#cairn pondering moment

[thelastlegs]

me when i realise i can make the widdidrive™ into a lastlegdrive™ because i have hillsy stuff i need to bunch with it

[triflesandparsnips]

hey do you like uhhhh books

'The Book of my Enemy Has Been Remaindered' by Clive James

The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I am pleased. In vast quantities it has been remaindered Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized And sits in piles in a police warehouse, My enemy's much-prized effort sits in piles In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs. Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles One passes down reflecting on life's vanities, Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews Lavished to no avail upon one's enemy's book -- For behold, here is that book Among these ranks and banks of duds, These ponderous and seemingly irreducible cairns Of complete stiffs. The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I rejoice. It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion Beneath the yoke. What avail him now his awards and prizes, The praise expended upon his meticulous technique, His individual new voice? Knocked into the middle of next week His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys The sinker, clinkers, dogs and dregs, The Edsels of the world of moveable type, The bummers that no amount of hype could shift, The unbudgeable turkeys. Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper Bathes in the blare of the brightly jacketed Hitler's War Machine, His unmistakably individual new voice Shares the same scrapyard with a forlorn skyscraper Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook, His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed by others, His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretense, Is there with Pertwee's Promenades and Pierrots-- One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment, And (oh, this above all) his sensibility, His sensibility and its hair-like filaments, His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one With Barbara Windsor's Book of Boobs, A volume graced by the descriptive rubric "My boobs will give everyone hours of fun". Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also, Though not to the monumental extent In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out To the book of my enemy, Since in the case of my own book it will be due To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error-- Nothing to do with merit. But just supposing that such an event should hold Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset By the memory of this sweet moment. Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets! The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I am glad.

[gray-morality]

Wondrous Tails of FFXIV

Meeting the family

They spent a few days within the Shrouds, in that isolated cabin that was Bocquet's house - Seda's guardian. Thankfully, the tension of the first day had dissipated - unbeknown to them the result of the hard work of a certain rat - and thus the remainder of their visit proved to be far more enjoyable. Much to Fakhri's surprise, Bocquet demonstrated more acceptance than he anticipated. And that was in the broadest way possible. 

Fakhri's work, for starters, had been a source of worry for the man. Something he wasn't sure the Elezen would approve of. He had tried to keep it vague, to some extent, but Bocquet was anything but stupid. They most likely had an inkling as to the kind of "work" Fakhri and Seda did to be able to provide succor to people; money doesn’t grow on trees after all. It came as further surprise when the Wailer stated interest in visiting the couple in Thavnair. There were a few questions regarding Fakhri's boss, what sort of man he was. Maybe the viera could arrange a meeting? Would the Sahib make time for which was purely a matter of personal life? Nothing much to lose by asking…

Then came Fakhri's second worry, and frankly the most important - himself. In the moment he met with Seda's guardian, the viera became acutely aware of his own problems - addiction to many substances and alcoholism, his hyper-empathy syndrome, and the burden of a seer - which placed a great deal of doubts on his mind where acceptance was concerned. And, as expected, Bocquet had shown no small amount of reserve to Seda's choice of partner. That is, until they came back from their "moment of solitude" in the forest. Seda mentioned that Bocquet had erected a symbolic cairn for her mother, as her ashes had been scattered to the winds, and that they would spend time there when they had to think, as if asking the dead for their wisdom. Visibility her mother' spirit had imparted something to them, for Bocquet came back with an open mind; a very drastic change from their previous demeanor towards the couple. Not to mention a sudden affection towards Arak which made the viera ponder what had truly happened in the forest. A thought pushed aside for the time being. 

The remaining few days thus passed peacefully. Fakhri had a chance to show off his remarkable skills as a hunter, even if Bocquet's reserved demeanor was sometimes hard to read. He could still feel a warmth from them, some kind of affection that wasn't unlike a member of one's family. And Seda "felt" more at peace, happiness bubbling from her and filling the viera's heart with the selfsame feeling. Here in the forest, his senses not overloaded with the ambient buzzing that inevitably came with city life, he could rest a bit and savor those feelings that were only his, and hers. By the time they left the Shrouds to return to Thavnair, their bond had grown even more. Fakhri was well-aware of it but, was she? Theirs was something more than two people liking each other… so much more. He just couldn't say /what/ it was just yet. Where the emotional cacophony of the many residents of the city would muffle her emotions from him, now he could feel a thread between them. Was this good, or bad… He cherished that connection but such bonds usually went both ways; there would be very little secrets between the two of them as the union of their two hearts - maybe even their souls - gained in strength. What did Eorzeans say? “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there”?

“Ya, and we’ll cross it together, girl.”

[gobboguy]

Chapter 29: To the Top of Cairn Doom!

A week had passed since Gelbeg's miraculous revival, yet the atmosphere in his chamber remained tense, heavy with unspoken emotions. Ionia had been tirelessly attending to Gelbeg's needs, bringing him food and bloodgrog, and offering him companionship during his recovery. However, despite their close proximity, they had yet to broach the topic of their feelings for each other, leaving an unspoken tension lingering between them.

In Gelbeg's chamber, the fire crackled warmly as he emptied the last remnants of his tankard of bloodgrog. Ionia tended to the flames, her movements graceful yet tense with anticipation. Meanwhile, Arrowcatcher, Fartbringer, and Split-Nose engaged in a hushed discussion nearby, their voices murmuring as they reflected on the events of the past week.

The Orcs exchanged wary glances as they pondered the implications of MOG's intervention in their lives. For years, they had lived in secrecy within the mountains of Acury, but now it seemed that their god had a new directive—a wish for conquest and dominion. Their gazes shifted to Ionia, their unease palpable as they considered her recent declaration renouncing her faith in human religions and her allegiance to humanity itself. They wondered what hidden motives lay behind her actions and what role she might play in MOG's grand design for their people.

As Gelbeg cleared his throat, the crackling of the fire filled the chamber with a soothing rhythm. "Thank you, Ionia," he spoke, his voice rough with gratitude, as he watched her tend to the flames. Ionia's cheeks flushed pink at his words, and she nodded in response, her heart fluttering with a mix of emotions.

Turning towards Ionia, Split-Nose's gaze softened, her usually stern expression giving way to a rare moment of humility. "I have something to say," she declared, her voice carrying a note of sincerity. "I was wrong about you, Ionia. You are truly blessed, touched by MOG himself."

Ionia bowed her head humbly, her voice soft yet resolute. "MOG is unlike any God that the people of Sidhedark worship," she began, her words measured and thoughtful. "While other Gods remain aloof and distant, MOG has shown that he is willing to answer the prayers of his worshippers, to guide them to victory."

A sense of awe filled Ionia's voice as she continued, her eyes shining with newfound faith. "I spent my whole life believing that the Gods would never bless me," she admitted, her voice trembling with emotion. "But if MOG is willing to extend his blessing to me, a mere human, then he and Gelbeg, by extension, have my unwavering loyalty and worship."

As the conversation turned towards the future of the Orcs, Arrowcatcher's eyes gleamed with excitement, and he clapped his hands together eagerly. "It's time for us to expand," he proclaimed, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "MOG has shown us the path to greatness, and we must seize it!"

Fartbringer nodded in agreement, his expression serious as he added, "If we don't expand, we'll face population problems in the future. We need to secure our future by conquering new lands."

Split-Nose chimed in eagerly, her voice tinged with anticipation. "MOG has chosen Gelbeg to be our king," she declared, her eyes shining with fervor. "And Farfield is our destiny. We will conquer and rule, just as MOG has decreed!"

But before the conversation could continue, Gelbeg slammed his tankard down on the ground with a resounding thud, his expression fierce and determined. "No," he stated firmly, his voice cutting through the chatter. "I will not be king, and conquest and war are not the future for the Orcs."

His words hung heavy in the air, silencing the room as the Orcs turned to him in surprise and confusion, their expectations shattered by Gelbeg's unexpected declaration.

As the weight of Gelbeg's words settled over the room, a heavy silence descended, broken only by the crackling of the fire. The Orcs shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting around the chamber as they grappled with the conflicting messages they had received—Gelbeg's denial of MOG's will, juxtaposed with Ionia's unwavering loyalty to their leader.

It was Ionia who broke the silence, her voice ringing out with unwavering resolve. "Gelbeg is our leader," she declared, her tone firm and unwavering. "And I will follow him, no matter what."

The room remained silent, the Orcs exchanging glowering looks amongst themselves, but Gelbeg's gaze softened as he looked upon Ionia, a mixture of respect and love evident in his eyes—a sentiment that she returned in kind.

Finally, Gelbeg spoke, his voice steady and resolute. "While I believe in MOG's decree," he began, his words measured yet firm, "I must also do everything in my power to seek peace with the humans."

He continued, his tone earnest as he addressed the gathered Orcs. "Humans are a people who desire peace above all else," he explained. "And I firmly believe that man and Orc can coexist peacefully."

Though the Orcs nodded in acknowledgment, not all agreed with Gelbeg's sentiments. Nevertheless, they respected his unwavering conviction, understanding that it was born from a genuine desire for the betterment of their people. As Ionia stepped forward and knelt at Gelbeg's bedside, taking his massive hand in hers and stroking it gently, a sense of unity and purpose filled the chamber, binding them together in their shared vision for a future of peace and prosperity.

In the tense atmosphere of the chamber, the shifting of bodies and the furrowed brows of the Orcs betrayed their inner turmoil. Raised from birth to embrace the ideology of Orcish superiority, Gelbeg's proclamation challenged their fundamental beliefs, leaving them grappling with uncertainty.

As they glanced at Ionia, the human woman who stood by Gelbeg's side with unwavering loyalty, a sense of introspection washed over them. Here was a woman who had earned their respect, who claimed to believe in the faith of the Orcs and their racial superiority. Could it be that Gelbeg's words held truth? Was diplomacy and negotiation the key to Orcish dominance, rather than brute force?

The notion took root in the minds of many Orcs, sparking a silent contemplation of MOG's intentions. Could it be that MOG wished for them to spread their religion through evangelism, rather than conquest? The prospect of coexistence with humans, even as their perceived betters, loomed large in their thoughts, the success of such a plan resting on the willingness of humans to accept Orcish integration into their society.

With a collective understanding, the Orcs realized that there was only one way to test this theory—to venture into the heart of human society, to the Orc settlement of Votar. It would be there, amidst humans, that the true test of coexistence and acceptance would unfold, shaping the future of both races in Sidhedark.

As the tension in the room lingered, Fartbringer cleared his throat, his voice breaking the silence with a sense of urgency. "Gelbeg, do you intend on returning to Farfield soon?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on the Orc leader. "We need to convince the humans to coexist."

Gelbeg shifted on his bed, kicking his feet off the side with a newfound vigor that hinted at his returning strength. He turned to face Fartbringer, his expression determined. "Aye, we must return," he affirmed, his voice carrying a sense of purpose. "It's time to seek peace with the humans."

His gaze then shifted to Ionia, who stood nearby, her presence a steady anchor in the room. "And what of you, Ionia?" Gelbeg asked, his eyes searching hers for understanding. "How do you feel about the coexistence of Orcs and humans?"

Ionia bit her lip, her mind racing as she considered her response. "My vision from MOG has convinced me of the god's existence," she began, her voice steady yet contemplative. "MOG commanded that the Orcs rule and conquer, but he also decreed that you are King, Gelbeg. Perhaps this is how it happens."

She paused, her gaze unwavering as she continued. "If I can see the beauty and strength in Orc society," she stated firmly, "then surely others can too. Coexistence is possible, but it will require understanding, patience, and a willingness to embrace change."

Gelbeg's nod was firm as he pats Ionia's hand, his large, rough hands engulfing hers in a reassuring grip. With a determined air, he turned to address the gathered Orcs, a sense of urgency in his tone.

"Before we depart for Farfield," Gelbeg began, his voice commanding attention, "there is something I must confess." His words hanged heavy in the air, drawing the attention of all present.

"I climbed the mountain that houses Cairn Doom, for a specific reason." Gelbeg revealed, his admission met with a murmur of surprise among the Orcs. Split-Nose leaned forward, her eyes alight with religious fervor, eagerly awaiting Gelbeg's revelation.

"It was my own vision from MOG that compelled me," Gelbeg continued, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the room. "I dreamed that at the peak of the mountain, the future of the Orcs awaited."

A pregnant pause follows as the Orcs absorb Gelbeg's words, the weight of his declaration hanging in the air. Then, in a burst of frustration, Split-Nose exploded, her voice ringing out in the silence. "That's it?" she demands, her disappointment evident.

Gelbeg nodded solemnly, his expression resolute. "That's it," he confirms. "I must climb to the peak of Cairn Doom and discover what lies in store for us there."

The announcement stirred surprise among the Orcs, their expressions reflecting a mix of disbelief and curiosity. Gelbeg had recently faced death at the hands of an Ice Howler, yet here he stood, determined to embark on another perilous journey.

Amidst the silence that follows, Ionia stepped forward, her voice steady and unwavering. "I'll go with you, Gelbeg," she declared, her eyes locking with his. "If MOG intends on sending us both visions, then perhaps it is both of us who must seek the future for your people. I love the Orcs, and I'll do anything to ensure this future for them." Her words resonated through the chamber, imbued with a sense of loyalty and devotion that left no room for doubt.

As Fartbringer and Split-Nose exchanged surprised glances at Ionia's revelation, the air in the room crackled with a newfound respect for the human woman. Her declaration had earned her the admiration of every Orc present, their gazes lingering on her with a mixture of awe and approval. Only Arrowcatcher, with a knowing twinkle in his crimson eyes, seemed unsurprised by the turn of events, his confidence in the pairing of Gelbeg and Ionia evident.

Before anyone could react, Arrowcatcher strode purposefully to the door, his movements decisive as he exchanged low words with a pair of Orc guards stationed outside. Moments later, the guards returned, bearing two sets of gleaming Orcish armor, the sound of metal clattering filling the chamber.

Gelbeg and Ionia watched in surprise as Arrowcatcher presented the armor to them, his voice filled with pride as he proclaimed, "This armor will be the future of Orcish armor." His words resonated through the room, echoing with a sense of significance as the Orcs gazed upon the custom-made sets with admiration and anticipation.

As Gelbeg stood before the assembled Orcs, his massive frame towering over them, the armor crafted for him was a sight to behold. Made of the blackest metal, like the depths of a moonless night sky, it exuded an aura of formidable strength and power. Fiery red veins ran like molten lava through the dark surface, lending an ominous and intimidating appearance to the armor.

Each piece of the armor was meticulously crafted and adorned with wicked spikes and intricate details. The breastplate, broad and imposing, was etched with intricate patterns that seemed to dance in the flickering torchlight. Wicked spikes jutted out from the pauldrons, adding to Gelbeg's imposing presence. The greaves, encasing his powerful legs, were adorned with engraved runes, their meaning known only to Gelbeg and the craftsmen who forged them.

The gauntlets, shaped in the likeness of a Hero's Fist, were massive and imposing, each finger ending in a sharp point capable of delivering devastating blows. As Gelbeg flexed his fingers within the gauntlets, the metal creaked and groaned, a testament to their strength and durability. The rondels, protective disks worn on his shoulders, were adorned with a screaming image of MOG's face, his visage twisted in a fierce expression of divine power.

As Gelbeg donned each piece of his armor, the room was filled with a sense of awe and reverence. He stood as a symbol of strength and leadership, ready to lead his people into the uncertain future that awaited them.

Ionia's armor, forged from a shiny black-grey metal, gleamed in the dim light of the chamber. Despite its dark hue, it seemed to radiate an inner strength and resilience. Adorned with wicked spikes and intricate details, it was a testament to both craftsmanship and ferocity.

The breastplate, fitted snugly to her form, bore swirling patterns etched into the metal, catching the light in mesmerizing patterns. Wicked spikes adorned the pauldrons, adding a fierce edge to her appearance. As she moved, the spikes caught the light, casting menacing shadows across the room.

Her greaves, encasing her legs in protective armor, were adorned with engraved symbols of strength and courage. Each piece of the armor seemed to blend seamlessly with the next, forming a cohesive whole that spoke of both beauty and functionality.

The gauntlets, crafted to fit her hands perfectly, were adorned with sharp spikes along the knuckles, ready to deliver devastating blows to any who dared to challenge her. Even the smallest details, such as the buckles and straps that secured the armor in place, were intricately designed, adding to the overall sense of craftsmanship and attention to detail.

As Ionia donned each piece of her armor, she felt a sense of empowerment wash over her. She stood tall and proud, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, her armor a reflection of her inner strength and determination.

After donning their armor, Gelbeg stood proudly, his hands resting on his hips, the imposing figure of his great warhammer strapped securely to his back. Ionia, the Relic Sword of Miranda at her hip, stepped up beside him, placing a comforting hand on his arm. Gelbeg reciprocated, his massive gauntlet-covered hand enveloping hers in a gesture of solidarity.

Turning to his lieutenants, Gelbeg's grin widened, a sense of pride radiating from his every movement. With a resounding clang as he slapped his metal-covered belly, he spoke with unwavering determination. "Today marks the beginning of our future," he declared, his voice echoing through the chamber with authority. "The Orcish race will rise to greatness, and it starts right now!"

The gathered Orcs, their faces alight with anticipation, let out a collective roar of agreement, their spirits lifted by Gelbeg's words. With renewed vigor, they prepared to face whatever challenges lay ahead, united under Gelbeg's leadership and fueled by the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

[booksquared]

The Book of my Enemy Has Been Remaindered

The book of my enemy has been remaindered

And I am pleased.

In vast quantities it has been remaindered

Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized

And sits in piles in a police warehouse,

My enemy's much-prized effort sits in piles

In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs.

Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles

One passes down reflecting on life's vanities,

Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews

Lavished to no avail upon one's enemy's book --

For behold, here is that book

Among these ranks and banks of duds,

These ponderous and seeminly irreducible cairns

Of complete stiffs.

The book of my enemy has been remaindered

And I rejoice.

It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion

Beneath the yoke.

What avail him now his awards and prizes,

The praise expended upon his meticulous technique,

His individual new voice?

Knocked into the middle of next week

His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys

The sinker, clinkers, dogs and dregs,

The Edsels of the world of moveable type,

The bummers that no amount of hype could shift,

The unbudgeable turkeys.

Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper

Bathes in the blare of the brightly jacketed Hitler's War Machine,

His unmistakably individual new voice

Shares the same scrapyart with a forlorn skyscraper

Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook,

His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed by others,

His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretense,

Is there with Pertwee's Promenades and Pierrots--

One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment,

And (oh, this above all) his sensibility,

His sensibility and its hair-like filaments,

His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one

With Barbara Windsor's Book of Boobs,

A volume graced by the descriptive rubric

"My boobs will give everyone hours of fun".

Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also,

Though not to the monumental extent

In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out

To the book of my enemy,

Since in the case of my own book it will be due

To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error--

Nothing to do with merit.

But just supposing that such an event should hold

Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset

By the memory of this sweet moment.

Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets!

The book of my enemy has been remaindered

And I am glad.

[tahinikill]

The book of my enemy has been remaindered by Clive James

The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I am pleased. In vast quantities it has been remaindered. Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized And sits in piles in a police warehouse, My enemy’s much-praised effort sits in piles In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs. Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles One passes down reflecting on life’s vanities, Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews Lavished to no avail upon one’s enemy’s book – For behold, here is that book Among these ranks and banks of duds, These ponderous and seemingly irreducible cairns Of complete stiffs.

The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I rejoice. It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion Beneath the yoke. What avail him now his awards and prizes, The praise expended upon his meticulous technique, His individual new voice? Knocked into the middle of next week His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys, The sinkers, clinkers, dogs and dregs, The Edsels of the world of movable type, The bummers that no amount of hype could shift, The unbudgeable turkeys.

Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper Bathes in the glare of the brightly jacketed Hitler’s War Machine, His unmistakably individual new voice Shares the same scrapyard with a forlorn skyscraper Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook, His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed in by others, His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretence, Is;there with Pertwee’s Promenades and Pierrots – One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment, And (oh, this above all) his sensibility, His sensibility and its hair-like filaments, His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one With Barbara Windsor’s Book of Boobs, A volume graced by the descriptive rubric ‘My boobs will give everyone hours of fun.’

Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also, Though not to the monumental extent In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out To the book of my enemy, Since in the case of my own book it will be due To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error – Nothing to do with merit. But just supposing that such an event should hold Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset By the memory of this sweet moment. Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets! The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I am glad.

[rowanwhitethornisbae]

Faking It Chapter 1

Rowaelin Fake Dating High School Au

A/N: This is going to be told through Aelin and Rowan’s POV’s but will also feature other characters. 

masterlist

Aelin Galathynius had never been this pissed off in her entire life. 

“I need to focus on myself.” 

“You can be a lot to handle sometimes.” 

If Aelin hadn't been so shellshocked she most definitely would've slapped that grimace off his ruggedly handsome face. Chaol Westfall and her had been dating for as long as Aelin could remember. Grade six graduation, he was there. Grade eight dance marathon, him again. First day of high school, Chaol. Junior prom night, guess fucking who. 

Now, she was barely a week into senior year and everything was already going to shit. It’s not that she was completely torn up about the breakup - she wasn't - it was more about her pride. Aelin’s bitchy side could not believe that she hadn't been the one to dump him first. They’d barely spoken to each other all summer long. Aelin had been lifeguarding at a pool on the south side of town and Chaol had been a camp counsellor on the north. Still, their friend groups crossed over in every way possible. Aelin was the head cheerleader, leader of about every committee you could think of, and as Aedion liked to call her, “Queen of Terrasen High”. Chaol was, you guessed it, the football team captain and starting quarter back. They were the textbook couple in every way possible. Still, despite the cheerleaders and football players hanging out nearly every night, Chaol and Aelin had barely talked. It had been that way since their huge fight on the last day of junior year. They’d claimed to forgive each other, but never really had. They’d both said some really fucked up shit. Still, Aelin couldn't bring herself to be completely regretful of what she’d said to him. 

“This is a good thing A.” Her best friend Lysandra was saying beside her. “You’re way hotter than him anyway.” 

Snapping back to attention, Aelin smiled. “I am aren't I.” She laughed. 

“Hell yes.” Lysandra assured her. “He was never in your league.” 

Aelin laughed and threw her arm over her best friends shoulders. School was out for the day and they were heading out to meet Aedion for a drive home. Ignoring the faint anger in her gut, Aelin had to admit she felt more free. She hadn't been single since the sixth grade - save the small break her and Chaol had taken in 10th year. Aelin didn't like to ponder too much on that time in her life. 

A blast of warm air hit her as they pushed open the heavy doors to the school. Aedion’s face broke into a wide grin as he spotted them. As soon as her and Lysandra reached him he pulled her into a bear hug. “Welcome to the world of miserable and lonely single people. You’re gonna love it.” He messed with her hair and she groaned for him to put her down. 

“How the hell do you know already?” She asked.

“Oh my sweet naive cousin. Everyone knows.” He smiled sympathetically. 

“Everyone?” Aelin said, a hint of desperation in her tone.

“Everyone.” Aedion echoed. “It’s the biggest news to hit the school since, well, you and Chaol took break.”

Aelin swore under her breath. “Can’t people focus on their own lives for once.” 

Lysandra laughed softly. “We need to find you a rebound.” She said, bouncing on her toes. “I finally get the chance to be my best friends wingman.” 

“I don't want a rebound.” Aelin said frowning. 

“Would you rather Chaol find one first. He broke up with you, you’re already losing.” 

Damn Lysandra. She knew that Aelin was probably the most competitive person alive and could literally never shy away from a fight. 

“Fine. Who?” She swung open the door to Aedion’s car and climbed in the back.

Lysandra clapped her hands together and joined her in the back. “How about Fenrys Moonbeam?” 

Aelin shook her head back and forth. “No way.”

“Why?” Aedion asked. “He’s unfairly attractive.” 

“You date him then.” Aelin shot back. 

“Maybe I will.” He smiled wickedly at her in the rearview mirror and pulled out of the parking lot. 

“How about Sam Cortland.” Lys suggested. 

For a moment Aelin considered it. Despite being a year younger than her, Sam was extremely cute. His messy brown hair and constant smile didn't hurt matters. 

“Too nice.” Aelin insisted. “I’ll feel too bad about using him.” 

Lysandra had just begun naming someone else when their car slammed into something else. Aelin’s body lurched forward uncontrollably, head slamming into the seat in front of her. 

“Fuck!” Aedion swore. “Fucking hell!”

Aelin didn't even have time to revel in the fact that Aedion had actually cursed. Instead, she surveyed her body to make sure she was alright. Lysandra appeared to be doing the same and they both exchanged weak smiles of comfort. All three of them slowly got out of the car to see who exactly they had run into. 

Aelin was stilling rubbing at her temples when a voice sent a chill down her spine. 

“Are you fucking kidding me Ashryver?” He said. 

Heart racing, Aelin lifted her head slowly and met the anger filled green eyes of Rowan Whitethorn. He looked absolutely flawless in his leather jacket and white tee. His too tight jeans were ripped around the knees and cuffed just above his black combat boots. Rowan’s silver hair was messy and unkept and his tattoo was just as beautiful as ever. The vibrant green of his eyes never failed to take her off guard. Eyes that were now staring directly at her. 

He blinked twice, the only reaction he would show, and went back to yelling at her cousin. 

“I’m sorry man.” Aedion was saying in the background. “I didn't see you.” 

“It’s not his fault.” Lysandra jumped in. “We were all distracted.” 

“Let me guess.” He snarled back, tone as pissed off as ever. “Discussing the recent breakup.” Rowan was looking at Aelin now, waiting for a response. 

“Something like that.” She mumbled, not looking directly at him. 

“Didn't hear that princess.” He said loudly.

“Fuck off Rowan.” Aedion yelled, subtly stepping between them. “It was accident, send me the bill for your bumper. We’re going now.” 

“Whatever.” Rowan didn’t look at her once. He only got back in his dented black car, flipped Aedion off, and hit the gas. 

“Come on A.” Lysandra said softly, wrapping an arm around Aelin’s trembling form. She pulled her gently back toward their car. Aelin could feel Aedion’s gaze on her, yet for some reason she couldn't bring herself to care. 

After a few more minutes of silent and awkward driving, Aelin couldn't bear it anymore. 

“I’m fine guys.” She said with as much confidence as she could muster. “Please stop looking at me like I'm a time bomb.” 

Lysandra laughed and smiled. “Whatever you say A.” Aelin had never been this grateful for her best friend. 

“How about Rowan.” Lysandra continued. Every thought left Aelin’s head and she jolted upwards in her seat. 

“Are you insane? Are you literally fucking mental. I would get burned alive then have a conversation with him.” Aelin was practically yelling now. 

Lysandra only shrugged. “What’s the one thing that hurts more than sleeping with the best friend?” She asked Aedion. 

“Sleeping with the guy you told him not to worry about.” Her cousin recited, smirking in the rearview mirror. 

“Absolutely not. No way in hell.” She paused. “Besides, he wouldn't even give me the time of day.”

Lys squealed. “So you’re considering it.”

“No.” Aelin murmured, ignoring her friend’s pointed glares. 

“Alright.” Lysandra finally relented. “Just think on it.” 

“Fine.” Aelin nodded, and went back to staring at nothing through the car window. 

                                                     ~~~~~~~~

“Lorcan!” Rowan yelled out. “Where are you guys?” 

“Out back.” Came the booming yell of Lorcan Salvaterre. 

Sighing, Rowan put his coat back on and walked through the house to the back door. Only, Fenrys greeted him, patting him on the back and moving over on the couch. “How was your day?” His friend asked. 

“Horrible.” Rowan admitted. 

Fenrys stuck out his bottom lip. “How come?” 

“I talked to Aelin Galathynius.” 

The rest of the group instantly stopped whatever conversations they’d been having and whirled towards him. Fenrys’ eyes were blown wide open as he struggled to find the words. 

“Explain.” Lorcan said at last, falling back in his chair. Vaughn and Gavriel were staring at him cautiously, as if he might have another breakdown.  “Her cousin hit my car.” He grumbled. 

“The first time you speak to Aelin in nearly two years is because you crashed into her car” Vaughn reiterates. 

Rowan only nods. Fenrys, bless him, somehow restrains from laughing. 

“So do tell.” Gavriel gestures for Rowan to go into more detail. 

“I made some comment about the breakup, she refused to look at me, I basically mocked and condescended her, and then Aedion told me to fuck off and I left.” He reached down into the cooler for a drink. 

“Um wow.” Lorcan sighed. “Nice going asshole.” 

Rowan just held his beer out in salute and took a long drink. He was more than ready to forget about the whole day and move on. Unfortunately, his friends seemed less inclined for his plan. 

“The news of their breakup is all over the school.” Fenrys told them. He had always been their number one source of gossip, considering the rest of them despised most social interaction. “Guys are already placing bets on who can sleep with her first. Cairn bet Nox 1000$ he can nail her by Dorian’s party this Friday.” 

Rowan tried and failed to ignore the tightening in his chest. 

“Will she even go to that?” Gavriel posed. “Dorian is Chaol’s best friend anyway.”

“She’ll be there.” Rowan blurted before he could take it back.

All eyes again flipped to him. “Why don’t you make a move Rowan?” Lorcan asked, a smirk etched onto his lips. 

“Fuck off Salvaterre. I hate the bitch.” Rowan snarled. 

“You didn't seem to hate her so much when - “ Fenrys began. 

Rowan was already up and moving before he could hear the end of the sentence. He ignored their calls of apology and to come back, instead getting into his car and pulling out. At last, he pulled into the parking space in front of his aunt’s house and leaned his head against the car window. 

It had barely been a week and his senior year was already shaping up to be a fucking mess. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[orsuliya]

When Awu mourns XQ in ep. 58, she doesn't remember the moments when XQ saved her or when he was the Brave General, but she remembers the man he was, the sweet husband, her lover.

I think it's very touching. It looks like the third lamentation at Hector's funeral in the Iliad. The third lamentation is for his human side, not for the soldier he was.

And Awu breaks me. She's on her knees in front of the ovoo (and my headcanon sees her to build this memorial all the night by herself), she is in dignified silence in spite of the pain she's going through.

She's devastated but not yet broken. (She has some work to do).

She's such a dignified person, no one could be Princess Yuzhang but her.

Actually, other than the Farewell-Hug-That-Never-Was, all the flashbacks we see in this scene have a very prominent theme. Something along the lines of: "The only future that matters is the one that we build together. Whatever happens, I shall always be with you. You are the only one for me". Which can be roughly translated into: "Just as for Prince Yuzhang there exists no woman but his Princess, there will be no husband for Princess Yuzhang other than her Prince". Or something like that. The Farewell-Hug-That-Never-Was is something of an outlier, but then I am mightily surprised it didn't come up at least three times more, that's how perfect it is for angsting purposes. And this scene is angsty as... something very angsty.

Anyway, this theme of marital loyalty looks like it shouldn't really jive with Awu's outstanding marriage plans, right? Well, it actually does and quite well at that. See, Awu is pondering going through this whole wedding farce for the sake of Cheng civilians, but in reality? I think she already decided that after she achieves her primary goal, Helan Zhen is getting shanked and shanked hard. And if that doesn't work, then Awu will kill herself, both to take her revenge in an indirect way by depriving Helan Zhen of his One True Love (bleurgh!) and to uphold her wedding vows to her only real husband. Or rather, she's making this decision right at that moment, while kneeling before the obo. The next time we see her, she's already wearing her best murder face!

Sorry, Phantom of the Steppe, but you're toast. Nobody comes between Mr. and Mrs. Yuzhang and lives to tell the tale.

(Not sure I agree with this headcanon of yours pertaining to building the whole damn cairn by herself, but I could totally see her making all those Hulan guards do it. Show me her bleeding hands or deal with it. Wait a moment. Sorry, no, she couldn't have done more that leaving a stone or two. Some of those khadags (the scarfy bits) show serious wear-and-tear, so this cairn was already there. Now, there are two new-ish red khadags on the obo and while it's probably a coincidence, this particular shade of red seems pretty familiar... Very wedding-like, at least according to Cheng traditions. Hmm, I do wonder who could have tied them there. Now, whyever should Awu feel the need to reaffirm her wedding vows?)

I commend you on your choice of literary parallels, I really do. Andromache's Lamentation is a brilliant one not only because it concerns itself mostly with Hector's human side - although that too, in sharp contrast to recitations of heroic deeds made by Helen and Hekube - but also because Andromache openly voices her fears about her own bleak future... and the future of Troy. Let's face it, Cheng is in pretty much the same (hopeless) position as Troy without her Hector. And guess what comes immediately after this scene? Yup, we see a messenger bringing the news of Awu's possible survival to the capital, which bodes ill for the country as Zitan (our hapless Paris) immediately starts gearing for war. Paris... decent archer, not that great at fighting, prone to slaying his enemies from safe distance. Or was it Zitan? And does saving our Paris from a battle he could not win make Prime Minister Wen Aphrodite?

[viostormcaller]

JSE Fic- An (Almost) Unhappy Birthday

AN: I know it’s a day late and the drawing I originally planned isn’t done, but I had to post SOMETHING for the sad dad’s birthday, so I settled on something I know for sure I’m good at. And hey, late is better than never! This took me SO long and I swear I cried every time I read through it to edit it. But I’m really, really proud of it and I hope you guys enjoy reading it just as much as I did writing it!

((TW: Alcoholism, suicidal ideation))

Chase sat in the back of his car, splayed out across the seats. He stared out of the windshield from where he was, watching the wind rustle the low-hanging branches on the trees that lined the sunlit street. He didn't know whether to be grateful for the pleasant weather or wish for rain to better match the mood. Luckily, it wasn't hot enough to need the AC, so he had that going for him, he figured.

He sighed, running a hand down his face before allowing his arm to fall limp against the leather seat. He looked over to the bottle beside him. It was half-empty. He never drank and drove -- he wasn't stupid -- so he would only pull out the bottle when he was in the forest, at the cairn he made in honor of love lost. But today… he didn't care. He didn't plan on going anywhere. He just wanted to sit and drink and do nothing else until the day ended.

He'd been paying attention. He knew what day it was. April 11th. His birthday. But he didn't plan on celebrating. What the hell was there to celebrate? His miserable existence? Chase scoffed and rolled his eyes, shaking his head bitterly. No, all he's known since the day he was born was pain and heartbreak and suffering. He tried to be that ray of sunshine he wanted to be, he really did. And despite everything, he succeeded, for a time. But the day he lost his wife, lost his kids, lost everything… it all went downhill from there and only got worse as the years went on. His best friend is in a coma, has been for three years now. Chase already resigned himself to believing Jack was dead. And for a time -- nine months exactly -- Henrik was gone, too, leaving him with nothing but Jack's channel and the job to take over while the YouTuber was out of commission. He had no one to turn to, not really. And sure, Marvin was watching over him, protecting him, but… he wasn't a therapist. He wasn't about to bug Marvin with his problems. That wasn't his job. His only job was to keep Anti away while Chase recorded, while he wore Jack's name. And forget about Jackie -- hell knows where he went. Hadn't heard from him in years. So he turned to whiskey to ease the pain, and while he still had hope left, visited Jack as often as he could.

But you all already know this story, don't you?

Chase wrapped his fingers around the familiar neck of the whiskey bottle, keeping them there and making no moves to pick it up. He laughed to himself, absentmindedly wondering how much whiskey it would take to get alcohol poisoning. He glanced down at the paper bag on the floor of the car, seeing that same, familiar cap peeking out, this one new and untouched.

Today, he planned to find out.

It's not like anyone would fuckin' find me, anyway, Chase reasoned. No one can see through my windows, and I haven't heard from anybody in fuckin' forever so it's not like they'll be checkin' up on me. Chase felt himself tearing up again as he pulled the bottle close, unscrewing the cap. The familiar smell hit him, strong as ever. A strange comfort, for sure, but the only comfort he had left.

"Down the hatch," he whispered. He was just about to press the bottle to his lips when out of the corner of his eye he saw his phone light up. Not a second later it began to buzz. Chase sighed, screwing the cap back on and setting the bottle down. He picked up the phone with reluctance and read who was calling.

Henrik. Of course he was.

Chase debated on just letting it ring, just ignoring the call. He didn't exactly feel like talking. All he wanted to do today was (quite literally) drink himself to death in peace. He wondered if Henrik would even care, if he would even think to call back if he didn't answer. Would he come looking? Would he be worried? Chase sat and debated and pondered over this, and by the time he went to react, the vibrating had stopped and the car was silent once more. Chase tossed the phone aside and slumped back against the seat, blowing his unkempt hair out of his face.

Would Henrik miss him if he was gone? Of course, Henrik's saved his life before, but things were different now and he knew that he hadn't exactly become the easiest person in the world to deal with since all this happened. He wondered if Henrik would care, or if he would be glad to be rid of him, of someone who's just become a nuisance. He went to reach for the bottle again when his phone lit up once more. A glance told him that it was Henrik calling back. He didn't make any moves to pick up the phone, just letting it ring and ring and ring until it stopped. No use ruining Henrik's day with the same depressing bullshit he always spews. Just because he wasn't happy didn't mean Henrik had to be unhappy, too. The man already suffers enough.

Though he refused to touch the bottle, just in case he changed his mind.

Once more the phone lit up, the generic ringtone filling the still air of the car. Chase didn't move, just staring off into space and stewing in his thoughts. And once again, the phone eventually fell silent.

Though a second later, it lit up again. This time, it was a text message. And then there was another. And another. And Chase finally gave in and picked up his phone, reading the messages -- all from Henrik, of course.

Henrik: Chase?

H: Chase are you okay?

H: Answer me please

Chase unlocked his phone and stared at the messages. A moment later a new one came in.

H: Please tell me you are safe. Please.

Chase couldn't help but feel bad. He didn't want Henrik to worry, that wasn't his intention. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, unsure of what to say. Finally, a final message came in.

H: Chase, please do not tell me you did what I think you did. Please, answer me!

Chase's heart was in his throat and a pit opened up in his stomach. He began to type out a short, two-word reply when he was interrupted. Henrik was calling again. He let out a breath to calm his nerves. No way he was ignoring him now. Out of all the things Chase was, what he wasn't was an asshole. He slid his finger over the answer button and held the phone up to his ear.

"Yeah?"

"Chase! Oh, danke dem Herrn oben. Chase, I am so glad you are alright. I was so worried about you, my friend! I thought… I thought something had happened to you!"

Chase chuckled humorlessly. "Don't worry, I'm okay."

"Were you busy?"

"I was…" Chase sighed. He was going to say he was driving, but he didn't want to lie to him. It would be wrong of him to make him feel foolish on top of scaring him half to death. "I'm sorry. I… didn't wanna bog you down with my bad mood. Just because I'm always sad… that doesn't mean you should be, too."

"Oh, Chase…"

Chase grimaced. He could practically see the pitied look on the doctor's face.

"Chase, you know that I am always here for you, yes?"

"...yeah," Chase answered reluctantly. Though everyone always says that, yet no one ever stays.

"You may not believe it," Henrik continued, "but I like helping you. Nothing worthwhile comes easy, you know."

"...so you're saying that I'm hard to deal with?" Saying that out loud caused a sharp twinge to resonate in his chest.

"Ch-Chase, no! That-- that is not what I am saying at all!"

"It's whatever, Henrik. I…" Chase sighed. "I know what you meant."

There was an awkward, strained silence between them before anyone spoke again.

"What was it you were even calling me for?" inquired Chase.

"I, um… I wanted to take you out for dinner tonight. You know… for the occasion. Like we used to do."

Chase bit his lip. Right, like they used to. Only it used to be him, Henrik, and Jack. He quickly wiped away the tears that threatened to spill.

"U-uh… n-no thank you, Henrik. I'm… I'm good."

"...Are you sure?"

Chase's heart lurched at the blatant disappointment in Henrik's voice. "Y-yeah, I mean… I'm not really… not really in a state to be goin' out anywhere…"

"Have you been drinking?" Henrik asked curiously.

"Huh? Oh, no, no," Chase answered honestly. "It's not that, just… I don't have any clean clothes and I haven't showered in… a while. Tch, much less fuckin' brushed my teeth."

"Oh, is that all?" Chase could hear Henrik laugh over the phone. "Well, those are an easy fix! You can clean yourself up at my place, and I have plenty of clean clothes for you to wear. We do wear the same sizes, after all. Come on! What do you say?"

Chase sighed. He had no excuses now. And hey, maybe it was for the best, he figured, if he spent his birthday with someone rather than alone. Plus, the whiskey he bought will still be there by the time the day is over and he's back to living out of his car. He can still do what he planned to, even if it's a day later. So he could take today to make his last meal with his closest living friend a good one.

"Alright," Chase decided. "Text me your address and I'll be over in ten."

"Oh, great! Yes, I will do that right away. See you soon, Chase!"

"Yeah, see you soon, Henrik."

He let Henrik hang up the phone, keeping it in his hand until the text message came in with Henrik's address. As he waited he couldn't help but grin to himself, recalling the sheer excitement in Henrik's voice. It's been a long, long time since he's heard him that excited. Though, to be fair, there was nothing of late that would ignite such excitement, not with everything going on. As soon as his phone buzzed and lit up, Chase moved to open the door and step out of the car. He opened the driver's seat door and turned the car on, rolling down the windows to remove the towels he'd draped there as makeshift curtains. Once the back passenger door was shut, his "curtains" laying bunched up on the back seat, he finally got in the car, buckled his seatbelt, and entered Henrik's address into the GPS. As he began to drive off, he was thankful he held off on drinking. He wouldn't be driving to see Henrik right now otherwise.

It took Chase about a half hour or so to reach Henrik's house. He always loved how big it was. Of course, doctors make a lot of money and Henrik was a doctor of more than one degree, so he was, needless to say, doing very well for himself.

And, of course, you can't exactly get evicted from a house you bought if you leave for nine months.

Shaking the thought from his head, he stepped out of the car and headed up the steps to Henrik's front door. Just looking at the exterior of the house made him feel gross. Henrik's place wasn't a mansion, exactly, but it was a really nice house. Very clean and well-kept, which Chase was not. Not currently, anyway. Suddenly he was really looking forward to that shower. He raised his hand and began to knock.

Chase could hear a faint call of "Coming!" from behind the door, and not a moment later the door swung open and Henrik was standing there, arms outstretched and eyes sparkling. Chase gratefully accepted his hug, biting down hard on his lip to keep himself from crying. It's been so long, too long, since he'd gotten a hug from anyone. He didn't realize just how much he missed it. How much he needed one.

"Oh, it is so good to see you, my friend!" Henrik beamed, squeezing Chase lovingly. He then pulled away, stretching out his palm to welcome him inside. "Come in, come in!" he ushered.

Chase headed inside, hearing the door click shut behind him. A sense of what Chase could only describe as warmth washed over him. Of course, he'd been over to Henrik's place many times over the years, but this time it felt… different, somehow. He couldn't place why.

"House looks great as ever, Henrik," Chase smiled.

"Oh, why thank you!"

"New table, I see?"

"Oh, yes," Henrik headed over and stood by the kitchen table. "Yes, it was time for a new one. The other one was getting old."

"How long have you even had that for? Almost as long as you've had a house you've had that table."

"Yes, it has been years. It was bittersweet, letting it go, but… in with the new, out with the old, as they say!"

I'm sure he said the phrase backwards, Chase chuckled to himself.

"Now, while I am in the kitchen, can I get you anything before you take your shower?"

"Uhh… no, I think I'm good. Thanks, though."

"Oh, is nothing. I will grab you a change of clothes. Wait one moment."

"Righty-o," Chase replied.

"Oh, um, feel free to take a seat. You do not have to stand around. Go on, make yourself at home! I will be right back." With that, Henrik ducked out of the kitchen and headed up the stairs to his room.

Chase just nodded to himself. With how dirty he was (or at least, how he felt he was), he didn't feel all that comfortable sitting on the couch. He didn't want to dirty the new table either, but wood could be more easily cleaned than fabric, so he opted to sit at the table.

He agreed with Henrik on how bittersweet it was to let go of his old dining table. He didn't realize how much he missed the familiar squeak the chair made as he sat down until it wasn't there anymore. But he knew that, with time, this chair, too, would become worn with use and have its own signature squeak.

Though Chase knew he wouldn't be here for that.

He sighed heavily, resting his head in his hand, his elbow propped up on the table. He could feel that familiar ache blooming in his chest, threatening to swallow him. He sighed again and shivered, teeth chattering even though he wasn't cold. And then he yawned. He hadn't realized just how tired he was. Of course, sleeping in the back seat of your car every night meant you never slept well. And even before that, he was always tired, always worn down. But that's what a hopeless life will do to you, he knew.

Before long he was pulled from his thoughts, hearing footsteps bounding down the stairs. Henrik came into view, a bundle of neatly folded clothes in his arms.

"Here you are, Chase," Henrik said, handing him the pile of clothes. "The bathroom with the shower is upstairs."

"Mm, yeah. I remember. Thanks, Schneep."

"Is no problem at all! Now, go wash up. I will be waiting in the living room."

"Yeah, alright."

Chase headed up the stairs, one hand cradling the bundle of clothes and one hand remaining firm on the hand rail. It may have been forever since he'd been here, but he knew the layout of the house like the back of his hand. He could see Henrik's room at the very end of the hall. On the right was his office, and on the left was the bathroom. He ducked in, not hesitating to turn the shower on and get undressed.

Chase could have cried, feeling soap and hot water enveloping him for the first time in what felt like ages. He gave everywhere a good scrubbing, running fingers through his now-untangled hair, letting the hot water hit his body, taking in the smell of steam and body wash. He regretted all those times he didn't have the energy or motivation to shower, swearing that he would never take it for granted ever again.

Though, he remembered that it was going to be his last. That same melancholy opened up in his chest again and he sighed, movements slowing as he mulled that over. It was almost funny, how easy it was to forget his plan. He scoffed to himself, knowing that that probably meant he wouldn't have the balls to follow through with it when the time comes.

He decided he'll see what happens when that moment arrives.

For now he stepped out of the shower, drying himself off with the towel Henrik had laid out for him. He pulled on the fresh pair of boxers Henrik gave him alongside his clothes, and--

Wait.

For the first time, Chase took a good look at the clothes Henrik gave him. He stood, befuddled, mostly surprised that he hadn't noticed. Did this man really just give me a suit? Chase questioned. What the hell kind of restaurant is he taking me to?! Whatever it was, it was going to be fancy, clearly. Chase wasn't sure he was ready for all that, but it was too late to back out now. He sighed and looked around the bathroom. Now that he was clean, he realized just how awful his breath tasted. A glance at the sink allowed him to find a clearly new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste laid out side-by-side, as if put there on purpose. He knew it wasn't Henrik's -- his toothbrush was in a little plastic cup by the faucet. This new toothbrush could only be meant for him, then, since Henrik lived alone. Chase headed over to the sink, thinking that the smarter idea was to brush his teeth before he got dressed, just in case he spilled toothpaste on his suit jacket.

He chuckled to himself as he brushed his teeth, remembering the time he did that before a date with Stacy. Hardly anyone noticed, but god did he feel ridiculous the entire time. He could only laugh now. It was funny that, at one point, a toothpaste stain was the only thing he had to worry about. Something that mattered so little at the end of the day.

And now look where he is, what's happened to him since then.

He shook his head to clear it, pulling himself back into the moment. He brushed his teeth well, rinsed with mouthwash, spit, and wiped his mouth. As he breathed in, he could feel how cool and minty and fresh his breath was. Brushing his teeth was another thing he wouldn't take for granted.

Chase looked up, staring at himself in the mirror. The first thing he noticed was his eyes, deep, purple rings around them, no doubt from constant exhaustion. He shook his head. I look like a raccoon, he thought bitterly. As he did this, he watched his hair flop back and forth. He brushed it out of his eyes, thankfully staying in place because it was still damp. He needed a haircut; it was far too long for his liking. But he could deal for tonight.

For what felt like the billionth time within the last few hours, he pulled himself from his thoughts. He went to get dressed, slipping his arms through the sleeves of the white shirt and buttoning it up. Next came the pants, which he pulled on and tucked the shirt into. Then came the tie -- which had been hidden underneath the shirt -- and finally, came the jacket. He looked himself over in the mirror. He looked… good. He actually looked good. He couldn't help but smile and puff out his chest a little. Of course, the pants were a tiny bit big, but he knew Schneep had a belt he could borrow. He was a little surprised, though; he figured he would have gained weight thanks to all the crap he's been forced to eat. But at the same time… it was rare for him to have much of an appetite nowadays, so he ate a lot less than he used to. Maybe that was why, he figured. But, no matter. He threw his dirty clothes into the hamper on instinct, though after doing so wondering if that was the best thing to do. He wasn't sure if Henrik was willing to wash his clothes. He'd have to ask later. For right now, he headed out of the bathroom and down the stairs.

Henrik gasped when he saw Chase, hands flying to his mouth and eyes sparkling. He looked like a proud father. Even more so, since in the time Chase showered, Henrik seemed to have also put on a suit of his own. "Oh, Chase, the suit looks so nice on you! Does it fit okay?"

Chase couldn't help but blush, looking away sheepishly. "Uh, y-yeah, it fits fine. Gonna need a belt, though."

"Ah, no problem. I definitely have one lying around. I will grab it for you."

"Thanks. Um…"

"What is it?"

"What kind of restaurant are we going to, exactly?"

"Oh, um…" it was Henrik's turn to look sheepish. "I, um… Well, I know it was a bit of a, how you say, ballsy move to do this, but… I made reservations for a nice restaurant downtown. I passed by it sometime last month and knew from the very moment I saw it that I had to take you. I remembered your birthday was coming up, so I figured the timing was just right and made reservations over the phone as soon as I got their number."

Chase couldn't help but feel touched. Touched, and really guilty that he'd originally declined. Henrik must have noticed it flash briefly on Chase's face, because he was quick to reassure him.

"O-oh, it would have been alright with me if you did not want to go. I know I did not tell you beforehand so you would not have known. And I could have easily canceled, anyway. No need to worry about that."

Chase just nodded, looking away. Finally, he drew in a breath to speak. "I… I dunno what I did to deserve you, man, but… seriously, thank you. This… this means a lot to me. It really does."

"Aw, is no big deal. I would do anything for you. And I know that you deserve to have a good birthday, one that is not spent in the car all alone and drinking yourself away."

Chase flinched a little when Henrik said that. He knew he probably didn't mean anything by it, but… that was exactly what he had planned to do, quite literally. It was impossible, of course, but he couldn't help but wonder if Henrik knew more than he was letting on, if he read him so well that he knew that that was his plan. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind, instead just chuckling nervously.

"Uh… what time is the reservation for?"

"Six-thirty. It is…" Henrik glanced at his watch. "four o' two now, so we have about twenty or so minutes to kill before we should head out. You know how traffic is."

"God, do I," Chase agreed with a roll of his eyes.

Henrik patted down on the spot next to him, beckoning Chase to come sit. Chase obliged, sitting himself down next to Henrik. He sighed pleasedly -- it had been so long since he'd been on a couch. Yet another thing on his list of things he wouldn't ever take for granted.

And so the pair talked and caught up, and Henrik nearly forgot about the reservation entirely until he just so happened to check his watch and saw that they were two minutes past the time they should have left. Henrik shot up with a curse in German, hurrying up the stairs to grab a belt for Chase, and then coming back down and putting on his shoes. As Chase was buckling his belt, Henrik set a pair of black dress shoes identical to his own over by Chase's feet, mentioning that they were for him to wear. Chase nodded, pulling them on, and as soon as they were both ready they hurried out the door and into Henrik's car.

The ride was pleasant, thankfully the lessened traffic saving them a bit of time. The pair talked and laughed and joked the whole ride through -- they were halfway to their destination before Henrik remembered to turn on the radio. They arrived at the restaurant just as the sun was setting. It made for a pretty sight as they both stepped out of the car.

The restaurant was prettier, though.

It was dimly lit and very, very classy. For one thing, the carpet leading to the check-in counter was red, and the nearby rope partitions were gold with red rope, so that was the first indication of how high-end this place was. Chase looked around in awe as Henrik went up to the ornate, wooden counter -- there seemed to be ornate wood everywhere -- and stated his name and the reservation. And soon Henrik was beckoning Chase along, effectively pulling him from his trance, as a waitress guided them to their table. Chase couldn't help but feel giddy as the waitress set the menus down at a small booth seat meant for two people. Chase always loved the booth seats. He wondered if Henrik remembered that when making the reservation.

"How do you like it so far, Chase? Is nice, yes?"

"This place is… wow." Chase was breathless. It's been so long since he was somewhere this fancy.

"Well, let us hope the food holds up." Henrik noted.

"Oh, for sure," Chase nodded, agreeing.

The waitress came by, asking for their order of drinks. Henrik and Chase both got the same thing -- Diet Coke. Chase wanted a glass of wine to fit the mood of the place, but decided he wouldn't have any alcohol since Henrik couldn't have any. In the meantime, the pair looked over the menu.

"Have you decided on what you want to eat, Chase?" Henrik asked.

"No idea," Chase answered. The menu was so… expansive. He was having trouble deciding. It had been so long since he'd ordered from a menu like this, on top of that. He didn't even know what he was in the mood for. He was thankful, however, that on today of all days he had an appetite. It was probably because he didn't eat breakfast, but still. Well, he at least knew what he didn't want, which was a hamburger. He's eaten enough of those.

"Hm… I think I will get…" Henrik hummed, adjusting his glasses as he looked over the menu. "Well, the veal parm looks good. Maybe I will get that."

"Mm, I still need longer to look, I think," Chase responded.

Just then, the waitress came by, dropping off a small loaf of bread and a tiny ramekin of butter, as well as two small plates -- along with their drinks, of course. Chase and Henrik thanked the waitress as she passed by.

"That smells so good…" Chase commented. It took all he had in him to keep himself from drooling. He was so hungry.

"Ooh, I am definitely having a piece. I assume you want one as well, Chase?"

"Yes, please."

Henrik smiled, cutting Chase a piece first and spreading butter on it, placing it on one of the plates and passing it to him, before cutting himself a piece of his own. Chase thanked him gratefully, picking up the bread and taking a bite and--

Oh.

Oh.

Chase felt his eyes well up. One hand squeezed into a fist and he took in a breath through his nose as he chewed. Do not cry, Chase, he willed himself. Do not cry. It was just… so good. The bread was warm and lightly sweet and the butter was salty but not too salty and melted perfectly on the bread and god, he'd forgotten entirely what it was like to eat real food. He'd missed this desperately. All he'd known these past few months was cheap dollar-menu cheeseburgers and unsatisfying, tiny breakfast sandwiches.

"Are you okay, Chase?" Henrik asked, brows knitted in concern.

"'m fine," he spoke through a full mouth. He realized how impolite that was and swallowed. "I'm fine."

Henrik nodded, watching as Chase took a moment to compose himself before going back to eating. He understood, of course, after all he'd been through. He certainly wasn't judging him for it, but he did worry. And he wasn't oblivious. There were a lot of little hidden cues he's picked up on. From the scare over the phone this morning to how hopelessly sad he looked up until he got out of the shower, he knew that Chase needed him now more than ever. And Henrik would be there for him, he swore, until his dying breath. It's what Chase needs, and it's what he deserves.

Despite knowing what he wanted, Henrik had gone back to absentmindedly flipping through the menu. He spotted the salad section and perked up.

"Oh, Chase, did you want to order a salad with your meal?"

"Oh, yes please. I desperately need one of those. Something healthy for once after all the junk I've been eating."

Henrik laughed at Chase's response. He's gotten so mature over the years. At one point he'd gawk at getting a salad, and now he's completely on board with it. Henrik felt a strange sense of pride swell up within him at that.

The waitress came back over finally and asked each of them what they wanted. Henrik got a house salad with Italian dressing and he decided on the veal parm. Chase got a wedge salad (Henrik was sure it was the bacon bits that enticed him) and a steak with grilled vegetables on the side. Chase swore it was the most adult meal he's ever ordered at a restaurant -- usually he doesn't go for steak, but this time he felt he should get one. Just because. The waitress marked down their orders, thanked them, and left, heading to wherever the kitchen was, the pair assumed.

"Are you enjoying yourself so far, Chase?" Henrik asked.

"God, yeah," Chase nodded enthusiastically. "I'm probably gonna say this a bajillion times, but seriously, dude, thank you so much for taking me here."

"Oh, you are very welcome, Chase!" Henrik beamed. "It makes me happy to see you happy. And that is all I want. I just want you to be happy."

"God, dude, stop it, you're gonna make me start cryin' again!" Chase laughed, wiping his eyes. He seriously had no idea who blessed him to have a man like Henrik in his life, but he knew for certain he'd be nowhere without him.

Actually… without Henrik, he'd, quite literally, be dead. If Henrik wasn't in his life, who would have saved him? He doubted another doctor with his level of expertise and deft of hand even… existed. He owed this man his life and more. He wished there was a way to properly repay him, but there wasn't anything bigger than life itself he could give.

He'd definitely have to think of something.

For now, though, he spent his time enjoying Henrik's company. They talked about everything under the sun, they joked and laughed, and before they knew it, their food had arrived. It was funny how quickly time passed when spent with someone you're close to.

"Ooh, this looks delicious!" Henrik exclaimed.

"It looks like a lot," Chase commented, staring at the massive wedge salad and the huge steak. It was… very intimidating, to say the least. "No way in hell am I finishing all of this."

"Well, eat what you can and take the rest to go. Just… save room for dessert, hm?"

"Oh, duh. Like I would pass up dessert!"

Henrik laughed, shaking his head as he picked up his utensils and began to eat. He hummed pleasedly -- the food was very good, indeed! He'd definitely remember this place. Maybe all of them could go, once everything is back to normal and Jack is awake? That was a bittersweet thought.

Chase looked between the salad and the steak, trying to figure out which beast he should tackle first. He chose the steak, because he already knew what salad tasted like, but every restaurant makes steak differently. He picked up the steak knife, cutting off a piece and sticking it in his mouth.

As soon as the steak touched his tongue, everything hit him all at once. This wasn't just a measly piece of warm bread. No, this was real food. An actual meal. Something he hasn't had in months. All he'd eaten was fast food once or twice a day, if at all, depending on if he was hungry or not. And one of the things he missed the most was being able to go in his kitchen whenever he wanted and make himself something to eat, something he liked that wasn't just the same few things every day. Even when he was so depressed that he couldn't eat, he'd at least have something in the cabinets or fridge ready for him when he could. But he didn't have that anymore. He had no idea when he'd have that again. For another few months, maybe even longer, after tonight this could very well be his last true meal. After all of this, it was back to his normal. Back to suffering and drinking in the back seat of his car with the towels covering the windows so no one could see him crying, or in the forest by the little rock shrine he made with the picture of his ex-wife and youngest son placed delicately against its base.

He didn't want to live like that. He didn't want to suffer anymore. And yet… he had no choice. This was his life now, whether he wanted it or not.

"How do you like your food, Chase?" Henrik asked without looking up. After a moment too long he didn't hear a response, but he did hear Chase sniffle, which caused him to look up. At first, his brows furrowed in confusion. Chase was staring off into space and--

Wait.

Wait, shit, Chase was crying.

"Chase? Chase, what is it? What is wrong, my friend?"

Chase, hearing Henrik's voice, was pulled out of his trance. His breath hitched and he swallowed what was in his mouth.

"F-fuck…" He realized he'd started crying, though now he couldn't get himself to stop. "Fuck," he repeated, his voice nothing more than a shaky whisper. He propped his elbows up on the table, his hands holding up his head as he kept his head down. He grit his teeth, trying to hold back his sobs as best he could.

Henrik quickly rose, moving to sit besides Chase and pulling him close. Chase shivered, crying a little harder now. "Shhh, shh, shh, shh, shhh…" Henrik soothed. "I am right here. Let it out, Chase. You are okay."

Chase held on tightly to Henrik, weeping into his shoulder. He was trying his hardest to make himself stop -- especially since a fancy restaurant is not the place to be bawling your eyes out -- but more tears just kept coming. Especially with Henrik encouraging him to let it out. It was helping, sure, but… not in the way he wanted it to.

A waitress who just so happened to be rushing by glanced over at the pair and paused. She knew she was in a rush but she couldn't help but be concerned -- someone crying in a restaurant (who wasn't a child, anyway) wasn't a normal sight.

"Is he okay?" asked the waitress.

Henrik quickly looked up, turning towards the voice. "Hm? Oh, yes, my friend, he… he is fine. He is just… having a moment." he explained. "Um, he… has not had a proper meal in very long of a time, and the world has been very unkind to him, so I decided to treat him... you know, for his birthday, because it is the one day he deserves to be happy, if he cannot be every day."

"Oh… I see."

Chase swore he would never stop crying at this rate. He just held tighter onto Henrik. This man's compassion, his kindness… it was too much for him to handle sometimes. Or, rather, most of the time.

"But do not worry!" Henrik reassured. "He will be okay. With time, he will. He always bounces back. He just needs this moment, right now."

"You're a very kind man," replied the waitress. "This world needs more people like you."

"Oh, I am just doing what any logical human being would do," Henrik dismissed. "When someone needs me, I am there. Is my job as a doctor, and as a friend. And I want my friend here to know that."

"What are your names?"

"My name is Henrik," he answered, "And my friend's name is Chase."

Chase wanted to greet the waitress properly, or at least say something, but he was still trying to reel himself in.

"Well, it was very nice meeting you both. And, Chase? Stay strong, okay?"

Chase nearly broke down entirely right then and there. He managed to get out a shaky, teary "thank-you" before the waitress left. Henrik kept hugging him tight, not letting go, allowing Chase to recompose himself. And soon enough, his crying slowed into hiccups, and then he was just sniffling and wiping his eyes and Henrik was guiding him to take deep breaths to calm himself.

"Are you okay, Chase?" Henrik asked, his voice gentle, his tone similar to the one he used for younger patients but a lot more… personal.

"Y-yeah… I… I th-think so…"

"Good, good. Do you want to head to the restroom and clean yourself up a bit?"

"Yes, please," Chase nodded. He wanted to blow his nose more than anything at this point.

With a nod, Henrik got up from the booth and Chase followed right behind him. They headed for the restroom, finding it eventually, and Chase went to blow his nose and wipe his face. His eyes were still red and teary, but he felt calmer now. After a few more deep breaths, Chase washed his hands and both him and Henrik left to return to their table.

They found their food had cooled a bit since they left, but it was still warm, at least (aside from the salads, obviously), instead of burning hot. Henrik continued to eat his food, and Chase… he ate reluctantly at first, worried he'd start bawling again. But after a few bites he found he was fine. It was just that first bite that threw him for a loop, he figured. And so he relaxed and allowed himself to enjoy his meal.

"It's really good," Chase spoke up, his voice meek.

"Hm?" Henrik looked up, hearing Chase speak. He then registered what it was that he said. "Oh! Is it?"

"Yeah, it is. It's… the best thing I've had in ages." There was that melancholy again, boring a hole in his chest. He forced it down.

"I am glad to hear it. Very glad." Henrik gave Chase a warm, heartfelt smile. Chase returned it, but it wasn't as bright or as wide as it should have been. He was still feeling pretty down, Henrik could tell. He did expect, however, that an experience like this would be a bit overwhelming for Chase. His only hope was for Chase to have a good birthday, one he could look back on with contentment or even bittersweet joy instead of resentment or sadness or regret.

Chase decided to take a break from eating the steak, moving instead to tackle the salad. It took a little effort, but he managed to get a good forkful of it.

"Fucking vegetables, thank god," Chase muttered to himself.

Henrik, who had been sipping on his soda when he heard Chase's comment, quickly clapped a hand to his mouth and ducked his head away as he tried his hardest to control his laughter and willed his body to swallow the soda that hadn't already gone up his nose.

"What? What's so funny?" Chase asked through a full mouth, a small smile beginning to tug at the corners of his lips.

Henrik swallowed and started to cough, laughing in between breaths. "F-fuck, I-- I am sorry, just…" he coughed some more before clearing his throat. "That made me laugh very hard."

"Oh, what I said about the salad?"

Henrik nodded, already going back to giggling. Chase snorted.

"I mean, you know how fuckin' long it's been since I've had a fuckin' vegetable, man? Not even a baby carrot. Like, I need my greens, bro!"

Henrik was trying so hard and failing to contain his laughter. And seeing Henrik laugh made Chase laugh, too. And then they were both laughing and trying to reign themselves in so they could get back to eating before their food got any colder.

The rest of their dinner was spent laughing and joking and talking, with Henrik feeling relieved that Chase seemed to be in mostly good spirits again. Their waitress came over and offered boxes for their unfinished food; Henrik said yes, while Chase said that he had nowhere to keep it if he did. Plus, he wasn't one to just casually eat leftover steak, anyway. So the waitress brought back over a box for Henrik, and with that, all that was left for them to do was wait for the check.

Or… so they thought.

The pair were kind of just looking around in content silence when they heard it. Clapping, a lot of clapping, all in unison. They didn't pay much mind to it at first, until it grew louder. Closer. Chase and Henrik looked at each other in confusion. And suddenly they were surrounded by a dozen waiters and waitresses, and one of them was carrying a monster of an ice cream sundae, complete with brownies and fully-lit sparklers sticking out of the top. They set it down on their table and began to sing the restaurant's "happy birthday" song to Chase. They all cheered when they were finished and then dispersed, but not before Henrik caught the glance of the waitress who checked up on them earlier. She winked at him. Henrik knew immediately this was her doing. He looked over at Chase, watching him with that warm, parental gaze and gleaming eyes, and he saw Chase was tearing up again, but they were happy tears this time. And Henrik swore, this is the widest Chase has smiled in a long, long time.

"Ho-ly shit," Chase laughed. "Dude… you gotta help me finish this. There's no way I can do this on my own."

"Oh, with pleasure!" Henrik agreed.

"Yeah, grab a spoon!"

They both blew out the sparklers first before digging in. They hadn't planned on actually getting dessert here, but this sundae was far too good to pass up. Chase swore it was the best ice cream sundae he's ever had in his life. Henrik could easily agree. They never did end up finishing it, but they got a good way through before they both threw in the towel, at least. Finally, their waitress dropped off the check. Henrik, who was the one paying, immediately took it. He was pleased to find that the dessert was on the house, but the note written in pen at the very bottom is what made him smile.

"Aww…"

"What?" Chase asked, trying his hardest to fit one last bite of brownie in.

Without a word, Henrik slid the bill over so Chase could read it.

"Our entire staff wishes you well! Stay strong, Chase!" There was a little smiley face at the end.

For the third (and most likely not the last) time that night, Chase's eyes welled up. He bit his lip, smiling wildly. He really, honestly and truly was touched. They didn't have to do all that… and yet they did. That meant more to him than they would ever know. He took that copy of the receipt and folded it with care before sticking it in the front pocket of his pants. He'd stick this somewhere in his car, he decided. Somewhere where he'll always see it and remember this moment, remember those people who cared when they didn't have to.

Henrik paid for their meal, making sure to leave a very generous tip, and the pair got up and finally headed out, saying goodbye to the staff members they passed by and thanking them as they left. The night air was quiet and calm, albeit chilly. Chase felt that surreal feeling he always got when he headed into a building during the day and didn't come out until dark. He sighed when he got in the car, buckling his seatbelt and getting comfortable. Henrik did the same, just sitting there for a moment before turning the car on.

"Dude… even though I was a crybaby the whole time, that was the best restaurant experience I've ever had."

As much as Henrik wanted to validate him and say that he wasn't being a crybaby, that he was having valid emotions as a person dealing with trauma, he held off. Now wasn't the time for a therapy session. "They are getting a very good review, I will tell you that much!"

"More than worth the money, definitely," Chase agreed. He let his head hit the headrest with a sigh. "I am so full…" He realized then how long it had been since he felt full. Another contender for the "stuff Chase will no longer take for granted" list.

"Mm, agreed… I feel like I will be full for days. Weeks, even."

Chase snorted at that.

"Ready to head back?"

"Yes, please."

With a nod, Henrik started the car and off they drove, traveling down the highway. Thankfully there wasn't as much traffic now that it was getting late. Chase turned on the radio and on the way home they belted out stupid song after stupid song, laughing the entire time.

It was funny how much being with Henrik made him forget, Chase thought. He'd forgotten all of his troubles, his worries, and his plan. They would come back to haunt him, he knew, but right now, in this moment, none of that mattered. It was just him and Henrik, making the best of the time they had.

It didn't feel like any time at all had passed when they arrived back at Henrik's house. As soon as they got inside, though, they both shrugged off their jackets and kicked off their shoes with a sigh. Chase went to go sit on the couch, but Henrik stopped him before he could do so.

"Uh… Chase, could you… come to the kitchen for a moment?"

"Hm? Oh, sure." He did as such, though as soon as he saw Henrik duck into the fridge, he paled a little. "Oh, god, you didn't."

Henrik made a knowing face. "I, uh… wasn't expecting to have dessert at the restaurant," he explained sheepishly.

"Hen, I can't fit another bite into me. I'll explode."

"Pfft, do you think I am eating any of this now? Definitely not!" Henrik said with a laugh. "But… it is your birthday, and I did not want to go the day without singing "happy birthday" to you."

"Ah, gotcha. That I can do."

"I will grab the candles and get the lights. You go sit."

"Okay, will do."

Henrik did exactly that, grabbing the candles he bought and stuck them all into the cake -- one for every year Chase was alive. Quite a lot of candles for one cake, but he managed. Judging by the box, Chase knew it was a bakery cake, and his point was proved when he saw the words written in cursive on the top. It was a very nice cake, covered in vanilla frosting and with bright, primary colored sprinkles coated around the sides. It was decorated with red icing drizzling around the top edges and his name was written in blue. And then the candles were lit and the lights were dimmed and Chase was peering at Henrik's candlelit form through the darkness of the kitchen.

"Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday, dear Chase,

Happy birthday to you!"

Chase smiled, making his wish and blowing out his candles. He imagined his kids beside him, helping him out, and there was a longing pang in his heart. He didn't know what to wish for this year. There was so much he wished was better that it was hard to choose just one. So he wished for a better life, if not for him then for the others. He wished for things to get better and for it all to return to normal… whatever their "normal" was before all this happened.

Henrik smiled, turning the lights back on. He pulled the candles out of the cake, tossed them, and then closed the box and put the cake back in the fridge. They could have some tomorrow, he reasoned. Then, he turned to Chase.

Right. Time to come clean.

"Chase?"

"Hm? What's up?"

"Um… I… I must confess something to you," Henrik admitted.

Chase felt a twinge of worry at his words. Was it something bad? He hoped not. "Which is…?"

"The reason I wanted you to come over was… because I have a gift for you."

A gift? "What kind of gift?" Chase asked curiously.

"It's upstairs. Um… it's supposed to be a surprise, so I will take you to it. Take my hand, close your eyes, and follow me."

"O-oh, uh… okay." He almost hesitantly took Henrik's hand and held his other over his eyes, allowing Henrik to carefully guide him up the steps. He was led a good way down the upstairs hallway before Henrik stopped. Then there was the sound of a door being opened.

"You can open them now."

Chase opened his eyes, looking into the room, and his hands slowly went to his mouth.

It was Henrik's office, but… his desk and file cabinets were no longer there. Instead, it looked like a bedroom. A very well-furnished one, at that. A bed, nightstand, desk and chair, cabinets and drawers to store stuff in, familiar posters taped to the walls...

"It, um… took me a few months to move and reorganize my things to the lab downstairs and furnish this room how I wanted it to look," Henrik explained. "I wanted to tell you sooner but it wasn't ready until recently. But anyway, um… this… this will be your room from now on."

His room, his mind echoed. That meant… no more living out of his car. No more junk food every day. No more sleeping in the back seat and waking up sore. For the first time in months, he had a home. A roof over his head. A warm bed.

It was finally over. He was no longer homeless.

Chase fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands. His breath hitched and he was crying, sobbing, reveling in the utter relief of knowing that he didn't have to return to how he was living. He didn't have to suffer like he was anymore.

For the first time in months, he was thankful he was alive. And for the first time in months, he didn't want to die.

Henrik crouched down besides Chase, rubbing his back in slow circles, although he couldn't help shedding a few tears himself, on behalf of his dearest friend.

"Happy birthday, Chase," Henrik said finally, his voice low and gentle in Chase's ear. "And welcome home."

Those final words only made him cry harder.

[the-hoarse-bard]

As we exited out into the fresh air, Frea pointed out a pillar of green light in the distance, “See that light? That comes from the Wind Stone, where more of my people are being forced to work against their will. Hopefully, Storn will know of a way to free them.” She lead me along a faintly tread path in the snow, marked with small cairns, and soon the village was in sight.

The village seemed to be encased in a localized blizzard, Frea clarified “Storn summoned the gale to protect what few of use remain, though it’s weaker than when I left. I hope nothing has happened.” With that, we upped our pace toward the middle of the village.

At the center of the village, we found Storn seated with two other shamans, seemingly to maintain the barrier. Frea stepped toward the circle and spoke to Storn, “Storn! I’m back!” Storn looked up from the circle and smiled brightly at seeing Frea, “Frea! You’re back! What news? Did you manage to free our people?” She shook her head, “No, but I have brought someone who can help. She has seen visions that confirm Miraak is behind this, and she’s a dragonborn as well!” Storn looked intrigued, “Both interesting prospects. Come here, then, let us speak.”

I walked over to where Storn was sitting, and allowed him to speak first, “So, you have seen things, yes? What is you’re name, child?” I told him my name was Shirazzha, and he seemed intrigued by that, “An odd name for a Khajiit. A free name, you might say. Free of honorifics and tradition. Ah, but we’ve delayed too long. My magic grows weak, and so does the barrier around our village. Tell me what you know.”

I told him what had happened, how I had read a book in Miraak’s temple and been transported to Apocrypha, where I met Miraak himself. “That’s proof enough to me that you are also dragonborn, as was Miraak. I am unsure what this could mean. You could be our savior or our destruction. However, time grows short to be thinking of such things. You must go to Saering’s Watch, and learn the word he did long ago. It may allow you to cleanse the wind stone and free our people. Hurry, child.”

I stood and bowed, saying I would hurry like Khenarthi’s breath itself. Frea took a seat next to Storn, saying she would watch over the village while I was away, and I set off for Saering’s Watch.

As I approached the ruin high in the mountains, a dragon took flight, and roared, clearly seeing me. I drew my Nightingale bow, and dodged the beasts first fireball. I loosed a few arrows aimlessly in its direction, and ducked behind the walls of the ruin. I summoned Lucien, and he drew his daggers while complaining about me drawing him away from one of Tonillia’s parties. The dragon landed just around the corner and launched another fireball toward where we were hidden, indicating it knew where we were.

Lucien dashed out of our sheltered spot and ran to attack the dragon. Seeing an opportunity, I took the distraction offered by Lucien to rush up the steps of the ruin, to the word wall at the top.

The words of this wall broke the pattern of being written on in blood. I read the word, and felt it within myself. It was the feeling I felt giving commands to Lucien. The feeling I had felt rallying the forsworn against that dragon. A feeling of control. A roar and a fireball striking the top of the wall broke me from pondering the word, and I hurried back down to the less exposed parts of the ruin.

I noticed the dragon’s face had been badly bloodied by Lucien, and I looked around for him a moment before finally picking out the faintly blue puddle he leaves behind on being banished against the pure white snow. I drew my bow, and took aim at the beasts wing. The arrow pierced the membrane of the beasts wing and it crashed down upon the mountainside. I drew Dragonbane, eager to finally try it out. I feinted an exit from cover, and a fireball blew past me and collided with a wall. I ran at the dragon with the enchanted katana as fast as I could and planted it squarely into the top of it’s head.

I pulled Dragonbane free of the dragons skull, and braced myself for the sensation of absorbing its soul. When it didn’t come, I was confused. An apparition of Miraak appeared, and absorbed the soul instead of me. He spoke, “Do you think it hurts? To have your soul torn out like that? Thank you for your help. We will meet again soon.” He laughed and disappeared, leaving me and the dragons skeleton alone on the mountainside. Then I remembered I had work to do and rushed back to the Skaal village.

[apoemaday]

The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered

by Clive James

The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I am pleased. In vast quantities it has been remaindered Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized And sits in piles in a police warehouse, My enemy’s much-prized effort sits in piles In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs. Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles One passes down reflecting on life’s vanities, Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews Lavished to no avail upon one’s enemy’s book– For behold, here is that book Among these ranks and banks of duds, These ponderous and seemingly irreducible cairns Of complete stiffs.

The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I rejoice. It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion Beneath the yoke. What avail him now his awards and prizes, The praise expended upon his meticulous technique, His individual new voice? Knocked into the middle of next week His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys The sinker, clinkers, dogs and dregs, The Edsels of the world of moveable type, The bummers that no amount of hype could shift, The unbudgeable turkeys.

Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper Bathes in the blare of the brightly jacketed Hitler’s War Machine, His unmistakably individual new voice Shares the same scrapyart with a forlorn skyscraper Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook, His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed by others, His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretense, Is there with Pertwee’s Promenades and Pierrots– One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment, And (oh, this above all) his sensibility, His sensibility and its hair-like filaments, His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one With Barbara Windsor’s Book of Boobs, A volume graced by the descriptive rubric “My boobs will give everyone hours of fun”.

Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also, Though not to the monumental extent In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out To the book of my enemy, Since in the case of my own book it will be due To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error– Nothing to do with merit. But just supposing that such an event should hold Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset By the memory of this sweet moment. Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets! The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I am glad.

[luthienebonyx]

The Book of my Enemy Has Been Remaindered

The book of my enemy has been remaindered

And I am pleased.

In vast quantities it has been remaindered

Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized

And sits in piles in a police warehouse,

My enemy's much-prized effort sits in piles

In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs.

Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles

One passes down reflecting on life's vanities,

Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews

Lavished to no avail upon one's enemy's book --

For behold, here is that book

Among these ranks and banks of duds,

These ponderous and seemingly irreducible cairns

Of complete stiffs.

The book of my enemy has been remaindered

And I rejoice.

It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion

Beneath the yoke.

What avail him now his awards and prizes,

The praise expended upon his meticulous technique,

His individual new voice?

Knocked into the middle of next week

His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys

The sinker, clinkers, dogs and dregs,

The Edsels of the world of moveable type,

The bummers that no amount of hype could shift,

The unbudgeable turkeys.

Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper

Bathes in the blare of the brightly jacketed Hitler's War Machine,

His unmistakably individual new voice

Shares the same scrapyard with a forlorn skyscraper

Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook,

His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed by others,

His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretense,

Is there with Pertwee's Promenades and Pierrots--

One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment,

And (oh, this above all) his sensibility,

His sensibility and its hair-like filaments,

His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one

With Barbara Windsor's Book of Boobs,

A volume graced by the descriptive rubric

"My boobs will give everyone hours of fun".

Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also,

Though not to the monumental extent

In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out

To the book of my enemy,

Since in the case of my own book it will be due

To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error--

Nothing to do with merit.

But just supposing that such an event should hold

Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset

By the memory of this sweet moment.

Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets!

The book of my enemy has been remaindered

And I am glad.

Clive James (1939-2019)

RIP

[thecomicsnexus]

TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES: URBAN LEGENDS #1-5 ADAPTED FROM TMNT #1-5 (1996). MAY - SEPTEMBER 2018 BY GARY CARLSON, FRANK FOSCO, ERIK LARSEN, CHANCE WOLF, ANDREW PEPOY AND ADAM GUZOWSKI

SYNOPSIS (FROM TURTLEPEDIA AND TMNT ENTITY)

The TMNT are attacked in their lair by a group of cyborgs lead by a female ninja named Pimiko. Donatello was severely wounded in the initial attack, and Pimiko ends up capturing Splinter while he was trying to help his fallen son. The villains escape with Donatello and Splinter as captives. Raph, Leo and Mike chase their foes, but the villains escape in a helicopter. While the vehicle flies off, Donatello dreams of recent events and eventually awakes with a start - attacking the nearest cyborg! Both assailants crash out of the helicopter and begin freefalling to the ground far, far below. Back at the Turtles' lair, the three remaining brothers investigate a fallen cyborg (that had its head removed in the battle). As Raph pokes the body with his sai, the head awakens and calls out a warning. Raphael ignores the warning and prods the body again, and this time it opens fire and the blast hits the curious Turtle in the face. Mike smashes the head and Leo cuts the body into pieces. Raphael's face is severely injured and Mike leads him off to get the first aid kit. Master Splinter appears in astral form and informs Leonardo of the dire circumstances facing both Donatello and himself.

In the skies above Manhattan, Donatello and his cyborg “buddy” are still falling to their deaths. The cyborg, blaming Don for their predicament, attempts to blast the Turtle in the face. Instead, he accidentally blows his own brains out. With nowhere soft to land in sight, and his consciousness fading, Don turns his shell to the ground and prepares for impact.

In upstate New York, Pimiko and her cyborg lackey arrive at Dragonlord Komodo’s headquarters with Splinter’s heavily drugged body in tow. They lock Splinter up in a jail cell, all the while a vicious half-man/half-shark monster named Mako makes carnivorous comments toward them. The cyborg gets too close and Mako bites his arm off. Pimiko insults the cyborg's carelessness and, enraged, he decides to let her know how sick he is of taking her orders. Pimiko stabs him in the chest and tells Mako that beneath the crunchy robot exterior is plenty of fresh meat. Mako proceeds to pull the damaged cyborg into his cell and devour him.

Down in the sewers, Leo leads Mike and a bandaged-up Raph away from the sewer lair, fearing their location has been compromised by Pimiko and the Dragonlord. Leo takes them to a forgotten mausoleum in Westwood Cemetery, saying it would make for a good temporary lair. After some clowning around between Raph and Mike, Leo informs them that the first order of business is to find out who the "Dragonlord" is and get Splinter and Don back. Leo gives Raph one of Casey’s old hockey masks to hide his scarred face and asks him to meet up with his contacts in the Foot Clan to see if they know anything about Pimiko (other than the fact that she took her name from a sorceress in Feudal Japan who ruled with the aid of a thousand women and one man).

As Raph leaves, he fails to notice a kunoichi (female ninja) named Angel, watching him from behind a tree. Angel reports her findings to Pimiko, who is meeting with Dragonlord Komodo in one of his laboratories. The large and imposing Dragonlord orders the cyborg project to be suspended because, according to Pimiko, the cyborgs were all dunces. His scientists are currently operating on a hairy man with silly hair named “Weasel” who apparently boasts four claws on his hands and an advanced healing factor. They discover that Weasel, despite his name, is not an anthropomorph, but just some kind of mutant. Komodo deems him worthless and orders his body disposed of. Suddenly, Weasel wakes up, snikts his claws and swears vengeance, calling everyone “bubba” in the process. Pimiko cuts his head off.

Back at the Mausoleum, Leo is attempting to contact Splinter via the astral plane, much to the amusement of Raph and Mike. Raph tells Leo that he’s not nearly skilled enough to manage such a feat, but Leo refuses to quit. Now with some peace and quiet, Leo continues on and is suddenly contacted by the spirit of Don. Don tells Leo of his fall from the chopper and shows him his dying body, splattered in an alley somewhere. Don is paralyzed from the neck down, losing blood and very close to death.

At the other end of the mausoleum, Mike finally hits pay dirt on the internet, learning about a large piece of property in upstate New York owned by a Komodo Inc. Raph says that his contacts in the Foot said Pimiko works for Komodo Inc., making that the best place to go look. The Turtles attempt to snap Leo out of his trance, only to suddenly find the mausoleum filled with kunoichi. Pimiko is at the front of the invading army, informing the Turtles that she has had them under constant surveillance and orders her kunoichi to attack. Despite all the commotion, Leo is still stuck in his trance.

Raph and Mike face off with Pimiko and her ninja while Leo continues to speak with Donatello via astral protection. Don is now back in his paralyzed body and suffering tremendous pain. Leonardo bids farewell to his brother and heads back to his body so he can help Don on the physical plane. On the way, Leo meets Master Splinter on the astral plane, who informs his student that he remains a prisoner and cannot help, other than to escort Leo safely back to his body. In Lord Komodo's lab, the scientists inform the Dragonlord that Splinter contains mostly animal DNA, which pleases the overlord.

Don encounters a hungry rat as he lies prone in the alley, while Master Splinter is taken to meet Lord Komodo. The Dragonlord informs Splinter that he is heir to the Dragon Bushido Spirit, his ancestors once ruled Japan and he intends to do so again. Splinter states that he is honored to meet the heir to the Dragon Bushido and introduces himself as a humble ninja. Komodo replies that this claim must be proven, and orders two samurai to attack. Master Splinter easily defeats them. The Dragonlord is upset that his elite guard fell so easily, but he bows to Master Splinter and apologizes for treating him so poorly. Splinter bows in return and the two share tea. Lord Komodo asks Splinter how he came to be in this form, and the Sensei retells his origin.

Mike and Raph continue to fight Pimiko and her minions. Unfortunately the villains get the upper hand by holding Leo hostage. Pimiko tells Raph that she'll be taking Leonardo with her, but he awakens at that moment and escapes her grasp. The female ninja breaks the room's light bulb and she and her remaining ninjas flee. The guys give chase but see them flying off in a helicopter. As Leo and Mike watch dejectedly, Raph arrives in a Triceraton air car that Don had found in the sewers and finished. The Turtles take off in the air car to help Don.

Back at Lord Komodo's base, the Dragonlord is showing Splinter a chamber that is filled with anthropomorphic creatures that lie dead in tubes. Komodo explains that one of them must hold the key to splicing human and animal DNA - and discovering this secret will allow Komodo to unleash the power of the ancient dragons that "slumbers inside" of him. Splinter questions if the deaths of so many was necessary, but Komodo brushes off the question and states that killing them was "an act of mercy" as they were all savage brutes. As the two leave the room and walk down a hallway, Splinter is alarmed by the stench of carnage. Lord Komodo explains that it is probably the road kill that they use to feed Mako, as he insists on eating meat. Just then, a huge shark-mutant attacks, punching the Dragonlord in the face and knocking him unconscious... leaving Splinter alone to face the monster.

Leo, Raph and Mike arrive at the alley where Don's body is - but they find nothing but his skeletal remains!

Raph, Leo and Mike investigate the skeletal remains in Don's shell, and discover that the bones aren't their brother's! Leo deduces that the bones must be the human remains of the cyborg that Donatello had been fighting. Raphael gets angry and swears vengeance against the Dragonlord and Pimiko - Leo and Mike join the vow. The guys then fly to Komodo Industries in their modified Triceraton air car. Leo tells Raph to park the car so they can attack under the cover of darkness, but Raph wants to begin the assault now. The two argue until Mike knocks their heads together and tells them they aren't doing anything until they bury what's left of their brother.

Inside Komodo Industries, Master Splinter does battle with the shark mutant, Mako. Splinter manages to break the behemoth's nose and avoid its attacks until several giant komodo dragons arrive and attack Mako (who has no problem killing them). During the bloody fight, Splinter attends to the Dragonlord, who has recovered from Mako's earlier attack. Lord Komodo draws his blade to assist his allies, but before he gets far, he collapses and begins convulsing. Mako arrives and Master Splinter smashes him in the nose again - the sharkman cries out in pain, but then stops his assault as he ponders what's happening to the Dragonlord. Mako and Splinter watch as Lord Komodo transforms into a giant komodo dragon. The sight of this disturbs Mako and he runs off, while Master Splinter walks with the Dragonlord back to the room where the komodo dragons were killed. Pimiko and a Komodo Industries executive are there, assessing the damage. Splinter asks the man if the transformation occurs regularly, but Pimiko holds her blade to his throat and tells him he must die for discovering Lord Komodo's secret.

Outside in some nearby woods, the Turtles have built a cairn for Donatello's remains, thinking that their brother is dead. Leo and Raph head off to assault Komodo Industries while Mike lags behind and cries. Later, the Turtles are walking through a cornfield when Mako crashes past them, being chased by more giant komodo dragons. Mako discovers the Triceraton air car and leaps into it, making his escape (much to Leo's dismay). Fortunately, Raph has a remote control that he uses to turn the car upside-down and spill the sharkman out - and then the ninja steers the vehicle back to where the Turtles are standing.

Meanwhile, Donatello is recovering from his ordeal. As it turns out, the machine parts of the cyborg he had battled have a life of their own, and after the crash they left their human host and assimilated Donny, thus making him a Teenage Mutant Ninja Cyborg Turtle. Donatello finds himself walking in the cornfield, and targeting Mako - who he blasts with his new robotic armory.

Outside Lord Komodo’s castle, Leo, Raph and Mike are making short work of the guards (though Leo and Raph naturally argue over subduing vs. killing). Snooping around, they eventually spot Master Splinter…having tea with Dragonlord Komodo.

Inside, Komodo regrets that Splinter must be executed as he knows too much. Komodo plans on regaining his ancestral position as Emperor of Japan and his armies all over the globe stand ready for the take-over…which cannot take place until he cures his diseased Bushido spirit. Splinter then collapses thanks to some drugged tea and Komodo has him hauled off to the lab for further processing.

In the cornfield not far away, Don is trying to cope with his new cyborg body. Mako recovers from the laser blast he took and hightails it out of there, while Donny is besieged by the angry consciousness of the cyborg armor’s previous user. Don recalls that after he and the cyborg fell from the helicopter and splattered on the street, the cyborg armor crawled over to Don’s dying body and merged with it. Realizing that the consciousness talking to him is nothing more than an old memory file, Don deletes it and takes full control of the armor. He then trudges slowly toward Komodo’s castle for some revenge.

In the lab, Dr. Wu prepares a syringe of mutagen to inject into Splinter. Pimiko stops him, much to Lord Komodo’s annoyance, as she has some questions. Pimiko reveals that she is the daughter of none other than Oroku Saki: The Shredder. She claims that her mother fled from Saki before she was born and that Komodo gave them refuge. Pimiko wishes to know if it is true that the Hamato Yoshi “clan” are responsible for her father’s death. Splinter takes responsibility and Pimiko demands the right to face him in combat; a request Lord Komodo refuses.

As Dr. Wu prepares to inject Splinter with the mutagen, Leo, Raph and Mike burst in through the skylight and attack. Dr. Wu begins injecting Splinter, but Pimiko stabs him in the torso and tosses him away before he can finish (inadvertently causing him to inject the remainder of the mutagen into one of the Dragonlord’s pet Komodo dragons). As the Kunoichi, who are loyal only to the Dragonlord, attack, Pimiko offers to help the Turtles and Splinter escape, citing that she will no longer serve Komodo. Raph helps the woozy Splinter down into a secret tunnel and rejoins the fracas. Suddenly, the Komodo dragon mutates and attacks.

Things are looking bad until, out of the blue, Donnie arrives and blasts the mutated Komodo dragon away. The Turtles are thrilled to see that their brother is alive, but the reunion will have to wait; the Dragonlord has initiated the castle’s self-destruct. The Turtles flee into the tunnel, but Pimiko stays behind, saying that she must try to help the injured Kunoichi that the Dragonlord left behind.

The tunnel leads into a cave where the Turtles are besieged by a swarm of bats… and one really, really big bat. They realize that the bat is Splinter, transformed by the mutagen into a mindless beast, and give chase. He escapes into the night and the Turtles fly off in the Triceraton aircar just as the castle explodes. They decide to head back to the lair and hope Splinter returns there once he’s come to his senses. Donnie, though, is a little irked that his brothers have yet to ask what’s happened to him.

REVIEW

Boy, does this look weird or what?

Many artists struggle making the turtles look different. The cartoons used different bandanas and belts, the 2012 version made them different sizes and with unique details. Well Image decided to go with a very dramatic transformation. And they wasted no time.

But was it necessary? Cyborg Donatello? Raphael of the Opera? It’s just too extreme to me. Like most of Image at the Image (although I would imagine that by 1996 the quality may have had improved).

I could have reviewed the original issues in Black and White, but I found them very hard to follow. My eyes get lost between all the lines in ways that do not happen with the Mirage issues. Fortunately, IDW decided to recolor the whole thing, adding three more issues (still to come out in 2020) to close all the unfinished plots. The recoloring is very good, and smart at the same time. I mention it is smart because, when you look at the originals, the contrast is quite high, making it very similar to Frank Miller’s style around the time (Sin City).

In colors, this was done by using very colorful (and contrasting) colors on the backgrounds. Or the contrary, making the backgrounds calmer than the foreground.

This volume is technically part of the Image “universe”, as Mako is part of Savage Dragon. But the Image universe is very ad-hoc, so anything can be “part” of it at anytime.

In these issues I found the turtles to be too happy when they had no reasons to even smile. Their dialogues were completely disconnected to what they were experiencing. These are all tragedies that happened one after the other.

I think this may have been the writer trying to find the tone of the book. It is clear that they are trying to distance themselves from the most comic-relief versions of the turtles. I am also pretty sure that the cartoon was over or ending by the time of publication (but the Saban series was around the corner).

I hope this book to find a balance and a believable tone.

I give these issues a score of 6.

[marithlizard]

I have been informed that the Clive James, the author of one of my very favorite poems turned 80 today!  it seems only right to post it in his honor:

The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered

The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I am pleased. In vast quantities it has been remaindered Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized And sits in piles in a police warehouse, My enemy’s much-prized effort sits in piles In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs. Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles One passes down reflecting on life’s vanities, Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews Lavished to no avail upon one’s enemy’s book – For behold, here is that book Among these ranks and banks of duds, These ponderous and seeminly irreducible cairns Of complete stiffs.

The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I rejoice. It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion Beneath the yoke. What avail him now his awards and prizes, The praise expended upon his meticulous technique, His individual new voice? Knocked into the middle of next week His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys The sinker, clinkers, dogs and dregs, The Edsels of the world of moveable type, The bummers that no amount of hype could shift, The unbudgeable turkeys.

Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper Bathes in the blare of the brightly jacketed Hitler’s War Machine, His unmistakably individual new voice Shares the same scrapyart with a forlorn skyscraper Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook, His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed by others, His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretense, Is there with Pertwee’s Promenades and Pierrots – One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment, And (oh, this above all) his sensibility, His sensibility and its hair-like filaments, His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one With Barbara Windsor’s Book of Boobs, A volume graced by the descriptive rubric “My boobs will give everyone hours of fun.”

Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also, Though not to the monumental extent In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out To the book of my enemy, Since in the case of my own book it will be due To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error – Nothing to do with merit. But just supposing that such an event should hold Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset By the memory of this sweet moment. Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets! The book of my enemy has been remaindered And I am glad.

[alchemisland]

The Moors Mutt - II

https://www.wattpad.com/676844776-the-moors-mutt-ii

II. Limbo

Rising early, if rising it was and not merely stirring from a wakened restive state, I walked a barren stretch. At pale dawn birds like Aztec idols flighted at my stirring. Cold light stained the pasture either side. Sleepshod, the road to Cairn Cottage found me quiet company. Even the tinkers were not yet to the road in their triskeled wagons.

When the machine architect of our world was in infancy, men of old, men of renown, used more than sight in their primitive observations of our world. Already we, we as mankind, had realized what appeared as reality was deeper yet than simple tangibility. Further back towards the chaotic and infinite churn of the burning epoch, when mankind had not language to manifest destiny and lived subordinate to Echidna's descendants still fearsome on the plain, parts of the brain which one day became memory centers first stirred to life, elongating the possibility of human memory. Scent still is brother to memory.

The air was heavy with scent when I relinquished vision, only for a short time, and let wind corral me. The breeze carried faint lavender.

A pebbled stretch I crossed stirred a memory of my late father and a codex of heroic tales he purchased, whose high adventure stirred me like nothing prior. At six, maybe seven years old, tales of old Arabia appealed greatly. Fabulous kingdoms wrought of yellow stone against a tangerine haze, swirling tarot sun bemused of countenance, scorpions armoured like chargers sending rodents to their redoubt, the cloying madness of it all. I visited them in dreams, jumping from the path of unruly camels, watching the impenetrable waves humbly part in the wake of Royal palanquins.

Their heroes were unlike our knights. More often broody boys who preferred quill to falchion. Brooding teenagehood made me relish the stranger stories, tales without lessons existing solely to unnerve, speaking on the bleak lives of Tartarian wizards. Older, into adulthood, I came to enjoy Greek tales most. The tragedy of Ajax in his lover's plate leaking on the golden sand moved me. Waves, caressing the moored fleet in passing, bursting against the shale where the pyre burned. Since, when I hear crunching pebbles, I think of soldiers marching on the beach at Troy.

I heard the crunch of a trap and waited hopeful until the crude plume fixed atop the horses head appeared like the mantle of some deposed pagan lord. Ixion's disc four times divided had been fixed to bear this chariot. Its trundle ground debris to powder. I hailed the man, a being of wind, every strand of hair or cloth lank enough to lift stood in disarray. A peak stole his brow, but a smile waved me aboard. He never spoke, though carried me within shouting distance of the manse.

Inside chaos reigned. Lady Sizemore's estate was measured first in paper, not coin. Hundreds, thousands of jaundiced sheets, all in disorder busying every surface. Before a single coin changed hands, a great many hours I spent hauling boxes, within which were more boxes where spiders large as potatoes spun temporary wonders above the invoices.

I wonder what effect prolonged tedium has. Such thoughts are entertained in the avoidance of work that should never be given lucid credence. An entire day dedicated solely to translating letters in incomprehensible cursive, it felt ridiculous. My mind, perhaps reflecting its surroundings, felt dulled, unfocused. So long I stared, when I pried my eyes I found feint margins plastered across reality.

The previous night's visitations I had pondered, ultimately chalking to anxiety. Nothing substantially portentous. Unfortunately, another day was required before I indulged my cryptozooligcal fancies.

*

Darkness in ravenfeather arrived prematurely. I gathered my belongings, wondering where the time went, then ran to the track and the sounds of the the last husbandmen bound for Sperrin. I found easy passage. Too easy perhaps; I was cursed to endure indignity on a wagon halfheartedly scraped of its stinking contents; with my legs lolling over the side, I was soaked in every splash. I arrived back mud-caked, a shambling golem. Lar tended bar. I wondered had he stirred in my absence. Anticipating my thirst, two mugs were set.

I dropped my satchel, enjoying relief akin to weightlessness by contrast, and we drained tankards like soon-to-war Saxons, speaking of weather. I asked had anyone noteworthy visited, mostly from politeness. When asked had the room served, I replied it had done so more than adequately. Again, politeness.

Not wishing to seem overeager, I spared him my dream. If the tale was relayed to me, I should say how convenient the very man hoping to find the beast would experience a vision.

Besides, in the unlikely event we found a mangy badger after I'd described a prehistoric horror.. perish the thought.

'Do we depart tomorrow?' Lar grunted, pretending to clean.

'Short delay actually. I'd have said from the doorway, only for the ale calling. Alas, labour remains. My charges lust for satisfaction. They are at Rome's gates! Distant cousins write in droves. By air, land and sea their letters come, squeezing through grates, shimmying down chimneys. Forget the beast, if they find me I'm dead.'

'We sank tankards enough last night. I've seen folks pale on the dizzy morning after the night before. If this delay is to spite me, let me allay concerns, I'm the man for this job. We're the men for this job.' He shot a glance at Fergus, a pale lance cleaving his brow.

I looked to my empty cup then longingly at his selection. Lar fingered a cask, but reached further back and took another instead.

'My god, man. Boil a pot and toss it down your trousers. No such notions occurred to me. We're expedition mates! I didn't make a dent in the work, really.' I raised a silencing finger to hear the splash of ale. 'There you have it. Mystery solved. If the mystery of the beast is this easy, we're laughing.' I inhaled its aroma. Fruity, potent, sickly almost. 'This expedition diary I mean to publish, any thoughts?'

Lar's measured tone returned. Careful as a tiptoeing sinner, he asked 'You good?'

I smiled. 'Only Ben Adhem saw the book, ask him.'

Lar stove the ashen helm crowning his cigarette, plunging the embers into the cold bronze bowl. 'At writing.'

'You should say! I tease, I tease. To answer your question, yes is the answer. Humbly, in my hand, the pen is like the master mason's chisel, from whence grand cathedrals spring forth from their less divine constituent parts.' Lar was fumbling for his tobacco already and I thought what small use that vice would be in peril.

'I'm convinced.' Lar spoke quickly, stumbling over the words to get them out. I took no offence at his zeal to change the subject. 'Do you have a manuscript at hand?'

'Not with me, unfortunately.' He stifled a sigh of relief. 'Upon returning home one story heavier, I'll ensure you receive signed copies of every one. I'll sing them My favourite tub of Lar. Yours literately, Beastman. That way you'll know it's me.'

Lar's ale, a home brew, was a swift agent, promising to travel from your mouth to the toilet's in twenty minutes. I joked he might patent it for a medicine. Call it the Midas touch. Everything it touched turns to gold: toilet seat, floor, shoes if you weren't careful.

I spied Fergus. His thumb led a blunt edge across the ribbed bark of a sprig, from which he had carved two lidded eyes and a pursed mouth.

Lar lit a cigarette from the flared end of the last, then discarded it on the ashen pyre.

Lar had to raise the hatch spoiling any hope of a dramatic exit, but I hovered over the stool while I spoke. 'Departure two days hence, on the strict proviso no unpleasant libel suit comes once the story hits print. Rest assured, I'll include nothing untoward, but I reserve the right to artistic licence. Print the myth.'

'Libel is a city crime.' Anticipating my desire, Lar walked while he spoke. I mirrored his step, slipping through the open portcullis to sleep, perchance to scream.

*

Lying in bed, I wondered what to include in my chronicle; exciting details only, or every charged exchange? Nobody asked how the shipwright felt constructing thousands of ships without prior notice. They only wanted Achilles. The reader will concede, I have included much of the mundane.

Well-oiled, I slept easily. Set like a star I saw things past, dark present and murky future, useless without chronology, stifling their prophetic nature. The beast came again, shaking the ground.

Waking, it seemed I fell to the mattress from a height. Not far enough to endanger, but enough to worry the springs. I lurched, took my journal from the bedside locker, levered its purple tongue to split its leather cuirass and let it whip to a clean page.

One mark on the opposite face demanded attention. A black circle, subtle as a bearded chin, formed by the swift fury of a graceless wrist, its blackness total.

How strangely the lines blended. One moment a nest of fastened rat tails, one mark indistinguishable from another, the next a clear set of growing rings. In its swirling centre around the maelstrom's eye, the paper tore with the fury of the quill.

I found the pockmark on every page. Someone strained greatly to make an impression so indelible. First I thought Fergus with his ham hands, unknowingly forcing the nib through the page. When he had the chance, or the notion? It seemed unlikely. Throughout the workday it was with me, resting once for a moment unattended on the desk.

Despite concerns, I knew no progress could be made at this hour. For now it seemed safe to be about my duties without much extra precaution. I returned the journal, pulled the duvet across my shoulders and turned to sleep, when suddenly a violent jolt racked the shutters so fiercely they juddered back into place with a great thunk.

I winced toward the disturbance and found mocking empty blackness. As my head sank back into the pillow, a shuddering pulse shook the building. A rippling seismic attack. Unlike quakes from within, which sally in waves, this was a single detonation, like a dying star; one magnificent shockwave that stirred everything in the world at once, only for a moment. I stemmed panic, falling to courageous platitudes that would embarrass the most shameless Kipling-mimic. Without panic, I deduced more likely my head sharply turning had disturbed my equilibrium, giving the walls the appearance of motion. As if in answer to my doubt, dust sprinkled from the rafters.

Nothing else came. I waited, steeled. I pretended to be brave and at some indeterminate point, felt into a brave slumber.

*

Lar, blackbird that he was, rose early. He emerged from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution and stretched, his wingspan filling the alcove.

He found me in my linen cell, bewhaled as Jonah.

'Terrible day.' He drew the shutters. I pulled the sheets down over my face to the sight of Lar's stocky silhouette in the dirty light. Tapping his pipe twice on the sill, he plonked one cheek on the ledge and struck a match. 'Anything you want from town? I'm going to get supplies. I should be away most of the day. There won't be a return trip before we go. Speak now or forever hold your peace.'

'Ambulo in pace.' I tapped my journal, 'I have everything.'

'Do you have a mac?' The rain beat harder.

'No, we're English, some Irish. Although I heard tell that a distant branch traded their roses for thistle stalks.'

Lar shuddered, ill-humoured before midday, despite protestations he needed no proper rest. 'I mean a waterproof.'

'Oh give me credit. That's humour.'

'We in the smiling countryside call it idiocy. There's a time for revels. Unless you've been up all night, dawn isn't it.'

'I don't have one and I'd like a loan if that's what you're asking, thank you. I didn't sleep well now you mention it' I tossed my feet onto the cold ground and felt for a sock.

Lar watched the rain spilling in romantic sheets. 'You'll need an ark to get back. It's like a bog when it rains. No one will be able to get you. Not me, not the constabulary, nor anyone else. If the weather worsens, make sure you get back in time. Otherwise, everything will be closed until further boatice.'

'Boatice?' I said.

'Now that is humour. Rain, boats, further notice. Get it?' Lar left more spritely than when he entered.

[succession]

The Winter Reigns Without Cease | Hickey/Tozer

@gargantua01, based loosely on your headcanon Hickey seducing Tozer in order to make his mutiny happen. Which obviously worked out well for him cause Tozer fell hard and remain loyal to him.

This happened far faster than I thought. I hope you enjoy even with all the existing errors.

“Sergeant, I must thank you.”

Tozer, being a man of reason and holding nearly enough sense to exercise it nods. Cornelius extended a cigarette with a knowing smile, their fingers brushing enough for him to know. It's a signal, a fly vibrating along a web.

Best to let him be drawn in closer than to immediately strike.

*

“I didn't sign up for this,” Tozer muttered within earshot. They were alone, as alone as they could be in such tight quarters. Perhaps it's better to liken it to their own separate sphere, a bubble of space belonging to them. Cornelius stretched himself inside that tight space, let their knees knock.

“None did. To be forced into this hell, subject to the whims of a specter.” Cornelius shook his head and let the words stand. “I will not meet my end at the hands of either fools or a monstrosity.”

He gauged Tozer's face. The shift of his jaw, how it set and moved as if he literally chewed upon Cornelius's point. His nostrils flared. Another slight push then. “How is Heather doing?”

Tozer's hand curled into a fist. “He is under my care,” he choked out, grief cupping the words.

Cornelius adjusted his mouth to reflect sympathy, pursed his lips and drew his brown down. “He's lucky to have you. The same compassion you grant him, as you've extended to me, will reach him.”

“You've seen him? He,” Tozer's lip twitched and Cornelius rested a hand on his knee. A gesture of understanding as they sat in extended silence. He adjusted his breathing to match Tozer's, careful to mirror his motions.

For all his appearance, Solomon Tozer was a soft man who cared deeply. His ministrations for the a man partially cloaked in the robe of death was the clear signal. His actions, to use a well-worn phrase, spoke louder than his words. Wholly expected from a Royal Marine who defined his life by movements and ability to take orders. He was meant to be led and Cornelius Hickey was born to lead.

“Why don't you and I play a game of cribbage tomorrow? We can set the game up beside William.” He smiled when Tozer's head perked up at the man's name. “Perhaps my terrible play may rouse him from his slumber.”

“He'd like that. Thank you.” He squeezed Cornelius's forearm and that familiar tremble rippled through his body. He felt it with Billy and now it rang clear and true like a bell.

*

“What was her name?” Cornelius leaned forward in rapt attention as Solomon emphasized the shapeliness of the doxy's buttocks.

“Bess. Around-the-World Bess. If you laid out all the men she fucked they'd wrap around the world,” they finished together. Solomon laughed and elbowed Heather's unconscious body. He responded by swaying in the hammock, a parody of movement.

Cornelius made an impressed face. “I take it you've accounted for much of that distance.” Solomon flushed as red as his uniform, suddenly shy after describing her lips, both smiling and layer hidden. “Come now, don't forget you're in good company here.”

A deeper flush as if the man was unsullied, a virginal braggart who parroted the reactions of bawdy men. “Let your imagination run wild, Hickey.”

He barely suppressed his smile. Cornelius intended to; it was so easy especially when leaning so close to the man, tracing the muscles of his forearms and toned thighs with his gaze. “I commend both you and Heather for your conquests. When we return home direct me to her. We need to guide her to another circuit across the globe.”

He let Solomon do all the laughing. He occupied the moment picturing the man on his back, head tossed against a well-work pillow, skin rosy as the tip of his cockstand.

*

That night his thoughts strayed to what may be.

“Tozer,” he whispered to the phantom in his mind. “How can I possibly thank you for your kindness?” And Tozer pinked, the splay of his thighs an invitation he was more than willing to accept.

“If you close your eyes you may imagine I am your dock girl.” Hickey freed him, felt him curled soft against his palm. The man sighed and tilted his hips up, pressed himself until he began to thicken. “Bess. Think of her.” Sweet name for a clever tongue, a wet cunt.

Solomon’s eyes shut and his fingers skimmed Hickey’s hair, allowed his imagination take him to her.

“Tell me about her. What shall your Bess do?” It’s obvious what her tasks were for Solomon and the other gents who crossed her wide, perfumed path. Hickey licked him as he shared. The words spilled past his lips as he forced Cornelius’s throat to open around him. Poor Bess, drooling around his thickness. What a sight they must be, he and Solomon’s Bess.

And the taste of him, liquid that he choked down, unable to do anything but swallow as he was held tight by those strong hands. Solomon remained in his mouth for a moment then slid out, semen and saliva trailing out, pure pleasure carved into his face.

Cornelius looked up at him, licking his lips, his pockets empty of coin yet filled with Solomon’s loyalty.

*

“You did your best.”

The man was broken, head on his knees as he wept. Cornelius slung an arm around his shoulders and rocked him gently. He remembered someone doing the same for him after his father died. He was held fast and rocked by his mother; yes, she drew him to her breast and in the same motion sent him onto the streets to earn some money.

But for once it wasn’t about him, not directly. Sergeant Solomon Tozer commanded his full attention. “You did your best,” he repeated to sink into the moment. He let Solomon keen and lean heavily against him. Sobbed until his tears frosted against his face. “Trust that he knows this fact as he watches us from his Paradise.”

Solomon coughed and gasped, nodded like a child. “I know that. I know he felt no pain. But there he remains,” he pointed to the corpse, “with arms raised as if trying to protect himself.”

No, it was a contraction of the limbs; Cornelius made a soothing noise. He brushed his fingers across the man’s face, wiped the mucus and tears away before they froze. His own eyes were wet from the soot that hung in the air, but he didn’t blink them away. He let them roll down his cheeks in an echo of emotion. “Please, do not sink into despair. You must live for him. We’ll live for William Heather, his name carved into our hearts. Nestled beside all the others we’ve lost along the way.”

“I will.” Solomon made a move to untangle himself from Cornelius, but he was held firm. He squirmed slightly, but relented. Cornelius cupped the back of his head and made sure all he saw was the body of his friend, blackened and reaching up for assistance no one could provide.

*

“How much farther?”

Cornelius tapped his fork against his plate and avoided looking at Billy. His focus was all on Solomon and how he stalked through the tents, like a caged animal. This was no place for a marine. No place for flora nor fauna it seemed. But here they were with their endless supply of tinned dinners, chewing on their resentments.

“As far as they desire. We march to our ends for their glory. Will our names be written in the history books?” Cornelius scoffed and adjusted his posture to mimic his supposed betters. Solomon threw himself on the box beside him, drummed his fingers along the stock of his weapon. “No, it’ll be the likes of Sir John who was swallowed by the ice who will be remembered. ‘We pressed on in Sir John’s honor.’” His accent was tight and simpering. Jesus. Snorting, he let his empty plate rattle to the rocks below.

“Dangerous talk,” Solomon stated bluntly. But he made no other move to correct him. Instead he reached into his pocket and drew two cigarettes. Lit them both and passed one to Cornelius. “And what of the specter? How will they write about that?”

“That’ll be ignored. Losses are expected and will be smoothed over. Gallant men who died in the name of exploration. Perhaps they’ll name a strait or cairn for our dead.” He exhaled a stream of smoke and tipped his head. He felt Solomon stiffen slightly, shimmy over to Cornelius’s side until their thighs met. Gallant man indeed, picked off by monsters of ice, fire, and the supernatural. What fucking madness did they touch here in their circle of hell?

“This’ll be the end of us if we don’t find help.” Billy shoved off, left to do whatever business one could attend to here surrounded by rocks and rocks and cold.

“He’s right,” Solomon whispered. “We’re thoroughly fucked if the Captains’ plans lead us astray.” He eyed Cornelius with an exhausted look, anger rimming red in the corners of his vision.

“Perhaps we need a new angle to ponder our predicament. Solomon, I hope you trust me as much as I trust you.” He tentatively reached out and placed his hand against the man’s knee. Held it there before casually letting it slide off. He felt a slight nudge to his ankle. Once, twice, thrice. Purposeful response. The man desired to be led.

“I do, Hickey. God help me.” He stubbed out his cigarette and pinched the end, tucked it into his pocket.

I will, Cornelius smiled. God provides.

*

“You’ve blood around your nails.”

Solomon dropped a rag onto Cornelius’s lap. He did not register the item, only the words. Cursed briefly in his mind, but he recovered thanks to the sergeant. “Your attempts to save the man failed, but don’t let their deaths be your burdens.”

“To set upon him like savages.” Cornelius let his hands shake, fumbled with the cloth before tossing it to the ground. Solomon knelt before him and took his palm in hand, gazed at him with understanding. They both condemned men to die in their own ways. He a purposeful actor, Solomon an unwitting fool in the games of a flame-covered madman. All victims of this place, of a monster he felt kinship with. Oh, this hellhole seized him by the heart and crushed it like a skull.

Hm. He suppressed a chuckle as he remembered how his namesake’s head caved easily. Fragile like ice.

No matter. Solomon was on his knees before him, rubbed the blood from his fingers. Gently, he cradled his hand and worked the cloth around the dips and swells of his digits. “I can’t do this any longer, Cornelius.” His words were a whisper, his face pale. ”I’ve lost so much and to know I could have.”

He trailed off, but didn’t stop his motions; they increased in speed as if he had no other way to translate his feelings. The web vibrated and Cornelius’s head turned to the movement. “I am here, Solomon.” He turned his hand and wrapped it around the man’s, squeezed and stroked and pressed.

Cornelius let his body drop to the ground and he drew their foreheads together. No kiss, nothing of that sort now. He rubbed their cheeks together, scraped their beards, their jaws. A primal action. Let him make the next move.

Solomon did, hauling him closer until Cornelius straddled the man’s thigh, Cornelius’s knee resting comfortably against the sergeant’s crotch. They moved with efficiency, took what was necessary then disengaged. His body vibrated and he hissed as he adjusted himself, Solomon doing the same while his teeth worried his lips. He was pink and met Cornelius’s eyes then focused on the ground. Then held his gaze with certainty.

He wanted to fuck him proper, erase the thoughts of the beautiful Bess from his mind until he was the only warm thing in his world. Later. Right now the seed sprouted and needed attending.