#entering my feathery era

[juniperrrrrrr]

Owlin presented without comment

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

✨The MHA Boys Go To The Eras Tour With You✨

Lol I just had to do this, please bear with me! I just watched The Eras Tour film and my MHA brain rot kicked in. Here's a few headcannons of how the MHA guys would react to being taken to the Eras Tour as your boyfriend. Spoilers: They're all weirdly into it. And some of them even plan out couples costumes! Gasp!

⚡️⚡️Denki Kamanari⚡️⚡️

Ok there is no doubt in my mind here - Denki is absolutely a Swiftie. He read all of the blog posts detailing hacks and tips to get tickets for the show, and he preregistered for a sale code the minute he was able to. He has half of Class 1A sign up for presale codes so that he can have the most amount of chances possible to enter for a spot at the show.

He's absolutely over the moon when he scores you both tickets to the upcoming concert. He asks you to help him make a Pinterest board so that you can come up with the perfect Eras outfits (he wants to do Lover). Guess what? You go as Miss Americana and The Heartbreak Prince. He's decked out in a glittering blazer with a bejewled plastic crown and he's thrilled. He picks out a matching flashy dress for you to wear, and keeps complimenting how absolutely gorgeous you look in it the whole night.

He's all about taking photos of your 'fits in front of the stadium and blushes every time he gets a compliment from a fellow swiftie. When Taylor takes the stage, he nearly faints. As she starts playing Lover he holds you close and tells you that he's so glad you both get to share the special night together.

🖤🖤Hanta Sero🖤🖤

Sero really doesn't get what all the hype about Taylor Swift is about, but of course he's willing to go to the concert with you. The man loves live shows - but you need to tell him to leave his vape pen behind for fear that you won't get let into the stadium if he's caught with it ("But babe, getting high at a concert is part of the experience!).

You get him a plain black t-shirt with a small snake icon on it. He doesn't get it, but he shrugs and promises to wear it. When you get to the stadium, he's really overwhelmed and intrigued by all of the glittery, feathery costumes. He spends a lot of time trying to figure out how his snake shirt fits into the mix since all he sees is hot pink and red regalia. He smiles and waves gamely at the other swiftie boyfriends in attendance and makes more than a few bro friends while in line for a beer.

When the show starts, he is immediately impressed by the production value of the whole thing. When Taylor steps out onto the stage in her glittering bodysuit, his jaw drops and he turns to you accusatorially "BABE! I never realized that she's hot!?" You both laugh as she sings her way through the Eras.

When Love Story comes on, he wraps his arms around you and says "I remember this one from when we were kids! Makes me think of you." He plants a kiss on your cheek and you grin.

Finally, the intro music for Reputation queues up and an animated snake curves it's way across the stage below you. Sero grabs your arm excitedly as he realizes the snake on his shirt matches the stage. When Taylor comes out and kills the choreography for "Are You Ready For It?" Sero turns to you with stars in his eyes and says "This is the coolest concert I've ever been to. Thank you so much for bringing me!" By the time Karma comes around, he is fully dancing in the aisles alongside the rest of the swifties, completely wrapped up in the moment as confetti rains down on the crowd. When you get home, he buys you matching Reputation era sweatshirts on Etsy to commemorate the night.

"Babe - maybe you can get one of those sparkly bodysuits like Taylor wore?"

"Sero - I have absolutely no place to wear something like that."

"I can think of somewhere you can wear it." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively as he pictures a bejeweled bodysuit tightly hugging your frame.

💚💚Izuku Midoriya💚💚

Izuku has no idea who Taylor Swift is. Why would he? She's not a Pro Hero.

Once you excitedly show him your hard-won tickets stored in your Ticketmaster app, he realizes how important the concert is to you. We all know Izuku is great at hyper-focusing on a topic until he masters it - so for a month straight Taylor Swift is his obsession.

He starts an Eras Tour specific notebook and spends lunch breaks interviewing everyone at Lunch Rush about their favorite Taylor Swift songs and eras. He spends time online gathering data and drawing up little charts, guessing at what songs might make the set list. He's disappointed when he can't find any interviews online that feature her choosing the best Pro Hero, so he decides that her favorite is likely All Might (the only valid choice).

He listens to each album in full, starting with Debut and ending with Midnights. He's thorough, and learns the lyrics to the chart toppers off of each album. He's so excited to impress you with all of his Taylor Swift knowledge and fun facts at the show, that he forgets he needs to dress up for it. When you both arrive at the stadium, he whisks you off to one of the merch lines so that he can grab an official Eras Tour t-shirt. He needs to be appropriately dressed for this occasion in order to prove his dedication to you and, by extension, to Taylor. You tell him that it doesn't matter what he wears, you just want him to enjoy the show with you.

When the show starts, he is bouncing off the walls. From time to time, he'll bend down to whisper an obscure fact or data point about Taylor's meteoric rise to the top of the music charts. A few eras into the show, he stops sharing fun facts - that's how you know he's legitimately enjoying the show.

He tries his best to dance along, but even with the moves he's picked up from Mina he's a truly terrible dancer. He doesn't seem to care, though, as he throws back his head to belt out the bridge to "You Belong With Me" while shaking his hips. You smile at how much he's enjoying the concert - you haven't seen him let loose like this in a long time.

Finally, when the performance for Vigilante Shit starts to kickoff, you notice a deep blush settle across Izuku's cute freckled face. Without taking his eyes off the stage, he leans down to whisper in your ear: "I didn't realize that this song was so...sexy?" You crack up and he grins sheepishly, watching Taylor straddle a chair. He then boldly says: "Maybe you can do some of these moves when we get home?" Your loud cackle of a laugh is drowned out by thousands of swifties singing along around you. You tilt your head up to kiss your boyfriend hard on the lips. He threads his fingers into your hair and deepens the kiss.

You pull away, craning your neck to take in more of the killer choreography before turning back to face him. "I like concert Izuku. I'd like to see more of him." You say, and he blushes even more furiously.

💥💥Katsuki Bakugo💥💥

Katsuki loves concerts. You know this because he's dragged you to countless shows across the past 6 months of dating. He loves all genres of music - pop, rock, sad boy emo, heavy metal. You name it - he's heard it. Even so, you're a little apprehensive to ask him to go to the Eras Tour with you. It just doesn't seem like his scene - glittery, screaming fans making heart eyes and painting "13s" on their hands just seems like something he would not enjoy.

"Hey dumbass! Why didn't you tell me you got Taylor Swift tickets!?" Katsuki angrily bursts into your dorm room one Friday night, looking pissed as usual.

"What? Who told you?" You look up from your laptop, surprised.

"Mina! She said you've had them for weeks! Why wouldn't you tell me?" He sounds more hurt than angry now.

"Kats...I didn't think you'd be interested to be honest!" You get up and cross the room, taking his face in one of your hands. "Do you want to go?"

"Not if I'm your second choice!" He's defensive, but his face has softened at the physical contact.

"Babe - you're always my first choice. I just didn't think you'd enjoy her music style and all of the girly vibes." You pull him into your room and shut the door to keep nosy dorm-mates at bay. You motion for him to sit down in your desk chair and you hop onto your bed.

"That's pretty sexist of you!" He has you there.

"Kats - do you want to go or not?"

It turns out Katsuki has been trying to get Eras Tour tickets for months but to no avail. He is dying to go to this show since it's being lauded as "the biggest stadium tour since The Beatles played Shea Stadium!" As a music lover, it would be a crime to miss such a spectacle.

A week leading up to the concert, you can tell he's getting pretty excited. He's made you read through the setlist with him at least twice. He's trying to guess what the surprise song might be - hoping you get to hear something exclusive so that he can brag about it online. You laugh at this - even with concerts he's so damn competitive.

You're most surprised when he shows up at your door one day with a big cardboard package from Etsy. "I got us some shirts for the concert." he says gruffly, pushing his way into your room. He pulls out two dark purple tees - one that says "Karma is My Boyfriend" and the other stating "I'm the Boyfriend" in bold font. He smiles sheepishly up at you, a rare moment of vulnerability as he waits for your approval. "Katsuki...these are so cute! Literally this is perfect." His mouth quirks up into a smile at the praise, he's clearly pleased with himself.

Before you know it, you're taking a couples pic in front of the stadium in your matching purple Karma shirts and jeans. You snap a few pictures and press your lips to the side of his jaw, leaving a ruby red lipstick stain. "Ugh - come on!" he groans, wiping the lipstick off his face with the back of his hand. He makes a show of being annoyed, but you know he secretly loves being doted on like this.

He goes crazy during the show - he's extra appreciative of the pyrotechnic display during Bad Blood. He gets especially quiet during the Folklore era, and you can see how much he loves watching the grace of the dancers as they swirl across the stage during The Last Great American Dynasty.

You notice that he loves watching you dance and belt out the lyrics to every. single. song. He has this adoring look on his face as he looks at you. You knew he loved going to concerts - but you quickly realize that he loves going to concerts to spend time with you.

At the end of the night, he pulls you into an Uber and plants a soft kiss on your mouth in an unexpected show of public affection (Katsuki is not huge on PDA, he prefers private moments of intimacy with you). "Thanks so much for bringing me, babe. I can't even describe how much I enjoyed that show. Did you see the flamethrowers during that one song!? Insane!" Katsuki has glitter in his hair, and a smile stuck on his face.

You spend the rest of the ride home recounting favorite moments from the show and grinning at each other.

[tearlessrain]

Tagged by @dingoat (thanks!!)

3 ships

okay so this is going to be 100% ocs but right now

My Sith Warrior Kalarros and @darth-bagel's smuggler/crimelord Sylvas. look it's basically just canon at this point, I love these two, I love their relationship. it could be argued that it's not really romantic, they're both married to other people and have a few other relationships (all consensually to be clear, they're not having an affair they're both very poly). Sylvas's husband was actually the one who originally set them up for some bdsm shenanigans (because honestly the only reason Kalarros isn't a pro dom is it's never occurred to him to charge for it, and said husband is also a Sith who'd considered Kalarros a friend for years prior to that and trusted him to look after Sylvas and treat them well) and they clicked spectacularly and developed a strong bond over the years. At this point they're so entwined with each other's stories that I've pretty much abandoned my original canon for Kalarros because it's just vastly improved with Sylvas in it lol. they've stuck by each other through some rough times on both sides and consider each other much more than casual play partners by now.

Khatte and another of Bagel's ocs, their bounty hunter Liz. honestly these two are just a lot of fun and kind of happened by accident, we had minimal involvement in this they just decided to develop a mutual crush and now Khatte has firmly entered his femdom era. it honestly wouldn't have worked pre Alliance era, Liz has zero tolerance for his bullshit and Khatte is significantly better at keeping his bullshit in check with some legitimate therapy under his belt. It's fairly casual but probably one of the healthiest relationships he's ever had just because he knows she won't settle for less and he likes her enough to meet those standards. what can I say, Khatte's type is people who could kill him and Liz's type (at least when it comes to men) is "extremely competent but also kind of pathetic" so of course they saw each other and instantly had to fuck.

taking an abrupt turn from SWTOR into BG3, my Durge (or half of my Durge) Ryldimar and @elaphaemourra's Tav Dragonfly. listen I did not particularly even like Durge as a concept until these two happened. [SPOILERS REDACTED I FUCKED UP SOME PEOPLE I TAGGED HAVEN'T PLAYED DURGE YET]

First Ship

I'm honestly not sure? technically this might also be ocs, because I was writing original fiction before I ever got into fandom spaces and even then I've never really actively shipped canon characters from other media that much (I passively ship a lot of things but I don't get that invested yknow?). so it's probably Talon and Iadra, my gryphons from a fantasy thing I started writing in high school and have been continuously developing for the last fifteen years or so. Talon is actually half gryphon, in this world gryphons are shapeshifters and are capable of both assuming a humanoid form and interbreeding with that planet's closest human analog (and also humans, theoretically, though I'm unclear on whether any of them have gotten to earth and tested that, the worldbuilding kind of got away from me and it's a beautiful mess now). gryphons bond for life the way a lot of predatory birds do and these two are completely devoted to each other, and also they have the fun aesthetic element of Talon being about 1/3 Iadra's size when she's in gryphonic form (due to an Incident™, he lost one of his wings years ago and it caused him to be stuck between forms, so he mainly looks like a slightly feathery Guy with a singular wing. about what you'd expect of an oc I made in high school but I love him okay).

Last Song

uuuh the Ken Theriot cover of The Witch of the Westmereland I think.

Currently Reading

honestly I have not been doing a lot of reading lately (been meaning to get back to it but yknow) but I'm in the middle of The Black Gryphon by Mercedes Lackey

Last Film

OG Star Wars, couple days ago my internet went out and that was one of three movies I happen to have on my hard drive (take a wild guess what the other two are)

Currently Craving

Salmon chirashi. I literally always want any iteration of raw salmon combined with sushi rice. fortunately I'm refilling my meds in a few days (to be clear the meds are unrelated to my love of salmon, there just happens to be a really good sushi place within a block of my pharmacy so I get chirashi whenever I need to pick something up)

tagging (only if you want to!): @elvhenyoung, @elaphaemourra, @mercurypilgrim, @darkshadeless, @vampiraptor, @reucrion, @artpigeons, @chaoticspacefam

[spidersmiceandeverythingnice]

The Lovers / Long Dream of the Soul

In the Ooku, there is a room which Kama cannot enter.

TL/DR - I had some thoughts about Arjuna in the Ooku and the Lostbelt and wasn't planning on writing all of it down but I got hit by the creative bug (I hear that there's some planets in retrograde that might explain it) and I wrote like 4000 words out of nowhere.

In the Ooku, there is a room that Kama cannot enter.

The room is tucked at the edge of the floor, and there is a board across the door. Arjuna sees it and thinks that it is another dead-end. The Servants cannot open it; even Parvarti, even the nun, even the Lady Tsubone cannot figure out the mechanism to undo the lock.

When Zoe approaches it, however, all it takes is a glancing touch.

The board falls away, and the door slides open, like a sigh of relief.

Kiara Sessoyin smiles in the faint, cynical way she often does and covers her mouth with one hand. "My, my," she says, so softly that it's barely audible.

The nun does not move, and nor does she elaborate. Arjuna is immediately suspicious. He looks at Zoe's back, and begins to say, "Wait -"

But Zoe unflinchingly crosses the threshold.

Arjuna looks to the others - Mata Hari, Scheherazade, Munenori - but sees no alarm on their faces. Why can't they see how dangerous this is? There is no telling what lays beyond that dark threshold. Even though Arjuna cannot sense the slightest hint of malice or other ill intent - it cannot be that easy. Not in this place, not with this god. There is simply no other possibility than a trap.

But when Zoe enters the room, lanterns flicker to life, filing the room with a buttery, pleasant glow. There is the faint, sweet scent of flowers - perhaps some of the lanterns are perfumed, but it's not enough to overwhelm the air. Instead, it makes the space feel clean and pleasant. Inside, the room is quite spacious, and though it is plainly decorated, it is not lacking in comfort. There are blankets and pillows stacked in a corner, and there is a table laid out with food - Arjuna is shocked to see that it is not food from this era, but food from Zoe's own time.

She smiles at the sight of it.

"Look," she says, and turns her smile on Arjuna, who nearly winces. "They even got curry for us!"

Indeed, some of the dishes are recognizably Indian - not something that he would have eaten as a prince, of course. It's too simple. It's too good. This situation is wrong. Arjuna does not return her smile.

Spotting his discomfort, Zoe beckons the Servants into the room.

"We can stay here for awhile," she says, and it's phrased like a suggestion even though her voice contains a decision. "We'll be safe here. And we'll need our strength to confront Kama."

Kiara demures. "If our Master insists, surely we will be welcome to rest here?"

The phrasing strikes Arjuna as odd. If the Ooku is made from the souls of Zoe's Servants, then the Servant who made this place -

"We're safe here," Zoe says, confidently, holding out her hand as if to pull them over the threshold. "Come on - aren't you hungry?"

Servants do not get hungry, Arjuna thinks. But Zoe has never indicated that she cares about such things. That the concept of offering food to a ghost is odd - no, it would have crossed her mind. She is very deliberate, in her own way. She is choosing to treat them as people.

Arjuna thinks this is fine. In a way, it does not matter how Zoe perceives him. She is his Master, and perhaps she has even seen his true face, but they both knew that their alliance's foundation was more than a simple contract. Arjuna knows, also, that when the contract is complete here, they will return to Chaldea, and it will be like none of this has ever happened.

They cross the threshold, and sit down to eat.

All of the foods, it turns out, are Zoe's favorites.

///

The lanterns dim after they've eaten their fill - the plates disappear as if they never existed. One by one, they roll out the blankets and set out cool pillows to sleep on. Arjuna finds the atmosphere cold - perhaps he is still uncomfortable from earlier. The door to the room is closed, and there have been no attacks - but still. Still. How can Zoe fall asleep so easily, he wonders, watching as she drifts into a deep slumber. And the others? Mata Hari curls up on one of Zoe's sides, and Munenori lays stiff as a board on the other. Kiara sits up, appearing to meditate in unbroken silence. Parvarti goes dormant inside of Tsubone to let the old woman's body rest. She too, falls into a deep sleep and snores lightly.

It is only Arjuna and the storyteller left now. They glance at each other awkwardly.

After a long moment, Scheherazade says, "This room -"

She pauses, and looks at him. Then, she looks at Sessoyin.

The nun does not move. She barely seems to breathe.

Scheherazade sighs. "The Servant who made this place must have loved Zoe very much."

Arjuna frowns. "Why do you say that?"

Because it gave her a place to rest, her favorite foods? That hardly seems like love. Anyone who had met Zoe and spoken to her for more than ten minutes could have told you about the things she liked to eat and the fact that she often required, if not outright demanded, nine hours of sleep.

"Because she was the only one allowed inside," says Scheherazade. "The rest of us had to be invited."

"Perhaps that was Kama's doing." Arjuna is surprised at how petulant his voice sounds.

"But haven't you sensed it?" The storyteller looks at him, imploring. "It's so peaceful here. Too peaceful."

Arjuna feels his brows knit together. "You're saying -"

"Kama has been tracking us through the labyrinth," says Scheherazade. "But I think that she did not wish for us to come here. I think she put this room away - at the end of a hall that we should not have turned down otherwise, on a floor where we are so close to the end that Zoe may have just decided to push forward, to the very end."

Arjuna considers this. It would certainly be to Kama's benefit to keep them weak and exhausted, confused in the labyrinth. And it had been Zoe's whim that drew them down this particular corridor. And it was indeed odd to find such a peaceful place in a den of vices, especially so close to the depths where lust was liable to overwhelm -

"This place is a safe harbor," Scheherazade says, interrupting his thoughts. "That this Servant can repel Kama's entry - I think that means this room was built on a foundation of pure love."

"Hm." It doesn't make sense, not any of it. Kama is a god of love, and so how can love repel her? Arjuna turns his face away, feeling a dark, disquiet sensation in the pit of his stomach. He remembers, in a flash, a foreign land with a tiny, wicked queen. Zoe had been there, and there was a man at her side the entire time - a knight that Medb had a passing interest in, a knight who carried curses and oaths the way that Arjuna was endowed with so many blessings and gifts. Could it be that...?

Arjuna barely restrains a scowl. He does not turn back to Scheherazade, who seems to accept his silence. He listens to the storyteller quietly rolling out a mat and curling up in the most sheltered corner of the room.

Her voice, feathery soft, drifts over once more: "Will you sleep, Prince Arjuna?"

He debates his continued silence but eventually designs to answer. "No. Servants have no need of it."

Scheherazade sighs again, and then the room is entire peaceful, except for the spot where Arjuna still sits, wrapped in an icy, bitter jealousy.

///

Hours pass, or perhaps minutes. The longer Arjuna sits, the more certain he feels that he is not welcome in this place, in the room that was made for the love of Zoe. She was the Master of Chaldea, the Master of many Servants, and she had a much greater capacity for love and generosity than he did, and it was unreasonable to expect her to wait for his sake when he had barely -

No, no, and even in Chaldea. Those days when he had never allowed her to see his true face, to really know him. He was a prince among princes, isolated, high above her other Servants. He wasn't there for her. She had turned to another because he wasn't there.

Arjuna feels like he is slipping on the edge of something dark and deep. Something that he had buried or hidden long ago. How is it that the Hero of Endowment has lost the one thing that he desires most? It wasn't fair.

The oppression of the peaceful atmosphere finally drives Arjuna to his feet. He will not leave the corridor - but he can wait outside. He cannot stand it in this place for even a moment longer.

As he reaches the door, he looks back at them. Zoe is in a dream, her expression one of deepest peace. The other Servants also appear so relaxed - all but Sessoyin. The nun has not moved for hours but Arjuna cannot shake the sensation that she has been watching their every move with a hawk's eyes. Listening to everything. Almost as if she is waiting for something.

Still, even Sessoyin does not stop him from leaving the room.

Stepping over the threshold is like walking into a brick wall. Immediately, the heady scent of the labyrinth swells and floods his senses. The humid air faintly tinged with promise and pleasure seems to settle over him like a blanket. He had thought to clear his head and the irony of this atmosphere being easier to deal with is not lost on him. Perhaps it is good that Zoe never really knew him. What would she think of him if she knew his true thoughts, his true feelings? This is his own fault for being unable to stay away from her. He simply wants to stay at her side for as long as possible, even though it's all...

Arjuna takes one step forward. Then another.

A twinge at the back of his neck makes him straighten and steady - his eyes focus. Imperceptibly, there has been a shift in the air.

Arjuna extends one hand, prepared to draw his bow.

"Finally," the echo of Kama's voice floats from a distance, accompanied by a scent that is all wine, all flowers, all sex. "We haven't had a chance to properly talk yet."

Gandiva shimmers at his fingertips, just within reach.

"I have nothing to discuss with the likes of you," Arjuna says. "And if you intend to fight me -"

"I'm not interested in you that way," Kama drawls. "But I do want to get your opinion on this place. Are you enjoying yourself, o sinless one?"

Kama's avatar is an Assassin, and so she will be hard to detect, even for his eyes. Gandiva lands heavily in his palm, and he raises it before him just so.

"I thought it might be fun for you... This floor especially. You could stand to unwind a little bit." Kama's voice is closer now. "It's a shame that you and Zoe couldn't spend this time alone, but I'm not a miracle worker, you know?"

Arjuna reaches for an arrow. Lightning crackles between his fingers.

"You're awfully quiet," Kama complains, and it sounds as if she is very near now. Almost as if she is standing right before him. "What's the matter? Are you disappointed, o hero of the endowed? Tell me, what can I do to please you?"

And her voice changed as she said this, as the shadows coalesced, and then took shape, and it's shape -

Arjuna goes cold. Horror fills him, and confusion, and dread, and sorrow.

The woman standing before him is not Kama. Her smile is so familiar. He has not seen her in a lifetime. He does not relax his stance - years of training prevents it - but he cannot move. She's not really here, he tells himself, listening to the light, familiar sound of her approaching footsteps - she's not here. She has not been here, not for a thousand years. It's an illusion. A dream.

It is all a dream. All of it. Everything.

"No?" says the ghost, almost teasing. "You won't smile for me, my love? Even now?"

Arjuna does not even breathe.

The ghost merely smiles sadly. "You've grown far too serious, my love. I remember that you used to smile and laugh so easily. It breaks my heart to see you this way."

Ah. That is the reason for his sorrow. Even now, after all this time. But even so - this is Kama's trick. He realizes that he should feel angry - that he is angry - and he is going to -

"Or," the illusion says, nearly purring, "perhaps this form isn't to your taste anymore. Maybe you'd prefer something new to distract you?"

And her shape changes until -

Zoe stands before him - close enough that the arrow's tip rests just inches from her bare collarbones - close enough to reach out with one calloused hand and touch his cheek -

Arjuna releases his arrow like a bolt of lightning.

Kama goes flying, and the illusion shatters. She lands with a thud and a clatter at the end of the corridor, sprawled in a pool of blood - the dim lights from behind the papery walls flicker unsteadily as she recovers. Even such a blow as he had landed was not enough to fell a god like Kama, especially since she draws her power from the labyrinth and their sins.

Kama groans and rolls over, shuddering as she climbs to her face.

For a moment, the girl's form also flickers, and the shadow of the god who had once been appears - and then that too, is smoothed over, and Kama's face is alive with fury.

"You SHOT her?"

Arjuna nocks a second arrow.

"And if you disrespect her again in that matter," he says, "then the next one goes between your eyes."

Kama snarls. Already the wound in their chest is healing.

“You’re so ungrateful,” she spits, like a curse. “After everything I’ve done for you –”

Arjuna takes a step back. He does not fear Kama, but as long as her true power remains unclear, it’s best to stay back, as close to the hidden sanctuary as possible.

Unsteadily, Kama rises, arms wrapped around her chest, teeth bared. She is less a girl and more a beast. The passage of time is difficult to measure in the labyrinth, but it’s possible that years have passed, based on how the god’s form has changed. And there was no telling what she would become when they reached the depths of the Ooku. Arjuna wonders if he could manage a killing blow with just his arrows. It’s too risky to use a Noble Phantasm, but there are no finer archers in all the world. Surely even he –

Kama just stares at him, and then disappears with a grimace. The place where she once stood is littered with flower petals, and the scent of perfume only thickens.

Frowning, Arjuna covers his mouth and nose as Gandiva disappears. Perhaps the god has gone now – perhaps that was what had caused the oppressive atmosphere inside. If it was really true that Kama could not enter this room, then it was perfectly reasonable to imagine that the god had been stalking them this entire time. Perhaps it was all a bad dream. He has been overthinking lately, or trying not to. This place must be getting to him. He has to focus on protecting Zoe. After all, this is the reason why he was summoned to Chaldea.

Even if it would never be what he wanted, at least he could do this much.

He re-enters the room just as quietly as he left, but he finds Sessoyin awake, staring at him.

Arjuna pauses, and frowns. “I knew you weren’t sleeping.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who kept themselves alert,” says the nun, with a serene smile. “I have sensed Kama’s presence for some time. The closer we get to the inner sanctum, the more intense it becomes. It’s deliciously fascinating.”

Another odd phrase. Sessoyin certainly is strange. Discomforting is a good word for it. Arjuna knows that Zoe is the only one he can really trust in this place. Sessoyin, he thinks, is the link that will lead them to Kama. She has been unusually attuned to the god’s movements and whims, even more so than Parvarti. Instead of dwelling on it, he pulls the last set of blankets from the corner and moves into the open space of the room.

“Did she say anything to you?” Sessoyin asks. She is so straightforward and innocent in her tone. It makes Arjuna’s skin crawl. “You never know. It could be a clue.”

“She came to make a nuisance of herself,” Arjuna replies, settling in. “I landed a blow, and she ran but I doubt I did any serious damage.”

“Hmm.” Sessoyin closes her eyes once more. “I hope that you enjoy your dream, o triumphant prince.”

Arjuna scowls, but does not otherwise react to what is obviously some kind of bizarre taunt. He looks over to see Zoe, to assure himself that she is still here.

In all this time, Zoe has not opened her eyes and seems to have barely stirred. There is a faint smile on her face as she dreams.

Arjuna lays there in the dark, peaceful room, and does not sleep a wink.

///

Eventually the dream comes to an end.

One by one, they disappear. The labyrinth disappears, and then they are standing in the garden courtyard that they had first arrived in. First is Parvarti, at least freed from her human vessel, and then Munenori, and then Mata Hari and the storyteller. And then Zoe turns to Arjuna, and smiles. Her outline has faded. Unlike the Servants, she emits no unearthly glow, no shower of sparks. She is simply untethered to this world, this broken time. She is returning back to the place she belongs.

As he now must.

Even so… I feel…

Arjuna looks away from her smile. “It seems I’ll be last this time.”

Zoe grins, but seems to think better of it. Her expression softens with concern. “You seem upset. But it's not like we won't see each other again."

Something is wrong. Arjuna feels it in his bones. In his fractured heart. The sky is darkening. The stars seem very close, somehow. The garden is fading. Everything is fading, and Arjuna is –

“I don’t want to go,” he blurts out. He covers his mouth, his face, with both hands, but the words feel like they are being physically torn out of his throat. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t say it. Like he’s possessed by whatever dark thing has been growing in him since the moment he set foot in the Ooku.

Zoe pales and steps forward. "Arjuna."

“I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you. I want to go to Chaldea. I don’t want to leave.”

But that makes less sense, as he says it. Hadn’t he already been in Chaldea? That was why Zoe had summoned him here. He was her loyal Servant, her partner –

Zoe reaches for him, touching her fingertips to his wrist. She was a ghost, barely clinging to this world.

“I’ll come back to get you,” she promises. She seems to understand all the things that don’t make sense, but she’s already too far away. Her voice is the strongest thing about her, frantically assuring him. “It’s okay. Just – just stay where you are. Wherever you are, I’ll come and get you. And then you can stay in Chaldea. Just wait for me, and don’t go anywhere. I’ll come back. I will.”

And then she is gone, and the garden is gone, and Arjuna is among the stars.

For a long moment, nothing happens. And the moment drags, and stretches, and something is wrong, and his heart is broken, and he is afraid, afraid, afraid of what, he doesn’t know.

But it is dark all around him, and inside of him, and then –

There is a gap between the stars. At once, he knows – this signature, the pulse of divine power like a throbbing heartbeat – and Kama takes shape, pulling herself out of the sky. She floats into his face, and her smile is cruel.

Arjuna cannot move. Even if he wanted to reach for Gandiva, it would have been impossible. The Singularity was gone. Zoe was gone. There was nothing left. Nothing. It was all… empty.

“So,” Kama asks, sweet as poison. “Did you enjoy yourself in the end?”

Arjuna cannot speak. His mind is moving, and there is so much that he now understands. Everything, everything.

“Cat got your tongue?” asks Kama, sardonic. “How disappointing. I guess without Zoe’s humanity to anchor you, you really don’t have a personality. Shame. What a waste of a pretty face.”

He understands. And it doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

“You’re just lucky she likes you more than that nun,” says Kama, snickering. “She didn’t even question why you appeared. She was so happy to see you. Maybe if you’d been more proactive, she would have even loved you instead of that other guy.”

And he’s forgetting already. He forgets the face of the storyteller, the swordsman, the brave woman who mastered the labyrinth. And Zoe. But he doesn’t want to forget Zoe. He loves Zoe. He wants to hold on to that. He can’t forget, even though none of it matters in the end.

“I was never in Chaldea,” he says, and his voice is far away to his own ears. He is in pieces, and it is all draining out of him. All of that darkness and fear, like so much dust in the wind. All of his love, and his pride, and everything that matters, shriveling up like ashes, and gone. He is clean, and empty, and he understands everything.

“Of course not,” Kama replies, smug. “You were always too proud to answer a summons from a mere mortal. Even the precious Master of your heart, the one you claim to love so very much.” Her smile becomes a snarl. “And you couldn’t bear to even look at an imperfect god like me.”

And then she is bright, wicked and cold. “But in the end, it’s thanks to your arrogance. You allowed me to escape, so that I could do all of this in the first place. Even if Zoe and the others did manage to defeat me, I guess bringing you out here was the least I could do to thank you. Say whatever you like about me but I always repay my debts.”

The sky greys, and even the stars are disappearing. Even Kama is fading away.

“So, seriously, tell me – did you enjoy your dream?”

Arjuna closes his eyes. He thinks – Zoe – and – then –

///

There is a blue sky.

The sky is always blue. It has been, and will be. Just that endless expanse over the world which is now full of flowers. The sky will darken when the world ends.

“Ah, Almighty,” says a warm, untrustworthy voice. The robed figure beside him has been there for some time, but he cannot remember how long, or why they had come, or what their original purpose was. In any case, it does not matter. The cycle will begin anew soon. “You closed your eyes for such a long time, I thought you might have actually fallen asleep this time.”

The monk approaches, and the air stirs. The wind whispers over them like a gentle touch. Like the touch of a loved one, who tries her best to comfort you when you are afraid.

…What a strange thought.

It is gone. Like it never existed.

“What did you dream of?” asks the monk with two faces.

He does not remember.

[fuckit-hero-of-trains]

Sit by the fire until... Ch 1

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870150/chapters/62859553

Summary:

They inherited a lot of things from Sky.

From him, they inherited a sword, honed in flames painted with holy might and sharpened to a deadly, resplendent point. From him, they inherited a forest green tunic with such a storied and epic past that few would believe that it had started out as nothing more than happenstance; a school uniform of all things.

From him, the inherited a destiny and an eternal enemy to go right along with it.

They knew that. Understood that. Didn't blame him for it.

Funny, then, that they didn't connect the dots.

Because there was one more trait they all seemingly inherited from Sky, whether they realized it or not.

(or: 8 times a hero fell asleep somewhere weird +1 time a hero fell asleep exactly where he was supposed to)

Legend has seen a lot of dangerous things in his lifetime. He’s been on five adventures for Hylia’s sake. There are not a lot of things that can phase him anymore.

Another dank dungeon in need of exploration? Easy. Another monster whose weak point is inexplicably a giant eye that glows? Piece of cake. A realm of unfathomable darkness? Been there, done that, didn't even get any cool items from it.

But this… now this scares him.

“Nose goes,” Legend says flatly, flashing a finger up to touch the tip of his nose despite the fact that he is one of only two people standing in front of said insurmountable task.

“I’m not going in there,” Warriors hisses, not even trying to honor Legend’s ‘Nose Goes,’ his hands resting firmly on his hips, face incredulous as he stares down their target. “What do I look like? An idiot?”

“Oh, you don’t just look like one,” Legend assures him dryly, brows raised, smile bright and full and smarmy.

Warriors shoves him.

“If you think it’s so easy, why don't you just go in then?” the Captain spits.

But before Legend can get out another snarky response, the sound of movement , of creaking wood, sends both heroes stumbling away from the structure they had been standing next to, their hands flying up to shield their faces from harm as they wince away from what will no doubt be their end.

A beat passes between them, neither moving in fear of incurring a terrible wrath…

...

But after a second with no horrifying retribution, the two breathe a sigh of relief, eyeing up their foe.

The cucco coop.

They both shudder.

“Are you sure he’s in there?” Warriors whispers after another cautious moment of silence. “We could check the barn again.”

And as much as it would make Legend’s day to just check the barn again, he shakes his head.

“This is the only place we haven’t looked,” he reminds the scarf wearing hero with a scowl, “Besides, for some goddess forsaken reason, he happens to like these little menaces. If there was anywhere on this farm Sky would be, it's here.”

Warrior’s face screws up.

“Ugh, why can’t we just have dinner without him?”

“Because Time’s a stubborn old bastard with a parental streak the size of the moon,” Legend bites out. And then, with a bit less bitterness. “And because Malon wants to have family dinner or whatever.”

“She made cornbread,” Warriors laments with a small shake of his head, “I at least wanted to try a little before I kicked it.”

Legend smacks him on the arm.

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic and you know it!” Warriors replies, voice jumping an octave. “Those things are vicious killers! Goddess only knows what we would have done in my era without Linkle taming them. Feathery bastards can change the tide of war in an instant!”

Legend rolls his eyes.  

“Okay, yeah,” the Veteran admits, “those things could pick a moblin clean faster than you could blink, but I’m not saying we have to fight them to the death. We just have to take a peek in the coop and see if Sky’s in there. If he is, great, we tell him dinner’s ready and get the hell out of dodge. If he isn’t, sweet, we get the hell out of dodge even faster and tell Time we couldn't find him.”

“Oh, well then, if it's so simple” Warriors replies, bowing deeply and gesturing to the coop with a flourishing arm, “After you.”

“No, no, no. You lost ‘Nose Goes’,” Legend reminds. “You have to do it.”

“You can’t call ‘Nose Goes’ with just two people!”

“I think you’ll find that I did. And you lost.”  Legend grins and mirrors Warrior’s bow and flourish. “So, after you.”

The Captain narrows his eyes.

“How about this?" the Pretty Boy bargains. "I open the door, and for fifty rupees, you look inside?”

Legend purses his lips, eyes flicking from Warriors to the coop. On the one hand, War did lose Nose Goes. There really should be no bargaining going on here. Legend has the moral high ground in this particular situation. Not to mention that it would absolutely make his day to see the pompous  captain get knocked down several pegs by a couple of birds.

And Legend really isn't looking to get his eyes pecked out today.

But on the other hand, depriving the Captain of even more of his hard earned cash is a pretty good incentive. Plus, he’ll need to squirrel some more rupees away back home if this whole ‘Ravio staying with him’ thing is gonna be a bit more permanent.

He’s got no idea how in the name of the Wind Fish Ravio even made it to his Hyrule let alone if the idiot can even get himself back to Lorule.

And Legend can’t have that rabbit hooded bastard selling his equipment just to put food on the table for however long he’s staying.

“Seventy-five and it's a deal,” Legend replies, holding a hand out for the Captain to shake on it.

A roll of eyes from Warriors but he takes Legend’s hand all the same, giving it a firm shake.

Sucker.

Legend only said he would look inside. Not get Sky if he saw him in there.

They take up their positions in front of the coop; War’s hand on the door handle, ready to pull it open while Legend situates himself around the corner, primed to take a quick peek inside and then retreat just as quickly.

“On three,” Warriors breathes.

“One.”

Warrior’s grip on the doorknob tightens, the leather of his gloves creaking slightly with the force of his grasp.

“Two.”

Legend feels his muscle tense, the cords of his neck straining as he readies himself for his dive, his newest in a line of near death experiences.

A breath in.

A breath out.

“Three!”

With a flick of the wrist and jolt of the arm, Warriors whips the door to the cucco coop wide open. In the same instant, Legend darts his top half around the corner of the coop, peeking into the dim depths of the pen and–!

And…

Huh.

Legend is not met with a flurry of feathers spelling his demise. Isn’t met with the death rattle of squakes nor clawed with an inch of his life in seconds nor immediately assaulted with an avalanche of pecks that could drill straight to the bone.

No.

Legend is met with none of the things he expects and is instead faced with one of the most miraculous sights he has ever beheld.

Because inside the coop, in the dim warmth of their little home, all of the hens sit politely on their nests, heads perked and turned toward the intruding light, but otherwise, unbothered by the hero standing in their doorway. Not a ruffled feather in sight nor any eyes gleaming with deadly, avian hatred.

Nope.

They are perfectly relaxed. Perfectly within their element and domain, not a care in the world. In fact, after a moment of staring at Legend with what the Veteran could only describe as royal indifference, the cuccos settle back down, heads tucking into downy white feathers or disappearing under wings.

“Well?” Warriors whispers from behind the door where he is taking shelter, “Is he in there?”

“Not sure,” Legend replies.

He takes a tentative step forward, eyes locked on the birds as he carefully places one boot within the threshold of the coop. No reaction. He leans weight onto that foot, flinching as the wood groans beneath his mass.

…

Still no reaction.

Welp, Legend thinks with no small amount of dryness. No excuse not to make sure Sky isn't in here.

“Give me a sec,” he breathes back to War, taking another, more confident step into the coop. “I'm going to check.”

“No, wait, Legend, they’re lulling you into a false sense of security! You can’t just–!”

The Veteran ignores Warrior’s hissed warnings, confidently going from the frying pan and into the fire.

Or from the barnyard to the cucco coop. Whatever.

Besides the sight of the oddly tame cuccos, Legend is immediately hit with a slight wave of heat as he enters the coop proper, the temperature inside that of a warm blanket against his face and body. He is also hit with the smell of hay, grassy and dry and warm.

A quick scan of the coop gives Legend no leads on Sky. No light green tunic, no dirty blond hair, no Master Sword, no white sailcloth. It does, however, tell him that Time may be missing a few hens, as four nests seem to be vacant.

He takes another quick sweep and is just about to label Sky a lost cause when something in the corner of the coop shifts and makes a soft huff, sending Legend’s heart into his throat and his arms up around his face, fearing that this, this will be the end of him. Five adventures down, Ganon killed three times by his hands, multiple kingdoms and  deities  saved due to his actions, and he's going to die to some fucking poultry.

But after a beat, a moment, a full minute of not moving and with Legend not being absolutely smote where he stands, the pink haired hero slowly but surely peaks out from behind his arms to see the cuccos still just sitting in their nests, now gazing at him with what he thinks is exasperation.

Which really shouldn't be possible, because, you know, they’re fucking birds. Their eyes really shouldn't be that expressive. And yet, as Legend uncurls from his wince completely, as his heart rate calms from the stutter step it had been running through, he can’t help feel the condescension in their beady little golden eyes.

Little pricks, he thinks a little viciously as he subtly flips one of them the bird– ironic, he knows– turning to investigate the noise that had nearly given him a heart attack a few seconds earlier. I hope Malon cooked one of you for dinner.

Sure that he's not about to be absolutely eviscerated, Legend follows the noise, a soft, rhythmic huffing, to one of the hay filled corners of the coop that had been obscured by the line of nests and...

And, really, he should have known.

Trust Hylia’s Chosen Hero to fall asleep in literally the most dangerous place known to Hylians.

Because there, in a soft pile of hay in the corner of Time’s cucco coop, is Sky, eyes closed and mouth slightly ajar as he takes in breaths, slow and deep and even and warm. His sailcloth is layed out beneath him, no doubt protecting him from the prickly hay as he naps peacefully, none the wiser that four cuccos have found him a suitable enough pseudo nest to be napping right along with him: one tucked under each arm, another resting on his slowly rising and falling chest, and the last finding a home in his soft, dirty blond hair.

Legend takes it all in. Takes in the way the birds churr in time with Sky’s soft snores, the way bits of hay have found their way into the Skyloftian's hair, the way the small sliver of light entering the coop from the open doorway illuminates the floating dust particles in shades of sunset gold, the way they swirl in little eddies with each of the Chosen Hero’s breaths.

It truly is a tableau of peace.

Too bad it’s dinner time.

“Alright, Lover Boy,” Legend huffs, reaching out to shake the Chosen Hero awake. “Up and at ‘em. Malon made dinner and–”

Before Legend’s hand can even make contact with Sky’s shoulder, a rising grumble shatters the relative peace of the coop.

All around him, the heads of all the cuccos snap up in tandem, pinning Legend in place with at least 20 pairs of molten gold eyes as the grumble– which he now realizes is the sound of the four hens sitting with Sky hissing at him– rises in volume and anger.

With slow and controlled movements, Legend pulls his hand back from where it had been moving toward the somehow still sleeping Sky and raises both palms up in surrender.

The eyes follow the motions of his hands with deadly precision but the cuccos make no move to strike.

So Legend does the most logical thing anyone would do in his situation:

He gives up without a fight, keeping his hands raised where the birds can see them while slowly backpedaling out of the coop.

Then, when he finally crosses the threshold back out of the coop, Legend takes the edge of the door into both his hands, and carefully, gently, closes the coop back up.

“So?” Warriors asks, hands on hips, staring at Legend's odd display “Was he in there?”

“Yep,” Legend replies flatly, popping the ‘p’ as tension bleeds out of his muscles.

A brief pause.

“And?” Warriors intones expectantly.

Legend turns to the other hero, clasps a firm hand on the Captain’s shoulder, and smiles.

“And good luck getting him out of there. You’re sure as hell gonna need it.”

And with that, the Veteran turns and strides back toward the farm house, ignoring the indignant sputterings of the scarf wearing hero all the way there.

Wind Fish, he hopes Time has something stronger than Lon Lon Milk.

‘Cuz after the number those demon birds just did on him? He's gonna need it.

And based on the screaming coming from behind him, he assumes Warriors is gonna need it too.

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter seventeen: the city by the lake

“So here we are in Lone Pine—what's next again?” Alex asked her as he drank down his fresh coffee.

“Independence. Fort Independence and also Manzanar.”

“Oh, damn.”

“Yeah. I remember the first time I polished up on my history and my dad told me about it. I was horrified, especially by how it's so close to home, too. But yeah, it's Independence, Manzanar, and then Big Pine, and then finally Bishop. We'll stop there and I'll show you one of mine and my parents' favorite places to go at during this whole road trip: right on the main street. Maybe the next time around—like when it's closer to summer, we can go up to Tom's Place—up the hill north of Bishop. My dad stopped at Tom's Place once years ago, and he said they have literally the best blueberry cobbler.”

“Yum,” Alex declared as he rolled his eyes up into the back of his head, and it made her giggle.

He sipped on his coffee some more and he peered out the window which looked out to the west. Mount Whitney was still buried underneath those clouds, but every so often, those feathery wispy sheets dissipated and they both looked on at those high jagged points as they stood strong and foreboding and blanketed with a fresh layer of pure white snow, like the highest most haunted castle in all of the land. Sam shivered at the sight of those points and then she returned to her French toast.

“Just looks cold up there,” he said.

“Where? Up there?” Sam pointed out the window to the top of the mountain, and he nodded. “You know, we're not too far from Death Valley.”

“Oh, yeah, there's that race they have every year. You know, the run from the very bottom of Death Valley to the peak of Mount Whitney.”

“Oh, that! Yeah! That takes place every summer, though. I mean, it makes sense—given how cold it is up there and everything but—still.”

“Right?” Alex showed her a little grin as he reached for another piece of toast. “We should go to Yosemite at some point.”

“I dunno if we can go up there, though,” she confessed. “I didn't see the sign that says that the roads are closed, but that one in particular on this side of the mountains—Tioga, because it's so high up—is closed for most of the year.”

“'Cause of black ice and whatnot,” he added.

“Right! But that's another adventure for us, if you ask me, though. When I went on the road trip with Louie, he mentioned the Eastern Sierra being so peaceful. I kinda wish I agreed with him the first time around because—it really is. There's so much to this side of California. So much to offer, so much to see, so many unique adventures away from L.A., San Diego, and the Bay Area. So much more than meets the eye.”

“It's almost as if you're showing me the one place that you go to when no one's looking,” he said with a thoughtful look on his face. Sam hesitated and then it dawned on her. She really was showing it to him. She was showing him her quiet place. “And at some point, I probably should show you mine, too.”

“You have a quiet place, too?”

He nodded at that and the black hair dye on the crown of his head seemed to fade away with the movements of his head.

“It's not where you think, though,” he explained. “If and when you and I have time and there's a right place for it, I'll show it to you. And I want it to be just you and me, too—there's only one other person I think of who's been to it and that was my mom.”

“Mama took her baby to a place to keep him quiet,” she teased him as she brought her cup of coffee to her lips.

“Yes! Exactly!” he laughed at that, and he raised his coffee cup to her and they made a toast to one another. A toast to one another and then they ate up the rest of their toast. He took one last sip of his coffee and then he leaned back in his chair.

“Feel better?” she asked him.

“Oh, yes,” he replied with a nod of his head and a hand on his stomach, “a lot better actually. I was getting ready to roll out of the car, chase something down and kill it with my bare hands.” She burst out laughing at that.

“I was, though!” he insisted. “And it was that—like—real sudden hunger, too. You know, it's like you're fine one second and then all of a sudden, it's like 'hooooly fuck, I'm starving!'” He said that last part under his breath. “It's sudden and leaves you feeling kinda sick, too. It's almost like you're carsick.”

“Ooh, yeah, that sucks,” she said with her nose wrinkled, and then she took another sip of her coffee. “It also didn't help you were actually in a car, too.”

“Right!”

One more sip of her coffee and then she wiped her mouth with her napkin.

“Shall we?” she offered him.

“We shall,” he said back to her and he put his sunglasses back on over his nose and gave his flattened stomach a loving pat. Sam led him back outside, and she held the door for him all the while.

“Thank you,” he told her and he adjusted the lapels of his windbreaker. The cold winds flooded down from the Whitney Portal and the rugged tall mountains off to the north; she huddled closer to him as she got the keys ready for the next stint of the trip and yet even more cold desolate desert.

Soon, they returned to the road and the short series of stoplights all the way to the edge of town and even more barren, wide open road. Alex peered out the window and the morning sun, which had now risen up over the windswept landscape: a fine layer of clouds blanketed those cold rays as if it behaved as a veil. The shine on those mirrored lenses appeared as more of a glow rather than a straight glare.

“So new album's gonna be called Practice What You Preach, right?” she asked him as the signs for Manzanar entered her view.

“That's the running title, actually,” he explained, “I do hope it's gonna be called that. It just feels appropriate, you know? Especially for this time and era, but at the same time, I don't wanna be like—really on the nose about the things I'm thinking of with writing lyrics.”

“The power of art!” she said. “I still owe you a demo.”

“It's okay,” he assured her, “we needed breakfast after all. And there's so much you wanna show me, too.”

“There really is, Alex. Like I said, this whole road is like a gateway to a whole bunch of adventures. A lot of things that so many don't know about, and a part of me wants to keep it all to ourselves.”

“You didn't call it a quiet place for no reason,” he pointed out.

“True.”

On the left side of the highway, the sage brush and scraggly low trees gave way to partially collapsed chain link fences and the low buildings that made up that old Japanese internment camp. The house in Elsinore felt like a prison for sure, but the sight of that old abandoned compound left Sam speechless. She took a glimpse over at Alex and the thoughtful expression still plastered on his face, even with the sunglasses upon his nose.

To think that she and him wanted nothing to do with each other at one point, much like how she didn't care for Marla at first, and to the point she was willing to take Charlie from her. She still had a long way to go with him, especially when the beautifully desolate desert gave way to even more low rolling foothills and steep slopes along those ferocious towering mountains with their thick sheets of snow, those massive, thick glaciers indicative of the Palisades, the rather treacherous part of the Sierra Nevadas. Even in broad daylight, they looked ready to take these two young kids under their darkness as if they were dragons that guarded the castle down by Mount Whitney.

All along the fine white sands under the seemingly endless droves of scraggly sage brush. All within even more black volcanic rock.

Within time, they reached Big Pine and the titular big sequoia tree at the northern end in all of its lush light greenery even in the dead of winter, like the tallest turret of the castle.

“Here's a fun li'l fact for you, Alexander,” Sam started again. “That tree right there was planted by Teddy Roosevelt.”

“Really?” He was genuinely stunned by that.

“Planted it almost a whole century ago, and it just got bigger and fuller and healthier with time.”

“Sounds like my belly,” he joked, and she laughed at that.

“Past that tree is yet another road to Death Valley. But keep going on it and you end up in Nevada and eventually the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest—right on the other side of those mountains over there.”

“Ancient bristlecone pines,” he echoed that.

“Literally some of the oldest trees in the world out there.”

“Yet another adventure for us.”

“Right?”

The Palisades soon gave way to a far more elaborate complex of rugged rough mountains, all covered with even more snow and glaciers. Meanwhile, the sun dipped behind a thicker part of clouds, such that Alex took off his sunglasses and revealed his deep set eyes to the world. The black hair dye upon the crown of his head glimmered and shone under the faint gray winter light and for a second, she swore that she saw that little tuft of gray there right over his brow once again.

“Do you plan on dyeing your hair again?” she asked him.

“Um—” He stopped and those eyes caressed over the immense corridor of land before them. “Actually—no. Unless there's a reason for it.”

“I don't want you to,” she told him. “That little tuft of gray hair is what makes you—” She hesitated for a second in search of the right word. “—unique.”

He nibbled on his bottom lip and sighed through his nose. She was sincere with that: that little tuft of premature gray set him apart from everyone else whom she had known before then.

Another fifteen miles of flat sands across the landscape and soon the first trees, the ones that weren't bristlecone pines or anything akin to them, appeared in their view. The mountains dipped away into the low hanging gray clouds and gave way to a bowl shaped valley before them. The town of Bishop emerged in their view.

“So the place that my parents and I liked to go to on the way through here,” she began as they slowed up for the main street and the deserted, rolling golf course off to the left, “it's—on my side.”

He looked out the windshield along with her. They rolled at a slow pace, past all the little shops and boutiques. The big city of the middle of nowhere right at the base of all the giant mountains. All the rocks to climb and master. All to uncover and carry the weight upon: for a fleeting moment, Sam thought of Belinda and how much she loved to work with her hands. She wondered how Belinda would fare in such a stark terrain because it all but required one to work with their hands, especially if they were artists.

She recognized that rusted sign as it poked out from the side of the road, right beyond the stoplight at the center of town.

“Ah! Here we are.”

Lucky for them, there was no one else in the parking lot given it was New Year's, and thus she eagerly took the first spot closest to the heavy wooden front doors, right in the narrow parking lot. The clouds overhead thinned out a bit for the sun's rays as it began to reach the apex of the sky: but the fact that the mountains had disappeared behind a block of white clouds told Sam that the snows were upon them.

She led him inside the bakery, into that initial narrow corridor followed by the room off to the left with all of the bread and pastries they could possibly imagine. On the far side of the room stood the case with all the fresh cookies and cakes either of them could ask for. She thought of Joey on the previous New Year's Eve, in how they could have all the ice cream they could possibly imagine some day.

A part of her felt as though she and Alex could have all the fresh pastries they could ever ask for some day themselves. Alex himself set a hand on his stomach even though they had only eaten an hour before; Sam raised two fingers to the older baker, who then took out one of the fresh dark reddish brown cookies with a kiss of pearly white frosting on the front side from the row right before her with a sheet of white tissue paper.

Alex chuckled at what she was buying for him.

“Yet another ginger snap,” he remarked.

“Except these have frosting on them—these are nothing like the one I bought for you when we were in Germany. And you're getting two this time around, too.”

“I really am going to gain weight hanging out with you,” he joked with a straight face and a shake of his head.

“It's all good for ya, son,” the baker behind the counter said. “Handmade ginger cookies.”

“Think of it as healthy weight,” she pointed out. “Healthy weight for your little body. And ginger's real good for your stomach, too.” She returned to the baker. “And I'll have one of these big round sugar cookies here, too, please.”

He kindly got the big cookie in question for her and then wrapped all three in that tissue paper, followed by a little brown paper bag. She thanked him and then the two of them doubled back towards the cashier: all the while, Sam swiped a bag of freshly baked cheesy bread from one of the racks.

“My parents love this stuff,” she told him. “It's like the ultimate road trip snack for us.”

“Just break off a piece and eat it every so often,” he followed along. “It's so humble. I kinda like it.”

“We don't have much but we have each other,” she stated.

“We don't have much but we have each other, right.”

She reached the cash register at the wooden desk first and she took out her wallet from her purse.

“I'm gonna be right over here,” he told her, and she nodded at him. She stepped forward with his ginger snap and her sugar cookie in that little paper bag as well as the cheesy bread, and the cashier rang her up in one fell swoop. She looked over at Alex as he walked on over there.

“Beautiful boy,” the cashier told her in a low voice. Sam glanced over at Alex, who gazed on at the rows of freshly baked breads on the racks on the other side of the room.

“Yeah, I guess he is,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. The cashier squinted her eyes at her.

“Hon—he's gorgeous,” she told her. “Don't lose him. It's not often you see a boy as gorgeous as him.”

Sam pursed her lips together and the cashier handed her her change. She just treated him as she would a good friend and treated him well, even with all of the complex thoughts she had in mind: she dared not look at Alex that way, especially with him still not even old enough to drink alcohol yet. She still had those thoughts within her, but thoughts would have to remain as thoughts regardless of everything else. She thanked her and beckoned Alex to follow her back outside to the gray late morning: the sun disappeared behind the thin veil of clouds once again as they returned to the car yet again.

“You smell like freshly baked bread,” she told him as he buckled in.

“And you smell—like—baked bread, too,” he retorted to her, to which she giggled at him. She fired up the car again and they doubled back to the mouth of the driveway, and back onto the main road once the light turned red. They were alone on the street: despite it being the big city of the middle of nowhere, the sidewalks had already rolled up for New Year's Eve.

She caught the next and final light green and she rounded a lefthand turn, away from the next turn off to Highway 6: she had a vague memory of that turn off, and how her father told her it extended all the way out east, all the way back to New England, but she dared not tell Alex that just yet. They had a mountain to climb in front of them.

The highway separated out into four lanes once again, two in their direction and two which headed back to Bishop: in between was a sandy barren center divider.

The clouds collected all around the summit of the gargantuan Mount Tom right before them.

“Right up this road here,” she explained as they stared the mountain straight on, “when we get to the top, is Tom's Place.”

“The place with the amazing cobbler,” he recalled.

“That's the one!”

They soon cleared the city limit and they meandered over even more barren landscape. So bare and stark, and yet there was something so endless and stunning about it all, much like the coastline. Where the coastline with Louie's presence proved to be serene and intense at the same time, the mountains paired with Alex's presence brought her in touch with herself more than ever. She dared not tell him about it as they reached a series of pastures and ranches on the edge of town.

The highway took a sharp curve around the bend and they were met with a daunting hillside.

“This part of the trip here bothers me the most,” she admitted.

“Why's that?” he asked her.

“It just goes up.”

“It just goes up?”

“All the way up.”

She realized that they were in an older car, too. She had no clue if they would reach the top still in a cool spot.

She gripped onto the rim of the steering wheel and sighed through her nose. The snows were upon them after all: she could feel it through the glass of the windshield.

She took a glimpse over at Alex and his relaxed pose, although those deep eyes were locked onto the cold pavement before them. Another glimpse and she realized how wide they had gotten with the sight before them, as if he had seen a ghost of some sort. She recognized that look in his eyes from the fire ball incident in Germany.

Sam sighed through her nose and, once she switched off the heater, she let the road guide their way.

They climbed all the way up the hillside, a continual gradual incline to the very top, high above the desert and the Owens Valley, and almost level with the mountain tops. The halfway point already had a fresh dusting of snow upon the ground.

“Jesus,” Alex muttered as the road continued on and on up the side of the hill.

“Yeah. People overheat on this mountain pass all the time.” Once the words left her lips, they passed a trailer with a water tank aboard specifically for that problem in question. She took a glance down at the narrow red needles within the gages: the one with the temperature rose a little bit but she knew their saving grace was the cold and the snow.

More snow emerged along the sides of the road. More snow, more slope. Alex shifted his weight in the seat: he clung onto the safety bar over his head. His breathing was steady but she could still see it in his eyes.

They both sat still until they spotted that sign on the side of the road that told them they reached the top of Sherwin Summit. A gentle curve downwards and then the road finally leveled out. At least a foot of snow covered either side of the road and all of the dark forests that lined the way. Miles and miles of thick dark forest covered in white snow so they resembled to those fake trees on a display at Christmas.

“Reminds me of the Black Forest,” Alex said aloud.

“Reminds me of upstate New York,” Sam followed up.

It really did, too: the highway snaked through the trees, complete with big views of Mount Tom and all the snow capped mountains before them, and Lake Crowley and the Long Valley Caldera along the way it all made her think of Finger Lakes and the thick lush forest that she and Joey drove through over to his parents' house. Alex switched the heater back on, but it was rather futile given the cold and icy feeling of everything outside the car.

She pictured Joey in the back seat right behind them as they passed the turn off up to Convict Lake as well as even more forest. She knew that, had she shown him this trip sooner, he probably would never have met Krista in the first place. He probably would love this place as well, especially with the added fact that it was all volcanic.

“This place is so stunning,” Alex remarked as he peered out the window to the vast volcanic plain, now blanketed with fresh pure white snow. “Can't believe this has been right under my nose the whole time, too.”

“Some day I'll show you Convict Lake, Rock Creek Lake, and June Lake,” she vowed as they scoured the rim of Lake Crowley: its black waters glassy under the gray sky and in between the white snow. “There's one place I haven't been to up here with my parents yet and that's Mammoth Mountain, Mammoth Lakes, and Devil's Postpile, right up this way—”

Straight ahead, Mammoth Mountain towered back against the cold gray, but soon they reached another gentle curve in the road and headed for more dark forest. More dark forest lined with small snowy clearings and tiny ponds of black icy water.

“Somewhere along the way here is Obsidian Hill,” she told him as they slithered through those tall trees, “a literal five hundred foot high pile of obsidian.”

“Volcanic glass,” he said.

“Don't take any of it, though,” she advised him. “We are in a volcano, after all.”

“Something about the goddess Pele or something?” he recalled. “I remember reading about her in that book when we were in England. The one where I read about the Wandering Jew. Like if you take something from a volcano, it'll erupt or something—I don't completely recall it.”

“Please the goddess somehow,” she declared. “But how is another question.”

They reached the top of the next ridge, albeit a low one in comparison to the hulking Obsidian Hill, which hid away back in the trees like a troll. Another sign appeared on the side of the road which told them they reached the top of Dead Man Summit. At that point, Alex set a hand on his stomach yet again.

“Ginger snap time,” she said.

“Time for a snap,” he said with a snap of his fingers. He took one out of the paper bag in between them: right underneath it was the cheesy bread. While he took a cookie for himself, she reached into that bag with one hand. With two fingers, she sloughed off a piece of that bread and stuck it in her mouth.

“Yeah, I'm gonna be so plump by the time I'm thirty,” he confessed as he broke off a piece of ginger snap and set it on his tongue.

“Let me ask you something,” she began.

“Ask me anything.”

“Why are you so concerned about your weight? Like that's something that I worry about. I've never met a guy who was so finicky about that.”

“'Cause I'm Jewish—we have health problems galore. Obesity and trouble with the heart runs in my family, too.”

“Aw, I had no idea.”

“It's okay—you didn't know. But—you know—I can't help myself sometimes. I don't care. I like to eat!”

“You grew up in the Bay Area, too. You guys aren't really known for your food so much.”

“No, we aren't! When we eat, we eat.” He took another bite of ginger snap and closed his eyes.

“Man, I wish we had Mexican hot chocolate with us,” she declared. “You ever had that?”

“YES,” he replied with his eyes so big that he resembled to a cartoon character.

“I made a couple of cups of that for Cliff when we were together,” she said in a soft voice, “he loved it. And I feel like that cookie there would go excellent with a little cup of that.”

“Oh, my god, talk about spicy,” he said as he covered his mouth with his free hand. He then swallowed. “By the way, what's the food like over in New York? I only caught a small sliver of it the times Testament went out that way to record but is it really as extensive as everyone says it is?”

“That's an understatement,” she told him. “Alex, I only lived there for three years but I feel like I only scratched the surface. Marla and Bel know far more about it than I do and I think they get overwhelmed from time to time.”

“Jew boy paradise,” he said as he took another bite.

They passed the June Lake Junction followed by a small series of frozen creeks in the woods, and then they were met with a watershed in the shape of a small valley. A thin layer of snow covered the grass out there. Once Alex finished his ginger snap, he licked his lips and gave his black hair a little toss back. In that stint of the trip alone, the black hair dye faded even more to the point Sam could actually see those grays once again.

“Kinda thirsty,” he said.

“We'll stop in Lee Vining and get some water,” she assured him, “we need to get gas anyway.”

Indeed, they turned the next bend, which brought them down lower into the watershed: off before them stood the noxious glassy salt water Mono Lake. They turned another bend and she caught a glimpse of the salty turrets down by the shoreline.

“I remember Mark Twain talking about this lake,” he said aloud, “how it's so salty that it's like swimming in brine.”

“Yeah, it smells, too,” she added, and she couldn't help but think of the East River back in New York all the while; “and not how the beach and the ocean smell, either. Salty and even more volcanic than Lake Crowley. Not the best combination for humans.”

Even though it was midday, the shadows of the mountains next to them cast down upon them like a veil. Sam thought about Zelda and the name she wanted to give the Cherry Suicides' album, that of Black Veils. She was yet another person she wished could see this trip with her and Alex.

They passed the turn off for Tioga Road, which led into Yosemite, and all the while, he muttered, “some day... some day...” to himself.

“Some day, indeed,” she vowed; the road dipped down and they slowed up a bit for the town of Lee Vining. She brought them to the gas station right in the center of town, where he offered to fill them up and she offered to get him some water. She was the only person in that gas station, too, such that she considered merely taking the water bottles for herself when the clerk in the back stopped her in her tracks. They had a good laugh but she was in fact serious about it.

“Man, there is no one here,” Alex said as he stood before the tank door and held the pump steady.

“Middle of the day on New Year's Eve,” she told him, “all the hicks and the tourists went home or they're in the city.”

Within time, and after he washed his hands, they were back on the road and they scoured the edge of Mono Lake. He peered out the window at those dark waters as they loomed just under the road's edge. Lucky for them, the snow hadn't yet come again and they cleared the lake's edge in no time. They stared straight ahead to the next kink in the road, or rather series of kinks in the road as they ascended up another side of a mountain.

“Yet another hill,” he said as he took a piece of cheesy bread for himself.

“Well, at least this time around they got it right,” she assured him as they turned the first right hand corner.

The next one turned left and they rose up a bit. The next one to the right. To the left. To the right. And on the third left one, Alex clasped a hand to his forehead.

“You okay?” she asked him.

“Kinda dizzy. This road is making me dizzy.”

“It's alright, we're almost at the top. Just one more little grind up this hill and—”

A sign appeared on the side of the road that told them they reached the top of Conway Summit, at eight thousand feet above sea level. They made a sharp right turn and began on down the other side of the hill. There at the top, the snow was the thickest it had ever been: tall steep drifts lined the sides of the separated highway as if they were genuine walls.

“Poor guy,” she said aloud.

“This is such a new thing for me,” he confessed, “being a city boy and all.”

“The rough country life is not for the faint of heart,” she told him. “Although a part of me sees you thriving out here.”

“Nah, I'd rather be in the city. Although that doesn't mean I can't not appreciate the wilderness, mind you.”

The road snaked along the other side of the hill: Sam peered out her window at the wispy light gray clouds over the mountains on the far side of the valley.

“Over that way is Twin Lakes,” she pointed out. “My mom's family visited this place so much when she was growing up.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, my great aunt is buried down here in Bridgeport.”

They scoured the edge of a huge snowy pasture and right before they reached the outskirts of that small town, they passed yet another junction to a road less travelled, the highway up to Yerington.

“We're getting close, Alex,” she told him as they strolled through Bridgeport, which too had buttoned up for New Year's Eve. “Another eighty miles—I think.” At the edge of town was another sign, but a thick layer of snow and ice obscured the words from her view.

Another straight shot across the pasture ended by a sharp right hand corner past an old dilapidated house surrounded by barren cottonwood trees, and they headed back to another series of hills.

“How's the car doing, by the way?” he asked her as he reached for his second ginger snap.

“Doing excellent! The only time I was kind of worried about it was when we went up the Sherwin grade. It got a little warm but it never went any higher because it's so cold outside. I dread to think how it'd be if we went in the summer time.”

“Oh, right? And how're you doing?”

“I'm doing excellent! My hands are a little stiff, but I've got it, though.” He flashed her a wink and took a little nibble off of the cookie.

The hills only rose up around them as if they too withheld dragons inside. All the dips and curves in the road and they were soon at the top of a hill. Another sign told them they reached the top of Devil's Gate Summit, and the fourth and final one to boot, and the one that ran adjacent to a creek.

But then Sam remembered.

Within a matter of minutes, those low snowy hills to the left gave way to high stony columns that looked as though they were about to close in all around them. And that creek gave way to a full on rumbling river that ran parallel to the road.

“Let me guess,” Alex started as he licked the crumbs off of his fingers and put his sunglasses back on, “this is the—Walker River?”

“Yes! It's the west fork, too. Even in the summer time, that water is so cold and crisp.”

“Just looks cold,” he remarked as he took a drink of water.

The black river waters washed over beds upon beds upon beds of smooth stones: every so often, a small waterfall emerged out in the open. Meanwhile, the two lane road wound through the meandering canyon like the full body of a serpent. A big beautiful serpent, lined with dense evergreen trees and tall high stony cliffs, to which the head brought them to more snow covered grass land and the rim of Lake Topaz.

“The stateline, Alex!” she declared as they zipped through the snowy scraggly trees.

“Just saw a sign back there that literally called this place 'the quiet side of California,'” he told her.

“And that's exactly what this is,” she assured him with a wink.

They rode all along the edge of the lake, which too appeared so cold and crisp that a mere glimpse sent a shiver down her spine. A final straight shot uphill and—

“Welcome to the Silver State!” Alex proclaimed as he took another drink of water.

“You know, I had a feeling we'd get here by the middle of the afternoon,” she told him as they passed a small casino on the side of the road. “Anyways—welcome home, Alex.”

“Ah, you're taking me to Carson City!” he declared.

“One of the three places I call home,” she continued, “the others being New York City and L.A.”

“Wow,” he breathed out.

The road led throughout more low hillsides and low forests, this time of stubby little bristlecone pines and pinion pines, and then they reached Gardnerville and Minden. Another ten miles across a flat valley and they reached a low ridge. On the other side was Carson City, that old familiar crown jewel that always felt so close and so far away at the same time.

A little ways down the main street and she turned right on Clearview Drive, followed by another left onto Silver Sage Drive.

That old familiar neighborhood, all of those old familiar houses now covered in a blanket of that infamous powdery snow. If only Charlie was there to see it for himself. If only Cliff could see it all, especially when held in comparison to the house in Reno.

“So this is where you grew up,” he said aloud.

“One of the neighborhoods, anyway,” she corrected him. “This one, one up in Reno, and the one down in Elsinore.”

“This is all so precious,” he declared, “it'd be like me taking you to the place I grew up.” He froze and then he looked over at her. She raised her eyebrows at him.

“Funny, uh—there's another place I wanna take you, too,” she declared, “but we gotta hustle, though. It might snow again.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She pulled up to the stop sign and nibbled on her bottom lip.

She remembered the way up. It would prove to be a bit of a challenge, especially since they had already gone over four hundred miles in that car. But she was willing to do it for him.

She made another left so as to head back to Carson Street.

Up the ever so slight hill, past the car dealerships and the little restaurants featured on the way out of town, and she recognized that old turn off to that big mountain road. She had only gone up that way once before and she was rather small when it happened. But that winding mountain road felt like visiting an old friend again.

She was amazed that it was even open despite all of the snow on the ground.

Alex shook his head a little bit at one point but she kept her focus on the pavement before her. A sharp turn followed by another and another so as to resemble yet another snake. He parted those sensual lips and let out a low whistle in response to the feeling within him.

But they reached the top, and all of those thick lush trees clustered together against the dense snow, and Sam recognized even more glassy black waters on his side, cradled by the stark mountain top.

“Spooner Lake, Alex,” she announced.

“Holy wow,” he breathed out as he ran his fingers through his black hair.

But it was an appetizer for what awaited them at the very top and beyond the forests and the next bend in the road as it overlooked the enormous valley down below, and as far as they both knew, the entire world at their whim. They had climbed the mountain to see the world, but before them was what she held dear, and for him in particular.

The snowy scapes cradled those freezing, perfectly still black waters before them. Where they had seen the ugly salt waters of Mono Lake, they were met with the massive beauty of Lake Tahoe. Alex lifted his mirrored sunglasses off of his nose for a better look before him.

“One of the places my mom loved going to when she was growing up,” Sam started again as the road gently dipped downward, “was Incline Village.”

“Is that what this is down here?”

“Nah, this is Glenbrook over here. Incline's over that way—” She pointed out his side of the windshield and the lush banks of snow that covered the forest along the lake side. “I have no doubt that had she not picked Catalina, she would've moved there. To the city by the lake.”

“What stopped her?”

“Her publisher's based out of L.A.”

“I see.”

“We'd have to turn around and head back to Spooner Lake to get there, too. But—” She bowed her head for a better look out the windshield. Even though it was only five o'clock in the afternoon, the night was upon them, as were the storm clouds overhead. All the way up they had gathered around the mountain summits, but now they were officially upon a mountain summit, and thus it warranted snow.

“I don't know if we can get back over there before the snow comes in, Alex,” she said aloud. “Or back down for that matter. That road sucks when it snows.”

“What do you think we should do?” he asked her, concerned.

“Well... we have that blanket in the back and we have our jackets with us.”

“That means we gotta fold the seats back, though,” he pointed out.

“And? Here—”

She slowed to a stop at the next side street, which brought them closer to the water's edge as well as a few long low buildings, including a bar. Once they had come onto smoother pavement, the winds picked up. She pulled behind the bar, away from the water and ultimately the incoming wind and the blizzard.

“We'll park behind this bar here so we're out of the wind.”

“Eat some more of that cheesy bread, too,” he said.

“I'll go into the bar here if you want something more to eat,” she promised him. “I don't have much left on me except enough to get us back down the hill and then over to some place like the Bay Area, but that's for later on, though.”

“And I'll keep you warm,” he promised her.

Five o'clock in the afternoon and yet Sam was exhausted, with no desire to go any further. Indeed, she could see it on his face as well. Both of them had traveled hundreds of miles together and without the sense of a tour lingering over him in particular. She killed the engine and they both climbed out. Both of them wore windbreakers and yet Sam knew it wouldn't be enough. He opened the passenger door and took the blanket off of the seat before he adjusted it back: she did the same when flurries fluttered down from the darkening sky overhead.

“I got another couple of jackets back here, too,” he told her as he took a pair of dark puffy jackets out from under the seat closest to him. “Use these for pillows—”

He rolled up the first one and lay it down in front of him, and did the same for the next one.

Sam brushed the extraneous snow off of her head before she climbed in and onto the flattened back seat. Alex followed suit, although he had to skirt around the edge of the seat so he could lay right next to her. He shut that door above their heads and she shut the other door down by their feet. He then took the blanket and spread it over their bodies.

“Just like that—yeah—yeah—yeah, you got it?” He lay there on his side with the jacket rolled up right under his head; she nestled down right next to him with her head upon the other jacket. She lay right there with only an inch of clearance between herself and the tip of his aquiline nose. Four hundred miles of driving and they both had had enough despite it being early still.

“I do,” she told him in a hushed voice.

“Okay.”

His slender body was so very warm; even though he had slimmed down a great deal, his stomach was still very soft. She kept her arms around his slim waist: even as a thin, almost delicate young man, he had rather prominent hipbones and such thick sinewy thighs. Even when thin and having shed most of his childhood weight, he was still as warm and soft as a teddy bear. She pictured him as even more delicate in a few years time at the rate he was going at with his weight: even having eaten to his heart's desire at the house down in Catalina, he still maintained that slim figure. She tucked her head under his chin so she could better feel the warmth from his neck.

To think that she was laying like this in a bed in West Germany not long ago. To think that she had no one next to her, and for months, in that bed in the house down in Lake Elsinore. That room all to herself for months, such that it felt like a prison of sorts.

“This feels so weird,” she confessed.

“Why's that?”

“Well—because the last time I got this close with a guy was Joey. And I dunno if we're even a thing anymore.”

Alex raised an eyebrow at that. She kept her hand on the small of his back: it wasn't long ago she lay the same way with Joey before and with her hands down lower on him. Maybe she overthought the whole thing and he really was fooling around. No way she could ask him at that point, however.

Alex shivered a bit.

“Are you cold?” she gently asked him.

“A little bit—I'm feeling kind of a draft on the side of my neck. I also think I've lost too much weight.”

“What makes you think that?” she asked him.

“Even under the blankets, I'm cold.”

With a bit of a struggle, Sam lifted her hand and she tugged on the blanket a bit so it covered the side of his neck. She brought her hand towards the small of his back and she burrowed even closer to him so he was warm. Outside, the snow pummeled on the street and the sidewalk beyond the car: given they were behind a brick wall, every so often some of the snow hit the roof or the hood, but not enough to deafen them.

“I will say this,” he started again with a sniffle.

“What's that?”

“I'm glad we parked behind this bar here—” His voice was low and crisp sounding, as though he had a sore throat. “Listen to those winds.”

Sam nestled even closer next to him as the winds picked up out there to where they formed a ghostly howl. He may have felt cold, but his chest was warm and his body was soft and tender. He bowed his head a bit so he could better keep in the warmth between them.

“God, you're so soft,” she told him, “you're like a little teddy bear.”

“I'm gonna say this, though,” he said, “I'm sure you can feel my arms.”

“I do.” Indeed, even though his body was soft, his lanky arms felt so firm and toned, even when covered in that thick windbreaker. “I see you just being so elegant, though,” she confessed as she recalled his life's wish. “All wrapped in lace and standing tall.”

“I dunno 'bout lace,” he said. “Velvet, maybe. Velvet with—silk.”

“All silky soft,” she joked and he chuckled at that.

She had no memory of what happened after that: they both fell asleep, and she woke up to total darkness and the howl of the cold winter winds. And yet even in the wake of the noise outside, Sam caught the sound of voices on the street. Against the wind, she swore she heard church bells ringing.

“Happy New Year!” a man shouted. “Happy 1989!”

“Happy New Year, Samantha,” Alex whispered to her in a broken voice.

“Happy New Year, Alex,” she whispered back. She was practically squeezing his thin little body at that point, but she knew that he would be toasty warm in the morning.

[belladonnaandulriched]

the dead of night | chapter one

I had no idea if I could stand up right, but then again I watched Frankie lift himself up on the ground as if he was doing his own push ups. He brushed himself off and turned to me with a hand extended out. I held onto his hand; he used his other hand to set onto my shoulder to help me up.

When he and I were face to face, he gazed on at me with a frightened look upon his face.

“What year do you think it is?” he asked me in a low voice; I glanced over at Hannah and Joey nearing us. I returned to him and shook my head.

“What are you guys doing here?” she asked us.

“We were—looking—for something,” Frankie sputtered and I could

“We were looking for something, too,” Hannah replied as she put her arm around Joey's lower back: I spotted her hand on his hip. The solemn look on her face told it all. Francine had just gone missing.

“D'you guys call the police?” I asked Joey.

“Francine's parents did, but neither of us felt like it was going to help matters,” he confessed with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Yeah, especially since she went missing in Canada,” Hannah added, to which her face fell. I never realized how much she resembled to that of a doll with her full round face and milky skin and her deep dark eyes. Kristina had long blonde almost silvery white hair which reminded me of Hannah's near black locks, but if I recalled it well, Hannah was part Native American like Joey himself; except she was also part Scandinavian rather than half Italian like him.

All I knew from their story was that they met when they were kids and they separated some time in middle school, because she moved over to Rochester and he became Mr. Hockey Player. They found each other again when he entered the fold at Anthrax and we had put out Armed and Dangerous with him, and then I had no idea what happened after that. They separated again after Spreading the Disease and then we let Joey go before State of Euphoria, and there they were again. I had my hair back again, though.

“Yeah, Scott, I remember you sayin' we had to put production on hold just to find Francine,” Joey pointed out with a slight smirk on his face. Didn't really help matters, but I knew Frankie and I had to go along with it. But then again, Joey was still babyfaced like when he first joined, so all I could assume was we had gone back to just prior to our showing him the door.

“Uh, yeah,” was all I could say. He chuckled at me and all I could feel was my face growing warm.

“Yeah, I remember you actually calling up me and Joey and saying 'production is being put on hold because it's an emergency we're dealing with here',” Hannah recalled, complete with a telephone gesture up to her ear. So they were living together. “You don't remember doing that? You also told us to meet you here at this very corner.”

“Yeah, it was like just this morning,” Joey added.

“Of course I remember it!” I exclaimed. “It's just—I didn't think you guys'd get here as quickly as you did.”

“Hey, if it's Francine or my mom or anybody we care about, we're gonna get here stat, Scott,” Joey assured me.

“Stat Scott,” she echoed. “Gonna stat some Scott.”

“Bit of a tongue twister, too,” Frankie pointed out, which made the two of them laugh.

“Well, come along—I see Nancy and her new boy up ahead,” Hannah gestured up the block. Frankie shivered and followed her along; I ran my fingers through that stringy hair around the crown of my head and followed suit. Frankie and I emerged from the alleyway to the sidewalk and the street, where we were met with those tall buildings making up the skyline of New York City. I wondered who Nancy was as I stared up at the apartment buildings on the block. Something metallic drifted up above the rooftop of the building closest to us. I didn't what it was but something about it made me squirm in the soles of my shoes. I peered down to the street before us.

A pillar of smoke floated up from a manhole cover and vaporized into nothing. Next to the pillar was a small neon blue light on a post. Something moved in the light and the smoke.

A ghost. A faint ghost about the color of the blue neon emerged from the fog. Three more appeared from the vent on the storm drain before they vaporized into nothing.

Nightmares. Nightmares were all I could think about.

I could hear them talking to one another next to Frankie and me.

“It's okay—we're gonna find her,” I heard him whisper to her. I turned my head to find Hannah putting her arms around Joey's svelte waist, and his resting his hand on the back of her head. I wondered about the warmth between the two of them, and it made me miss Kristina even more.

I glanced up at ahead to another dark haired woman standing on the corner with—

“Is that Geddy Lee,” Frankie blurted out.

Joey and Hannah glanced over at us with beaming grins on their faces. I couldn't resist the grin on my face at the sight of that hooked nose and those feathery bangs over deep set eyes. He looked nothing like from this era, however: he had shed his long hair by this era, or so I thought. I wondered about him, especially when they entered our view and I noticed his skin was smooth, much like Joey's face.

“Hey, you two,” Joey squeaked out; his voice quivered and waved with excitement.

“There they are,” I heard Nancy say. She showed off a big red wine colored smile at us and gestured towards the four of us.

“Ah, the infamous New Yorkers,” Geddy's Canadian accent cut through me like a knife. I couldn't believe it when he neared us.

“Scott, Frank—this is my friend Nancy Kensington,” Hannah introduced us. “Art student from Seattle.”

“And I've met ya already,” Joey replied with a wink of his eye.

“I know you have,” Nancy taunted him with a grin on her face.

“By the way, what even happened with you and Chris?” Hannah asked her.

“We broke up—it went downhill pretty quickly, like... over the course of a few months. Dominique and Matt broke up, too.”

“Oh, damn,” Frankie remarked.

“Yeah,” Nancy raised her dark eyebrows in answer. “He and I broke up but I found him, though.” She glanced over to Geddy and those large specs over his narrow face, to which he nodded his head from side to side.

“That girl also disappeared in Toronto, too,” he pointed out. “We came together out of intensity.”

“Francine?” Frankie corrected him.

“That's right! She went missing in the dead of night in Toronto.”

“He's more of a cop than a cop,” Joey cracked, which brought a laugh out of all of us.

“Well, let's get out of the street, shall we?” Nancy suggested as she adjusted the shoulder strap of her bag. “You guys look cold and I feel like there's something watching us.” She peered up at the apartment buildings again, and I followed her gaze to the metallic object up above the rooftop.

“What even is that?” I asked her. “Do you know?”

“It's a drone,” said Hannah. “I'm glad it's way the hell up there, too. Joey said he feels weird when one comes closer to him.”

“Yeah, Lars and I were over in Boston a while back and we saw one of those,” Joey recalled.

“I've seen a few up in Canada, too,” Geddy added as he put his arm around Nancy's shoulder. “You get like this shaky, frightful feeling within you—like you're about to be attacked by something vicious.” He pointed across the street to a small bright lit cafe.

“Let's go there—looks warm and toasty in there.”

“We can have a cup of Joey and a glass of wine,” Hannah declared.

“Exactly!” he laughed. Joey and the girls stepped towards the curb, and Frankie stood next to Joey with his arms folded across his chest, even though he wore a light sweater. Geddy, meanwhile, turned to me. I could see those eyes of his digging deep within me behind the gradient shades. He gestured for me to come closer to him.

“What era are you from?” he asked me in a low enough voice for me to hear over the slight noise of the street.

“The pandemic era,” I said. “Frankie and me both—we came back to find Francine and for me to meet up with—someone dear to me.”

“A young lady?”

“Yeah. A girl I went to school with and—kinda had a thing with. It was totally a secret so no one from that era knows I'm here.”

“Well—Alex and I came back to redo things for Presto and Hold Your Fire, but apparently year numbers are things you can miss upon time travel, especially when you have a wild mind such as mine. We wanted to hit it through again, so we tried again.”

“And now—you're here.”

“We're here. Well, I am, anyways. Alex is back home with his girlfriend and his baby.”

I raised his eyebrows at him.

“And yes. Neil is with us, too.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He gestured for me to come in closer to him. He peered over at Joey, Frankie, Hannah, and Nancy at the curb.

“I know how transient everything can be,” he whispered to me. “I know how things can end, and so quickly.”

Something caught my eye.

I recognized her long platinum blonde hair down to her waist. Like one of the ghosts roaming about the street, except her dress and her cloak whipped behind her in the winds rather than become part of the scenery. I knew that guitar case on her back anywhere. Geddy followed my gaze.

“Is that her?” I nodded my head.

“Kristina!” I exclaimed and my voice echoed over the pavement before us. She turned her head to show me her deep set dark eyes, a sharp contrast to that long blonde hair. Her eyes fixated onto me. I thought I would never see those eyes again following the release of Volume 8.

The corners of her mouth curled up into a warm Mona Lisa type smile.

“Kristina!” I repeated, to which she hurried towards me. She gripped onto the strap of her guitar case and hurried over to me: strands of her long blonde hair streamed behind her head. Her black lace skirt billowed behind her legs like a sail. A firm feeling emerged inside of my throat. Over twenty years without her, and yet it was about to hold off for the time being for me.

“Hey, Scott,” she greeted me in that kind voice once she came within earshot.

[sorinkavglazy]

I’m really sorry it took me so long but here it is!

I’d like to preface my Tosca take with a peek into my thought process. During the Digital Opera 2.0 there was a round table about the state of professional opera critique in the modern world and among other things everybody mentioned how modern critics often use cinematic comparisons to express their thoughts and feelings about any given performance using said comparisons: “Oh, that was like (insert a name of a famous film director or a well-known cinematic moment)!”. In my Tosca take I’d like to turn that around a little bit… One other thing everybody’s saying about successful operatic experiences – it’s that some magical combination of new, unexpected and familiar, easily instinctively predictable is the key, or at least one of the keys to success. So, why not use subtle, semi-subtle or even sometimes on its face obvious film/video references as points of familiarity in a performance to make it work on emotional and contextual level?

On the technical side ideally my staging would require a turning circle stage thingy but I can come up with a couple of ways to do it differently from a technical standpoint if need be!

Floria Tosca, a celebrated jazz singer - soprano Mario Cavaradossi, a photographer - tenor Baron Scarpia, chief of police - baritone Cesare Angelotti, Civil Rights movement activist - bass A ‘Sacristan’ – a photography shop employee/janitor - baritone Spoletta, a police officer - tenor Sciarrone, another police officer - bass A Prison guard - bass A Car Wash ‘boy’ - alto Police officers, worshipers, various townsfolk

Ok, so while the public is gathering I want there to be the sun rise over the sea shore with beautiful cliffs projected onto the curtain… When the orchestra and the conductor’s in and we see a faded sign saying ‘Rome, IT’ with an impossible to read number of residents, like it’s smudged or something – it can be swiftly erected or simply projected onto the curtain. Three famous Scarpia accords and a disheveled man is running across the avant scene… The curtain goes up.

Act I 

In front of the audience there’s a square. A very recognizable Back to the Future/Gilmore Girls American screen town main square, but the coloring of everything is not bright… It’s like sepia-pastel. There’s a church (white with columns), a barber shop, a town hall with a tall clock tower and some other businesses including a photographer’s studio. As the scene rotates, we see the insides – the studio is divided into two parts – a public one with a lot of smiling families’ photos and a platform for staged photo shoots and a private one, where the photographs are developed. There’s a huge pink Cadillac golden-era-of-American-middle-class style parked in the square. 

The disheveled man (Angelotti) enters the square from the corner opposite to the parked car nursing an injured arm in a makeshift sling. He searches the base of one of the church’s columns, finds a key, wants to run to the car but sees a cop, who is putting a piece of paper with a fine on the windshield. The man freezes and hides in the photo shop instead.

An elderly black guy wearing his best church clothes with a paper bag full of food enters the stage, he sees that the photographer’s door is ajar, enters the shop, takes off his hat and jacket, puts on an apron and starts straightening the shop up. Then the photographer himself enters and the action shifts to the back room where he looks through the negatives and photos – these are photos of demonstrations and civil rights movement unrest and not of smiling families. Finally he comes across a very artistic photo of a woman – we can’t see her full face but she’s blond and beautiful, she’s covering herself with a big feathery fan. ‘Recondita armonia’. The black man sweeps the floor disapprovingly and finally makes the photographer go to the front part of the shop while he cleans the dark room.

The disheveled man appears from behind the folding screen. Their exchange ensues. They keep looking out of the window but there are more and more people and what’s more important cops in the square – the shops are opening. The photographer hears his lover approaching and hides the man again, having given him the bag of food. Photographer’s lover – a jazz singer appears in a magnificent white dress with flowers clearly given to her by her fans. She’s a gorgeous black woman. He goes outside to talk to her – she’s suspicious and unhappy to talk to him in the street where everybody can see them, they come inside, the scene continues until she sees the blond woman’s photo left on the counter. She’s jealous and furious. He finally rips the photo to pieces and she leaves. Photographer sends the man in the apron out to give the flowers his lover left back to her and while he’s gone leaves with the man through the back door.

The police enter the square. The police chief sees the pink car then the photo shop – the only shop with the sign ‘closed’ on the door and goes straight to it with his men. They search the shop, then the black man comes back, then the singer. The policemen show the chief, who is playing with a fan used in the blond woman’s photo, the paper bag and some bloody rags – the man’s sling is among them – it definitely was a woman’s pink neckerchief once. They break the door and go into the back room and find the photos and negatives. When the singer comes the police chief shows her more photos and negatives with the blond woman on them. She leaves to confront her lover. 

There are more and more people coming into the square – children are running around, playing and mocking the old black man at times. The police chief comes and everyone’s apprehensive when it becomes apparent that people are here to see the travelling preacher – a scene of American protestant fundamentalist rampant religious devotion ensues – with people shaking, speaking in tongues, falling to the ground maybe… Some are instantly cured by the preacher’s touch. Finally he’s lifted on the people’s shoulders and brought into the church. ‘Ta Deum’ – the police chief stands in front of the whole scene and during the final accords he slashes the tires of the pink Cadillac.

Act II

The objects in the square are rearranged like we look at them from a different angle, and a temporary scene is near the end of being finished – carpenters are collecting their tools, some other people are putting patriotic decorations around, some musicians are already here rehearsing or taking their instruments out of their cases behind the drawn curtain – in front of the curtain there’s a lot of public walking in the square. It’s getting late.

As the stage piece turns we see the insides of the police chief’s office: every inch of the walls is covered with the hunting trophies. There’s a massive – totalitarian dictator style table and a window into the square. The whole scene goes in this room without turning back into the square. There are plenty of steal arms and firearms in the room but Tosca kills Scarpia with the knife he leaves on the table recklessly and she takes the knife with her afterwards. (I want her to wear the red dress. Her dress should be the brightest spot in the whole performance and I want her to stick the knife into his neck. I want blood!)

I also want her to leave him in a natural pose – like she definitely wanted to cover the killing. She was going to at least try to save her lover and get away for as long as possible. I want to see (and hear) that determination!

Act III 

In this part, the scene is again divided into three segments. One is a brick wall with a police car standing in front of it. A car wash boy (it’s really a girl dressed as a boy in the overalls, a white sleeveless top and a peaked cap brings a bucket of foamy water and starts washing the police car. A couple of cops are smoking and ogling… And I really want the cops to look repulsive – don’t give me a bunch of cute mimans guys – give me older, overweight and bold with sweaty armpits…

Then the stage turns and reveals two segments separated by a brick wall – I want it to divide the scene in two equal parts at this point – one is a back room of a police station where Mario is held in a cage. While the other is the street/yard next to it. In the background of the street segment we can see the night sky – the same one we saw over the see before the start so we get the sense that there’s a precipice there. (Maybe even put a danger sign on the brink or something!) The sky’s getting lighter as the act progresses.

The jailer lets Mario out of his cage to write the letter, but never leaves him alone – stands in the corner and smokes instead. The condemned talks to Tosca through the bars, then she’s escorted into the street rather unceremoniously. Next, the cops beat him senseless and finally shoot him in the back through a pillow to muffle the sound, then they stage a break-out attempt and finally push his body into the street. Tosca runs to him and discovers he’s dead.  

Next, all hell breaks loose, but I want her to fight using the knife, not just run away, and then jump. Oh, and she’s wearing male clothes, very similar to her lover’s clothes, like she’s wearing his clothes (but they magically kind of fit her, you know like it happens in movies).

So, here you have it! My take on Tosca. A bit chaotic but it’s always difficult to put such things into words even when you can see it in your head very clearly.

[angrylizardjacket]

Holding Court In A Crown {Roger Taylor}

Sequel to And All The Queen’s Men {Roger Taylor}

A/N: 3630 words. Giselle is fun to write and I love her. Another article style, based off of many conversations between @ginghampearlsnsweettea and I. Let me know what you think.

[And All The Queen’s Men ‘verse masterpost]

HOLDING COURT IN A CROWN - GISELLE TAYLOR in conversation with Vogue UK about her fashion evolution through the decades. (Published June, 1991)

When stepping into the Taylor home, it becomes immediately apparent that this is a home in which public image has always been very important. Gold and Platinum albums alike line the front foyer, shining reminders of the achievements of both artists who reside here. It’s surprisingly modern, hardwood floors and large windows that allow light to stream in, though the house itself is smaller than one might expect. Giselle herself greets me in the front hall, looking carefully casual in a flattering, warm yellow summer dress, that hits just above her knees, and a pair of matching yellow slip on shoes.

I’m lead through the house, past closed doors, one of which I’m told is a personal recording studio, into a open-planned kitchen-dining area. It’s a strange marriage of two aesthetics, no pun intended, the German-inspired open planned living with the dark counters, appliances, and features that make the space feel a little smaller, though it comes together to make something modern and chic, and perfectly suited to both Giselle and her husband’s images.

“Roger’s with the girls,” she tells me, referring to her daughters, pouring us both a glass of water in some of the fanciest crystal glasses I’ve ever seen, “not that he wouldn’t jump at the chance to talk about his “fashion choices”,” her air quotes, not mine, “but I thought I’d spare you the half hour argument about the wine stain, and all the other, sundry fashion choices of mine that he likes to take credit for.”

Giselle herself admits that she’s always been very fortunate in terms of fashion, “I mean, I look good in everything,” though there’s an air of self deprecation about it, “Actually, I’ve had a certain liberty with my work attire that not a lot of people have, unless you’re in the entertainment industry.” What began with a rented cocktail dress bloomed into one of the most influential fashion timelines of the 70s and 80s.

Beginning her career in an establishment modeled after American prohibition-era speakeasies, Giselle started off wearing cocktail dresses rented from the pub itself. “I actually did start off as a waitress, but for that you just had to provide your own black pants and white top, you know, wait-staff attire.” When the pub’s regular singer leaves, Giselle auditions to be her replacement, “they were just grateful I could fit into her dress, I could lipsync for all they cared.” Except, as well all know, Giselle can sing, and begun to make a name for herself in the community that frequented the pub.

Pulling out a polaroid of herself and music industry giant Ray Forrester, she shows me the only proof she has of the dress that started it all. It’s a rather ill-fitting, wine-coloured, sateen slip dress, it looks cheap, and according to Giselle, “it itched like crazy, it was cleaned once a week, and I was just glad that I was the only singer, some of the members of the jazz band had interchangeable costumes.” We both shudder at that, and she puts the photo on the counter.

As soon as she was given some modicum of control over her wardrobe, she took full advantage of it. Without a coherent aesthetic solidified by the release of her first album, Giselle admits she used the tour for Velvet Roses to experiment with both fabrics and styles. I personally have always favoured the midnight blue, velvet bouffant-style dress she wore during her stops in Belfast and Paris, but she goes on to praise the white, silk slip dress she had during her stop in West Berlin.

“Silk! Oh the silk, I dream about that dress sometimes,” she laughs a little, and now that we’ve begun to discuss her tour outfits, she leads me upstairs, “at the time it was the most comfortable thing I’d worn… ever; being able to work, to perform in something so luxury? It was a blessing.”

Her closet, at least the closet she stores her tour garments in, is separate from her bedroom, and locked. She’s got the key in her pocket, prepared, of course, for the interview, and as we step in I can hear the hum of a dehumidifier, and feel the chill of the air conditioning.

“It’s my one real extravagance.” As she turns on the lights, we’re greeted to the sight of a room, approximately four meters deep and half as wide, lined with railings that are practically stuffed with garment bags of varying sizes, and the end of the little room has a built in area for her jewel toned and bejewelled shoes alike. Three mannequins pose in the ample amount of space in the centre of the room, each wearing one of her most iconic outfits.

Each section of the racks around the side are carefully labelled by year, and it takes only a moment for Giselle to go through the section labelled 1971 before she’s pulling that same white dress from a garment bag. It still looks pristine, and when she offers for me to feel it, I understand what she’s saying.

“I’ve always tried to keep a very high standard in term of the materials I wear,” it was the first part of her aesthetic identity that was formed. “I’d never really had access to luxury on this scale before; I’d lived in sweaters and jeans for most of my [university] days; I was one of those girls in the little skirts and beaded tops at clubs- I lived my life in gogo boots every weekend of my first year.” Apparently she still has her favourite pair in the back of her personal closet, but seems hesitant to show me.

When asked what prompted her aesthetic shift, she reveals her passion for luxury stage-wear was only part of the decision. “I’d go on stage in silk pyjamas like Hugh Hefner if I could, but it’s not my brand.” Forrester was a big motivating force behind her solidification as the picture of elegance.

We get to the first of the mannequin dresses now, the fitted, black, off the shoulder cocktail dress, shining with sequins and beads, a perfect frozen reminder of her performance on Top of the Pops. To see it in person, still pristine, I get hit with just a hint of nostalgia, as does Giselle herself it seems. Marvelling at it with arms crossed over her chest, I’m granted a closer look at what was quite possibly the most iconic outfit of the 1972 lineup on the hit British musical program. The gloves themselves are more intricate than first imagined; what was assumed to just be red glitter is actually hand stitched, red sequins from the tips of the finger all the way to the wrist where it fades to chunky, red glitter, glued on and somehow width standing the test of time, to then dissolve into fine and sparsely scattered red glitter from the mid-forearm to the elbow. The beads and sequins on the dress itself are affixed with barely noticeable, shiny red thread, that gives the dress dimension up close. Giselle cites Gothic Romanticism as an inspiration to add depth to her jazz-bar persona, as well as the theatrics of musical theatre, going so far as to called the dress the ‘Merry Murderess’ despite the fact that the musical Chicago premiered almost three years after the dress’ initial debut.

Despite this look being regarded as one of her classics, and therefore setting the standard for her public image for the years to come, there’s no denying that Giselle didn’t enjoy experimenting with her outfits.

“I’ve never technically worn pants on stage,” as we move further into the room, she begins to pull various garment bags from the racks seemingly at random, “skirts, skorts, shorts - which some might argue are close enough - dresses, and even full jumpsuits, but never actual pants; I’ve always been worried that they were too masculinising for my act.” Moving on to the rack labeled 1975, she pulls out a particularly slim bag, and from it she pulls a pair of shorts made of what looks like liquid gold, but I know is made of velvet, with suspenders to match. It hangs over a sheer, flowing, cream crop-top with bell sleeves.

This outfit is cited as the first time she had deviated from her skirts and dresses, though the outfit itself is still exquisite and has an air of regality. “I was in Phoenix in ‘74 when I wore this; I’d had it included in my repertoire for the Hand Held Heart tour in case it became especially hot,  which, being Arizona in the summertime, it was.” It’s here we start to see the influence of other artists bleed into her work; the occasional feathery flamboyance borrowed from Elton John, the avant-garde pattern and makeup work popularised by David Bow, and of course, the extravagance and glitz of Queen’s Freddie Mercury.

“You always have to specify that it’s [Freddie Mercury],” she’s very serious on this point, holding up her iconic, short, incredibly sheer white, long-sleeved fitted dress, marbled with red sequins to protect her modesty. It’s reminiscent of the red and white shorts Mercury had been known to favour on tours. “The others, while, yes, they could be well dressed on occasion, [Roger Taylor]’s lime green jeans aside, they never had the flair or audacity that Freddie had to be truly influential.”

After recording a cover of Queen’s Jesus for her third album, Giselle entered into an unofficial partnership with the band, which she tells me included a collaboration with Mercury himself on their costumes.

“I’d spent a long time trying to merge my style and my musical origins with modern aesthetics; I worked very closely with a designer, since it’s not technically my strong suit.” She pauses for a moment, and we make our way to the mannequins again, this time to the second, a floor-length, evening-gown style dress in lilac, capped sleeves, looking as though it’s tie-dyed with blackcurrant glass beads instead of fabric dye. “Getting to collaborate with the band was easy enough; I did talk with [Jim Beach] regarding the use of the song, but he ultimately he ruled that it was up to them, and so once that connection was established, I actually asked Freddie to help me with some tour outfit designs.”

People often assume Giselle is referring to her team contacting Queen’s lawyer, but she goes on record now to explain that it’s not true. “I’m a lawyer, my own lawyer, and I also work for several big-name bands in the music industry today. EMI picked me up halfway through my final year, but I still continued to go to [university], and I did actually intern under (sic) [Beach] while writing my second album. “ I’m assured that she had just regular suits in her personal closet; three, in grey, black, and cream, well fitted, ‘but not why you’re here’ she adds with a self-deprecating smile.

The lavender and blackberry dress was one designed by Mercury himself, the pale lavender representative of elegance and femininity, while the darker blackcurrant is used to bring depth to the dress the same way Giselle’s unwavering, calculated persona brings depth to her performances. It was Mercury’s idea to interweave the two in the tie-dyed style, keeping Giselle’s traditional aesthetic through the glass beads and the cut of the dress.

As we continue along the timeline, it’s clear to see the effect Mercury had on Giselle’s stage wardrobe, the use of geometric patterns coupled with bold colours, and more glitter and sequins than you can shake a stick at becoming more prominent throughout the late 70s, somehow still managing to keep in line with her traditional aesthetic simultaneously.

“I refuse to wear print.” She’s adamant about it when the possibility of wearing a garment like Mercury’s vest with his cats painted on it comes up. “Geometric doesn’t count; the texture in my wardrobe is always going to be,” she pauses for a moment, searching for the right word, fingers brushing through the fur of the fur-cuffs of a long-sleeved purple velvet number, “diegetic.” She settles on, and it’s clear what she means; patterns on her clothes are always wrought through beads or diamonds or fur or other things attached. “It’s the reason I have it locked, [Lilith Taylor, 7] has left the ‘indiscriminately grabbing things that feel nice’ stage a few years ago, but Rosie [Rosemary Taylor, 4] is just at the tail end of it. They’ll have free reign of this place one day,” she looks around at the fashion legacy she has built for herself, she wears an expression of pride, though it’s more focused on her daughters than the clothes themselves, “but for now I want to keep choking hazards and expensive furs out of danger.”

Around the very end of the 70s to the beginning of the 80s we see a return to form, with the resurgence of her form-fitted cocktail dresses. “There was a lot of change happening in my life at that time, and as much as I enjoy experimenting with my looks, it helped me feel secure to know I was in what was objectively my strong suit, pun not intended.”  According to her, she’d just begun seeing Roger Taylor, and she used her fashion choices to exercise control in her life that she felt she was losing.

“My private life has always been very private, now here I am with the man who trashes drum kits and throws TVs out window; I was so afraid that every time people took a photo of me, or even looked at me, they’d think I was compromising my morals or integrity - which I’m not, and I wasn’t then.” She quickly clarifies. “Our personal history is not void because of where we are now, but Roger and I have also changed as people, and we’re allowed to have our feelings change. I’m honestly a little offended people think I we would have gone through all we did for mere publicity.”

Speaking of Roger, I’m a little surprised her wedding dress isn’t one of those on the mannequins, but I understand her choice, and we’ll certainly get to that soon. Her wedding dress sits at the back of one of the racks, carefully distant from any of the year labels. As she removes it from the garment bag, she gives it a softly nostalgic smile, brushing the fabric gently. “This should really go in my own closet.” It’s unlike most of her other outfits here, such a pale cream it’s almost white, floor-length and sleeveless with a Roman-inspired cinched waist topped with what I hesitate to even call ruffles, their drapings so loose it’s reminiscent of curled hair rather than a traditional ruffle. The material is so soft and light that even on a hanger it looks a little ethereal. It’s simple, elegant, and the very sight of it brings joy to her face.

“’81.” The year is surprising, as is the revelation she shares about how they celebrated their tenth anniversary a few months prior. Putting the dress away, we move to the early eighties, and it’s almost cyclical the way we’re brought back to the ‘Merry Murderess’ aesthetic with the lineup from her ‘The Bend Before The Break’ tour. 

“Everyone and their mother seems to have read the article [All The Queen’s Men, Rolling Stone, 1985] and figured out I was in a shaky place at the time; it’s again about having that modicum (sic) of control. Part of me reverted to portraying myself in the way when I felt like I was at the height of control in my relationships and career. It’s a pretty aesthetic,” she gently pulls a velvet, wine-coloured cocktail dress from the rack, giving it a gentle pat, “it made my stage presence feel good, honestly.” It doesn’t sound bitter, but she puts the dress back. 

Apologising for a moment, she explains the large gap between ‘82 and ‘84, with her Finally, Sunlight tour. “After coming home from the [The Bend Before The Break] tour, I took some time to myself; I was, of course, still writing, but I couldn’t really perform or make any big public appearances after like, July in ‘83, because I was quite pregnant, and, again, I’m a private person.” The Finally, Sunlight tour is known for two things, Giselle wearing gold, silver, and copper, in any and every way she could, and the Atlanta Breakdown.

“I wore metallics because Finally, Sunshine is about my baby girls, and they are so precious to me.” As was made clear in the Rolling Stone article, Giselle and Roger lost one of their twin daughters to illness in Autumn of 1984, though Lilith survived, it took a devastating toll on the couple. Moving past that, we’re finally brought to the crown jewel of the collection; her Live Aid dress.

It’s almost the antithesis to the ‘Merry Murderess’, though it shares a similar neckline and off-the-shoulder style. The Live Aid dress, which Giselle calls ‘Queen Midas’ for reasons I’ll get into later, has a white, crushed velvet bodice with an inbuilt corset, and basque waistline. Beneath the waist is a enough layers of thin and flowing georgette to become completely opaque, like a waterfall from the waistline, the colours fading from a bright, sunshine yellow at the hip, to a rich, sunset orange by the knee, and finally to a smokey, warm-toned charcoal where it brushes the ground, with gold jewels dotted around the bottom and creeping almost to the knee in some sporadic places, reminiscent of embers in a fire. Her gloves are white velvet, and just like with the first of her most iconic outfits, it’s gold sequinned fading to actual glitter and diamonds. 

“I took a hard look at where I was and what I had achieved, and... whether or not I can help it, I effect people, through my music, my actions, through what I wear, and can be a double edged sword. Sometimes it can hurt, or I can hurt others by saying or doing the wrong thing, but sometimes I find myself wanting for nothing; everything I’ve held close has turned to gold. I wanted to show that, to be able to be a part of something that gives back to the world where it’s given me so much.”

With all her most well-known outfits having been covered, there’s one more that comes to the top of my head; the jacket of 1980. The tabloids had a field day with her choice of wardrobe as she stepped out of a car with the rest of Queen wearing a salmon and green floral, double breasted suit jacket, with silver buttons and silver stilettos, with sheer, thigh high white socks held up by a garter belt, hair fashionably messy, but makeup pristine. The deviation from her usual pristine image had shocked both paparazzi and public alike, however the daring outfit had quickly been lauded as one of her best, many publications who ran photos even citing it as the entertainment industry’s hottest innovative look of the decade. Even since it has stood the test of time, and has been attributed to the rise of patterned and bold suit jacket purchases by men and women alike, with the outfit have been cited as inspiration for more than one celebrity’s red carpet look. 

Now, however, something, possibly amusement, possibly annoyance, crosses her face, and she tells me it’s not here. The jacket is Mercury’s. “We were on our way to a party being hosted by [Elton John], and I’d only been with Rog for a few months at this point; so we’re in the back of the limo with the other [members of Queen] and Roger’s spilled his wine on my nice, white cocktail dress.” It seems like a bittersweet memory, and she reminds me of her earlier comment about the ‘wine stain argument’. “In hindsight, everything worked out, but at the time I was absolutely livid; very nearly killed him in that backseat. Poor [John Deacon] literally had to drag me off of him. [It] took both him and Freddie to hold me back when Roger got out once we arrived, and they had the driver circle the block again so I could change into Freddie’s jacket, which he so kindly lent to me.”

From her tone, and her following comments about how her husband likes to bring it up, it seems as though it’s a well worn argument of how Roger Taylor enjoys taking credit for the look, though Giselle doesn’t seem like she enjoys giving him the satisfaction.

“My image has always been about how much I can control what people see of me, and to have that control taken away by a careless action, it really hurt. A man like Roger, in the entertainment industry, is never going to face the kind of scrutiny that I do, it’s the reason you’re here at all, talking to me about fashion rather than say, how difficult it is to be a practicing lawyer in the music industry while raising two beautiful daughters. And I still write music on occasion. But people remember what you show them, how you present yourself; my tour wardrobe is a reflection of the persona I let interact with the world, and it’s beautiful, and a legacy that will probably outlive me to some extent. 

“Do I regret any of my fashion choices? I don’t really have the liberty to, do I? And either way, they’re part of the reason I’m where I am today; I made a niche for myself that was built initially on my aesthetic, if I’m being generous, so I suppose I’ll always be grateful to it.”

[vidaandthecity]

Holding Space for the Spaces that Held Me

There’s a big move coming up in my life. Those who truly know me know that moving has never been simple for me. Its never been just the physical movement of my belongings from one place to another, or similarly the movement of my self from one neighborhood to a new one. Moving has always symbolized a new chapter and the end of an era. Moving has been letting go, saying goodbye, facing new challenges, and experiencing new adventures.

Today I sit here in the apartment that my son grew up in. The same place he uttered his first word, “dada” yes I know, “mama” took way longer. I’m sitting in the same place I had his first birthday, where he took his first steps, first haircut, first dance moves. The same place I cried myself to sleep when I found out my father died, followed by my grandmother’s death months later. It was the place I said I would never return to, “never say never” is what people say. Yet, here I am. Five years ago, I came back with my son in tow, a small infant at that time, with my fears and post partum depression dismantling all that I had once held as normal. Soaked in the unknown virtues of motherhood and yearning to be back with my family; I came back eager to soak up all the knowledge that mami, (a single mother of six) had to offer. Her best advice was and still is, “Disfruta tu hijo, que este momento no vuelve.” So I did just that and submersed myself in all the little miracles my son offered me daily. I was his personal paparazzi, and have hundreds of photos and videos to prove it. I lived in the moment and saw him grow right before my eyes. I came back to these familiar Brighton streets, the smell of the beach I had grown up in, a love-hate relationship with this neighborhood that no longer felt as familiar. I got to enjoy my grandmother’s last few months on this planet and see her hold my son. Something both my pops and grandfather never got the chance to do. Shit happens for a reason.

Soon, I will be saying goodbye to this place. Like I’ve said goodbye to so many other places that were special to me for other reasons. It is truly a bittersweet tango, a wrestling of my yearning, an inner tug and pull. These places I left knowing instantly that I would never return to, and if I did return it would never be or feel the same again.

I’ve moved a lot in my life. Mami moved us a few times when I was kid. Back and forth, back and forth. She would always say, “el cambio es parte de la vida.” I hated it, but she was right. Change is an inevitable part of life and with that change people move. And so we moved and moved and moved from place to place, state to state, city to city, borough to borough.

My first memories of a home are pretty dope. It was just me and mami, my brother was small. I remember my father being present, coming home throwing down his plate of arroz con habichuela, pollo guisado, maduros with a side of aguacate. The most perfectly green and ripe aguacate you could ever hope to see. He would moan with every delicious bite and suck chicken bones dry. I used to watch him enjoy his food and think that’s how a man should eat.  I remember my parents either dancing or fighting. There was never an in between, I mean I don’t remember them watching television together or talking about the weather. They were always an intense sight to behold.  

We lived in a tiny apartment on 191st street and Wadsworth. The floors were red oak, always shining in Mistolin and smelling like pine oil. There was a giant wooden wall of bookshelves that towered from the floor to the ceiling. This bookshelf housed mami’s beloved books of poesía, our encyclopedias, (we had 2 collections) and papi’s massive medical textbooks. It was a tiny apartment, with a heavy red steel door that one day while playing almost took my bottom lip straight off, I still have the scar to prove it. There were popcorn ceilings, except in the bedroom. Where I remember staring at the ceiling while laying with my mom, looking at the lines and her pointing out all these majestic figures that appeared within the cracks of paint. There was a beautiful princess with a gorgeous gown wearing a crown, then a disfigured monster, with a massive nose and scary eyes living in a cave, a bird with a long elaborate feathery tail, and what appeared to be a knight riding a stallion yielding a grand sword. She would point to these figures and ask me, “Keka, que ves alli? Qué te parece a ti?” We would go back and forth sharing what we saw, the way you stare at clouds forming shapes in the sky.  We found ways to be happy.

There was music, lots of music all the time. Music played on our stereo, music blasted from cars zooming by, from fire-escapes, and in bodegas and restaurants that made you feel like you were stepping into a discoteca. There were people that looked like us. Unlike here in Brighton where most don’t look like me. People who had traveled to this city from the same island that my mother and father had come from. People that ate plátanos, spoke Spanish, danced merengue, and smiled at you when you entered the corner bodega. We lived in Washington Heights in the eighties. My father was a young doctor and mami was the most beautiful woman my eyes had ever seen.  I haven’t seen her glow that way since we moved from there.

Our building was like a big famila. We were more than vecinos. We were birthday parties, Nintendo maniacs, gossiping housewives, funny Saturday nights, barajas and brujas, primos y primas, poetas y bachateros. We were alive and blending and becoming a new set of Americanos. We were first generation of American-Dominicans growing up with our mother’s who still had their dreams and their toes firmly set on the sands of playa Boca Chica y Juan Dolio. But you couldn’t help but to be mesmerized by the concrete jungle and all the players on Saint Nicholas avenue. After all is was the eighties, at the height of the crack epidemic. The city was changing and all the jodedores, the crackeros, the negociantes, and the men that had more labia than a library were in full pursuit. The mujeriegos and their queridas, the nosy viejas and the horny viejos all waved hello and had a refrain for the day. It was the old school Dominicans versus the nuyorminicans. There was danger, sex, drugs, and excitement in that hood. There was love too. Lots of it. Don’t get me wrong. But that love wasn’t enough to keep my mom there. So she moved us to Brighton Beach, to be near her mom, where I’d spend most of my years going to school, even though years later destiny would have me right back there. In the heights, right where I had started.

Destiny is a funny part of moving. Sometimes we move without planning or ever expecting that move. Sometimes moving is our only choice. We move to survive, or to escape a bad memory. We move out of necessity, to change the page, or to hit the reset button. We move for love, to pursue love, keep love or maintain love. We move for opportunity, for a change of scenery. We move back to what we know, or away from what we know. We move to make sense out of life. Sometimes we move in search of something without even knowing what that something is.

Moving molds us in ways that being stationary does not. I always wanted to be one of those people who grew up and lived in the same place all their life. Its like the show Cheers, when you walk down the street and everybody knows your name. It’s a stability I’ve never known. It is being a part of a place, a community, an unspoken family or a people in such an intimate way. People who move often don’t have that. We belong to many places, and people, and instances, and lifetimes.

What I do have from this life of movement is the uncanny ability to adapt to my surroundings. I can come to a new place and reinvent myself, make new friends, learn the routine, find new spots that bring me peace and renew my senses, and find the strength to make this new world, this new shelter, feel like home again. So yes, I am a woman of many homes, of many places, and languages, and faces, and moments that all come together to make up this great big life that I have lived. I guess that’s the way I make peace with this.

Brighton beach had its charm, we had good times there too growing up with my grandparents, aunts and uncles’, having primos’ visit during and holidays and summer breaks. Our weekends were consumed by Saturdays on the beach, park visits, and summers in Coney Island. It was a nice way to grow up.

Then we moved to Fort Lee. These were my rebellious teenage years. My hardest move to date. It was quite the transition. A wealthy snobby town that slept on the edge of Jersey kissing the heights via the Hudson river. Fort Lee was just a hop and skip away from the exciting concrete dance floor I had left as a small girl. So I hopped and skipped. Back and forth. Escaping until I felt like I could breathe again. The George Washington bridge became my best friend. I learned her trails and paths, her highs and lows, her best views, and the best time to cross her. Fort lee was just a house, it never felt like home. It was my first real boyfriend, my first heartbreak. It was sneaking out of my window, jumping fences, and leaping over ponds. It was prison, deportation, and learning the truth about my father. It was Hector Lavoe and Marc Anthony, and the death of Aaliyah, Biggie and Pac. It was the 90’s and the world was changing yet again. It was breaking the rules, and playing with fire, cutting school, and dancing, and making money, and falling for the bad boys because the good ones’ bored me. It was breaking hearts and not giving a fuck because I had been broken too. It was coming into my womanhood and learning how to fight and stand up for myself in ways I had never done before.

Then there was Kissimmee Florida, a humid hell that drove me insane. So at 17, I moved myself as a teenager, against my mother’s wishes, against my own fears and hesitation. I moved and moved and moved. I came back to Manhattan with the famous 5 dollars in my pocket, and worked my ass off, and pursued a new love that was never love, and hustled till I dropped. It was moving to the Bronx, and Jersey, and back to the heights, renting rooms, sharing bathrooms and kitchens, and hiding my C-Town compra’s from roommates that got the munchies after smoking haze all day. It was borrowing sofa’s for the night, summer park benches, it was Monique and I in her Jersey adventures, and back to the Heights, every inch of the heights and now on to Harlem. It was dating one loser after the other and not truly loving any of them except for the one who taught me that not all love looks and feels the same. Sometimes love is ugly, just like the move, just like the change that comes with the move.

During that time my moves were equivalent to breakups. It was the way I ended a relationship, or mourned one. Some women get a new hairstyle after a break up, I would move to a new place, avoiding parts of the city that reeked of my ex’s. Places that had once been my favorite getaway had now become emotional landmines. And so I would move, fall in love with new parts of the city and wait till the scent wore off before revisiting the places that bad love had ruined previously.

Once I had graduated college and had a steady job I got my single lady pad in the Fordham Road section of the Bronx and quickly moved my sister in. It was our pink boom-boom room.  A tiny, shitty apartment, but still all ours.  Every time I visited my mom and grandmother in Brooklyn, they would go on and on with the same song and dance, “Ay mija cuando tu te vas a salir de ahi? El Bronx esta demasiado peligroso. Mira ponte a oir las noticias."  I would look at them and the fear in their eyes, and laugh, “Lo sé mami… Lo sé mamá… No se preocupen, yo soy una tigera.” Just to make them laugh and relax.  They were right though. It wasn’t the safest place to live but it was ours in the meantime. It was poetry, and magic, and single living, and poverty and riches, and self realization. It was bachata dancing, and smoking hookah, and kissing under traffic lights, it was writing till my fingers went numb, it was sisterhood, and drums, saxophones, and piano keys. It was sex and the city, purging old loves, it was finalizing the kind of kick ass woman I wanted to be. It was the end of many friendships that were artificial, and the beginning of some new awesome connections. It was where I met my now husband. It was learning to be still and learning to let go. I became pregnant while living there and all of a sudden I felt like that wasn’t home anymore.

One day with my son, who was a newborn at the time strapped to me (kangaroo style), I decided to walk my dog. It was about nine in the morning, a beautiful summer day and here I was surrounded by dirty needles, giant mounds of dog shit, used condoms, and football playing transvestites prostituting just up the corner from me in broad daylight. I think its moments like that, when moving becomes instinctual. It is those moments that the art of movement becomes an urgent need. I remember I was so grossed out that my dog had scooped a condom into his mouth, and spit it out after I frantically yelled at him. I ran my ass home, crying baby and all, called mami and told her, “I got to move ASAP, I cannot raise my kid here.” Thirty days later I was out and moving into what is now the living room where I’m typing this.

So here I am now anticipating this next move that will happen in a couple of months. A little sad to be leaving my favorite vecina, my mom and best friend, but excited for what the future holds. I’ve come full circle.  This time the move is so much different from any other time I’ve moved. It is a move that has been in the works for the last three years. It is a move that has required so much teamwork between my husband and I. A move that pushed us to learn, and educate ourselves, and knock on many doors, and meet so many people. So many rejections, and losses, and failed attempts, but we made it happen in one of the most difficult states, my beloved New York. We are finally here! We bought our first house. A house that we will fix, and design, and make our own.

So to say that I’m feeling nostalgic is an understatement. I’m holding space for all those places that held space for me when I needed it most. I’m paying tribute to all the addresses that I called home, that sheltered me during thunderstorms, the walls that kept my secrets, the kitchens that fed my soul, the living rooms that witnessed my poems and music unravel, the bedrooms  that cradled me during break ups, and the ceilings that became hidden works of art. Thank you to all those places, some humble, some beautiful, some borrowed, some mine, some far, others near, some quiet and peaceful, others loud and dangerous. I am grateful for each move was growth, each home, a chapter so lovely and all mine.

Written by: Maria Billini

(All rights reserved by Maria Billini and vidaandthecity)

*Image courtesy of talented artist Roeqiya Fris.

[patrickcharlton-oshea-author]

Death Becomes Him: An Age Of Steam and Sorcery novel

Chapter Two:

    “Tarah!”

    The trumpet blast would have knocked Peter out his chair had he been sitting in one. He quickly set the volume slider much lower. The trumpets continued their fanfare as the “video” began to expand beyond the bounds of the page to become the whole environment.

    “A full sensorium video, nice.” He thought.

    A cobbled street faded into view bounded by Victorian era houses. People approached and passed completely ignoring Peter. One passed through him and wandered up the street as they looked at the stalls that had faded in to line the roads. The hawker's mouths opened and closed and Peter imagined he'd have been able to hear them selling their wares were it not for the music reaching a crescendo.

    “Welcome, to the Age of Steam and Sorcery. A world of yesteryear – where the heroes are made, not born.” A voice intoned. Another person passed through Peter but this one was much different. He, no, she was massive. A hulk of iron bearing a massive axe and sword crossed over her back. Beside her ambled a large dog with a small humanoid astride it. On the rider's hips were a pair of glowing flintlock pistols.

    A third figure stepped forth, then kneeled down to greet a small child. This figure was a tall lithe man who appeared to carry no weapons at all. He pulled a gold coin from a pouch at his belt and gifted it to the child who beamed at him and ran back to their mother. As the man stood a wave of what looked like clockwork tattoos rippled across his skin. He snapped his fingers and a mechanical spider popped out of the back of his hand and ran up his arm to sit on his shoulder.

    Peter felt himself lifted into the sky as the voice continued. “This is an Age where anything is possible. When dedication and inventiveness bring rewards beyond your wildest dreams. A time for change, when all that you were can fall away and you can become whatever you choose.” The vista Peter had been brought to was breathtaking. The people he'd been standing amongst just moments ago were now as ants scurrying about the city. The city itself had been reduced to a model though one that stretched all the way to the horizon. In its’ centre was a gleaming edifice of brass and crystal. A magnificent castle that defied physics. Peter swore to himself that he'd stand atop that marvel of architecture one day.

    In that instant he knew he was hooked. He'd never been a gamer before. They were regarded as weirdos at his school. Sad cases that couldn't take life and hid themselves away in their parent's basements. Well, apart from the basement part, that was starting to sound pretty good. No more screaming. A world where he didn't have to deal with quinoa. What did he have to lose?

    Whule he'd been distracted the video had retreated back to the usual dimensions within a page. There were links to character races, monster compendium, maps of the starting areas and a photo gallery of heroes who'd already distinguished themselves. The last link was to a class of NPC called “Avatars”. Curious, Peter tapped it.

    Avatars, the page read, are the embodiment of basic forces in the Age. Moreover, they are alive. Each Avatar is controlled by an Artificial Intelligence that has been learning and growing since the Age began.

    “Well,” thought Peter. “This is why it showed up in the community.”

    These Avatars both embody and control their aspect, the page went on to say. They live, full time in the world that is the Age of Steam and Sorcery. For example: the Avatar of Magic, Xular, resides in an incredible tower at the nexus of all ley lines. From Him, all magic flows.

    “This sounds amazing!” Thought Peter, skimming the rest of the text. “Blah, blah, blah, many races, blah, classless advancement, blah, be the greatest, blah. Where’s the download button?”

    Finding the what he sought, a large red button at the bottom of the page emblazoned with a cursive Enter The Age Of Steam & Sorcery!, Peter slammed his virtual hand down on it. Red liquid splashed outwards as though he’d plunged his hand into a pool of crimson water, then rushed back inwards pulling him through the surface.

    On the far side Peter found himself floating in a red prism with a variation of his own visage reflected back from every surface. As he focussed on each different facet it came forward to give him a better view of how it would affect his character in game. There were slinky cat versions of him, short and stocky dwarf versions, even a large rock-skinned behemoth version.

    Peter turned and twisted as he floated, watching the various incarnations of himself perform the same contortions. He examined the differences between each permutation but interestingly no status screens appeared to indicate how they would differ statistically. “Maybe they're only cosmetic differences?” He thought to himself. “Or hidden from the players to enhance the mystery? Well, I guess I'll have to go by feel.”

    Examining the figures again, Peter reached out to each in turn, and as they too reached out to him he set them gently spinning with a touch. A few began to stand out from the others as he thought about how he felt about his distorted doppelgangers. Three came to the fore as the rest faded back into the sanguine background. Three mahogany picture frames encircled them and a small brass plaque blossomed in the bottom centre of each. The first, a small, lanky Peter with pointed ears that was identified as a Halfling. It stopped mimicking Peter's movements and began going through a series of demonstration actions, showing how it would look moving stealthily, then casting spells, then twirling a sling above his head. Peter waved the reflection away. He was tired of feeling small and helpless. If he were entering a fantasy land, he needed a body that felt nothing like the one he was used to.

    The second was the behemoth. It's plaque identified it as a Gregarii. It's stone like skin rippled as it pulled a massive warhammer from behind it's back and slammed it into the ground. The hammer vanished as the Gregarii raised its hands outwards, palms up, muscles straining as though lifting a massive weight and then stone spikes burst from the ground. These too disappeared as it continued the gesture into a double flex. The flex deepened as muscles inflated and stood even more proud. Though Peter doubted that these demonstration animations represented the whole of the progression options for the race, they were representative of the races' strengths (in this case literally). Nevertheless, this hulking form didn't fully capture his imagination. It was, as per his desires, very different to his current experience, but in the end, was too alien to him. It too was dismissed with a gesture.

    The final option was mostly human. Taller and thinner than a regular person, moving fluidly from stance to stance in a series of martial arts forms, then drawing a great flaming sword from nowhere and flourishing it effortlessly only to have it vanish as he released it to draw a series of flintlock pistols out of the air to fire once and discard. As this figure turned to fire an unseen target behind it a small pair of white feathery wings sprouting from its back were revealed.

    “Wings!” Peter exclaimed. “I won't even have to climb that tower. If I can build those babies up I'll be able to fly myself up there. Done and done.” He reached out and the Celestii, as it's completely ignored plaque identified it as, turned around and  took the proffered hand and shook once to seal the deal.

    The faceted walls gently smoothed back into a single surface and the frame around his chosen avatar dissolved. The avatar itself turned its back on him and spread its arms. A dark oval formed on the wall on the far side of it and with a momentous roar he was thrust through the avatar, merging with it, and on through into the darkness. It felt suffocating, like he was drowning in the rapidly thickening air that was nearing the viscosity of water. He thought could almost hear a small voice whisper “you're welcome” as he was swept away.

A timeless instant later, which could have been as second or an eon, he burst forth from the surface of a fountain and flopped gasping on the rim. As his breath returned he stood on shaking legs to take in his surroundings.

    A great vaulted ceiling above domed a well-lit cathedral. He was standing in a font of glowing pink water at the focus of the room. There was no sign of the portal that had brought him here in the water. Around the edge of the cavernous room lit sconces provided flickering but bright illumination. Massive tapestries adorned the walls depicting epic acts of valour performed by mighty heroes.

    Peter stood gawping long enough that the small cough from his side almost sent him tumbling backwards into the pool again. A small priestess enshrouded by a habit that completely covered her from head to foot stood to his left, proffering a towel.

    “Welcome Traveller,” she intoned. “It is my  great honour to greet and induct you into the Age of Steam and Sorcery. Take a moment to dry yourself before you head out to the Garden of Tranquillity.”

    Peter accepted the towel with an inquisitive look on his face. “Garden of Tranquillity?”

    “The Garden is a safe space where Travellers new to their bodies can acclimate. Very few enter this world with the form they wore on the other side of The Divide.” Peter could hear the capital letters dropping into place as the little lady spoke. “Often they need quite some time to gain their footing and stop walking into overhanging branches and doorways.”

    “Ah,” he thought as he finished rubbing himself down, “a tutorial level. Probably a good idea, all things considered.”

    He handed back the damp cloth with a word of thanks and padded down the carpeted aisle to the archway leading outside. It was a nice thick carpet and Peter was thankful for that on a couple of occasions. His new avatar, no, his body, was taller than the one lying on his bed so near and yet so far away. He stumbled a few times, falling to his knees and having to stand again and take smaller steps until he was confident of his stride. By the time he passed under the arch he felt his legs were once more under his control – just in time to be blinded by the bright sunshine, miss the top step of the stairs and tumble down to lay in a heap on the flagstones at the foot.

    The sharp pain of each impact stabbed more intensely than he'd expected but as he lay sorting out his limbs a warmth coursed through his body and soothed the hurt. He opened his eyes to see another priestess standing over him with her palms out and a warm yellow glow emanating from them.

    “Pay no heed to this minor injury,” she said with a hint of a giggle. “Most Travellers make the same mistake, even some who’ve passed this way before. Besides, it gives us a chance to demonstrate the wonders of magic to those who haven't experienced it yet. ”

    “Passed this way before?” Peter felt uncomfortable, and not just from the bump on the head. The priestess’s garb made it impossible to see her face and he couldn't be sure she wasn't laughing at him.

    “Some Travellers find that their journey is not to their liking. Unlike those of us born to this world, Travellers have the opportunity to be reborn and begin their life anew. They must release all they have accumulated in order to do so, but when they've walked too far down a path that is no longer to their liking, sometimes it is the only option.”

    Trying to think of it in real-world  terms as he lay on the ground, Peter figured that what she was saying is that you can only have one character at a time and that in order to create a new one you must first delete your old character. An interesting choice given that most games he'd heard about you could have multiple characters per account. He wondered if he'd find it limiting? Only time would tell.

    The pain from his fall had faded completely and the priestess had resumed her position at the foot of the stairs. Peter stood and straightened his clothes, looking at them for the first time as he brushed the dirt off. That was an interesting touch, and very realistic, as was the small tear in the sleeve of the long white shirt that covered his torso. Patting himself down produced a small cloud of dust from the thick black cloth trousers, a material that resembled denim. Stomping his feet elicited a squelching sound that indicated that his calf high leather boots were still very damp. He sat on the bottom step and took off his boots and socks, which turned out to be black woollen ones. Laying them on the stone stair to dry he turned to the priestess, who was looking at him and seemed to be radiating curiosity. It was hard to tell for sure under the hood and veil, though.

    “Uh, thank you for healing me.” As uncomfortable as he was feeling, Peter had been raised to be polite. “I have to go now.” He gathered his footwear and set off down the path barefoot. Small stones dug into the soles of his feet, reminding him of how realistic this alternate reality was. He had yet to see anything like an inventory screen, health bar or damage numbers – all hallmarks of games he'd been expecting. This was something entirely different.

He paused to look around and gauge his surroundings. The arch he'd emerged from was set into a mountain, the stairs he'd fallen down leading from it to the path he was on. There was little choice in direction; thick green hedges ran right up to the sheer face of the mountain where the arch was, and down to another archway, this one of wood. A small grassed area bracketed the cobblestone path, separating it from the hedge. The path itself meandered back and forth, curving around small, well-trimmed bushes. It was clearly an area for helping people adjust to their new shape without harming themselves. A bright warm sun shone in a cloudless sky, with a slight breeze that was warm with a hint of lavender.

    Peter made his way further down the path to where he could no longer see the entrance He set his shoes and socks down again to finish drying and enjoyed the serenity. Not even any bugs buzzed here. It was so peaceful that he began to doze off...

[c-estmabiologie]

cards are unclear | carnivàle fic

Also on AO3!

Hey! Who else still thinks about Carnivàle? It might be just me. 

Anyway I love Sofie Bojakshiya with my whole entire heart and Carnivàle did her a huge injustice when it dropped a major character revelation onto her in the season 2 finale, which was also the last episode of the series. 

So I had to write something to make sense of her.

If a morally-grey wlw Dustbowl-era tarot reader with latent powers trying to find her place in a world that is not in any way designed for her sounds appealing to you, then give this a read and then drop into my inbox so I can have someone to talk to about Sofie. Send me prompts. Because I love her.  Warnings: references to violence on the show, alcohol mention

I

It is time for Sofie to choose. She can’t explain how, but she knows this to be true.

Like she knows the lick of fire. Like she knows the burn of a body worked past its limits. How to scrub blood stains out of cotton. Never to enter rooms without invitation. She knows that now, too.

Sofie doesn’t know how to get out of a locked shed with her hands bound.

II

This is what Sofie knows: keep the curtains drawn.

Because the parlour needs to feel like a different world from outside. Because Sofie has no business looking out the window. Because light can be tricky, sunlight especially.

The light that slashes into the room when the curtains aren’t closed looks dense enough to touch and feel the dust motes swirling against her palm like a storm. She imagines that the dust storm trapped in the sunlight speaks to a dust storm trapped inside her chest. When she cuts the beam with her fingers, she casts shadows on the table. She makes shapes.

The sun and shadows feel like nothing. Inside Sofie, it feels like a lot.

There is a hole in one of the curtains, just big enough for her to fit her smallest finger through up to the second knuckle (she knows this because she’s tried. She’s been very careful not to make it worse by trying.)

She plans to sew it closed, as a gift, but Mama says her hands are too young to do a tidy job. Nevermind that she’s told Sofie that she will never grow up to be the sort of woman who could handle fine work like sewing.

There is a row of small, uneven stitches along the hem of Sofie’s nightdress that hasn’t proven Mama wrong yet. There are other rules for readings:

Listen to Mama. Only say what she says. Don’t lie. Don’t turn and talk to Mama. People don’t understand. It’s too much. They get scared. Respect the cards. Listen to Mama. Listen to Mama.

“I know,” Sofie says. “You’re talking like I don’t do this every day.”

The door opens. The air stretches taut and Sofie swears she sees the dust in the air stop for a second. Like the sun is holding its breath. She squeezes the deck between her palms and waits for the stranger to take his seat across from her. The man is looking her in the eye.

“Do you have a question for the cards?” she croaks.

People don’t usually try to look at Sofie. They don’t like to look at Mama neither, quiet and still behind her veil. Their eyes always skip around to their hands, to Sofie’s hands, to anywhere but right at her face even when she is talking to them. They listen to her read their fortunes with their eyes on the gramophone until something – usually a clumsy word from Sofie like hierophant or love – breaks their trance. They look at Sofie then with pity.

They look at her that way and then look away again. They don’t ask her why she reads fortunes or if she even likes reading fortunes. They don’t ask why Mama doesn’t speak to them. They don’t ask if it’s all a big trick and Mama really can walk and sing and do things that mothers are supposed to do. They don’t ask that because if it’s not a trick then there are too many more questions that they don’t want to ask.

But this man is looking at Sofie. He looks at her for a good long time, but Sofie doesn’t see those questions in him. It’s not pity. It’s something else.

“Do you have a question?” she tries again.

“What’s your name?” he says finally. It’s not a question for the cards, but it’s a question that she can answer.

“Sofie.”

“Well, Sofie, my name is Samson. I’ve heard that you’re a special kid.”

She waits and listens for Mama, but Mama is quiet.

If Samson isn’t here for a reading, are the rules still the same?

“What do you know about carnivals, Sofie?”

Mama is quiet.

“I’ve never been,” she says. “I hear there are freaks.”

Samson’s smiles like a fishhook got caught in one corner of his mouth.

“Well, sure,” he says, “some of the finest people I know are freaks.”

“It’s like this, Sofie. The world doesn’t make a whole lot of room for people like us. So we make our own room and we stick together and we’re happy. And then rubes come to us! They come to us because they see we’re happy and people got so little to be happy about these days.”

Sofie knows all about this. She and Mama stick together and people come to them all the time like sleepwalkers, slouching and sad and looking to trade two bits for something like a cure for a bad dream. She and Mama help them.

“So what do you say, Sofie? You could live with us. Imagine that: you will get to travel around with a carnival, see different towns, meet all kinds of folks. You and your mother would have a trailer of your own with your name right on the side.”

Sofie shakes her head.

“It’s Mama who reads the cards, not me.”

“Fine. Her name on the side of the trailer. The way I see it, Sofie, you’ve been doing a real good job taking care of your mother. Don’t you think it’s time that someone take care of you? We can do that. We can be a family. All you have to do is sign this here paper and we can do that for you.”

She swings her legs a little. She wishes, not for the first time, that her legs were long enough to reach the floor. Mama is quiet.

“But I can’t make you come with us,” Samson says.

III

She thinks she smells smoke.

Sofie’s heart hammers her awake. She remembers the wrong parts first: wrist held fast, lantern smashed, oily smoke and fire and screaming.

( why did you hate me? )

She thinks she can hear Mama laughing.

Jonesy said going crazy was gradual-like. Little things here and there.

She remembers the night she came home and Mama’s bed was empty. She’d screamed so loud and Mama hadn’t answered. Ben had claimed that Mama had walked outside and had spoken to him and then had just collapsed out there in front of him, like he didn’t know that was impossible. If she could walk, if she could speak, why would she go to some stranger and not to her own daughter? Why would she waste voice for him and not her why would she reach out to him and not her and ( i hate you ) touch him and not her?

Something has changed since then. Something snagged inside Sofie that night and torn her open along a seam, just a little bit. Something in the fabric that connected her to Mama; something in the fabric that kept her separate from Mama. She sees secrets now, but not her secrets. She sees horrible things. The past is imprinted inside her eyelids when she tries to sleep; the future transforms everything and everyone around her in bursts and flashes. It had stopped when she lost Mama and so she had blamed her for it. But now she isn’t sure it had ever really gone away.

She wants her Mama now. She wants to ask her( why did you hate me? ) why this is happening to her. People used to say that Mama had one foot in one world and one in the other. She wants to ask her Mama if this is what it feels like, always existing in two places. She wants to tear everything to pieces, her own seams, the world.

Sunlight still cut between the boards. She flexes her fingers and clenches her jaw against the hurt of her hands coming back to life. Sweat pastes her hair to her lips. Her shoulder is bruised and her throat raw with dust. She’s still bound and alone, but she won’t fall asleep again.

IV

“You ever seen snow?”

Smack. The way Jonesy throws always makes Sofie feel like the bones in her hand are being knocked apart. Sometimes she takes her mitt off and expects her hand to be smashed like a plate, but then there it always is: whole and not even cracked a little bit.

She pulls the ball out of her mitt and runs her thumb over the stitched seams. It has veins, she’d said once and Jonesy’d laughed at her. She doesn’t figure them for veins anymore. They are lines, like on a palm.

“Sure,” he says, “I’ve seen snow.”

Sofie’s throw goes wide, but Jonesy makes it look loose and easy to reach for it, like catchers are supposed to have to stretch and tilt that way. Jonesy had gone all over the country when he used to play ball. It’s been years on the circuit and Sofie has only seen the same towns over and over again and nothing of them, really. She sees fields and stretches of dirt on their outskirts. All fields and dirt look the same.

“I’ve seen snow,” Sofie says. “In Minnesota, when I was a kid. I’ve seen it, but I remember it wrong.”

What she doesn’t say is that she’d come up to this hill on her own that morning and it had started snowing like the sky had forgot there was a drought. But it wasn’t the snow like Sofie remembers from Minnesota. This snow was grey and feathery. And it didn’t melt like snow. She’d caught some in her hands and it had streaked her palms black like ash.

“How do you remember it?”

Sofie shrugs.

“Just wrong.”

She’d thought maybe if she brought Jonesy up here he’d see it, too, but it is gone now. The hill is dry and brown as anything else.

Smack. She winds up for the pitch the way Jonesy had taught her, lets her arms swing long and loose and free. She turns her wrist just so. She knows before she releases the ball that it’s a perfect slider.

Smack.

Jonesy doesn’t let on that Sofie’s throw was any good. She takes off her mitt.

“What’s on your mind, kid?”

She has smeared black handprints on her trouser legs. Jonesy doesn’t seem to notice but he’s a rousty: dirt and grease come with the job. She wonders if he would have noticed the mess if she’d been wearing a skirt.

“I want another driving lesson," she says. "You said I could learn by the time we were in Texas again.”

“You’re not old enough.” It’s always the same excuse. That, or: there’s no time for that. We have a carnival to run. Yet he always finds time to throw the ball around.

“I’m fourteen.” She’s pretty sure she’s fourteen. “That’s old enough.”

He spits.

“Why do you want to drive for, Sofie? You planning on leaving?”

If she planned on leaving she wouldn’t need a car. She’d just choose a direction and let her feet take her toward the horizon. She’d do it someday, when Mama wouldn’t be left alone. She just couldn’t imagine when that might be.

“No.”

“Then why?”

She scuffs a cloud of fine grit into the air and felt it sift back against her. Her shoes turn grey. She can’t explain why it’s important to her. It just is. Every day Sofie gets up, she takes care of Mama, she eats alone. She waits for each day to get on enough for the carnival to wake up, so she can talk to strangers and the strangers are always the same. Jonesy has his own truck. He could leave and come back a hundred times a day if he wanted to.

If she could go into town maybe she could meet strangers who didn’t look at Sofie like she might save them.

If she could go into town maybe she could have enough room in her head for just herself.

Mama’s voice carries. Sofie can’t just ignore her; it’s like trying to ignore your own thoughts except they're not yours. Sofie has to walk right off the carnival grounds and then a little further before Mama’s voice isn’t in her skull anymore. That’s how she’d found the hill and the snow. But she could only walk so far before she felt guilty and walked back.

To say she was sorry. To brush Mama’s hair. To pick another fight because fighting felt familiar.

If she could drive maybe she could outpace her guilt.

At the carnival’s last stop Sofie had found a rabbit caught up in a snare that someone had set up and never checked. The only houses nearby were abandoned. People were moving to where there might be work and there wasn’t any work there. A snare doesn’t matter anymore when hunger isn’t the only thing starving you. Vultures and heat had made it barely a rabbit anymore. It was just husk and bones and fur starting to fill with dirt.

The rabbit could have been a meal if someone had been around to find it sooner. It could have become good dirt if the sun had been even a little bit forgiving.

She wonders if Jonesy would understand if she told him that she could taste dirt in her mouth sometimes. It's constant grit in her teeth and throat.

“I just want to help out,” she says instead. “You know, go into town, buy gas and food. That sort of stuff.”

Jonesy jams his mitt under his arm and picks at the ball’s seams. He is probably remembering, too, when Sofie used to call them veins. She used to only ask him for simple things like to play ball or to bring her back a soda from town.

“We have plenty of men who can do that sort of stuff.”

“I know. I just want to do it.”

In town she doesn’t have to be Sofie, so she seldom is. She is Adelaide Webster, whose pockets has been emptied and heart has been broken by some rascal she’d thought was in love with her. She is Frances Buck, a college girl heading home mid-semester to care for her mother, who is dying of dust pneumonia. She is Betty Jones, a young widow waiting in a hot car for her brother to finish his errands in town. She pieces together lives from those people who came to her for readings. She plays dress-up. Each lie feels like a stone dropped into some hollow spot inside her and swept up before it can hit bottom. Sofie doesn’t mind lies so much if they meant a little fun. No one gets hurt. Sometimes lies mean an afternoon of peace as someone else. Sometimes they mean a stranger taking pity and gifting her a soda and some kind words.

Someone notices her. She smiles. He walks away but she knows he’ll be back if she waits.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been out here an awful long time.”

“Have I?”

“Yeah. About an hour and a half by my watch.”

She’s rehearsed this conversation exactly in front of her mirror. The man, Harlan Staub, recites his lines exactly as she’d written them in her head.  

"Has it been that long?" she says and he invites her into his café and brings her a drink.

When a black blizzard traps Sofie inside with him, she invents that it’s her own storm set loose.

When the lights go out she invents that it’s her doing, too.

It seems like a sign. Not that any of it feels right, but it does feel as real as the grit that gets into her dress.

What she doesn’t know is that her storm stuffed so much dust down Mama’s throat that she stopped breathing until someone found her and thumped the mud out of her chest.

V

The past is the past. Just like a bad dream.

That’s what Miss Iris had said. She’d held Sofie’s face in her hands and called her a thrown-away scrap, but she’d invited Sofie into her home, Brother Justin’s home, and she’d given her a job and a new dress and a chance. Sofie doesn’t deserve this kindness, but she wants to deserve it. But she doesn’t: she’s a liar and a coward and she invites bad omens.

But despite everything they’d invited her, Iris and Brother Justin had invited her, Sofie, discarded Sofie, thrown-away Sofie, left-to-burn-by-her-own-mother Sofie, to sit at their table. To share a meal. They’d told her she was good. (But Iris had left the table, hadn’t she? She couldn’t stand to sit with you after all. ) Brother Justin had knelt with her, prayed with her, baptized her and told her she was treasured. (But he’s the one who put you here.)

Splinters bite into Sofie’s knees. She’s pulled herself up and pressed her face to the wall, to see between the boards. There isn’t much to see. The sun is setting.

Does Iris know where Sofie is? Does she care? Does she know what Brother Justin is? Does she care?

A better question: Does Sofie know what Brother Justin is?

He’d looked at her with coal-black eyes and said that he planned on bringing hell here. She’d seen the tree tattooed on his chest. It was the tattoo she’d seen in her mother’s worst memories. She and Brother Justin were connected.

She wonders if hell can be bloodborne.

It’s time to choose, he’d said. He’d said he could free her from the bondage of her past.

And then he’d bound her wrists and locked her up.

Sofie wants to be dangerous. She wants to be strong and untouchable and whole and holy and dangerous. Then she wouldn't be here.

But she is here and she’s screaming through slats because she can hear strains of carnival sounds stretched thin and warped on the wind. She’s screaming as if someone might hear and know it is her and where to find her, trapped with her past pulling at her and something else pulling at her, too.

Because Iris is wrong. The past isn’t the past. The past is now and it’s the future and there’s no difference, not really. They bleed together.

Just like a bad dream.

VI

Sofie keeps walking and this time nobody comes to find her. She has nothing but herself. She’s chosen her path.

Everyone she meets seems to be headed in the same direction. Maybe they were all called by the same wind and the same voice on the radio.

Sofie doesn’t remember the first time she’d left the carnival. By all accounts she was gone for over a day but a person can’t walk that long and not remember. Ben said he’d found her barefoot and sunburnt, walking as if she had somewhere to be. He’d had to stand in front of her to make her stop walking; it was like she couldn’t see him or hear him or nothing. She doesn’t remember any of this.

She does remember being afraid to fall back asleep (she thought she smelled smoke). She remembers that her tarot cards hadn’t burned. Her trailer, Mama, everything was ash now but her cards. She remembers letting the wind scatter them. Wind doesn’t ask permission before taking and she didn’t want them anyway. They weren't her livelihood anymore. They wouldn't speak to her like they did to Mama. She remembers feeling her insides dark and boiling like a storm.

And Ben had brought her back. To what, home ? Could a home be this place that she’d chosen as a child? Could it be this place that doesn’t have anyone who even wants her? All she has there is her ash-smeared slip, cards that wouldn’t burn and wouldn’t leave her, and people that she kept hurting over and over again. There is nothing for her there anymore.

She doesn’t blame Libby for hating her. It had taken them so long to even become friends, let alone what they’d become. The vision of her skin against Libby’s was the first thing that ever squeezed that dust storm inside of her into a warm, glowing coal. It had come true faster than she could understand it.

You ain’t like anybody else, are you? That’s what Libby had said once and Sofie could have cried. She remembers the feel Libby’s hand on her cheek, Libby’s knees night-cold against hers under the blanket, and her own heart thumping is that good? am I good? am I good?

Libby was the only one who had seen that there might be anything other than carnival life inside of Sofie. Libby had seen enough to pull Sofie into small worlds where they could be alone together: at the movie theatre, on the dance floor, at the bottom of a bottle of mezcal. The could have run away together, even if the cards said otherwise. She reversed the card with her own hand. She could have made her own truth.

That’s a rule broken. Not that Sofie is counting.

She’d thought she could hurt Libby and still have Libby love her. Libby had hurt her and she still loved her, didn’t she? Sofie saw other people hurt each other and forgive over and over again.

But she’d said she was sorry.

What Libby hadn’t said: that when you ain’t like anybody else, sorry isn’t enough.

Instead of sorry, Sofie should have said You said we’d leave this place for good, you and me.

Instead of sorry, she should have said I lied. I lied. I lied.

She should have said I still want it to be you.

And maybe Lib would have still wanted it to be Sofie. And maybe she’d still want to leave and spite the cards. They would have driven away together — Sofie at the wheel — everything they owned strapped to the top of a car, the sun and moon on the car doors painted over with mud so no one would know where they’d come from. They would have slept in the backseat until they’d found an apartment, something small and tidy and full of light above a coffee shop. They’d have swum in the ocean and they’d have sneaked into pictures together. Libby would’ve been discovered one day while they were walking down the street. She would’ve been a star and Sofie would’ve been her secret and they would’ve been happy.

Sofie knows it’s a bitter dream and one she is best to let go. She’d hurt Libby and and she’d hurt Jonesy and somehow that’d pushed them together and far away from her. At least maybe they’ll both be happy.

And Jonesy. Jonesy hates her and doesn’t hate her enough. She doesn’t mind that he doesn’t want her working with the roustabouts and other labourers. She knows that she’s not as strong as the rest of them. She knows that she doesn’t belong. He’s too soft to really punish her with work, but she doesn’t mind that either. She couldn’t read cards for rubes anymore, not without Mama, not without seeing things she didn’t want to reveal to strangers. She couldn’t work the way she had worked her whole life and she needed to fill herself with work. And as long as no one stopped her, and Jonesy didn’t, not really, she could work until all that was left to her was work.  Every bolt she’d tightened until her palms split was penance. Every shovelful of dirt that she’d torn muscles to lift was an act of contrition. When every part of her hurt it was easier to not hear Mama in her head.

She’d slept on the ground

because she didn’t want to sleep. because her new bed had ghosts. because she thought she smelled smoke. because it was safe. because that’s what she deserved.

This time she was leaving by her own choice and she was determined to remember it.

Her head was clear now. Ben had put his hands on her and the storm inside her had quieted. It was different from what she'd had with Libby, there was no warm coal in her gut. She was emptied. The heat and the wind and the sand were gone. Mama’s voice was gone.

“What did you do?”

Ben couldn’t give her an answer, but she was grateful anyway.

It had rained that night. The thunder had come from her and it had rolled through her. She’d let her storm out and it had opened up the skies. Everyone had left to secure the tents but Sofie had stayed behind.  She’d stood in the mud and listened to the rain and the radio. Dust couldn’t exist in so much rain.

Let the wicked man forsake his ways , the radio had said, and Sofie’d stopped her rain to listen.

You will be saved, before you even know it, like a child being born.

She could be saved. That's why she is walking: she is going to be saved.

VII

There’s someone in the shed with her. Sofie isn’t sure if that someone is a vision or a trick of light and shadow or a real human being sitting in a chair.

“Mama?”

She hopes that it’s Mama. She’s afraid that it is her.

She can almost feel the grain of her cards under her fingers. In her mind she shuffles the deck, relaxing into the familiar shushing of her cards sliding against each other, deciding their places. She is just a person with questions that need answering. She knows the simple five-card spread she’d deal and what hidden meanings Mama would place on her tongue like wafers. Like coins.

First card: High Priestess. She’s ready for her power and to find her place. It sings in her blood if she’ll listen to it. She can unleash storms.  

Mama hasn’t moved.

Second card: The Tower. Sofie sees the flames on the card and she smells smoke. She feels the hairs on her arms singe. She feels a hand tighten around her wrist. Flames eat up her room and Mama holds her fast. She's known what Sofie is all along. She'd tried to protect her. She'd tried to stop her from becoming. The smoke is choking her.

“Stop!” Sofie screams. Like she could tell time to stop. Like she could tell fire to stop. Like she could tell herself to stop.

Third Card: Judgment.

It’s time to choose. It’s time to choose. It’s time to choose.

Sofie is panting. The flames are gone. She is in the shed. Mama swivels the chair to face her.

Fourth Card: Nine of Swords. This is why she’s here. This is what she deserves. For her guilt. For her sins.

“Mama?”

The stranger rises. Sofie falls and scrabbles back until her back is against a beam. Her ropes cut into her wrists.

Fifth card: Le Passeur. The twenty-third card of the Major Arcana. The card that doesn’t exist and could only be meant for her. She doesn’t know what it means.

The stranger is close enough to kiss Sofie. It’s wearing Mama’s black dress and veil, but Sofie is certain now that it isn’t Mama. She’s been certain for a while.

“Please,” Sofie says. She tries to turn her face away but the stranger holds her face in its hand. Forces her to look into her own face. Sofie sees herself with her eyes blacked away, like Brother Justin’s had been. Something marked. Something inhuman. It doesn’t smile.

“This is your house.”

VIII

This is what Sofie knows: the carnival is leaving without her.

Samson yells “Let’s shake some dust” and rousties throw their last packs into the trucks and tie down the loads, and doors slam shut and engines shudder to life, and no one is thinking about her.

She is thinking about every one of them. They are her home and they are not her home.

She is standing in a cornfield and it is her house. So are the fields beyond it and the migrant camp and the dirt roads grinding beneath the trucks and trailers. So is wherever the carnival is going and everything their circuit will never reach. This is her house.

She watches them leave without her, but they can’t leave her anymore.

She can pour life like lemonade into a glass. She has to take it first, but it’s hers to take so she takes it without asking. The leaves brushing her arms wilt and blacken. The stalks bend and bow around her. Corn silk turns to rot. No one looks out at the fields as they drive away, but if they had, they might have seen her standing alone and exposed. They would not have seen Brother Justin at her feet.

[keeperprinceling]

Swiftcast

He had to do better.

He set his jaw, taking deep and even breaths as he stared at the small metallic rod on the table before him, his gaze set and steady, as though winning a staring contest with the instrument would immediately make him master of everything that surrounded it, least of all his emotions. Instead, he fought down the dread and foreboding building in his chest, pushing back the fear of using dark arts with a facade of bravado strengthened by need. 

He had to do better. He had to be able to concentrate and manipulate aether faster - there was no other option. Yvaine had nearly been undone in those ruins, and if it hadn’t been for that white mage’s quick and easy control of their magic, she might’ve... 

He couldn’t let that happen.

The metal was cool to the touch, the weight uneasy in his hand as he grabbed it from the table. His heart beating fast, he stood and strode up the stairs of the empty cottage, clearing his mind as best he could. He could do this. He could learn Thaumaturgy, master the art of quickly harnessing and casting magic, and not accidentally open portals to the void and be possessed by any number of demons that would haunt him for the rest of his days and inevitably lead to his early demise and an eternity of darkness for his soul. He shuddered, his hand hesitating on the door. It was for Yvaine. The door opened on well-oiled hinges and sunlight fell across him, strengthening his resolve... Besides, if he just focused on the basics, he couldn’t possibly summon voidsent -

“IS THAT MY LANCE?!”

Khit’li fumbled to keep hold of the blasted rod as words exploded from the side yard, and before he knew it the Free Company Leader had backed into the front yard, a teasing smile on her face as she nearly backed into him, then ducked around him, placing him squarely between her and the tall Elezen girl - Adelpha - a spear length stretched beside him, its head apparently attempting to keep the Elezen at bay as she stomped around the corner, though it seemed to do nothing to that effect.

“Maybe,” the grey-haired Keeper playfully replied, not at all phased by the ire of the other.

“AND YOU’RE USING IT AS A FIRE POKER?!” 

“Oh, please, Adelpha, I was not,” the Miqo’te replied, mere inches behind his back as she pulled the length of wood and metal backward, nearly nicking his robe with the pointed blade and - his brows furrowed as he followed its tip,��“It’s the perfect length for toasting campfire treats using Fire 2 - what did you expect me to do? Find a really large stick? It’d only catch fire!” 

Maybe she wasn’t really aware that the Elezen’s cheeks were glowing red. It figured he had left the cottage at just that moment - everything to do with Thaumaturgy was just bad luck, and here he was caught between two strong adventurers apparently having a row about the difference between a tool and a weapon. Or personal space. In any case, he had no desire to stick this one out, but as the lance was blocking the exit he couldn’t exactly leave.

Apparently ignoring the anger of the Elezen, the Miqo’te plucked the sticky sweet treat from the edge of the lance and took a bite, which made the Elezen’s brows furrow in fury, and then did the stupidest thing and nonchalantly walked towards the other, the sticky treat in one hand, the lance straightened in the other to tower far above her head, and offered the sweet to the other. “It’s not bad! Taste it!”

She growled, taking the pole in one hand and inspected the metallic point with a shrewd eye. “Did you make it?” she asked, annoyance cutting her tone. He was free, so he started slowly walking away, not wanting to draw their attention.

Sinaka Kyralih laughed heartily, “You think I’d be eating it if I had?!”

Adelpha Loukas’s frown faltered through her own snickers. “I suppose you’re not that ---” her words ended in a muffle. Khit’li’s head jerked around sharply to see what had happened, only to catch Sinaka’s licking her fingers and Adelpha chewing, glaring down at her after their “Leader” - really? Leader? - had apparently popped the last of the treat into her mouth while she was speaking. 

“See? Delicious! I’ll pass your warm regards to the chef!” Sinaka sidestepped to put her hand on Adelpha’s back and push her forward, “But it looks like you’ve got a job to do now~” She continued in a sing-song voice, her mismatched eyes fixing him in their gaze, “It looks like Khit’li could use your help with Thaumaturgy!” With a final push Adelpha took one last step forward, her green eyes glaring at the shorter grey head of the miqo’te as she retreated towards the cottage. “Have fun~” she lilted, and then added just as she pulled the door closed, “And don’t enter your room for a bit, ‘k? bye~!”

The door closed solidly, an audible click resounding as the lock was pushed into place. 

A beat passed in silence between them.

“So you need help with Thaumaturgy?” Adelpha asked, exhaling loudly as she turned towards him. He watched her warily as she examined the tip of her lance, moving its great length to bring the edges closer to her eyes and run her fingers along their edges, pinching here and there where sticky residue must have been left behind.

He didn’t like being used as a scapegoat and he wasn’t exactly comfortable enough with them to admit to needing help with anything, so he lied. “I don’t.”

“Your hand’s shaking.” she stated flatly, never taking her eyes from her task. 

Frowning, he clutched the rod tighter, looking away. “So?”

“I didn’t care much for magic either,” she replied conversationally, completely ignoring his response in favor of keeping things light. “It’s just as terrifying as it is useful; I know just the thing to help you though.”

He looked over at her through the veil of his bangs, not wanting to show too much interest; however, her casual nature, her attitude, the way she didn’t really seem to put too much stress into the way she was offering her assistance... maybe he shouldn’t have, but he tentatively felt like he could trust her. Letting out a long and low breath, he looked fully at her, replying, “Do you?”

She smiled like a cat with a canary, her gaze still on her weapon. “Sure. Follow me - we’re going to Revenant’s Toll.”

And just like that, she teleported away. 

... feeling like this could be a foolish idea, but at the same time fairly certain she wouldn’t let him be taken in by a voidsent, he focused his aether and jumped into the lifestream, following after her.

When he materialized he found her already paying the Aetheryte Guard for his transfer. Catching his eye she nodded at him, motioning that he should follow her as she strode off towards the edge of the camp; with longer strides he caught up. 

“So what were you wanting to learn?” she asked, waving casually to a handful of residents who recognized her. “The whole shebang, or something in particular?”

“I heard Thaumaturges have a way to...” how could he even reference it? “attune to certain spells, to allow them to cast them without a lengthy incantation.” She nodded without looking at him; he continued. “I want to master that art.”

That smile returned. The slow and even one. The one that looked like she was just a little dangerous. “I can help with that. You should call out your chocobo - Moonlight, was it?” He looked up at her sharply to find those green eyes looking down at him. “He might come in handy.”

He stopped, hesitating for just a moment before whistling loudly; if anything were to go wrong, he trusted his healing abilities enough to pull Moonlight through. His chocobo appeared, and just as he pat his feathery neck in welcome, Adelpha handed him a small candy, nonverbally instructing him to eat it. He did, chewing and swallowing as a tingling sensation jolted through him once. Paralysis resistance?

“Okay, Khit’li,” she said coyly as they passed through the western gates of the settlement, “Do you know how to put targets to sleep?”

He nodded; it was a fairly simple process. 

“Good! Put that lightning sprite to sleep then, please,” she instructed, motioning to the sprite at the edge of the path overlooking the rest of the rocky outcropping. He hesitated. Relying on his Scholar skills he would have no problem against the creature, but as a Thaumaturge? He doubted he could muster any spell that could subdue such a creature - but if that’s what she intended... He took a deep breath and held out the rod, concentrating his aether into the stone at its end, building a particular energy, holding it, flavoring it with what he wanted to happen, and then threw it outward with a flick of his wrist, the conductive rod helping his aim as the spell flew through the air to land neatly on the lightning sprite. 

Its crackle faded in intensity. It was asleep.

He smiled proudly and turned to see what was next, only to have to find Adelpha again as she raced forward, her lance at the ready, and in two powerful strikes downed the sprite. 

“What are you waiting for?!” she called back at him, “Hurry it up! Do it again - that Gigantoad!”

It was like that. Again and again. Creature after creature, his nerves becoming more and more frazzled at every hectic repeat.  Put it to sleep before it got him - one misplaced spell demonstrated just how hard they hit him without the wards he had worked into his Soul Crystal. Move on and sleep the next target before it saw him. Move faster and faster still - run, stop, spell, sleep, next target. Over and over, Adelpha urging him on, yelling at him to continue, practically nipping at his heels to make him move faster, spell faster, run quicker - don’t think, just do it!

But he had to think - he was messing with dark magics, the selfsame stuff that brought the end to an Era, and every time a spell raced away from him he shuddered, thinking of the whispers in the dark, the ghosts in the forest, the voidsent in the shadows, waiting for weakness to break free, but he couldn’t process it, no, because Adelpha the Taskmaster was back in his ear, pushing him forward, urging him, spurring him on, time and time again -

They ransacked Camp Revenant’s Toll, then the Tangle, then back again, his eyes constricted in fear as Gigantoads, Mudpuppies, and Morbols spotted him, rushed him, and fell asleep moments before they could do him harm, only to be finished off by Adelpha before they could wake and put an end to him. Soon it all just faded away in a haze, his body in a crazed autopilot repeat of RUN, TARGET, SLEEP, IGNORE FEAR. 

They had just cleared another field of Gigantoads when something solid patted him on the back and he jumped out of his skin, flying forward and turning back around, crouched and ready to let the spell fly, only for it to be Adelpha. She laughed at him goodheartedly, but he could not respond, every muscle too tight, every nerve on edge. She helped him stand straight, patting him on the back again, and frowned in concern, examining him and going so far as to touch his hand, mentioning something about cold sweat and clammy skin before declaring that they were done for the day and helping him mount Moonlight before leading them both back to Revenant’s Toll.

She stabled the chocobos; he had barely regained control of his breathing. She laughed again, proclaiming there was only one cure, and pulled him into The Seventh Heaven and then back into the Rising Stones, wherein she sat him down, disappeared, and reappeared with drinks. 

And more drinks.

And more drinks. All the while telling him stories that he would never completely remember, the both of them laughing loudly and often; every chuckle releasing a tight muscle, every tale pushing thoughts of things in the dark farther from his mind.

And after a while, he was pretty relaxed. Relaxed enough to let go of that ridiculous Thaumaturgy rod! Relaxed enough to lean back in his seat! Relaxed enough to --

Well --

Mistakes might have been made. 

BUT IN THE END, He could cast spells quickly. He could set one to mind and throw it out at the speed of light, and that’s all he had wanted.

And he never had to pick up a Thaumaturgical tool ever again.

Thank you for all the powerleveling @adelphaloukas! XD

[143glj-blog]

Essay(er)

“I'm not on the outside looking in, I'm not on the inside looking out/ I’m in the dead center, looking around”

Kendrick Lamar

There are plenty of valid reasons to write, as there are plenty of valid impetuses. This wasn’t written for a homework assignment, or because I felt a great swell of inspiration. This is the result of a question, and I hope it impresses a girl. Valid? Opinions are in the eye of those who opine.

I chose to write about an easy subject, one that was accessible and universal. Not too trite, but also not trying to reinvent the wheel. I was going to explore beauty, where and what it is, hoping that I would be able to declare some grand truth about the world and nature and how she works. Over the course of four hours, I inquired of eleven people where they had experienced beauty in their day.

Three of them spoke about the morning’s sunrise, in varying levels of eloquence. One told me that it was nice, one told me it was very pretty, and the other spoke of how the plumes of newborn sunlight reached the natural features around her and lit everything in an ethereal golden glow. Interestingly enough, as the sun set on this day, I was aware of the reddish purple coating the setting sun placed on the same trees she spoke of.  It reminded me of the skin of the raw onions you get in a gourmet hamburger. I didn’t think it was very beautiful. After I wrote this paragraph, another person told me she thought the sunrise was pretty; I still thought it wasn’t, but there were now four people who believed in the grandeur of luminosity.

Another person told me about the beauty of her tomato bisque. It held these creamy rings that were a darker hue than the autumnal orange made up the soup. It was pretty in the simmering pot; the individual spoonfuls she separated for herself weren’t as striking. This didn’t make much sense to me- if they were the same thing, and the rings were as apparent in her Styrofoam cup as they were in the metallic pot, wouldn’t the soup retain it’s beauty? Is a pair of Jordan 1’s in the Royal colorway as majestic in a size 13 as it is in a size 7? Is that reference a bit inaccessible? Sure, but there’s Google. Later on in this four hour period, she requested that I changed her answer. We had gotten mochas from a homely coffee shop, and there were these feathery bubbles in the layers of her drink that made her smile and change her answer. My drink had no such appearance, the porcelain cup held only the faint remnants of something long displaced. I changed her answer.

I was told of the beauty of a classical piece by Mahler, in his fifth symphony, which is dedicated to his wife. The piece swells in certain segments that allow you to feel Mahler’s feelings, yet is also open to interpretation. This fluidity added both character and beauty to the piece. It seemed a bit of a stretch to me- could sharps and flats really convey the type of beauty I was looking for? Is that more appealing than a sunset or a soup? After a listen, I could see what this person was saying. The piece evoked images of nature being; a penguin waddling to his mate across a vast icy expanse, a great oak tree dancing steadily in a strong wind. So it was epic, in scope and scale. But I was still unsure if this was true beauty. So I posed the question to myself, in search of the profound.

Seeing beauty required a readjustment of my lenses. Instead of asking others what they saw, I had to see it for myself.- pulchritude as defined me was going to need parameters. I fine tuned my visual and auditory capacities in order to set my standards. I pursed through books stacked atop my desk, through virtual libraries stocked with music, through images I’ve collected that have been shared with me by others and that I’ve discovered on my own, paintings and pictures and film stills. In literature, there were paragraphs filled with rich imagery of various settings, and I could see the author’s intended object, and sure it looked nice, but that didn’t seem like true beauty to me.

I did find appealing this idea of symmetry. It was present in Tron: Legacy in Jeff Bridges’ Oriental hideout, as Leo entered the church in Romeo + Juliet, in the way people assembled in the Jackson subway station, and in the lush instrumentation of 2010-era Kanye. So is nature’s comment to the argument that beauty is in balance and equality?

I also was intrigued by the idea of solitude. Many of the images I selected held only one subject, shrouded in elements of life itself. There was beauty in a solitary line, a single verse, a single phrase. It was apparent to my search itself, one person exploring such a vast concept that was unknowable and accessible at the same time.

What I realized through my writing is that as I had my own definition for what constituted beauty, so did all of the people who I asked. So who am I to define how nature works, and what splendor is? All I can do is look around and report on what I see- opinions are in the eye of the observer.

[nucerefs]

set design (?) resources

so, recently i’ve been designing floorplans for the homes of my characters and i thought i’d compile some of the things i’ve learned while doing so

ill update as i find more!!

(mostly for apartments since thats what ive been focusing on)

questions to ask when designing

how many people (and pets!) are living there?

what kind of person are they?

a college student with roommates may be different from typical apts, for example, or perhaps they may need rooms dedicated to a hobby or job they have

poor, middle-class, or rich?

size? maybe they live in a big penthouse, or a small “shoebox” apt--which are unfortunately, not always livable :(

where are they? a building in new york is gonna look different from one in hong kong

studio apartment? two-bedroom? college dorm? farm connected to a house, or just a house? one or two floors? is there an attic or basement? 

if ur char drives, how does parking work? driveway, garage, street/parking meter, or parking garage?

relationship with the landlord? is the place in good quality, or are there flaws in heating/plumbing/electricity etc?

things to remember

people have a lot of stuff! don’t just plan how the rooms are gonna work, take into account beds, furniture (if they even have some), sinks/showers, pet supplies, etc. make sure there’s enough actual living space!

you can cheat with pricing sometimes. for example if there was an apartment where someone got murdered, it’s probably gonna be cheaper

depending on how much you want to show, you may want to think abt ur char’s apartment in relation to their neighbors. how do the walls fit together? are the walls soundproof? where are the stairs/elevator?

fire escapes have adventure potential, balconies can be romantic, patios have a suburban mom vibe. choose ur fighter

broaden ur horizons; look at apartments from different places, like new york! hong kong! paris! tokyo!

pets!! our furry feathery scaley friends need as much a living space as humans do! do they roam freely around the apartment? or do they need a cage or tank? what about litter boxes and food bowls?

a full bathroom is abt half the size of a bedroom

irl, sometimes there are extra rooms/spaces that weren’t anticipated!! i have a small “attic” attached to my room that is entered through a toddler sized hole in my closet. it happens and has a lot of cool mysterious potential!!

google is your friend!! use it

links - also check out my architecture tag, for more info on some of this stuff

programs as far as i know, these all offer free trials so you can build plans! some of them even offer 3D designs

roomsketcher  sketchup floorplanner

websites

http://eplans.com - premade blueprints for houses, you can use this to look up different styles of architecture from diff eras (like gothic, victorian, etc)

http://jhmrad.com/ - a miscellaneous collection of home design inspo

https://nikneuk.deviantart.com/gallery/ - floorplans of famous set designs

http://www.inspiredhomeideas.com/ - self-explanatory, similar to jhmrad

room-specific

kitchen space design