérovingiens, could refer to the treasure Dagobert II had sent to the Razès.

It appears that this parchment had actually been seen by several persons. On the 7th October, 1912, the bishop of Tournai’s secretary, the canon Cramme, inspected and copied it under the supervision of the Black Sisters and their head, mother Antoinette Richard. On the 31st December, 1941, the envoy of the Prince of Croy, Monsignor Delmette, visited Mons to take a photograph of the parchment as well as a part of the skull. Mother Bernadette de Haye apparently states in a letter that this parchment had later been taken by the Prince of Croy.

It is uncertain in whose keeping this parchment is today. If everything that is said about the parchment is indeed true, there can be no doubt as to the continued existence of the Merovingian bloodline. These events would then clearly be crucial in interpreting the later events in the Razès. However, like with the other parchments, one would have to wait until the experts have examined it before any valid conclusion could be drawn.

Besides this apparently invaluable document, other earlier documents also appear to refer to Sigebert, one of them being a deed of foundation dating from 718, mentioning ‘Sigebert, count of Rhedae, and his wife, Magdala’. This deed concerns the founding by Sigebert of the monastery of St. Martin of Albières. Upon an enquiry by a member of the University of Lille to the author of Le cercle d’Ulysse (who refers to this deed) about where this document could be found, the latter reportedly said it was kept in the French National Archives, but that it had not been categorised.

There is also the possibility that this deed – or another deed – relates to an incident in which Sigebert had been involved. According to the author of the document Au pays de la reine blanche (1967) (‘In the Land of the White Queen’), Sigebert and his son, Sigebert V, made a donation by means of a deed to the bishop Arbogaste as an expression of gratitude. This followed an incident at the Blésia fountain (Pontet) when Sigebert IV had been wounded in the gut during a pigsticking, upon which the bishop had come to his aid, saving his life. The abbé Pichon apparently also refers to this incident in his book Les diplômes mérovingiens.

After Sigebert IV died of a wound to the head in 758, he was buried in the crypt in the Rennes-le-Château church. The entrance to this burial chamber is said to have been covered by an engraved stone, the so-called Knight’s Stone, depicting a man and presumably a child with him on a horse. According to Les descendants Mérovingiens, this stone commemorates the flight with Sigebert to Rhedae. Saunière removed this stone. Later, a skull was reportedly discovered in the chamber, which could have been that of Sigebert.

4.4 Blésia (Pontet)

The fact that the poet refers to a flight at this point, which clearly also bears on the flight with Sigebert, could mean that he has a landmark that is connected with Sigebert in mind. The Blésia Fountain (or Pontet), where he had been wounded, indeed lies only a short distance further from Roque Nègre next to the tarred road.

The name Blésia had possibly been derived from ‘blesser’ (‘to wound’), which could also bear on the pigsticking incident. As was mentioned earlier, it may also be connected with ‘bles’ (‘gold’).

Following the footpath from Roque Nègre, it forks a short distance further on. The one path runs along the escarpment to Rennes-les-Bains, and the other down to the tarred road. If one takes the latter, one passes the Blésia Fountain on the way to Rennes-les-Bains.

4.5 The Sun King

Although the flight with the young Sigebert to Rhedae is an underlying theme in this stanza, the flight the poet is actually referring to here dates from a later period in history. This took place when one of the ‘usurpers’ – referring to the French dynasties after the Merovingians had been dethroned – apparently attempted to get his hands on the treasure of Blanchefort and the ‘Brothers’ hastily fled with it.

One of the French kings who was not only very interested in the Razès area, but evidently also in the treasure, and who sent one of his subjects searching for something that had allegedly been hidden here, was Louis XIV, the Sun King. His minister of finance, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, apparently searched and dug all over the place, among others at Blanchefort – exactly where, according to the poet, the treasure had been moved from. The fact that Colbert returned empty-handed is in keeping with the assumption that the safekeepers of the treasure had gotten away with it in time. It would therefore make sense to take a closer look at these events.

4.6 The brothers of the beauty of black wood

According to the poet, those fleeing from the ‘usurpers’ were the ‘Brothers of the BEAUTY of black wood’ – the same ones who scattered the ‘stones’ along the way. It was therefore the persons who escaped with the treasure and who were responsible for compiling the directions that future generations would need to be able to find the new hiding place.

To find out who these ‘Brothers’ are, one must obviously first determine who ‘the BEAUTY of black wood’ is. This is also not the first time the poet refers to a beauty: In the previous stanza, he mentions the residence of the sleeping beauty where he is headed.

��[T]he BEAUTY of black wood’ may very well allude to statues made of black wood. In La vraie langue celtique, Boudet refers to such a statue of the Virgin in Marseille. It appears that this Black Virgin is connected with an alternative tradition in the Catholic Church that had been kept secret throughout the centuries. In The Cult of the Black Virgin [36], Ean Begg suggests that it represents a pagan goddess under a new banner. Some experts indeed regard the oldest madonna in the world, the Brown Virgin of the Catacomb of Priscilla in Rome, as a statue of Isis.

According to Deloux and Brétigny [37], the Black Madonna of Blois, which was honoured there up until the revolution, is the ‘eternal Isis’ honoured by the initiates of the Prieuré de Sion. To top it all, Pierre Plantard himself stated that the Black Virgin is Isis, and that she is called ‘Notre-Dame de Lumière’ (‘Our Lady of Light’).

If the ‘BEAUTY of black wood’ does indeed refer to the Black Virgin, the ‘Brothers’ who are associated with her are most probably none other than the brothers of the secret Prieuré de Sion – which is reportedly also called ‘the ship of Isis’!

Yet another very interesting fact is that the biggest enemy of Louis XIV and his first minister, cardinal Mazarin, was the secret order, the Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement (‘Order of the Holy Sacrament’). According to the authors of The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, this group ‘conformed almost perfectly to the image of the Prieuré de Sion’ [38]. Their ‘centre of operations’ was the St. Sulpice Church in Paris. (The mother church of St. Sulpice, St.-Germain-des-Près, was apparently built on an earlier temple of Isis.)

4.7 The tombstones of Marie de Blanchefort

According to an article in the Vaincre of September 1989, some of the prominent families of the Razès were directly or indirectly involved with the Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement. This would imply that they were the ones protecting the interests of the Compagnie in the south. It is therefore quite possible that these interests relate to the ‘secret’ of the Hautpoul-Blanchefort family, and even to a treasure hidden in the area. This would mean that these families were the ones responsible for moving the treasure in the time of Louis XIV. It therefore stands to reason that they would also have been responsible for compiling the directions to the new hiding place.

Enter Marie de Blanchefort, who belonged to the mentioned families of the Razès and who figures very prominently in the Rennes-le-Château mystery. On her tombstones appeared information that one later on discovers is indispensable in decoding the hidden secret message in the second text, which most probably relates to the hiding place of the treasure mentioned in the first text. This would imply that it is the exact same treasure which Louis XIV had been after.

Unfortunately, the writing on Marie de Blanchefort’s tombstones does not exist anymore, as Saunière had deliberately removed it. However, it is said to have been published in a book by Eugène Stublein entitled Pierres gravées du Languedoc (1884) (‘Engraved stones of the Languedoc’), but of which not one single copy is apparently still in existence. In 1962, extracts from this book were apparently published under the name of abbé Joseph Courtauly. As with many of the other documents related to Le serpent rouge, the true author of this writing is most likely Pierre Plantard or Philippe de Chérisey. Exactly from where either of them would have obtained this information is not clear, but as Henry Lincoln points out in The Holy Place, at least one of these epitaphs appeared in a leaflet written by E. Tisseyre entitled Excursion du 25 juin 1905 à Rennes-le-Château (‘Excursion of the 25th June, 1905, to Rennes-le-Château).

Fig. 11. The tombstones of Marie de Blanchefort

4.8 The second Latin text

As was just mentioned, the secret message in the second text can only be deciphered with the aid of the information on Marie de Blanchefort’s tombstones. The poet also refers to this second text when stating it is thanks to the ‘manuscript’ of his friend that it is now easier to find his way.

As was also mentioned earlier, deciphering this message is an entirely different story. As it involves a highly intricate procedure, it would be virtually impossible to decode the message without the input of someone who has knowledge of this procedure. Philippe de Chérisey somehow gained access to it, but clearly did not know how to apply it. He was blissfully under the impression that the current 26-letter alphabet could be used, whereas only the old French alphabet without the w yields the correct results. The exact procedure – in all probability supplied by Pierre Plantard – can be found in an appendix to Henry Lincoln’s book The Holy Place. Lionel and Patricia Fanthorpe also provide a very clear exposition of it in their book, Secrets of Rennes-le-Chateau [39].

The writing in the second text is much more compact than that in the first, and the text itself is written in block-form. Close to the bottom right is a peculiar symbol with ‘NO’ and ‘IS’ written on either side, which spells ‘NOIS’ – the inverse of ‘Sion’. There is also an N above and an upside-down A beneath this symbol. Right at the bottom, separate from the main body of the text, are an additional two lines. Each of these consists of six words, all separated by either a full stop or a tiny cross. Lastly, there are two odd roselike symbols in the centre right at the top and right at the bottom of the entire text (see Figure 12).

Fig. 12. The second Latin text

Upon closer examination, one discovers that after every sixth letter in the Latin Biblical text, another letter had been inserted. There are 140 of these letters altogether, which are clearly those containing the secret message. An additional eight very tiny letters have been inserted randomly in the text. Put together, these letters spell ‘rex mundi’, which is Latin for ‘king of the world’. Contrary to the secret message in the first Latin text, which states that the mentioned treasure belongs to Dagobert II and to Sion, these words imply that the treasure ultimately belongs to the ‘king of the world’, who, according to the compiler(s), will apparently come from the Plantard family line. Over and above the Messianic connotations of these words it is therefore implied that the treasure is of such value that only the ‘king of the world’ would have a right to it.

One cannot help but wonder whether this hints at the fact that the discovery of the temple treasures of Jerusalem would play a role in confirming the kingship of such a messianic figure.

4.9 Deciphering the second secret message

Right, here we go.

The 140 letters inserted in the Biblical text are divided into two groups – 64 at the beginning and 64 at the end, with the remaining 12 in between. The number 64 immediately calls to mind the ‘sixty-four dispersed stones’ mentioned in this stanza. One later on discovers that this number is also indispensable in solving the riddle. The 12 letters in the middle are subsequently omitted from the cipher, which leaves a total of 128.

These 128 letters are then systematically transformed to other letters by means of two key phrases – which are to be found on Marie de Blanchefort’s tombstones. The first key phrase is compiled from letters on the vertical tombstone, which seem quite odd and even incorrect, namely T, M, R, O, e, e, e, p. However, when rearranged, these letters spell ‘MORT épéé’, which means ‘death, sword’ – the exact two words which the poet emphasises in the previous stanza. The second key phrase consists of all 119 letters on the vertical tombstone, as well as the letters P and S and the words ‘PRAE-CUM’ on her horizontal tombstone – which once again give a total of 128 letters.

What immediately strikes one about the first key phrase is that ‘épéé’ (‘sword’) is an unusually bad choice for a codeword. As Ted Cranshaw put it in his article: ‘Of all possible four-letter keywords in the French language, épéé is the worst.’ However, it may very well be that the person who had devised the code had deliberately chosen this very word due to its symbolic meaning. As was mentioned earlier, one edition of the Circuit also has a sword on the cover (see Figure 6). The emphasis on a sword could allude to revenge – a theme that recurs later on in the poem when the poet describes the red serpent as ‘red with anger’. This serves as one more reason that it is highly unlikely that the person responsible for the encoding had gone about it just for fun.

Now for the mentioned transformation. In the first step of the procedure, the key phrase ‘MORT épéé’ is written repeatedly above all 128 letters. The numerical value of each letter in the 25-letter alphabet is what is crucial here: a = l, c= 3, e = 5, and so on. The numerical values of each of the two letters on top of each other are then added to yield the numerical value of a third letter, e.g. 1 + 19 = 20. (As the relevant alphabet only consists of 25 letters, 26 is again regarded as 1.) On completion, one then has a new series of 128 letters that correspond to these acquired values.

This procedure is repeated with the second key phrase, namely the 128 letters on both Marie de Blanchefort’s tombstones. These letters are now written above the acquired 128 letters for a further transformation, but this time the key is written backwards – in other words, the last letter is written first, the second last letter second, and so on. The numerical values of each of the two letters on top of each other are then, once again, added to finally yield a new series of 128 letters.

For the final step in the decoding, one needs two chess-boards. Just as 64 represents the number of blocks in a cube (as the poet states), there are 64 blocks on a chess-board (8 x 8). This is why the numbers 64, as well as 128 (64 x 2), are so significant.

The 128 letters acquired by means of the transformations are now unpacked on the blocks of the two chess-boards. Next, a closed knight’s tour (see Figure 13) is used to at last unravel the secret message. This knight’s tour entails the letters being taken out one after the other according to the moves of a knight on the board. When the knight has landed on every single block, the tour is completed.

Having performed the knight’s tour on both chess-boards, one should finally have the deciphered message!

This specific knight’s tour, devised by the skilled Swiss mathematician Leonhard Paul Euler, reveals a striking geometrical pattern, in which a shape partly resembling a pentagram and partly a hexagram becomes visible. Besides the fact that the hexagram is highlighted in the poem, it also appears on the Hautpoul-Blanchefort coat of arms.

Fig. 13. The knight's tour to be used

The hidden secret message in the second Latin text reads:

‘BERGERE PAS DE TENTATION QUE POUSSIN TENIERS GARDENT LA CLEF PAX DCLXXXI PAR LA CROIX ET CE CHEVAL DE DIEU J’ACHEVE CE DAEMON DE GARDIEN A MIDI POMMES BLEUES.’

This could be translated as: ‘SHEPHERDESS NO TEMPTATION THAT POUSSIN TENIERS HOLD THE KEY PEACE 681 BY THE CROSS AND THIS HORSE OF GOD I COMPLETE THIS DEMON GUARDIAN AT MIDDAY BLUE APPLES.’

There is, however, one more thing: The fact that a geometrical pattern is to be drawn according to certain pointers in the first text, leads one to suspect the same holds true for this one. Upon closer examination, it soon becomes clear that some kind of pattern has indeed been hidden in the text: If one connects the roselike symbols at the top and bottom of the text, then produces another line through the two tiny crosses in the two separate lines at the bottom, these two lines intersect more or less in the centre of the parchment.

The implications of these geometrical patterns are as yet an enigma, but progressing on the route, one discovers how brilliantly and ingeniously they have been devised.

 35.     Boudet, H. 1886. La vraie langue celtique ... Carcassonne. Reissue: 1984. Belisane: Nice, p. 231.

36.     Begg, E. 1985. London: Arkana,

37.     Deloux, J. & Brétigny, J. 1982. Rennes-le-Château. Capitale secrète de I’histoire de France. Paris: Editions Atlas.

38.     Baigent, M., Leigh, R. & Lincoln, H. 1982. London: Jonathan Cape, p. 183.

39.     Fanthorpe, L. & P. 1992. York Beach: Samuel Weiser.