#had The most vivid mental image of it i wish she was real. another possibility of the continuum shift...

[arundolyn]

they should make one of those. the goodsmile bridget plushies. idk what the style is called. they should make one of those that's mu

[fatalism-and-villainy]

“Primavera” is not a favourite episode of mine (not just in it being of a piece with my overall dissatisfaction with how Abigail was handled, but that’s certainly part of it). But - especially after watching the audio commentary - I really appreciate what they were going for with it. (That’s a sentiment I frequently have re: season 3 - I can’t ever say the concepts weren’t great.)

Because I love the way it plays with the concept of imagined worlds, and forking paths-style alternate realities, and with the implication that Will believes in the multiverse (“what I believe is closer to science fiction than anything in the Bible”). The show in general really ran off with the mind palace conceit from the books and honed in on the vivid, immerse potential of imagination. Mentally constructed realities, like Will’s imagining of the murders, often play as more richly saturated, more real, than reality. And the seductive power of imagination often crashes up against its perils - like in Will hallucinating killing Abigail near the end of season 1, another moment that plays with the unsettling inability to differentiate what’s real and what isn’t.

The first three episodes of season 3 are deliberately immersive, right off the bat - the broader plot and stakes of the story are ignored at first in lieu of dreamy, atmospheric character pieces that foreground their own fantastic elements and constructed potential (Hannibal saying “once upon a time” [cue curtains opening]; “all sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story”; etc.). But “Primavera” is perhaps the most immersive (and therefore disorientating) of all of them. Because, yes, plenty of the events “actually happen” within the world of the show - Will going to Palermo, meeting Pazzi, almost encountering Hannibal, etc. But it’s possibly the closest we come to spending an entire episode inside a character’s head - instead of just seeing flashes of Will’s imaginings, all of the events feel like they’re being viewed through his eyes, and what’s real gets subsumed within the fantasy he’s spinning for himself.

Not just in the presence of Abigail, although Will constructing everything he experiences through the lens of this alternate reality in which she survives is a big part of that effect (and the uncanny qualities of their first conversation aren’t even apparent until “Aperitivo” two episodes later, when Chilton has the same lines Abigail had, and you realize that you’re retroactively seen Will’s wishful thinking playing right before your eyes). But the chapel itself feels unreal, knowing as we do that it’s the lobby of Hannibal’s mind palace, and that Will feels closer to Hannibal there. Given how near-claustrophobically character-centric the episode is, and how so much of the action is confined to its interiors, the chapel doesn’t feel like a real place so much as a projection of Will’s thoughts and imaginings re: Hannibal.

I often see speculation that a season 4 would have included a lot of mind palace content, and I think this episode is one of the clearest indications of how they might have wanted to push the envelope further with the show’s concepts there. Specifically, I think the alternate realities conceit that gets touched on would have featured more heavily - not in the sense that the show would have gone full science fiction (Bryan was always determined to keep the supernatural elements ambiguous and symbolic), but in the sense that it would delve deeper into the tension that always existed between whether what we were seeing was real, or a hallucination, or just the product of a very vivid imagination - not just through individual images, but entire affective and experiential planes. So much of season 3 feels transitional to me, like the show untethering itself from the police procedural format and pivoting fully towards experimentalism. This episode feels like a trial run at that.

[middleearthpixie]

Someone to Watch Over Me ~ Chapter Four

In honor of Fanfiction Writers Appreciation Day, I thought I'd move up tomorrow's chapter and let it go out into the wild today. So, if you enjoy it, please let me know - comment, reblog, recommend, what have you! <3

Author's Note: Here is where the story will begin to mirror the events of The Hobbit, with some poetic license taken, of course.

Summary: Thorin and Seren arrive in the Shire, and she meets the Company, as well Bilbo Baggins.

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield/Seren (female OC, formerly of Dale)

Characters: Gandalf the Grey, the Company, Bilbo Baggins

Rating: T

Warnings: The sexual tension between Thorin and Seren ratchets up a bit now.

Word Count: 4,359

Tagging: @tschrist1 and if anyone else wishes to be added, just let me know!

Thorin stared up at the ceiling, only just barely able to make out the stains on the plaster. Water stains, most likely. He couldn’t imagine what else they might be. Didn’t want to imagine what else they might be.

To his right, Seren was sound asleep in her bed. Every now and again, she let out a snore that made him smile. At least one of them could sleep. He was far too busy mentally berating himself for his idiocy earlier.

He hadn’t meant to try to look down her tunic. It simply… happened. He didn’t know why he asked her about it, either. Up until the words crossed his lips, he had given no more than a passing thought about the fact that she was a girl pretending to a certain extent to be a boy. Her reasoning made perfect sense, after all, and he could hardly fault her.

But once she’d told him her secret, his eyes slid of their own accord to her chest. There was no indication whatsoever of any sort of curvature. Which made him wonder. Which made images pop into his mind. Images he neither wanted nor needed.

Trouble was, they were there now and that was why he couldn’t sleep.

Perhaps it would be easier if she looked more like a mountain troll. Or a goblin. But, in fact, she was actually cute. Pretty, even. Her hair was a pale, shimmering gold, like that of the elves of the Woodland Realm. She kept it back in a neat braid, which she then tucked into the neck of her tunic (stop thinking about that damn tunic!)

But her eyes were by far her most striking feature. They were wide and green, but unlike no green he’d ever seen. The outer ring of her iris was the deep green of a forest in summer, but as the color swirled nearer to her pupils, it softened to paler green, and finally yellow. They were almost mesmerizing in their tranquility. By far the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

And that was also why he stared up into the darkness, at the questionable stains. The fire smoldered on the grate. The fire she’d ended up having to start because all he was successful in doing was crumbling the flint like a fool.

That seemed to amuse her as she took it from him, saying, “Perhaps I should do this. I have the feeling that nasty little man at the desk wouldn’t be too keen on giving me another flint, knowing I’d be using it to keep a dwarf warm.”

He’d rolled his eyes. “I’ll go down and get a new flint. He won’t dare try to put me off.”

“You don’t know that.” She’d shaken her head. “He might have steel of his own or worse. It would be better for me to deal with him, if it comes to that.”

His gut twisted with irritation over that. A girl coming to his defense. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time she came to his defense, much as he hated to admit it. He appreciated it, but would rather not think about it, if at all possible.

Which led his mind right back to what happened earlier. He groaned softly into the darkness, rolling over to punch his pillow as he tried to will himself to sleep. It didn’t help. All he could think about now was what she kept hidden beneath that oversized tunic. And that was enough to drive him mad. His imagination ran wild, torturing him as the night wore on and the logs on the fire were slowly consumed by the flames.

He rolled onto his side, facing Seren. A mistake. She lay on her side, facing him, with only the light sheet drawn over her. In the darkness, without the shapeless clothes to hide her, the curve of her hips, the slope of her waist, were as plain as the nose on his face. And when he closed his eyes? It made things worse. Now he saw her in the rain, peering up at him as she had that first night. Rain beaded on her cheeks, caught in her eyelashes, shimmered against lips that he suddenly wanted to taste.

He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to will alway the sudden rush of desire he felt for this woman. No. She wasn’t for him. She was of Man and should stay of Man. Dwarves and Men would do well to remain far apart from one another. Nothing good could come of his desiring Seren Gilwynn, nothing at all. He would enjoy himself in the moment, no doubt, for he had the feeling she would be far different from any woman he’d known prior to meeting her, but in the end, it could never work. They were far too different and their paths would never be the same.

Now if only he could convince himself of that.

Finally, sleep crept in and his eyes slid shut. But, his dreams were every bit as frustrating as his waking thoughts; steamy and erotic and when he woke at the first light of dawn, the ache that settled into him was all too real.

He opened his eyes slowly, his entire body humming from the force of his dreams. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed so vividly and as his gaze fell upon Seren, whose back was now to him, he bit back a groan. Perhaps letting her accompany him was a terrible idea, after all.

No. He’d overcome this. It would pass, as every other infatuation did. He had far more important matters with which to concern himself, and with that, he threw back the quilts and sat up. His trousers were draped over the foot of his bed and he slid into them before crossing to Seren to catch her shoulder.

“We need to move on,” he said, giving her a gentle shake. “Seren?”

She rolled over with a low sigh and her eyes slowly opened. She gazed up at him and his belly gave a sharp flip as a sleepy smile lifted her lips and she said, “I was dreaming about you.”

“Were you?” He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible as he turned away.

“I was, yes.” The linens rustled and he peered over his shoulder to see she’d sat up and was now rubbing one eye with a fist. “It was interesting, really. We were in an earthen cavern, surrounded by goblins. And one was about to stab you through the throat, when Gandalf appeared.”

He spun around to face her. “What?”

“It was so odd,” she said softly, looking up at him. “But so vivid. I’d swear it was real, but we are right here in Bree, and there are no goblins here, so…”

He sank onto the edge of his bed. “Perhaps you should remain here, or in the Shire. If we are to go to Erebor and face a dragon—“

“That dragon destroyed my home as well,” she told him, her voice low and soft. “I want it to pay as much as you do.”

He looked over at her. Her eyes held a sadness he hadn’t seen before, and his first instinct was to offer her comfort. “So, you and I fight for the honor of killing Smaug?”

To his relief, she offered up a sleepy smile. “I don’t delude myself into thinking I could kill a dragon. But I would like to be there when it happens.”

“How is it you lived in Dale, yet I only ever saw you that one afternoon?”

She lowered the hand that had been rubbing her eye. “I didn’t wish you to see me.”

“You hid from me?”

“More or less, yes. I watched you, but after that day, you thought me a pest. I’d follow you if you came into Dale, with my little sword at my side, just in case anyone thought to give you trouble.”

“I thought you a pest?”

To his discomfort, she nodded. “You caught me once, around Athluna Farydale’s shop. I’m sure you’ve put it from your mind, but I remember it as if it was yesterday. I confess, Mr. Oakenshield, I had a bit of a crush on you back then. You were so handsome and fearless… But then, you laughed at me and said I was but a child and I should go home.”

He tried to bring up the memory, and little by little, it came into focus.

He’d first spied her as she ducked behind a table displaying Miss Farydale’s goods, and had thought nothing of it. But then, the distinct feeling of being watched had settled over him and at least twice more, he’d turned to catch a flash of blonde hair disappearing around a corner, behind a table, lost in a crowd.

It went on that way as he’d made his way from one end of the square to the other, when finally, he ducked behind a corner and as the girl passed, he stepped out to grab her by the arm, growling,“What are you doing?”

The tiny girl with long blonde curls and wide green eyes blinked up at him, gazed up at him as if the sun rose and set on his shoulders. In one hand, she held a sword. At first glance, he thought it was a toy, but then realized it was anything but. Small, perhaps, but honed to a lethal degree from the looks of it.

He released her, folding his arms. “I’m waiting.”

Those green eyes met his and to his surprise, her fair cheeks grew pink as she stammered,“I—that is, you—well… I mean… I’m here for you to watch over.”

They winced in unison and he’d replied, “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m here to watch over you. In case Alfryd tries to make good on his threats.””

“Watch over me? Whatever for? I need no one to do such a thing. Especially not a child. Run along now, and bother me no more.”

“But—“

He didn’t wait for her to finish, but turned and stalked off, shaking his head at the very thought of that child thinking she was protecting him from the people of Dale, from Alfryd. Laughable.

“That was you?” he murmured, reaching for his tunic, draped over the foot of the bed as well.

As he drew it on, she said, “It was. Do you remember? I made a fool of myself.”

“I remember I was far too old for you at the time.”

“Yes, you probably were.” She kicked back the coverlet and rose and he swallowed hard at the sight as, once again, she was in only her tunic.

To make matters worse, her trousers lay draped over the table, before the windows, and as she stepped before them, the sunlight streamed in behind her and the effect stunned him into silence. No matter how he tried not to look, he couldn’t help but see the outline of slender, shapely thighs, softly curved hips, the slope of her waist, and the faint hint of those bandages of which she spoke last evening.

He turned about, the only way he could avert his gaze. “I was and I still am and we need to go.”

“Well, it no longer matters,” came her pert reply and he breathed a sigh of relief as the swish of fabric against skin reached his ears. Her trousers, hopefully. Unless of course, she was trying deliberately to drive him mad. “I’m not that same girl any longer.”

A relief that. He turned back to find her dressed once more, which came as another relief for him. Now, they just need to make for the Shire and once the entire Company was assembled, his thoughts would no longer center on the girl in his room at the moment. In time, she would just be one the others.

Or so he hoped.

“So,” Seren was saying as she tugged on hose that had seen better days, “how long will it take us to reach the Shire?”

“No more than a few hours.”

“Good. And do you know where we’re going?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” he replied as he fastened his scabbard about his hips. “But, we’ll find it.”

“And if we don’t?”

He offered up a long look. “We will.”

“Very well.” She tugged on her left boot, then her right, and straightened up. Her brows pulled low as she peered at him. “Is something wrong? You look a little flushed this morning.”

“I’m fine,” he told her, shrugging into his fur wrap and then his cloak. “We need to move.”

“If you say so.”

He held open the door for her. The sooner he put this room, and its two comfortable beds, far behind them, the happier he’d be for it. Perhaps then his thoughts would stop torturing him.

Seren shielded her eyes from the sun as she waited for Thorin to emerge from the inn. Something bothered him. He avoided meeting her eyes, or even looking directly at her, and that made her smile. He had no trouble doing so until she teased him about catching him trying to peek down her tunic. It wasn’t until she’d teased him about it that this sudden change came about.

Was it possible that he really had tried to look down her tunic? She thought that’s what he’d been doing, but it was entirely possible she was wrong.

Or so she’d thought.

Then, he came thudding down the steps and out into the road and she smiled up at him. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”

“It seems our innkeeper friend thought we damaged the room. I don’t know what he thought we were doing, but he charged us an extra fifty for it.”

“Fifty?” Her belly kinked sharply. She didn’t have much more than a hundred or so left in her purse. Still, she set her sack on the ground to open it. “Well, let me—“

“Worry not about it,” he said, catching the sack to lift it in one smooth motion and thrust it back at her. “I let him think we’d had the time of our lives up there and paid him. It was the quickest way to get out of there.”

She bit back a smile. “I wonder what he thought we were doing?”

He shrugged. “I neither know nor care. Now, come along. We still have a way to travel.”

For the first time since catching up with him at the bridge, when he’d dragged her into the underbrush, she fell into step alongside him. “How far is the Shire from here?”

“About half a day’s walk. We will be there by nightfall.”

“And is there an inn there?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. But no matter, we will find somewhere to sleep.”

She cast a sideline glance up at him. The sunlight danced along the dark strands of his hair and highlighted the silver streaking through it. The small silvery cube braided into his hair caught the light, threw it off in flashes of blue and white light. “What is that?”

“What is what?”

She gestured to her own ear. “That block in your hair. What is it?”

“It’s a rune. Woven in by my nephew, Kili, when he was a toddler.”

“And how old is he now?”

Thorin glanced down at her. “Not much older than you, I’d wager. He would like you.”

“Really? What makes you say that?”

He shrugged. “Kili likes pretty girls. Fili as well, but he isn’t quite the flirt as his brother is.”

Hearing him say he thought her pretty did something odd to her. It made her belly flip in a way that was as delicious as it was unnerving. But, she didn’t wish to embarrass him again, and so merely smiled and said, “Tell me more of them.”

“Kili and Fili?” He glanced down at her, then looked ahead once more. “They are the sons of my younger sister, Dis. They are typical boys—reckless and headstrong and eager for a fight. You will meet them at some point in the next day or so.”

“I look forward to it,” she replied.

Perhaps it was but her imagination, but it seemed to her that his shoulders tensed with her words. But then, he said, “And they will most likely thank you,” and smiled down at her.

They walked on in silence a bit longer. As the sun warmed the air, she unfastened her cloak to drape it over her arm, and winced at the hint of sweat trickling down between her breasts. The linen wrapped around her was even warmer, and she wished she at least had the satisfaction in knowing she’d be able to unbind herself soon.

But, the truth was that as long as she traveled with a group of men, she would have to pretend to be a boy. And that mean remaining wrapped tight.

Not exactly the most pleasant of thoughts.

She tugged her braid from her tunic. The ends of it rubbed oddly against her skin, which irritated her as the healing blister on her foot irritated her, as the cut on her arm irritated hers. But, she kept her complaints to herself. Mama always said it did no good to complain and that energy was best spent trying to find a solution instead. Trouble was, the only solution was to confess her true gender and she wasn’t at all certain that would be wise. Thorin, she could trust. The others? She didn’t know them. And anyone else with whom they might cross paths, such as orcs, goblins, or trolls? She definitely did not want any of them to know the truth about her.

“Thorin?”

He peered down. “What?”

“Do you think I should come clean about who I am to the others? To Gandalf?”

He stopped and faced her. “Why?”

She also stopped and shrugged. “It’s warm. And that makes me a little… uncomfortable.”

She half-expected his gaze to lower, as it did the night before, but to her surprise, he held her gaze as he said, “It’s up to you. No one will touch you, if that is your fear. But, I cannot say the same for anyone we might meet along the way.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said softly, looking off into the distance, where the fields rolled an even deeper emerald green than the woods from which they’d come. She saw curious buildings in the distance, ones that looked as if they’d been built into the countryside. It all looked so lush, so peaceful, it was unlike anything she’d ever seen. She’d never been this far west before.

“How uncomfortable are you?”

“Fairly.” She resisted the urge to tug at the bandage where it rubbed along the left side of her ribcage. “My skin gets sore.”

“How quickly can you rewrap, if necessary?”

She smiled up at him. “I’m quick. Maybe a minute or two. As I said, I haven’t much to wrap.”

He looked around, only there was nothing but rolling lush fields, beautiful lush trees, and those odd buildings in the distance. Behind them, Bree was but a smudge on the horizon. “Unwrap yourself then. At least for a night or two.”

“Here?”

He nodded. “No one is around and I promise,” a hint of mischief glinted in his blue eyes, “I will not try to peek.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Do you really promise?”

Another nod. “I really promise.”

And with that, he turned his back to her. She looked around, then dropped her sack, shrugged out of her scabbard and set the knives down, then tugged her tunic free to reach beneath it. The bandage was knotted between her breasts, and it took her only a minute to work it free and then, with a low sigh, she unwound the length of linen. At first, the sore patch just below her left breast stung, but after a minute or two, the sting faded. The relief was so great, she couldn’t hold back her lusty sigh.

Thorin turned back to her then. “Are you all right?”

She held up the roll of bandages, tossing it into the air and catching it in the same hand. “Freedom feels wonderful.”

He grinned and she didn’t miss the hint of blush that crept across his cheekbones. She couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “You are blushing, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“The deuce I am,” he retorted, turning away.

But she wasn’t letting him off that easily. She darted about to stand before him again. “You are, you know.”

Then, she tossed the bandages at him. “Catch!”

He did just that. “What are you about?”

“Did you ever have a splinter that hurt. That hurt no matter what and when you finally got it out, it just felt so good, that your mood improved tenfold?”

“I have.” He tossed the roll back to her. “If it hurts so much, why do it?”

“Because I have to. You don’t understand. You’re a man. A dwarf warrior. No one will trifle with you. I, however,” she pressed a hand against her chest, “have no such luxury. I have to pretend to be what you already are and hope no one learns the truth.”

“I know the truth.”

She dropped the roll into her sack and gazed up at him. “But I know you won’t tell anyone. I trust you.”

“No one will harm you, Seren. Not as long as I walk this earth with you.” He stepped closer. “I give you my word. If you wish to remain unbound, know you will be safe with us. With all of us.”

He sounded so serious, his eyes holding not a hint of mischief and his blush had vanished. She knew her trust had yet to be misplaced or unfounded. She nodded. “Will you tell anyone?”

“Not if you don’t wish me to, no.”

“Can I let you know once I’ve met everyone?”

“Of course.”

She nodded. “Good.”

“We should keep moving. We still have a bit of a way to go.”

She nodded and crouched to slip the sack’s strap over her shoulder again, then stood and they continued along the road to the Shire. The sun sank low, streaking blue and coral across the sky. Red skies. A promise of good weather to come. Thank the maker the rain had finally come to an end.

But the landscape was deceiving, as it seemed they wandered from one end of the Shire to the other. She began to wonder if Thorin had any clue as to where they were actually supposed to be when he stopped for the third time, muttered something under his breath and said, "There it is!"

It was a house built into the hillside, with brilliant green trim and a round door that looked like the bottom of a barrel. On the brilliant green door, someone had carved a sigil and Thorin sighed as he grumbled, “Easy to find, my foot.”

Seren peered through one of the windows. Warm light filled the interior, and she heard the cheerful stamping of feet and the muffled voices rising as one in song. A party? It seemed odd that this was where Gandalf had sent them, and she was about to say as much to Thorin when he rapped on the door with a fist.

She held her breath as it swung open and Thorin leaned in to say, “Gandalf! I thought you said this place was easy to find? We lost our way. Twice.” He ducked as he stepped through doorway. “We wouldn’t have found it at all, had it not been for the mark on the door. You remember Seren, don’t you?”

He turned, saw she still hung back, and reached to catch her by the wrist. As his fingers brushed hers, a jolt rippled along her arm, strong enough that her head snapped up and she looked at hi. But he didn’t seem to notice as he tugged, pulling her through the doorway into a small house. For the first time in her life, she felt tall—almost giantlike—in that house. Everything was small. The furniture was tiny, the ceilings were low, she almost had to bow her head as she followed Thorin into a cozy, warmly lit dining room and found herself staring at twelve very curious dwarves and one very stressed halfling.

“Who’ve you there?” A dwarf with huge white hair and an even bigger white beard, gestured to her.

“Everyone, this is Seren Gilwynn, of Dale. He will be accompanying us and—” he held up a hand as a chorus of protests rose—“Enough. I’ve seen him with steel and his fists. He will be an asset.”

Then, he turned to her. “Seren, this is the Company.” He pointed to the white haired dwarf and moved along the crowed, “Balin. Dwalin. Oín. Gloín. Bofur. Bifur. Bombur. Nori. Dori. Ori.”

Then he moved to two young dwarves, both strikingly handsome, one blond, the other dark. “Fili. Kili.”

His nephews. She smiled. There was no way she would ever remember all their names, but at the same time, she nodded and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”

They all greeted her with friendly, if confused smiles and minutes later, she and Thorin sat at the table, plates of something delicious before them, and she just listened as Gandalf outlined their plan for retaking Erebor, with the halfling being the burglar who was going to take something called the Arkenstone. The halfling who looked terrified at the very prospect of doing so.

With a sigh, she settled back in her chair and just listened. And as she did so, she couldn’t help but gaze over at Thorin. Had he felt that jolt when they touched or was she just projecting what she wished he would feel? Because truth be told, she still had a crush on him. Only now, she was no longer a child and that could mean serious trouble for both of them.

[thegreenfairy13]

A Gotham Ghost Story - Part 5

When Oswald shoots Jim on the pier, his ghost is doomed to haunt the mobster. You can read the full story here. 

Thank you @mexican-texican for the beta! <3</p>

What follows feels like an onslaught. Jim is left with no choice but to follow the woman down gloomy corridors as he’s being pulled around corners and up the stairs. He wonders if death will always remain like this, being reduced to a sentient being that only observes but is unable to act.

A door behind him slams shut and the blonde hurls around to lock it. Finally, the cop can take a better look at her and gasps. He knows her, recognizes without a single doubt on his mind Gertrud Kapelput’s face however it can’t be . It’s a cop’s curse, being unable to forget a face, and even if he only ever saw her once he’s still absolutely certain.

But when looking closer, he notes how it can’t be, mustn’t be. The fragile woman might resemble Gertrud, they share the same nose, cheekbones, lips…but it can’t be. This woman is in her twenties, at most, and most notably, she’s got a ferocity and purposefulness to her that Oswald’s mother always lacked.

This young lady might be terrified but she’s not helpless. Jim observes her shoving a couple of dresses and some personal belongings into a bag before turning towards the window, for sure assessing the height and her chances should she be forced to leave the house by jumping through it.

They both freeze at the sound of steps coming down the hallway and before Jim can react, the woman does. “Hold the door!” she shrieks, looking directly at the Commissioner. When he doesn’t budge she repeats her request, more commanding this time.

Unable to process what’s happening, Jim does what he does best: saving someone. Turning, he drops his entire weight against the door. Closing his eyes, all he focuses on is the task at hand. James Gordon is still a cop and this woman is an innocent citizen demanding help. All he has to do is keep this door closed - at all costs. He sinks into the wood, feels each and every little atom, breathes the scents of wax, wood, and metal, imagines the lock fusing with the frame, imagines this single door holding up entire armies because if he doesn’t, whoever makes it through will kill her. He knows that with the same certainty he knows he’s dead, and he knows he won’t allow for it to happen.

The woman glances at him from the other side of the room, smiling gratefully. Jim smirks back at her and it suddenly hits him. She’s resilient, she’d make it without him too, but he buys her the time she needs. Another item follows the ones already in the bag and for a reason unknown, it makes him incredibly happy she’s able to gather everything she requires.

“I’m ready,” she states, already opening the window, preparing herself for the jump from the first floor. Holding out her hand, she invites Jim to follow her. Dazed, he takes it and for the second time today, he actually feels anything . He senses her warmth, picks up on her scent, which is also vaguely familiar, and vows to protect her.

“We’ll land softly,” she orders and Jim nods.

“You can see me,” he states, slightly awed and noting how his state of mind resembles being drunk. Not that he minds - it’s wonderful, as if someone had taken his brain and wrapped it up in clouds.

“Of course I can see you, silly,” she responds. “I conjured you,” the woman declares matter of factly. “I prayed for a guardian to watch over me and my child, I made the sacrifice - what good would it be if you’d appear and I couldn’t see you?” She shrugs as she tries ushering Jim toward the window.

Someone’s banging against the door already. However, Jim is certain they have all the time they need. Not a single second extra, but not one less, even. It’s a funny thing of her to say that though, that she made a sacrifice when he’s the one who died, he muses.

Jim already wants to contradict her when remembering he still has to get his facts straight first. “You’re Gertrud, indeed,” he asserts, waiting for her to confirm.

“Who else would I be?” she laughs a little bit, probably wondering what type of third-class guardian her magic procured. Given the circumstances, Jim accepts the concept of conjurings with shocking ease. Compared to dying, it’s not that outlandish though.

The lawman wants to laugh out loud. When truly taking in her physique, Jim wonders how he possibly could have missed her circumstances in the first place. Gertrud is delicate, way too thin for it to be healthy, therefore the slight swell of her belly should have caught his attention earlier.

“You’re pregnant,” he points out, feeling a bit foolish for stating the obvious the second time in a row.

Instinctively, she covers her belly with her free hand. “You’re here to protect him first,” Gertrud orders. “My safety is secondary. We made the deal, demon!”

“Demon?” Jim chuckles bemused and Gertrud’s face falls.

“You’re not…?”

“A demon?” the dead man finishes. “Hardly. I have no idea what I am. I only know I died and it was because of the baby you’re carrying.”

The women’s eyes open almost comically as she backs away from Jim in sudden horror. She grabs her bag, makes for the window once more, however backs down in sudden desperation.

“But you helped me,” she cries out, frantically looking for another way out. Feeling guilty, Jim raises his hands placatingly.  

The door behind Jim rattles again, louder this time, and the cop feels a sudden wave of urgency, as if he was forced to carry on, else he might give away his chances.

“I’m a cop, I help people,” he says matter of factly, opting for a soothing tone.

“You’re a liar, demon!” she accuses instead, eyes rolling wildly from here to there and suddenly, it hits him. Jim didn’t recognize her right away but now, as she’s pacing the room hysterically, running her hands through the strands of her hair, he perceives the madness.

In later years, her mental decline will be clear for everyone to see, but today the illness is nothing but a small seed. One day, she’ll seek salvation in the illusions her mind will gracefully procure for her and the thought alone saddens the cop. How must it have been, being raised by a mother gradually unable to differ fiction from reality? Is it the reason Oswald never told her about his true profession? It must have been easier, leaving her to her delusions and letting her see whatever she chose to.

Stomping her feet, she focuses all her rage towards the cop. “I’ll raise a good boy!” she declares with conviction. “I’ll have a beautiful baby boy, and he will be happy, he’ll be honest, he’ll be generous, and he’ll know nothing but love. I swore,” she almost screams and Jim shakes his head.

There’s something about Gertrud that makes arguing quite difficult, impossible even. “I said your baby is the cause for my death,” Jim sighs wearily. “I never said he’s responsible for it.” That’s not entirely true, but it’s a lie Jim can live with. Everything considered, dealing with men like Oswald on a daily basis is like playing Russian Roulette; he had it coming, especially after meddling with his freedom the way he did. Heck, he got ten good years, even.

Jim wishes he could close his eyes for a second, escape this new reality for a second. The only grace he’s being given is the ability to stare at a stain on the wall. He wills himself to focus.

“So it was an accident?” the future kingpin’s mother inquires curiously. “And even after your death, you’re here to help?”

“One could put it that way,” Jim admits drily.

The door rattles for the third time, a warning for the both of them to hurry up as a vivid image flashes before the cop’s inner eye: he observes himself stepping away, sees a lock breaking and wood splintering, he sees an outraged man storming inside, Gertrud screaming. Jim sees blood and he feels nauseous. He never could, could he?

Taking a deep breath, he imagines Gertrud’s lifeless body, a baby never born. It feels wrong and terrible, this death.

‘I will faithfully serve and protect anyone in need of a helping hand. I will never kill unless there is no other option to fulfill my vow.’ Jim silently recites the oath he took when joining the force, pushing away an image of his daughter running joyfully towards him. All of this is just a test, Jim tells himself. None of this is real and the past can’t be changed, he remembers his physics-teacher from fifth grade saying so.

Face lighting up, Gertrud claps her hands. “He’ll be exceptional, won’t he?” she muses. “What a man he’ll grow up to be, how much he’ll be loved when his friends even seek to protect him after their death?”

“You are friends, aren’t you?” she urges after a moment, giving him the same treatment he received the first time Barbara introduced him to her parents. It’s a look of pure scrutiny as she carefully sizes him up, for sure wondering if he’s good enough for her precious Oswald.

“We’re friends,” Jim rushes to clarify, fully aware he’s finally saying the words her son longed to hear for years.

Gertrud opens her mouth, indecisive. Jim isn’t sure why he’s secretly proud of the fact that she seems to be slightly disappointed in the statement before her demeanor changes again. It’s slightly endearing how much she and her son have in common.

Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, she assesses the dead man once more. “You said you’re a cop,” Gertrud recalls. “If you are indeed a cop, why would you , the corrupt scum of Gotham, be friends with my baby boy?”

Rolling his eyes, Jim prepares for his well-studied not-all-cops speech, the very same he bestows upon hesitant witnesses.

“I’d teach my child better than to hang out with cops and robbers,” Gertrud declares furiously and honestly, Jim can’t blame her, yet he’s got a trick up his sleeve that works even better than any type of persuasion.

“All honest cops have either quit or died,” he snaps back. “As we both can see, I’m the latter,” he adds drily.

Despite herself, Gertrud chuckles. “Can’t argue with that, darling,” he declares warmly.

“We should leave now,” Jim reminds her when he feels something pressing against his back. There’s no urgency though. He feels it again, this floating, unearthly sensation of being a mere pawn in a greater game, unable to act but to follow the path of destiny.

“Do you think you can help me?” he wonders out loud when taking Gertrud’s hand, leaping out of the window together with her.

He hears the wind rustling through the trees the very second she shouts her answer. They land on the grass, both chuckling in delight when she brushes off the leaves from her dress while Jim is still completely unaffected.

“Who was that lunatic anyway,” Jim wants to know, already running into the woods with her, admiring the long strands of hair dancing through the air. She looks so alive , like that, not even knowing how close indeed she’d been to death. If just one tiny thing had turned out differently, if she had tripped, if she had been silent instead of loud, if the door had not been made from oak, if…

Life always beats death, Jim decides. There’s no hidden romanticism in a life cut short, in a heart stopped from beating. Gertrud is gorgeous, and full of hope and love for her son’s future. He couldn’t take that from her even if there might have been a chance it would have stopped his own suffering.

Laughing in sheer relief, Gertrud runs through the trees, the bag flapping over her shoulder. “Who should it have been,” she grins. “My baby boy’s grandfather, of course.”

Even Jim has to giggle. For Gotham’s standards, that sounds like such a mundane family-drama.

“I need your help, though,” he shouts in lieu of an answer. “I need to be alive again,” he adds and Gertrud stops.

The good mood from mere moments ago is lost instantly and Jim swears he can almost feel the temperature dropping himself when his stomach falls.

“Oh, my poor baby,” Gertrud says, cupping his face lightly between her hands. “My poor, poor baby,” she repeats sadly. “The dead can’t return to life. Not like that. Either, they are gone, or they need to fulfill their purpose.” Jim hopes it’s only a trick of the light she suddenly sounds crazed.

After pondering for a moment, her face suddenly lights up. “But I can do one thing for you,” she proposes excitedly. “I told you I’d make sure my son stays away from cops. I’ll teach him not to befriend one, maybe…”

The gunshot echoes through the woods, cutting her line of thought short. That has been the last warning and Jim can practically feel the time running out as his mind is getting dragged through space and time, hurled mercilessly through the void back to where he started.

The feeling is similar to a cramp, only worse, and a hundred times more painful. Here goes his only chance for help, Jim thinks, as Gertrud leaves him behind, taking his ability to communicate with another living being with her. He screams after her, begs her to call him back, to help him however possible.

Turning, she reaches for him, tries grabbing his hand again yet they both already know she can’t follow. “I promise,” she shouts after him and Jim wants to weep.

[nikkiitalks]

Below the cut is a story submitted to me, the text below the cut is not mine.

Seeing people receive hate for sharing their stories, I decided to share my own. Hope Nikki doesn’t mind me sharing the story in her inbox. I am only doing it because I want to protect others.

Let me start from the very beginning. I started roleplaying very young back in elementary school. It was a town forum rp. It was hardly a roleplay, most of the time we would talk more out of character and share images. It involved people of the same age group. But it opened the doors for me and I started roaming different forums. Reading and roleplaying with others helped me to develop a vivid interest in writing, which became the love of my life.

The very first time I wrote my first smut was 10 years old, but it was more of a ‘fade to black’ scene. At that age, you have zero understanding of what you are doing and what the hell you’re supposed to be doing. Very quickly I became somewhat disinterested in forums (and I developed a muse blockage which destroyed any relationship developments with my partners), I decided to check out MySpace. Now this is when I really started to enjoy roleplaying to the fullest and experience the ups and downs of my most beloved fandoms.

But this is when things really went downhills. My smut was no longer ‘fade to black’. It was more explicit, a lot more dirty and most of the time I have no idea what I was meant to write. I was forced to read a lot of lemon stories and even watch videos. I come from that era where no one really cared for mun’s age. No one even asked how old you are. I didn’t know my partner’s either. And I could care less. As long as someone is writing with me- who cares, right?  Now that I am a bit older, I am weirdened out by my behavior and how I never thought through my coincidences. My actions could put someone else in a lot of trouble. I never thought or considered that. I could not imagine myself writing with 14 years old, let alone I can hardly engage in a conversation with someone in their eighteen or nineteens. In more recent times, I seek out my rping partners on reddit. And I dig through my (possibly) future partner’s posting history. There was a time when I turned down someone for lying about their age to me.

But now wait for my story.

I was 18, soon to turn 19, when I met one of my long-term rping partners who very quickly became my boyfriend. I admit- I am very sheltered, super naïve and never dated in real life. I was also poisoned with a belief that this is my one and only relationship and it will be the most beautiful romance of my life. What were red flags didn’t look like red flags to me. And one of my 1x1 RP partners kept pointing things out to me. They were worried about me and quickly noticed my behavior changed. I was not seeing them.

My boyfriend was 10 years older than I was. We quickly connected and indulged in 1x1. One couple became five more ships and then we ended up writing more and more. I also found myself falling for him because we were connecting very well outside of our characters. But how wrong I was. He knew I experienced sexual harassment at the age of 12, but that’s a different story. I opened up to him about it. He was one of the first people who learned about what I have gone through and thought he’s supportive of me.

First red flags I noticed were all over our stories. First time I inquired with him if he wanted to write an age gap story (not even having us in our mind), he agreed. I have never written one, wanted to experience it, also saw a few fun ideas all over Tumblr. Then later he started to suggest them more and more to me. One of them which horrifies me, is how he wanted me to write as someone as young as 14 once. Another one was a fangirl wooing over her favorite actor who is in mid-30s and she is the one who is seducing him. I actually talked with him about it and his response was, “he is hot, he can get any girl, she would feel inferior to them”. Thinking about that makes me crawl inside.  I can only apologize. I really should have known better as someone who experienced sexual harassment from someone 20 years older than me.

Second red flags came up was that he kept pushing me roleplay ideas. I didn’t have any more time left for my other 1x1s. It was all about him. I reached the state where I wanted to communicate with more people outside of him, but I would feel bad. I would make new blogs, reconnect to my previous partners and would deactivate in less than a week. I would not be able to sleep. I would be sweating up all night and  thinking if this makes me a cheater. I know it doesn’t. And it would never do.

He never liked me writing more ‘strong’ characters. He never liked his characters ending up inferior to mine. His characters always had to come out on top despite nothing. And if my characters were to show his any attitude, he would start complaining. It would even show in his responses and it would border on an emotional abuse towards my characters. He once even lashed out to me for retriggering his childhood memory I didn’t even know he had. Admittedly, I felt bad. He even had a weird set of rules on which words not to use.

For instance, I had a lawyer female character. And I even had ideas for her. But his reply once just…. left me speechless. I actually started wondering if he actually reads what I am writing at this point.  My adult lawyer female character ended up a cheerleader at his character’s practice (college?) and they ended up having sex in the bleachers. I was speechless by that moment.

And I felt inferior to him because our roleplays only had his ideas. Even any spirit my characters had demolished very soon after. I felt like they had no voice. The only few times when I suggested to him with what I came up, he had made everything his own.  He would thrust his ideas onto my characters. In the middle of our roleplay, we were talking my character- he started complaining how he doesn’t like it. My character was a witch. For him, witches only able to cast spells and create portals. He can’t have any abilities. If my character wants to possess other abilities- he needs different specie other than a witch.

In the last 3 months of our relationship, I opened up to him that I am having a burnout. I feel zero excitement towards anything we’re writing. I also asked him to tone down on sexual scenes. I want to focus more on the stories instead of constant sex. He agreed. I also requested him if he could stop making characters that often, writing a starter and then tell me only the next day. I had around ~350 characters that moment. There were mornings when I would wake up to a new story and I can’t muster out any excitement. He said we can stick to what we’re writing at the moment.  In less than 2 weeks, he broke that promise. New characters all over again.

Speaking of our own personal relationship, I ended up very lonely. I lost my friends. My friends started to turn their back on me. I drifted apart from them. My mom was also very unsupportive of this relationship and it became the whole mindset ‘us against the whole world’. She probably sensed something was wrong and I fought her hard. I was very wrong about it. It took me months to convince him to send me a picture, couldn’t convince him to talk to me on a video chat, though. And one of the least proud things I’ve ever done was to send my nudes. Holy fuck, I was stupid. There are times when sometimes I try to search up sites to make sure they have not ended up anywhere.

 I was very withdrawn and depressive. I remember the first months of our relationship under the mist. I don’t know where that time disappeared. Our relationship also happened around a very bad period of my life. I lost two dear people and I had a small PTSD stemming out from losing them. I couldn’t sleep, every time I did I would get nightmares. I also developed panic attacks and anxiety. This man not even once showed me a hint of sympathy towards my mental health. Not even a single worry coming from him.  Not even once he suggested me seeing therapy or talking things out with me. He would promise to talk to me about what is bothering me, only to neglect the subject by the following day.

He would often tell me I’m his soulmate and he loves me so much.  I was bombed with attention for the first time, for the first time I felt lucky someone considered me beautiful- and loved me for who I am. I was very trustworthy, he made it into a façade. The words that initially brought me joy left me scarred for the rest of my life. Sometimes I dream of him and I wake up triggered. I will be angry, I will be sad, my throat is clenched and it will be like this until I wake up again.

There were a lot of more things that came from our personal interactions, that don’t make me proud for overlooking these hints .This was the same person who smeared my sexuality and shamed LGBTQ+ community. He was transphobic. I was stupid believing I can change him and I would defend everyone with my will. I believed one’s opinion can be helped. He’d probably despise me today- as I am actually wondering that I might be non-binary. I currently use she/they pronouns to identify. He tried to deny me for who I really was by covering my arguments with ‘You know why I like you? You are so docile and nice, not like those whore American girls’.

He is broken but it is not my job to fix him. I didn’t break him. I was so wrong for thinking this is my soulmate  and latching onto every single word of his. I realize fault in my actions where I enabled and encouraged him to write what did. I am currently on a therapy for this. I wish what I knew now and I wish I could have fought him better.

There are people in this community who are as amazing as they write. They will seem ideal and very kindhearted. They don’t get into any drama.  There will be a lot of things that makes you click and you feel like your creativity juices flow together. But they hide things about themselves. And since we’re all writers here- we, might as well, give ourselves happy ending at that too. We might as well create ourselves flaweless characters.  I believe this person lied to me about who they are. I believe I was being taken an advantage of in many ways.

I still sometimes roleplay but I am very careful. Truthfully speaking after this experience, I won’t roleplay with any male roleplayers.  I know not every single one of them is like this and to those I wish all the best of luck. I don’t roleplay smut. I have nothing against it, but my focus is on different stories. I enjoy writing it for fanfictions, though, but even them they need to have a ‘backbone’ for me.  Although I still love romance a tons.

And I would like to apologize on my own faults in this story. I am sorry if I upset anybody else while you were reading this. To those who are reading this, please take a good care of yourselves and please protect yourselves online the best way. Always trust your gut. If someone is challenging your thoughts, DON’T try to change them. They won’t and they are not worth it. Your heart will hurt for a little bit, but someone better is coming along.

[hannibal-stop]

I'm curious whether either of us can survive separation ( A Valentine’s Ficlet with a Johnlock bonus scene!)

Hannibal stopped walking and closed his eyes for a second. The noisy crowd of Plaza de Armas immediately disappeared, and he found himself sitting in the small, quite room of his mind palace in which one of his favorite memories was secured. “If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would remember this time.” When he pronounced these words, almost four years before, he knew two things: that life would have never been so generous to allow him see Will every day, forever, and that, for this very reason, that moment would become one of the most significant images of Will stored in his memory.  “I’m curious whether either of us can survive separation.” When he heard these words, instead, he didn’t know how appropriate the use of the word “survive” had been.

The accuracy of details of his mind palace, his refined ability to alienate himself from reality whenever it suited him, made him more than sure that he would have been able to survive separation. But Will. What about Will? His constant efforts to refuse and deny his nature had pushed him to literally banish Hannibal not only from his life, but from his mind, too.  ”I don’t want to think about you anymore.” Hannibal knew that he could always count on his mind palace and that that separation would’t be a problem to him. But Will, Will had demanded that separation and then had rejected the only way he had to survive it.  “I’m curious whether either of us can survive separation.” Curiosity. Curiosity was usually at the roots of Hannibal’s actions and, now, apparently, of Will’s as well. But that time, Hannibal wasn’t curious. He didn’t want an answer to the question Will had posed a few days before, he wanted a solution. The solution had been to give Will the possibility to end their separation if he needed to. In other words, Will imposed that separation on them, so he had to impose his presence on him. “This way, we both will survive separation”, he told Will with his eyes, as the handcuffs were tightened around his wrists. As expected, during the three years he spent confined behind the glass wall of his cell, he tolerated perfectly well Will’s absence, spending most of his time with his memories; Will, forced to know the exact position of the other, had been even able to begin a new life.

Still standing in the middle of the square, his eyes closed, Hannibal moved from the small, warm room where he and Will sat together to admire Botticelli’s Primavera, to the hall of his mind palace, where the vivid image of his second separation from Will was waiting for him: it has been three months since the fall, months which they had spent recovering from their wounds in a clinic Hannibal had told Chiyo to take them. But the day the woman told him the FBI might have a lead to that place, although Hannibal had a list of other doctors and clinics which could’ve helped them, they decided to part, as at that point their conditions were generally good, or, at least, good enough for them to take care of themselves. Will was in front of him, his eyes a bit gloomy. They both had a small bag in their right hand and travel tickets and fake passports in the inside pocket of their jackets. But the destination printed on the tickets was different: Havana, Cuba, was the destination Chiyo had chosen for Hannibal, London was the one she had chosen for Will. Neither of them questioned her choices nor asked for an explanation. They had told her to book them two flights for two different places of the world and she had obeyed. They knew the FBI would look for them; they knew they couldn’t just run away together - not immediately, at least. Handing Will a black business card with his fake name and his new phone number printed in gold - which of course Will was required not to use, unless in real danger or emergency, Hannibal was absolutely sure there would have been no problems with this new period of separation. He was wrong.

Hannibal opened his eyes, took a long breathe and started walking towards Calle Obispo. Less than three months since he arrived in Cuba has passed, and something completely unexpected happened: his brain had begun hallucinating Will’s smell, again and again. First, it happened in crowded places, such as the market or the theatre. His first instinct had been to turn around and look for Will, but as he knew that more than seven thousands kilometers of water laid between them, he ignored that instinct. Then he had begun to smell him when he was alone. While cooking, while taking a shower, while tying his tie or drawing or reading or writing or eating. Especially while eating. Having done every possible exam and test, and having found nothing, Hannibal concluded - to his great dismay - it should be a principle of depression.

The FBI had found the clinic three days after they had left, therefore, they decided to spend at least one year without speaking to each other, as Hannibal’s renown tendency to contact the people he’s interested in could have alarmed the FBI at even the slightest trace of a letter or a note possibly left by him. Of course, they would be looking for them anyway, but this way it would have been easier not to be found. Hannibal and Will knew they could have spoken through Chiyo, but neither of them needed a filtered conversation with the other. They had nothing to tell that didn’t feel private, or better, intimate. To be honest, the only conversation Hannibal would appreciate was a face to face one, but he knew he had to be patient. The only thing he could do, was to look for Will in his mind palace every time he felt the need to. And it happened more and more frequently.

When he finally reached his home, he was still thinking to his… problem. As he opened the door, he immediately knew something was wrong. The last time he had seen Chiyo was when she gave him and Will their respective flight tickets, but he was completely sure that what he was smelling was her perfume. How was it possible? She should’ve been in the US monitoring the FBI movements. Was it another olfactory hallucination? He went to the kitchen to drink, his mouth was dry and he need some water. On the centre of fridge door the he found a small, silver magnet shaped like an orchid holding a squared piece of paper. At least Chiyo’s smell was real, she had been there. Hannibal’s relief disappeared all at once as he realized something must have been really wrong if she had felt the urge to fly to Cuba and go to his house to leave him a message, instead of waiting for the weekly call the three of them had agreed she would be giving them to some pre-established public phone. He unfolded the note: “He didn’t answer his call, three days ago. I have waited for him to contact me, but he hasn’t. I’m already on my way back to US, I have to move from my current apartment because they’re gonna find it. Call me tonight and let me know if you want me to reach him.”  He didn’t understand. Even though Chiyo didn’t know it, Will had an emergency number. His number.   “Why wouldn’t he call my number, or at least Chiyo’s, if he were in troubles? Has he met someone again? But this wouldn’t be a valid reason not to answer the call. He knows the importance of that call. But has he met someone? No, he’s not a stupid. But he could be sick. Will… could be sick.” Hannibal mentally reviewed what disease or problem could Will have. “The call was supposed to be three days ago. This means that the last time she spoke with him was ten days ago, during the last call. A lot can happen in ten days. And what if he omitted something to Chiyo? What if his conditions had worsened and he hadn’t told her? Or has someone found him? Who could possibly be looking for him, besides FBI?”  Thoughts were starting to pile up in his head; he stopped them and decided he had to look for him. It was his turn, this time. Even though she carefully avoided to express her opinion, when Hannibal asked Chiyo for Will’s address, he could tell from the tone of her voice she didn’t think that was a wise decision at all; however, in that moment all he cared for was Will’s safety. Not his.

Although Hannibal’s patience had been meticulously trained for decades, the flight seemed to last an eternity. But it was nothing compared to the taxi trip to Will’s apartment. He would’ve preferred to rent a car, but he knew he would have driven too fast and could have called someone’s attention, not to mention it had been years since he last drove a left hand drive car. The heavy traffic obliged the taxi driver to stop the vehicle forty-seven times - Hannibal counted them to restrain himself from killing the innocent man in the front seat. He almost failed to control his instinct when the driver suddenly slammed on the brakes nearly making Hannibal hit his head on the seat headrest in front of him, but the scene he saw immediately after distracted him from his impulses: two men were crossing the road, they were about Will’s age and one of them - the taller, dark haired guy, whose curls reminded him of Will’s, was pushing a stroller with a little baby girl in a pink lace dress, while the other - way smaller, blond hair, was keeping his right hand on his partner’s forearm and thanking the driver for stopping to let them cross with a smile.  That lovely family shot made Hannibal wish for a moment he had escaped with Abigail and Will. Will. He looked away from the couple and focused on the road again, thinking he shouldn’t be too far from his destination. When he finally arrived in front of the door, he rang the bell, twice. No answer. He rang the bell of another floor and told the young lady who answered that he had lost his key. Once in, he rushed up all the three floors of stairs which separated him from Will’s apartment. The door was shut, he knocked three times, in vain, but decided that it was better not to shout his name. The neighbors’ attention was the last thing he needed now. Silently but quickly, he forced the door. He moved two steps inside and froze.The house was dark and smelled like an old wooden trunk which has been closed for years. Hannibal pushed some switches but nothing happened. Using his phone light, he looked around to find out there were no light bulbs in the sockets. There were clothes and food wrappers - not a lot, Hannibal noticed - all over the floor, while a pile of newspapers lied on a chair. The most recent one dated back to the last month. Among the disgusting smells he could detect, he found a faint trace of Will’s scent. He tried to follow it, supposing it would come from his bedroom. He reached the only closed door of the corridor and opened it. “Who’s there?” sputtered Will. His voice sounded like he hadn’t spoke for days. Hannibal released a breathe and he felt like he hadn’t breathed for months.  Will was there, and he was alive.  “It’s me, Will” No answers, no moves. Hannibal reached him and tried to light the bedside lamp, but of course it didn’t work, so he went to the window and opened the blinds. Will moaned in protest and pulled the duvet over his head. Hannibal would have liked to open the window, too, but that day was particularly cold and the last thing Will needed was a flu, so he went to sit on the bed and gently touched Will’s hand. He shivered. It didn’t feel like the hand he had touched so many times before. He slowly lowered the cover to reveal the man’s face. Will’s hair and beard were long and covered almost entirely his skinny face. So skinny. The beautiful, blue eyes slowly raised to met his. Hannibal winced. “I’m so sorry, Hannibal”  “Tell me what happened Will”, said Hannibal, helping him to sit on the bed. Will was really underweight. And needed a shower. “Nothing. Nothing happened. I just… I just… felt so alone. I was alone. And I had nothing to do, so…” Will paused to clear his throat. It really must have been days since he last spoke. “I had nothing to so, so I just did nothing.” Hannibal sighed.  “I’m sorry, Hannibal, really, I… you… you shouldn’t have took the risk to come here. I have been stupid.” “I feel so guilty for this I can barely breathe. I’ll take you away and take care of you, Will” was what Hannibal was thinking. “Why didn’t you call me or Chiyo?”, he said instead. Will looked down. “Were you ashamed?” Will nodded. “How long has it been since you last ate?” The scrawny shoulders shrugged. “Will, do you know what this… condition is?” Will nodded again. “I… d… depression”, he murmured. Hannibal caressed Will’s hair and hugged him, so that their heads laid on the other’s shoulder. It wasn’t the first time they hugged like that, and, like the last time, Will was shaking and shivering, but at least he wasn’t bleeding. “You know, Will, I have been hallucinating your smell in Cuba. This… is a symptom of depression as well.” Will chuckled, and Hannibal smiled, unseen.  “Looks like now you’ve got your answer” Will raised head and looked at Hannibal. “Mh?” “Apparently, none of us can survive separation. Not anymore.”  “Then don’t leave me” “I won’t.” Will smiled. “What… what day is it?” “It’s… oh.” Hannibal paused for a second. “It’s the fourteenth of February.” “Then you must be my Valentine” “Indeed”, said Hannibal, and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead. “But you have to shower and start to eat again.” “I will”, promised the man.

On the other side of the ocean, Jack Crawford and five agents were entering Chiyo’s abandoned house. It was empty. In the kitchen, in the centre of the table, a white envelope with Jack’s name on it. “Maybe…” an agent was about to suggest him not to touch it, but the look Jack gave him made him think better of it. That handwriting left him no doubts. He opened it.  “You bastard”, said Jack, but he couldn’t help smiling reading the short sentence Hannibal had left for him: “I followed my heart to United Kingdom.”

[overhere-series]

Over Here: Chapter Two

And down the hole we go. 

The black engulfs Cass, the hole sealing closed with a polite thoop she barely hears over the air rushing past as she falls. Wind roars in her ears, snatches at her clothes and hair and bag, blinds her even if the light’s disappeared with the hole itself.

She twists and bucks to try and level herself out but only smacks her hand into a rough, uneven wall for her efforts. On reflex she pulls both hands to her chest, curling inward with her knees tucked close to keep them from the walls.

If she’d had any illusions about that bizarre thick fluid her fingers passed through only seconds ago slowing her fall, they’ve been ripped from her now. Cass’s plummet just picks up speed, though it’s still taking a hell of a lot longer than she thinks it should. A chill creeps over her the longer it goes on, numbing her from head to toe and giving her about as much control of her movements as a sock in a tumble dryer. She fights the feeling without much success.

The war on the mental front seems to be doing a little better. She grits her teeth to stop the scream rising in her. Denial weaves over her fear like a scab. Somewhere, whether slumped over her sketches at the picnic table or on her bed back home, Cass Douglas has crashed out, about to jolt from this nightmare any second now. She’s been dwelling too long and memories and this is the result.

Not a likely scenario, but she dreamed of the first hole often enough. She latches onto the possibility as a life preserver, however eerily vivid and real the wind rushing past feels.

Another thoop sounds below her and the flow of her plummet shifts. Pulled by a point on the small of her back, she curves sideways and still further down as if rocketing down a tube at a waterpark.

She lands on something softer than she’s been bracing for, plush but still firm enough to knock the wind out of her. Cass groans, rubs her arms, waits for the shock of the impact to ebb away before anything else.

When she opens her eyes, the black of the hole still stares down at her. But the fall through it has taken her from the green of the park indoors to what looks like an antique shop. Luckily she’s fallen on the softest thing here, a beat-up old mattress conveniently shoved under the hole. Wooden boards compose the rest of the room. From floorboards to rafters, the place is cluttered with a collection of other oddities she’d probably find in a yard sale.

Cass scrambles off the mattress. Her hand goes right for the hole and falls against a smooth, closed surface, more like a window pane than the give of water.

She swears. “Oh, come on! Open up!”

Cass smacks her fist on the black disc, but a shock runs through her arm. She hisses and has to keep from smacking it again.  Still sore all over from her run and the fall, she traces her fingers over the hole’s border. No vacuum pull ready to suck her back to where she came from.

Distant voices pick up. Cass freezes with her hand on the hole, grabs the nearest object and whacks it against the hole’s surface.

Instead of shattering like glass as she hopes, the hairdryer in her hands twongs. The voices go quieter.

She hurls the hairdryer into a pile of cords, opens and closes her fists at her hips. Plan, plan, plan- the image of the bird splayed in the grass flashes to mind. If the hole takes everything to the same place, the bird has to be here somewhere.

Cass pats down the mattress and finds a few pencils from her bag, but no bird.

“Great,” she mutters. It’s probably flown up into the hole somehow and ditched her. She gets to her feet again and tightens her bag at her back. Maybe whatever old lady who runs the place can tell her where she’s been dumped.

Before she can explore the shop any further, a man comes around the corner.

She stumbles back, knocking a bundle of VHS tapes to the floor as she brings up her arms in defensive stance. The man’s eyes go wide to see her standing there. Actually, ‘man’ doesn’t cut it, since he can’t be much older than her, maybe eighteen at best. Caught somewhere between Mexican and Indian, he becomes less and less threatening the longer she looks, lanky and dazed and dressed like he’s fallen out of the turn of the century by the white tux he’s in.

“It’s you,” he says, voice lilting and a little reedy. If he didn’t seem so concerned, his angled face might’ve been harsh. Instead all of him strikes her as unnerving and familiar, with his long beaky nose and the cookies-and-cream fluff to his hair. No, feathers. Those are feathers.

“You,” she says. “I don’t know what the-”

The voices pick up again, closer now. Cass steadies herself to investigate, but the bird grabs her by the wrist to keep her from storming to the end of the room.

“This way,” he says, and pulls her toward the wall closest to them.

Except the step doesn’t end there. Her stomach lurches as a wave ripples through the rest of her, makes her go pins and needles all over, yanked through wood and brick and spat out into fresh air.

Her feet hit the ground running, the bird’s hand in hers as he bolts them from the shop. Colors assault Cass’s eyes, a swarm of Pollocks compared to the dim browns of the last location. Oranges, reds, violets, and blues all swim in her vision.

Combined with the roll of her guys from walking through walls, it all makes her downright sick.

She digs her heels into the ground and snatches her hand back. Her eyes drive down to the orange mossy stones at her feet until she can dull the nausea. A few more deep breaths, in and out, then her gaze shifts up to pace herself with the rest of her new surroundings.

At first it’s like they’ve stepped into another forest, trees in vibrant hues all around her. Another glance reveals brick buildings interwoven with overgrown branches and trunks, wooden lamp posts empty but with an orb on each for a light. Vines creeping in between the bricks as if going through the walls into the houses.

Cass takes hold of her upper arms, digs her nails into her biceps to pinch herself awake. “This can’t be happening,” she breathes.

The bird caught his breath enough to bring his attention back to her. He puts a hand on her shoulder as she eyes over the windows, doors, and balconies all devoured while people just milled around her, in flowing wraps and tunics and other too-long garments in soft versions of the colors in the trees-

“Are you alright?” the bird asks. “I understand you must be overwhelmed, but you need to breathe.”

“Don’t tell me to breathe!” Cass pinches her arms again, tries to rein herself in so she’ll stop drawing attention, but panic clings to her. Her eyes dart around the street for a path out, blotting out the looks of the strangers and the bird. There’s a bridge just between a few buildings on her left.

The bird still has his hands on her shoulders. “I’m here to help you. Everything’s going to be just-”

She jabs her elbow high and knocks the bird’s hand away. With every last ounce of energy, she sprints to the bridge, shoving past the vivid strangers to lose the bird in the crowd. Running on her toes until she gets over the mossy, overgrown bridge to a less eye-searing patch of trees.

She doesn’t stop until she’s lost the sound of the bird calling after her, and even then keeps up the pace for extra precaution. Ten more minutes and she slows to the most brisk walk she can manage at this stage.

Above her head the branches jolt out like frozen bolts of lightning, the leaves dark reds and violets twirling off into ribbons she can’t help but gawk at with how much the day’s drained her. Hedges line the path of stones leading from the bridge. She trudges a minute longer off into the brush before she finds a weak spot to slip through.

Doing her best to leave the leaves undisturbed as possible, she all but falls into the center of the clearing behind them. It takes a moment to slow her breathing back down, sitting there digging her nails into her arms. Her eyes squeeze shut, as if it’ll bring the greens of the park rippling back.

But she blinks to find the grass at her feet still a tufty purple with blue flowers here and there, a sound like bells in the air instead of the distant thrum of cars. If she hadn’t snuck out,  if she hadn’t found the bird, if she’d left the hole alone rather than reaching for it knowing full well what happened the last time-

“Could we try again, please?”

Cass yells and crawls back. The bird stands at the spot she entered the clearing through, bent over with his hands on his knees. Chasing after her tired him out.

She hauls herself up and steps further from him, toward the trees. “Get away from me.”

“You’re unharmed, that’s good,” the bird notes, recovering enough to stand straight and smooth out his suit a little. How he followed her barefoot through the woods, she can’t guess, and she’s too exhausted to really give a crap. Still, his eyes move over her without any intent to come closer, gaze spacing off into the air around her head. “Oh dear.”

Cass shakes herself from her shock and squares her shoulders, does her best to look imposing and immovable despite the events of the last few minutes. “What do you want from me? I don’t know who or what you are, but you’re not gonna kidnap me and just expect me to take it. I didn’t ask you to bring me here and I sure as hell didn’t ask you to get me out of that antique place.”

“It’s a collection house,” the bird corrects, “but kidnap you? I’m afraid I don’t understand. You followed me- well, the first time.”

“Because you were practically dumped in my lap! What was I supposed to do?” Cass’s face flushes full scarlet, the image of the bird on the table putting up its wings like surrender, or maybe ‘stay here’.

Her face flushes. Still not her fault. “If you hadn’t been there in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened! Hell, if you’d never been over that bridge-”

The bird cocks his head. “What bridge?”

Cass stops, wishes she can reel the words back in. The bird’s too young to have been part of something that happened so long ago, but it doesn’t keep her from trying to blame him and this whole stupid place for it. The fear she’s been feeling since seeing the hole again comes to a boiling point, burning up and down her spine and through her arms to a place in her chest. Familiar fear, the fear of reaching for an adventure with one hand and trying not to fall in the water with the other.

“I’m not doing this,” she says, stepping away. She’s grown up. “There’s no way in hell I’m doing your dumb chosen one prophecy or… finding out I’m a witch or a changeling or whatever it is you want from me. You can take your Wonderland and shove it.”

The bird stays in place. “I’m sorry?”

“You should be. I’m not playing this. I’m going home. That hole’s going to open and I’m going home.” Her hands shake as they grip the straps of her bag. Red blurs her vision. She’ll take a hammer to that glossy portal disc. It has to open.

The bird sighs and fluffs a hand through his feathers. He doesn’t look disappointed or angry, just really, really confused. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Then uncomplicate it. I’m going to back to the real world.”

“This world is real as your own,” he says. “This side of the gaps is locked or your world would be aware of that. Things from your side may fall in but never back through.”

She pauses. The layers of dust on the piles of Earth items in the collection house, sorted and organized with a mattress to catch anything that falls. All of the stuff stacked up over years, it looked like. Wayward pieces of her world that never find their way home because there isn’t one.

The explanation falls through with one look at the bird. “BS,” she snaps, “or you wouldn’t have been there. Don’t lie to me.”

For a moment it looks like she’s actually struck a nerve, irking the bird into a formal clasp of his hands behind his back like he’s about to lecture her. Instead his irritation vanishes, face spread to a broad, self-indulgent grin. Only slightly creepy.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, quite right! We can take you. If we bring you to Haven, we can use the timepiece to send you back.”

The sound of bells trills up again, the blue flowers like a border between Cass and the bird. “You’re saying I have to go with you to go home,” she says.

“Simple, as I’m already planning to return there myself,” he goes on. “This timepiece of Marshall’s sent me to Over There and back. Certainly it can make a mere one-way trip. Well, it’s Marshall involved. Fate only knows if the device is consistent, but I don’t see the harm of trying.”

“Sent you over there.” A broken attempt to process at least some part of the bird’s ramble.

“To Over There.”

Cass glares at him.

“You’re from the world of Over There,” he says, like it’s a well-worn explanation. Not reassuring. “Gapside, the otherlands- Earth, you call it. I come from Over Here, the world we inhabit now. I would be more than happy to accompany you home.”

“Sure, you would,” she mutters. She’s not moving from where she’s rooted, though.

“No, truly,” the bird insists, stepping a bit closer now. “Door theory, magic’s effect on gaps- why, I hardly know where to begin! This has the potential to change the worlds as we know them. Not that we can tell anyone yet, of course.” His feathers poof out with his glee, eyes owlish in how wide they get. Mid-laugh, he reaches for something in the air but seems satisfied dancing a hand in the space at his side.

Cass swears, kicks the ground at her feet. Deep breaths, in and out, but she can’t keep cool for much longer. Not with this lunatic flying off on a tangent every two seconds, patting the air like there’s a cat floating in the empty space.

“I’m done,” she says, headed for the hedges. “Your crazy ass better not follow me this time.”

Wind beats the grass, the sound of bells plucking back up. “You need to come away from the flowers,” the bird says.

She flips him, appropriately enough, the bird and keeps walking. She’s at the end of the flowers. Nothing’s happening. She turns and gives the bird a smirk, brows raised at his apprehension for the grass.

A strong breeze whips through her hair and she goes rigid. The bells strike up again, louder this time.

A force bucks into her and pushes her backward.

Before she can fall into the grass another force throws her forward again. Any step forward produces a step back, then another, tossing her into the center of the cluster of blue flowers at her feet. Each breeze comes with the sound of jingling bells and burbles of almost-laughter, wet and raspy like if a raincloud could giggle.

Long hollow shapes form around her, tube-like, streaming in under her knees and throwing her legs from beneath her. The breezes coiling around her arms keep her in the air, almost hanging upside down, whatever these things are twining in a living mass underneath her. She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw to keep from yelling over the tinkling bells.

She flails. She forgets the bird on the ground and looking calm about any of this and preps herself to grab a branch as soon as one comes within reach. The breezes keep cycling higher and higher, synchronized so they don’t drop her but tipping the balance a few times too many.

It’s too familiar, too much like drowning in mid-air. She cries out when they let her go and catch her only a foot from the ground to take her up again. “Stop!”

A long, low note rings out. The wind goes still, just for a moment, beginning to cycle the other direction and set her gently on the ground in time to the tune being whistled.

The bird’s whistling patters off to a hum. The air seems to twine around him instead, sending his coattails billowing as he strokes the apparently empty air with a finger. “Honestly, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” he scolds. “It’s making a terrible first impression. Are you quite alright?”

Cass lies there, arms wrapped around her middle. She stares up at the canopy she was just inches from. The wiry alien trees stare back.

“What just happened?”

“They’re only sylphs,” the bird says, offering his hand down to her. For a second she stares at it, then takes it to haul herself up. However much it pisses her off, exhaustion weighs on her from the run and the gap and everything since.

“They’re rather protective of these flowers,” the bird continues, “though that’s no excuse for them to lose their heads.”

Cass eyes the air with a silent little huff. Real actual wind spirits. Not like how her dad described them, but still. “They tried to kill me… because I stepped on their flowers.”

The bird bends down to examine the flowers in question. Tiny holes grew in the thick stem that whistle when the air blows through them, the jingling ‘bells’ she’s been hearing. “Lyreblooms, to be precise. The sound’s a draw for them, you see, and- well, I ought to have been more careful. Are you going to be alright? I can heal anything, if you need.”

Cass shakes her head, looking him over. The bird’s hair sticks out at unkempt angles like some mad scientist’s from the sylphs, but he straightens up under her examination, hands behind his back. A beanpole of a guy with feather hair and bare feet and clothes probably pulled right from the turn of the century. Along with the colors of this place, something closer to what she’d imagined she’d find as a kid, the start of some quest.

But quests come with terms. Even as a kid she’d known that.

She sets her jaw. “Fine,” she says, trying not to sound shaken as she feels. “You can help me, but I’m not saving the world or anything. You’re just helping me, no strings attached?”

The bird doesn’t comprehend the question at first, head tilted. Then his eyes go owlish again and he understands. “Oh! No, nothing of the sort, why?”

Another deep breath. She doesn’t quite believe him. Bargains have catches, ironic twists- it’s a fairy tale rule. Every question she asks has him shoving more into her arms, but-

But she can’t see the sylphs. She doesn’t have anything but his word about the gap, either, but he doesn’t seem cunning enough to lie, not with how much he gushed about this timepiece. Besides, she prefers to believe there’s a way home than to keep banging at a locked door with the gap she came out of.

“If you can take me home, fine,” she mutters. “You have a name?”

Yet again the bird takes a second to process things. Something seems to nag at him, a look in his eyes like he’s left the house with the stove on. It fades but not fast enough. “Call me Winston,” he says, offering his hand again.

“Cass Douglas,” she answers, taking his hand in hers.

[the-pupillary-sphincter-blog]

Première Vue

“She made me wish I believed in love at first sight.”, I said as I scribbled the right words for my Final Paper for my Philosophy subject. Our professor asked us to collate our thoughts and what we have learned from his class particularly on the Phenomenology of Love. I know that he would mark my points here wrong, or even give me an unsatisfying grade for this paper because he believes that love at first sight is a common misconception. That this phenomena, in the first place, is a philosophical impossibility. He insists that love at first sight is deceptive because it is solely based on what you’re seeing and not on what you’re feeling. But I hope I could make my point here and prove to him that it could happen to some people.

When two people meet and their eyes gaze upon each other, it’s not love at first sight. It’s not as simple as that. Love at first sight is when you can’t bring yourself to look away. It’s when you can’t precisely explain the reason why, but you know you’ve captured the loving soul embodied through their eyes. It’s when the task of looking away is too hard to resist, for you fear that when you avert your eyes, the magical moment will be a thing of the past. That the person you adore so much would instantly disappear, like a third wish, or a falling star. The eyes will carry on with their lives, and the love that you could feel so much will be gone in just a blink of an eye. That is love at first sight. 

I continued to write until I felt that I could somehow persuade my professor with the context of love at first sight being a possibility for some people. That it is not an impossibility but rather a possibility with just a very low probability to happen for some. Like a supermoon, or a meteor shower, or a comet that would show up in the atmosphere for the first time in centuries. 

One more sip from my cup of cold coffee and I knew I was over it. But was I?

It was a cold Sunday when I woke up to the drizzling sounds of the rain and the crumpled yellow papers scattered around me. I caught myself looking at the inglorious blank ceiling atop my bunkbed and the first thing I realized was that I had a splendid sleep. Not because I had slept for only six hours, but because I had not seen her vividly in last night’s series of mental images while I was asleep. It was one of those rare circumstances that I haven’t dreamt of her. And it felt better. The second thing I realized was that in as much as I wanted to go back to sleep, my body yearned for a different thing– a cup of warm of coffee. Normal rational people would’ve go back to bed instead but I didn’t. I chose the latter since my day couldn’t start without sipping some love from a cup of coffee. I decided to go to my favorite coffee shop just a few blocks from my house. The place where I had experienced the most ephemeral joy of my life. The place where I first and last saw her.

As I entered the place, I immediately looked for the spot where I usually sit and thankfully, there’s no one sitting in it. Perhaps because it was just seven thirty in the morning and nobody wanted to wake up yet with this kind of weather. A kind of weather that is deliciously mild and soothing. I quickly went to the table and ordered my usual thing, a hot cup of cafe au lait. I have always loved sitting here, near the Plexiglas window where I can see the view of the outside. Where I can see people walking around, living through their lives. Some as vivid as the others. And some darker than the others.

One more sip from my cup of hot coffee and I knew I was over it. But was I?

I caught myself looking at two people sitting just near my table. They’re probably a couple. A sweet one, to say the least. I can tell it by the way they talk to each other and the way their eyes look upon each other. They must be deeply in love with each other. I thought.

I smiled away and continued to sip from my coffee. But something just bothered my mind in that instant. I tried not to. But it just kept rattling in my head. 

I wonder what we could’ve been if I was just brave enough. I wonder what could’ve happened if I was able to tell her. 

And then suddenly and all at once, the memories of the past just kept flooding in.

It was two years ago when I first met her, in this very same place, in this very same spot where I sit in. She was sitting alone in this table and she was crying. She was looking outside with the vaguest sense of direction. And I knew she was going through something. Like her eyes spoke to me the deadliest story. I couldn’t look away. I wanted to but I couldn’t. I wanted to hug her but it would’ve been grotesque if I did because we’re strangers. I didn’t know what got through me but I approached her and offered her my handkerchief. She was hesitant at first but she took it and wiped the tears off her drenched eyes.

 “Mind if I sit here with you?”

“Uh… sure.”

I sat with her and it’s when everything started. We introduced each other first before she told me why she was crying. She told me everything. How she desperately needed someone to talk to that time but she has none. How her family was broken because of her jerky father. How her ex-boyfriend left her the same date as their second anniversary. How she was scared to fall in love again because of what happened. How her life was a mess and how it became such a fucked up one. I saw it through her eyes. How her helpless soul formed into a little black pearl. Of how she was made of sleepless nights and a long hard past.

“It’s okay. Things will be fine, eventually. Perhaps not now. Maybe tomorrow. It doesn’t happen at an instant. Everything is not okay right away after you’ve been hurt. Things take time. Time will fix everything.”

“What if everything is meant to be worse? What if everything is going to be even more painful in the future?”

“No, it won’t. No one is meant to have shits more than he or she can handle. Especially for a girl like you. You’re too young for everything. You should be enjoying your youth. So bring out that smile now because I hate seeing beautiful people frown like that.”

She smiled a cunning smile. A rarefied one. A smile that I’ve never seen in my life before. A smile that I never thought would haunt me for the next two years of my life.

But that was the first and the last time I saw that smile. After that day, I never saw her again. She disappeared like a meteor in the sky. I never had contact with her again because all I knew was her first name. I tried to ask the staff at the coffee shop but all they knew was her first name, too. I waited for her everyday at this place. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to know her better. I wanted her to be a part of my life. For two long years, I waited for her to come back again because I knew it. I knew it since I got lost in her eyes. I knew it since her mind took over mine. I knew it since the first second I started to fall. I knew it since– it was love at first sight.

The next thing I knew, a figure stood behind me. I heard a voice calling my name from behind. It was a girl’s voice. A familiar one.

Life is a game, isn’t it? And we all play the same game each day, don’t we? And that’s all it is, a game. Our lives depend on a dice roll. Or is it predetermined? We will never know. Fate is so fickle. But fate can be sometimes friendly when it’s knocking at your door.

I felt the person grazed her hand through my gawky shoulder. The voice was calling my name again. No, it can’t be. This isn’t real. This is just another delusion. But it wasn’t. It was her.

“Hey… Mind if I sit here with you?”

“H.. Hey.. Yeah sure.”

I didn’t know how she still recognized me. I was shocked and frostbitten to my position. And I tried to convince myself that if it was just a dream, I would never want to wake up anymore.

“Thanks. It’s nice seeing you again. It’s been a long time.”

“I know. And who would’ve thought we’d meet again at this very same place where we first met.”

I grinned. Because it was the time I realized that I wasn’t dreaming at all. 

I can still remember every detail of her face when I first met her. And they were still the same her. Her hair was still the same attractively unkempt hair. Her eyes were still the same elegant brown eyes. The only difference was they seemed to tell a different story now than the first day I saw her. She seemed golden and better now than before.

After a bit of catching up with our lives, she told me everything. But this time, she wasn’t crying anymore. She was smiling all the time. She told me what happened after the day I first met her. How she was sent abroad first thing in the morning by her mom to live with other relatives. How she didn’t have much of a choice because she wanted to forget all the bad things that happened in her life before. How she wasn’t able to keep in touch with me because she barely knew any personal information from me. How she moved on from the series of hapless events she went through before. How she met a guy that would change her life forever.

I didn’t speak any word. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to feel. Everything just fell apart. But I knew I had to break the silence that was prevailing between us. 

“So how long have you been together?”

“Almost a year. In fact, we’ll be celebrating our first anniversary a week from now when I go back there.”

“Oh that’s nice. When will you go back there?” 

“Two days from now. But I still wanted to wander around here, actually. You know, many things have changed here and I wanted to witness them before I go back there. All I could visit is this coffee shop and other places that I usually visit before. It’ll take years before I could probably visit here again. I wanted to stay here for a while but my mom insisted.”

“Perhaps I could tour you around here today before you go back there. We could visit those amusement park and art gallery if you want.”

“Sweet.”

The next thing I knew, we were walking at the major thoroughfare of this city. I took her first to the amusement park that was entrenched just a few months ago. I don’t usually go here to try those spine-tingling rides because of my fear of heights. But I chose to bring her here first instead to pick up a vibe. I wanted to see the joy and fervor in her face when she tries those rides. I wanted her to experience the excitement of a child that probably has eluded her in her life before. I wanted to tell her that as long as she’s beside me, giving those rides a try isn’t fearsome at all. I wanted her to know that falling in love with her was like a roller coaster– not the cliché of ups and downs but looking out to see a complex twist of colored tracks that weave in and out. I wanted to tell her but I knew I couldn’t. 

“That was hell of a ride! It’s all I wanted to do now for the rest of my life.”

“Well, you could always visit those amusement parks in your place when you go back there. That place is famous for theme parks with far more exhilarating rides, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have anyone to go try those rides with me. My boyfriend, you know, he told me he would never dare to try those rides. He said he’s afraid of heights.” 

Maybe this is the perfect time. For me to go back in time when I could have changed her life and she could have changed mine.

After giving a shot for every ride she wanted to try, I brought her next to the art museum that was established by a group of freelance artists that used to paint the walls of the city. Of all the new places that was brought into this city, this was particularly my favorite one. Perhaps because this is a place full of beautiful things where I can rest my eyes upon for as long as I wanted to. And I wanted to add here the most beautiful art I’ve ever seen in my life— her. I wanted her to see those pieces of work and appreciate the beauty that was bestowed in front of her. I wanted her to realize that her life deserves to be as colorful as those artworks that were hung within those walls. I wanted to tell her that she was my favorite painting, the one that would keep me captivated forever. I wanted to tell her but I knew I couldn’t.

“What are you doing?”

“Just hang on there, I’m taking pictures of you.”

“Why are you taking pictures of me?”

“Just in case you don’t come back.”

Maybe this is the perfect time. For me to let her know that I have always wanted to be the one to give color to her life.

It was already afternoon when I realized that we were walking near the illustrious bay that was located at the outskirts of this city. She said that she’s already tired and she wanted to go home to take some full rest before her flight but I insisted. I convinced her that this would be the last place we would visit because this has been the trademark of this city. The most beautiful place in this city. The place that she would probably miss the most. I also told her that this would be one those instances where she can see the beauty of the sun while it sinks down in the horizon. We sat at one of the benches there, relishing every moment that is yet to be gone. 

“I never thought that this place would be as beautiful as it is.”

“I thought you said that this is the most beautiful place in the city? How can you tell it was beautiful when you haven’t visited it before in the first place?”

“Because it has you in here.”

“W.. why haven’t you visited it all this time?”

“Because I promised one thing. I promised myself that I wouldn’t visit this place until I am with the girl that I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

The world seemed to pause for a while and silence reigned between us. The balminess of the temperature turned into coldness now. The sun had already sheltered to where it hides itself for the rest of the day. I looked at her straight in the eyes. I wanted to memorize every detail of her face. I wanted to see her beauty one last time. I wanted to tell her that I love her before I say goodbye.

Maybe this is the perfect time. For me to tell her that she’s the one I wanted all this time.

“Will you believe me if I told you that I waited for you to come back at the coffee shop after we first met? For two long years, I waited for you everyday. At the same place. At the same time. I know you wouldn’t believe me but I fell in love with you at first sight. And it’s not what you think it is. I rose in it and I made up my mind. When I first met you, you were like a nymph from heaven despite the broken soul you had. I looked into your eyes and forgot everything else. I wanted to see you again. I wanted to know you better. I wanted to be the man that would change your life forever. But you disappeared. I never saw you again. I tried to convince myself that you were gone for good but I knew you’d come back. I didn’t know what made me feel you would but here you are. Fate brought you in my life and fate tore us apart. But I had trust in fate that it’ll bring you back to my heart again, the place where you belong.”

“I.. I’m sorry... I didn’t know.”

“You don’t need to apologize. It’s okay. You don’t have to. You don’t even have to try. I know it was my fault. I should have told you two years ago when I had the chance to change your life. But that’s alright, I didn’t tell you this for you to love me back in the first place. I didn’t tell you this for you to leave your guy and be with me instead. I told you this because I want you to know that I was grateful to see you again. I want you to know that I was thankful to be with you again– the girl I fell in love with before I even laid my eyes on. Just promise me to keep that smile of yours… because I’d hate to see that fade from your face again. Just promise me that you would never let your guy treat you like what you’ve experienced before… because I’d hate to hear it again from a girl that I have loved many times before.”

The arid hum of the cosmos reigned around us. The smiles were gone, just hollow stares and a thousand weights pushing me down. And for that instant I knew that it was over. That in the almostness of the moment, I knew it was the end. 

She didn’t speak any word but I knew that she was crying. I took her hands and pulled her closer to me. I hugged her so tight as her tears stream down my shoulders. I didn’t know if I would be able to hug her this intimately again. I didn’t know if I would be able to even see her again. I wanted to reassure her that fate would bring us together again. In the right place. In the right time. I wanted to but I didn’t want to promise her anything.

“I’ll miss you.. until we meet again…”

I didn’t say goodbye because she knew it already was.

And before I let her go, I whispered to her a phrase that she and only she could hear. A phrase that perhaps she thought she would never hear from me. A phrase that I should have said two years ago. A phrase that’s just three words long.

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