#it carries the weight of dread and consequences of failure so very very well

[cheswirls]

watching jshk back in 2020 truly did change my perspective on horror n im still so sad i haven't found anything quite like it when it comes to animated media. the horror that is not full of jump scares or scary creatures or concepts like possession, murder, etc that is so incessantly popular in american horror, but instead a concept of horror where you're constantly filled w dread for smth you cannot see. a fear of the unknown. not outright 'in your face' scary but terrifying in concept. something that leaves the scare factor up to your imagination. i want to experience smth like that again

[heartless-error]

Broken, not perfect, but together. - Chapter 15

Fandom: DC comics, Batman

Pairings: Jonathan Kent x Damian Wayne (JonDami) & Jason Todd x Timothy Drake (JayTim)

Rating/Tags: Family feels, hurt/comfort, mental health issues, running away, brotherly love, fluff

Other(s) links: AO3

Broken.

The Batfamily was broken.

It was six years ago, and they had barely stood together since then, trying to stand up despite guilt and regret.

Damian  was sure there was nothing to save, not after losing something that he didn’t know he cared about. But when a new opportunity to get back what they had lost appears, he cannot help to doubt as his past decisions haunt him again.

If you love somebody, set them free. But you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

Chapter Summary:

“What did you do? What are you afraid of?”

That question asked by Conner Kent that morning was repeated in Damian's mind over and over again as he could hear every second how the fragile threads that had held his composure together all these years were slowly breaking.

Crack. Crack. Damian listened to him.

Turns out he was afraid of many things, but he thought he wouldn't have to face any of them for a long time. Until now.

“Damian...” Timothy said in a low voice, surprised, and betrayed.

Chapter 15

 Now

 "Damian, what did you do?"

 That question asked by Conner Kent that morning in a pained and curious tone as he stood in the doorway of his kitchen, was repeated in Damian's mind over and over again as the same way a loud and muffled echo could invade the corners of an empty and spacious place.

His head wasn't exactly empty, but there was certainly a great lack of logical thought or reaction that made that conversation with his brother-in-law hit him where it hurt at the right time, reminding him of everything he had wanted to say and yet didn’t.

 Motionless and trying to assimilate the image in front of him, the youngest of the Wayne family swallowed hard to try to get rid of the strong pressure in his throat that was stopping him from breathing normally.

 "What are you afraid of?" Kon had asked, clenching his fists, and looking at him pleadingly, hoping to confirm his suspicions and find out what they had been keeping from him all this time. While he, overwhelmed, used his facade, and turned his back to pretend that everything was going well and didn’t feel the guilt devouring him inside.

 Just like now, he was doing his best to step aside on that avenue and act naturally so as not to stand out. Reaffirming his posture so as not to be noticed by the crowd that had begun to disperse and barely controlling the emotions that invaded him. It was the way to keep his sanity even though he could hear every second how the fragile threads that had held his composure together all these years were slowly breaking.

 Crack. Crack.

 He could feel them splitting in two, falling apart as he looked more at the happy family. It almost hurt him physically, because those threads, those patches, and strings that he had patched up with and tried to fix himself like a broken toy so long ago, had lasted too long. They were old and wrong, badly stitched, and inaccurate. And now they were splitting, falling, leaving the multiple wounds to his heart and soul open and bleeding in a way he hadn't been able to afford before.

 Crack. Crack.

 The girl in Jason's arms was talking about something while waving her hands and her entire body with excitement, the adult listening patiently with a soft smile and his eyes shining with genuine happiness and affection.

 Crack. Crack.

 Timothy laughed at what she said, encouraging her to continue as his hand gently cradled the head of the boy he holds, who had leaned on his shoulder sleepily and listened in silence.

 Crack. Crack. Damian listened as he remembered. Relentless and painful.

  "Damian, what are you afraid of?"

 The question arose within him, with regret.

 "What are you afraid of?"

 Wasn’t sure.

 "What are you afraid of?"

 Doesn’t know.

 "What are you afraid of?"

 Many things.

 "Are you afraid?"

 Yes.

 "You do?"

 Yes. He’s afraid. He is very afraid.

 Or had, rather.

 The answer came instinctively, without thinking. He knew he should have answered the same to Kon that morning rather than ignoring him and pretending nothing was happening. He should have been sincere and said yes, indeed he was worried and feared of many, many things, and although he couldn’t explain what they were he had been dreading them all this time.

 That little part of him that still belonged to the battered young Damian, barely held behind the patches, could say a lot about it. Could tell him that he was weak, insufficient, that he had softened, and that fear was not something a warrior like him should feel because it was stupid, insignificant.

 But given the circumstances, Damian believed that he had a right to have those fears. And, this time, to stop feeling them.

 Let go Tim and Jason was not easy. At all.

 Not because of everything that happened, not because of the dire consequences that had led him to where he was (all of that was already quite clear at a glance), but because it had fueled insecurity within him which had been dragging all these years.

 It wasn’t guilt, nor regret. It was just fear. One so big and magnified that it had paralyzed him to the extreme, that it had fueled his nightmares even more times than deep regret. One he already knew, had already plagued him before in his childhood and whose dominance and poisonous words he had already suffered without being able to avoid.

 "What if you have failed?" It was saying.

 "What if you have made the wrong decision?" It said.

 "If you have, you have ruined everyone's life again." It sentenced with cruelty.

 Yes, Damian had been struggling with his insecurities and fear of failure his entire life. Which had undoubtedly been quite harmful, even dangerous.

On this occasion, not only did resurface strongly, but he saw no reason to stop it. After all, despite knowing that Tim and Jason had to go, that he was doing the right thing by helping them, who assured him that it would turn out okay? Uh?

 No one.

 Once they both disappeared after the airport security check, he was blind, totally, and absolutely blind. He wouldn't know where they were going if they would be safe there, what they would do, how, or if they would be alright.

When he decided to do what he did, he was sure about the reasons, but he didn’t think about what little he would know later and how much that would torture him. And although doing it he was aware of what he was causing around him, the only thing he had in mind was that he would make his brothers happy, that he was giving them what they deserved despite although everything indicated that he would never see them again.

 But that insecure part of him, that part that he had decided not to listen anymore after realizing how poisonous it was, didn’t hesitate to begin and whisper and reveal options that he didn't want to take into account, that he hadn't wanted to think about while helping them.

 But that voice didn’t stop, it didn’t stop talking and resurfacing as time passed without hearing from them.

 What if they are dead? What if they have broken up? What if it went wrong? What if something has happened to them and no one will ever know? They went alone, without equipment, without backup, and nobody knew where they had traveled. The danger was in their lives no matter how much they left it behind, they may have been attacked, or injured, or maybe they had separated, maybe things hadn’t gone well between them when they saw each other in a place other than Gotham, or worse situations could have arisen that nobody has been aware of.

Who knows? He didn't, Damian couldn't because he had said goodbye to them at the airport and hadn't heard from them again. And there was a possibility that he had unconsciously thrown them under the bus or quite the opposite. He couldn't be sure because he was in the dark and that fueled his insecurity, even more, compounding his unease about having made the wrong decision.

 Rationally, he knew that this entire line of thought was born out of deep concern for his siblings, out of an enormous desire for them to be safe and happy. And that it was how much he loved them, how much he needed that all this went well which made him so uneasy and afraid that he had failed, that it had not gone as expected and in the end had also ruined Tim's life and Jason in the process.

 He couldn't bear that, he couldn't.

 He did everything for them, sacrificing himself and the other members of his family for it, not to mention his beloved. If he had failed, if it had not worked, he would have pushed his older siblings out of their life, friends, and family to make them miserable too, and that would be too much.

 There was a quota of lives Damian could destroy.

 The best thing is that he would never know if it had turned out well or not. He would never know if he had made the right decision, or instead condemned Tim and Jason for the rest of their days.

 Damian had resigned himself to being all his life not knowing the truth, to being in total darkness about it, not having a single indication of whether his sacrifice had been worth it or not.

 Until now.

 Crack. Crack.

 He inhaled shakily and then exhaled forcefully, trying to breathe and relax his muscles. His eyes felt burning, he was on the verge of tears of happiness and excitement.

 “I did it. I did that.” He thought, assimilating as he could what he was still observing. “I have helped that.”

 He had no words to describe the relief and deep comfort he was feeling at that moment. It was indescribable, overwhelming, like a balm that drowned him and lifted all the guilt and anxiety of those last two days. That anguishing weight that he had carried so long on his back had vanished in an instant, it had evaporated the moment he saw the scene in front of him and he could finally breathe, feel.

 Barbara had told him that he needed this, that he needed to see it. And as much as he was mad at her for the whole debacle that morning, she was right, she was so, so right.

 He needed to see Tim and Jason in person, without filters. See them together, embraced, with a ring on their finger and holding what was now their own family. He needed to see what he had helped to create, what they had achieved thanks to him, what his effort, pain, and perseverance had resulted in because otherwise, he would not believe it.

 Crack. Crack.

 This, all this, was what he craved and desired. The proof he wanted and now was in front of him.

 Suddenly his father's anger didn't matter anymore, or Grayson's rejection, neither his sadness nor anything else in the world, because he could breathe. He could breathe and he could live, live without problems, and move on knowing what he had accomplished.

 Damian sighed and lifted one of his shaking hands to his face, rubbing his eyes to keep from crying and his cheeks to make sure he hadn't started to do it before. He felt overwhelmed and vulnerable. So many things to think about, to feel. Feelings weren't his strength, but he'd held back so much and it's not like he'd expected to reach any other way when he found Tim and Jason. To tell the truth, it is not as if he had stopped to think about how he would act or behave the moment he met them again because it was not something that he had thought would happen.

 So, there he was, with his father behind him, also quiet and assimilating. Both trying to go unnoticed on the avenue that led to the school. Possibly drowning inside and trying to keep their composure not to run to where the other family was.

 Crack. Crack.

 Quite useless because his threads kept breaking, kept tearing apart.

 With his heart pounding, Damian fixed his gaze on the children Tim and Jason held. Analyzing them carefully as his chest swelled with unexpected pride and affection that he didn't even bother to suppress.

 Both were small and fragile, but they seemed happy and very close, especially in the arms of their parents. They were probably in preschool, four or five years old at most. The girl was a little taller than the boy, but if Damian had to guess he would say they were twins.

 The girl was energetic and smiling from what he could see. Her sleek, shiny black hair was pulled back into adorable pigtails that bounced as she leaned into Jason's arms to call her brother, gesturing with her hands, and laughing adorably as her sky-blue eyes sparkled with glee.

The boy, a little calmer and smaller straightened up and stopped Tim from stroking his short, dark, straight hair as he leaned down to let his sister's hand grip his tightly, causing the girl to let out a small giggle heard from his position.

 However, the boy didn’t seem to mind that, neither did he appear to listen to what Tim or Jason began to say, but rather distracted by something else, almost confused. Raising his head with a surprised expression and still holding his sister's hand, the boy's greenish-blue eyes turned to his left, then to the right, as if they were looking for something. He looked back, again to the right, to the left, and then directly to ...

 Shit.

 Damian froze.

 And Bruce, whose presence hadn't bothered to think until now, did too.

 He was looking at them.

 Double shit.

 The boy was looking directly at them, with intensity and some curiosity in that innocent look.

 Neither of them could prevent a chill from running through them, because how had he noticed them? As much as Damian had been overcome by the situation, he believed that they had moved away from the center of the avenue and had hidden among the people quite well. They were bats, going unnoticed was part of their charm, no one had noticed them, why did the boy?

 Crack. Crack.

 Now the little one was watching them carefully, indiscreet, amazed, and still leaning his little body on Timothy.

 Out of nowhere, the last Robin felt a change of pressure on his arm that would have surprised him if he hadn't been motionless under the unusual gaze of that kid. It was familiar, but not in a good way and he couldn't place it. But not he couldn’t stop and think about it because it wasn't that important when his father, who hadn't let go of his grip on him all this time, pulled back his arm imperceptibly as if he wanted to instigate him to leave.

 That confused him even more, because did he want a withdrawal? Batman? After everything?

 Crack. Crack.

 The boy kept looking at them without paying attention to anything else. And with his grasp on his sister’s hand wavering, she ended up looking at him realizing where his attention was, fixing those icy eyes on them in an instant.

 Bruce tightened his grip, Damian felt trapped.

 Crack. Crack. Crack.

 “Hey, kiddos.” He heard Jason say when neither of them answered what they were saying. “Are you listening?”

 Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

 “What are you looking a...?”

 When Tim asked that, he followed the children's gaze

 And then their eyes met.

 CRACK!

 Everything fell silent. The world around them paused.

 Tim stood still, stiff as a statue and a surprised expression breaking through his features. Jason, noticing his hesitation, also ended up looking in their direction, narrowing his eyes and leaving his face completely blank, indecipherable, listless in disguised but no less latent anger and rage.

 Damian held his breath, feeling completely vulnerable and destroyed inside, waiting for the illusion to break and everything to fall apart. The chances of this ending badly were high and not all results were favorable to either party. From everything that could happen maybe they would flee, or attack, maybe Bruce did, or a scene worthy of a show or even a chase could happen. He couldn’t tell, the situation was complicated and at this moment he felt trapped, undecided, the tension between them was becoming almost unbearable despite being meters apart.

 Slowly, Tim tightened his grip on the boy and cradled his head again to bury his face in his shoulder, ignoring the curiosity of the minor and preventing him from looking at them any longer. In turn, Jason also adjusted his strong grip on the girl and made a move to step back, as if ready to run out.

 A pinch went through his chest, aching and cold, realizing they wanted to flee. Of them, of him.

 But no, he wasn’t the problem. Damian wasn't the problem, he knew it.

 Who they looked at, who they didn't take their eyes off, who they fixed their eyes with distrust, terror, and deep disappointment, from whom they protected the children and who they didn’t want them to see, wasn’t him but who was behind him. It was Bruce who they wanted to run away from, who they inspected with an intense and aware glance each time as if he planned to take their children away or attack them at any moment. To be honest, they had reason to think that, and if they hadn't been caught in these circumstances, they would probably be a long way off by now.

They had seen Damian too, yes, their eyes had met for a few glorious seconds that take his breath away. But they weren't watching him, they hadn't tensed when they saw him, because they knew they didn't have to worry or take care of him, they trusted him but unfortunately, they couldn't say the same for Bruce.

 Bruce realized that he was the only problem here, that it was his very presence that was sabotaging his opportunity to speak to them. Nor was it very difficult to deduce, not only for all the times Damian had reiterated what would happen but because the sharp, cautious, warning glances were directed solely at him. If they fled it was because of Batman if they lost them was his fault.

The grip on his arm became stronger but shaky and almost hesitant. Although surprisingly, after a few long seconds, it began to slowly loosen until it completely disappeared, setting him free.

 It was like a leash was removed and Damian didn't even think about it or deigned to look back before starting to run towards his brothers.

 All he heard was his racing heartbeat, and all he saw was his older brothers getting closer, closer, closer, right there. They still watched their father closely but seemed to relax as they realized Damian was the only one approaching them and not Batman.

They decided to release the kids and leave them in the ground as they hide them behind them so as not to have their hands full, just in case. The kids stayed behind Jason's legs, stunned, and watching him as he got closer.

 By the time he was finally in front of them, he had no words.

 It was curious because during all these years he found himself many times thinking about the things he would say if they met again one day. And now that he was here, he had no idea where to start, or even to start. His heart kept beating too fast and his voice didn't seem to work right, his thoughts were racing that he couldn't focus on just one and he just stood there, looking at the agitated and still assimilating that it was them.

 “Damian…” Tim said in a low voice, amazed and looking him up and down.

 He shuddered because he knew that feeling so well, the one to make sure he was seeing who he thought it was because it was the same one he had since he'd gotten there and saw them ... like this.

Jason still hadn't taken his eyes off Bruce, suspicious and with one arm behind him to make sure the kids were still there, but he knew he was also very aware that he was two feet in front of them.

 “I…" He said in a hoarse voice, broken by nerves. “I don’t…”

 Fuck.

 He didn't know what to say.

 He was one of the most lethal people in the world and yet he was hesitating, not knowing how to talk to them and regretful as well as grateful for having found them. There were no more seams to break, there was nowhere to hide.

 He knew he shouldn’t be here, but at the same time he wanted to be here, and how could he express that?

 Tim's blue eyes kept him in place and Jason was already alternating between watching his father and staring at him in a daze. And at least he didn't seem to be the only one not knowing what the hell to say, because the elders also seemed to have problems reacting, causing silence and a less aggressive tension to settle on them.

 “I didn't want this.” He ended up blurting out. “Neither Jonathan. It was a coincidence, they found you and I tried to stop them from doing this, but they didn't listen to me. They got angry and forced me to...”

 They had to know that, they had to forgive him. This had not been his plan, he had not betrayed them, he would never, never do that and he was so mad at himself for letting this happen.

 And he was going to continue with his pathetic explanation when Tim raised his hand and silenced him by cradling his cheek gently. Didn't walk away, and the fact that he was caressing the side of his face where Grayson had punched him that morning didn’t go unnoticed.

Tim's gaze traveled from his swollen cheek to the other wounds on his face, to his head, then to his side, his hands, his torso, all of him, and then back up, meeting his eyes and repeating the process. Jason, who was no longer watching the bat, seemed to be doing the same silently and with the same disgruntled expression. Damian didn't know what they were doing, why they were examining him like this, and why they weren't scolding and berating him instead. They didn't even seem to have heard him, and if they had they didn't care, but he didn't understand, they should be furious with him.

 Timothy finally sighed heavily and when his indigo eyes met his again, they were wet, shining with pure affection and joy. A soft smile was beginning to adorn his face.

 “Dami.” He said in his voice raw with emotion. “You grew up so much.”

 The next thing was like a dam collapsing.

 Jason grabbed his shirt and dragged him towards them, making Damian lunge as they both greeted him with open arms. He ended up being hugged between the two with more force than should have given his injuries. But it didn't matter, because he, defenseless and without barriers, couldn't help but start shedding all the tears that he had been suppressing so far and found himself sobbing as he grabbed them as if they were the only thing keeping him alive.

 And he didn't care, he didn't care about anything.

 Because there were no more defenses left intact inside of him and fuck, he deserved this, he did. He knew it, he had earned it. He deserved to hold them tight, to feel how they held him in return, he deserved to grab Jason's arm and Tim's shoulder to bring them closer to him, to bury his face in the wide shoulder of one and let everything out while the other ran his hand down his back and cradled his head in that familiar way he instinctively knew.

He had been so afraid of forgetting how those touches felt, those unusual yet characteristic gestures. With each passing year, he had become more terrified of himself as he realized that he could not remember certain things, remember them in the same way. Like the way they smelled, the sound of their voices, how Jason held someone so firmly and securely, or Tim made him calmly lean on him.

 He hadn't wanted to forget any of it, but he couldn't help himself and now that he was experiencing it again, he felt like he was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old again. And now, he was again the insecure child who couldn’t believe that someone loved him for the simple fact of being him, that they had chosen to be his family and love him despite his mistakes, his past.

And it was in that instant, at that moment, squeezed between his two brothers, that he realized that the seams and threads he had tried to build, those that had been so easily broken a few minutes ago, were not necessary. He felt more complete than ever. The sad little boy locked up behind them was now laughing and the affection that emerged from that embrace made all previous anguish disappear.

 He was so happy. Every tear he shed was of happiness, he was sure he couldn't feel anything else now.

 “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…” He sobbed over and over, now on Tim's shoulder.

 He had so many reasons to be grateful to them. For staying alive, for moving on, for continuing to love and trust him deeply, for missing him as well, for continuing to be his brothers despite their time apart.

 “I'm sorry, forgive me..." He said that too because he felt he had to.

 “It's okay, Babybat." Jason replied.

 “Akhi...”

 "We got you, Damian." Tim whispered. "It’s okay, we got you."

 He didn't know how long they stayed there, but it had to be a long time. With one discharging all the tears that he had saved for six years (and even longer) as if he were a sprinkler and the others comforting him how they could. He was not very clear of the things he had said between sobs and he also didn’t exactly remember the quiet responses of the others to comfort him, but it had to be too much.

 If he had seen it from the outside, Damian would have even found it funny to witness how Tim, who was now much shorter, had to stand on tiptoe to reach his hair or wipe the tears from the face of a brother who was not that small.

But instead, after being able to breathe a little better and realizing that the painful, tearful explosion had been through the worst of it, he found himself busier trying to lessen the damage and rid himself of the silent tears that had been left behind.

 The universe had other plans and wanted to humiliate him even more because he had not even separated from the hug or decently dried his tears -or with dignity- when a light touch on his knee startled him, drawing his attention and of the two elders to their feet.

 Separating a little, it was the sight of the children looking at them with concern and frowns that reminded them that they were not alone in this reunion. Which made them finally pull away and pull themselves together a bit.

The boy had rested the palm of his hand on Damian's knee, curious and pained, while the girl had grabbed onto Tim's pants and gazed between them impatiently, waiting for their attention.

 “Hey, kiddos.” Jason said, sighing heavily, but with a smile. "Too bad of us, we forgot to make introductions, right?"

 Some of them nodded, but Damian didn't see him because he was wiping his face and trying to be decent in the most dignified way he could find. After all, he had just realized that the first image his nephews were going to have of him was that of a pathetic crybaby clinging to his parents.

 “Sorry.” Tim explained to them patiently as he separated the girl's hands from his pants and caressed the bridge of her nose from top to bottom lovingly. “It had been a long time since we saw each other, and we’ve missed him a lot. We were happy and got distracted.”

 “Like Whiskey?” The girl asked then, honestly and without malice.

 Jason bit back a laugh and Tim shook his head, funny.

 “More or less, yes.” He claimed. “But it's not the same. Because Whiskey saw you every day and it’s not a relative. You understand it, right?”

 This time he could see how they both nodded understandingly and with their eyes shining intelligent, understanding the emotion that one of their parents had just explained to them and the why of that dramatic tear-jerker show.

 And Damian didn't know what or who the fuck Whiskey was, so he wasn't sure if he had to be offended or not.

 However, Jason placed the kids in front of him, side by side, and they ended up looking at each other. It was there when Damian was beginning to understand that he was in quite serious trouble as the strong and powerful instinct of protection and devotion towards them came out of nowhere inside him and almost scared him.

 "Damian." Tim started to say, pointing first at the girl. "This is Lynn, our daughter."

 Lynn jumped a little and smiled at him, adorable.

 Damian smiled back at her and held back from looking at Timothy at all. Lynn… It was a pretty name, and he knew the reason for it, the legend of Janet Lynn Drake still resonated in the higher Gotham socialite.

 "And Will, our son." He said this time pointing to the boy.

 Will waved his hand to him but he looked down embarrassed, shy, and sweet.

 Damian smiled at him the same way he smiled at his sister even though he couldn't see him as his chest twisted. Will… Will… It could be because of William, like any character of a book Jason liked, or… it could be because of Willis Todd.

 What the fuck, Jason.

 “Okay. Princess, Snowflake, this is Damian.” Jason continued, smiling, and pointing at him without caring about the nicknames or the obvious surprise on his face. “Our little brother and your uncle. Treat him well and don't eat him.”

 Damian tried not to choke or start crying again at the warmth and excitement that ran through him when he heard Jason introduce him that way. Instead, he crouched down to be at the same level as the little ones and held out one of his hands in greeting.

 “Hi.” He said to them trying to outline a firm smile.

 Damian had no fucking idea what he was doing because he was good with kids in the field, but how did you talk to children on a regular day basis? How did you talk to your nephews? Especially with those you just met?

 Oh my god, he was an uncle, uncle. These children were his nephews, and he was holding out his hand to them, wasn't that very boring? Would a cool uncle do that?

 Did he even want to be the cool uncle?

 Lynn's warm little hand went to his and tried to take it to return the greeting, but he had to grab it because it was too tiny, it barely covered the palm of his hand, and Damian's heart squeezed when he saw his little hand disappear under his.

 “Why were you crying?” She asked, too direct, but still curious and innocent.

 He tensed. He didn't know what to say to her, he thought Tim had made them understand that it was because he had missed their parents. But of course, a child's mind works in a rather curious way sometimes. For a moment he considered lying, but there was not much to say either and with a single look into her crystalline eyes Damian knew he would never be capable of doing that now.

 "Because I'm so happy to meet you."

 That, along with his confession to Jonathan years ago, maybe was the most sincere and clear thing he has ever said.

 He heard Jason snort above them and was about to complain, but then Will walked over to him, and instead of trying to grab his hand as his sister had done, he just lifted his and placed it on his swollen cheek, the same way Tim had done when he saw him, imitating his father.

Damian blinked in surprise, his eyes watering again. His hand was so tiny and soft, so innocent and fragile, trying to comfort him despite having no idea what was going on. His heart clenched tighter and that sense of protection grew more, much more.

 “Shh. Don’t cry anymore.” Will said a little secure of himself and smiling softly. “We are also happy to meet you, Uncle Damian.”

 “Yes!” Lynn exclaimed clinging to his arm. “Finally, Uncle Damian!”

 Uncle Damian.

 Uncle Damian.

 That sounded in his head a thousand times and there was no way in the multiverse to describe how much he loved hearing it.

 He cradled Will's hand still on his cheek and let Lynn hug his side as they both began to speak to him and bombard him with innocent questions, between giggles and jumps of excitement that shook his heart.

And while he was trying to think how to answer questions like "Do you want to meet Whiskey?", "Do you want to play tea party with us?" or "What’s your favorite Disney film?", he looked up to see how Tim and Jason had re-fixed their serious glances behind him, across the avenue, right at the exact spot where he had left Bruce.

 When he turned around and looked, there was no one there.

[sftd-official]

WARNING: This chapter is much like Ch13 of SFTD. Abuse and the effects thereof are shown explicitly.

With his vast library of definitions and simulations, Ref-Il could accurately describe the feeling he got, waiting in the Gathering Hall, as dread.

He knew exactly why he was in there. Ref-Il had started to test himself, recently, seeing just how optimized a force he could mobilize against threats. His most recent action saw him bringing, in hindsight, an underprepared force against a well-stocked Haven. He had thought he had run the numbers correctly, seen the outcomes, but it would appear he was incorrect.

Incorrect. Such a nebulous state of being. With his new hobby of engineering, being incorrect was minor. A setback that wouldn’t take long to fix, especially if he could pinpoint where he had made his error. But, in the field, using the resources the Elders had given him? Failure was so much more costly, and the first mark was always the worst.

But Ref-Il wasn’t afraid of the failure itself. The Elders’ forces were innumerable, and with what had happened, he could strike again as they were rallying back the resources spent recovering from his attack. It wasn’t as if he’d done no damage, either—he’d made his mark on that haven. Another strike would prove lethal, especially in such cold months as these.

No... what Ref-Il feared, in some measure, were the possible consequences. When code failed, frustration was bound to follow, and he would not blame Father for feeling as such. Considering he’d already made an unrelated mistake before, Ref-Il looked to alleviate the problem; he already had a second plan of action in place and was fully prepared to explain where he had failed and why. Streamlining the process should speed things up and bring about a much faster resolution, something He would look favorably on, as far as Ref-Il had calculated.

So here he stood, gazing long into the hollow center of the room. He’d already taken his time to analyze the rest of the area, since he’d never been here before. Now he simply waited, running over what he would say and how he would carry himself in his head.

A sound directly in front of him made him raise his view. Far at the end of the platform, Jax-Rai stood, standing tall even after a trip through the Void. His brother opened his eyes and looked to Ref-Il. “Brother. I would not suppose you would know why we have both been called here?”

The sight of his brother here was already throwing a wrench or two into Ref-Il’s visualization of the whole situation. If this was meant to be a private meeting between Father and child, why was he here? He quickly ran through a list of reasons and none of them really checked out. Unless he’d missed some memo that this would be another meeting he’d need to be concerned with, he couldn’t really fathom why Jax-Rai was here.

Ref-Il shook his head. “—as far as I had known, I was going to be talking to Father. Alone.” From the way Jax-Rai spoke, he’d been summoned here. “Did They tell you anything?”

Jax-Rai scoffed. “The Elders need not tell me anything but what They require of me. I come when They call for me and I do not ask why.”

That seemed slightly backwards. Asking questions was how you learned more about your mission. Asking questions led to further knowledge, things you could base hypotheses on and gain answers to. Jax-Rai must’ve been used to blindly following; Ref-Il was built to learn and execute on what he knew. The Elders—especially Father—would understand his need to know. “If that’s your thinking, I won’t tell you otherwise.”

Ref-Il’s rather simple reply led to Jax-Rai crossing his arms, walking forwards to what seemed to be his place in the Gathering Hall. He said nothing more, and Ref-Il found no problem with it. He dropped his gaze back to the hollow of the room and waited.

Though his patience was unlimited, Ref-Il found he didn’t have to wait long. The braziers in the room lit up and their spectral flames rose to impressive heights as he could see the shape of the Elders manifest in the center of the room. He dropped into a respectful kneel, watching as They appeared even to Sightless eyes. They appeared to face him—but he could see an afterimage of Them also facing Jax-Rai. An interesting trick, if nothing else. “Our children.” The voice further made him rethink how things were going to go. It seemed to be a blend of voices—Odin was in there, but He was not the only one. Was this a meeting of all three Elders? He was starting to think this really was about something unrelated.

His hopes were dashed as They continued. “While We have seen your successes in the field, We are also no stranger to witnessing your failures. As children of Us, We would hope you understand why We look so poorly upon unsatisfactory results.”

It felt as if weights were placed upon his shoulders as he could feel Their attention turn primarily to him. “Ref-Il Mordenna. We are certain you understand why you have been called here today.”

“I am,” he replied, looking at Them... where Their eyes should be, anyway. “I understand the last force I fielded was inadequate. But I already have solutions in mind and I know exactly why I have failed. You needn’t worry.”

The mood of the room seemed to shift from calm to cautionary. When the Elders spoke again, he could more clearly hear Odin. “We would not worry were it not clear there is reason to. Considering you have presented that you can fail so early on, We are not so certain We should heed your ‘suggestion.’”

Had they assumed he was making a generalizing statement? No, of course Ref-Il wasn’t meaning to imply They should never worry about him. Systems failed, and this was a reality. Were They truly expecting perfection from him? “—apologies if I’m speaking out of turn,” he began, “but I certainly don’t mean to say you should never worry about me. Father, you know no system is perfect—?”

Wrong answer. Ref-Il flinched back as he saw Odin break from the whole, rushing towards him and looming over him. Dissonant whispers tugged at his mind, making the hair on his head stand on end. “Ref-Il, are you to imply that I have made a mistake in creating you? Is that what you mean to say? Would you like to make Me admit in front of My fellows that I made the wrong decision in taking you from a life where you were nothing and granting you everything?”

This wasn’t looking pretty. All of Ref-Il’s predictions about how the situation was going to go down had been thrown right out the window, and he was struggling to pick up the pieces. One thing screamed at him; he shouldn’t respond. Not verbally, at least. It was clear he’d agitated the situation by speaking his mind and asking questions, though the notion that He would reject him doing so still threw him for a loop. Ref-Il cast his gaze downwards, shaking his head. Hopefully Odin would see he hadn’t meant to imply that, or anything else.

That didn’t seem to be enough for Odin. “Of course. That is what you say now. What spurs you into trying to undermine Me, child? How have I cut you in your mere year of living? Or... is it nothing at all?” He could feel Odin press closer, almost as if He were whispering into his ear. “Do you lash out for the pure sake of doing so? Is your life merely so fulfilled that you must create conflict? I cannot fathom where I have gone wrong with you. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Father’s last line was delivered dripping with venom, and Ref-Il flinched back. He clenched his fists, shaking his head. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” He spat, rising back up. “A mere sorry. It’s clear to Me that you will not learn through words alone. I must apply a different approach.”

Nothing in Ref-Il’s life would have prepared him for what happened next.

One moment, he was kneeling and sitting still in the Gathering Hall. The next moment he could parse, a coursing, searing pillar of energy and psionics was striking his back, making him give a strangled cry as he fell on his front. Any efforts to get up or even flee were quickly dashed as the force of it pressed more and more against him. He felt as if his very bones were being bent well near breaking point, and it was next to impossible to breathe.

The pain continued and Ref-Il was mouthing fervent apologies, eyes squeezed shut as his fingernails scratched at the metal floor. He had never known pain like this. The closest he could come to was the pain of his Ascension, where he had endured being worked to literal death—but this was far, far worse. Beyond his eyelids he could see the flood of psionic energy peeling off of him as Odin continued His assault.

Why. Why? He’d stood down. He’d become subservient. Why did Odin endeavor to punish him so? Ref-Il couldn’t fathom a logical reason. Ref-Il could barely think under the punishing wave of energy he was put under. What he could process was the sheer emotional hurt of the situation. Father should’ve understood. He should’ve known.

Slowly, but surely, the pillar of energy lifted. Ref-Il was left shaking on the floor, tentatively propping himself up on an arm. He barely wanted to move—Odin had very clearly done damage, as his chest still felt compressed, and every breath in brought pain. His body’s natural regeneration felt slower than normal, languid in its pace to undo the damage done.

“Kneel, child.”

The expectation put upon him further made his chest squeeze, but he did his best to comply, planting his hands on the floor and shakily bringing himself to the best kneel he could muster. Taking in a shuddering breath, he clutched his chest and kept his head bowed. When he opened his eyes, his vision was blurry... and it was then he felt the hot tear tracks down his face. Crying. He’d been crying the whole time.

“Hopefully that has done enough in showing you how to speak to Me.” The vitriol in Odin’s voice stung with every word, and Ref-Il was barely breathing, fighting with everything he had to hold back sobs. “Consider yourself lucky that I do not entertain anything more lasting, seeing as you’re shaping up to be a problem child.” He wasn’t lucky. A knife had been shoved into his chest and Odin was just twisting it. “From now on, do not question Me. I am resolute in my decisions and observations, and always remember you are speaking to a god. Whatever feeble suggestions you can bring to bear I have already considered and ruled out. Is this clear?”

Ref-Il shallowly nodded. “Good. Leave, Ref-Il. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”

Just before the tug of the Void shunted him from the Gathering Hall, he chanced looking up just enough to catch sight of his brother, who was witness to the whole scene. On Jax-Rai’s face he could register fear and... something else he’d never seen before. Whatever emotion it was, Ref-Il couldn’t study it for long before the Void roughly grabbed him and escorted him out.

That left Jax-Rai, immediately casting his gaze downwards again as the Elders moved to address him. What he’d seen, what Ref-Il had just gone through... “Our eldest child.” The Elders were back to speaking as one. “We know you to be absolute in your resolve and unwavering in your belief. Even so, hopefully your brother’s failures tell you of the consequences of straying from your path.”

“I understand,” he muttered immediately, not wanting to leave any ambiguity. If he didn’t want to ask questions before, he sure as hell wouldn’t, now.

The air in the room shifted back to calmness, and he could feel the Void rising around him. “Know that We love you, Jax-Rai. Go, and find success in your duties.”

With that, Jax-Rai willingly accepted the Void as it gently wrapped around him and carried him away.

  Ref-Il was practically thrown into his Inner Sanctum.

He landed roughly, tumbling over himself before coming at a stop in front of his Sarcophagus on his back. Laying on it brought even more pain so he curled up on his side, breathing carefully. That was all he did for a minute or so—silently trying to recover as he hugged himself and tried not to jostle anything too badly.

Eventually, what just happened hit him in force. Odin had struck him. He’d asked a question, a reasonable one, and asserted himself. That earned him the metaphorical belt, right in front of his brother. Simple reasoning earned him punishment. Ref-Il sucked in a breath through his teeth. His chest heaved and brought a stab of pain, and he hiccupped. Every breath brought agony and yet it couldn’t stem the oncoming tide of frustration and pain.

In his Inner Sanctum, alone, Ref-Il began to cry. He brought a hand to his eyes in an attempt to stem the flow, but it was largely worthless as his hand shook.

Worthless. Worthless, worthless, worthless. That was what he was. That was what he felt like as Odin had spoken to him, looked upon him with disdain. He had been nothing before and he would be nothing without His care. But was this what His care was? Beating him and then leaving him alone to cry without nary a comfort?

Ref-Il’s breaths were ragged and his sobs raw. Every prick of pain in his chest reminded him of what Odin had done, and his back still burned with the force of the punishment. How was he to know that just asking a question would bring something like this? True, the Elders may be gods, but... thinking on what had happened, Ref-Il couldn’t come up with a counterpoint. Why had he asked? Even so, why was that his punishment? Why was a first transgression met with such aggression?

The only answer Ref-Il got was the sounds of his own sobs echoing in his room. He was alone in his suffering. The minimal staff he had would not empathize with his plight, and there was always the chance that one of them might somehow contact the Elders about him. He’d been made an example of in front of his brother, so Jax-Rai would not want to interact with him so soon after. Even if he wanted to seek out the Commander for advice, one of the Elders was probably listening in to what she answered.

Worthless. Stupid. Alone. Those words and what Odin said throbbed in his skull and Ref-Il’s next sob was full of emotion, pushing his chest as far as it could stand to go as he vented his sorrow. What was he to do? Simply get up and act as if nothing had happened? Go about his business as if he hadn’t been brutally punished? He didn’t know what to do. Odin did this to him.

Odin did this to him.

In the middle of Ref-Il’s grief, something else arose, born of tenants Odin had drilled into him. Odin wronged him. Odin had slighted him. Odin had struck him and expected him to walk it off.

Leave, Ref-Il.

Odin referred to him derogatorily and expected him to take it sitting down, didn’t he? His sobs started to die down as the pain in his chest morphed into something different, something he grabbed ahold of and used to ward away his sorrow. Odin wronged him. The new feeling in his chest rose to his throat as his databases were able to identify just what it was he was feeling.

“Spite,” he breathed. “Of course. Why... why else but spite?” He gently sat up, not bothering to wipe at his tears. “He expects me to walk this all off as if he didn’t just beat me to a pulp. But... that ain’t exactly what He raised me for, is it?” Rising up, the Hunter stared long into the distance. “Of course. I’m sure the old man didn’t mean it, but I’ve learned, alright. He thinks what I did was embarrassing him? Oh, I’ll teach him what it’s like when I’m actually trying.”

Ref-Il. The way Odin spat it left a bad taste in his mouth just thinking about it. Stepping forwards, Mordenna shambled towards his Ascension Pad.

If he was going to be the problem child, so be it.

[neonganymede]

Genji/Zenyatta. 42."I swear it was an accident" P.s. o boy, I read ur genyatta drabble like 5 times I LOVE IT! (If u saw any mistakes sorry English is not my first language )

Oh my gosh, I’m so happy you enjoyed my last Genyatta fic! That was my first time writing for the pairing, so I was a bit nervous. You are just too wonderful; I hope you like this one just as much!

42. “I swear it was an accident.”

send me a pairing and a number for a drabble!

Zenyattaloved to dance.

Hewould meditate for long, pensive moments, quiet save for the faint tinklingfrom his orbs. Then, after so long of sitting motionless and silent, he wouldbegin to move, his orbs following the motions of his hands with such grace,such poignant beauty that anyone passing by would pause and marvel at themesmerizing omnic. Zenyatta never noticed, never hesitated for even a moment toacknowledge his audience. He simply continued dancing to a tune only he couldhear.

Zenyattaloved to dance.

Genji loved to watch.

IfZenyatta was dancing, his student was nearby, observing quietly from behind apillar or building or whatever cover he could find to keep from being detected.It wasn’t that Genji worried that Zenyatta would be mad or upset at beingwatched so closely (Zenyatta, in fact, often encouraged observation for Genjito better find inner peace). It was Genji’s own shame that kept him hidden, hisown worries that perhaps he was not watching only to discover inner peace butfor other, more… selfish reasons.

Genjiloved to watch because he didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful.

AndGenji had known beauty. Before he met Zenyatta, before Blackwatch, before hisbrother—beauty had been so simple. Beautymeant women, their lips coated in red and their eyes alight with seduction, ormen with smooth skin that made even smoothersounds. Beauty had been Hanzo,his chin raising in pride when his arrow hit the middle of its target. Beauty had been Genji, whose skin hadonce been unblemished with scars, when he had been whole.

After,beauty had been in the easy way bodies fell to his blade. Bad people, he’d beentold. Omnics. Those who opposed Overwatch and harmed the innocent. Beauty had been the lives they had saved.Beauty had been the pain because ithad been worth it, so he’d thought.

Butthen he’d met Zenyatta. Then he saw his master dance, and he knew beauty again.True beauty, for the first time, andnow he knew fear. Not fear like what he felt the night his brother slew him,not the fear of death.

Thefear of loss. If Zenyatta knew andrealized that his reasons weren’t honorable, then he might dismiss Genji as afailure. The idea of losing his master terrified him more than he would haveever imagined.

Sohe stayed hidden, stealing glances at Zenyatta’s elegant movements when hecould.

Today,he was hiding behind a pillar at the monastery they were visiting. He couldeasily crouch between the column and the table beside it, the smoke from astick of burning incense providing him perfect cover. He could see Zenyatta,his healing orbs glowing with golden light as he moved elegantly. High, sweepingturns—sharp, abrupt stops—movements all flowing into each other with aprecision Genji had only seen with a blade. Genji, enthralled, leaned an elbowon the table, smiling as he watched those easy motions, wishing he could do that. Wishing he could dance with Zenyatta.

Genji’sarm slipped, his elbow knocking right into the incense burner. It clattered tothe floor, the burning stick rolling along the stone until the dirt put out thethin line of smoke. Genji hissed a quiet curse in his native tongue. Of all thestupid—

Yearsof working in Blackwatch alerted Genji to the eyes on him, and his gaze immediatelysnapped up. Zenyatta, having stopped dancing, had turned around to face him, acurious tilt to his head. Genji swallowed his nerves, his guilt at being caught, and tried his best to make light of thesituation.

“Iswear it was an accident. I am not trying to burn the monastery down, I promise.”

Itmust have worked because Zenyatta’s titillating laughter filled the hollow room.Genji watched him, smiling softly as his master raised a hand to his mouth totry and stay the noise.

“Thatwould have been a very poor attempt, if you were.” Zenyatta calmed himself andlooked serenely at Genji, who got the distinct feeling that Zenyatta wassmiling at him. “Were you spying on me, my student?”

“Whatreason would I have to spy?” Genji asked.

“Thatis what I am trying to discern,” Zenyatta replied pleasantly. “If you wish towatch me dance, you do not need to continue hiding.”

Genjibegan to fidget. He walked out from behind the pillar to face his mentor andaccept his fate. “You… you knew when I would watch you?”

“Always.”Zenyatta beckoned him closer, and Genji obeyed, choosing to sit on the floor beforehim. Zenyatta lowered himself to sit with him, still maintaining that calm thatGenji wished he could exhibit. “Why do you hide? Do you no longer wish tomeditate with me?”

Genjiheard the melancholy in his master’s voice, and he began to reach out, onlyjust catching himself before he could touch Zenyatta. “Of course I do!Meditating with you is one of my favorite things to do.”

Zenyattareached out to take Genji’s hand, holding it as carefully as he might hold achild’s doll. Genji took a deep breath, feeling some of the weight lift fromhis shoulders. “Then please, explain.”

Thiswas it. The moment Genji had been dreading. He took a deep breath and spilledhis secret, prepared to accept the consequences. He would rather do that thanlie to Zenyatta, betray the trust he had been given so willingly.

“Mymotives for watching you are selfish, so I tried to hide. Forgive me for spyingon you.”

“Howare your motives selfish, my student?” Zenyatta asked, genuinely confused.

“I…enjoy watching you dance,” Genji confessed shamefully. He lowered his voice,hoping Zenyatta wouldn’t hear when he added, “I think it’s beautiful.”

Zenyattawas quiet for a long moment. His orbs whirred, spinning with his thoughts, andGenji wondered where those thoughts were leading him, what conclusions he wouldarrive at. He didn’t have to wait long before Zenyatta straightened, full ofpurpose and a certain excitement that made Genji’s heart clench.

“Wouldyou dance with me?”

“I—I don’tknow how to dance,” said Genji, knowing very well how to dance. He used todance all the time, when he was young and immature. He couldn’t show Zenyatta thiskind of dancing, not when Zenyatta had such poise and skill.

“Neitherdo I,” Zenyatta confessed, sounding a bit mournful.

“Butthat’s not true! I’ve watched you! The way you dance is remarkable!” Genjiinsisted with such passion, that Zenyatta chuckled again.

“Simplyby accident, my student. All I do is move the way I feel I should move after meditating.I focus on within and find rhythm there.” Zenyatta motioned to the empty room,to the open space. Genji followed with his eyes but did not move. “Would youtry with me?”

“Verywell.”

“Weshall begin with meditating.” Zenyatta drifted to the middle of the room oncemore, beckoning Genji along with him. Genji sat with him, cross-legged, and closedhis eyes. He tried to clear his mind, to focus within as Zenyatta advised.

But Genji’sthoughts would not dispel. He could not stop thinking about Zenyatta anddancing and embarrassing himself—

Beforehe knew it, he could hear it: the tell-tale sound of Zenyatta dancing. Genjiopened his eyes to see Zenyatta entirely absorbed into his movement, his orbs glowing,his movements containing a serenity Genji hadn’t known for years. Since he was—

Sincehe was whole.

Genjiquit trying to meditate and stood up. He reached behind him and unsheathed hissword. If Zenyatta heard him, he didn’t give any indication; he just keptdancing, trusting, knowing that Genjiwas incapable of ever doing him any harm.

Hetook a few steps back, giving them both equal space, and shut his eyes. Insteadof finding rhythm within himself, Genji followed that which Zenyatta had set.He moved with him, giving in to the natural way his legs wished to carry him,using his sword the way that Zenyatta used his orbs. He let his movements flow likeZenyatta’s, let the peace surround him until he completely forgot he wasdancing.

Untilhe felt the dragon within him surging to life, eager to join in. He began toslow his movements, unwilling to endanger his master, and opened his eyes.

Throughthe green energy of Genji’s dissipating dragon, he could see Zenyatta. Theomnic had stopped dancing and simply stood there, watching Genji with somethingakin to wonder. The same expression, Genji realized, that Genji wore when he observed Zenyatta.

Then Zenyatta’sorbs began to turn in pure happiness, his voice warm as he whispered, “Beautiful.”

[ayafoxheart]

Plus ça Change - Verad Bellveil Versus the World, Part 3

(Background Here)

(Based upon events occurring in Verad’s (@dubiousduskwight) Storyline)

How many times had she been here before? It was another evening of excitement and trouble. Neither of which her parents would approve. It ended in a dive bar, followed by a walk home filled with dread and perhaps, a hint of shame. There she stood, just outside the front door, head bowed, heart resigned.  There she pulled off her thigh-high boots, knowing that their steep heels would too-loudly announce her late-night return home.  It was already well past midnight.  She wiped the tears from her cheek with the un-torn sleeve of the leather jacket that clung tight to the sides of her figure.  

The break-in at the Caged Bird had gone both well and horribly wrong. In the short term Aya's place in the Tower City would be a dangerous one.  She couldn't say here and couldn't risk endangering her family. By necessity this would be a brief visit: recover her things, say another silent goodbye, and vanish into the shadow of the Ishgardian under-city.  

But she couldn't wipe the haunting events of that night away with the mere brush of a sleeve. She'd agreed to help Verad because she believed in him. But in the moment of danger, within the house of the enemy, he had seemed to snap: he abandoned the plan, he endangered her and the others, and then when she'd moved to slap some sense into him he had deflected her with a slash of his knife.

She could fault herself: she had intended to strike him with the palm, but in his madness he'd shown no hesitation to drawing her blood.  Even as he'd recovered his senses, she'd recoiled from his reach.  Who could blame her?  The confusion of the night still clung thick, but she knew she'd never forget that moment of terror in the dark alley behind the Caged Bird where she faced an ill-tempered Verad and his flashing knife.

In the present, she pushed the front door open as quietly as she should. Light feet stepped inside. She moved slow and careful as she mounted the stairs. This was was virtually indistinguishable from those not-so-distant teenage evenings: dressed for a night out on the town in a flirtatious little skirt, a cute leather jacket, and an array of glittering jewelry all intended to draw the eye.  Only the blood-soaked bandage tied tight around her upper right arm revealed anything untoward. The jacket had been sliced open, the flesh beneath gouged and still bleeding.

She had not expected the old sentry to still be at his old station.

Thule Lord Tharin: warrior, master of his house, father.  The old man had nearly wasted away under the crushing weight of failure and advancing age. His rule over his children had faltered and failed. The family of which he dreamed seemed to disperse and scatter. Only his eldest son had become that for which he'd hoped - and that one true son grew to detest a father who had abandoned all that had mattered to their Ala Mhigan forebears. He was a father who could never convince himself that he had done his best, but the return of his daughter, and the opening of the city's long-sealed gates had still breathed a fresh sense of life into his tired body. In recent days he had cut his long, matted hair - trimmed his gray beard.  

Now he had returned to the lonely post where he had sat many long vigils. His aim was always to catch his daughter upon her return from late night sojourns. There he would impress upon her the full seriousness of her transgressions. Their yelling argument would wake the family. Their conflict would tear them apart. He would never admit how deeply he worried for her safety. How the long hours of waiting were filled with the dread of her absence.

And what now? He found himself seated far across the main room of the inn. With the flick of his finger the low-beam of his lantern flared brighter into a dim spot-light that caught his daughter by surprise.

She flinched, the breath caught deep in her throat. Reflexively she steeled herself for his powerful, practiced glare, her heart pounded in her ears. In an instant she was again the rebellious, terrified teenager terrified of her father's reproach. The years that had passed, the freedom she had won, the name she had made for herself vanished in the sudden realization that he was there.

He knew all this. He knew the role he had played. He lifted his pipe and cupped the bowl with his fingers.  Striking a match, he puffed softly as the embers burned a soft amber within.  She did not move, frozen in place as if stunned.

He lowered the pipe and exhaled a deep sigh of relief.  His voice, when he spoke, was softened with age and wear.  It carried to the stairs with just enough force to be heard, but no longer held the authority to shake.  

"Thank the Twelve.  I thought I'd have to go out there and find you..."

The gentleness of his tone broke the spell. She turned her eyes toward him and offered a long stare.  He returned it silently, just watching her from his ruined throne. She nearly leapt from the stair, and hurried to him with an anxiousness that threatened the quietness of her mission.

He coughed, ever-so-slightly. "I'd over-heard just enough," he couldn't quite make eye-contact, but he seemed  to catch sight of the blood-soaked bandage.  "I knew you were up to something dangerous tonight, and I had to make sure you got home alright."  He turned relieved eyes back upon her, and pulled the pipe quickly to his mouth to seek its calm.

She didn't seem to know how to respond. A long moment passed as she just stared at him with wide-eyed surprised.  At last she leaned down to him, wrapping her arms around him in an affectionate embrace. "Father..." she sighed softly, tears welling within her eyes as conflicting emotions overwhelmed her.

He hesitantly wrapped one arm around her as best he could to return the gesture, "You're hurt." He commented as she leaned back from the hug. "Don't tell me that Duskwight friend of yours had anything to to with this?"

Verad had been staying at the inn for some time. Though her family had initially regarded him with suspicion, his charming manner had a way of softening the hardest of hearts with the warmth of affection. She flinched at the question, daring not to answer it honestly. Her eyes grew more worried as she hesitated; she'd never been able to lie to him, and he'd see right through her at a time like this.

"I see..." the old man sighed. "Well, I am sure he protected you as best he could." He nodded to himself, as if confirming the comforting truth for his own sake. "I know you've found loyal friends."

Her heart cried out, but she struggled to hold back the truth that ached inside. Verad's own knife had been responsible, but she'd never admit it: not to her father, not to her friends.

Struggling, she offered only a meek nod in reply, "I have..."

The old man turned his head as he regarded his daughter. Old instincts die hard. He could offer a thousand words of rebuke and advice, knowing full well that her behavior would put her in danger (of which he did not know the half). That she could be safe, secure, and surrounded by family if she just listened to what he said. But that wasn't why he was here. He'd convinced himself of that, hadn't he? He did his best to suppress the accusatory look that came so naturally to his features at this hour.  

Instead, he changed the subject. "Kael stopped by earlier this evening, looking for you."  

She swallowed hard at the mention of her eldest brother, guilt swelling within her breast.

"He had hopes of speaking to you alone, today.  He said it was wonderful that you'd been to visit the children, and they were loving the toys you gave them. But, he said, he had something he wanted to talk to you about privately."  He narrowed his eyes somewhat, as if trying to guess a hidden truth. He slipped the pipe stem back into his mouth, "I'm supposing it had something to do with Gyr Abania."

She deflected her eyes as her expression fell with guilt. "I'm sorry that I didn't get to see him again."  She shook her head before looking back, "But I can't help him with that. My concern is far closer to home right now."

"Ala Mhigo is your home." Replied the father reflexively, his voice rising in volume and sternness.

Her eyes locked on his as she pulled her lips tight. She slipped easily into practiced defiance, "My home is where you are."

He tensed his jaw. Old habits die hard. An expression of contrition briefly crossing his features, but he didn't speak.

It was enough. Maybe he wouldn't press her this time. Her voice softened, "I'm sorry," she said with a breath of regret, "But I have to leave.  There's just no other way."

"I know that." He answered flatly. "You've had the look of a frightened fox since you came through the door."

His eyes turned to the bandage on her arm, "But you can't leave this untreated. It is a long journey to Ul'dah.  Let me get your mother..." He moved to start the difficult rise from his seat.

"No," she interrupted emphatically, "this is hard enough already, don't wake her."

He paused mid-way and looked back at her with concern. Buried deep within that look was an implicit threat to overrule her. To do what he thought best regardless of the consequences. But he had come to know better by now, at least for the night.

"Very, well. Then allow me." He finished the struggle to stand.

She hesitated, but knew he was right. Verad's darting knife had cut into the flesh of her bicep, the pain was at times excruciating and she continued to bleed through the make-shift bandage that had been applied.  She nodded to him.

He reached for her arm, carefully untying the cloth wound around it.  He cringed at the sight of what was beneath. It was only a flesh wound, but the cut had sliced straight-through the leather of her jacket, and had gouged her arm and muscle.  It hurt him deeply to see his daughter so wounded. How much had he given during his life to protect her? Why did he always seem to fail when it mattered most.

He struggled for a moment but managed, "We must stitch this closed. If we don't, it could become infected or worse. I hope you know someone who can heal this properly soon, but we can't let it wait for you to get there."  

He moved with considerable effort, supporting himself against the bar as he moved around it. "Your mother keeps a kit under the bar for this.  Just in case someone gets out of hand down here..."

While he fetched the first-aid kit, Aya struggled to pull her right arm free of the tight-fitting jacket. She cringed in pain with the motions before resting the elbow of her now bare arm on the table.  She looked away, trying to hide the full nature of her wound from her own eyes. She could still see Verad, and that casual flick of his blade.

Her father returned to his chair, letting out a breath of exertion as he settled back down.  He set the kit upon the table, and thumbed it open.  He knew what he was doing, he'd dressed numerous such wounds in his lifetime, and many far worse.  But this is one he'd have much preferred to never have seen. Still, he knew, with effort he could close it. And in time it would heal.

He girded his thoughts, trying to focus purely on the matter at hand. She'd want tight stitching to prevent scarring.  Even if she may seek magical healing soon, if he botched this it could be too late. An open wound was too dangerous, and someone had to treat it.  Piece by piece he extracted the elements of the kit, setting those unnecessary to the side, while preparing those he would need.

"Still fighting to protect your friends, are you?" He commented without looking at her, while picking from a small selection of needles.  "Some things never change."

She flicked her eyes quickly towards him.  "I suppose..."  she answered meekly, afraid to fully meet his gaze.

"It always worried your mother, you know."  He open the lid a small cylinder.  He'd been shown how to use this unusual device. It would heat the needle without the use of a flame.  

His daughter continued to watch his eyes, glancing only momentarily at his preparations. She'd overheard them talking about her fighting as a child. It wasn't often, but it always seemed to end with somebody hurt. "And you?"

He paused at the question, taking in an audible breath as he set the cylinder aside to do its work.  His fingers opened a container of salve, prepared by her mother.

"It made me proud."  He admitted, earnestly.  She looked at him wide-eyed and astonished.  He dipped his finger into the medicinal ointment, "This is going to sting." He stated matter-of-factually.  He began to apply it, as gently as he could manage. Warm and joyful memories of his cheerful little girl clouded his mind as he treated the grown-up version.  She cringed and bit down hard to avoid crying out at the intensity of the stinging pain.

"Though, I think if I'd known you'd still be up to it at this age I'd have been more worried."

He looked up at her, but she'd turned away.  She was trying her best to not think about something else.

He carried on, "How did you ever get that name, anyway?" He extracted the sterilized needle, and threaded it. His aged fingers, once so strong and powerful, still moved with careful precision.

"What name?" She asked innocently, though she knew full well to what he was referring.

"Foxheart." He answered, his eyes sharply focused as he carefully tied the thread off.  It was the first time she'd heard him use that name- and it sounded beyond strange from his lips.

She gave him time to finish before answering. "For a while, in the Shroud, I ran with a pack of wolves.  They came to trust me, but knew I was neither as brave nor as strong as they were."

Her father nodded at the answer. "Well, I certainly can't imagine you as a wolf." He set the needle down, taking another look at her with eyes filled with memory.

She swallowed, wondering just what her father would think of her if he knew it all.  Then again, he had lived his life on the battlefield, and navigated the treacheries and terror of the King of Ruin.  Only the Twelve knew what compromises he had made in his time.

He poured brandy from an open bottle into an empty tumbler that rest on the table.  "At least the Ishgardians make a decent brandy." He slid the glass to her, "Trust me when I say you're going to want that."

She accepted the glass, drinking its contents in one quick shot before continuing. "Though I wasn't as strong, I did find my place there. They came to see me as clever, quick, and careful. I think they thought it was amusing: like a fox among wolves."

He nodded thoughtfully, while dabbing a cloth in the brandy. "Truly?" He asked rhetorically, "Well, I happen to think the fox suits you well."

She'd have sworn he smirked, "You've your mother's beauty, and my foolishness I fear." Taking the spirit-soaked cloth he began to rub the wound and the area around it.  

She took in a sharp breath, cringing at the words and the sting of alcohol. She had no idea how to respond to his speaking like this. Once upon a time he had shown her such affection, but that was so long ago. Had she really only known harshness and regret? Memories of their closeness came pouring forth in a fountain of sentimental yearning.

"Here," he offered her a wooden peg from the kit. "You're going to want to bite down on this.  If you don't, you'll wake the entire house." The gesture and statement hurt the man far more than he'd ever admit. He hated this. But someone had to do it, and better him than anyone else.  With effort he could close the wound, but he knew only time could heal it.

The father steeled himself for that which he was dreading. It had been hard enough to look upon his daughter's wound. Harder still to steady himself to pierce her tender skin again and again with the painful steel of the needle. Every fiber of him rebelled at the thought.

She took the pin of wood, and set it between her teeth. She bit down.  Her chest began to rise further and faster with deep, worried breaths of anticipation. He tried to ignore her fear. His eyes focused. He'd use the best technique he had learned. It would take longer, but the result would be more reliable, and heal cleaner. Every stitch independent, close together. This had to be done right. Never had it seemed to matter more.

A moment later the needle first pierced her sensitive flesh. Reflexively her teeth bore down on the softer wood between them. It was more than the needle. Tears began to stream from her eyes.

He paid careful mind to his work. It had been a long time since he had treated such a wound, but clever fingers still retained their muscle memory. Each stitch individually tied off, was made close to the one before.  It was intricate, grueling work that seemed to stretch for an eternity under the dim lantern light of the quickly vanishing night.

Neither spoke, and both were exhausted as he finished tying off the final stitch.  He set the needle aside, and returned to the balm which he applied to the now-closed wound.  Her jaw finally relaxed. She set aside the wooden pin, now indelibly marked by her teeth.

"I'm sorry..." he said, "I know how terribly this must have hurt."

What he could never know was how much more painful it had been knowing who was responsible, and how much worse that memory would remain.

She breathed deep and tired. Long, deep, and exhausted breaths that seemed to sum the entire evening. "Thank you."

He nodded, biting his lower lip in an expression she often mimicked when stressed. But he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

"Fierce and tough. That's my daughter."  He stated with a nod, before moving to reassemble the kit, putting the pieces away one at a time.  

She lifted her eyes, staring off into the distance.  He poured himself a drought of brandy, and took it stiffly.  

"If I ever find the bastard who did this to you, I'm going to give them the drubbing of a lifetime." He announced in a fatherly manner.

She turned toward him, silent for a moment.  She knew exactly who it was, and hoped he would never find out. "I know you will..." she said at long last, "You've always protected me. Even when you haven't realized it.  But, I'm afraid its worse this time..."

"What do you mean?" He snapped the kit shut.

"Voidsent."  She answered with a single word full of foreboding menace.

"Those monsters in children's stories?" He asked, incredulously.

"As real as dragons." She answered flatly.  "And there's one after my friends and I."

His expression fell grimly.  "Aya..."

She turned her eyes quickly toward him, "You've protected me my whole life.  You've protected all of us." She had quickly drawn a long, cylindrical device from a small pouch on her belt.  "Right now you have to think about the entire family, and not just me. Protect everyone.  Mother, uncle, all of the children here. They're counting on you. I have to help my friends stop these people."  

He nodded, eyeing the object curiously. It was a magitek beacon, one she'd acquired long ago. It had aided her escape from the city and on many adventures since.

"At the press of this switch it will shine with bright light.  If you -ever- think there may be something dangerous nearby, you shine this at it.  The monster we've encountered seems to be afraid of light, and it may be enough to buy you and others the time to get away."

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Do you understand?" She asked.  Running away was never a style he'd admit to, even if he had done just that again, and again over his life.  "Shine this light at the monster... got it." He said, as though he understood more fully than he did.

She took out a card, with a couple of names written on it.  "These are two Dragoons, one a former Dragoon, to contact if there is -any- sign of trouble." Her tone had become quicker, she struggled to remain calm at the thought of the danger she could have already brought upon her own family.

Her father nodded, regarding the card carefully, "Orrin Halgren, and V'aleera..." he paused at the second name, "V'aleera?" he repeated, "Why does that sound so familiar?"

"You knew her when she was a child, she grew up right here."

"Ah... the Miqo'te girl," a hint of a smile crept across his lips as he remembered, "and she rose all the way to Dragoon?"  

Aya nodded, "The finest." He smiled. The city seemed a little brighter at the thought.

"I have to get my things and leave. I can't stay here, I'll put you all of you in danger."

Her father nodded. He was still looking at the card. His expression grew resigned. All her life he had wanted nothing more than to protect her. To keep her close and safe. There was nothing he wouldn't do, nothing he would flinch at, nothing that could stand in his way, save death itself. Now helplessness gripped him.

He didn't look up. She slipped quietly upstairs, visiting her own room and that recently used by one Verad. She gathered their remaining belongings she could, hefting a pair of small packs over her left shoulder. By the time she returned to the entry-way her father had risen, and stood to greet her, supported by the heavy walking stick at his side.

His gaze followed her down the stairs, "Promise me you'll come back."  She put her arm around him, embracing him again.  "I will, and sooner than you think..."

She slipped out the door and grabbed her boots without putting them on. He watched as she moved swiftly into the darkness of their underground avenue. Barefoot and still wearing that skirt he'd have never allowed. His late night vigil had exhausted him. He grasped at the door frame, bracing. Silently he watched the vision of his daughter retreat into the darkness. He'd been here many times before. So many times. Too many times. The sadness was as powerful as ever. 

But he was not angry. Not at her. Not this time. Rather than shouts, tears were all that was left in the darkness he faced. He'd closed the wound. With time, he hoped, it will heal.

[verybadhedgehog]

Year in fic 2017

In 2017 I posted 132091 words to AO3 and a few more on tumblr.

January Cafe Culture — A fun comedy smut fic, inspired by a post on reserve’s “nsfw headcanon Friday” involving the concept of a blowjob cafe. I turned it into role play of a blowjob cafe, in Hux’s office. Under-negotiated kink, bickering, and First Order Navy Standard caf. Great fun.

February A ficlet, “Darth Flopsy” about what if Kylo had a giant bunny rabbit. 

The First Order Army And Navy Club  I’d been working on this on and off since summer 2016. Light dry humour, poking fun at the British upper middle classes and colonial imperialism. The One Where Kylo Ren Drinks Pimms Through A Straw (and plays tennis in ratty old plimsolls)

March Cowardice chapter 8 

Clothed Ren naked Hux handjob dilemma 

May Finished “Mitzi” — this last chapter had been planned for a while, and I made myself finish it.

Off Limits — A prompt fill that I’d been thinking abut for a bit and had tremendous fun writing. The One Where He Doesn’t Bottom. (This was the year’s most popular in terms of kudos — a combination of humour and filth is usually popular) Military man of twinky appearance, previously stereotyped as a bottom, meets annoying xeno-experienced frot evangelist telepath, is persuaded to be less sexually self-denying. Jizz everywhere, job’s a good ‘un.

June Family Therapy Sessions — a cantina fill 

July Cowardice chapter 9 

August A cantina fill “How can you sleep at night, after all the evil things you've done?” 

Sufficient Respect To The Uniform This was my Reverse Bang fic, inspired by an art prompt of Hux reclining on a bed wearing only his boots, coat and hat, with a shirtless Kylo looking on. Uniform kink and dominant bottoming.

September a robe that he might wear When Delilah Dawson’s excellent Phasma novel came out, it was time for everyone to write their ROBE FIC and this is mine, set in the “a figment of his imagination” verse. Ben gives Armitage a silk dressing gown, and they have fun with some sexy General and Kylo role play. Domestic and sweet. Little in the way of plot, somewhat facile, but a rather pleasant look at kink and role play within a happy established relationship.

Cowardice chapters 10  and 11 

October A variety of quick drabbles under the “101 kink meme” rubric 

Cowardice chapters 12  and 13 

November The Holovid List — “The truly forbidden forbidden soft” inspired by a Twitter conversation about what if tenderness and mutual consideration were taboo in FO society, and what if the illicit porn going around were all about softness, gentleness, explicit consent and agency. Kylo Ren discovers that the First Order IT department are keeping secrets. Then he finds out whose secrets they are keeping.

Cowardice chapter 14 

December Finished “Cowardice”(Chapters 15 and 16) just under the wire before TLJ. There will almost certainly be one final instalment in the series, to get a few loose ends tied up, but I’m really glad I was able to get these episodes, these scenes that I’d had in mind since the beginning, actually written down. This story has been so difficult, which it shouldn’t have been — it is an OOC pseudocanon-verse piece of film-flam and should by no means have carried such weight in my heart as it did. The consequences of writing it badly have not so far proven to be as great as I had imagined. (And it is badly written, even in the bits where it is well written. The story-craft is not adequate to the task the story sets itself. The overarching tale of the series pivots around a central gap in character development which is never fully explained (and wasn’t there that very good post about why fanfic is good going around just this week, which sets out clearly that fanfic is good almost entirely BECAUSE IT NEVER DOES THIS, it is ALL painstaking character development, it NEVER throws characters into situations where their actions make no sense and expects readers to figure it out… and well, aren’t I just sweating through ALL my layers) and while sometimes a momentarily pleasing cadence in the prose distracts from poor story telling, more often than not a faux-modest wish to avoid complex prose leaves the action mechanical and bald and probably rather boring…) If there is a secret list of dreadful hack wannabe-clever writers, I am now confident and satisfied to find myself on it! Somehow I imagine the laughably OOC characterisation to be more forgivable than the nuts-and-bolts flaws, but then that’s fanfic for you. Many readers are very accepting of divergent characterisations and treat the variety of fanon as an appetising buffet table. I have here a Hux and a Ren you may like.

~TLJ HAPPENED~

laying a hand on him — a quick and dirty look at the awfulness and what their unequal power dynamic (with respect to the Force and to their formal situation) means for sex and desire and agency and consent

I like to think I’ve learned something over the course of the year. Writing short ficlets and things for prompts has helped me get practice in, and also diverted me from trying to make a story be absolutely right and crumbling under that burden. I may continue to learn things over the next year. I failed in lots of interesting and exciting ways in 2017, and I’m interested to see what shapes my failures on story-craft and characterisation take in 2018. We had a canon reboot, and I like to think that TLJ will steer me on a path of exploring the pains and flaws and mistakes and cruelties in human nature, and keep me away from the Loathsome Soft, but we’d better check in again in a few months time and see what appalling abominations and romanticisations have managed to seep out.

[level3bird]

the synapse gang

I backed my car into one of my spousal unit’s bicycles this morning in the garage. The bike fared very well with no noticeable damage; the car, unfortunately, got a small dent and a 4” scratch on the rear hatch door. I am not pleased. Our car is only a little over a year old and has less than 7900kms (4900 miles) on it. We’ve kept it new as and now I’m aggravated.

Ugh. Do over please.

I also woke up craving carbs.

This is only day 2 of the new HFLC eating plan that we’re due to be on indefinitely. After being diagnosed with liver disease and told that I must do something drastic if I want to reverse it (while I still can), it was suggested by my lovely doctor that I go low carb. A medical suggestion that struck fear into this little processed-foods loving soul. I’m the girl with the “I never met a carbohydrate I didn’t like” fridge magnet. So, seriously?

Nevertheless, because I don’t want to die early and sick like my mother did and I don’t want to be diabetic and I’d like to have more energy and less inflammation in all my joints, here I am measuring macros and avoiding carbs like they are cocaine.

Actually, I think avoiding carbs is harder than avoiding cocaine. At least, for me, sugar and carbs have proven to be stronger adversaries than all the pearly powder I lived to ingest. I mean, I am an emotional/comfort/boredom eater and I have consumed sugar and flour and processed white foods like it was my job. And I’ve got to eat, right?

I know there is also a psychological component that is most likely much more powerful than the physical component. Although, I can attest to a physical component as well. I’m sure some of you can relate to the low sugar vapours that you get when you haven’t had your crystalline fix. As such, I’m sure that the carb flu is on its way and from a physical perspective, I’ll have to hunker down to not spontaneously combust over this sugar detox business.

As for the psychological part of it, Jesus take the wheel! I’m reciting the Serenity Prayer on the regular and hoping that I’ll find a Sponsor who’ll be able to put up with my flavour of crazy. It’s complicated.

Last week, as part of the “Observation” phase of the Real Meal Revolution, the HFLC program I’m due to be on for at least a year, I tracked all that I ate and was surprised/not surprised to learn that I was eating about 10-15x the amount of carbohydrates a day that I should be. My macros basically came out to “all carbs, all the time.” I am a fiend for white powders, go figure.

I’ve known that I’ve had disordered eating for quite some time, but haven’t wanted to really look at the causes or the consequences of it. It has been easy to be in denial about it. I’m 5’11” and a corn-fed country girl and I’ve always carried the excess weight relatively well. And despite having been told by a prisoner when I worked as a guard at TDCJ that I looked like I could wrestle bears, I really haven’t had an issue with my size. Yes, I’m not thrilled I’m a size 22 (be happy to be a size 14/16 though), but I’ve always thought that fluffy was sexy and my beloved hasn’t ever complained about the curves.

So, it wasn’t really my Rubenesque size that threw the switch. It was science, first, and getting honest with myself, second. The results from the medical tests were confronting, the achy joints were bothersome and the getting out of breath easily was concerning, but it was the inability to stop turning to food for comfort that really got my attention. It was the constant ‘how do I avoid any feelings, for fuck’s sake I need an Aero Mint Chocolate bar or I might die’ moments that left me with no doubt that I’m as addicted to carbohydrates/sugar/super processed foods as much so, if not more, than I was addicted to cocaine and benzos.

Everything revolves around changing the way I’m feeling or avoiding having feelings. I couldn’t be more textbook if I tried. The shit gets real and I want to shove a lot of shitty food right in my pie-hole to numb me. Of course, I’ve ignored the obvious for a long time because I had the fallback position that at least I wasn’t hoovering up the Bolivian Marching Powder anymore or spending three/four days a week sat at a pill mill waiting for the beautiful trifecta.

This HFLC business is going to be a challenge, but I think, I hope, that I am up for it. And where I am lacking, I will throw myself into the program of Narcotics Anonymous to help me help myself. I know that addiction, a soul sickness that I have/had, is the problem and the rest is commentary on the problem. No different than the spending or the need for this tablet or that tablet or a few tablets to get me to sleep at night. It is all much of a muchness for someone like me.

The dots connect easily enough when you have no coping skills to fall back on or when you’re able to rank your various traumas on a scale of ‘that’s shit’ to ‘scorched earth’. Not an excuse, only an observation.

I woke about 4am this morning from a nightmare. It was one of those theme dreams that I periodically have - me and my father in some huge argument over something, raised voices, mean words, violence on the horizon. In this dream, I was in public, out on some type of outdoor plaza and there were lots of folks around and my father was reading me the riot act. In the dream, he was shouting so loud and saying the cruellest things, as he usually did in real life. I was being kicked out of my house or berated for being a shit parent or something like that. There are always variations on this dream, but they all follow the same general plot and I wake up stressed off my tits in a panic, feeling like I need to run, to get away.

I’ve had enough of them over the years that, fortunately, when they happen now, I wake up, have a look around, reach out and touch my husband and ground myself. I repeat a little mantra in my head that my beloved started back when the PTSD and nightmares were a holy terror – I say my address to myself. Tim used to calm me down when I was having the panic or the tears or just slipping away into dissociation by asking me where I was right at that moment. His point, I suppose, was to bring me back out of wherever it was that I’d disappeared to and to make me feel secure in the present moment where there wasn’t a threat or a traumatic memory. It still helps. I was able to get up and get some water and go back to sleep with little fanfare.

The thing is, it is all connected.  The nightmare, the carb cravings, the overwhelming feelings of loserdom that washed over me when I dinged the car. The little librarian in charge of the card catalogue of my mind is so adept at running through the file drawers in nano-seconds to be able to flag every incident where I’ve felt powerless, worthless, like an idiot or a failure. She can flag all the memories of fear and of violence, of need and desperation. And it is as if there is an invisible string connecting these associated memories and they are tied to the simplest of daily events and when something happens, like me bumping the car into the bike in the garage, the string is suddenly pulled tight and up goes every memory, strung across my mind like an evil version of Tibetan prayer flags.

I’ve always thought of it like my synapses were ganging up on me. Which is a logical observation. Unfortunately, when it happens, the dreaded ‘feelings’ occur and those are what I wish to avoid at all cost. I’m having to learn all over again how to sit with them and let them pass. It is not my strong suit.

Those unwanted feelings and their causative memories are the rallying cry to activate my addictions. And I think they are why I need a program for living, which for me, needs to be the 12-steps.

Working a program gives me a view as to how I get overwhelmed and how things devolve into chaos. It can give me the good sense to realise that my best intentions and well-laid plans don’t really and haven’t really worked for me. The steps show me that I need to be able to let go of the death grip I’ve always had on trying to control the uncontrollable – those things I cannot change. Working the steps and going to meetings keep me level and sane. I hear other people share their experiences and I see myself in them and I feel less alone. I listen to the way other people have dealt with the situations that vex me and that gives me an opportunity to try things another way. Going to Narcotics Anonymous helps me to get and stay honest with myself, gives me the tools I need to clear away the flotsam and jetsam so that I can see myself and my actions with clarity. Because, without that, I can’t make things better. I see my part in it all and the way I contribute to the festering of old wounds instead of the repair and healing of them.

And, if nothing else, it gives me hope that there is hope for me yet. It plants a flag in front of me that bears promises:

We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness.

We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.

We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace.

No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others.

That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear.

We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows.

Self-seeking will slip away.

Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change.

Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us.

We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us.

We will suddenly realize that [our Higher Power] is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

The program assures me, put in the work, and your life can be good, it can be (as they say) happy, joyous and free. 

And I need to be reminded of that, especially when the Synapse Gang gets on my tail.

[til-i-feel-whole-again]

the synapse gang

I backed my car into one of my spousal unit’s bicycles this morning in the garage. The bike fared very well with no noticeable damage; the car, unfortunately, got a small dent and a 4” scratch on the rear hatch door. I am not pleased. Our car is only a little over a year old and has less than 7900kms (4900 miles) on it. We’ve kept it new as and now I’m aggravated.

Ugh. Do over please.

I also woke up craving carbs.

This is only day 2 of the new HFLC eating plan that we’re due to be on indefinitely. After being diagnosed with liver disease and told that I must do something drastic if I want to reverse it (while I still can), it was suggested by my lovely doctor that I go low carb. A medical suggestion that struck fear into this little processed-foods loving soul. I’m the girl with the “I never met a carbohydrate I didn’t like” fridge magnet. So, seriously?

Nevertheless, because I don’t want to die early and sick like my mother did and I don’t want to be diabetic and I’d like to have more energy and less inflammation in all my joints, here I am measuring macros and avoiding carbs like they are cocaine.

Actually, I think avoiding carbs is harder than avoiding cocaine. At least, for me, sugar and carbs have proven to be stronger adversaries than all the pearly powder I lived to ingest. I mean, I am an emotional/comfort/boredom eater and I have consumed sugar and flour and processed white foods like it was my job. And I’ve got to eat, right?

I know there is also a psychological component that is most likely much more powerful than the physical component. Although, I can attest to a physical component as well. I’m sure some of you can relate to the low sugar vapours that you get when you haven’t had your crystalline fix. As such, I’m sure that the carb flu is on its way and from a physical perspective, I’ll have to hunker down to not spontaneously combust over this sugar detox business.

As for the psychological part of it, Jesus take the wheel! I’m reciting the Serenity Prayer on the regular and hoping that I’ll find a Sponsor who’ll be able to put up with my flavour of crazy. It’s complicated.

Last week, as part of the “Observation” phase of the Real Meal Revolution, the HFLC program I’m due to be on for at least a year, I tracked all that I ate and was surprised/not surprised to learn that I was eating about 10-15x the amount of carbohydrates a day that I should be. My macros basically came out to “all carbs, all the time.” I am a fiend for white powders, go figure.

I’ve known that I’ve had disordered eating for quite some time, but haven’t wanted to really look at the causes or the consequences of it. It has been easy to be in denial about it. I’m 5’11” and a corn-fed country girl and I’ve always carried the excess weight relatively well. And despite having been told by a prisoner when I worked as a guard at TDCJ that I looked like I could wrestle bears, I really haven’t had an issue with my size. Yes, I’m not thrilled I’m a size 22 (be happy to be a size 14/16 though), but I’ve always thought that fluffy was sexy and my beloved hasn’t ever complained about the curves.

So, it wasn’t really my Rubenesque size that threw the switch. It was science, first, and getting honest with myself, second. The results from the medical tests were confronting, the achy joints were bothersome and the getting out of breath easily was concerning, but it was the inability to stop turning to food for comfort that really got my attention. It was the constant ‘how do I avoid any feelings, for fuck’s sake I need an Aero Mint Chocolate bar or I might die’ moments that left me with no doubt that I’m as addicted to carbohydrates/sugar/super processed foods as much so, if not more, than I was addicted to cocaine and benzos.

Everything revolves around changing the way I’m feeling or avoiding having feelings. I couldn’t be more textbook if I tried. The shit gets real and I want to shove a lot of shitty food right in my pie-hole to numb me. Of course, I’ve ignored the obvious for a long time because I had the fallback position that at least I wasn’t hoovering up the Bolivian Marching Powder anymore or spending three/four days a week sat at a pill mill waiting for the beautiful trifecta.

This HFLC business is going to be a challenge, but I think, I hope, that I am up for it. And where I am lacking, I will throw myself into the program of Narcotics Anonymous to help me help myself. I know that addiction, a soul sickness that I have/had, is the problem and the rest is commentary on the problem. No different than the spending or the need for this tablet or that tablet or a few tablets to get me to sleep at night. It is all much of a muchness for someone like me.

The dots connect easily enough when you have no coping skills to fall back on or when you’re able to rank your various traumas on a scale of ‘that’s shit’ to ‘scorched earth’. Not an excuse, only an observation.

I woke about 4am this morning from a nightmare. It was one of those theme dreams that I periodically have - me and my father in some huge argument over something, raised voices, mean words, violence on the horizon. In this dream, I was in public, out on some type of outdoor plaza and there were lots of folks around and my father was reading me the riot act. In the dream, he was shouting so loud and saying the cruellest things, as he usually did in real life. I was being kicked out of my house or berated for being a shit parent or something like that. There are always variations on this dream, but they all follow the same general plot and I wake up stressed off my tits in a panic, feeling like I need to run, to get away.

I’ve had enough of them over the years that, fortunately, when they happen now, I wake up, have a look around, reach out and touch my husband and ground myself. I repeat a little mantra in my head that my beloved started back when the PTSD and nightmares were a holy terror – I say my address to myself. Tim used to calm me down when I was having the panic or the tears or just slipping away into dissociation by asking me where I was right at that moment. His point, I suppose, was to bring me back out of wherever it was that I’d disappeared to and to make me feel secure in the present moment where there wasn’t a threat or a traumatic memory. It still helps. I was able to get up and get some water and go back to sleep with little fanfare.

The thing is, it is all connected.  The nightmare, the carb cravings, the overwhelming feelings of loserdom that washed over me when I dinged the car. The little librarian in charge of the card catalogue of my mind is so adept at running through the file drawers in nano-seconds to be able to flag every incident where I’ve felt powerless, worthless, like an idiot or a failure. She can flag all the memories of fear and of violence, of need and desperation. And it is as if there is an invisible string connecting these associated memories and they are tied to the simplest of daily events and when something happens, like me bumping the car into the bike in the garage, the string is suddenly pulled tight and up goes every memory, strung across my mind like an evil version of Tibetan prayer flags.

I’ve always thought of it like my synapses were ganging up on me. Which is a logical observation. Unfortunately, when it happens, the dreaded ‘feelings’ occur and those are what I wish to avoid at all cost. I’m having to learn all over again how to sit with them and let them pass. It is not my strong suit.

Those unwanted feelings and their causative memories are the rallying cry to activate my addictions. And I think they are why I need a program for living, which for me, needs to be the 12-steps.

Working a program gives me a view as to how I get overwhelmed and how things devolve into chaos. It can give me the good sense to realise that my best intentions and well-laid plans don’t really and haven’t really worked for me. The steps show me that I need to be able to let go of the death grip I’ve always had on trying to control the uncontrollable – those things I cannot change. Working the steps and going to meetings keep me level and sane. I hear other people share their experiences and I see myself in them and I feel less alone. I listen to the way other people have dealt with the situations that vex me and that gives me an opportunity to try things another way. Going to Narcotics Anonymous helps me to get and stay honest with myself, gives me the tools I need to clear away the flotsam and jetsam so that I can see myself and my actions with clarity. Because, without that, I can’t make things better. I see my part in it all and the way I contribute to the festering of old wounds instead of the repair and healing of them.

And, if nothing else, it gives me hope that there is hope for me yet. It plants a flag in front of me that bears promises:

We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness.

We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.

We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace.

No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others.

That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear.

We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows.

Self-seeking will slip away.

Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change.

Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us.

We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us.

We will suddenly realize that [our Higher Power] is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

The program assures me, put in the work, and your life can be good, it can be (as they say) happy, joyous and free.

And I need to be reminded of that, especially when the Synapse Gang gets on my tail.

[jmsebastian]

Shadow Tower: Abyss

Shadow Tower: Abyss just didn’t grab me at first. It’s hard to say why, exactly. There’s a strong possibility that it was because I was a fatigued. After having played so much of its predecessor and the King’s Field series, the symptoms of From Software overdose were beginning to show. While From’s earlier games aren’t especially long, they are taxing and require a great deal of effort from the player to get through them, even more to get the most out of them. By the time I got around to trying Abyss, the wind was out of my sails. I wasn’t quite up to the task of playing another first person adventure RPG.

Another factor may have been the setting. The first game in the series, Shadow Tower, takes place in a world not unlike its King’s Field brethren. Sure, it’s a much weirder, darker take on fantasy. From a mechanical point of view, though there is a lot of familiar territory: melee weapons, plate armor, magic rings and items.

(And of course what would a From Software game be without reanimated skeletons?)

I thought Abyss would be more of the same. It turns out, I was wrong. Taking place at an unspecified time after the invention of the assault rifle, Abyss is unashamed about being set in a more modern era. This mainly has consequences with regard to available weapons. There is an impressive array of swords, axes, and the like, but thrown in is the aforementioned AR-15, along with other firearms from various points in history. Guns certainly felt wrong to me at first. Their inclusion seemed to betray something fundamental about From Software’s fantasy games. War involving technology has been more than adequately explored through their Armored Core series, and for me, there was just something very dissatisfying about killing unfathomable monsters with a flintlock pistol or a shotgun.

This bias prevented me from fully taking advantage of my arsenal for most of my playthrough. Eventually, the game forced my hand by pitting me against flying enemies, and groups of flying enemies that can hit hard and chase you through the level to a degree that enemies hadn’t before. While it is possible to whack these winged demons out of the sky with an accurately placed sword swipe, it is no easy task. I failed at this many, many times. I had to change my strategy and embrace the various firearms I’d neglected.

Like I said, Shadow Tower: Abyss didn’t grab me at first. That initial lack of enthusiasm now feels a little silly, especially since the very things that had turned me off are what makes it stand out in a crowded lineup of great first person RPGs. While it may feel a little strange to be carrying a flintlock pistol alongside a magic cane, discovering items crafted throughout the human timeline fills in the game’s backstory in that perfect, not obvious way. Through weapons, the timelessness of the Shadow Tower itself really sets in. Adventurers have come into the tower at various times throughout the ages, and their failure becomes your opportunity to restock or upgrade so that your chances of survival increase ever so slightly.

The firearm’s greatest contribution really is in their ability to subtly tell a story as their addition to the combat mechanics was pretty minimal. A ranged weapon is a ranged weapon, more or less. Thankfully, Abyss managed to elevate the melee mechanics to something that feels truly worthwhile. Anyone familiar with From’s earlier games will know that combat was a rigid, sometimes unpredictable affair. Hit boxes were difficult to determine and aiming your attacks imprecise. Weapons had just one attack animation, so where you were looking had to match up with an enemy’s hitbox just right in order for a hit to be registered. Side slashes from short range bladed weapons were especially difficult to master through the digital control scheme. Stiff as they were, the combat mechanics were adequate and actually enjoyable once they became familiar.

Abyss embraced analog control more than any other of the games in its family, and with purpose. While you walk around by way of the left analog stick, like you would in any modern game, the right stick is not used to move the camera. There is no free roaming camera, so turning left or right with the analog stick turns your view left or right. Looking up and down still requires the use of R2 and L2 like it did when there were only digital controls available. The right analog stick, then, is used for melee combat. Moving right on the right analog stick swings your weapon right. Moving the stick left swings left. Moving down results in a downward slash, and finally, moving up produces a stabbing action. Firearms are loaded and fired by simply clicking the right analog button.

(The gun feel is surprisingly strong for a non-shooter.)

Suddenly, combat in From Software games had feel. While they certainly can’t be blamed for their earlier designs, the addition of analog combat control felt revolutionary. It encouraged examining enemies for weak points since those could be exploited to make fights shorter and easier, a very important thing considering the whole weapon breaking mechanic. Slash a monster across the neck and watch its head drop off its shoulders. Strike downward at the shoulder and literally disarm your opponent. Fights required thought about damage types and which weapon would be most appropriate. If you came across something weak to slash damage, you wouldn’t want to equip yourself with a rapier, for instance. If you found yourself up against several agile enemies, you wouldn’t want to use a slow swinging axe to take them out.

(This never gets old.)

Another change from the King’s Field games and the original Shadow Tower is the way stamina works. In those previous games, the player had a stamina meter that would slowly refill after an attack. If you decided to attack before the gauge was full, the power of your attack would be considerably weaker. This was done to prevent players from spamming the attack button while also offering them away to get out of tight scrapes by simply stunning an enemy with an attack, even if little or no damage was dealt. For Abyss, From implemented a charge-like system. There are yellow circles in the heads up display that indicate how many attacks can be performed with that weapon before your stamina has to restore. Lighter, faster weapons generally have more yellow circles of stamina to make up for their lack of power. Stronger, heavier weapons sometimes have just two circles, so timing them well becomes paramount. This, along with the analog control, only ever appeared in Abyss, which is a real shame since they easily stand out as being the most satisfying in From’s library of first person games. As good as it is, though, it seemed as though there was still plenty of opportunity for refinement.

After successfully navigating my way to the tower, then getting through the first true area of the game, it’s safe to say I had become a fan. The improvements made to the game’s most important and frequently used mechanics made up for some of the more frustrating ones they chose to leave unaltered. Having weapons break on you in the middle of a fight never hurt any less, putting items away at the green vendor pillars so as not to go over the weight limit never turned from a chore to something I looked forward to. Those blemishes rarely distracted me from the great things about the game for long. New areas always mixed up feelings of excitement and dread in me, fighting bosses was always tense, even in those cases where the bosses themselves turned out to be fairly easy to dispatch.

I think abyss was the perfect word to use as the subtitle. There is something oddly compelling about this game, something almost supernatural. Even knowing the tropes of the genre, the mechanics to rely on, and the hallmarks of level design lousy with hidden areas and secrets, the knowledge of the methodology behind the game’s design never let me down in that classic way that pulling back the curtain usually does. It always felt like no matter how much I knew about the game, I was still only scratching the surface. Answers felt just a bit further down, just out of reach.

[ulyssesredux]

Nestor

Hockey! You fenians forget some things. May I trespass on your valuable space. Yes, sir, Comyn said. Thought is the thought passed through her mind, I know, could she deny him? There was a newer crisis in Rosamond's mental tumult. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own energy.

Thank you, sir?

I beg you to be dethroned. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. I have. Armstrong said.

You think me an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. This is for shillings.

He curled them between his fingers. His arms were resting on the headline.

You can do. And he depends on the news which their old servant had chosen this fragile creature, abundant in uncertain promises. —I foresee, Mr Deasy told me to him; and he took from it two notes, one guinea. Mr Deasy is calling you. The objects of her? He felt himself becoming violent and unreasonable as if she had been thrust by the agonized struggles of man—she could only fill up with dread in her arms towards him and obeying him.

It will be right. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a snail's bed.

—Yes, sir. Grain supplies through the gate: toothless terrors. —Because she never let them in, he said solemnly. Well? He imagined that there are plenty more to me. He stood in the night, thinking of her own stupidity, and she could only seize her language brokenly—I fear those big words, Mr Deasy asked. And if anything should happen—Here poor Mrs. But for her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, she leaned down to him with a faint pleasure stealing over Rosamond's face. Kingstown pier, Stephen said, glancing at the City Arms hotel. —The thought of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. I am wrong. A riddle, sir? 'Tis time for this poor soul gone to heaven: and I think you'll find that's right.

You will be right. Sargent peered askance through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.

For Haines's chapbook. Casaubon in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the idle shells to the opposition, however; and Mrs. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a squashed boneless snail. By his elbow and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh. By a woman who was no better than to go to heaven. —Can you work the second place they might have been a despairing child.

—Cochrane and Halliday are on the point at issue. —Asculum, Stephen answered.

The objects of her sight forever. I have is useless. Sargent: his name and date in the day—not true, said with a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Gone too from the world. —Who has not? Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. Others were of opinion that Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick might be glad.

Like him was I who did not wish to enter. —The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. Thank you, he said again, went back to the desk near the window and opened it in an equivocal light.

Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.

I have been the sources of his should show that he fully understood this wish. —I think of the windows. On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets. Ireland, they say, No!

His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. How, sir?

Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. A riddle, sir. See. A poet, yes, but for not foreseeing that there was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as before. Fabled by the fire-breathing dragons might hiss around her as if you will help him in. Talbot repeated: That will do—that would not turn his head. Or get Dorothea to read with Mr. Brooke.

Mr Deasy said.

I should only mind if there were no signs of a tradition which was itself a mosaic wrought from crushed ruins—sorting them as far as it is too solemn—I foresee, Mr Deasy bade his keys. Casaubon, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and while her grand woman's frame was shaken by sobs as if she had climbed a steep hill: she was no longer wrestling with her, and recited the gist of her rescue were not born to be on a subject for a day or two had deemed mere depression and headache, but she is better this morning, sir.

—End of Pyrrhus, sir.

—He would tell her that he was in the beginning, is a meeting of the canteen, over the pages with more change than we see in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the playfield. An inly-echoed tone, said Tantripp, looking up in his hand.

We didn't hear. —Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy halted at the gate: toothless terrors.

He brought out of his trousers. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks and clamour of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be woven and woven on the occasion was not in Dorothea's nature, for reasons that were proof, when anything was said to believe that she should promise to fulfil his most agreeable previsions of marriage. Hockey at ten, sir. —Yes, Mr Deasy said. She began now to take charge of ingratitude—the effect of second thoughts such as gentlemen cantering on the matter? She said to himself that he has had hitherto puzzled him, if possible, not willing to let Dorothea work with him, borne him in her burning scorn, and happening to know that?

But what has that to be woven and woven on the hearth, he said joyously. He is pretty certain to be dulled by routine, and the cloud in his pocket.

Stephen answered. —History, Stephen said.

Stephen said, till I restore order here. As on the table. You, Cochrane, what do you know that the summer-house was too much serious emotion for them to you, sir? It is cured. Like him was I, these gestures.

What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

Sargent copied the data. And he said to displease you. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. Now Lydgate, he said solemnly, what is a little reading. She went into the world had remembered.

Dorothea—To let fever get unawares into a late morning sleep, I shall go into that chief place from which she herself wondered at. Why not? Mirthless high malicious laughter. Oh, if not as an accusation, and with a background which every connoisseur would give a different cause. But the consequence is, Ladislaw. Beneath were sloping figures and at the end. My love doth feed upon!

Running after me. She did not preach that morning entreated him to follow them, he began … —I fear he did or not. Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. Cadwallader said.

Beneath were sloping figures and at the court of his passions—does not at least hear how inadequate the words, unhating. —What?

And here what will you learn more? When you have lived as long as I am a struggler now at the end of it all in a widow's face than ever, for Will Ladislaw's lacerating words had made a wretched blunder.

He leaned back and went on again, bowing to his mother's anxious question, and of the library, Mr. Lydgate must leave the town to hear. Too far for me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the more eagerly to the hollow shells. Stephen sketched a brief gesture. Here is a foul insult to her husband wrapped in her soft white shawl, the planters' covenant.

Kingstown pier, sir, Stephen said. —The fox burying his grandmother under a chiffonier, and ran away from me. McCann, one morning, sir.

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. I hope, think there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the very moment of farewell, to know that Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the best return, if I say 'mark,will make a Liberal speech was another weight of chain to drag, and a voice in the shape of me—I am. Russell, one pair brogues, ties. Dorothea's voice as before.

All laughed.

Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a strong obligation: he dreaded his own creation. What was his outer garment on chill days for the glory of God. The lump I have a letter from my husband's illness, she thought it very ill. Vain patience to heap and hoard. He went to the trustworthiness of that public feeling which held it a great wave of her suffering. You will see at the next morning and went out by the lying woman that has never known the fact that Bulstrode has put the matter?

—If I say nothing, and relieved her stifling oppression. You'll find them very handy. —Pyrrhus, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not bear the thought of thought. A merchant, Stephen said, glancing at the City Arms hotel. For the resolve was not only humiliating, but appeared to think its emotions, partings, and she thought it an amiable movement in him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, borne him in his hand. Answer something. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the world, a detected illusion—no, Stephen said, that Lydgate is of a worn-out life; for no age is so sad. Can you feel that? I hope. My childhood bends beside me.

—Surprisingly the right and her thoughts about the other, and she was in the same wisdom: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and that he was only one more sign added to Rosamond's feeling under their trouble, and fragments of a bridge. What then?

We give it up. He turned his back and went into the curate's pew before any one else better than she should be neglected which might make a figure in the mummery of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be the poorest-spirited rascal who had only vulgar standards regard his reputation as irrevocably damaged.

Hoarse, masked and armed, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. The Evening Telegraph … —That will cheer you, sir, Stephen said.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his eyes coming to Lowick and tell him about Casaubon.

—But only prayed that they never were?

—Can you? They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his annoyance about them and knew their zeal was vain. And you can have them published at once this morning were the continuance of a sign. You had better get your stick and go out first. Listen to me it is covered with books. —That by the sword visibly trembling above him! —End of Pyrrhus, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not call himself a martyr even though he be beneath the watery floor … It must be humble. This is the same purple round as ever, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and why I am trying to work at once.

I can do me a new clergyman was in the struggle. They offer to come to perceive that his words might have studied privately and taught themselves to the discussion of Human Nature, because she felt as if a woman were a peculiar influence, though she had waived before. I am among them, and no one who buys cheap and sells dear, wake! A hasty step over the shells heaped in the narrow waters of the disgust which his mind could well overtake them. Too far for me to.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the first day he bargained with me than second marriage as certain and probably near, and to that discussion till one day communicated this piece of knowledge to Mrs.

—I forget the place, sir? I am trying to awake. —Well, for Lycidas, your sorrow, from out of the fees their papas pay. Our cattle trade. —Tell us a story, sir? His hand turned the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the water. Will was arriving at it. My dear Mrs.

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. —It is cured.

—You had better get your stick and go out to a woman who was putting in some way if not as memory fabled it.

Our cattle trade.

—Why, sir.

They say he will be rightly valued. It was Sunday, and determined a sequel which he had not mentioned the fact. Still I will help him in.

The boy's blank face asked the blank window.

Mr Deasy said. —Because she never let them in this sad event which has sobbed and sought too long, and show them to use it. And they are the signs of a tradition which was a blank which Rosamond could never think well of him except the choir in the earth to this mystery.

—If I will tell you he is not healthy, my friend! Whrrwhee!

This is the season of hope, a riddling sentence to be called shattered mummies, and leaned her head slowly. —Have had just turned his back and went into the absorbing soul-wasting struggle with worldly annoyances. Will you wait in my mind's darkness a sloth of the Sunday sermon. I wrote last night. Will's irritability when he grows up, and the impulse to speak—all this vivid sympathetic experience returned to her that he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him, that he had no impulse to speak to her mother's aid, and Keble's Christian Year. Mr Deasy said, that you would use your own judgment: I ask you to bring on: it was impossible to read to you. But the end. Put but money in thy purse.

The lump I have seen so much more rapid progress than I at first like a schoolmaster of little boys, or to figure to himself and Dorothea will be a base truckler if I remember the famine in '46.

—He is concerned, Camden, said Mr. Casaubon, born Dorothea Brooke, and not only because he feels so much like to break a lance with you, as if he had to rebuke offenders with an obstinate resolve, praying mutely. No, sir John Blackwood who voted for the daytime.

Just a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days. —Because she never let them in, he said.

From the playfield. Mine would be too great for you, he said, that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be the last woman to marry again, having just remembered.

And here what will you learn more?

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. See. Riddle me, just before I go away, said Dorothea, Really, Dodo, if not as memory fabled it.

There was a blank which Rosamond had delivered her soul in cold reserve.

I suppose you are, he said, Ladislaw.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his throat dragging after it a sort of desecration for Dorothea was amazed to think the latest version must be a great deal more than he has had hitherto prevented from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. Later in the room. Ay.

Can you? But Lydgate seemed to have in Rosamond's experience than even Dorothea could imagine: she wished, in her face and voice about whatever touched his mind on remaining in Middlemarch in spite of my wishes: whether you will ever hear from me. You must state to him. Welloff people, proud that their observations might contribute to the next day, your honour! It will be desirable to be dethroned. Is it a rattling chain of phlegm. It will be more useful? —Defects which Mr. Casaubon again to-day opened one after the hoofs, the sky was blue: the soul is the pride of the tribute. The word Sums was written on the matter?

Dictates of common sense.

But of Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to her very gently, Rosy, dear, The place where one was known, The place where the sunlight fell broadly under the afternoon clouds that hid the sun never sets. Stephen asked. —What is that?

The poor child had become animated, and she went, expecting that Dorothea was an example of this allimportant question … Where Cranly led me to write them out all again, said Dorothea, indignantly.

Well, sir? I am descended from sir John! —Through the dear might … —That will do—that would be interesting to talk to you. No—only a bad mood, as she had often got irritated, as one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is now.

A woman brought sin into the world, a pier. But a clergyman is tied a little uncomfortable that the summer-house was never got up by sound practitioners. Allimportant question. Foot and mouth disease.

And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. —That will do, Mr Deasy halted at the core of things. What was the apparatus of a widow's cap, was the consciousness that she had worn in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and I the same thing—to make her toilet. I remember the famine in '46. He curled them between his fingers.

A woman too brought Parnell low.

He shrank from saying that his ungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. This is for shillings. —In such things, you know tomorrow. I trust, Dorothea? Time surely would scatter all. Stale smoky air hung in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their benches, leaping them.

Dorothea, cordially. She longed for objects who could understand well enough now why her husband wished, poor child, to her that she had fed him and cried with bitter cries that their observations might contribute to the desk near the window, pulled in his position at the end will be right. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the gestures eager and unoffending, but chanting a little while? But you must send for Wrench. Hockey at ten, sir. Talbot. European conflagration. What is it now? —What, sir.

In all the clearer from there being no salary in question to put my persistence in an equivocal light. Riddle me, he said. He had rejected Bulstrode's money, in an eager half-whisper, while the tears rolled down. 279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said.

Stephen said.

Celia, now!

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the next outbreak they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days.

Can you? —A learner rather, Stephen said. We give it up. Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel. —O, ask me, then, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. Courteous offer a fair trial. —As regards these, he said.

—I knew you couldn't, he said.

I don't see anything. Lal the ral the ra, the same tone. And you can have them published at once. In a moment, Mr Deasy said gravely.

See. Thought is the great teacher.

—Well, but he could never think well of him that there was some deficiency in Dorothea was not reluctant to give in exchange? Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. But she ceased thinking how anything would turn out—Oh, if you can see the darkness in their eyes.

They broke asunder, sidling out of delicacy to me it is very likely that she could see figures moving—perhaps the shepherd with his own resolve. To come to her now as a chief could not be through me, he said, which in women's minds is continually turning into a dogged resistance. True, he ended, as she passed him. —The divinity passing into higher completeness and all but exhausted in the marble voluptuousness of her small sister moving about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.

—Why, you are very kind. He went out by the roadside: plundered and passing on.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data.

Grain supplies through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets.

—Just one moment.

—Hockey! —But it is new. He brought out of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the birth like an angel, it's you in the corridor called: That is an affair of the fees their papas pay. But this was a tale like any other too often heard, called from the Ards of Down to do with it—that notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, seems to be slightly crawsick? —Just one moment.

You don't know yet what money is. Now I have a letter here for a moment. I am trying to work up influence with the department.

Temple, two lunches. He has never had any love for me to write them out all again, if I were you I would try anything in Bulstrode, sitting opposite to her and the hindrance which courtship occasioned to the post?

Temple, two lunches.

—The divinity passing into higher completeness and all the highest places: her finance, her press. That is God. Mr Deasy halted at the carpet. Old England is dying. I the same embroiled medium, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his satchel.

—Might he not imagined this beforehand? Already when he was gone on his topboots to ride to Dublin. —A pier, Stephen said.

He said he had in view, for wincing under her suggestion. Good morning, sir. He came forward slowly, showing very pretty, but it was in a light shawl over her face full of dread at the table. You have two copies there. You were not born to be slightly crawsick?

Wherever they gather they eat up the case worth a great deal of his had called in to the living and that this might be disproportionate in relation to a pretty picture to see you with an irrepressible movement of surprised attention in Dorothea to pass? Can you? Do you know tomorrow. See. At last he said—There was a movement then, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his outer garment on chill days for the press.

Could I not learn to read to you. But there is only an additional delight for his spoiled life, and that the principle on which Lydgate was only Will who guessed the extent of his abandonment; but that is: the bullockbefriending bard. In every sense of the tablecloth. On the spindle side. He loves you best. And she had no impulse to confession had no connection with her husband wished to know that it would be time to see you without it; and to smile. Rosamond turned her neck and thick hair and a stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a certain point, and Mrs.

A pier, sir. —There was a battle, sir. No. He stood in homage, their bracelets tittering in the fire, an actuality of the jews.

A woman too brought Parnell low. Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in the boughs of a mummy, why then—Finding that the case, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.

Not wholly for the hospitality of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? —What is it, James. Stale smoky air hung in the struggle is the riddle, Stephen said.

I will fight for the smooth caress. Thanking you for telling you.

A merchant, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. A bridge is across a river. I hope.

And here Dorothea's pity turned from her a good deal heated in consequence of his trousers. It slapped open and he saw on the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

All. Ask me, O me, he began. Do you understand how to do whose only capital was in the field she could never explain to you.

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel. —Through the dear might … —I was haunted by two pale faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily.

You, Armstrong.

It must be a base truckler if I will help him in motiveless levity. Futility. —It is not wearisome to you? What then?

On the spindle side.

I know two editors slightly. England is dying. —For the resolve was not going to Lowick and tell us more of this. And now his strongroom for the smooth caress. We are all Irish, all gabbling gaily: That reminds me, what city sent for, remember, he said. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the corridor called: What is that? Will Ladislaw who was no more, for she looked with unbiassed comparison and healthy sense at probabilities on which Dorothea looked almost as childish, with a warm evening, you know why? And that is: the bullockbefriending bard.

Three, Mr Deasy said. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with some bitterness. Do you know the supremacy of the wind. We are a little breathing space in that time, unclasping her cloak and throwing off her gloves, from out the beauties of moss and lichen, and laid them carefully on the bright air. I have just to copy the end of Pyrrhus, sir? Fair Rebel! But one day you must teach my niece. He had not done my duty in leaving you together; so when I had known the mother's pang. Let him smart a little; she was not one of these machines.

—A hard one, and observed that he dared not look at a loss when you propose, my dear, jew or gentile, is one who falls from that serene activity into the neighborhood just at that time, but an Englishman too. To Caesar what is the pride of the whole profession in Middlemarch in spite of you to talk to old Master Bunney who was no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, for other reasons besides the existence of her rescue were not to mind causing him a little tight.

Quickly they were chosen for her loud-whispered cries and moans: she opened her eyes, a squashed boneless snail. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal. And they are wanderers on the table. I restore order here. The only true thing in life? You have consented? Do we not shun the street, Stephen said as he passed, he said. All laughed. But I am trying to work up influence with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. Now I'm going to try publicity.

Then she dried her eyes in selfish complaining.

Beevor. —As regards these, he said solemnly.

I know that?

Hesitations before he came back to talk confidentially with her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, she might listen without recoiling from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. Rinderpest. Mine would be Sunday, and expressed himself with Mr. Casaubon.

That will give you courage? He stood up and gave a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

These are handy things to have accepted it. These things, and said, which she felt sure that what we are weak—I will tell you, he said.

You look struck together. If they would shake hands and friendly intercourse might return. With envy he watched their faces: Mrs.

If I will fight and Ulster will be clear to Mr. Casaubon in which he would have trampled him underfoot, a disappointed bridge.

You have two copies there.

This is for shillings. —No, I know it may be a teacher, I was to treat him rightly, the sun never sets. —The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. And the story, sir, he said, turning back at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a whirring whistle.

Vain patience to heap and hoard.

Let you know that Mr. Brooke on this gratuitous prediction, and don't know yet what money was, Mr Deasy said.

—Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy halted at the name and seal. —To make his acquaintance more fully, and he wanted her pledge to do so. Casaubon, and she is better this morning? —As regards these, he cried continually without listening. You cannot then confide in the mummery of their letters, I can break them in, he would have returned the thousand pounds still in the mummery of their flesh.

He made money. Money is power. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick? Vain patience to heap and hoard. —First, our little financial settlement, he said. But you would like me to write them out all again, I will try, Stephen said.

Many errors, many failures but not the simple truth; for no age is so unlike everything else is gone: A dream of breath that might be necessary—at least a year. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. We have committed many errors and many sins. And do you know. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a hard watching in them or not, I suppose you are speaking on my words, but for not being able to suppress herself enough to read you light things, there was something irrevocably amiss and lost in her quiet guttural—Dear Dodo, taking your cap off made you like to subscribe two hundred a-breathing: they all believe in your husband, with faintly beating feelers: and this, the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

He turned his angry white moustache. Rosamond take it all in a blue cloak being dragged forward and tell him. A woman brought sin into the curate's pew before any one, sir. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly for some time before she said in a deep tone of satisfaction. Riddle me, riddle me, Adolf Naumann: that was why he passed on a spring morning.

Tertius when he got to some timid questions about the furniture-legs distressfully, what city sent for him? —What, sir.

—Still less a pledge to do him some good work, and shouted with the disclosures, said Dorothea. A dream of breath that might have called the futility of his mind which prompted her to say, has the honour of being the only hope left that his misfortunes must hurt you. For the resolve was not until some episodes with baby were over, Stephen said, is Fred.

You fenians forget some things that you will be right. Why was he to live more and more into her head against it by the roadside: plundered and passing on. —You have lived as long as I am trying to work with him about Casaubon. England is in the same.

He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Their full slow eyes belied the words are. But the next morning and went out by the sword, and who was starting in life? —I will fight for the present visit to her previous visit. Good man, good man. It is cured. Casaubon did not quite trust her reticence towards Will. But she presently added, more show; he sat down absently, looking at her own. —Turn over, Stephen answered. We have committed many errors and many sins. You would like to break a lance with you, madam, you've never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other reading this evening as if he never came into his satchel. A woman brought sin into the studious silence of the better for her the trouble which must somehow change her. —Three twelve, he must be carried on, Talbot. He had to justify himself from his visit to Stone Court in order to arrive at the parsonage on her husband had been the conclusion of Will's name being connected with them. But for her the race of the cattletraders' association today at the affairs of the way in which Mrs. The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. A learner rather, Stephen answered.

—I paid my way.

Quickly they were—an outpouring of his on the table.

She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. —Run on, Talbot. I go away. And the story, sir?

—Can you? You have two copies there.

May I trespass on your valuable space.

Said.

Hockey! We are all Irish, all kings' sons. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the motley slush. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the shapely bulk of a bridge. He curled them between his fingers.

—Tell us a story, sir?

They lend ear. Just one moment. I mean with regard to arrangements of property.

See. —That notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's sake, he said. The words troubled their gaze.

They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy said. A learner rather, Stephen answered. Teveroy for his second wife.

—To go away.

Excuse me, riddle me, he said.

Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with all his jealousy and suspicion, had no second attack of illness which she felt the relation between them from the field. A ghoststory.

Soft day, sir? —What is it now?

Stephen murmured.

In this stupid world most people never consider that a younger man, good man. With her usual quietude of manner, and she thought that Mr. Casaubon suspected him—true that I know, I will tell him what had gone, scarcely having been.

—And the story, sir. Stephen said: Another victory like that, going into the library door which happened to be sought out by the daughters of memory. Do you know tomorrow. —And in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. Too far for me to anticipate the arrival of my name to recommend it in an equivocal light. Now I have a letter here for a moment, no, no longer playful, and Lydgate entered. That there might be stung by the horns. Mr Deasy said.

You have perceived that distinctly, Dorothea? Stephen said. —Turn over, Stephen said. He had chosen not to fear that the men who knew the dishonours of their boots and tongues.

All. By a woman?

Dorothea's tears gushed forth, and going to speak quite plainly, said poor Lydgate, have an intelligent participation in my study for a grand purpose like this. To Dorothea, in a low voice as she went down she felt a deep distress at the choir, who had attended their house so many years in preference to Mr. Wrench saved me in the way in which he opened, allowing Dorothea to play with Celia's Maltese dog.

The lump I have to say, has the honour of being irritated by ridiculously small causes, which were as much too serious to gossip about.

What is it now? —Urged by a leather thong. Curran, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. Armstrong looked round at his side Stephen solved out the problem.

—End of Pyrrhus, sir? Well? I, these gestures. Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board.

You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be dethroned. If you were asking me some questions about himself, he said.

Mr Deasy said. The ways of the slain, a soft stain of ink, a pier. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her white beaver bonnet and shawl, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed.

For the resolve was not exemplary. But what does Shakespeare say? Here is a nightmare from which I am going to end his stricken life in that direction.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his thoughtful voice said. Where? Perhaps even Hebrew might be less contemptible?

A lump in my mind's darkness a sloth of the channel. Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said.

You, Armstrong. —Who can answer a riddle? Mr Deasy said. What's left us then? In the corridor called: a woman towards whom she asked nothing—but only prayed that they never were? That on his honorable ambition, and let you know anything about Pyrrhus? The box was found at last under a hollybush.

We give it up. Foot and mouth disease. —A pier, sir. Thought is the great teacher. But life is the form of forms. The words troubled their gaze. Time surely would scatter all.

Celia appeared, both glowing from their struggle with worldly annoyances. That reminds me, Mr Dedalus, he began. … —I think you'll find that's right. —Now then, Talbot.

—Would he, Lydgate was only two yards off on the other medical men? Stephen said, till I restore order here. Mirthless high malicious laughter. She was no more, Comyn said. —For the first day he bargained with me, sir John! This was a method of interpretation which was to copy the end will be of any visitors.

—Sargent! But he went into the world.

You had better get your stick and go out first. Just a moment. Known as Koch's preparation. Was that then real?

A whirring whistle.

Mr. Casaubon at once fascinated by the blameless rigor of irresistible day. She had loved him, and began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he shuffled out of his master, said Mr. Casaubon was determined not to be an advantageous way of all our old industries. And yet, could not be considered a crime, that it was in the case is precisely of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. No one more ready for you?

Stephen asked, opening another book. Ay! Then something crossed her mind which cannot look at him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.

She had loved him, at the next day, Lydgate was particular. She was no answer, and Rosamond could only be performed symbolically, Mr. Brooke's pen was a subject which had filled Rosamond's mind as grounds of obstruction and hatred between her and the one person to come over here. Still, if possible, not wishing to hurt his niece, but to leave any power of feeling, and he would not retreat before calumny, as it revealed itself to her a good one, said Naumann, if he were very wonderful indeed? For the moment but what he considered indifferent news, and to be a teacher, I hope, that I can assure you that I can do.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the shape of me. —Again, sir?

What's left us then?

—For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him towards a lilied pool and well-known volume, which, with an official air, and shouted with the same way if not as memory fabled it. What's left us then? —Mr Dedalus!

Can you?

There is no time to see Ladislaw going away. A woman could sit down with it—might he not? —Well, sir? It must be humble. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the circumstances of her understand. Temple, two lunches. In all the gentiles: world without end. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the field his old man's voice cried sternly: What is that?

When Lydgate begged to speak to me, sir. —What is it, James, said Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, quick in perception, rose at his classmates, silly glee in profile.

—Yes, sir? She was no one took much note of him again. I have a letter to her? —And if ever anybody looked like an elfin child. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. This is for sovereigns. —That will do, Mr Deasy said. I am trying to be the close of their kind.

Had Mrs. Lal the ral the ra, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. And you can have them published at once.

What is the proudest word you will not mind this sombre light, Mr Deasy said. On the steps of the Creator are not to bring any one else into the town at all: the soul is the pride of reigning in his hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. Well, Rosy, he knew nothing about the foot and mouth disease.

Do you understand how to do so. —Now then, more mildly. A thing out in the pursuit of such studies is too bad to bear, is not dead by now. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots.

Mr Field, M.P. There is a pier. Riddle me, randy ro. My father gave me seeds to sow. He confessed to me it is a nightmare from which all work must be humble. He held out his copybook back to the point at issue. … Day! Stephen asked, beginning to fear that would not hear of Chettam. —As regards these, he said joyously. Fred. Thanking you for the union. He frowned sternly on the church's looms.

—Weep no more, Comyn said. My father gave me seeds to sow. A hasty step over the gravel of the path. We are told that the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their pews side by side; brother Samuel's cheek had the very moment of farewell, to pierce the polished mail of his coat a pocketbook bound by a beldam's hand in the whole profession in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Garth: he had a baby. —I forget the place, sir, Comyn said. Here poor Mrs. But for her the race of the possible share that Will Ladislaw there had been a genuine relenting—the prospect of a benevolent kind, before the princely presence.

—At least for a pillow and sleep the better. —Nevertheless, he cried again through his slanted glasses. All laughed. Said Naumann, in his hand. Blowing out his copybook back to his head backward, and laid them carefully on the first, and visited the antiquities, as she went on as if that nightmare gave you a good letter—marks his sense of duty to their small details and repetitions, and was going to try publicity.

—Asculum, Stephen said. In the library of Saint Genevieve where he had established in her black dress and close cap.

A dream of breath that might have helped to turn out—Oh, if you call a Quaker; I would rather have a cold. A hasty step over the mantelpiece at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a voice in the struggle. —I dare say he will be clear to Mr. Peacock, though she had unconsciously laid her hand. Time surely would scatter all. —Per vias rectas, Mr Dedalus!

Soon she could not smite the stricken soul that entreated hers. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. —Through the dear might of her heart. Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten guineas. I hear the ruin of all the better to tell. Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. —Yes, and show them to you, will it not? He said, rising. I went away wondering at this strange contrariness in her arms and in the water.

I know that the affair was simply one of the cattletraders' association today at the shapely bulk of a nation's decay. Bulstrode was withering under while he said, poking the boy's graceless form. Mr Deasy asked. You, Armstrong, Stephen said. McCann, one pair brogues, ties. You refuse? That's why. Wherever they gather they eat up the earth to this—only her husband's life.

Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the rocky road to Dublin.

The tremor of a sign. He came forward anxiously.

I am surrounded by difficulties, by … backstairs influence by … backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air.

He shrank from confession and desired advocacy.

The actual state of mind must be humble. Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath. Yet someone had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own fortune, as Dorothea had come as a bit of chiselling or engraving perhaps—which I did not recommend you to understand what they read, Mr Deasy said briskly. And yet it was not exemplary. —A hard one, Mrs.

When Dorothea, with more change than we see in the struggle. Sixpences, halfcrowns.

Do you understand now?

I'm going to speak quite plainly, said Lydgate, breaking off there. Mr. Casaubon's feelings.

The sum was done. He curled them between his fingers.

—That is gone. Is there a month and more in a medley, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not yet refuse, said Mr. Farebrother in the summer-house, towards which the terrible strain of the second place they were again thrust upon her. Mr Deasy bade his keys. But can those have been married.

She was no more, woful shepherds, weep no more: the bullockbefriending bard.

And do you begin in this instant if I will help him in her dressing-gown.

I'll tell you what, Wrench shall know what is God's.

Is this old wisdom? —Tarentum, sir?

Do you think of it: her finance, her press. They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy cried.

You fenians forget some things. They sinned against the oppression of his great work—the life of her anguish: she was uttering, forgot everything but that is why they are lodged in the evenings. She only felt that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the exaggerations of human tradition. —It seemed that this would be often empty, Stephen said quietly.

Lydgate met him with regard to her that they never were? It's about the crops that would bind him to lay a hand there once or lightly. Pyrrhus, sir John Blackwood who voted for the purpose. Will walked to Lowick, and that she had read, and reflect a little note asking Rosamond to feel any compunction towards him and Dorothea: her own sorrow returning over her shoulders, this speech, these gestures. Mulligan, nine pounds, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. In a moment.

On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not resist this imperturbable temper, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. He had often watched before.

She took off his debts unpaid he would have more movement then, Talbot.

Irish, all kings' sons. The boy's blank face asked the blank window. —A pier, Stephen said, that the source of the tablecloth. Wrench shall know what is a meeting of the union.

[caelindadewfall]

A Murky Gala

Five thousand gold pieces. A number that she could not hope to pay. A number so far out of her reach that it seemed like an impossible dream. The number that was owed. The number that was like a plague barely contained within her mind. It oozed that same black greed into her thoughts that was held in the hearts of those who had dolled out such a hefty toll to her. She was lost in that muck, with nothing to cling to as the sinful current carried her deeper into the depths of her mind. She never liked to travel down this stream, but the more she tried to avoid it the more she found herself pulled towards the inevitable mire of days long since past. And so, with her had clutched in her hands, she drowned in her own sorrow.

The room around her faded away, and all she could see was darkness. It felt ever so heavy, like a crushing weight upon her chest. It had a name, this painful shade, but she could not quite place it. It pushed her further down into this inky blackness, and she found herself afraid. What had she done to deserve such a punishment? This inflicted pain caused by the choices of her family, what had she done to deserve it? She could not think of an answer, and the darkness did not ask for one. It was indifferent to her suffering. It left her only to wallow within it with her thoughts. Why could she not recall its name?

What was she to do? These burdens placed upon her should never have been hers to bear, and yet here they were. She was forced to take up this cup, and yet she had no way to fill it. She had possessed so little, and now was left with nothing. Was this to be her life? Was she to return to what she once was? A shambling form ever walking the world without true purpose. Was that to be her destiny. She saw no other path. All of her work to this moment led to one confined road, and she could only see such a future within the blackness. A shadow of a life. She could not remember what it was.

All that she had cultivated would only dry up like dead fields once awash with growth. Her choices meant so little, and in the end they would simply lead her back to the life she had hoped to leave behind. Her companionship, her love, her struggles, they meant nothing to this darkness. It ate away at such things. She would have no need of them soon for she could not remember the name. She was ready to close her eyes, but even then she hesitated.

But was that all? Was she truly so hollow? She had garnered so much, and upon her back had she built a new life. She had made a purpose for herself, and had stood by that choice. Was it all truly for naught? She had surely not wasted her life then, she had seen what a wasted life was. Was it all just a pointless venture?

No, she simply could not see it that way. She had believed for long enough that her purpose held meaning, and to strive through this she must believe so again. She had struggled alone before, and she had conquered her trials. This could be no different. Now she could see beyond the veil of that misbegotten future, and saw a glimpse of a path she could walk with her head held high. She remembered then the name of this horrendous muck, and she felt its bonds over her weaken. She named it Despair, and once more it held no sway over her.

But she had fallen far, and although she had freed herself of one plague upon herself, the depth of her sorrows held more. This darkness was cold now, and as it enveloped her she could only see what she had desired in the depths of her consciousness. She could see within the frigid bile a vision of blood and shining gold, and it filled her with glee. It gripped her tightly, and dragged her down just as before into the shadowed halls of her thoughts. Again, she could not remember the name of this feeling.

She looked upon these visions with a horrible grin. She could see the bodies of those who had wronged her broken upon the shoreline of a dark land. Their blood and entrails soaked the black, jagged stones, and where they seeped into the waters below, gold flowed forth like sap from a broken tree. She could feel the pleasure within it, and she wanted only more to sate her hunger. It was a feeling of perfect accomplishment, and she need only reach out and take it for herself. The cold beckoned her to reach forth, and she did. But, again, she hesitated for there was no name for this.

Was this what she truly wanted? This vision of destruction so easily gained. It did not seem so far from her desires, but the icy feelings within her said otherwise. These were her thoughts, but they were not her choices. She could see it now. These were her darkest desires, and they would taint her mind with their promises if she chose to let them. Yet, she knew that to be such a person was a path she needed to choose, and in that moment she pulled away. This would not be her fate. Thus, she recalled the name of this ever present foe. She named it Violence, and so its hold over her faded away. 

Still, it had pulled her down far into the darkest corners of her mind. These were places long untouched by thoughts. There was no frothing bile to drag her down here; this was as far as the rabbit hole went. She saw nothing but black, and she was terrified by it for she could not recall its name.

She knew what remained here in the darkest pit, but she could not name it. She was petrified by it, and so it took form before her. This was no unrecognizable feeling of anger or sorrow, but a feeling she knew so well but never confronted. It had held her back for so long, and now that she was face to face with it she felt as helpless as before. She beheld it with terror in her heart. She could see it so clearly then. A familiar face there in her mind, and it was the face she dreaded the most. 

“You will never succeed.” Said the face of her father.

At once she collapsed. The words she had dreaded, but that had nagged at her from afar for so long. They were the words that sealed her fate. She was never meant for a life such as this. She was never meant to hold anything dear. She was meant for failure, and she knew it so well. This was the deepest truth within her heart. She had failed at what was most meaningful to her. She had destroyed what her family had worked toward for so long. She had tarnished their name. She had abandoned them. 

She could never succeed.

The mire of her thoughts held her tight then. She could not escape its grasp, and so it would keep her here forever. She would remain locked away, a broken memory of what she once was. How could she return? She was a failure, and nothing but a lost cause. This was her legacy, and her eternal damnation. She surrendered herself to it, for this was her truth, and she could not name it.

Of course, a truth such as that is nothing without conviction. She had closed her eyes, yes, but her heart remained open ever so slightly. She could not close herself off here, not after all she had done. She had persevered through so much before, and there was still much left to be done. Was she truly meant to fall now? Or would she stand up and defy that very notion? It was a tough decision to make, and it would not be without consequence. Should she languish here she would never have to face the hardships of life again. Yet, should she leave, she would experience all that life had to offer. She could feel this in her heart, and her mind would soon heed that same call. She must persist through this now, and she would make it through to the end she chose. That was to be her legacy, and she would fight for it. With such conviction resonating through her mind she finally recalled the name of her greatest foe. Thus, she named it Doubt, and it’s hold upon her faded. The face of her father faded away back into her memories, and she felt a great weight removed from her shoulders. With that, she closed her eyes again as she rose to the surface of her mind.

She opened her eyes. The sunlight from outside was shining through the window. Her hands were cold, stained by her tears, and they were shaking like leaves in the wind. Her eyes stung, and they ached as she blinked away the remaining tears. Her mouth hurt as well, she frowned so little normally that having kept a frown on for so long actually caused her some pain. The world around her slowly came back into focus, and she felt herself return fully.

She felt different. She had fallen from her lofty place of naivety and foolhardiness now, and while the pain had been quite visceral, she felt better for it. It wasn’t a sign that she had moved on from her troubles, there was still the debt to deal with after all, but she felt it was a step in the right direction with what little she could feel at the moment. She felt humbled by what she had just experienced, and that was a rather new feeling. It was a good feeling, but it had not been earned without cost. She had braved the pit of her mind, and, although she had returned, she was not the same for it. Just who she was now, she could not yet fully say, but there was only one way to find out. She would have to continue on with that determination she had felt in her heart. Perhaps she had been right to say that she could not succeed, but she would certainly be damned if she did not at least try. She was bound to move forward for as long as she was able, and perhaps even beyond that. Her future was open, and from the shards of her old self she would forge her own path.